10849	----	Proofreaders [Illustration: ON THE LOOK OUT.] SAVED AT SEA A Lighthouse Story BY MRS O.F. WALTON AUTHOR OF 'CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN' 'A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES' 'LITTLE DOT' ETC. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. MY STRANGE HOME II. THE FLARE AT SEA III. THE BUNDLE SAVED IV. LITTLE TIMPEY V. THE UNCLAIMED SUNBEAM VI. THE OLD GENTLEMAN'S QUESTION VII. A THICK FOG VIII. WAITING FOR THE BOAT IX. A CHANGE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE X. OUR NEW NEIGHBOUR XI. ON THE ROCK XII. THE SUNBEAM CLAIMED SAVED AT SEA. * * * * * CHAPTER I. MY STRANGE HOME. It was a strange day, the day that I was born. The waves were beating against the lighthouse, and the wind was roaring and raging against everything. Had not the lighthouse been built very firmly into the strong solid rock, it, and all within it, must have been swept into the deep wild sea. It was a terrible storm. My grandfather said he had never known such a storm since he came to live on the island, more than forty years before. Many ships went down in the storm that day, and many lives were lost. But in the very midst of it, when the wind was highest, and the waves were strongest, and when the foam and the spray had completely covered the lighthouse windows, I, Alick Fergusson, was born. I was born on a strange day, and I was born into a strange home. The lighthouse stood on an island, four miles distant from any land. The island was not very large; if you stood in the middle of it, you could see the sea all round you--that sea which was sometimes so blue and peaceful, and at other times was as black as ink, and roaring and thundering on the rocky shores of the little island. At one side of the island, on a steep rock overhanging the sea, stood the lighthouse. Night by night as soon as it began to grow dark the lighthouse lamps were lighted. I can remember how I used to admire those lights as a child. I would sit for hours watching them revolve and change in colour. First, there was a white light, then a blue one, then a red one, then a green one--then a white one again. And, as the ships went by, they always kept a look-out for our friendly lights, and avoided the rocks of which they warned them. My grandfather, old Sandy Fergusson, was one of the lighthouse men, whose duty it was always to keep these lamps in order and to light them every night. He was a clever, active old man, and did his work well and cheerfully. His great desire was to be able to hold on at his post till I should be able to take his place. At the time when my story begins I was nearly twelve years old, and daily growing taller and stronger. My grandfather was very proud of me, and said I should soon be a young man, and then he should get me appointed in his place to look after the lighthouse. I was very fond of my strange home, and would not have changed it for any other. Many people would have thought it dull, for we seldom saw a strange face, and the lighthouse men were only allowed to go on shore for a few hours once in every two months. But I was very happy, and thought there was no place in the world like our little island. Close to the tower of the lighthouse was the house in which I and my grandfather lived. It was not a large house, but it was a very pleasant one. All the windows looked out over the sea, and plenty of sharp sea air came in whenever they were opened. All the furniture in the house belonged to the lighthouse, and had been there long before my grandfather came to live there. Our cups and saucers and plates had the name of the lighthouse on them in large gilt letters, and a little picture of the lighthouse with the waves dashing round it. I used to think them very pretty when I was a boy. We had not many neighbours. There was only one other house on the island, and it was built on the other side of the lighthouse tower. The house belonged to Mr. Millar, who shared the care of the lighthouse with my grandfather. Just outside the two houses was a court, with a pump in the middle, from which we got our water. There was a high wall all round this court, to make a little shelter for us from the stormy wind. Beyond this court were two gardens, divided by an iron railing. The Millars' garden was very untidy and forlorn, and filled with nettles, and thistles, and groundsel, and all kinds of weeds, for Mr. Millar did not care for gardening, and Mrs. Millar had six little children, and had no time to look after it. But our garden was the admiration of every one who visited the island. My grandfather and I were at work in it every fine day, and took a pride in keeping it as neat as possible. Although it was so near the sea, our garden produced most beautiful vegetables and fruit, and the borders were filled with flowers, cabbage-roses, and pansies, and wall-flowers, and many other hardy plants which were not afraid of the sea air. Outside the garden was a good-sized field--full of small hillocks, over which the wild rabbits and hares, with which the island abounded, were continually scampering. In this field were kept a cow and two goats, to supply the two families with milk and butter. Beyond it was the rocky shore, and a little pier built out into the sea. [Illustration: THE LANDING STAGE] On this pier I used to stand every Monday morning, to watch for the steamer which called at the island once a week. It was a great event to us when the steamer came. My grandfather and I, and Mr. and Mrs. Millar and the children, all came down to the shore to welcome it. This steamer brought our provisions for the week, from a town some miles off, and often brought a letter for Mr. Millar, or a newspaper for my grandfather. My grandfather did not get many letters, for there were not many people that he knew. He had lived on that lonely island the greater part of his life, and had been quite shut out from the world. All his relations were dead now, except my father, and what had become of him we did not know. I had never seen him, for he went away some time before I was born. My father was a sailor, a fine, tall, strong young fellow, my grandfather used to say. He had brought my mother to the island, and left her in my grandfather's care whilst he went on a voyage to Australia. He went from the island in that same little steamer which called every Monday morning. My grandfather stood on the end of the pier as the steamer went out of sight, and my mother waved her handkerchief to him as long as any smoke was seen on the horizon. Grandfather has often told me how young and pretty she looked that summer morning. My father had promised to write soon, but no letter ever came. Mother went down to the pier every Monday morning for three long years, to see if it had brought her any word from her sailor husband. But after a time her step became slower and her face paler, and at last she was too weak to go down the rocks to the pier, when the steamer arrived on Monday morning. And soon after this I was left motherless. From that day, the day on which my mother died, my grandfather became both father and mother to me. There was nothing he would not have done for me, and wherever he went and whatever he did, I was always by his side. As I grew older, he taught me to read and write, for there was of course no school which I could attend. I also learnt to help him to trim the lamps, and to work in the garden. Our life went on very evenly from day to day, until I was about twelve years old. I used to wish sometimes that something new would happen to make a little change on the island. And at last a change came. CHAPTER II. THE FLARE AT SEA. My grandfather and I were sitting at tea one dark November evening. We had been digging in the garden the whole morning, but in the afternoon it had become so wet and stormy that we had remained indoors. We were sitting quietly at our tea, planning what we would do the next day, when the door suddenly opened and Mr. Millar put his head in. 'Sandy, quick!' he said. 'Look here!' My grandfather and I ran to the door, and looked out over the sea. There, about three miles to the north of us, we saw a bright flare of light. It blazed up for a moment or two, lighting up the wild and stormy sky, and then it went out, and all was darkness again. 'What is it, grandfather?' I asked. But he did not answer me. 'There's no time to lose, Jem,' he said; "out with the boat, my man!" 'It's an awful sea,' said Millar, looking at the waves beating fiercely against the rocks. 'Never mind, Jem,' said my grandfather; 'we must do our best.' So the two men went down to the shore, and I followed them. 'What is it, grandfather?' I asked again. 'There's something wrong out there,' said he, pointing to the place where we had seen the light. 'That's the flare they always make when they're in danger and want help at once.' 'Are you going to them, grandfather?' I said. 'Yes, if we can get the boat out,' he said. 'Now, Jem, are you ready?' 'Let me go with you, grandfather,' I said; 'I might be able to help.' 'All right, my lad,' he said; 'we'll try if we can get her off.' I can see that scene with my mind's eye as though it were but yesterday. My grandfather and Mr. Millar straining every nerve to row the boat from land, whilst I clung on to one of the seats, and tried in vain to steer her. I can see poor Mrs. Millar standing on the pier, with her shawl over her head, watching us, and two of her little girls clinging to her dress. I can see the waves, which seemed to be rising higher every moment, and ready to beat our little boat to pieces. And I can see my grandfather's disappointed face, as, after many a fruitless attempt, he was obliged to give it up. 'It's no use, I'm afraid, Jem,' he said at last; 'we haven't hands enough to manage her.' So we got to shore as best we could, and paced up and down the little pier. We could see nothing more. It was a very dark night, and all was perfect blackness over the sea. The lighthouse lamps were burning brightly; they had been lighted more than two hours before. It was Millar's turn to watch, so he went up to the tower, and my grandfather and I remained on the pier. 'Can nothing be done, grandfather?' 'I'm afraid not, my lad. We can't make any way against such a sea as this; if it goes down a bit, we'll have another try at it.' But the sea did not go down. We walked up and down the pier almost in silence. Presently a rocket shot up into the sky, evidently from the same place where we had seen the flare. 'There she is again, Alick! Poor things! I wonder how many of them there is.' 'Can we do nothing at all?' I asked again. 'No, my lad,' he said; 'the sea's too much for us. It's a terrible night. It puts me in mind of the day you were born.' So the night wore away. We never thought of going to bed, but walked up and down the pier, with our eyes fixed on the place where we had seen the lights. Every now and then, for some hours, rockets were sent up; and then they ceased, and we saw nothing. 'They've got no more with them,' said my grandfather. 'Poor things! it's a terrible bad job.' 'What's wrong with them, grandfather?' I asked. 'Are there rocks over there?' 'Yes, there's the Ainslie Crag just there; it's a nasty place that--a very nasty place. Many a fine ship has been lost there!' At last the day began to dawn; a faint grey light spread over the sea. We could distinguish now the masts of a ship in the far distance. 'There she is, poor thing!' said my grandfather, pointing in the direction of the ship. 'She's close on Ainslie Crag--I thought so!' 'The wind's gone down a bit now, hasn't it?' I asked. 'Yes, and the sea's a bit stiller just now,' he said. 'Give Jem a call, Alick.' Jem Millar hastened down to the pier with his arms full of rope. 'All right, Jem, my lad,' said my grandfather. 'Let's be off; I think we may manage it now.' So we jumped into the boat, and put off from the pier. It was a fearful struggle with the wind and waves, and for a long time we seemed to make no way against them. Both the men were much exhausted, and Jem Millar seemed ready to give in. 'Cheer up, Jem, my lad,' said my grandfather; 'think of all the poor fellows out there. Let's have one more try!' So they made a mighty effort, and the pier was left a little way behind. Slowly, very slowly, we made that distance greater; slowly, very slowly, Mrs. Millar, who was standing on the shore, faded from our sight, and the masts of the ship in distress seemed to grow a little more near. Yet the waves were still fearfully strong, and appeared ready, every moment, to swallow up our little boat. Would my grandfather and Millar ever be able to hold on till they reached the ship, which was still more than two miles away? 'What's that?' I cried, as I caught sight of a dark object, rising and falling with the waves. 'It's a boat, surely!' said my grandfather 'Look, Jem! CHAPTER III. THE BUNDLE SAVED. It _was_ a boat of which I had caught sight--a boat bottom upwards. A minute afterwards it swept close past us, so near that we could almost touch it. 'They've lost their boat. Pull away, Jem!' 'Oh, grandfather!' I said,--and the wind was so high, I could only make him hear by shouting,--'grandfather, do you think the boat was full?' 'No,' he said. 'I think they've tried to put her off, and she's been swept away. Keep up, Jem!' For Jem Millar, who was not a strong man, seemed ready to give in. We were now considerably more than half-way between the boat and the ship. It seemed as if those on board had caught sight of us, for another rocket went up. They had evidently kept one back, as a last hope, in case any one should pass by. As we drew nearer, we could see that it was a large ship, and we could distinguish many forms moving about on deck. 'Poor fellows! poor fellows!' said my grandfather. 'Pull away, Jem!' Nearer and nearer we came to the ship, till at length we could see her quite distinctly. She had struck on Ainslie Crag, and her stern was under water, and the waves were beating wildly on her deck. We could see men clinging to the rigging which remained, and holding on to the broken masts of the ship. I shall _never_ forget that sight to my dying day! My grandfather and Jem Millar saw it, and they pulled on desperately. And now we were so near to the vessel that had it not been for the storm which was raging, we could have spoken to those on board. Again and again we tried to come alongside the shattered ship, but were swept away by the rush of the strong, resistless waves. Several of the sailors came to the side of the ship, and threw out a rope to us. It was long before we could catch it, but at last, as we were being carried past it, I clutched it, and my grandfather immediately made it secure. 'Now!' he cried. 'Steady, Jem! we shall save some of them yet!' and he pulled the boat as near as possible to the ship. Oh! how my heart beat that moment, as I looked at the men and women all crowding towards the place where the rope was fastened. 'We can't take them all,' said my grandfather anxiously; 'we must cut the rope when we've got as many as the boat will carry.' I shuddered, as I thought of those who would be left behind. We had now come so close to the ship that the men on board would be able to watch their opportunity, and jump into the boat whenever a great wave was past, and there was a lull for a moment in the storm. 'Look out, Jem!' cried my grandfather. 'Here's the first' A man was standing by the rope, with what appeared to be a bundle in his arms. The moment we came near, he seized his opportunity and threw it to us. My grandfather caught it. [Illustration: 'IT'S A CHILD, ALICK', HE SAID, 'PUT IT DOWN BY YOU'] 'It's a child, Alick!' he said; 'put it down by you.' I put the bundle at my feet, and my grandfather cried, 'Now another; quick, my lads!' But at this moment Jem Millar seized his arm. 'Sandy! look out!' he almost shrieked. My grandfather turned round. A mighty wave, bigger than any I had seen before, was coming towards us. In another moment we should have been dashed by its violence against the ship, and all have perished. My grandfather hastily let go the rope, and we just got out of the way of the ship before the wave reached us. And then came a noise, loud as a terrible thunder-clap, as the mighty wave dashed against Ainslie Crag. I could hardly breathe, so dreadful was the moment! 'Now back again for some more!' cried my grandfather, when the wave had passed. We looked round, but the ship was gone! It had disappeared like a dream when one awakes, as if it had never been. That mighty wave had broken its back, and shattered it into a thousand fragments. Nothing was to be seen of the ship or its crew but a few floating pieces of timber. My grandfather and Millar pulled hastily to the spot, but it was some time before we could reach it, for we had been carried by the sea almost a mile away, and the storm seemed to be increasing in violence. When at last we reached that terrible Ainslie Crag, we were too late to save a single life; we could not find one of those on board. The greater number no doubt had been carried down in the vortex made by the sinking ship, and the rest had risen and sunk again long before we reached them. For some time we battled with the waves, unwilling to relinquish all hope of saving some of them. But we found at last that it was of no use, and we were obliged to return. All had perished, except the child lying at my feet. I stooped down to it, and could hear that it was crying, but it was so tightly tied up in a blanket that I could not see it nor release it. We had to strain every nerve to reach the lighthouse. It was not so hard returning as going, for the wind was in our favour, but the sea was still strong, and we were often in great danger. I kept my eyes fixed on the lighthouse lamps, and steered the boat as straight as I could. Oh! how thankful we were to see those friendly lights growing nearer. And at last the pier came in sight, and Mrs. Millar still standing there watching us. 'Have you got none of them?' she said, as we came up the steps. 'Nothing but a child,' said my grandfather sadly. 'Only one small child, that's all. Well, we did our very best, Jem, my lad.' Jem was following my grandfather, with the oars over his shoulder. I came last, with that little bundle in my arms. The child had stopped crying now, and seemed to be asleep, it was so still. Mrs. Millar wanted to take it from me, and to undo the blanket, but my grandfather said 'Bide your time, Mary; bring the child into the house, my lass; it's bitter cold out here.' So we all went up through the field, and through our garden and the court. The blanket was tightly fastened round the child, except at the top, where room had been left for it to breathe, and I could just see a little nose and two closed eyes, as I peeped in at the opening. The bundle was a good weight, and before I reached the house I was glad of Mrs. Millar's help to carry it. We came into our little kitchen, and Mrs. Millar took the child on her knee and unfastened the blanket. 'Bless her,' she said, as her tears fell fast, 'it's a little girl!' 'Ay,' said my grandfather, 'so it is; it's a bonnie wee lassie!' CHAPTER IV. LITTLE TIMPEY. I do not think I have ever seen a prettier face than that child's. She had light brown hair, and round rosy cheeks, and the bluest of blue eyes. She awoke as we were looking at her, and seeing herself amongst strangers, she cried bitterly. 'Poor little thing!' said Mrs. Millar. 'She wants her mother.' 'Mam--ma! Ma--ma!' cried the little girl, as she caught the word. Mrs. Millar fairly broke down at this, and sobbed and cried as much as the child. 'Come, my lass,' said her husband, 'cheer up! Thee'll make her worse, if thee takes on so.' But Mrs. Millar could do nothing but cry. 'Just think if it was our Polly!' was all that she could say. 'Oh, Jem, just think if it was our Polly that was calling for me!' My grandfather took the child from her, and put her on my knee. 'Now, Mary,' he said, 'get us a bit of fire and something to eat, there's a good woman! The child's cold and hungered, and we're much about the same ourselves.' Mrs. Millar bustled about the house, and soon lighted a blazing fire; then she ran in next door to see if her children, whom she had left with a little servant girl, were all right, and she brought back with her some cold meat for our breakfast. I sat down on a stool before the fire, with the child on my knee. She seemed to be about two years old, a strong, healthy little thing. She had stopped crying now, and did not seem to be afraid of me; but whenever any of the others came near she hid her face in my shoulder. Mrs. Millar brought her a basin of bread and milk, and she let me feed her. She seemed very weary and sleepy, as if she could hardly keep her eyes open. 'Poor wee lassie!' said my grandfather; 'I expect they pulled her out of her bed to bring her on deck. Won't you put her to bed?' 'Yes,' said Mrs. Millar, 'I'll put her in our Polly's bed; she'll sleep there quite nice, she will.' But the child clung to me, and cried so loudly when Mrs. Millar tried to take her, that my grandfather said,-- 'I wouldn't take her away, poor motherless lamb; she takes kindly to Alick; let her bide here.' So we made up a little bed for her on the sofa; and Mrs. Millar brought one of little Polly's nightgowns, and undressed and washed her, and put her to bed. The child was still very shy of all of them but me. She seemed to have taken to me from the first, and when she was put into her little bed she held out her tiny hand to me, and said, 'Handie, Timpey's handie.' 'What does she say? bless her!' said Mrs. Millar, for it was almost the first time that the child had spoken. 'She wants me to hold her little hand,' I said, 'Timpey's little hand. Timpey must be her name!' 'I never heard of such a name,' said Mrs. Millar. 'Timpey, did you say? What do they call you, darling?' she said to the child. But the little blue eyes were closing wearily, and very soon the child was asleep. I still held that tiny hand in mine as I sat beside her; I was afraid of waking her by putting it down. 'I wonder who she is,' said Mrs. Millar, in a whisper, as she folded up her little clothes. 'She _has_ beautiful things on, to be sure! She has been well taken care of, anyhow! Stop, here's something written on the little petticoat; can you make it out, Alick?' I laid down the little hand very carefully, and took the tiny petticoat to the window. 'Yes,' I said, 'this will be her name. Here's _Villiers_ written on it. 'Dear me!' said Mrs. Millar. 'Yes, that will be her name. Dear me, dear me; to think of her poor father and mother at the bottom of that dreadful sea! Just think if it was our Polly!' And then Mrs. Millar cried so much again that she was obliged to go home and finish her cry with her little Polly clasped tightly in her arms. My grandfather was very worn out with all he had done during the night, and went upstairs to bed. I sat watching the little sleeping child. I felt as if I could not leave her. She slept very quietly and peacefully. Poor little pet! how little she knows what has happened, I thought; and my tears came fast, and fell on the little fat hand which was lying on the pillow. But after a few minutes I leaned my head against the sofa, and fell fast asleep. I had had no sleep the night before, and was quite worn out. I was awakened, some hours after, by some one pulling my hair, and a little voice calling in my ear, 'Up! up, boy! up! up!' I looked up, and saw a little roguish face looking at me--the merriest, brightest little face you can imagine. 'Up, up, boy, please!' she said again, in a coaxing voice. So I lifted up my head, and she climbed out of her little bed on the sofa on to my knee. 'Put shoes on, boy,' she said, holding out her little bare toes. I put on her shoes and stockings, and then Mrs. Millar came in and dressed her. It was a lovely afternoon; the storm had ceased whilst we had been asleep, and the sun was shining brightly. I got the dinner ready, and the child watched me, and ran backwards and forwards, up and down the kitchen. She seemed quite at home now and very happy. My grandfather was still asleep, so I did not wake him. Mrs. Millar brought in some broth she had made for the child, and we dined together. I wanted to feed her, as I had done the night before, but she said,-- 'Timpey have 'poon, please!' and took the spoon from me, and fed herself so prettily, I could not help watching her. 'God bless her, poor little thing!' said Mrs. Millar. 'God bless 'ou,' said the child. The words were evidently familiar to her. 'She must have heard her mother say so,' said Mrs. Millar, in a choking voice. When we had finished dinner, the child slipped down from her stool, and ran to the sofa. Here she found my grandfather's hat, which she put on her head, and my scarf, which she hung round her neck. Then she marched to the door, and said, 'Tatta, tatta; Timpey go tatta.' 'Take her out a bit, Alick,' said Mrs. Millar. 'Stop a minute, though; I'll fetch her Polly's hood.' So, to her great delight, we dressed her in Polly's hood, and put a warm shawl round her, and I took her out. Oh! how she ran, and jumped, and played in the garden. I never saw such a merry little thing. Now she was picking up stones, now she was gathering daisies ('day days, she called them), now she was running down the path and calling to me to catch her. She was never still a single instant! [Illustration: AFTER THE STORM.] But every now and then, as I was playing with her, I looked across the sea to Ainslie Crag. The sea had not gone down much, though the wind had ceased, and I saw the waves still dashing wildly upon the rocks. And I thought of what lay beneath them, of the shattered ship, and of the child's mother. Oh! if she only knew, I thought, as I listened to her merry laugh, which made me more ready to cry than her tears had done. CHAPTER V. THE UNCLAIMED SUNBEAM. My grandfather and Jem Millar were sitting over the fire in the little watchroom in the lighthouse tower, and I sat beside them with the child on my knee. I had found an old picture-book for her, and she was turning over the leaves, and making her funny little remarks on the pictures. 'Well, Sandy,' said Millar, 'what shall we do with her?' '_Do_ with her?' said my grandfather stroking her little fair head. 'We'll keep her! Won't we, little lassie?' 'Yes,' said the child, looking up and nodding her head, as if she understood all about it. 'We ought to look up some of her relations, it seems to me,' said Jem. 'She's sure to have some, somewhere.' 'And how are we to find them out?' asked my grandfather. 'Oh, the captain can soon make out for us what ship is missing, and we can send a line to the owners; they'll know who the passengers was.' 'Well,' said my grandfather, 'maybe you're right, Jem; we'll see what they say. But, for my part, if them that cares for the child is at the bottom of that sea, I hope no one else will come and take her away from us.' 'If I hadn't so many of them at home--'began Millar. 'Oh yes, my lad, I know that,' said my grandfather, interrupting him; 'but thy house is full enough already. Let the wee lassie come to Alick and me. She'll be a nice little bit of company for us; and Mary will see to her clothes and such like, I know.' 'Yes, that she will,' said her husband. 'I do declare she has been crying about that child the best part of the day! She has indeed!' My grandfather followed Jem's advice, and told Captain Sayers, when he came in the steamer the next Monday, the whole story of the shipwreck, and asked him to find out for him the name and address of the owners of the vessel. Oh, how I hoped that no one would come to claim my little darling. She became dearer to me every day, and I felt as if it would break my heart to part with her. Every night, when Mrs. Millar had undressed her, she knelt beside me in her little white nightgown to 'talk to God,' as she called praying. She had evidently learnt a little prayer from her mother, for the first night she began of her own accord 'Jesus, Eppy, hear me.' I could not think at first what it was that she was saying; but Mrs. Millar said she had learnt the hymn when she was a little girl, and she wrote out the first verse for me. And every night afterwards I let the child repeat it after me,-- 'Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night, Through the darkness be Thou near me, Keep me safe till morning light.' I thought I should like her always to say the prayer her mother had taught her. I never prayed myself--my grandfather had never taught me. I wondered if my mother would have taught me if she had lived. I thought she would. I knew very little in those days of the Bible. My grandfather did not care for it, and never read it. He had a large Bible, but it was always laid on the top of the chest of drawers, as a kind of ornament; and unless I took it down to look at the curious old pictures inside, it was never opened. Sunday on the island was just the same as any other day. My grandfather worked in the garden, or read the newspaper, just the same as usual, and I rambled about the rocks, or did my lessons, or worked in the house, as I did every other day in the week. We had no church or chapel to go to, and nothing happened to mark the day. I often think now of that dreadful morning when we went across the stormy sea to that sinking ship. If our boat had capsized then, if we had been lost, what would have become of our souls? It is a very solemn thought, and I cannot be too thankful to God for sparing us both a little longer. My grandfather was a kind-hearted, good-tempered, honest old man; but I know now that that is not enough to open the door of heaven. Jesus is the only way there, and my grandfather knew little of, and cared nothing for, _Him_. Little Timpey became my constant companion, indoors and out of doors. She was rather shy of the little Millars, for they were noisy and rough in their play, but she clung to me, and never wanted to leave me. Day by day she learnt new words, and came out with such odd little remarks of her own, that she made us all laugh. Her great pleasure was to get hold of a book, and pick out the different letters of the alphabet, which, although she could hardly talk, she knew quite perfectly. Dear little pet! I can see her now, sitting at my feet on a large flat rock by the seashore, and calling me every minute to look at A, or B, or D, or S. And so by her pretty ways she crept into all our hearts, and we quite dreaded the answer coming to the letter my grandfather had written to the owners of the _Victory_, which, we found, was the name of the lost ship. It was a very wet day, the Monday that the answer came. I had been waiting some time on the pier, and was wet through before the steamer arrived. Captain Sayers handed me the letter before anything else, and I ran up with it to my grandfather at once. I could not wait until our provisions and supplies were brought on shore. Little Timpey was sitting on a stool at my grandfather's feet, winding a long piece of tape round and round her little finger. She ran to meet me as I came in, and held up her face to be kissed. What if this letter should say she was to leave us, and go back by the steamer! I drew a long breath as my grandfather opened it. It was a very civil letter from the owners of the ship, thanking us for all we had done to save the unhappy crew and passengers, but saying they knew nothing of the child or her belongings, as no one of the name of Villiers had taken a cabin, and there was no sailor on board of that name. But they said they would make further inquiries in Calcutta, from which port the vessel had sailed. Meanwhile they begged my grandfather to take charge of the child, and assured him he should be handsomely rewarded for his trouble. 'That's right!' I said, when he had finished reading it. 'Then she hasn't to go yet!' 'No,' said my grandfather; 'poor wee lassie! we can't spare her yet. I don't want any of their rewards, Alick, not I! That's reward enough for me,' he said, as he lifted up the child to kiss his wrinkled forehead. CHAPTER VI. THE OLD GENTLEMAN'S QUESTION. The next Monday morning Timpey and I went down together to the pier, to await the arrival of the steamer. She had brought a doll with her, which Mrs. Millar had given her, and of which she was very proud. Captain Sayers sent for me, as soon as the steamer came up to the pier, to tell me that two gentlemen had come to see my grandfather. I held the child's hand very tightly in mine, for I had felt sure they had come for her. The gentlemen came up the steps a minute or two afterwards. One of them was a middle-aged man, with a very clever face, I thought. He told me he had come to see Mr. Alexander Fergusson, and asked me if I could direct him which way to go to the house. 'Yes, sir,' I said; 'Mr. Fergusson is my grandfather.' So we went up towards the lighthouse, Timpey and I walking first to lead the way, and the gentlemen following. The other gentleman was quite old, and had white hair and gold spectacles, and a pleasant, kindly face. Timpey could not walk very fast, and she kept running first to one side and then to another, to gather flowers or pick up stones, to I took her in my arms and carried her. 'Is that your little sister?' asked the old gentleman. 'No, sir,' I said; 'this is the little girl who was on board the _Victory_! 'Dear me! dear me!' said both gentlemen at once. 'Let me look at her,' said the old man, arranging his spectacles. But Timpey was frightened, and clung to me, and began to cry. 'Never mind, never mind,' said the old gentleman kindly; 'we'll make friends with one another by-and-by.' By this time we had reached the house, and the middle-aged gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Septimus Forster, one of the owners of the lost vessel, and said that he and his father-in-law, Mr. Davis, had come to hear all particulars that my grandfather could give them with regard to the shipwreck. My grandfather begged them to sit down, and told me to prepare breakfast for them at once. They were very pleasant gentlemen, both of them, and were very kind to my grandfather. Mr. Forster wanted to make him a handsome present for what he had done; but my grandfather would not take it. They talked much of little Timpey, and I kept stopping to listen as I was setting out the cups and saucers. They had heard nothing more of her relations; and they said it was a very strange thing that no such name as Villiers was to be found on the list of passengers on board. They offered to take her away with them till some relation was found; but my grandfather begged to keep her. The gentlemen, seeing how happy and well cared for the child was, gladly consented. After breakfast Mr. Forster said he should like to see the lighthouse, so my grandfather went up to the top of the tower with him, and showed him with great pride all that was to be seen there. Old Mr. Davis was tired, and stayed behind with little Timpey and me. 'This is a strong house, my lad,' he said, when the others had gone. 'Yes, sir,' I said, 'it ought to be strong; the wind is fearful here sometimes.' 'What sort of a foundation has it?' said the old man, tapping the floor with his stick. 'Oh, it's all rock, sir,' I answered, 'solid rock; our house and the lighthouse tower are all built into the rock; they would never stand if they weren't' 'And are _you_ on the Rock, my lad?' said Mr. Davis, looking at me through his spectacles. 'I beg your pardon, sir,' I said, for I thought I had not heard him rightly. 'Are _you_ on the Rock?' he repeated. 'On the rock, sir? oh, yes,' I said, thinking he could not have understood what I said before. 'All these buildings are built into the rock, or the wind and sea would carry them away.' 'But _you_,' said the old gentleman again, 'are _you_ on the Rock?' 'I don't quite understand you, sir,' I said. 'Never mind,' he said; 'I'll ask your grandfather when he comes down.' So I sat still, wondering what he could mean, and almost thinking he must have gone out of his mind. As soon as my grandfather returned, he put the same question to him; and my grandfather answered it as I had done, by assuring him how firmly and strongly the lighthouse and its surroundings were built into the solid rock. 'And you yourself,' said Mr. Davis 'how long have you been on the Rock?' 'I, sir?' said my grandfather. 'I suppose you mean how long have I lived here; forty years, sir--forty years come the twelfth of next month I've lived on this rock.' 'And how much longer do you expect to live here?' said the old gentleman. 'Oh, I don't know, sir,' said my grandfather. 'As long as I live, I suppose. Alick, here, will take my place by-and-by; he's a fine, strong boy is Alick, sir.' 'And where will you live when you leave the island?' asked Mr. Davis. 'Oh, I never mean to leave it,' said my grandfather; 'not till I die, sir.' 'And _then_; where will you live _then_?' 'Oh, I don't know, sir,' said my grandfather. 'In heaven, I suppose. But, dear me, I'm not going there just yet,' he said, as if he did not like the turn the conversation was taking. 'Would you mind answering me one more question?' said old Mr. Davis. 'Would you kindly tell me _why_ you think you'll go to heaven? You won't mind my asking you, will you?' 'Oh dear, no,' said my grandfather, 'not at all, sir. Well, sir, you see I've never done anybody any harm, and God is very merciful, and so I've no doubt it will be all right at last. 'Why, my dear friend,' said the old gentleman, 'I thought you said you were on the Rock. You're not on the Rock at all, you're on the sand!' He was going to add more, when one of Captain Sayer's men ran up to say the steamer was ready to start, and would they kindly come at once, as it was late already. So the two gentlemen jumped up, and prepared hastily to go down to the beach. But as old Mr. Davis took leave of my grandfather, he said earnestly,-- 'My friend, you are building on the sand; you are indeed, and it won't stand the storm; no, it won't stand the storm!' He had no time to say more, the sailor hastened him away. I followed them down to the pier, and stood there watching the steamer preparing to start. There was a little delay after the gentlemen went on board, and I saw Mr. Davis sit down on a seat on deck, take out his pocket-book, and write something on one of the leaves. Then he tore the leaf out, and gave it to one of the sailors to hand to me as I stood on the pier, and in another moment the steamer had started. CHAPTER VII. A THICK FOG. That little piece of paper which was given me that day, I have it still, put by amongst my greatest treasures. There was not much written on it, only two lines of a hymn: 'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand.' I walked slowly up to the house thinking. My grandfather was out with Jem Millar, so I did not show him the paper then, but I read the lines many times over as I was playing with little Timpey, and I wondered very much what they meant. In the evening, my grandfather and Jem Millar generally sat together over the fire in the little watchroom upstairs, and I used to take little Timpey up there, until it was time for her to go to bed. She liked climbing up the stone steps in the lighthouse tower. She used to call out, 'Up! up! up!' as she went along, until she reached the top step, and then she would run into the watchroom with a merry laugh. As we went in this evening, my grandfather and Jem were talking together of the visit of the two gentlemen 'I can't think what the old man meant about the rock,' my grandfather was saying. 'I couldn't make head or tail of it, Jem; could you, my lad?' 'Look there, grandfather,' I said, as I handed him the little piece of paper, and told him how I had got it. 'Well, to be sure!' said my grandfather 'So he gave you this, did he?' and he read aloud: 'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand.' 'Well now, Jem, what does he mean? He kept on saying to me, "You're on the sand, my friend; you're on the sand, and it won't stand the storm!" What do you make of it, Jem? did you hear him, my lad?' 'Yes,' said Jem thoughtfully; 'and it has set me thinking, Sandy; I know what he meant well enough.' 'And pray what may that be?' 'He meant we can't get to heaven except we come to Christ; we can't get no other way. That's just what it means, Sandy!' 'Do you mean to tell me,' said my grandfather, 'that I shan't get to heaven if I do my best?' 'No, it won't do, Sandy; there's only one way to heaven; I know that well enough.' 'Dear me, Jem!' said my grandfather, 'I never heard you talk like that before.' 'No,' said Jem, 'I've forgot all about it since I came to the island. I had a good mother years ago; I ought to have done better than I have done.' He said no more, but he was very silent all the evening. Grandfather read his newspaper aloud, and talked on all manner of subjects, but Jem Millar's thoughts seemed far away. The next day was his day for going on shore. My grandfather and Jem took it in turns, the last Friday in every month; it was the only time they were allowed to leave the island. When it was my grandfather's turn, I generally went with him, and much enjoyed getting a little change. But whichever of them went, it was a great day with us on the island, for they bought any little things that we might be needing for our houses or gardens, and did any business that had to be done on shore. We all went down to the pier to see Jem Millar start; and as I was helping him to get on board some empty sacks and some other things he had to take with him, he said to me, in an undertone,-- 'Alick, my lad, keep that bit of paper; it's all true what that old gentleman said. I've been thinking of it ever since; and, Alick,' he whispered, 'I believe I _am_ on the Rock now.' He said no more, but arranged his oars, and in a minute more he was off. But as he rowed away, I heard, him singing softly to himself: 'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand.' We watched the boat out of sight, and then went home, wishing that it was evening and that Jem was back again with all the things that we had asked him to get for us. That was a very gloomy afternoon. A thick fog came over the sea and gradually closed us in, so that we could hardly see a step before us on the beach. Little Timpey began to cough, so I took her indoors, and amused her there with a picture-book. It grew so dark that my grandfather lighted the lighthouse lamps soon after dinner. There was a dull, yellow light over everything. I never remember a more gloomy afternoon; and as evening came on, the fog grew denser, till at length we could see nothing outside the windows. It was no use looking out for Jem's return, for we could not see the sea, much less any boat upon it. So we stayed indoors, and my grandfather sat by the fire smoking his pipe. 'I thought Jem would have been here before now,' he said at length, as I was putting out the cups and saucers for tea. 'Oh, he'll come before we've finished tea, I think, grandfather,' I answered. 'I wonder what sort of a spade he'll have got for us.' When tea was over, the door opened suddenly, and we looked up, expecting to see Jem enter with our purchases. But it was not Jem; it was his wife. 'Sandy,' she said, 'what time do you make it? My clock's stopped!' 'Twenty minutes past six,' said my grandfather, looking at his watch. 'Past six!' she repeated. 'Why, Jem's very late!' 'Yes,' said my grandfather; 'I'll go down to the pier, and have a look out.' But he came back soon, saying it was impossible to see anything; the fog was so thick, he was almost afraid of walking over the pier. 'But he's bound to be in at seven, he said (for that was the hour the lighthousemen were required to be on the island again), 'so he'll soon be up now.' The clock moved on, and still Jem Millar did not come. I saw Mrs. Millar running to her door every now and then with her baby in her arms, to look down the garden path. But no one came. At last the clock struck seven. 'I never knew him do such a thing before!' said my grandfather, as he rose to go down to the pier once more. CHAPTER VIII. WAITING FOR THE BOAT. Poor Mrs. Millar went out of her house, and followed my grandfather down to the pier. I waited indoors with little Timpey, straining my ears to listen for the sound of their footsteps coming back again. But the clock struck half-past seven, and still no sound was to be heard. I could wait no longer; I wrapped the child in a shawl, and carried her into the Millars' house, and left her under the care of Mrs. Millar's little servant. And then I ran down, through the thick, smothering fog, to the pier. My grandfather was standing there with Mrs. Millar. When I came close to them he was saying, 'Cheer up, Mary, my lass; he's all right; he's only waiting till this mist has cleared away a bit. You go home, and I'll tell you as soon as ever I hear his boat coming. Why, you're wet through, woman; you'll get your death of cold!' Her thin calico dress was soaked with the damp in the air, and she was shivering, and looked as white as a sheet. At first she would not be persuaded to leave the pier; but, as time went on, and it grew darker and colder, she consented to do as my grandfather told her, and he promised he would send me up to the lighthouse to tell her as soon as Jem arrived. When she was gone, my grandfather said 'Alick, there's something wrong with Jem, depend upon it! I didn't like to tell her so, poor soul! If we only had the boat, I would go out a bit of way and see.' We walked up and down the pier, and stopped every now and then to listen if we could hear the sound of oars in the distance, for we should not be able to see the boat till it was close upon us, so dense had the fog become. 'Dear me,' my grandfather kept saying anxiously, 'I wish he would come!' My thoughts went back to the bright sunny morning when Jem Millar had started, and we had heard him singing, as he went, those two lines of the hymn,-- 'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand.' The time passed on. Would he never come? We grew more and more anxious. Mrs. Millar's servant-girl came running down to say her mistress wanted to know if we could hear anything yet. 'No,' my grandfather said, 'nothing yet, my lass; but it can't be long now.' 'Missis is so poorly,' said the girl; 'I think she's got a cold: she shakes all over, and she keeps fretting so.' 'Poor soul! well, perhaps it's better so.' 'Whatever do you mean, grandfather?' I asked. 'Why, if aught's amiss, she won't be so taken aback as if she wasn't afraid; and if Jem's all right, why, she'll only be the better pleased.' The girl went back, and we still waited on the pier. 'Grandfather,' I said at length, 'I think I hear a boat.' It was a very still night; we stood and listened. At first my grandfather said he heard nothing; but at length he distinguished, as I did, the regular plash--plash--plash--of oars in the distance. 'Yes, it _is_ a boat,' said my grandfather. I was hastening to leave the pier, and run up to the house to tell Mrs. Millar, but my grandfather laid his hand on my shoulder. 'Wait a bit, Alick, my lad,' he said; 'let us hear what it is first; maybe it isn't Jem, after all!' 'But it's coming here, grandfather; I can hear it better now.' 'Yes,' he said, 'it's coming here;' but he still kept his hand on my shoulder. The boat had been a long way off when we first heard it, for it was many minutes before the sound of the oars seemed to become much more distinct. But it came nearer, and nearer, and nearer. Yes, the boat was evidently making for the island. At last it came so near that my grandfather called out from the end of the pier,-- 'Hollo, Jem! You're late, my lad!' 'Hollo!' said a voice from the boat; but it wasn't Jem's voice. 'Whereabouts is your landing-place?' said the voice; 'it's so thick, I can't see.' 'Why, Jem isn't there, grandfather!' I said, catching hold of his arm. 'No,' said my grandfather; 'I knew there was something wrong with the lad.' He called out to the man in the boat the direction in which he was to row, and then he and I went down the steps together, and waited for the boat to come up. There were four men in the boat. They were sailors, and strangers to me. One of them, the one whose voice we had heard, got out to speak to my grandfather. 'Something's wrong,' said my grandfather, before he could begin; 'something's wrong with that poor lad.' 'Yes,' said the man, 'we've got him here; and he pointed to the boat. A cold shudder passed over me as he said this, and I caught sight of something lying at the men's feet at the bottom of the boat. 'What's wrong with him? Has he had an accident? Is he much hurt?' 'He's dead,' said the man solemnly. 'Oh dear!' said my grandfather, in a choking voice. 'However shall we tell his wife? However shall we tell poor Mary?' [Illustration: 'HOW DID IT HAPPEN?' I ASKED.] 'How did it happen?' I asked at length, as soon as I could speak. 'He was getting a sack of flour on board, over yonder' said one of the men in the boat, 'and it was awful thick and foggy, and he missed his footing on the plank, and fell in; that's how it happened!' 'Yes,' said another man, 'and it seems he couldn't swim, and there was no boat nigh at hand to help him. Joe Malcolmson was there and saw him fall in; but before he could call any of us, it was all over with him. We got him out at last, but he was quite gone; we fetched a doctor, and took him into a house near, and rubbed him, and did all we could; but it wasn't of no good at all! Shall we bring him in?' 'Wait a bit,' said my grandfather; 'we must tell that poor girl first. Which of you will go and tell her?' The men looked at each other and did not speak. At last one of them, who knew my grandfather a little, said, 'You'd better tell her, Sandy; she knows you, and she'll bear it better than from strangers; we'll wait here till you come back, and then we can bring him in.' 'Well,' said my grandfather, with a groan, 'I'll go then! Come with me, Alick, my lad,' said he, turning to me; 'but no, perhaps I'd better go by myself.' So he went very slowly up towards the lighthouse, and I remained behind with the four men on the shore, and that silent form lying at the bottom of the boat. I was much frightened, and felt as if it was all a very terrible dream, and as if I should soon wake up to find it had all passed away. CHAPTER IX. A CHANGE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE. It seemed a long time before my grandfather came back, and then he only said in a low voice, 'You can bring him now, my lads; she knows about it now.' And so the mournful little procession moved on, through the field and garden and court, to the Millars' house, my grandfather and I following. I shall never forget that night, nor the strange, solemn feeling I had then. Mrs. Millar was very ill; the shock had been too much for her. The men went back in the boat to bring a doctor to the island to see her, and the doctor sent them back again to bring a nurse. He said he was afraid she would have an attack of brain-fever, and he thought her very ill indeed. My grandfather and I sat in the Millars' house all night, for the nurse did not arrive until early in the morning. The six children were fast asleep in their little beds. I went to look at them once, to see if my little Timpey was all right; she was lying in little Polly's bed, their tiny hands fast clasped together as they slept. The tears came fast into my eyes, as I thought that they both had lost a father, and yet neither of them knew anything of their loss! When the nurse arrived, my grandfather and I went home But we could not sleep; we lighted the kitchen fire, and sat over it in silence for a long time. Then my grandfather said: 'Alick, my lad, it has given me such a turn as I haven't had for many a day. It might have been _me_, Alick; it might just as well have been _me_!' I put my hand in his, and grasped it very tightly, as he said this. 'Yes,' he said again, 'it might have been me; and if it had, I wonder where I should have been now?' I didn't speak, and he went on,--'I wonder where Jem is now, poor fellow; I've been thinking of that all night, ever since I saw him lying there at the bottom of that boat.' So I told him of what Jem Millar had said to me the last time I had seen him. 'On the Rock!' said my grandfather. Did he say he was on the Rock? Dear me! I wish I could say as much, Alick, my lad.' 'Can't you and I come as he came, grandfather?' I said. 'Can't we come and build on the Rock, too?' 'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I wish we could, my lad. I begin to see what he meant, and what the old gentleman meant too. He said, "You're on the sand, my friend; you're on the sand, and it won't stand the storm; no, it won't stand the storm!" I've just had those words in my ears all the time we were sitting over there by Mrs. Millar. But, dear me, I don't know how to get on the Rock; I don't indeed.' The whole of the next week poor Mrs. Millar lay between life and death. At first the doctor gave no hope whatever of her recovery; but after a time she grew a little better, and he began to speak more encouragingly. I spent my time with the poor children, and hardly left them a moment, doing all I could to keep them quietly happy, that they might not disturb their mother. One sorrowful day only, my grandfather and I were absent for several hours from the lighthouse; for we went ashore to follow poor Jem Millar to the grave. His poor wife was unconscious, and knew nothing of what was going on. When, after some weeks, the fever left her, she was still very weak and unfit for work. But there was much to be done, and she had no time to sit still, for a new man had been appointed to take her husband's place; and he was to come into the house at the beginning of the month. We felt very dull and sad the day that the Millars went away. We went down to the pier with them, and saw them on board the steamer--Mrs. Millar, the six little children, and the servant-girl, all dressed in mourning, and all of them crying. They were going to Mrs. Millar's home, far away in the north of Scotland, where her old father and mother were still living. The island seemed very lonely and desolate when they were gone. If it had not been for our little sunbeam, as my grandfather called her, I do not know what we should have done. Every day we loved her more, and what we dreaded most was, that a letter would arrive some Monday morning to tell us that she must go away from us. 'Dear me, Alick,' my grandfather would often say, 'how little you and me thought that stormy night what a little treasure we had got wrapped up in that funny little bundle!' The child was growing fast; the fresh sea did her great good, and every day she became more intelligent and pretty. We were very curious to know who was appointed in Jem Millar's place; but we were not able to find out even what his name was. Captain Sayers said that he did not know anything about it; and the gentlemen who came over once or twice to see about the house being repaired and put in order for the new-comer were very silent on the subject, and seemed to think us very inquisitive if we asked any questions. Of course, our comfort depended very much upon who our neighbour was, for he and my grandfather would be constantly together, and we should have no one else to speak to. My grandfather was very anxious that we should give the man a welcome to the island, and make him comfortable on his first arrival. So we set to work, as soon as the Millars were gone, to dig up the untidy garden belonging to the next house, and make it as neat and pretty as we could for the new-comers. 'I wonder how many of them there will be,' I said, as we were at work in their garden. 'Maybe only just the man,' said my grandfather. 'When I came here first, I was a young unmarried man, Alick. But we shall soon know all about him; he'll be here next Monday morning, they say.' 'It's a wonder he hasn't been over before,' I said, 'to see the house and the island. I wonder what he'll think of it?' 'He'll be strange at first, poor fellow, said my grandfather; 'but we'll give him a bit of a welcome. Have a nice bit of breakfast ready for him, Alick, my lad, and for his wife and bairns too, if he has any--hot coffee and cakes, and a bit of meat, and any thing else you like; they'll be glad of it after crossing over here.' So we made our little preparations, and waited very anxiously indeed for Monday's Steamer. CHAPTER X. OUR NEW NEIGHBOUR. Monday morning came, and found us standing on the pier as usual awaiting the arrival of the steamer. We were very anxious indeed to see our new neighbours. A nice little breakfast for four or five people was set out in our little kitchen, and I had gathered a large bunch of dahlias from our garden, to make the table look cheerful and bright. All was ready, and in due time the steamer came puffing up towards the pier, and we saw a man standing on the deck, talking to Captain Sayers, who we felt sure must be the new lighthouse-man. [Illustration: 'PUFF, PUFF,' SAID LITTLE TIMPEY.] 'I don't see a wife,' said my grandfather. 'Nor any children,' said I, as I held little Timpey up, that she might see the steamer. 'Puff, puff, puff,' she said, as it came up, and then turned round and laughed merrily. The steamer came up to the landing-place, and my grandfather and I went down the steps to meet Captain Sayers and the stranger. 'Here's your new neighbour, Sandy,' said the captain. 'Will you show him the way to his house, whilst I see to your goods?' 'Welcome to the island,' said my grandfather, grasping his hand. He was a tall, strongly-built man, very sun-burnt and weather-beaten. 'Thank you,' said the man, looking at me all the time. 'It _is_ pleasant to have a welcome.' 'That's my grandson Alick,' said my grandfather, putting his hand on my shoulder. 'Your grandson,' repeated the man, looking earnestly at me; 'your grandson--indeed!' 'And now come along,' said my grand father, 'and get a bit of something to eat; we've got a cup of coffee all ready for you at home, and you'll be right welcome, I assure you.' 'That's very kind of you,' said the stranger. We were walking up now towards the house, and the man did not seem much inclined to talk. I fancied once that I saw a tear in his eye, but I thought I must have been mistaken. What could he have to cry about? I little knew all that was passing through his mind. 'By the bye,' said my grandfather, turning round suddenly upon him, 'what's your name? We've never heard it yet!' The man did not answer, and my grandfather looked at him in astonishment. 'Have you got no name?' he said, 'or have you objections to folks knowing what your name is?' 'Father!' said the man, taking hold of my grandfather's hand, 'don't you know your own lad?' 'Why, it's my David! Alick, look Alick, that's your father; it is indeed!' And then my grandfather fairly broke down, and sobbed like a child, whilst my father grasped him tightly with one hand, and put the other on my shoulder. 'I wouldn't let them tell you,' he said 'I made them promise not to tell you till I could do it myself. I heard of Jem Millar's death as soon as I arrived in England, and I wrote off and applied for the place at once. I told them I was your son, father, and they gave me it at once, as soon as they heard where I had been all these years.' 'And where have you been, David, never to send us a line all the time?' 'Well, it's a long story,' said my father; 'let's come in, and I'll tell you all about it.' So we went in together, and my father still looked at me. 'He's very like HER, father,' he said, in a husky voice. I knew he meant my mother! 'Then you heard about poor Alice?' said my grandfather. 'Yes,' he said; 'it was a very curious thing. A man from these parts happened to be on board the vessel I came home in, and he told me all about it. I felt as if I had no heart left in me, when I heard she was gone. I had just been thinking all the time how glad she would be to see me.' Then my grandfather told him all he could about my poor mother. How she had longed to hear from him; and how, as week after week and month after month went by, and no news came, she had gradually become weaker and weaker. All this and much more he told him; and whenever he stopped, my father always wanted to hear more, so that it was not until we were sitting over the watchroom fire in the evening that my father began to tell us his story. He had been shipwrecked on the coast of China. The ship had gone to pieces not far from shore, and he and three other men had escaped safely to land. As soon as they stepped on shore, a crowd of Chinese gathered round them with anything but friendly faces. They were taken prisoners, and carried before some man who seemed to be the governor of that part of the country. He asked them a great many questions, but they did not understand a word of what he said, and, of course, could not answer him. For some days my father and the other men were very uncertain what their fate would be; for the Chinese at that time were exceedingly jealous of any foreigner landing on their shore. However, one day they were brought out of the wooden house in which they had been imprisoned, and taken a long journey of some two hundred miles into the interior of the country. And here it was that my poor father had been all those years, when we thought him dead. He was not unkindly treated, and he taught the half-civilized people there many things which they did not know, and which they were very glad to learn. But both by day and night he was carefully watched, lest he should make his escape, and he never found a single opportunity of getting away from them. Of course, there were no posts and no railways in that remote place, and he was quite shut out from the world. Of what was going on at home he knew as little as if he had been living in the moon. Slowly and drearily eleven long years passed away, and then, one morning, they were suddenly told that they were to be sent down to the coast, and put on board a ship bound for England. They told my father that there had been a war, and that one of the conditions of peace was, that they should give up all the foreigners in their country whom they were holding as prisoners. 'Well, David, my lad,' said my grandfather, when he had finished his strange story, 'it's almost like getting thee back from the dead, to have thee in the old home again!' CHAPTER XI. ON THE ROCK. About a fortnight after my father arrived, we were surprised one Monday morning by another visit from old Mr. Davis. His son-in-law had asked him to come to tell my grandfather that he had received a letter with regard to the little girl who was saved from the _Victory_. So he told my father and me as we stood on the pier; and all the way to the house I was wondering what the letter could be. Timpey was running by my side, her little hand in mine, and I could not bear to think how dull we should be when she was gone. 'Why, it's surely Mr. Davis,' said my grandfather, as he rose to meet the old gentleman. 'Yes,' said he, 'it is Mr. Davis; and I suppose you can guess what I've come for.' 'Not to take our little sunbeam, sir,' said my grandfather, taking Timpey in his arms. 'You never mean to say you're going to take her away?' 'Wait a bit,' said the old gentleman, sitting down and fumbling in his pocket; 'wait until you've heard this letter, and then see what you think about her going.' And he began to read as follows: MY DEAR SIR,--I am almost over powered with joy by the news received by telegram an hour ago. We had heard of the loss of the _Victory_, and were mourning for our little darling as being amongst the number of those drowned. Her mother has been quite crushed by her loss, and has been dangerously ill ever since the sad intelligence reached us. 'Need I tell you what our feelings were when we suddenly heard that our dear child was alive, and well and happy! 'We shall sail by the next steamer for England, to claim our little darling. My wife is hardly strong enough to travel this week, or we should come at once. A thousand thanks to the brave men who saved our little girl. I shall hope soon to be able to thank them myself. My heart is too full to write much to-day. 'Our child was travelling home under the care of a friend, as we wished her to leave India before the hot weather set in, and I was not able to leave for two months. This accounts for the name Villiers not being on the list of passengers on board the _Victory_. 'Thanking you most sincerely for all your efforts to let us know of our child's safety, 'I remain, yours very truly, 'EDWARD VILLIERS.' 'Now,' said the old gentleman, looking at me, and laughing, though I saw a tear in his eye, 'won't you let them have her?' 'Well, to be sure,' said my grandfather, 'what can one say after that? Poor things, how pleased they are! 'Timpey,' I said, taking the little girl on my knee, 'who do you think is coming to see you? Your mother is coming--coming to see little Timpey!' The child looked earnestly at me; she evidently had not quite forgotten the name. She opened her blue eyes wider than usual, and looked very thoughtful for a minute or two. Then she nodded her head very wisely, and said,-- 'Dear mother coming to see Timpey?' 'Bless her!' said the old gentleman, stroking her fair little head; 'she seems to know all about it.' Then we sat down to breakfast; and whilst we were eating it, old Mr. Davis turned to me, and asked if I had read the little piece of paper. 'Yes, sir,' said my grandfather, 'indeed we have read it;' and he told him about Jem Millar, and what he had said to me that last morning. 'And now,' said my grandfather, 'I wish, if you'd be so kind, you would tell me _how to get on the Rock_, for I'm on the sand now; there's no doubt at all about it, and I'm afraid, as you said the last time you were here, that it won't stand the storm.' 'It would be a sad thing,' said old Mr. Davis, 'to be on the sand when the great storm comes.' 'Ay, sir, it would, said my grandfather; 'I often lie in bed at nights and think of it, when the winds and the waves are raging. I call to mind that verse where it says about the sea and the waves roaring, and men's hearts failing them for fear. Deary me, I should be terrible frightened, that I should, if that day was to come, and I saw the Lord coming in glory.' 'But you need not be afraid if you are on the Rock,' said our old friend. 'All who have come to Christ, and are resting on Him, will feel as safe in that day as you do when there is a storm raging and you are inside this house.' 'Yes,' said my grandfather, 'I see that, sir; but somehow I don't know what you mean by getting on the Rock; I don't quite see it, sir.' 'Well,' said Mr. Davis, 'what would you do if this house was built on the sand down there by the shore, and you knew that the very first storm that came would sweep it away? 'Do, sir!' said my grandfather, 'why, I should pull it down, every stone of it, and build it up on the rock instead.' 'Exactly!' said Mr. Davis. 'You have been building your hopes of heaven on the sand--on your good deeds, on your good intentions, on all sorts of sand-heaps. You know you have. 'Yes,' said grandfather, 'I know I have.' 'Well, my friend,' said Mr. Davis, 'pull them all down. Say to yourself, "I'm a lost man if I remain as I am; my hopes are all resting on the sand." And then, build your hopes on something better, something which _will_ stand the storm; build them on Christ. He is the only way to heaven. He has died that you, a poor sinner, might go there. Build your hopes on Him, my friend. Trust to what He has done for you as your only hope of heaven--_that_ is building on the Rock!' 'I see, sir; I understand you now.' 'Do that,' said Mr. Davis, 'and then your hope will be a sure and steadfast hope, a good hope which can never be moved. And when the last great storm comes, it will not touch you; you will be as certainly and as entirely safe in that day as you are in this lighthouse when the storm is raging outside, because you will be built upon the immovable Rock.' I cannot recollect all the conversation which Mr. Davis and my grandfather had that morning, but I do remember that before he went away he knelt down with us, and prayed that we might every one of us be found on the Rock in that last great storm. And I remember also that that night, when my grandfather said good-night to me, he said, 'Alick, my lad, I don't mean to go to sleep to-night till I can say, like poor Jem Millar, 'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand.' And I believe that my grandfather kept his word. CHAPTER XII. THE SUNBEAM CLAIMED. It was a cold, cheerless morning; the wind was blowing, and the rain was beating against the windows. It was far too wet and stormy for little Timpey to be out, so she and I had a game of ball together in the kitchen, whilst my father and grandfather went down to the pier. She looked such a pretty little thing that morning. She had on a little blue frock, which my grandfather had bought for her, and which Mrs. Millar had made before she left the island, and a clean white pinafore. She was screaming with delight, as I threw the ball over her head and she ran to catch it, when the door opened, and my father ran in. 'Alick, is she here? They've come!' 'Who've come, father?' I said. 'Little Timpey's father and mother; they are coming up the garden now with your grandfather! He had hardly finished speaking before my grandfather came in with a lady and gentleman. The lady ran forward as soon as she saw her child, put her arms round her, and held her tightly in her bosom, as if she could never part from her again. Then she sat down with her little darling on her knee, stroking her tiny hands and talking to her, and looking, oh, so anxiously, to see if the child remembered her. At first, Timpey looked a little shy, and hung down her head, and would not look in her mother's face. But this was only for a minute. As soon as her mother _spoke_ to her she evidently remembered her voice, and when Mrs. Villiers asked her, with tears in her eyes,-- 'Do you know me, little Timpey? My dear little Timpey, who am I?' the child looked up, and smiled, as she said, 'Dear mother--Timpey's dear mother!' and she put up her little fat hand to stroke her mother's face. And then, when I saw that, I could feel no longer sorry that the child was going away. I can well remember what a happy morning that was. Mr. and Mrs. Villiers were so kind to us, and so very grateful for all that my grandfather and I had done for their little girl. They thought her looking so much better and stronger than when she left India, and they were so pleased to find that she had not forgotten all the little lessons she had learnt at home. Mrs. Villiers seemed as if she could not take her eyes off the child; wherever little Timpey went, and whatever she was doing, her mother followed her, and I shall never forget how happy and how glad both the father and the mother looked. But the most pleasant day will come to an end; and in the evening a boat was to come from shore to take Mr. and Mrs. Villiers and their child away. 'Dear me!' said my grandfather, with a groan, as he took the little girl on his knee, 'I never felt so sorry to lose anybody, _never_; I'm sure I didn't. Why, I calls her my little sunbeam, sir! You'll excuse me saying so, but I don't feel over and above kindly to you for taking her away from me; I don't indeed, sir.' 'Then I don't know what you will say to me when you hear I want to rob you further,' said Mr. Villiers. 'Rob me further?' repeated my grandfather. 'Yes,' said Mr. Villiers, putting his hand on my shoulder. 'I want to take this grandson of yours away too. It seems to me a great pity that such a fine lad should waste his days shut up on this little island. Let him come with me, and I will send him to a really good school for three or four years, and then I will get him some good clerkship, or something of that kind, and put him in the way of making his way in the world. Now then, my friend, will you and his father spare him?' 'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I don't know what to say to you, sir; it's very good of you--very good, indeed it is, and it would be a fine thing for Alick, it would indeed; but I always thought he would take my place here when I was dead.' 'Yes,' said my father; 'but, you see, _I_ shall be here to do that, father; and if Mr. Villiers is so very kind as to take Alick, I'm sure we ought only to be too glad for him to have such a friend.' 'You're right, David; yes, your right. We mustn't be selfish, sir; and you'd let him come and see us sometimes, wouldn't you?' 'Oh, to be sure,' said Mr. Villiers; 'he can come and spend his holidays here, and give you fine histories of his school life. Now, Alick, what say you? There's a capital school in the town where we are going to live, so you would be near us and you could come to see us on holiday afternoons, and see whether this little woman remembers all you have taught her. What say you?' I was very pleased indeed, and very thankful for his kindness, and my father and grandfather said they would never be able to repay him. 'Repay _me_!' said Mr. Villiers. 'Why, my friends, it's _I_ who can never repay _you._ Just think, for one moment, of what you have given me'--and he put his arm round his little girl's neck.' So we may consider that matter settled. And now, when can Alick come?' My grandfather begged for another month, and Mr. Villiers said that would do very well, as in that time the school would reopen after the holidays. And so it came to pass, that when I said good-bye to little Timpey that afternoon, it was with the hope of soon seeing her again. Her father called her Lucy, which I found was her real name. Timpey was a pet name, which had been given her as a baby. But though Lucy was certainly a prettier name, still I felt I should always think of her as Timpey--_my_ little Timpey. I shall never forget my feelings that month. A strange new life was opening out before me, and I felt quite bewildered by the prospect. My grandfather, and father, and I sat over the watchroom fire, night after night, talking over my future; and day after day I wandered over our dear little island, wondering how I should feel when I said good-bye to it, and went into the great world beyond. Since old Mr. Davis's visit, there had been a great change in our little home. The great Bible had been taken down from its place and carefully read and studied, and Sunday was no longer spent by us like any other day, but was kept as well as it could be on that lonely island. My grandfather, I felt sure, was a new man. Old things had passed away; all things had become new. He was dearer to me than ever, and I felt very sorrowful when I thought of parting from him. 'I could never have left you, grandfather,' I said one day, 'if my father had not been here.' 'No,' he said, 'I don't think I could have spared you, Alick; but your father just came back in right time,--didn't you, David?' At last the day arrived on which Mr. Villiers had appointed to meet me at the town to which the steamer went every Monday morning, when it left the island. My father and grandfather walked with me down to the pier, and saw me on board. And the very last thing my grandfather said to me was, 'Alick, my lad, keep on the Rock--be sure you keep on the Rock!' And I trust that I have never forgotten my grandfather's last words to me. 'It was founded upon a rock.' MATT. VII. 25 My hope is built on nothing less Than Jesu's blood and righteousness; I dare not trust the sweetest frame, But wholly lean on Jesu's name. On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand. When long appears my toilsome race, I rest on His unchanging grace; In every high and stormy gale, My anchor holds within the veil. On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand. His oath, His covenant, and blood, Support me in the whelming flood; When every earthly prop gives way, He then is all my hope and stay. On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand. When the last trumpet's voice shall sound, Oh, may I then in Him be found; Robed in His righteousness alone, Faultless to stand before the throne. On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand, All other ground is sinking sand. MOTE. 
63182	----	products are placed in the Public Domain. 
23272	----	The Story of the Rock, by R.M. Ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ In this book Ballantyne has brilliantly woven the story of a family that worked on the building of the Eddystone lighthouse, with the story of the actual building. Three successive attempts were made to build a lighthouse on this dangerous rock which lies several miles off the south coast of Devon, and on which so many fine ships making their way up the English Channel to the North Sea ports of Europe had been wrecked. The first attempt was made in the early years of the eighteenth century, but that lighthouse did not last long. The second was made by Rudyerd, and was very well made and strong, but its upperworks were made of timber, and the whole thing was destroyed by fire, after having shown a light for over a third of a century. There was an amusing episode during the construction of the Rudyerd lighthouse when a French warship took all the construction workers prisoner, and made off with them to France. Luckily Louis, the King of France, heard of this and was quite incensed, ordering the British prisoners to be released and treated as hospitably as possible, while the captain of the warship was to be cast into the prison. The final construction was by a mathematical instrument maker, of all people, called Smeaton. His lighthouse was even more soundly founded than even Rudyerd's had been, and he used the fact that stone is heavier than timber to add weight to the building, thus rendering it more resistant to the forces of wind and water. It was not only succesful as a lighthouse, but it has lasted to this day, well over two centuries, and has ever since it was completed been a highly-regarded example of the art of lighthouse building. ________________________________________________________________________ THE STORY OF THE ROCK, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. WRECK OF WINSTANLEY'S LIGHTHOUSE. "At mischief again, of course: always at it." Mrs Potter said this angrily, and with much emphasis, as she seized her son by the arm and dragged him out of a pool of dirty water, into which he had tumbled. "Always at mischief of one sort or another, he is," continued Mrs Potter, with increasing wrath, "morning, noon, and night--he is; tumblin' about an' smashin' things for ever he does; he'll break my heart at last--he will. There: take that!" "That," which poor little Tommy was desired to take, was a sounding box on the ear, accompanied by a violent shake of the arm which would have drawn that limb out of its socket if the child's bones and muscles had not been very tightly strung together. Mrs Potter was a woman of large body and small brain. In respect of reasoning power, she was little better than the wooden cuckoo which came out periodically from the interior of the clock that stood over her own fireplace and announced the hours. She entertained settled convictions on a few subjects, in regard to which she resembled a musical box. If you set her going on any of these, she would harp away until she had played the tune out, and then begin over again; but she never varied. Reasons, however good, or facts, however weighty, were utterly powerless to penetrate her skull: her "settled convictions" were not to be unsettled by any such means. Men might change their minds; philosophers might see fit to alter their opinions; weaklings of both sexes and all ages might trim their sails in accordance with the gales of advancing knowledge, but Mrs Potter--no: never! _her_ colours were nailed to the mast. Like most people who unite a strong will with an empty head, she was "wiser in her own conceit than eleven men that can render a reason:" in brief, she was obstinate. One of her settled convictions was that her little son Tommy was "as full of mischief as a hegg is full of meat." Another of these convictions was that children of all ages are tough; that it does them good to pull them about in a violent manner, at the risk even of dislocating their joints. It mattered nothing to Mrs Potter that many of her female friends and acquaintances held a different opinion. Some of these friends suggested to her that the hearts of the poor little things were tender, as well as their muscles and bones and sinews; that children were delicate flowers, or rather buds, which required careful tending and gentle nursing. Mrs Potter's reply was invariably, "Fiddlesticks!" she knew better. They were obstinate and self-willed little brats that required constant banging. She knew how to train 'em up, she did; and it was of no manner of use, it wasn't, to talk to _her_ upon that point. She was right. It was of no use. As well might one have talked to the wooden cuckoo, already referred to, in Mrs Potter's timepiece. "Come, Martha," said a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced man at her elbow, "don't wop the poor cheeld like that. What has he been doin'--" Mrs Potter turned to her husband with a half angry, half ashamed glance. "Just look at 'im, John," she replied, pointing to the small culprit, who stood looking guilty and drenched with muddy water from hands to shoulders and toes to nose. "Look at 'im: see what mischief he's always gittin' into." John, whose dress bespoke him an artisan, and whose grave earnest face betokened him a kind husband and a loving father, said:-- "Tumblin' into dirty water ain't necessarily mischief. Come, lad, speak up for yourself. How did it happen--" "I felled into the water when I wos layin' the foundations, faither," replied the boy; pointing to a small pool, in the centre of which lay a pile of bricks. "What sort o' foundations d'ye mean, boy?" "The light'ouse on the Eddystun," replied the child, with sparkling eyes. The man smiled, and looked at his son with interest. "That's a brave boy," he said, quietly patting the child's head. "Get 'ee into th'ouse, Tommy, an' I'll show 'ee the right way to lay the foundations o' the Eddystun after supper. Come, Martha," he added, as he walked beside his wife to their dwelling near Plymouth Docks, "don't be so hard on the cheeld; it's not mischief that ails him. It's engineerin' that he's hankerin' after. Depend upon it, that if he is spared to grow up he'll be a credit to us." Mrs Potter, being "of the same opinion still," felt inclined to say "Fiddlesticks!" but she was a good soul, although somewhat highly spiced in the temper, and respected her husband sufficiently to hold her tongue. "John;" she said, after a short silence, "you're late to-night." "Yes," answered John, with a sigh. "My work at the docks has come to an end, an' Mr Winstanley has got all the men he requires for the repair of the light'ouse. I saw him just before he went off to the rock to-night, an' I offered to engage, but he said he didn't want me." "What?" exclaimed Mrs Potter, with sudden indignation: "didn't want you--you who has served 'im, off an' on, at that light'ouse for the last six year an' more while it wor a buildin'! Ah, that's gratitood, that is; that's the way some folk shows wot their consciences is made of; treats you like a pair of old shoes, they does, an' casts you off w'en you're not wanted: hah!" Mrs Potter entered her dwelling as she spoke, and banged the door violently by way of giving emphasis to her remark. "Don't be cross, old girl," said John, patting her shoulder: "I hope _you_ won't cast me off like a pair of old shoes when you're tired of me! But, after all, I have no reason to complain. You know I have laid by a good lump of money while I was at work on the Eddystone; besides, we can't expect men to engage us when they don't require us; and if I had got employed, it would not have bin for long, being only a matter of repairs. Mr Winstanley made a strange speech, by the way, as the boat was shoving off with his men. I was standin' close by when a friend o' his came up an' said he thowt the light'ouse was in a bad way an' couldn't last long. Mr Winstanley, who is uncommon sure o' the strength of his work, he replies, says he--`I only wish to be there in the greatest storm that ever blew under the face of heaven, to see what the effect will be.' Them's his very words, an'it did seem to me an awful wish--all the more that the sky looked at the time very like as if dirty weather was brewin' up somewhere." "I 'ope he may 'ave 'is wish," said Mrs Potter firmly, "an' that the waves may--" "Martha!" said John, in a solemn voice, holding up his finger, "think what you're sayin'." "Well, I don't mean no ill; but, but--fetch the kettle, Tommy, d'ye hear? an' let alone the cat's tail, you mischievous little--" "That's a smart boy," exclaimed John rising and catching the kettle from his son's and, just as he was on the point of tumbling over a stool: "there, now let's all have a jolly supper, and then, Tommy, I'll show you how the real foundation of the Eddystun was laid." The building to which John Potter referred, and of which he gave a graphic account and made a careful drawing that night, for the benefit of his hopeful son, was the _first_ lighthouse that was built on the wild and almost submerged reef of rocks lying about fourteen miles to the south-west of Plymouth harbour. The highest part of this reef, named the Eddystone, is only a few feet above water at high tide, and as it lies in deep water exposed to the full swell of the ocean, the raging of the sea over it in stormy weather is terrible beyond conception. Lying as it does in the track of vessels coasting up and down the English Channel, it was, as we may easily believe, a source of terror, as well as of danger, to mariners, until a lighthouse was built upon it. But a lighthouse was talked of long before any attempt was made to erect one. Important though this object was to the navies of the world, the supposed impossibility of the feat, and the danger apprehended in the mere attempt, deterred any one from undertaking the task until the year 1696, when a country gentleman of Essex, named Henry Winstanley, came forward, and, having obtained the necessary legal powers, began the great work of building on the wave-lashed rock. Winstanley was an eccentric as well as a bold man. He undoubtedly possessed an ingenious mechanical mind, which displayed itself very much in practical joking. It is said of him that he made a machine, the spring of which was attached to an old slipper, which lay (apparently by chance) on the floor of his bedroom. If a visitor kicked this out of his way, a phantom instantly arose from the floor! He also constructed a chair which seized every one who sat down in it with its arms, and held them fast; and in his garden he had an arbour which went afloat in a neighbouring canal when any one entered it! As might have been expected, Winstanley's lighthouse was a curious affair, not well adapted to withstand the fury of the waves. It was highly ornamented, and resembled a Chinese pagoda much more than a lighthouse. Nevertheless it must be said to the credit of this bold man, that after facing and overcoming, during six years, difficulties and dangers which up to that time had not been heard of, he finished his lighthouse, proved hereby the possibility of that which had been previously deemed impossible, and gave to mankind a noble example of enterprise, daring, and perseverance. Our friend John Potter had, from the commencement, rendered able assistance in the dangerous work as a stone cutter, and he could not help feeling as if he had been deserted by an old friend that night when the boat went off to the rock without him. It was in November 1703, when Winstanley expressed the wish that he might experience, in his lighthouse, the greatest storm that ever blew. On the 26th of that month his wish was granted! That night there arose one of the fiercest gales that ever strewed our shores with wrecks and corpses. The day before the storm, there were indications of its approach, so John Potter went down to the shore to look with some anxiety at the lighthouse. There it stood, as the sun went down, like a star on the horizon, glimmering above the waste of foaming water. When the dark pall and the driving sprays of that terrible night hid it from view, John turned his back on the sea and sought the shelter of his humble home. It was a cheery home though a poor one, for Mrs Potter was a good housewife, despite her sharp temper; and the threatening aspect of the weather had subdued her somewhat. "You wouldn't like to be a lighthouse-keeper on a night like this, John, would you?" asked Mrs Potter, as she busied herself with supper. "May be not: but I would be content to take things as they are sent. Anyhow, I mean to apply for the situation, because I like the notion of the quiet life, and the wage will be good as well as sure, which will be a matter of comfort to you, old girl. You often complain, you know, of the uncertainty of my present employment." "Ay, but I'd rather 'ave that uncertainty than see you run the risk of bein' drownded in a light'ouse," said Mrs Potter, glancing uneasily at the window, which rattled violently as the fury of the gale increased. "Oh, faither," exclaimed Tommy, pausing with a potato halfway to his mouth, as he listened partly in delight and partly in dread to the turmoil without: "I wish I was a man that I might go with 'ee to live in the light'ouse. Wot fun it would be to hear the gale roarin' out _there_, an' to see the big waves _so close_, an' to feel the house shake, and--oh!" The last syllable expressed partly his inability to say more, and partly his horror at seeing the fire blown almost into the room! For some time past the smoke had poured down the chimney, but the last burst convinced John Potter that it was high time to extinguish the fire altogether. This accomplished, he took down an old family Bible from a shelf, and had worship, for he was a man who feared and loved God. Earnestly did he pray, for he had a son in the coasting trade whom he knew to be out upon the raging sea that night, and he did not forget his friends upon the Eddystone Rock. "Get thee to bed, lass," he said when he had concluded. "I'll sit up an' read the word. My eyes could not close this night." Poor Mrs Potter meekly obeyed. How strangely the weather had changed her! Even her enemies--and she had many--would have said there was some good in her after all, if they had seen her with a tear trickling down her ruddy cheek as she thought of her sailor boy. Day broke at last. The gale still raged with an excess of fury that was absolutely appalling. John Potter wrapped himself in a tarpaulin coat and sou'wester preparatory to going out. "I'll go with 'ee, John," said his wife, touching him on the shoulder. "You couldn't face it, Martha," said John. "I thowt ye had bin asleep." "No: I've bin thinkin' of our dear boy. I can face it well enough." "Come, then: but wrap well up. Let Tommy come too: I see he's gettin' ready." Presently the three went out. The door almost burst off its hinges when it was opened, and it required John's utmost strength to reclose it. Numbers of people, chiefly men, were already hurrying to the beach. Clouds of foam and salt spray were whirled madly in the air, and, carried far inland, and slates and cans were dashing on the pavements. Men tried to say to each other that they had never seen such a storm, but the gale caught their voices away, and seemed to mingle them all up in one prolonged roar. On gaining the beach they could see nothing at first but the heavings of the maddened sea, whose billows mingled their thunders with the wind. Sand, gravel, and spray almost blinded them, but as daylight increased they caught glimpses of the foam above the rock. "God help us!" said John, solemnly, as he and his wife and child sought shelter under the lee of a wall: "_the light'ouse is gone_!" It was too true. The Eddystone lighthouse had been swept completely away, with the unfortunate Winstanley and all his men: not a vestige, save a fragment of chain-cable, remained on the fatal rock to tell that such a building had ever been. CHAPTER TWO. BEGINNING OF RUDYERD'S LIGHTHOUSE. The terrible gale which swept away the first lighthouse that was built on the Eddystone Rock, gave ample proof of the evils resulting from the want of such a building. Just after the structure fell, a vessel, named the "Winchelsea," homeward bound, approached the dreaded rock. Trusting, doubtless, to the light which had been destroyed so recently, she held on her course, struck, split in two, and went down with every soul on board. The necessity for building another tower was thus made; as it were, urgently obvious; nevertheless, nearly four years elapsed before any one was found with sufficient courage and capacity to attempt the dangerous and difficult enterprise. During this period, our friend John Potter, being a steady, able man, found plenty of work at the docks of Plymouth; but he often cast a wistful glance in the direction of "the Rock" and sighed to think of the tower that had perished, and the numerous wrecks that had occurred in consequence; for, not only had some vessels struck on the Rock itself, but others, keeping too far off its dreaded locality, were wrecked on the coast of France. John Potter's sigh, it must be confessed, was also prompted, in part, by the thought that his dreams of a retired and peaceful life as a light-keeper were now destined never to be realised. Returning home one evening, somewhat wearied, he flung his huge frame into a stout arm chair by the fireside, and exclaimed, "Heigho!" "Deary me, John, what ails you to-night?" asked the faithful Martha, who was, as of yore, busy with the supper. "Nothin' partikler, Martha; only I've had a hard day of it, an I'm glad to sit down. Was Isaac Dorkin here to-day?" "No, 'e wasn't. I wonder you keep company with that man," replied Mrs Potter, testily; "he's for ever quarrelling with 'ee, John." "No doubt he is, Martha; but we always make it up again; an' it don't do for a man to give up his comrades just because they have sharp words now and then. Why, old girl, you and I are always havin' a spurt o' that sort off and on; yet I don't ever talk of leavin' ye on that account." To this Martha replied, "Fiddlesticks;" and said that she didn't believe in the friendship of people who were always fighting and making it up again; that for her part she would rather have no friends at all, she wouldn't; and that she had a settled conviction, she had, that Isaac Dorkin would come to a bad end at last. "I hope not, Martha; but in the meantime he has bin the means of gettin' me some work to do that is quite to my liking." "What may that be, John?" asked Mrs Potter in surprise. "I'll tell you when we're at supper," said John with a smile; for he knew from experience that his better half was in a fitter state to swallow unpleasant news when engaged in swallowing her meals than at any other time. "Where is Tommy?" he added, looking round at the quantity of chips which littered the floor. "Where is 'e?" repeated Mrs Potter, in a tone of indignation. "Where would you expect 'im to be but after mischief? 'E's at the mod'l, of course; always at it; never at hanythingk else a'most." "No!" exclaimed John, in affected surprise. "Wasn't he at school to-day?" "O yes, of course 'e was at school." "An' did he git his lessons for to-morrow after comin' 'ome?" "I suppose 'e did." "Ah then, he does something else _sometimes_, eh?" Mrs Potter's reply was interrupted by Tommy himself emerging from a closet, which formed his workshop and in which he was at that time busy with a model of Winstanley's lighthouse, executed from the drawings and descriptions by his father, improved by his own brilliant fancy. Four years make a marked difference on a boy in the early stage of life. He was now nearly ten, and well grown, both intellectually and physically, for his age. "Well, Tommy, how d'ee git on wi' the light-'ouse?" asked his father. "Pretty well, faither: but it seems to me that Mr Winstanley had too many stickin'-out poles, an' curlywurleys, an' things o' that sort about it." "Listen to that now," said Mrs Potter, with a look of contempt, as they all sat down to supper: "what ever does the boy mean by curlywurleys?" "You've seed Isaac Dorkin's nose, mother?" "Of course I 'ave: what then?" "Well, it goes in at the top and out at the middle and curls up at the end: that's curlywurley," said Tommy, with a grin, as he helped himself to a large potato. "The boy is right, Martha," said John, laughing, "for a lighthouse should be as round an' as smooth as a ship's bow, with nothin' for wind or water to lay hold on. But now I'll tell 'ee of this noo situation." Both mother and son looked inquiringly up, but did not speak, being too busy and hungry. "Well, this is how it came about. I met Isaac Dorkin on my way to the docks this mornin', an' he says to me, says he, `John, I met a gentleman who is makin' very partikler inquiries about the Eddystone Rock: his name he says is Rudyerd, and he wants to hire a lot o' first-rate men to begin a new--'" "A noo light'ouse!" exclaimed Mrs Potter, with sudden energy, bringing her fist down on the table with such force that the dishes rattled again. "I know'd it: I did. I've 'ad a settled conviction that if ever they begun to put up another 'ouse on that there rock, you would 'ave your finger in it! And now it'll be the old story over again: out in all weathers, gettin' yer limbs bruised, if yer neck ain't broke; comin' 'ome like a drownded rat, no regular hours or meals! Oh John, John!" Mrs Potter stopped at this point to recover breath and make up her mind whether to storm or weep. Heaving a deep sigh she did neither, but went on with her supper in sad silence. "Don't take on like that, duckey," said John, stretching his long arm across the table and patting his wife's shoulder. "It won't be so bad as that comes to, and it will bring steady work, besides lots o' money." "Go on with the story, faither," said Tommy, through a potato, while his eyes glittered with excitement. "It ain't a story, lad. However, to make it short I may come to the pint at once. Isaac got engaged himself and mentioned my name to Mr Rudyerd, who took the trouble to ferret me out in the docks and--and in fact engaged me for the work, which is to begin next week." "Capital!" exclaimed Tommy. "Oh, how I wish I was old enough to go too!" "Time enough, lad: every dog shall have his day, as the proverb says." Mrs Potter said nothing, but sighed, and sought comfort in another cup of tea. Meanwhile John continued his talk in an easy, off hand sort of way, between bite. "This Mr Rudyerd, you must know (pass the loaf, Tommy: thank 'ee), is a Cornish man--and fine, straightforward, go-ahead fellows them Cornish men are, though I'm not one myself. Ah, you needn't turn up your pretty nose, Mrs Potter; I would rather have bin born in Cornwall than any other county in England, if I'd had my choice. Howsever, that ain't possible now. Well, it seems that Mr Rudyerd is a remarkable sort of man. He came of poor an' dishonest parents, from whom he runned away in his young days, an' got employed by a Plymouth gentleman, who became a true father to him, and got him a good edication in readin', writin', an' mathematics. Ah, Tommy, my son, many a time have I had cause for to regret that nobody gave me a good edication!" "Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Mrs Potter, rousing up at this. "You've got edication enough for your station in life, and a deal more than most men in the same trade. You oughtn't for to undervally yourself, John. I'd back you against all your acquaintance in the matter of edication, I would, so don't talk any more nonsense like that." Mrs Potter concluded by emphatically stabbing a potato with her fork, and beginning to peel it. John smiled sadly and shook his head, but he was too wise a man to oppose his wife on such a point. "However, Tommy," he continued, "I'll not let _you_ have the same regrets in after life, my son: God helping me, you shall have a good; edication. Well, as I was sayin', John Rudyerd the runaway boy became Mister Rudyerd the silk-mercer on Ludgate Hill, London, and now he's goin' to build a noo light'ouse on the Eddystun." "He'd do better to mind his shop," said Mrs Potter. "He must be a strange man," observed Tommy, "to be both a silk-mercer and an engineer." Tommy was right: Mr Rudyerd was indeed a strange man, for the lighthouse which he ultimately erected on the Eddystone Rock proved that, although not a professional engineer, and although he never attempted any other great work of the kind, he nevertheless possessed engineering talent of the highest order: a fact which must of course have been known to Captain Lovet, the gentleman who selected him for the arduous undertaking. The corporation of the Trinity House, who managed the lighthouses on the English coast, had let the right to build on the Eddystone, for a period of 99 years, to this Captain Lovet, who appointed Mr Rudyerd to do the work. It was a clear calm morning in July 1706 when the boat put off for the first time to "the Rock," with the men and materials for commencing the lighthouse. Our friend John Potter sat at the helm. Opposite to him sat his testy friend, Isaac Dorkin, pulling the stroke oar. Mr Rudyerd and his two assistant engineers sat on either hand, conversing on the subject that filled the thoughts of all. It was a long hard pull, even on a calm day, but stout oars and strong arms soon carried them out to the rock. Being low water at the time, a good deal of it was visible, besides several jagged peaks of the black forbidding ridge of which the Eddystone forms a part. But calm though it was, the party could plainly see that the work before them would be both difficult and dangerous. A slight swell from the open sea caused a long smooth glassy wave to roll solemnly forward every minute or two, and launch itself in thunder on the weather side, sending its spray right over the rock at times, so that a landing on that side would have been impossible. On the lee side, however, the boat found a sort of temporary harbour. Here they landed, but not altogether without mishap. Isaac Dorkin, who had made himself conspicuous, during the row out, for caustic remarks, and a tendency to contradict, slipped his foot on a piece of seaweed and fell into the water, to the great glee of most of his comrades. "Ah, then, sarves you right," cried Teddy Maroon, a little Irishman, one of the joiners. The others laughed, and so did John Potter; but he also stretched out a helping hand and pulled Dorkin out of the sea. This little incident tended to increase the spirits of the party as they commenced preliminary operations. The form of the little mass of rock on which they had to build was very unfavourable. Not only was it small--so small that the largest circle which it was possible to draw on it was only twenty-five feet six inches in diameter, but its surface sloped so much as to afford a very insecure foundation for any sort of building, even if the situation had been an unexposed one. The former builder, Winstanley, had overcome this difficulty by fastening a circle of strong iron posts into the solid rock, but the weight of his building, coupled with the force of the sea, had snapped these, and thus left the structure literally to slide off its foundation. The ends of these iron posts, and a bit of chain firmly imbedded in a cleft of the rock, were all that the new party of builders found remaining of the old lighthouse. Rudyerd determined to guard against a similar catastrophe, by cutting the rock into a succession of flat steps or terraces, so that the weight of his structure should rest perpendicularly on its foundation. Stormy weather interrupted and delayed him, but he returned with his men again and again to the work, and succeeded in advancing it very considerably during the first year--that is to say, during the few weeks of the summer of that year, in which winds and waves permitted the work to go on. Many adventures, both ludicrous and thrilling, had these enterprising men while they toiled, by snatches as it were, sometimes almost under water, and always under difficulties; but we are constrained to pass these by, in silence, in order to devote our space to the more important and stirring incidents in the history of this the second lighthouse on the Eddystone,--one of which incidents bade fair to check the progress of the building for an indefinite period of time, and well-nigh brought the career of our hero, John Potter, and his mates to an abrupt close. CHAPTER THREE. A VIOLENT INTERRUPTION. The incident referred to in our last chapter occurred on the afternoon of a calm summer day. Early that morning, shortly after daybreak, Mr Rudyerd, with his engineers and workmen, put off in the boat to resume operations on the rock after a lapse of nearly a week, during which period rough weather had stopped the work. They landed without difficulty, the calm being so complete that there was only a little sea caused by the heavy swell on the south-west side of the Eddystone Rock, the leeside being as quiet as a pond. "It's not often we have weather like this sir," observed John Potter to Mr Rudyerd, as the heavily-laden boat approached the landing place. "True, John; a few weeks like this would enable us almost to complete the courses," replied the engineer. "Easy, lads, easy! If you run her up so fast you'll stave in the planks. Stand by with the fender, Teddy!" "Ay, ay, sir!" cried the man, springing up and seizing a stuffed canvas ball, which he swung over the gunwale just in time to prevent the boat's side from grazing the rock. "There now: jump out wi' the painter; man alive!" said Teddy, addressing himself to Isaac Dorkin, who was naturally slow in his movements, "you'll go souse between the boat an' the rock av ye don't be smarter nor that." Dorkin made some grumbling reply as he stepped upon the rock, and fastened the painter to a ring-bolt. His comrades sprang after him, and while some began to heave the tools from the boat, others busied themselves round the base of the column, which had by that time risen to a considerable height. It looked massive enough to bid defiance to wind and waves, however fierce their fury. Some such thought must have passed through Mr Rudyerd's mind just then, for a satisfied smile lighted up his usually grave features as he directed the men to arrange the tackle of the crane, by which the stones were to be removed from the boat to their place on the building. They were all quickly at work; for they knew from experience how suddenly their operations might be cut short by a gale. In order that the reader may fully understand the details of the event which occurred that afternoon, it is necessary that he should know the nature of the structure, and the height to which, at that time, it had proceeded; and while we are on the subject, we may as well state a few facts connected with the foundation and superstructure, which cannot fail to interest all who take pleasure in contemplating man's efforts to overcome almost insuperable difficulties. As we have said, the sloping foundation of the building was cut into a series of terraces or steps. There were seven of these. The first operation was the cutting of thirty-six holes in the solid rock, into which iron hold-fasts were securely fixed. The cutting of these holes or sockets was ingeniously managed. First, three small holes were drilled into the rock; and then these were broken into one large hole, which was afterwards smoothed, enlarged, and _undercut_, so as to be of dovetail form; the size of each being 7 and a half inches broad and 2 and a half inches wide at the top, and an inch broader at the bottom. They were about sixteen inches deep. Thirty-six massive malleable iron hold-fasts were then inserted, and wedged into the places thus prepared for them, besides being filled up with lead, so that no force of any kind could draw them out. The next proceeding was to place beams of solid oak timber, lengthwise, on the first _step_, thus bringing it level with the second step. Timbers of the same kind were then placed above and across these, bringing the level up to the third step. The next "course" of timbers was again laid, lengthwise, bringing the level to the fourth step, and so on to the seventh, above which two completely circular timber courses were laid, thus making a perfectly flat and solid foundation on which the remainder of the column might rest. The building, therefore, had no tendency to slide, even although it had not been held in its place by the thirty-six hold-fasts before mentioned. In addition to this, the various courses of timber were fastened to the rock and to each other by means of numerous iron cramps and bolts, and wooden trenails. It was well known to Mr Rudyerd, however, that it was not possible to fit his timbers so perfectly to the rock and to each other as to exclude water altogether; and that if the water should manage to find entrance, it would exert a tremendous lifting power, which, coupled with the weight of the falling billows, would be apt to sweep his foundation away. He resolved, therefore, to counteract this by means of _weight_; and, in order to do this, he next piled five courses of Cornish moor-stone above the timber courses. The stones were huge blocks, which, when laid and fastened in one solid stratum, weighed 120 tons. They were not laid in cement; but each block was fastened to its fellow by joints and similar to the first. The whole of this fabric was built round a strong central mast or pole, which rose from the rock. The two timber courses above described terminated the "solid" part of the lighthouse. It rose to the height of about fourteen feet from the rock, at the centre of the building. At this point in the structure; namely, at the top of the "solid," the door was begun on the east side; and a central "well-hole" was left, where the stair leading to the rooms above was ultimately built. The door itself was reached by a strong iron stair of open work, outside, through which the sea could easily wash. After the solid was completed, other five courses of moor-stone were laid, which weighed about eighty-six tons. It was in these that the door-way and well-hole were made. Two more courses of wood followed, covering the door-head; and on these, four more courses of stone, weighing sixty-seven tons; then several courses of timber, with a floor of oak plank, three inches thick, over all, forming the floor of the first apartment, which was the store-room. This first floor was thirty-three feet above the rock. The upper part of the column, containing its four rooms, was by no means so strong as the lower part, being composed chiefly of the timber uprights in which the building was encased from top to bottom. These uprights, numbering seventy-one, were massive beams; about a foot broad and nine inches thick at the bottom, and diminishing towards the top. Their seams were caulked like those of a ship, and they gave to the lighthouse when finished the appearance of an elegant fluted column. The top of the column, on which rested the lantern, rose, when finished, to about sixty-three feet above the highest part of the rock. We have thought proper to give these details in this place, but at the time of which we write, none of the outside timbers had been set up, and the edifice had only reached that point immediately above the "solid," where the doorway and the "well-hole" began. Here a large crane had been fixed, and two of the men were up there working the windlass, by which the heavy blocks of moor-stone were raised to their places. The signal had been given to hoist one of these, when Isaac Dorkin, who stood beside the stone, suddenly uttered a loud cry, and shouted, "hold on! Ease off up there! Hold o-o-on! D'ye hear?" "Arrah! howld yer noise, an' I'll hear better," cried Teddy Maroon, looking over the top edge of the lighthouse. "My thumb's caught i' the chain!" yelled Dorkin. "Ease it off." "Och! poor thing," exclaimed Teddy, springing back and casting loose the chain. "Are ye aisy now?" he cried, again looking down at his friend. "All right: hoist away!" shouted Stobbs, another of the men, who could scarce refrain from laughing at the rueful countenance of his comrade as he surveyed his crushed thumb. Up went the stone, and while it was ascending some of the men brought forward another to follow it. "There comes the boat," observed Mr Rudyerd to one of his assistant engineers, as he shut up a pocket telescope with which he had been surveying the distant shore. "I find it necessary to leave you to-day, Mr Franks, rather earlier than usual; but that matters little, as things are going smoothly here. See that you keep the men at work as long as possible. If the swell that is beginning to rise should increase, it may compel you to knock off before dark, but I hope it won't." "It would be well, sir, I think," said Franks, "to make John Potter overseer in place of Williamson; he is a better and steadier man. If you have no objection--" "None in the least," replied Rudyerd. "I have thought of promoting Potter for some time past. Make the change by all means." "Please, sir," said Williamson, approaching at that moment, "I've just been at the top of the building an' observed a French schooner bearing down from the south-west." "Well, what of that?" demanded Rudyerd. "Why, sir," said Williamson with some hesitation in his manner, "p'raps it's a man-of-war, sir." "And if it be so, what then?" said Rudyerd with a smile; "you don't suppose they'll fire a broadside at an unfinished lighthouse, do you? or are you afraid they'll take the Eddystone Rock in tow, and carry you into a French port?" "I don't know, sir," replied Williamson with an offended look; "I only thought that as we are at war with France just now, it was my duty to report what I had seen." "Quite right, quite right," replied Rudyerd, good-humouredly, "I'll record the fact in our journal. Meanwhile see that the men don't have their attention taken up with it." By this time the small boat, which the chief engineer had ordered to come off to take him on shore, was alongside the rock. The swell had risen so much that although there was not a breath of wind, the surf was beating violently on the south-west side, and even in the sheltered nook, which was styled by courtesy the harbour, there was sufficient commotion to render care in fending off with the boat-hook necessary. Meanwhile the men wrought like tigers, taking no note of their chief's departure--all, except Williamson, being either ignorant of, or indifferent to, the gradual approach of the French schooner, which drifted slowly towards them with the tide. Thus work and time went on quietly. Towards the afternoon, Teddy Maroon wiped the perspiration from his heated brow and looked abroad upon the sea, while the large hook of his crane was descending for another stone. An expression of intense earnestness wrinkled his visage as he turned suddenly to Stobbs, his companion at the windlass, and exclaimed:-- "Sure that's a Frenchman over there." "That's wot it is, Ted, an' no mistake," said Stobbs. "I had a'most forgot about the war and the Mounseers." "Ah then, it's not goin' to attack us ye are, is it? Never!" exclaimed Teddy in surprise, observing that two boats had been lowered from the schooner's davits into which men were crowding. The question was answered in a way that could not be misunderstood. A puff of white smoke burst from the vessel's side, and a cannon shot went skipping over the sea close past the lighthouse, at the same time the French flag was run up and the two boats, pushing off, made straight for the rock. Teddy and his comrade ran down to the foot of the building, where the other men were arming themselves hastily with crowbars and large chips of stone. Marshalling the men together, the assistant engineer, who was a fiery little fellow, explained to them how they ought to act. "My lads," said he, "the surf has become so strong, by good luck, that it is likely to capsize the enemy's boats before they get here. In which case they'll be comfortably drowned, and we can resume our work; but if they manage to reach the rock, we'll retire behind the lighthouse to keep clear of their musket balls; and, when they attempt to land, rush at 'em, and heave 'em all into the sea. It's like enough that they're more numerous than we, but you all know that one Englishman is a match for three Frenchmen any day." A general laugh and cheer greeted this address, and then they all took shelter behind the lighthouse. Meanwhile, the two boats drew near. The lightest one was well in advance. On it came, careering on the crest of a large glassy wave. Now was the time for broaching-to and upsetting, but the boat was cleverly handled. It was launched into the "harbour" on a sea of foam. Most of the Englishmen, on seeing this, ran to oppose the landing. "Surrender!" shouted an officer with a large moustache, standing up in the bow of the boat. "Never!" replied Mr Franks, defiantly. "Hooray!" yelled Teddy Maroon, flourishing his crowbar. At this the officer gave an order: the Frenchmen raised their muskets, and the Englishmen scampered back to their place of shelter, laughing like school-boys engaged in wild play. Teddy Maroon, whose fertile brain was always devising some novelty or other, ran up to his old post at the windlass, intending to cast a large mass of stone into the boat when it neared the rock, hoping thereby to knock a hole through its bottom; but before he reached his perch, a breaker burst into the harbour and overturned the boat, leaving her crew to struggle towards the rock. Some of them were quickly upon it, grappling with the Englishmen who rushed forward to oppose the landing. Seeing this, Teddy hurled his mass of stone at the head of an unfortunate Frenchman, whom he narrowly missed, and then, uttering a howl, ran down to join in the fray. The French commander, a powerful man, was met knee-deep in the water, by Isaac Dorkin, whom he struck down with the hilt of his sword, and poor Isaac's grumbling career would certainly have come to an end then and there, had not John Potter, who had already hurled two Frenchmen back into the sea, run to the rescue, and, catching his friend by the hair of the head, dragged him on the rock. At that moment Teddy Maroon dashed at the French officer, caught his uplifted sword-arm by the wrist, and pushed him back into the sea just as he was in the act of making a savage cut at John Potter. Before the latter had dragged his mate quite out of danger he was grappled with by another Frenchman, and they fell struggling to the ground, while a third came up behind Teddy with a boat-hook, and almost took him by surprise; but Teddy turned in time, caught the boat-hook in his left hand, and, flattening the Frenchman's nose with his right, tumbled him over and ran to assist in repelling another party of the invaders who were making good their landing at the other side of the rock. Thus the "skrimmage," as John Potter styled it, became general. Although out-numbered, the Englishmen were getting the best of it, when the second boat plunged into the so-called harbour, and in a few seconds the rock was covered with armed men. Of course the Englishmen were overpowered. Their tools were collected and put into the boat. With some difficulty the first boat was righted. The Englishmen were put into it, with a strong guard of marines, and then the whole party were carried on board the French schooner, which turned out to be a privateer. Thus were the builders of the Eddystone lighthouse carried off as prisoners of war to France, and their feelings may be gathered from the last remark of Teddy Maroon, who, as the white cliffs of England were fading from his view, exclaimed bitterly, "Och hone! I'll never see owld Ireland no more!" Note. It may be as well to state, at this point, that the incidents here related, and indeed all the important incidents of our tale, are founded on, we believe, well authenticated facts. CHAPTER FOUR. UNLOOKED-FOR DELIVERANCE. Behold, then, our lighthouse-builders entering a French port; Teddy Maroon looking over the side of the vessel at the pier to which they are drawing near, and grumbling sternly at his sad fate; John Potter beside him, with his arms crossed, his eyes cast down, and his thoughts far away with the opinionated Martha and the ingenious Tommy; Mr Franks and the others standing near; all dismal and silent. "You not seem for like ver moche to see la belle France," said the French officer with the huge moustache, addressing Teddy. "It's little Teddy Maroon cares whether he sees Bell France or Betsy France," replied the Irishman, impudently. "No thanks _to you_ aither for givin' me the chance. Sure it's the likes o' you that bring war into disgrace intirely; goin' about the say on yer own hook, plunderin' right an' left. It's pirate, and not privateers, ye should be called, an' it's myself that would string ye all at the yard-arm av I only had me own way." "Hah!" exclaimed the Frenchman, with a scowl: "but by goot fortune you not have your own vay. Perhaps you change you mind ven you see de inside of French prisons, ha!" "Perhaps I won't; ha!" cried Teddy, mimicking his captor. "Go away wid yez, an' attind to yer own business." The Frenchman turned angrily away. In a few seconds more they were alongside the pier, and a gangway was run on board. The first man who stepped on this gangway was a tall powerful gendarme, with a huge cocked hat, and a long cavalry sabre, the steel scabbard of which clattered magnificently as he stalked along. Now it chanced that this dignified official slipped his foot on the gangway, and, to the horror of all observers, fell into the water. Impulsiveness was a part of Teddy Maroon's enthusiastic nature. He happened to be gazing in admiration at the gendarme when he fell. In another moment he had plunged overboard after him, caught him by the collar, and held him up. The gendarme could not swim. In the first agony of fear he threw about his huge limbs, and almost drowned his rescuer. "Be aisy, won't 'ee!" shouted Ted, holding him at arm's length, and striving to keep out of his grasp. At the same time he dealt him a hearty cuff on the ear. The words and the action appeared to have a sedative effect on the gendarme, who at once became passive, and in a few minutes the rescuer and the rescued stood dripping on the schooner's deck. "Thank 'ee, my friend," said the gendarme in English, extending his hand. "Och, ye're an Irishman!" exclaimed Teddy eagerly, as he grasped the offered hand. "But sure," he added, in an altered tone, dropping the hand and glancing at the man's uniform, "ye must be a poor-spirited craitur to forsake yer native land an' become a mounseer." "Ireland is not my native land, and I am not an Irishman," said the gendarme, with a smile. "My mother was Irish, but my father was French, and I was born in Paris. It is true that I spent many years in Ireland among my mother's relations, so that I speak your language, but I am more French than Irish." "Humph! more's the pity," said Teddy. "If there was but wan drop o' me blood Irish an' all the rest o' me French, I'd claim to be an Irishman. If I'd known what ye was I'd have let ye sink, I would. Go along: I don't think much of yez." "Perhaps not," replied the gendarme, twirling his long moustache with a good-humoured smile; "nevertheless I think a good deal of you, my fine fellow. Farewell, I shall see you again." "Ye needn't trouble yerself," replied Teddy, flinging off, testily. It was quite evident that the unfortunate Irishman found it hard to get reconciled to his fate. He could scarcely be civil to his mates in misfortune, and felt a strong disposition to wrench the sword from his captor's hand, cut off his moustached head, and then, in the language of desperate heroes of romance, "sell his life dearly." He refrained, however, and was soon after marched along with his mates to the stronghold of the port, at the door of which the French commander handed them over to the jailor, wishing Teddy all health and happiness, with a broad grin, as he bid him farewell. Our unfortunates crossed a stone court with walls that appeared to rise into the clouds; then they traversed a dark stone passage, at the end of which stood an open door with a small stone cell beyond. Into this they were desired to walk, and as several bayonet points glittered in the passage behind them, they felt constrained to obey. Then locks were turned, and bars were drawn, and bolts were shot. The heavy heels of the jailer and guard were heard retiring. More locks and bars and bolts were turned and drawn and shot at the farther end of the stone passage, after which all remained still as the grave. "Och hone!" groaned Teddy, looking round at his companions, as he sat on a stone seat, the picture of despair: "To be kilt is a trifle; to fight is a pleasure; to be hanged is only a little trying to the narves. But to be shut up in a stone box in a furrin land--" Words failed him here, but another groan told eloquently of the bitterness of the spirit within. "We must just try to be as cheery as we can, mates," said John Potter. "The Lord can deliver us out o' worse trouble than this if He sees fit." "Oh, it's all very well for you to talk like that," growled Isaac Dorkin, "but I don't believe the Almighty is goin' to pull down stone walls and iron gates to set us free, an' you know that we haven't a friend in all France to help us." "I _don't_ know that, Isaac. It certainly seems very unlikely that any one should start up to befriend us here, but with God all things are possible. At the worst, I know that if we are to remain here, it's His will that we should." "Humph! I wish ye much comfort o' the thought: it doesn't give much to me," remarked Stobbs. Here, Mr Franks, who had hitherto sat in sad silence, brightened up, and said, "Well, well, lads, don't let us make things worse by disputing. Surely each man is entitled to draw comfort from any source he chooses. For my part, I agree with John Potter, in this at all events,--that we should try to be as cheery as we can, and make the best of it." "Hear, hear!" exclaimed the others. Acting on this advice, they soon began to feel a little less miserable. They had straw to sleep on, and were allowed very poor fare; but there was a sufficiency of it. The first night passed, and the second day; after which another fit of despair seized some of the party. Then John Potter managed to cheer them up a bit, and as he never went about without a small Testament in his pocket, he was able to lighten the time by reading portions of it aloud. After that they took to relating their "lives and adventures" to each other, and then the inventive spirits among them took to "spinning long-winded yarns." Thus a couple of weeks passed away, during which these unfortunate prisoners of war went through every stage of feeling between hope and despair over and over again. During one of his despairing moods, Teddy Maroon declared that he had now given up all hope, and that the first chance he got, he would kill himself, for he was quite certain that nobody would ever be able to find out where they were, much less "get them out of that fig." But Teddy was wrong, as the sequel will show. Let us leap now, good reader, to the Tuileries,--into the apartments of Louis XIV. From a prison to a palace is an unusual leap, no doubt, though the reverse is by no means uncommon! The old King is pacing his chamber in earnest thought, addressing an occasional remark to his private Secretary. The subject that occupies him is the war, and the name of England is frequently on his lips. The Secretary begs leave to bring a particular letter under the notice of the King. The Secretary speaks in French, of course, but there is a peculiarly rich tone and emphasis in his voice which a son of the Green Isle would unhesitatingly pronounce to be "the brogue." "Read it," says the King hurriedly: "but first tell me, who writes?" "A gendarme, sire: a poor relation of mine." "Ha: an Irishman?" "No, sire: but his mother was Irish." "Well, read," says the King. The Secretary reads: "Dear Terrence, will you do me the favour to bring a matter before the King? The commander of a French privateer has done an act worthy of a buccaneer: he has attacked the men who were re-building the famous Eddystone lighthouse, and carried them prisoners of war into this port. I would not trouble you or the King about this, did I not know his Majesty too well to believe him capable of countenancing such a deed." "What!" exclaims the King, turning abruptly, with a flush of anger on his countenance, "the Eddystone lighthouse, which so stands as to be of equal service to all nations having occasion to navigate the channel?" "The same, sire; and the officer who has done this expects to be rewarded." "Ha: he shall not be disappointed; he shall have his reward," exclaims the King. "Let him be placed in the prison where the English men now lie, to remain there during our pleasure; and set the builders of the Eddystone free. Let them have gifts, and all honourable treatment, to repay them for their temporary distress, and send them home, without delay, in the same vessel which brought them hither. We are indeed at war with England, but not with mankind!" The commands of kings are, as a rule, promptly obeyed. Even although there were neither railways nor telegraphs in those days, many hours had not elapsed before the tall gendarme stood in the prison-cell where John Potter and his friends were confined. There was a peculiar twinkle in his eye, as he ordered a band of soldiers to act as a guard of honour in conducting the Englishmen to the best hotel in the town, where a sumptuous collation awaited them. Arrived there, the circumstances of their case were explained to them by the chief magistrate, who was in waiting to receive them and present them with certain gifts, by order of Louis XIV. The fortunate men looked on at all that was done, ate their feast, and received their gifts in speechless amazement, until at length the gendarme (who acted as interpreter, and seemed to experience intense enjoyment at the whole affair) asked if they were ready to embark for England? To which Teddy Maroon replied, by turning to John Potter and saying, "I say, John, just give me a dig in the ribs, will 'ee: a good sharp one. It's of no use at all goin' on draimin' like this. It'll only make it the worse the longer I am o' wakin' up." John Potter smiled and shook his head; but when he and his friends were conducted by their guard of honour on board of the schooner which had brought them there, and when they saw the moustached commander brought out of his cabin and led ashore in irons, and heard the click of the capstan as the vessel was warped out of harbour, and beheld the tall gendarme take off his cocked hat and wish them "_bon voyage_" as they passed the head of the pier, they at length became convinced that "it was all true;" and Teddy declared with enthusiastic emphasis, that "the mounseers were not such bad fellows after all!" "Oh, John, John!" exclaimed Mrs Potter, about thirty hours after that, as she stood gazing in wild delight at a magnificent cashmere shawl which hung on her husband's arm, while Tommy was lost in admiration at the sight of a splendid inlaid ivory work-box, "where ever got 'ee such a helegant shawl?" "From King Louis, of France, lass," said John, with a peculiar smile. "Never!" said Mrs Potter, emphatically; and then she gave it forth as one of her settled convictions, that, "Kings wasn't such fools as to go makin' presents like that to poor working men." However, John Potter, who had only just then presented himself before the eyes of his astonished spouse, stoutly asserted that it was true; and said that if she would set about getting something to eat, for he was uncommonly hungry, and if Tommy would leave off opening his mouth and eyes to such an unnecessary extent, he would tell them all about it. So Mrs Potter was convinced, and, for once, had her "settled convictions" unsettled; and the men returned to their work on the Eddystone; and a man-of-war was sent to cruise in the neighbourhood to guard them from misfortune in the future; and, finally, the Rudyerd lighthouse was completed. Its total height, from the lowest side to the top of the ball on the lantern, was ninety-two feet, and its greatest diameter twenty-three feet four inches. It took about three years to build, having been commenced in 1706, the first light was put up in 1708, and the whole was completed in 1709. Teddy Maroon was one of the first keepers, but he soon left to take charge of a lighthouse on the Irish coast. Thereupon John Potter made application for the post. He was successful over many competitors, and at last obtained the darling wish of his heart: he became principal keeper; his surly comrade, Isaac Dorkin, strange to say, obtaining the post of second keeper. Mrs Potter didn't like the change at first, as a matter of course. "But you'll come to like it, Martha," John would say when they referred to the subject, "`Absence,' you know, `makes the heart grow fonder.' We'll think all the more of each other when we meet during my spells ashore, at the end of every two months." Tommy also objected very much at first, but he could not alter his father's intentions; so John Potter went off to the Eddystone rock, and for a long time took charge of the light that cast its friendly beams over the sea every night thereafter, through storm and calm, for upwards of six-and-forty years. That John's life in the lighthouse was not all that he had hoped for will become apparent in the next chapter. CHAPTER FIVE. A TERRIBLE SITUATION. There were four rooms and a lantern in Rudyerd's lighthouse. The second room was that which was used most by John Potter and his mate Isaac Dorkin: it was the kitchen, dining room, and parlour, all in one. Immediately below it was the store-room, and just above it the dormitory. The general tenor of the life suited John exactly: he was a quiet-spirited, meditative, religious man; and, although quite willing to face difficulties, dangers, and troubles like a man, when required to do so, he did not see it to be his duty to thrust himself unnecessarily into these circumstances. There were plenty of men, he was wont to say, who loved bustle and excitement, and there were plenty of situations of that sort for them to fill; for his part, he loved peace and quiet; the Eddystone lighthouse offered both, and why should he not take advantage of the opportunity, especially when, by so doing, he would secure a pretty good and regular income for his wife and family. John gave vent to an opinion which contained deeper truths than, at that time, he thought of. God has given to men their varied powers and inclinations, in order that they may use these powers and follow these inclinations. Working rightly, man is a perfect machine: it is only "the fall" which has twisted all things awry. There is no sin in feeling an intense desire for violent physical action, or in gratifying that desire when we can do so in accordance with the revealed will of God; but there is sin in gratifying it in a wrong way; in committing burglary for instance, or in prize-fighting, or in helping others to fight in a cause with which we have no right to interfere. Again, it is not wrong to desire peace and quiet, and to wish for mental and spiritual and physical repose; but it is decidedly wrong to stand by with your hands in your pockets when an innocent or helpless one is being assaulted by ruffians; to sit quiet and do nothing when your neighbour's house is on fire; to shirk an unpleasant duty and leave some one else to do it; or to lie a-bed when you should be up and at work. _All_ our powers were given to be used: our inclinations were intended to impel us in _certain_ directions, and God's will and glory were meant to be our guide and aim. So the Scripture teaches, we think, in the parable of the talents, and in the words, "_Whatsoever_ thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might;" and, "Whether, therefore, ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God." Our great fault lies in not consulting God's plan of arrangement. How often do we find that, in adopting certain lines of action, men consult only the pecuniary or social advantage; ignoring powers, or want of powers, and violating inclinations; and this even among professing Christians; while, among the unbelieving, God's will and glory are not thought of at all. And yet we wonder that so many well-laid plans miscarry, that so many promising young men and women "come to grief!" Forgetting that "the right man (or woman) in the right place" is an essential element in thorough success. But, to return to John Potter. His conscience was easy as to his duty in becoming a lightkeeper, and the lighthouse was all that he could wish, or had hoped for. There was no disturbance from without, for the thick walls and solid foundation defied winds or waves to trouble him; save only in the matter of smoke, which often had a strong tendency to traverse the chimney in the wrong direction, but that was not worth mentioning! John found, however, that _sin_ in the person of his mate marred his peace and destroyed his equanimity. Isaac Dorkin did not find the life so much to his taste as he had expected. He became more grumpy than ever, and quarrelled with his friend on the slightest provocation; insomuch that at last John found it to be his wisest plan to let him alone. Sometimes, in consequence of this pacific resolve, the two men would spend a whole month without uttering a word to each other; the one in the sulks, the other waiting until he should come out of them. Their duties were light, but regular. During the day they found a sufficiency of quiet occupation in cooking their food, cleaning the lighting apparatus--which consisted of a framework full of tallow candles,--and in keeping the building clean and orderly. At night they kept watch, each four hours at a time, while the other slept. While watching, John read his Bible and several books which had been given to him by Mr Rudyerd; or, in fine weather, paced round and round the gallery, just outside the lantern, in profound meditation. Dorkin also, during his watches, meditated much; he likewise grumbled a good deal, and smoked continuously. He was not a bad fellow at bottom, however, and sometimes he and Potter got on very amicably. At such seasons John tried to draw his mate into religious talk, but without success. Thus, from day to day and year to year, these two men stuck to their post, until eleven years had passed away. One day, about the end of that period, John Potter, who, having attained to the age of fifty-two, was getting somewhat grey, though still in full strength and vigour, sat at his chimney corner beside his buxom and still blooming wife. His fireside was a better one than in days of yore,--thanks to Tommy, who had become a flourishing engineer: Mrs Potter's costume was likewise much better in condition and quality than it used to be; thanks, again, to Tommy, who was a grateful and loving son. "Well, Martha, I've had a pleasant month ashore, lass: I wish that I hadn't to go off on relief to-morrow." "Why not leave it altogether, then, John? You've no occasion to continue a light-keeper now that you've laid by so much, and Tommy is so well off and able to help us, an' willin' too--God bless him!" "Amen to that, Martha. I have just bin thinkin' over the matter, and I've made up my mind that this is to be my last trip off to the Rock. I spoke to the superintendent last week, and it's all settled. Who d'ye think is to take my place?" "I never could guess nothink, John: who?" "Teddy Maroon: no less." "What? an' 'im a' older man than yourself?" "Ah, but it ain't the same Teddy. It's his eldest son, named after himself; an' so like what his father was when I last saw him, that I don't think I'd be able to tell which was which." "Well, John, I'm glad to 'ear it; an' be sure that ye git 'ome, next relief before the thirty-first of October, for that's Tommy's wedding day, an' you know we fixed it a purpose to suit your time of being at 'ome. A sweet pair they'll make. Nora was born to be a lady: nobody would think but she is one, with 'er pretty winsome ways; and Tommy, who was twenty-five 'is very last birthday, is one of the 'andsomest men in Plymouth. I've a settled conviction, John, that he'll live to be a great man." "You once had a settled conviction that he would come to a bad end," said Potter, with an arch smile. "Go along with you, John!" retorted Mrs Potter. "I'm just going," said John, rising and kissing his wife as he put on his hat; "and you may depend on it that I'll not miss dancing at our Tommy's wedding, if I can help it." That night saw John Potter at his old post again--snuffing the candles on the Eddystone, and chatting with his old mate Dorkin beside the kitchen fire. One evening towards the end of October, John Potter and Isaac, having "lighted up," sat down to a game of draughts. It was blowing hard outside, and heavy breakers were bursting on the rock and sending thin spray as high as the lantern, but all was peace and comfort inside; even Isaac's grumpy spirit was calmer than usual. "You seem dull to-night, mate," observed John, as they re-arranged the pieces for another game. "I don't feel very well," said Dorkin, passing his hand over his brow languidly. "You'd better turn in, then; an' I'll take half of your watch as well as my own." "Thank 'ee kindly," said Dorkin in a subdued voice: "I'll take yer advice. Perhaps," he added slowly, "you'll read me a bit out o' _the Book_." This was the first time that Isaac had expressed a desire to touch on religious subjects, or to hear the Bible read; and John, you may be sure, was only too glad to comply. After his mate had lain down, he read a small portion; but, observing that he seemed very restless, he closed the Bible and contented himself with quoting the following words of our Lord Jesus: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest;" and, "The blood of Jesus Christ God's Son, cleanseth us from all sin." Then in a sentence or two he prayed fervently that the Holy Spirit might apply these words. John had a suspicion that his mate was on the verge of a serious illness, and he was not wrong. Next day, Dorkin was stricken with a raging fever, and John Potter had not only to nurse him day and night, but to give constant attention to the lantern as well. Fortunately, the day after that the relief boat would be out, so he consoled himself with that thought; but the gale, which had been blowing for some days, increased that night until it blew a perfect hurricane. The sea round the Eddystone became a tremendous whirlpool of foam, and all hope of communication with the shore was cut off. Of course the unfortunate lighthouse-keeper hung out a signal of distress, although he knew full well that it could not be replied to. Meanwhile a wedding party assembled in Plymouth. The bride was blooming and young; the bridegroom--strong and happy; but there was a shade upon his brow as he approached a stout elderly female, and said, sadly, "I can't tell you, mother, how grieved I am that father is not with us to-day. I would be quite willing to put it off, and so would Nora, for a few days, but there is no appearance of the storm abating; and, indeed, if even it stopped this moment, I don't think the relief-boat could get off in less than a week." "I know it, Tommy." (It seemed ridiculous to call a strapping, curly-haired, bewhiskered, six-foot man "Tommy"!) "I know it, Tommy; but it ain't of no use puttin' of it off. I've always 'ad a settled conviction that anythink as is put off is as good as given up altogether. No, no, my son; go on with the weddin'." So the wedding went on, and Nora Vining, a dark-haired Plymouth maiden, became Mrs Thomas Potter; and the breakfast was eaten, and the healths were drunk, and the speeches made, and Mrs Potter, senior, wept profusely (for joy) nearly all the time, into a white cotton handkerchief, which was so large and strong that some of the guests entertained the belief to the end of their lives that the worthy woman had had it manufactured for her own special use on that great occasion. Meanwhile the father, whose absence was regretted so much, and whose heart would have rejoiced so much to have been there, remained in his lonely dwelling, out among the mad whirlpools in the wildest past of the raging sea. All day, and every day, his signal of distress streamed horizontally in the furious gale, and fishermen stood on the shore and wondered what was wrong, and wished so earnestly that the gale would go down; but no one, not even the boldest among them all, imagined for a moment that a boat could venture to leave the shore, much less encounter the seething billows on the Eddystone. As each night drew on, one by one the lights glimmered out above the rock, until the bright beams of the fully illuminated lantern poured like a flood through the murky air, and then men went home to their firesides, relieved to know that, whatever might be wrong, the keepers were at all events able to attend to their important duties. Day after day Isaac Dorkin grew worse: he soon became delirious, and, strong though he was, John Potter was scarcely able to hold him down in bed. When the delirium first came on, John chanced to be in the lantern just commencing to light up. When he was about to apply the light, he heard a noise behind him, and, turning hastily round, beheld the flushed face and blazing eyes of his mate rising through the trap door that communicated with the rooms below. Leaving his work, John hastened to his friend, and with some difficulty persuaded him to return to his bed; but no sooner had he got him into it and covered him up, than a new paroxysm came on, and the sick man arose in the strength of his agony and hurled his friend to the other side of the apartment. John sprang up, and grappled with him while he was rushing towards the door. It was an awful struggle that ensued. Both were large and powerful men; the one strong in a resolute purpose to meet boldly a desperate case, the other mad with fever. They swayed to and fro, and fell on and smashed the homely furniture of the place; sometimes the one and sometimes the other prevailing, while both gasped for breath and panted vehemently; suddenly Dorkin sank down exhausted. He appeared to collapse, and John lifted him with difficulty again into his bed; but in a few seconds he attempted to renew the struggle, while the whole building was filled with his terrific cries. While this was going on, the shades of night had been falling fast, and John Potter remembered that none of the candles had been lit, and that in a few minutes more the rock would be a source of greater danger to shipping than if no lighthouse had been there, because vessels would be making for the light from all quarters of the world, in the full faith of its being kept up! Filled with horror at the thought that perhaps even at that moment vessels might be hurrying on to their doom, he seized a piece of rope that lay at hand, and managed to wind it so firmly round his mate as to render him helpless. Bounding back to the lantern, he quickly lighted it up, but did not feel his heart relieved until he had gazed out at the snowy billows below, and made sure that no vessel was in view. Then he took a long draught of water, wiped his brow, and returned to his friend. Two days after that Isaac Dorkin died. And now John Potter found himself in a more horrible situation than before. The storm continued: no sooner did one gale abate than another broke out, so as to render approach to the rock impossible; while, day after day, and night after night, the keeper had to pass the dead body of his mate several times in attending to the duties of the lantern. And still the signal of distress continued to fly from the lighthouse, and still the people on shore continued to wonder what was wrong, to long for moderate weather, and to feel relief when they saw the faithful light beam forth each evening at sunset. At last the corpse began to decay, and John felt that it was necessary to get rid of it, but he dared not venture to throw it into the sea. It was well known that Dorkin had been a quarrelsome man, and he feared that if he could not produce the body when the relief came, he might be deemed a _murderer_. He therefore let it lie until it became so overpoweringly offensive that the whole building, from foundation to cupola, was filled with the horrible stench. The feelings of the solitary man can neither be conceived nor described. Well was it for John that he had the Word of God in his hand, and the grace of God in his heart during that awful period. For nearly a month his agony lasted. At last the weather moderated. The boat came off; the "relief" was effected; and poor Dorkin's body, which was in such a condition that it could not be carried on shore, was thrown into the sea. Then John Potter returned home, and left the lighthouse service for ever. From that time forward it has been the custom to station not fewer than three men at a time on all out-lying lighthouses of the kingdom. Note. Reader, we have not drawn here on our imagination. This story is founded on unquestionable fact. CHAPTER SIX. THE END OF RUDYERD'S LIGHTHOUSE. Thirty-Four years passed away, and still Rudyerd's lighthouse stood firm as the rock on which it was founded. True, during that period it had to undergo occasional repairs, because the timber uprights at the base, where exposed to the full violence of the waves, had become weather-worn, and required renewing in part; but this was only equivalent to a ship being overhauled and having some of her planks renewed. The main fabric of the lighthouse remained as sound and steadfast at the end of that long period as it was at the beginning, and it would in all probability have remained on the Eddystone Rock till the present day, had not a foe assailed it, whose nature was very different indeed from that with which it had been built to contend. The lighthouse was at this time in charge of Teddy Maroon: not the Teddy who had bewailed his fate so disconsolately in the French prison in days gone by, but his youngest son, who was now getting to be an elderly man. We may, however, relieve the mind of the sympathetic reader, by saying that Teddy, senior, was not dead. He was still alive and hearty; though bent nearly double with extreme age; and dwelt on the borders of one of the Irish bogs, at the head of an extensive colony of Maroons. One night Teddy the younger ascended to the lantern to trim the candles; he snuffed them all round and returned to the kitchen to have a pipe, his two mates being a-bed at the time. No one now knows how the thing happened, but certain it is that Teddy either dropped some of the burning snuff on the floor, or in some other way introduced more light into his lantern that night than it had ever been meant to contain, so that while he and his mates were smoking comfortably below, the lighthouse was smoking quietly, but ominously, above. On shore, late that night, an elderly gentleman stood looking out of the window of a charmingly situated cottage in the village of Cawsand Bay, near Plymouth, which commanded a magnificent prospect of the channel. "Father," he said, turning to a very old man seated beside the fire, who, although shrunken and wrinkled and bald, was ruddy in complexion, and evidently in the enjoyment of a green old age, "Father, the lighthouse is beautifully bright to-night; shall I help you to the window to look at it?" "Yes, Tommy: I'm fond o' the old light. It minds me of days gone by, when you and I were young, Martha." The old man gave a chuckle as he looked across the hearthstone, where, in a chair similar to his own, sat a very stout and very deaf and very old lady, smoothing the head of her grandchild, a little girl, who was the youngest of a family of ten. Old Martha did not hear John Potter's remark, but she saw his kindly smile, and nodded her head with much gravity in reply. Martha had grown intellectually slow when she partially lost her hearing, and although she was not sad she had evidently become solemn. An English Dictionary and the Bible were the only books that Martha would look at now. She did not use the former as a help to the understanding of the latter. No one knew why she was so partial to the dictionary; but as she not unfrequently had it on her knee upside down while poring over it, her grandchild, little Nora, took up the idea that she had resolved to devote the latter days of her life to learning to read backwards! Perhaps the fact that the dictionary had once belonged to her son James who was wrecked and drowned on the Norfolk coast, may have had something to do with it. With the aid of his son's arm and a stick old John managed to hobble to the window. "It is very bright. Why, Tommy," he exclaimed, with a start, "it's too bright: the lighthouse must be on fire!" At that moment, "Tommy's" wife, now "fat, fair, and _fifty_" (or thereabouts), entered the room hurriedly, exclaiming, "Oh, Tom, what _can_ be the matter with the lighthouse, I never saw it so bright before?" Tom, who had hastily placed his father in a chair, so that he could see the Eddystone, seized his hat, and exclaiming, "I'll go and see, my dear," ran out and proceeded to the shore. "What's the matter?" cried Mrs Potter in a querulous voice, when little Nora rushed from her side. Nora, senior, went to her at once, and, bending down, said, in a musical voice that retained much of its clearness and all its former sweetness: "I fear that the lighthouse is on fire, grandma!" Mrs Potter gazed straight before her with vacant solemnity, and Nora, supposing that she had not heard, repeated the information. Still Mrs Potter made no reply; but, after a few moments, she turned her eyes on her daughter-in-law with owlish gravity, and said; "I knew it! I said long ago to your father, my dear, I had a settled conviction that that lighthouse would come to a bad end." It did indeed appear as though old Martha's prophecy were about to come true! Out at the lighthouse Teddy Maroon, having finished his pipe, went up to the lantern to trim the candles again. He had no sooner opened the hatch of the lantern than a dense cloud of smoke burst out. He shouted to his comrades, one of whom, Henry Hall, was old and not fit for much violent exertion; the other, James Wilkie, was a young man, but a heavy sleeper. They could not be roused as quickly as the occasion demanded. Teddy ran to the store-room for a leathern bucket, but before he could descend to the rock, fill it and re-ascend, the flames had got a firm hold of the cupola. He dashed the water into the lantern just as his horrified comrades appeared. "Fetch bucketfulls as fast as ye can. Och, be smart, boys, if iver ye was," he shouted, while perspiration streamed down his face. Pulling off his coat, while his mates ran down for water, Teddy dashed wildly into the lantern, and, holding the coat by its arms, laid about him violently, but smoke and fire drove him but almost immediately. The buckets were long of coming, and when they did arrive, their contents were as nothing on the glowing cupola. Then Teddy went out on the balcony and endeavoured to throw the water up, but the height was too great. While he was doing this, Wilkie ran down for more water, but Hall stood gazing upwards, open-mouthed with horror, at the raging flames. At that moment the leaden covering of the roof melted, and rushed down on Hall's head and shoulders. He fell, with a loud shriek. While Teddy tried to drag him down to the room below, he exclaimed that some of the melted lead had gone down his throat! He was terribly burned about the neck, but his comrades had to leave him in his bed while they strove wildly to check the flames. It was all in vain. The wood-work around the lantern, from years of exposure to the heat of twenty-four large candles burning at once, had become like tinder, and the fire became so fierce that the timber courses composing the top of the column soon caught. Then the keepers saw that any further efforts would be useless. The great exertions made to carry up even a few bucketsfull of water soon exhausted their strength, and they were driven from room to room as the fire descended. At last the heat and smoke became so intense that they were driven out of the lighthouse altogether, and sought shelter in a cavern or hollow under the ladder, on the east side of the rock. Fortunately it was low water at the time, and the weather was calm. Had it been otherwise, the rock would have been no place of refuge. Meanwhile Mr Thomas Potter (our old friend Tommy--now, as we have said an elderly gentleman) went off in a large boat with a crew of stout fishermen from Cawsand Bay, having a smaller boat in tow. When they reached the rock, a terrific spectacle was witnessed. The lighthouse was enveloped in flames nearly to the bottom, for the outside planking, being caulked and covered with pitch, was very inflammable. The top glowed against the dark sky and looked in the midst of the smoke like a fiery meteor. The Eddystone Rock was suffused with a dull red light, as if it were becoming red hot, and the surf round it appeared to hiss against the fire, while in the dark shadow of the cave the three lighthouse keepers were seen cowering in terror,--as they well might, seeing that melted lead and flaming masses of wood and other substances were falling thickly round them. To get them out of their dangerous position was a matter of extreme difficulty, because, although there was little or no wind, the swell caused a surf on the rock which absolutely forbade the attempt to land. In this emergency they fell upon a plan which seemed to afford some hope of success. They anchored the large boat to the westward, and veered down towards the rock as far as they dared venture. Then three men went into the small boat, which was eased off and sent farther in by means of a rope. When as near as it was possible to approach, a coil of rope was thrown to the rock. It was caught by Teddy Maroon, and although in extreme danger and anxiety, the men in the boat could not help giving vent to a ringing cheer. Teddy at once tied the end of the rope round the waist of old Henry Hall, and half persuaded, half forced him into the surf, through which he was hauled into the boat in safety. Wilkie went next, and Teddy followed. Thus they were rescued, put on board the large boat, and carried on shore; but no sooner did the keel grate on the sand, than Wilkie, who had never spoken a word, and who appeared half stupefied, bounded on shore and ran off at full speed. It is a curious fact, which no one has ever been able to account for, that this man was never more heard of! As it is quite certain that he did not cause the fire, and also that he did his utmost to subdue it, the only conclusion that could be come to was, that the excitement and terror had driven him mad. At all events that was the last of him. Another curious fact connected with the fire is, that Henry Hall actually did swallow a quantity of melted lead. He lingered for twelve days after the accident, and then died. Afterwards his body was opened, and an oval lump of lead, which weighed upwards of seven ounces, was found in his stomach. This extraordinary fact is authenticated by the credible testimony of a respectable medical man and several eye-witnesses. Meanwhile, the lighthouse continued to burn, despite the most strenuous efforts made to save it. Had a storm arisen, the seas would speedily have quenched the fire, but unfortunately the weather continued fine and comparatively calm for several days, while the wind was just strong enough to fan the fury of the flames, and at the same time to cause a surf sufficiently high to render a landing on the rock impossible. But, indeed, even if this had been effected, the efforts that could have been made with the small fire-engines at that time in use, would have been utterly useless. The fire gradually descended to the different courses of solid timber, the well-hole of the staircase assisting the draught, and the outside timbers and inside mast, or wooden core, forming a double connecting link whereby the devouring element was carried to the very bottom of the building, with a heat so intense that the courses of Cornish moor-stone were made red hot. Admiral West, with part of the fleet, happened to be at that time in Plymouth Sound. He at once sent a sloop with a fire-engine to the rock. They attempted to land in a boat, but could not. So violent was the surf, that the boat was at one time thrown bodily upon the rock by one wave and swept off again by the next. The escape on this occasion was almost miraculous, the men therefore did not venture to make another attempt, but contented themselves with endeavouring to work the engine from the boat, in doing which they broke it, and thus all hope of doing anything further was gone. But indeed the engine they had would have availed nothing, even though it had been twice as powerful, against such a mighty conflagration. As well might they have tried to extinguish Vesuvius with a tea-kettle! For four days and nights did that massive pillar of fire burn. At last it fell in ruins before the most irresistible element with which man or matter has to contend, after having braved the fury of the winds and waves for nearly half a century. Thus perished the second lighthouse that was built on the Eddystone Rock, in December of the year 1755, and thus, once again, were those black reefs left unguarded. Once more that dread of mariners, ancient and modern, became a trap on the south coast of England--a trap now rendered doubly dangerous by the fact that, for so long a period, ships had been accustomed to make for it instead of avoiding it, in the full expectation of receiving timely warning from its friendly light. CHAPTER SEVEN. OLD FRIENDS IN NEW CIRCUMSTANCES. We open the story of the third, and still existing, lighthouse on the Eddystone with the re-introduction of Teddy Maroon--that Teddy who acted so prominent a part at the burning of Rudyerd's tower in December 1755. Men's activities seem to have been quickened at this period of time, for only about six months were allowed to elapse between the destruction of the old and the commencement of operations for the new lighthouse. It was a calm evening in the autumn 1756 when Teddy Maroon, smoking a little black pipe, sauntered towards the residence of old John Potter. On reaching the door he extinguished the little pipe by the summary process of thrusting the point of his blunt forefinger into the bowl, and deposited it hot in his vest pocket. His tap was answered by a small servant girl, with a very red and ragged head of hair, who ushered him into the presence of the aged couple. They were seated in the two chairs--one on each side of the fireplace--which they might almost be said to inhabit. Little Nora was stirring a few embers of coal into a cheery flame, for she knew the old people loved the sight of the fire even in summer. On a chair beside old Martha lay the open Bible, from which Nora had been reading, and on old Martha's knee was the valued dictionary, upside down as usual. "Glad to see you, lad," said old John, with a pleasant smile as he extended his hand; "it does us good to see you; it minds us so of old times." "Ah, then, I've got to tell 'ee what'll mind you more of owld times than the mere sight o' me face," said Teddy, as he patted old Martha on the shoulder and sat down beside her. "How are 'ee, owld ooman?" "Ay," replied Martha in a tremulous voice, "you're uncommon like your father--as like as two peas." "Faix, av ye saw the dear owld gintleman now," said Teddy with a laugh, "ye'd think there was a difference. Hows'ever, its o' no use repaitin' me question, for any man could see that you're in the best o' health-- you're bloomin' like a cabbage rose." The latter part of this complimentary speech was shouted into old Martha's ear, and she responded by shaking her head and desiring the flatterer to "go along." "Well, John," said the visitor, turning to his father's old friend, "you'll be glad to hear that I've been engaged to work at the new lighthouse, an', moreover we've got fairly begun." "You _don't_ say so," cried John Potter, with some of the old fire sparkling in his eyes; "well, now, that is pleasant noos. Why, it makes me a'most wish to be young again. Of course I heard that they've bin hard at the preparations for a good while; but few people comes to see me now; they think I'm too old to be interested in anything; I suppose; an' I didn't know that it was fairly begun, or that you were on the work: I'd like to hear what your old father would say to it, Teddy." "I don't know what he'd say to it," responded the Irishman, "but I know what he threatens to do, for I wrote him the other day tellin' him all about it, an' he bade my sister Kathleen write back that he's more nor half a mind to come and superintend the operations." "What is it all about, Nora?" demanded old Martha, who had been gazing intently at her husband's countenance during the conversation. Nora put her pretty lips to her grandmother's ear and gave the desired information, whereupon the old lady looked solemnly at her spouse, and laying her hand on the dictionary, said, with strong though quivering emphasis: "now, John, mark my words, I 'ave a settled conviction that that light'ouse will come to a bad end. It's sure to be burnt or blow'd over." Having given vent to which prophecy, she relapsed into herself and appeared to ruminate on it with peculiar satisfaction. "And what's the name of the architect?" demanded John. "Smeaton," replied Teddy Maroon. "Never heerd of 'im before," returned John. "No more did I," said Teddy. The two friends appeared to find food for meditation in this point of ignorance, for they fell into a state of silence for a few minutes, which was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Mr Thomas Potter. He looked a little wearied as he sat down beside his mother, whose face lighted up with an expression of intense delight as she said, "Come away, Tommy, where have you been, my boy?" "I've been out on the sea, mother, after mischief as usual," replied Tommy, whose bald head and wrinkled brow repudiated, while his open hearty smile appeared to justify, the juvenile name. "What! they 'aven't engaged you on the noo light'ouse, 'ave they?" said old Martha, in horror. "No, no, mother, don't fear that," said her son, hastening to relieve her mind, "but you know the new engineer is gathering information from all quarters, and he naturally applied to me, because I am of his own profession and have known and studied the rock since I was a little boy." "Know'd an' studied it," exclaimed Martha with more than her wonted vigour, "ay, an' if you'd said you'd a'most broke your old mother's heart with it, you'd 'ave said no more than the truth, Tommy. It's a wonder as that rock hasn't brought me to a prematoor grave. However, it ain't likely to do so now, an' I'm glad they have not inveigled you into it, my boy; for it's an awful place for wettin' of your feet an' dirt'in' of your hands and pinafores, an'--" The old lady, relapsing here into early reminiscences, once more retired within herself, while. Teddy Maroon and John Potter, mentioning their ignorance as to the architect who had undertaken the great work, demanded of "Mister Thomas" if he could enlighten them. "Of course I can," he replied, "for he is well known to his friends as a most able man, and will become better known to the world, if I may venture to prophesy, as the builder of what is sure to be the most famous lighthouse on the English coast. His name is Smeaton, and he is not an engineer." "Not an engineer?" echoed Teddy and old John, in surprise. "No, he's a mathematical instrument maker." "Well now," said John Potter, gazing meditatively into the fireplace where Nora had evoked a tiny flame, "that is strange. This Eddystun Rock seems to have what I may call a pecooliar destiny. The builder of the first light'ouse was a country gentleman; of the second, a silk-mercer; and now, as you say, the third is to be put up by a maker o' mathymatical instruments. I only hope," continued John, shaking his head gravely at the fireplace, "that he won't make a mess of it like the others did." "Come now, father," returned his son, "don't say that the others made a mess of it. We must remember that Winstanley began his building in what we may call total darkness. No other man before him had attempted such a work, so that he had no predecessor whose good points he might imitate, or whose failures he might avoid. Many a trained engineer might have made a worse mess of it, and, to my mind, it says much for poor Winstanley's capacity, all things considered, that his lighthouse stood so long as the six or seven years of its building. Then as to Rudyerd's one, it was in reality a great success. It stood firm for nigh fifty years, and, but for the fire, might have stood for any number of years to come. It cannot be justly said that he made a mess of it. As well might you say that the builders of a first-rate ship made a mess of it because someone set her alight after she had sailed the ocean for half a century." "True, Tommy, true," said old John, nodding acquiescence emphatically. On seeing this, old Martha, knowing nothing about the matter because of her deafness, nodded emphatically also, and said, "that's so, Tommy, I always 'ad a settled conviction that you was right, except," she added, as if to guard herself, "except w'en you was after mischief." "Well, but Tommy," continued old John, "you was agoin' to tell us somethin' about this Mister Smeaton. What sort of a man is he?" "As far as I can judge, on short acquaintance," replied Potter, "he seems to be a man who has got a mind and a will of his own, and looks like one who won't be turned out of his straight course by trifles. His name is John, which is a good bible name, besides being yours, father, and he comes from Leeds, a highly respectable place, which has produced men of note before now. His age is thirty-two, which is about the most vigorous period of a man's life, and he has come to his present business in spite of all opposition, a fact which is favourable to the prospects of the lighthouse. In short he's a natural genius, and a born engineer. His father, an attorney, wished him to follow his own profession, but it was soon clear that that was out of the question, for the boy's whole soul was steeped from earliest childhood in mechanics." "I once knew a boy," said John Potter, with a smile, "whose whole soul was steeped in the same thing!" "And in mischief," added old Martha, suddenly, much to every one's surprise. The old woman's deafness was indeed of a strangely intermittent type! "Well," continued Potter, with a laugh and a nod to his mother, "no doubt Smeaton had a spice of mischief in him among other qualities, for it is said of him that when quite a little fellow he made a force pump, with which he emptied his father's fish-pond of water, to the detriment, not to say consternation, of the fish. The upshot of it all was that the lad was apprenticed to a maker of mathematical instruments, and soon proved himself to be an inventive genius of considerable power. Ere long he commenced business on his own account, and has now undertaken the task of building the _third_ lighthouse on the Eddystone. I was in London lately, and saw the beautiful models of the intended structure which Smeaton has made with his own hands, and it seems to me that he's just the man to do the work." At the mention of models, old John Potter's eyes lighted up, for it brought the memory of former days vividly before him. "He means to build it of stone," said the son. "Stone, say 'ee? that's right, Tommy, that's right," said old John, with a nod of strong approval, "I've always thought that the weak point in the old light'ouses was _want of weight_. On such a slope of a foundation, you know, it requires great weight to prevent the seas washin' a lighthouse clean away." "I've thought the same thing, father, but what you and I only thought of Smeaton has stated, and intends to act upon. He means to build a tower so solid that it will defy the utmost fury of winds and waves. He is going to cut the sloping foundation into a series of steps or shelves, which will prevent the possibility of slipping. The shape of the building is to be something like the trunk of an oak tree, with a wider base than the lighthouse of Rudyerd. The first twenty feet or so of it is to be built solid; each stone to be made in the shape of a dovetail, and all the stones circling round a central key to which they will cling, as well as to each other, besides being held by bolts and cement, so that the lower part of the building will be as firm as the rock on which it stands. But I daresay, father," continued his son, with a glance at Teddy Maroon, "our friend here, being engaged on the work, has told you all about this already." "Not I," said Maroon, quickly, "I've bin too busy to come here until to-day, and though I've got me own notions o' what Mr Smeaton intends, by obsarvin' what's goin' on, I han't guessed the quarter o' what you've towld me, sur. Howsever, I can spake to what's bin already done. You must know," said Teddy, with a great affectation of being particular, "Mr Smeaton has wisely secured his workmen by howldin' out pleasant prospects to 'em. In the first place, we've got good regular wages, an' additional pay whin we're on the Rock. In the second place, extra work on shore is paid for over an' above the fixed wages. In the third place, each man has got his appinted dooty, an's kep close at it. In the fourth place, the rules is uncommon stringent, and instant dismissal follers the breakin' of 'em. In the fifth place--" "Never mind the fifth place, Teddy," interrupted old John, "like yer father, ye was ever too fond o' waggin' yer tongue. Just tell us straight off, if ye can, what's been already done at the Rock." "Well, well," said Maroon, with a deprecatory smile, "owld father an' me's always bin misonderstud more or less; but no matter. Av coorse we've had the usual difficulties to fight agin, for the owld Eddystone Rock ain't agoin' to change its natur to please nobody. As me father described it in _his_ day, so I finds it in mine. On most of our first visits we got wet skins; but little or no work done, for though it might be ever so calm here at Plymouth, it always seemed to be blowin' a private gale out at the Rock--leastwise, av it warn't blowin', there was swell enough most days to make the landin' troublesome. So we got wan hour's work at wan time, an' two hours, or may be three, at another, off an' on. As the saison advanced we got on better, sometimes got five and six hours on the Rock right on ind, and whin the tide sarved we wint at it by torch-light. Wan week we got no less than sixty-four an' a half hours on it, an' we was all in great sperrits intirely over that, for you see, mister Potter, we're all picked men an' takes a pride in the work--to say nothin' of havin' a good master. Av coorse we've had the usual botherations wid the sharp rocks cuttin' the cable of our attendin'-sloop, an' gales suddinly gettin' up whin we was at the Rock wantin' to land, as well as suddinly goin' down whin we wasn't at the Rock, so that we missed our chances. But such sorrows was what we expicted, more or less. The wust disappointment we've had has bin wi' the noo store-ship, the _Neptune Buss_. I wish it was the Neptune _bu'st_, I do, for it's wus than a tub, an' gives us more trouble than it's all worth. Now the saison's drawin' to a close, it's clear that we'll do no more this year than cut the foundations." "An' that's not a bad season's work, lad," said old John. "Ain't it not, Tommy?" "Not bad, indeed, father, for there are always unusual and vexatious delays at the beginning of a great work; besides, some of the greatest difficulties in connexion with such buildings are encountered in the preparation of the foundations. I suppose Mr Smeaton means to dress the stones on shore, ready for laying?" continued Potter the younger, turning to Maroon, who had risen and was buttoning up his monkey-jacket. "Why, yes sur, haven't you bin down at the yard?" "Not yet. I've only just arrived in town; and must be off again to-morrow. You can't think how disappointed I am at being prevented by business from taking part in the building of the new lighthouse--" "What's that you say, Tommy?" interrupted old Martha, putting her hand to her ear and wrinkling her brow interrogatively. "That I'm grieved, mother, at not being able to help in building the new lighthouse," shouted her son, in a voice that might have split an ordinary ear. Old Martha's visage relaxed into a faint smile as she turned towards the fire and looked earnestly at it, as if for explanation or consolation. "Ay ay," she muttered, "it would have bin strange if you hadn't wished that; you was always up to mischief, Tommy; always; or else wishin' to be up to it, although you might know as well as I know myself, that if you did get leave to go hout to the Rock (which you're for ever wantin' to do), it would be wet feet an dirty pinafores mornin', noon, an' night, which it's little you care for that, you bad boy, though it causes me no end of washin' an' dryin',--ay ay!" The old woman looked up in the smiling countenance of her stalwart son, and becoming apparently a little confused by reminiscences of the past and evidences of the present, retired within herself and relapsed into silence. "Well, sur," continued Teddy, "just give a look down if you can; it's worth your while. Mr Smeaton means to have every stone cut in the yard here on shore, and to lay down each `course' in the yard too, to be sure that it all fits, for we'll have no time out at the Rock to correct mistakes or make alterations. It'll be `sharp's the word, boys, and look alive O!' all through; ship the stones; off to the Rock; land 'em in hot haste; clap on the cement; down wi' the blocks; work like blazes--or Irishmen, which is much the same thing; make all fast into the boats again; sailors shoutin' `Look alive, me hearties! squall bearin' down right abaft of the lee stuns'l gangway!'--or somethin' like that; up sail, an' hooroo! boys, for the land, weather permittin'; if not, out to say an' take things aisy, or av ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can!" "A pleasant prospect, truly," said Mr T. Potter, laughing, as he shook the Irishman's horny hand. "Good-bye, John. Good-bye, Nora, me darlin'; Good-bye, owld ooman." "Hold your noise, lad," said old Martha, looking gravely into her visitor's face. "That's just what I manes to do, mavoorneen," replied Teddy Maroon, with a pleasant nod, "for I'll be off to the Rock to-morrow by day-break, weather permittin', an' it's little help any noise from me would give to the waves that kape gallivantin' wid the reefs out there like mad things, from Sunday to Saturday, all the year round." When the door shut on the noisy Irishman, it seemed as though one of the profound calms so much needed and desired out at the Eddystone Rock had settled down in old John Potter's home--a calm which was not broken for some minutes thereafter except by old Martha muttering softly once or twice, while she gravely shook her head: "Hold your noise, Teddy, hold your noise, lad; you're very like your father; hold your noise!" CHAPTER EIGHT. EXPERIENCES, DIFFICULTIES, AND DANGERS OF THE FIRST SEASON. While the building of the new lighthouse was being thus calmly discussed on shore, out at the Eddystone the wild waves were lashing themselves into fierce fury, as if they had got wind of what was being done, and had hurried from all ends of the sea to interdict proceedings. In hurrying to the field of battle these wild waves indulged in a little of their favourite pastime. They caught up two unfortunate vessels--a large West Indiaman and a man-of-war's tender--and bore them triumphantly towards the fatal Rock. It seemed as though the waves regarded these as representative vessels, and meant thus to cast the royal and the merchant navies on the Eddystone, by way, as it were, of throwing down the gauntlet to presumptuous Man. For want of the famous light the vessels bore straight down upon the Rock, and the wild waves danced and laughed, and displayed their white teeth and their seething ire, as if in exultation at the thought of the shattered hulls and mangled corpses, which they hoped ere long to toss upon their crests. Fortunately, Man was on the "look out!" The _Buss_ was tugging at her moorings off the Rock, and some of the seamen and hands were perambulating the deck, wishing for settled weather, and trying to pierce the gloom by which they were surrounded. Suddenly the two vessels were seen approaching. The alarm was given. Those on board the doomed ships saw their danger when too late, and tried to sheer off the fatal spot, but their efforts were fruitless. The exulting waves hurried them irresistibly on. In this extremity the Eddystone men leaped into their yawl, pushed off, and succeeded in towing both vessels out of danger; at once demonstrating the courage of English hearts and the need there was for English hands to complete the work on which they were then engaged. Next day Mr Smeaton came off to visit the Rock, and the news of the rescue served him for a text on which to preach a lay-sermon as to the need of every man exerting himself to the uttermost in a work which was so obviously a matter of life and death. It was, however, scarcely necessary to urge these men, for they were almost all willing. But not all; in nearly every flock there is a black sheep or so, that requires weeding out. There were two such sheep among the builders of the Eddystone. Being good at everything, Smeaton was a good weeder. He soon had them up by the roots and cast out. A foreman proved to be disorderly, and tried to make the men promise, "that if he should be discharged they would all follow him." Smeaton at once assembled the men and gave orders that such of them as had any dependence on, or attachment to, the refractory foreman, should take up his tools and follow him. Only one did so--the rest stood firm. At this time the weather was very unsettled, and the work progressed slowly. Once or twice it was still further retarded, by men who should have known better, in the following manner: One evening one of the lighthouse boats was boarded by a cutter, the officer in charge of which proceeded to "impress" several of the men into the navy. "It's to be pressed we are," murmured Teddy Maroon to one of his mates, in a vexed tone, "sure the tater-heads might know we've got an Admiralty protection." Whether the officer knew this or not, it was evident that he had overheard the remark, for, after selecting two of the best men, he turned, and, pointing to Maroon, said aloud:-- "Let that tater-head also jump on board. He's not worth much, but the service is in want of powder-monkeys just now. Perhaps he'll do. If not, I'll send him back." Thus was the poor Irishman carried off with his two mates to fight the battles of his country! In a few days, however, they were all sent back, and the indiscreet officer who had impressed them got a reprimand for his pains. After the first season they had no further interruptions from this source. Large mainsails were given them for their boats, with a lighthouse painted on each, and every man obtained besides a silver medal of exemption from impressment. But this was only the commencement of poor Teddy's "throubles" at that time. He had scarcely returned to his work when a new one overtook him. This was, however, in the way of business. "Teddy, my fine fellow," said Richardson, the foreman, as they stood on the deck of the _Buss_ holding on to the mizzen shrouds, "it's quite clear to me that with the wind dead against them like this, the relief boat with Hill's company won't be able to get off, and as we're short of provisions, I mean to take the big yawl and go ashore with my gang. As the best men are always chosen for posts of danger, I shall leave you in charge of the _Buss_ with two hands--Smart and Bowden;--both stanch fellows as you know." "I'm your servant, sir," said Teddy, "only if the best men are wanted here, hadn't you better stop yourself, an' I'll take the rest ashore?" Richardson did not see his way to this, though he acknowledged the compliment, and that evening Teddy found himself in command of the despised _Buss_, with half a gale blowing, and, as he observed, "more where that came from." Teddy was right, "more" did come, and kept him and his mates idle prisoners for a week. Indeed the whole of that month had been so stormy that from the 16th to the 30th only twenty hours' work had been done on the Rock. During six days the three men stuck to their post, but at the end of that time Teddy called a council of war. "Gintlemen," said he, "(for men in our pursition must be purlite to sich other), it's our dooty to stick by this here tub so long's it's of any use to do so; but as she seems to be well able to look after herself, an' our purvisions has come down to the last ounce, it's my opinion-- founded on profound meditations over me last pipe--that we'd better go ashore." To this speech John Bowden replied "I'm agreeable, for it's not my dooty to starve myself." William Smart, however, intimated that he was "_dis_agreeable." "Because," said he, "its blowin' great guns, an' looks as if it meant to go on, which is not a state of weather suitable for goin' over a dozen miles of sea in a small open boat, without even a mast or a rag of sail to bless herself with." "Pooh!" exclaimed Maroon, contemptuously; "a blanket'll make the best of sails." "Ay," added Bowden, "and an oar will do well enough for a mast--anyhow we'll try, for most votes carry in all well-regulated meetin's." This plan, although attended with considerable danger, was finally agreed to, and forthwith acted on. That afternoon the men on shore observed a very Robinson-Crusoe-like boat coming in from the sea with an oar-mast and a blanket-sail, from which landed "Captain" Teddy Maroon and his two mates. The same evening, however, the wind moderated and shifted a little, so that the relief boat, with provisions and the gang of men whose turn it was to do duty in the store-ship, succeeded in getting off and reaching their _Buss_ in safety. The weather became so bad soon after this that Smeaton thought it wise to bring his operations for that season to a close. Accordingly, on the 7th November, he visited the Rock, which had been cut into a regular floor of successive terraces or steps, and was considerably larger in circumference than the foundation on which Rudyerd's building had rested. On the 15th the _Buss_ sailed into Plymouth, the men having run out of provisions, and having been unable to do anything on the Rock. A great storm raged on the 22nd. On the previous day Smeaton had gone off in the _Buss_ to attach a buoy to the mooring chains for that winter. The task was laborious, and when it was completed they found it impossible to return to Plymouth, owing to the miserable sailing qualities of their vessel. There was nothing for it but to cast loose and run before the wind. While doing so they snapt the painter of the yawl, and lost it. Thus they were, as it were, cast adrift upon the sea with neither maps, charts, books, nor instruments to guide them. No alarm, however, was felt, the neighbouring headlands being bold, and all on board having previously been at Fowey, to which port Smeaton now gave orders to steer. Wet and worn out with labour, he then went below to snatch a few hours' repose. In the night he was awakened by a tremendous noise overhead. The men were rushing about the deck, and shouting wildly. He sprang up without dressing. A voice, exclaiming, "For God's sake heave hard on that rope if you want to save yourselves!" saluted him as he gained the deck. Roaring wind, a deluge of rain, and pitch darkness held revel on the sea; but above the din was heard the dreaded sound of breakers close under their lee. The jib was split, the mainsail half-lowered, and the vessel running gunwale under. By vigorous and well-directed action, in which John Bowden proved himself to be one of those men who are towers of strength in emergencies, the head of the _Buss_ was brought round, and the immediate danger averted, but they had no idea where they were, and when day broke on the 23rd they found themselves out of sight of land! Their last boat, also, had filled while towing astern, and had to be cut adrift. At noon, however; they sighted the Land's End--the wind blowing hard from the nor'-east. "No chance o' making a British port in this wind with such a vessel, sir," said John Bowden, touching his cap respectfully to Mr Smeaton. "As well try to bate to win'ard in me grandmother's wash-tub," remarked Teddy Maroon, in a disrespectful tone. Smeaton, agreeing with them, lay-to the whole of the 24th, and then, casting anchor, debated whether it were better to make for the coast of France or try to reach the Scilly Islands. Fortunately a change of wind on the 25th enabled them to weigh anchor and run back to Plymouth rejoicing; and vowing, as John Bowden said, never more to venture out to sea in a _Buss_! They reached the harbour at six in the morning, to the intense relief of their friends, who had given them up for lost. Thus ended the first season--1756. CHAPTER NINE. ACCOUNT OF THE WAR CONTINUED. "Now then, my lads," said Smeaton, on the 12th of June 1757, "we shall lay the foundation to-day, so let us go to work with a will." "Faix, then," whispered Teddy Maroon to John Bowden, as they proceeded to the wharf, where the ready-cut stones were being put on board the Eddystone boat, "it's little good we'll do av we _don't_ go to work wid a will." "I believe you, my boy," replied John, heartily. John Bowden said and did everything heartily. "An' we won't be long," he continued, "about laying the first course, it's such a small one." "Hallo!" shouted the man in charge of the boat, as they came in sight of it, "come along, lads; we're all ready." According to directions they ran down, and jumped on board "with a will." Smeaton took his place in the stern. They pushed off with a will; sailed and pulled out the fourteen miles with a will; jumped on the rock, landed the heavy stones, went immediately into action, cleaned the bed, and laid the first stone of the great work--all under the same vigorous impulse of the will. This was at eight in the morning. By the evening tide, the first "course," which formed but a small segment of a circle, was fitted with the utmost despatch, bedded in mortar and trenailed down. Next day the second course was partly landed on the rock; the men still working with a will, for moments out there were more precious than hours or days in ordinary building,--but before they got the whole course landed, old Ocean also began to work with a will, and eventually proved himself stronger than his adversaries, by driving them, in a terrific storm, from the Rock! They reached the _Buss_ with difficulty, and lay there idle while the mad waves revelled round the rocks, and danced through their works deridingly. It seemed, however, as though they were only "in fun," for, on returning to work after the gale abated, it was found that "no harm had been done." As if, however, to check any premature felicitations, old Ocean again sent a sudden squall on the 18th, which drove the men once more off the rock, without allowing time to chain the stones landed, so that five of them were lost. This was a serious disaster. The lost stones could only be replaced by new ones being cut from the distant quarries. Prompt in all emergencies, Smeaton hurried away and set two men to work on each stone, night and day; nevertheless, despite his utmost efforts, seconded by willing men, the incident caused the loss of more than a week. Fogs now stepped in to aid and abet the winds and waves in their mad efforts to stop the work. Stop it! They little knew what indomitable spirits some men have got. As well might they have attempted to stop the course of time! They succeeded, however, in causing vexatious delays, and, in July, had the audacity to fling a wreck in the very teeth of the builders, as if to taunt them with the futility of their labours. It happened thus: On the night of the 5th a vessel named the _Charming Sally_, about 130 tons burden, and hailing from Biddeford, came sailing over the main. A bright lookout was kept on board of her, of course, for the wind was moderately high, and the fog immoderately thick. The _Sally_ progressed charmingly till midnight, when the look-out observed "something" right ahead. He thought the something looked like fishing-boats, and, being an unusually bright fellow, he resolved to wait until he should be quite sure before reporting what he saw. With a jovial swirl the waves bore the _Charming Sally_ to her doom. "Rocks ahead!" roared the bright look-out, rather suddenly. "Rocks under her bottom," thought the crew of seven hands, as they leaped on deck, and felt the out-lying reefs of the Eddystone playing pitch and toss with their keel. Dire was the confusion on board, and cruel were the blows dealt with ungallant and unceasing violence at the hull of the _Charming Sally_; and black, black as the night would have been the fate of the hapless seamen on that occasion if the builders of the Eddystone had not kept a brighter look-out on board their sheltering _Buss_. John Bowden had observed the vessel bearing down on the rocks, and gave a startling alarm. Without delay a boat was launched and pulled to the rescue. Meanwhile the vessel filled so fast that their boat floated on the deck before the crew could get into it, and the whole affair had occurred so suddenly that some of the men, when taken off, were only in their shirts. That night the rescued men were hospitably entertained in the _Buss_ by the builders of the new lighthouse, and, soon after, the ribs of the _Charming Sally_ were torn to pieces by the far-famed teeth of the Eddystone--another added to the countless thousands of wrecks which had been demonstrating the urgent need there was for a lighthouse there, since the earliest days of navigation. Having enacted this pleasant little episode, the indefatigable builders set to work again to do battle with the winds and waves. That the battle was a fierce one is incidentally brought out by the fact that on the 8th of August the sea was said "for the first time" to have refrained from going over the works during a whole tide! On the 11th of the same month the building was brought to a level with the highest point of the Rock. This was a noteworthy epoch, inasmuch as the first completely _circular_ course was laid down, and the men had more space to move about. Mr Smeaton, indeed, seems to have moved about too much. Possibly the hilarious state of his mind unduly affected his usually sedate body. At all events, from whatever cause, he chanced to tumble off the edge of the building, and fell on the rocks below, at the very feet of the amazed Teddy Maroon, who happened to be at work there at the time. "Och, is it kilt ye are, sur?" demanded the Irishman. "Not quite," replied Smeaton, rising and carefully examining his thumb, which had been dislocated. "Sure now it's a sargeon ye should have bin," said Teddy, as his commander jerked the thumb into its place as though it had been the disabled joint of a mathematical instrument, and quietly returned to his labours. About this time also the great shears, by means of which the stones were raised to the top of the building, were overturned, and fell with a crash amongst the men; fortunately, however, no damage to life or limb resulted, though several narrow escapes were made. Being now on a good platform, they tried to work at night with the aid of links, but the enemy came down on them in the form of wind, and constantly blew the links out. The builders, determined not to be beaten, made a huge bonfire of their links. The enemy, growing furious, called up reinforcements of the waves, and not only drowned out the bonfire but drove the builders back to the shelter of their fortress, the _Buss_, and shut them up there for several days, while the waves, coming constantly up in great battalions, broke high over the re-erected shears, and did great damage to the machinery and works, but failed to move the sturdy root of the lighthouse which had now been fairly planted, though the attack was evidently made in force, this being the worst storm of the season. It lasted fifteen days. On the 1st September the enemy retired for a little repose, and the builders, instantly sallying out, went to work again "with a will," and secured eighteen days of uninterrupted progress. Then the ocean, as if refreshed, renewed the attack, and kept it up with such unceasing vigour that the builders drew off and retired into winter quarters on the 3rd of October, purposing to continue the war in the following spring. During this campaign of 1757 the column of the lighthouse had risen four feet six inches above the highest point of the Eddystone Rock. Thus ended the second season, and the wearied but dauntless men returned to the work-yard on shore to carve the needful stones, and otherwise to prepare ammunition for the coming struggle. Sitting one night that winter at John Potter's fireside, smoking his pipe in company with John Bowden, Teddy Maroon expressed his belief that building lighthouses was about the hardest and the greatest work that man could undertake; that the men who did undertake such work ought not only to receive double pay while on duty, but also half pay for the remainder of their natural lives; that the thanks of the king, lords, and commons, inscribed on vellum, should be awarded to each man; and that gold medals should be struck commemorative of such great events,-- all of which he said with great emphasis, discharging a sharp little puff of smoke between every two or three words, and winding up with a declaration that "them was his sentiments." To all this old John Potter gravely nodded assent, and old Martha--being quite deaf to sound as well as reason--shook her head so decidedly that her cap quivered again. John Bowden ventured to differ. He--firing off little cloudlets of smoke between words, in emulation of his friend--gave it as his opinion that "war was wuss," an opinion which he founded on the authority of his departed father, who had fought all through the Peninsular campaign, and who had been in the habit of entertaining his friends and family with such graphic accounts of storming breaches, bombarding fortresses, lopping off heads, arms, and legs, screwing bayonets into men's gizzards and livers, and otherwise agonising human frames, and demolishing human handiwork, that the hair of his auditors' heads would certainly have stood on end if that capillary proceeding had been at all possible. But Teddy Maroon did not admit the force of his friend's arguments. He allowed, indeed, that war was a great work, inasmuch as it was a great evil, whereas lighthouse-building was a great blessing; and he contended, that while the first was a cause of unmitigated misery, and productive of nothing better than widows, orphans, and national debts, the second was the source of immense happiness, and of salvation to life, limb, and property. To this John Bowden objected, and Teddy Maroon retorted, whereupon a war of words began, which speedily waged so hot that the pipes of both combatants went out, and old John Potter found it necessary to assume the part of peace-maker, in which, being himself a keen debater, he failed, and there is no saying what might have been the result of it if old Martha had not brought the action to a summary close by telling her visitors in shrill tones to "hold their noise." This they did after laughing heartily at the old woman's fierce expression of countenance. Before parting, however, they all agreed without deciding the question at issue--that lighthouse-building was truly a noble work. CHAPTER TEN. THE CAMPAIGN OF 1758. The contrast was pleasant; repose after toil,--for stone-cutting in the yard on shore was rest compared with the labour at the Rock. Steady, regular, quiet progress; stone after stone added to the great pile, tested and ready for shipment at the appointed time. The commander-in-chief planning, experimenting, superintending. The men busy as bees; and, last but not least, delightful evenings with friends, and recountings of the incidents of the war. Such is the record of the winter. The spring of 1758 came; summer advanced. The builders assumed the offensive, and sent out skirmishers to the Rock, where they found that the enemy had taken little or no rest during the winter, and were as hard at it as ever. Little damage, however, had been done. The attacking party suffered some defeats at the outset. They found that their buoy was lost, and the mooring chain of the _Buss_ had sunk during the winter. It was fished up, however, but apparently might as well have been let lie, for it could not hold the _Buss_, which broke loose during a gale, and had to run for Plymouth Sound. Again, on 3rd June; another buoy was lost, and bad weather continued till July. Then, however, a general and vigorous assault was made, the result being "great progress," so that, on the 8th of August, a noteworthy point was reached. On that day the fourteenth "course" was laid, and this completed the "solid" part of the lighthouse. It rose 35 feet above the foundation. From this point the true _house_ may be said to have commenced, for, just above this course, the opening for the door was left, and the little space in the centre for the spiral staircase which was to lead to the first room. As if to mark their disapproval of this event, the angry winds and waves, during the same month, raised an unusually furious commotion while one of the yawls went into the "Gut" or pool, which served as a kind of harbour, to aid one of the stone boats. "She won't get out o' that _this_ night," said John Bowden, alluding to the yawl, as he stood on the top of the "solid" where his comrades were busy working, "the wind's gettin' up from the east'ard." "If she don't," replied one of the men, "we'll have to sleep where we are." "Slape!" exclaimed Maroon, looking up from the great stone whose joints he had been carefully cementing, "it's little slape you'll do here, boys. Av we're not washed off entirely we'll have to howld on by our teeth and nails. It's a cowld look-out." Teddy was right. The yawl being unable to get out of the Gut, the men in it were obliged to "lie on their oars" all night, and those on the top of the building, where there was scarcely shelter for a fly, felt both the "look-out" and the look-in so "cowld" that they worked all night as the only means of keeping themselves awake and comparatively warm. It was a trying situation; a hard night, as it were "in the trenches,"--but it was their first and last experience of the kind. Thus foot by foot--often baffled, but never conquered--Smeaton and his men rose steadily above the waves until they reached a height of thirty-five feet from the foundation, and had got as far as the store-room (the first apartment) of the building. This was on the 2nd of October, on which day all the stones required for that season were put into this store-room; but on the 7th of the same month the enemy made a grand assault in force, and caused these energetic labourers to beat a retreat. It was then resolved that they should again retire into winter quarters. Everything on the Rock was therefore "made taut" and secure against the foe, and the workers returned to the shore, whence they beheld the waves beating against their tower with such fury that the sprays rose high above it. The season could not close, however, without an exhibition of the peculiar aptitude of the _Buss_ for disastrous action! On the 8th that inimitable vessel--styled by Teddy Maroon a "tub," and by the other men, variously, a "bumboat," a "puncheon," and a "brute" began to tug with tremendous violence at her cable. "Ah then, darlin'," cried Maroon, apostrophising her, "av ye go on like that much longer it's snappin' yer cable ye'll be after." "It wouldn't be the first time," growled John Bowden, as he leaned against the gale and watched with gravity of countenance a huge billow whose crest was blown off in sheets of spray as it came rolling towards them. "Howld on!" cried Teddy Maroon, in anxiety. If his order was meant for the _Buss_ it was flatly disobeyed, for that charming example of naval architecture, presenting her bluff bows to the billow, snapt the cable and went quietly off to leeward! "All hands ahoy!" roared William Smart as he rushed to the foresail halyards. The summons was not needed. All the men were present, and each knew exactly what to do in the circumstances. But what avails the strength and capacity of man when his weapon is useless? "She'll _never_ beat into Plymouth Sound wi' the wind in this direction," observed one of the masons, when sail had been set. "Beat!" exclaimed another contemptuously, "she can't beat with the wind in _any_ direction." "An' yit, boys," cried Maroon, "she may be said to be a first-rate baiter, for she always baits _us_ complaitly." "I never, no I never did see such a scow!" said John Bowden, with a deepening growl of indignation, "she's more like an Irish pig than a--" "Ah then, don't be hard upon the poor pigs of owld Ireland," interrupted Maroon, pathetically. "Bah!" continued Bowden, "I only wish we had the man that planned her on board, that we might keel-haul him. I've sailed in a'most every kind of craft that floats--from a Chinese junk to a British three-decker, and between the two extremes there's a pretty extensive choice of washin'-tubs, but the equal o' this here _Buss_ I never did see--no never; take another haul on the foretops'l halyards, boys, and shut your potato-traps for fear the wind blows your teeth overboard. Look alive!" That the _Buss_ deserved the character so emphatically given to her was proved by the fact that, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach the Sound, she was finally run into Dartmouth Roads, and, shortly afterwards, her ungainly tossings, for that season, came to a close. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE LAST CAMPAIGN--AND VICTORY! The campaign of 1759 opened on the 3rd of July with an attack commanded by Smeaton in person in the old _Buss_. Previous to this, on March 21st, the coast was visited by a gale of such severity that immense mischief was done on shore. Ships in the port, houses, etcetera, at Plymouth, were greatly damaged; nevertheless, the unfinished tower out upon the exposed Eddystone reef stood fast, having defied the utmost fury of winds and waves. It was found, however, that some loss had been sustained, the buoy of the mooring chain, as usual, was gone; but worse than that, one of the stones left in the store-room, a mass which weighed four and a half hundredweight, was missing. It had been washed out of the store-room entry by the water! This was a serious loss, as it obliged the men to retire to the _Buss_, where they were constrained to spin yarns and twirl their thumbs in idleness till the lost stone was replaced by another. Then they went to work according to custom "with a will," and, on the 21st of July, completed the second floor; a whole room with a vaulted roof having been built in seven days. At this point they proceeded to fit in the entry and store-room doors; and here another vexatious check appeared imminent. It was found that the block-tin with which the door-hooks were to be fastened had been forgotten! Doubtless Mr Smeaton felt inclined to emulate the weather by "storming" on this occasion, but that would have been of no use. Neither was it of any avail that Teddy Maroon scratched his head and wrinkled his visage like that of a chimpanzee monkey. The tin _was_ not; the hooks would not hold without it, and to send ashore for it would have involved great delay. Mr Smeaton proved equal to the occasion. "Off with you, lads, to the _Buss_," he cried, "and bring hither every pewter plate and dish on board." "Think o' that now!" exclaimed Maroon his wrinkles expanding into a bland smile of admiration. "Don't think of it, but _do_ it," returned Smeaton, with a laugh. The thing was done at once. The "plate" of the _Buss_ was melted down and mixed with lead, the hooks were fixed into the jambs, and the doors were hung in triumph. Solid doors they were too; not slender things with wooden panels, but thick iron-plated affairs somewhat resembling the armour of a modern ship-of-war, and fitted to defy the ocean's most powerful battering-rams. Progress thereafter was steady and rapid. There were points here and there in the work which served as landmarks. On the 6th of August Smeaton witnessed a strange sight--a bright halo round the top of the building. It was no miracle, though it looked like one. Doubtless some scientific men could give a satisfactory explanation of it, and prove that it was no direct interposition of the hand of God. So could they give a satisfactory account of the rainbow, though the rainbow _is_ a direct sign to man. Whatever the cause, there the glory circled like a sign of blessing on the work, and a fitting emblem of the life-giving, because death-warding, beams which were soon to be sent streaming from that tower by the hand of man. Three days afterwards they began to lay the balcony floor; on the 17th the main column was completed, and on the 26th the masonry was finished. It only remained that the lantern should be set up. But this lantern was a mighty mass of metal and glass, made with great care, and of immense strength and weight. Of course it had to be taken off to the rock in pieces, and we may almost say _of course_ the ocean offered opposition. Then, as if everything had conspired to test the endurance and perseverance of the builders, the first and second coppersmiths fell ill on the 4th September. Skilled labour such as theirs could not readily be replaced in the circumstances, and every hour of the now far advanced season had become precious. Smeaton had set his heart on "showing a light" that year. In this difficulty, being a skilled mechanic himself, he threw off his coat and set to work with the men. The materials of the lantern were landed on the 16th and fitted together, and the cupola was hoisted to its place on the 17th. This latter operation was extremely hazardous, the cupola being upwards of half a ton in weight, and it had to be raised outside the building and kept carefully clear of it the while. It seemed as if the elements themselves favoured this critical operation, or rather, as though they stood aghast and breathlessly still, while this, the crowning evidence of their defeat, was being put on. It was accomplished in less than half an hour, and, strange to say, no sooner was the tackling loosed and the screws that held the cupola fixed, than up got wind and sea once more in an uproarious gale of consternation from the east! On the 18th a huge gilt ball was screwed on the top by Smeaton's own hand, and thus the building of the Eddystone lighthouse was finished. There still remained, however, a good deal of copper and wood-work to be done in the interior, but there was now no doubt in Smeaton's mind that the light would be exhibited that season. He therefore removed his bed and stores from the _Buss_ to the lighthouse, and remained there, the better to superintend the completion of the work. One evening he looked into the upper storeroom, where some bars were being heated over a charcoal fire. He became giddy with the fumes, staggered, and fell down insensible. Assuredly poor Smeaton's labours would have terminated then and there if it had not been that one of the men had providentially followed him. A startled cry was heard--one of those cries full of meaning which cause men to leap half involuntarily to the rescue. "Och! somebody's kilt," cried Maroon, flinging away his pipe and springing up the staircase, followed by others, "wather! wather! look alive there!" Some bore Smeaton to the room below, and others ran down for sea-water, which they dashed over their master unmercifully. Whether or not it was the best treatment we cannot say, but it sufficed, for Smeaton soon recovered consciousness and found himself lying like a half drowned rat on the stone floor. At last, on the 1st of October, the lantern was lighted for trial during the day, with 24 candles. They burned well though a gale was blowing. On the 4th an express was sent to the Corporation of the Trinity House to say that all was ready. A short delay was made to allow of the lighting-up being advertised, and finally, on the 16th of October 1759, the new Eddystone lighthouse cast its first benignant rays over the troubled sea. It chanced on that day that an appropriate storm raged, as if to inaugurate the great event. Owing to this, Smeaton could not get off to be at the lighting-up of his own building. From the shore, however, he beheld its initiative gleam as it opened its bright eye to the reality of its grand position, and we can well believe that his hardy, persevering spirit exulted that night over the success of his labours. We can well believe, also, that there was in him a deeper and higher feeling than that of mere joy, if we may judge of the cast of his mind by the inscriptions put by him upon his work during progress and at completion. Round the upper store-room, on the course under the ceiling, he chiselled the words:-- "Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it." And on the last stone set, over the door of the lantern, was carved:-- "Praise God!" The lighthouse, thus happily completed, rose to a height of seventy feet, and consisted of forty-six courses of masonry. The internal arrangements will be understood at once by reference to our engraving, which exhibits a section of the tower. There was first the solid part, 35 feet in height and 16 feet 8 inches in diameter at the top, the base being much wider. Then came the still very solid portion with the entrance-door and the spiral staircase. Above that, the first store-room, which had no windows. Next, the second store-room, with two windows. Next the kitchen, followed by the bed-room, both of which had four windows; and, last, the lantern. The rooms were 12 feet 4 inches in diameter, with walls 2 feet 2 inches thick, and the whole fabric, from top to bottom, was so dovetailed, trenailed, cemented, inter-connected, and bound together, that it formed and still continues, a unique and immoveable mass of masonry. There were others besides Smeaton who watched, that night, with deep interest the opening of the Eddystone's bright eye. In a humble apartment in the village of Cawsand Bay an aged man stood, supported by an elderly man, at a window, gazing seaward with an expression of intense expectation, while a very aged woman sat crooning over the fire, holding the hand of a fair girl just verging on early womanhood. "D'ee see it yet, Tommy?" asked the old man, eagerly. "No, not yet," replied Tommy, "not--yes--there--!" "Ah! that's it, I see it," cried old John Potter, with a faint gleam of his old enthusiasm. "There it goes, brighter than ever. A blessed light, and much wanted, Tommy, much, much wanted." He leaned heavily on his son's arm and, after gazing for some time, asked to be taken back to his chair opposite old Martha. "What is it?" inquired Martha, bending her ear towards a pretty little mouth. "Grandfather has just seen the new Eddystone lighted up for the first time," replied Nora. "Ay, ay," said Martha in a moralising tone, as she turned her eyes towards the fire, "ay, ay, so soon! I always had a settled conviction that that lighthouse would be burnt." "It's _not_ burnt, grannie," said Nora, smiling, "it's only lighted up." "Well, well, my dear," returned Martha, with a solemn shake of the head, "there an't much difference atween lighted-up an' burnt-up. It's just as I always said to your father, my dear--to your grandfather I mean-- depend upon it, John, I used to say, that light'ouse will either be burnt up or blowed over. Ay, ay, dear me!" She subsided into silent meditation, and thus, good reader, we shall bid her farewell, merely remarking that she and her honest husband did not die for a considerable time after that. As she grew older and blinder, old Martha became more and more attached to the Bible and the dictionary, as well as to dear good blooming Nora, who assisted her in the perusal of the former, her sweet ringing voice being the only one at last that the old woman could hear. But although it was evident that Martha had changed in many ways, her opinions remained immoveable. She feebly maintained these, and held her "settled convictions" to the last gasp. As for Teddy Maroon, he returned to Ireland after the lighthouse was finished and quietly got married, and settled on the margin of the bog where the Teddy from whom he sprang still lingered, among his numerous descendants, the life of his juvenile kindred, and an oracle on lighthouses. Time with its relentless scythe at last swept all the actors in our tale away: Generations after them came and went. The world grew older and more learned; whether more wise is still an open question! Knowledge increased, science and art advanced apace. Electricity, steam, iron, gold, muscle, and brain, all but wrought miracles, and almost everything underwent change more or less; but, amid all the turmoil of the world's progress and all the storms of elemental strife, one object remained unaltered, and apparently unalterable--the Eddystone Lighthouse! True, indeed, its lantern underwent vast improvements, the Argand lamp and lens replacing the old candle, and causing its crown to shine with a whiter light and an intensified glory as it grew older, but as regards its sturdy frame, there it has stood on the rugged rocks amid the tormented surges, presenting its bold and battered, but undamaged, front to the utmost fury of blast and billow for upwards of a hundred years. 
52143	----	FAIRVIEW BOYS AT LIGHTHOUSE COVE OR CARRIED OUT TO SEA BY FREDERICK GORDON AUTHOR OF "FAIRVIEW BOYS AFLOAT AND ASHORE," "FAIRVIEW BOYS AND THEIR RIVALS," "FAIRVIEW BOYS AT CAMP MYSTERY," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ CHARLES E. GRAHAM & CO. NEWARK, N. J. NEW YORK [Illustration: They crowded to the rail eager for their rescue.] BOOKS FOR BOYS BY FREDERICK GORDON FAIRVIEW BOYS SERIES Illustrated. Price, per volume, 75 cents, postpaid. FAIRVIEW BOYS AFLOAT AND ASHORE Or, The Young Crusoes of Pine Island FAIRVIEW BOYS ON EAGLE MOUNTAIN Or, Sammy Brown's Treasure Hunt FAIRVIEW BOYS AND THEIR RIVALS Or, Bob Bouncer's Schooldays FAIRVIEW BOYS AT CAMP MYSTERY Or, The Old Hermit and His Secret FAIRVIEW BOYS AT LIGHTHOUSE COVE Or, Carried Out to Sea FAIRVIEW BOYS ON A RANCH Or, Riding with the Cowboys COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY GRAHAM & MATLACK _Fairview Boys At Lighthouse Cove_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. VACATION PLANS 7 II. AT LIGHTHOUSE COVE 15 III. SAMMY GETS A CLUE 23 IV. IN THE LIGHTHOUSE 31 V. THE DARK BEACON 41 VI. JUST IN TIME 48 VII. ON THE TRAIL 55 VIII. DRIVEN BACK 63 IX. IN THE BOAT 70 X. CARRIED OUT TO SEA 80 XI. IN THE STORM 90 XII. DRIFTING 95 XIII. THE ABANDONED BOAT 104 XIV. THE RESCUE 110 XV. TWO MYSTERIES CLEARED UP 120 [Illustration: Logo] Fairview Boys at Lighthouse Cove OR CARRIED OUT TO SEA CHAPTER I VACATION PLANS "Last day of school; hurray!" "No more lessons! No more books!" "Nothing but fun, from now on! I say, Frank, catch Sammy; he's going to fall!" Three boys were standing together in the school yard, making merry over the coming of the Summer vacation. The last one who spoke was a jolly-looking lad, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. Suddenly he put out his foot, caught it around the ankle of one of his companions, and gently pushed him over backwards. "Catch Sammy, Frank!" he cried, and the other boy grasped the toppling one just in time. "I told you so!" cried the fun-loving lad, as he sprang to one side. "Look here, Bob Bouncer, what do you mean by that?" demanded the one who had been pushed, as he stood upright again. "What did you do that for?" and he started toward his companion. "Oh, it was only a joke," answered the one who had been called Bob Bouncer. "I wanted to have some fun. I feel just full of fun when I think what good times I'm going to have this Summer." "Huh! just because you feel good you needn't knock me all around," went on Sammy Brown. But, though he spoke a bit crossly he could not help smiling at Bob, who was making funny faces, and dancing about, just out of reach. "I didn't hurt you," cried Bob, who was generally "cutting-up," or thinking up some joke to play on his chums. "I waited until Frank was there to catch you before I shoved you." "Humph! You're getting mighty thoughtful, all of a sudden," said Bob. "What about it, Frank?" "That's right," answered the third lad. "I didn't know what he meant when he said I was to catch you, for you were going to fall. Let up, Bob, can't you?" "Yes, I won't do anything more--right away. But say, have you fellows made any plans for this Summer?" "Oh, I s'pose the folks'll go way as they always do," said Frank. "My father was talking about some place in the mountains." "Near a lake?" asked Bob. "I don't believe so. I didn't hear much about it." "Then I wouldn't go," said Sammy. "I want to be near the water. We're going to a cottage near a big mountain lake, I think." "That sounds good!" cried Frank. "I wish we were going near a lake. I want to learn to sail a boat the right way this year." "Yes, then we won't have any more shipwrecks, the way we did when we went out in the _Puff_," laughed Bob. "Where are your folks going?" asked Frank, of the lad who had pushed Sam into his arms. "To the seashore for ours! It's the first time since I was a little fellow, and I'm going to have lots of fun. We're going on a sort of cove, where there's still-water swimming, and lots of fishing and crabbing. Not far off, is the regular ocean, but of course I won't be allowed to do much swimming in that. I can hang on the bathing ropes, though. Oh, I'm going to have some great times all right!" Bob Bouncer's two chums looked rather enviously at him. He seemed to be going to have the best time that Summer vacation. About the three boys was gathered a crowd of other school children. There was laughter, talk, and various kinds of excitement, for it was the last day of the term, and, after some simple exercises, the building would be closed for the long vacation. Because of this, discipline was a little relaxed. It was a little past the regular opening hour, but the principal, Mr. Tetlow, did not want to mark any one tardy on that last day, so he told the janitor not to be in too much of a hurry to ring the bell. On all sides were heard questions, "Did you pass?" "Where are you going this Summer?" "Oh, did you hear about Henry Black?" "No, what about him?" "Why, he didn't pass again. This is the third time he'll be in the fifth grade." "Oh, isn't that too bad! But you know he won't study." "No, he's too fond of fun." "Who are you talking about; Bob Bouncer?" asked someone who had just come into the yard. "No, Henry Black." "Oh, him! Say, isn't it time we went in? I've got to speak a piece." "I'm glad I don't have to. I'm only in the chorus." And so it went on, boys and girls from the higher grammar grades down to the kindergarten, talking and laughing together. Finally, when the last of the straggling pupils had reached the school, the bell was rung, calling them into the big auditorium, where the closing exercises would be held. These would be over about noon, and there would be no other session. After the usual exercises, singing, and the reading from the Bible, Mr. Tetlow said that there would be music and declamation. That last was a word the smaller pupils used but little. They called it "speaking pieces." Nellie Somers was in the midst of declaiming a sad little piece about a boy who had lost his pocketbook. She recited the line: "Where, oh, where, is Donald's money?" And then, suddenly, as she paused for a moment, Bob Bouncer said in a shrill whisper: "Fellows, I've got it!" Instantly there was laughter, and poor Nellie, up on the platform, blushed and was unable to go on. All eyes were shifted to Bob, who turned red, and the principal, rising suddenly, looked sternly at the lad. "Who said that?" he asked, sharply. "I--I did, sir," stammered Bob. "Why did you do it? Did you want to make trouble, and cause Nellie to feel badly--saying you had the pocketbook she spoke of?" "No, sir. I didn't mean anything about a pocketbook. I wasn't even listening to what Nellie said." "Then why did you speak? What did you mean when you said, so we all could hear you, that you had it?" Bob looked first at Frank, and then at Sammy. They, too, were wondering what he had meant by speaking aloud in school, especially during the closing exercises. "I--I meant that I had an--idea," went on Bob, blushing redder than before. "Well," said Mr. Tetlow, "perhaps you meant no wrong, but the next time you get an idea, please don't announce it to the whole school that way, and interrupt the proceedings." He was smiling now, and Bob knew he was forgiven. Bob was usually a pretty good boy in school, and the principal realized this, for a thing like that had never happened before. Bob's explanation was accepted, and, as it was the last day, Mr. Tetlow did not want to punish him. "Steady now! Quiet down!" said Mr. Tetlow to the pupils, for many of them showed signs of laughter again. "We will overlook it this time, Bob, but don't do it again. You may go on, Nellie. I think Bob is sorry he interrupted you." "Yes, sir, I am," said Bob, earnestly. Nellie smiled down at him, for he and she were good friends. Then she finished reciting her piece, and was applauded, and the rest of the exercises went on. Then came the giving of diplomas to those who were to graduate from the grammar department. This was followed by the awarding of some prizes, and certificates of good conduct, and for prompt and punctual attendance. Then, with a final song by the whole school, the program ended. "School is dismissed, until the middle of September!" announced Mr. Tetlow, and with happy faces the children marched out to a lively tune, played by Miss Williams, one of the teachers. In the yard there was more talk and laughter, as the boys and girls started for their homes. "Did you hear what Bob Bouncer said?" "Sure! We all did!" "Wasn't he terrible?" "And how awful Nellie must have felt! I was real sorry for her." "So was I. Bob was scared too, I guess." Thus Bob's companions talked about him. Frank and Sammy made their way through the crowd to the side of their chum. "Say, what in the world was the matter with you?" demanded Frank. "Were you talking in your sleep?" Sammy wanted to know. "No, I wasn't," answered Bob, quickly. "It was just as I told Mr. Tetlow. I suddenly got an idea, and, before I knew it, I popped out and said it. I didn't even know Nellie was speaking, as I was thinking of something else." "What was it?" asked Frank. "Yes, you may as well tell us, now that you went that far," added Sammy. "Well, it was an idea about our Summer vacation," went on Bob. "Our folks are going to the seashore, you know, and I don't see any reason why you fellows can't come too." "There are two good reasons," said Frank. "I have one, and Sammy has the other." "None of our folks are going to the shore," said Sammy. "I wish we were, though, for we could have lots of fun together. Now we'll be a couple of hundred miles apart," he added, in disappointed tones. "And that's just what my idea is about!" exclaimed Bob. "There's no use in us being separated. Look here, fellows, our folks are going to take a big cottage at the shore. It's too big a house for us, for I heard mom say so. But we couldn't get a smaller one. But I'm glad of it, for now there's going to be room for you two fellows. So why can't you come to the shore with me?" "That would be swell!" cried Frank. "It sure would," agreed Sammy. "But would our folks let us?" "The only way to find out is to ask!" declared Bob quickly. "Come on, I'll go around with you and we'll see if they won't let you fellows go." "First you'd better find out if your mother will want us," suggested Frank, who was quite practical, at times. "Yes, we don't want to invite ourselves," put in Sammy. "My mother will be sure to ask first what your mother said, Bob." "All right, then, we can go around to my house, and I'll ask mom. But I know she will want to have you. Say, maybe we won't have some good times together this Summer!" "Where are you going?" asked Frank. "To a place called Lighthouse Cove. There's a lighthouse there, and dangerous rocks, a bay, and----" "Any pirate treasure buried there?" asked Sammy, quickly. "Ho! Ho! Listen to him!" cried Frank. "There he goes again, making up a mystery before he's even seen the place." "Well, there might be pirate gold!" cried Sammy, stoutly. "And you can have a hunt for it, if you'll only come," said Bob. "Oh, I'll be sure to come if the folks will let me," replied Sammy. "Come on, let's hurry." The three boys left their other school companions behind, and hastened on toward Bob's house. As Bob had said she would, his mother readily agreed to the plan of having Sammy and Frank go to the seashore cottage with the Bouncer family. "Mr. Bouncer and I will be very glad to have you," she said to Sammy and Frank. "You will be company for Bob, and I won't have to amuse him so much. Come, by all means. I'll write notes to each of your mothers, inviting you, and then they'll know it will be all right." The notes were soon ready, and Frank and Sammy, accompanied by Bob, set off for the homes of the two chums, to get the desired permission. "Let me know whether or not you can go," Mrs. Bouncer called after Frank and Sammy. "We will!" they chorused. "And if you do go, be sure to bring picks and shovels to dig for the pirate gold," she added, with a smile. "What's that!" cried Sammy, eagerly, and he started back on the run toward Mrs. Bouncer, who stood in the doorway of her house. CHAPTER II AT LIGHTHOUSE COVE "Here, where are you going, Sammy?" "Come back here, we want to get this thing settled!" Thus Frank and Bob called after their chum, who was headed toward where Mrs. Bouncer still stood on the steps. "I'm going to find out about that pirate gold!" answered Sammy, never turning around. "There he goes again!" cried Bob. "I wonder what mother meant by saying that? She never told me about any pirates." "Maybe we'd better go back and see," suggested Frank. "We'll never get the straight of it from Sammy." "All right, I'm with you," said Bob, and the two followed their chum. And while they are thus trying to get at the meaning of the remark made by Mrs. Bouncer I will take just a few minutes to tell my new readers something about the three chums and their friends, as well as about their adventures, which I have set down in the other books of this series. The first volume was named "Fairview Boys Afloat and Ashore; Or, The Young Crusoes of Pine Island." In that I told how Frank Haven, Sammy Brown and Bob Bouncer went sailing in the _Puff_, how the craft was wrecked, and how the boys had to live on Pine Island for some days before they were rescued. "Fairview Boys on Eagle Mountain; Or, Sammy Brown's Treasure Hunt," was the name of the second book, and in that you can read how Sammy, in looking through an old trunk in the attic, discovered a curious document. It told of treasure, and he and his two chums at once set off for Eagle Mountain to discover it. In the third book, called "Fairview Boys and their Rivals; Or, Bob Bouncer's Schooldays," the chums had a different form of excitement. There was a fire in the school and a jewelry store robbery. How the stolen things were finally recovered, and what part Bob Bouncer had in it, you will find set down in the book. Then came the fourth volume, called "Fairview Boys at Camp Mystery; Or, The Old Hermit and His Secret." In that the boys had an invitation to visit an old hunter, who lived on a part of Pine Island they had never explored. Almost as soon as they reached the island the boys discovered a curious aged hermit, who seemed very angry at them. They also found a mysterious room, in an old mansion, and what they found there, how they were startled by an explosion, and what the old hermit's secret was--all that you will find written down in the fourth book. The boys spent most of the Christmas vacation on Pine Island, and now winter was over, Spring had come and gone, Summer was at hand, and they were ready for warm weather vacation fun. I might add just a line or two about the boys themselves. Frank Haven was a straightforward, every-day kind of chap, with many likeable qualities. He was a sort of leader for the other two, they generally looking to him for advice. Bob Bouncer, as you have probably guessed, was a "cut-up." He liked jokes and fun, but was never mean in them. He could never resist playing tricks when he got the chance. Sammy Brown was a queer chap. He was fond of reading stories of adventures in strange countries, and he loved books on treasure hunting. And it finally became so that, on the slightest chance, he would imagine that he, himself, might one day discover a gold or diamond mine, or stumble on some mysterious hoard of pirate gold. Once, as the readers of my other books know, Sammy did start on a treasure hunt. It had an unexpected ending. And again Sammy was sure he had discovered, on Pine Island, a band of men who made counterfeit money. I leave you to find out for yourself what it really was he came across. The boys lived in the town of Fairview, on the shores of Rainbow Lake, a large body of water, containing many islands, the largest of them being Pine. Bob and his two chums had many friends. They went to the same school, were in the same class, and were so often together that it was strange to see one of them out alone. They usually spent their Summer vacations together, and this was the first time, in some years, that there was a prospect of parting. But Bob believed he had gotten up a plan that would avoid this. It was this plan which was about to be put to the test on this last day of school. "Wait a minute; can't you, Sammy?" called Bob to his chum, who was hurrying toward Mrs. Bouncer. "Don't go so fast. My mother isn't going to run away." "I guess maybe he thinks someone else will get ahead of him, and find that pirate gold," suggested Frank. "It's queer your mother never told you about it." "Maybe it's a joke," said Bob. "Ma likes to have fun with us, once in a while." Sammy kept on until he stood in front of Bob's mother. Then he burst out with: "What's that you said about a pirate, Mrs. Bouncer? Is there really one at Lighthouse Cove? If there is I'm going to have a hunt for his gold. Did he hide it in a cave, or bury it on the beach? And is there an old map of it, drawn in blood?" Sammy Brown's eyes were shining with eagerness. "Oh, what a funny boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Bouncer, with a laugh. "I never expected you would take me up so quickly." "Why, is it a joke, ma?" asked Bob. "I don't know whether it is or not," Mrs. Bouncer replied, and she did not smile this time. "I really don't know why I mentioned it," she went on. "It slipped out before I knew it." "Then there is really pirate gold there; is there?" asked Bob. "Oh, as to that I can't say. You see, boys, it's this way. I did not intend to speak of it to you, Bob, until we got there, for I didn't want any excitement. But, since it slipped from me, I'll tell you all I know. "When I went down to Lighthouse Cove, in the Spring, to see about hiring a cottage for the Summer, I met an old sailor who had charge of some of the places that were shut up for the Winter. After looking at several cottages I picked out one named 'Barnacle.' It was a little too large, but it was in an ideal spot, right in the centre of the cove shore. It is lovely there, and near the lighthouse. "Well, I was talking to this old sailor, whose name is Hamp Salina, and I asked him if Lighthouse Cove was a good place for a lively boy to have fun--I was thinking of you, Bob." "What did he say?" asked Bob, eagerly. "Well, he said it was the finest spot a boy could wish for, and if everything else failed to amuse him, he could spend his time digging for the pirate gold. I asked him what he meant, and he said there was a rumor that one of the old-time freebooters had come ashore at Lighthouse Cove once, and buried part of his ill-gotten treasure there." "Did you ask him where it was buried?" asked Sammy, eagerly. "Oh, yes, but Hamp said he didn't know, and no one else did, though at different times many persons had dug for the gold." "Did they find any?" asked Frank. "Never, so the old sailor said. I'm sorry, now, that I mentioned it, for you boys won't do anything else but look for it, I'm afraid." "We surely will have a try for it!" declared Sammy, earnestly. "That's what!" exclaimed Bob. "We'll have to get on the right side of Hamp Salina," said Frank. "Maybe he knows more than he's told." "Well, don't count too much on it, and then you won't be disappointed," advised Mrs. Bouncer, with a smile. "You'd best run along now, Frank and Sammy, and see if your parents will let you come with Bob." "If my folks don't let me go," said Sammy, slowly, as he thought of the chance of the pirate's treasure, "if they won't let me go, I--I won't go with them. I'll stay here in Fairview all Summer." "And so will I!" cried Frank. "But I'm sure they'll let us." Frank proved to be a good prophet. When Mrs. Haven and Mrs. Brown had read the notes written by Mrs. Bouncer, inviting the boys to Barnacle Cottage, they at once gave their consents. As Mrs. Brown said to Mrs. Haven: "We'd never have any peace with our boys if they were alone with us, at the places to which we are going. They'd much better be together." "I think so, too," said Mrs. Haven. So it was arranged, and Sammy and Frank were wild with delight. "I can go!" shouted Sammy, as he came rushing out of the house, after his mother had consented. "I can go, Bob!" [Illustration: "I can go," shouted Sammy.] "That's fine!" "And we'll get that pirate gold!" added Frank, with a grin as he came out of his house to give the good news that he, too, could go. "We'll, if we don't, we'll have fun anyhow," said Bob, who never had much faith in the wild plans of Sammy Brown. "Oh, we'll get it!" declared Sammy. "All we need to do is to discover the right place and dig." "Yes, discover it the way you discovered the treasure on Eagle Mountain!" laughed Bob. "Oh, well, something came of that!" declared Sammy, in some confusion. "Yes, something," admitted Bob, "but not what you expected. Now let's begin packing." It was some days yet before the journey to Lighthouse Cove would be made, but the boys were so eager that they began to get ready at once. Finally they did start. It was half a day's journey from Fairview to the seashore, and Lighthouse Cove was reached about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Bouncer, the servants, and the three boys drove up from the station in a large carriage. "There's the cottage!" exclaimed Mrs. Bouncer, pointing to a large one a little way up from the beach of the cove. "Yes, and there's old Hamp to welcome us." "What, the sailor who knows about the pirate gold?" cried Sammy. "I must see him at once!" And, without waiting for the carriage to stop, he gave a flying leap out of it. CHAPTER III SAMMY GETS A CLUE "What a boy!" cried Mr. Bouncer, in dismay. "He'll be hurt! Stop the carriage!" exclaimed Mrs. Bouncer. "Not a bit of it, ma'am!" grunted the old man who was driving the horses. "Boys never get hurt. They always land on their feet, like cats, ma'am. He's all right--there he goes," he added, looking over the side of the carriage. He had, however, pulled up the horses, who came to a stop. Then Mr. and Mrs. Bouncer could see that Sammy was indeed all right. He was running across the sand toward an aged man who was seated on an overturned boat, not far from the Bouncer Cottage. "Is that the sailor who told you about the pirate gold?" Bob wanted to know. "Yes," said his mother, "but----" "Come on!" cried Bob to Frank. "We can't let Sammy get ahead of us on this. May we go, Mother?" "Oh, yes, I suppose so," she sighed, with a look at her husband, who smiled and nodded. "We can unpack better if you boys are out of the house, anyhow," she added. "But don't be gone too long." "Only long enough to find out about the pirate treasure," answered Bob, as he and Frank got out of the carriage to run after Sammy, who was already close to the old sailor. "Wait--wait for us!" called Bob to his chum, and though Sammy was in a great hurry, he felt that, as he was the guest of Bob, it would be no more than polite to halt until he and Frank came up. Then, together, the three chums approached the old sailor, who was sitting calmly on the overturned boat, smoking a short pipe. "Good-afternoon," greeted Bob. "Arternoon!" mumbled the old man. "Are you the Bouncer boys?" he asked, turning to look at the carriage, that was drawing up at Barnacle Cottage. "I'm one of 'em," answered Bob. "These are my chums." "Hum! I thought your mother said, when she come down to rent that cottage, that she had three boys." "Oh, she says that because we're always together," explained Frank. "My mother says the same thing." "Hum!" mused the old sailor. "Well, I'm glad to see you. I likes young people--'specially boys. They make a place a bit lively, and it's dull enough here all Winter. In Summer the cottagers come, and then it ain't so bad. I used to be a sailor but now I fish and rent boats," he went on, "and if you're going to hire one for the season I'll let you have a good one." "Oh, we'll be sure to want a boat," Bob said, "but I guess my father will pick it out." Sammy, by nods and winks, had been trying to signal to Bob to ask some questions about the treasure, and Bob, knowing that Sammy was anxious to hear what there was in the story, said: "My friend here, Sammy Brown, wants to ask you some questions, Mr. Salina." "Fire away!" invited the old fisherman. "I've got a little time yet 'fore I go treading for clams. What is it?" "About the pirate treasure!" exclaimed Sammy, eagerly. "Mrs. Bouncer said you told her about it. Where is it--we'd like to dig for it!" The old man did not answer for a few seconds. He was too busily engaged in chuckling silently. He chuckled so hard that he took a wrong breath on his pipe, some smoke went down his throat, and he coughed and spluttered so wildly that the boys thought he was having a fit. But finally he regained control of his breathing, though he was rather red in the face, and there were tears in his eyes. "Excuse me," he said. "Excuse me, boys. I didn't mean to be impolite, but I'm sorry you took so much stock in that pirate treasure yarn." "Isn't there any?" asked Sammy, in disappointed tones. "Well, there is and there isn't," said the old sailor. "That is to say there's a _story_ all right enough, but as to there being any _treasure_ I don't know. Nobody does, for sure, I guess." "Will you tell us about it?" pleaded Sammy. "Yes, go ahead," urged Frank. "That's the only way we'll have any peace--to get it out of Sammy's system as soon as we can." "Huh! I guess you're as anxious as I am!" exclaimed Sammy. "Go ahead, please," he added, to the sailor. "Well, I don't mind spinning the yarn for you," was the answer. "It won't take long. The story's been going the rounds of this beach ever since I can remember. To sum it all up, some of the old-timers claim that a good many years ago a pirate ship was wrecked here." "Right here?" asked Sammy. "Well, out where you see them rocks," spoke the sailor, pointing with the stem of his pipe. "There wasn't any lighthouse in them days, and you wouldn't know the rocks were there, especially at high tide, when they're covered. "Anyhow there was a ship wrecked on 'em. That part's true enough, for you can see what's left of her now, at low tide. But whether she was a pirate craft, or not, I won't undertake to say. "But the story is that when the crew found they couldn't get the ship off the rocks, they took to the boats and came ashore, bringing their booty with 'em. What the booty was the story differs on. One yarn is that it was gold, another says silver, and a third diamonds. You can take your choice," and the old sailor chuckled, but this time he was careful not to swallow any smoke. "I'll take diamonds," said Bob, with a snicker. "Oh, please go on," urged Sammy, eagerly, and the sailor resumed. "The story goes," he went on, "that the pirate crew, having lost their ship, buried the treasure, and went looking for another vessel. But they never got one. They had been trying to escape from a man-o'-war when they ran upon the rocks, and the government ship traced 'em here. The marines came ashore, soon after the pirates landed, and attacked 'em. That was the end of the pirates." The old sailor paused, and lighted his pipe, which had gone out. "Is--is that all?" asked Sammy, and his voice showed his disappointment. "That's all," answered the sailor, solemnly. "But what became of the pirate treasure?" asked Frank. "Nobody knows. It may be buried here, or the marines may have got it. My own opinion is there never was any treasure. But lots of folks says there was." "And if there was any, where would it be?" asked Bob. "Oh, 'most anywhere around here," answered Mr. Salina, with a wave of his arm that took in the whole of the Cove. "You can start in and dig where you like," he chuckled. "Nobody'll stop you. In fact there's been a good many folks, off and on, digging around here, for quite a few years back." "Did any of 'em ever find anything?" exclaimed Sammy. "Nary a one," laughed the old sailor. "It's all left for you boys to find." "Well, maybe we can, after all," said Sammy, as he saw his chums looking at him and smiling. "I'm going to have a try, anyhow." "It will take more than one Summer to dig all over this place," spoke Bob. "And it will spoil all our other fun. I want to have some swimming, boating and crabbing. You can have all the treasure you get, Sammy." Sammy did not reply. He was looking toward the rocks, where, according to the story, the pirate vessel had been wrecked. Then he turned his gaze toward the shore, and looked up and down the beach. Was there a treasure buried in it? He hoped so. Yet he had been deceived so many times before! "Come boys!" called Mrs. Bouncer, from the porch of the cottage. "I want you to go to the store for some things for supper. Then, too, I want to plan your sleeping rooms." "We'll see you again," said Sammy, to the old sailor. "Maybe you can pick out the best spots for us to dig for the treasure." "Not me!" exclaimed the old man, quickly and sharply. "I won't have anything to do with it. In the first place pirate gold is unlucky, and in the second place I've seen too many folks let their business go to rack and ruin spending their time looking for this treasure. I won't have anything to do with it." Sammy looked a bit uncomfortable, and the old sailor, seeing this, hastened to add: "But that needn't stop you from searching for the treasure--if there is any. Dig as much as you like, only don't ask me to be responsible. You ask your father about hiring a boat off me," he added to Bob. "I makes my living--such as it is--that way--that and clamming and crabbing. It's a hard way to earn money, but it's more sure than looking for pirate gold," and he laughed. The boys raced to the cottage, where Mrs. Bouncer waited for them. The three chums gave a hasty look about the place, and voted that it was the finest spot for a Summer vacation they had ever seen. It was but a few steps to the water, and they could put on their bathing suits in the house, and run down the beach for a dip. Inside the cottage Mr. Bouncer and the two servants were unpacking trunks, and getting out garments and bedding. Mrs. Bouncer gave to Bob a list of the things she wanted from the store. The house was only a short distance to the village, and the three boys walked along the beach to a road that led to the town, where the stores were. "Well, what do you think of it now?" asked Bob. "Think of what?" inquired Frank. "The treasure." Frank winked, and glanced at Sammy. "Oh, I know what you mean," put in Sammy, quickly. "You think it's all a joke. But I may show you fellows yet that it isn't." "I wish you would!" exclaimed Bob. "I'd like a little loose gold myself." There were busy times at Barnacle Cottage for the next few days. Getting settled took most of the time of Mr. and Mrs. Bouncer, and then Bob's father had to go back to Fairview to work. He would come down, however, for week-ends. Bob and his mother, with the two boy chums, soon began to enjoy life at the shore. A large, safe rowboat had been hired from the old sailor, and the boys were learning how to use it properly, under the instruction of Mr. Salina. Later on he promised to take them with him when he went fishing and clamming. To get hard clams the old man would go in the shallow parts of Lighthouse Cove, and, with his bare feet, would tread in the mud until he felt a hard clam. Then he would work it on top of his foot, raise it out of the water and reach it in his hand, tossing it into his boat. Soft clams he dug for on the exposed mud flats when the tide was low. The boys themselves learned to catch crabs, dangling pieces of meat on the end of strings from the dock near the cottage. When a crab grasped the meat in his claws the boys would pull gently on the string, until the crab was near the surface of the water. Then they would slip a net under him and lift him into a basket, wiggling and clashing his claws. The Fairview Boys made inquiries about the pirate treasure story told to them by the old man, and found that it was generally known. Few persons believed it, however, though, in times past, many had dug in different places for the supposed gold. The boys had been at Lighthouse Cove for about a week now. They had boated, bathed and crabbed, and one night, after supper, Bob said: "Fellows, it's about time we took in the lighthouse. I want to see how the lantern works." "So do I!" exclaimed Frank. "I was asking Mr. Salina about it. He said an old shipmate of his kept the light, and he'd take us through any time we wanted to go." "Let's go over now," suggested Sammy. "It will be more fun to see it lighted up." Frank and Bob agreed with this, and as Mrs. Bouncer had no objections, the three of them started down the beach toward the lighthouse, which was built on a little point of land, jutting out into the Cove. It was just getting dusk, and the rays of the light shone out brightly. Sammy Brown, who was walking on a little ahead of his chums, suddenly came to a stop, in a lonely place. "What's the matter--crab get you?" asked Bob, with a chuckle. "No. Hush!" whispered Sammy. "What's up now?" asked Frank. "See some of those pirates?" Sammy turned and came back to his chums. "Easy!" he cautioned. "Fellows, I think I have a clue! Come over here, but don't make any noise." He led them to a clump of bushes beside the path. Cautiously parting the leaves, to make an opening, Sammy looked through. Then he drew back his head. "Yes, he's there yet!" he whispered. "Take a look." "Who is it?" asked Bob. "Someone digging for pirate gold!" whispered Sammy, hoarsely. CHAPTER IV IN THE LIGHTHOUSE For a moment Sammy's two chums looked curiously at him, and Frank seemed about to laugh. Then Bob said: "You're crazy, Sammy!" "I am not," answered the other, quickly. "Look there!" All looked, and did indeed see a man using a spade to dig up the earth in a secluded spot not far from the path that led to the lighthouse. The man, who was elderly, had a lantern on the ground beside him, and as he sunk the spade into the earth, and brought it up, he would look closely at the soil in the rays of the light. "Now what do you think?" demanded Sammy, in a triumphant whisper. "Isn't he digging all right?" "Oh, he's digging," agreed Bob. "I admit that." "And for gold!" added Sammy. "Gold nothing!" exclaimed Frank with a quiet laugh. "Do you want to know what I think, Sammy Brown?" "Yes; what is it?" "I think that man--whoever he is--is after fish worms. See, he has a tin can there, ready to put the worms in. That's all he's doing, Sammy. He's after bait, getting ready for a fishing trip late to-night or early to-morrow morning." "That's right," said Bob. "Oh, is it?" asked Sammy, and he did not seem at all disturbed by what his chums said. Then he quietly asked them: "Did you fellows ever hear of catching salt-water fish on angle worms? I guess not--not around here, anyhow. Wasn't that what old Hamp Salina told us, when we asked him about bait the other day?" "That's so," agreed Frank. "They don't use angle worms around here." "No, but they use blood worms," declared Bob, "and you have to dig for them." "Yes, down on the beach, but not up as far as this from the water," spoke Sammy earnestly, and the boys knew that he was right. Still the man with the lantern was digging for something, and he seemed very much in earnest about it, too. The boys watched him for a minute or so in silence. They had spoken in whispers so far, and the digger had evidently not heard or seen them. He was too busy using his shovel. Presently Frank spoke. "Say, fellows!" he exclaimed, "maybe he isn't digging for anything after all." "Pooh! Can't we see?" asked Sammy. "No, I mean he may be _burying_ something, instead of digging it up. He's making quite a hole." That was something new to think about, and for a few seconds the boys watched to see if Frank's idea was right. "Do you think he's one of the pirates?" asked Bob. "Maybe--if there are any--but I don't believe so," answered Frank. "Perhaps he found some of the pirate gold, and he's burying it again until he has a good chance to get rid of it. I wish we knew who he was." At that moment the old man straightened up his bent back, and gave a sigh of relief, and also disappointment. "Well," the boys heard him murmur, "I'll have to dig farther on. It isn't here, that's sure. I wonder if I will ever find it?" The words seemed to strike a thrill through the Fairview boys. They looked at each other in the darkness, illuminated by the flashes of light from the lighthouse beacon, and then, as the old man picked up his lantern, and turned in their direction, they crouched down in the bushes in order to remain hidden. But the night-digger, whoever he was, looked neither to left nor right. He turned sharply and walked away from the boys. Then they breathed more easily. "I thought sure he'd see us," said Frank. "So did I," added Bob. "Let's take a look and see what he was after," suggested Sammy. "Maybe we can get another clue." He was quite excited, and so were his two chums. Usually the others did not pay much attention to some of the queer things Sammy said and thought, but this time it seemed as though he had stumbled on a mystery. Still Frank was not going to give in too easily. He had not forgotten how Sammy's "counterfeiters" had turned out. "I believe, after all," said Frank, "that this man will prove to be only someone looking for a place to bury a dead cat, or something like that." "Oh, you get out!" exclaimed Sammy. "You're always making fun of my ideas. Didn't you hear him say that he couldn't find it? It means the pirate gold, I'm sure. Then he said he'd have to look farther. Does that look like he was burying a dead cat?" "No, it doesn't," admitted Bob. "But let's go on to the lighthouse, and maybe the keeper there may know something about this old man. We'll ask him, and if he doesn't, perhaps Mr. Salina will." "I say--hold on!" cried Sammy, as his two chums set off down the path again. "What's the matter now?" asked Frank. "Do you see the old man digging again?" inquired Bob. "No," replied Sammy, "but don't let's tell the light-keeper nor Mr. Salina what we saw. Let's work this thing out ourselves. If there's any money in it we don't want to have to share it among too many people." "Oh, you're always thinking of that!" laughed Bob. "And another thing," said Frank. "Suppose that old man finds the pirate gold, Sammy, we couldn't ask him for a share in it, just because we spied on him, and saw him dig it, could we?" "No," answered Sammy slowly, as he scratched his nose, which he always did when he was thinking deeply. "No, I s'pose not. But if we saw the old man digging, and he didn't find anything, there's nothing to prevent our going and digging near the same spots. He probably knows _about_ where the gold is hid. "But if we talk about this, and tell everybody, they'll all dig too, and they may find the treasure ahead of us." "Say, you're as bad as when we went to Eagle Mountain," laughed Bob. "But go ahead. Have your way. We won't say anything until we've done a little more watching." "That's all I ask," said Sammy. "Then come on to the lighthouse," suggested Bob. "I'd like to see how the machinery works." A little later they were knocking on the door of the small cottage built at the side of the big tower, in the top of which flashed the warning beacon. "Come in," called a girl's voice, and the boys entered. They found themselves in a pleasant room, where sat John Floyd, the keeper of the light, and his wife and daughter. It was evidently the daughter, a girl of about twelve years, who had invited the boys to enter, for she rose to welcome them, saying: "I think I know you--Mr. Salina told me about you, and said you might come over to see us. Father, these are the boys from Barnacle Cottage. This is my mother and father," she went on, with a smile. "I hope you don't mind us calling," spoke Bob. "Mr. Salina said visitors were allowed, and we wanted to see how the light worked." "Glad to have you!" exclaimed Mr. Floyd, who was proud of his light. "And night is the best time to come to see the machinery working. Now let me get the straight of you--what are your names?" The boys introduced themselves, and learned that the daughter's name was Lucy. She offered to take them through the tower, and led the way to the spiral stairs. "Our light isn't a very big one," she said, "but it shows the ships where the dangerous rocks are, and I suppose that's all that is needed." "Does it work by electricity?" asked Frank. "No, it's an oil light," answered Lucy. "And father has to work all night to keep it trimmed and bright, and to see that the oil does not give out." "It must be hard work," ventured Sammy. "It is, but father is used to it now, and likes it. He sleeps most of the day, and stays up all night. Sometimes mother and I take the early watches of the night to give him a rest." "Do you have bad storms here?" asked Bob. "Oh, yes, indeed, sometimes. And then father always worries for fear the light may go out. If it did, even for a few minutes, some ship might take the wrong course and get on the rocks. Of course the big ships don't come up in our cove, but small ones do." "Has that ever happened that the light went out?" Frank asked. "Not since father has been in charge," said Lucy proudly, "and that is over fourteen years, now. He came here when he was first married, and has been here ever since." "What is this for?" asked Bob, as they passed a curious bit of machinery in the tower, on their way up to the lamp itself. "That is what turns the lenses," the girl explained. "You see this is a revolving light. It flashes around once every two seconds, and it is regulated by clock-work. This big weight that hangs down is used instead of a spring or an engine, to turn the lenses." "I see!" exclaimed Sammy. "It's like a cuckoo clock." "Yes," answered Lucy. "Father winds the weight up every day, by a crank and windlass, as in an old-fashioned well. Then it is caught by a sort of trigger. At night when the lantern is lighted, the weight is allowed to slide slowly down. That pulls the wheels around and the light flashes. "You see each lighthouse in this section has a different sort of lantern. That is, some are fixed lights, some are revolving lights, some are red and some are white. Sailors can tell, by the difference in the lights, just where they are, even on the darkest night." "A lighthouse is quite important," murmured Frank. "We think so," laughed Lucy. Then the girl took them up into the light chamber itself, a small room, with glass sides. The glass was really in the shape of lenses, as in an automobile lamp, only it was cut in another form, called a prism, in order to better cast out the direct rays, and magnify them. [Illustration: Then the girl took them up in the light chamber itself.] The lantern was an oil one, and it burned brightly, for it was kept clean, and the wicks were often trimmed. The boys were rather surprised to find that it was the glass windows, or prisms, that revolved by means of the clockwork, and not the lantern itself. If the lantern went around it could not be trimmed without being stopped, and this would make a difference in the flashes, Lucy explained, and so confuse the sailors. At certain places in the glass sides of the lantern room, there were blank spaces where no light could flash out, and this gave the proper signal for that part of the coast. If you will take a pasteboard tube, such as calenders are mailed in, cut two or three holes near the top, making the holes the same distance apart, with blank spaces in between, and set this tube over a candle, you will have a good idea of a lighthouse. Then if you will turn the tube around, with the lighted candle still inside, you will get the effect of a flashing light, such as Bob and his chums were shown. They were much interested, and stayed in the tower some time, watching Mr. Floyd trim and fill the lamp, to keep it bright. "This is certainly great!" exclaimed Frank, when they were ready to leave. "It sure is," agreed Sammy. Then he was unable to restrain his curiosity in spite of what he had agreed with his chums. "Say," he asked earnestly, when they were down in the living-room again, "did you ever hear anything of the pirate gold buried around here, Mr. Floyd?" The light-keeper laughed. "Oh, yes, I've heard," he said, "but I don't take any stock in it." Sammy was not discouraged by this answer. "Did you ever dig for it?" he persisted. "Oh, yes, when I first came here, and heard the story, I was young and foolish, and I had my try at it," answered the light-keeper, with a chuckle. "But I soon gave it up. I could make more money, and be sure of it, by tending the light." "Does anybody ever dig for it now?" asked Frank, giving Sammy a meaning look. "Oh, yes, now and then someone has a try at it," went on Mr. Floyd. "They think they can discover some new clues, I suppose. But I don't take any stock in 'em. Well, boys, come again--always glad to see you," he added, as they went out. CHAPTER V THE DARK BEACON "Well, what do you think now, Sammy?" asked Bob, as they walked toward Barnacle Cottage in the evening darkness. "What about?" asked Sammy, sharply. "About your treasure." "I think just the same as I did before," answered Sammy, promptly, "and that is that it's around here. Didn't we see that man digging for it?" "Say, you'd believe the moon was made of green cheese if someone told you," said Frank. "Oh, I would; eh?" returned Sammy. "Well, you just wait and see." The days that followed were happy ones for the Fairview boys. They went in swimming so often that Mrs. Bouncer said they might as well live in their bathing suits, and save their other clothes. They often went clamming, bringing home big baskets filled with the soft kind. These clams were steamed, or made into toothsome chowder, which the boys enjoyed very much. At other times the lads would take their own safe boat, and go to the distant sand flats, where they learned to tread for hard clams. Crabbing was one of their chief delights, and many a basketfull of the clashing, clawing creatures they pulled out of the waters of Lighthouse Cove. Sometimes they would get soft crabs, by hauling the seine, or straight net, along shore. But, though they made many inquiries, or, rather, though Sammy did, he could not find out who the old man was whom they had seen digging by lantern-light. They had had a fairly good view of him, but in the Cove settlement were many old fishermen and sailors, who looked much the same as that elderly man did, so they were not sure which of the many villagers he might have been; and they did not like to ask. One day, after the three chums had been rowing for some distance around the Cove, Sammy Brown suddenly exclaimed: "I say, fellows, I've got an idea!" "What, another one?" laughed Bob. "You're full of them lately." "Let's hear it, anyhow," suggested Frank. "Can we have any fun by it, Sammy?" "Sure. What do you say to rowing ashore, and digging a pirate cave." "You mean dig a cave and look for the pirate gold?" asked Bob. "No, I mean let's play we're pirates ourselves. We can go over to one of those sand dunes, and hollow out a hole in the side of it. We can make believe that's where we live, and we can make a fire of driftwood." "Say, that'll be great!" cried Bob. "And we can bring some grub there and cook it! Sammy, you're all right!" "Even if he can't find the pirate gold!" added Frank, gaily. Filled with the new idea, the boys hastily rowed up on shore, and soon were digging into the side of the hill of sand, making a place where they could go in and imagine all sorts of delightful things. The sand dune was one of many along the shore, and on top grew some rank grass that held the sand together. Working with broad pieces of driftwood for shovels, the boys soon had quite a hole in the sand pile. It was large enough to hold all three of them, and they were eagerly talking of the fun they would have. "We can come over here and stay all night!" said Bob. "Sure, it will be plenty warm enough, with a blanket or two," added Sammy. "And we can cook our meals right on the beach, in front of the cave," added Frank. "That's the way the pirates used to do." "Then we'd better get some driftwood for the fire," suggested Sammy. "We've got the hole almost large enough." They collected quite a pile of the wood that was strewn along the beach, and then, after sitting in the "pirate cave" for a while, they rowed back to Barnacle Cottage, to get some food which they intended to cook over their campfire that evening. After some objection, Mrs. Bouncer said the boys might cook a meal there, but she would not let them sleep all night in the sand cave. "It's sure to be damp," she said, "and, though you boys might not think so, I can't have you catching colds. Play there in the daytime as much as you like, but you can't sleep there." With this they had to be content. They had lots of fun building the fire, and toasting frankforters over the coals. Sometimes the sausages would drop off the pointed sticks, and fall into the ashes, but Bob and his chums brushed the dirt off and went on eating as if nothing had happened. They played in the cave for several days, and some of the other boys from nearby cottages joined with them, so the three chums became the leaders of a regular "pirate band." One afternoon, however, something happened that put a stop to this fun. Sammy and his two chums had gone alone to the cave, and they had taken with them shovels to enlarge it, as it was getting too crowded on account of so many boys wanting to enter it. "We'll make a dandy big cave, while we're at it!" boasted Sammy. The three chums dug away for some time, and finally Bob said: "That's enough, fellows. If we go too far back, and the sand should cave in, we'd never get out." "That's right," chimed in Frank. "Pooh! You fellows are scared!" exclaimed Sammy. "I'm going to dig it farther back. You two get some driftwood, and pile it out in front. We'll have a roaring big fire to-night." Frank and Bob went up and down the beach, gathering sticks, and bits of broken boards, while Sammy continued to dig away inside the cave. Frank and Bob made several trips to and fro, and the pile of wood was growing. Finally, as they neared the cave, on what they said would be their last trip, as they were tired, Frank cried: "Look! The sand has caved in!" "So it has!" exclaimed Bob. They looked toward where the mouth of the cave had been. It was closed, and the sand was still sliding somewhat, showing that the accident must have happened only a little while before. "And Sam--Sammy!" gasped Bob. "He's in there!" faltered Frank. "And we've got to get him out--quick!" cried Bob. They both glanced up and down the beach. No one was in sight. Fortunately they had brought their shovels out of the cave. With these they began digging at what had been the entrance to the "pirate" cavern. Shovelful after shovelful of sand they tossed aside, until their arms ached, but they would not stop. "We must get him out!" gasped Bob. "Before he smothers!" added Frank. They worked with a will. Luckily for Sammy, he had been coming out of the cave when the accident happened. Otherwise he would have been so far back that he might never have been gotten out alive. As it was Frank and Bob had dug for only a few seconds before they saw a hand moving about in the sand. Then another hand appeared beside it, and they stopped digging. "There he is!" cried Bob, joyfully. "And he's alive!" said Frank. "Use your fingers--not your shovel--we might hurt him." With their hands they now scooped away the sand, and in a few seconds Sammy's face appeared. He was gasping for breath, and looked quite pale and frightened, but with the help of his chums he was soon completely uncovered. "Are you all right?" asked Bob. "I--I guess so," answered Sammy, shaking the sand from his clothes, and feeling all over himself to make sure. "Yes," he went on. "Nothing's busted." "How did it happen?" asked Frank. "I don't know. All of a sudden the sand began to slide. I got scared and ran for the front of the cave. Then the front door went shut, you might say, and I was caught. I held my breath, made a little place for my mouth and nose, and waited. I knew you fellows would get me out, and you did." "We were scared, though," confessed Bob. "I guess we won't go in any more sand caves," said Frank. And they did not. It was a lucky escape for Sammy, and Mrs. Bouncer, when she heard about it, made strong objections to the boys playing pirates in that fashion. But there were plenty of other chances for the chums of Barnacle Cottage to have good times, and they enjoyed their stay at Lighthouse Cove to the utmost. Sammy still persisted in believing that pirate gold was buried somewhere about, and he dug in many places, when he could slip away from his chums, but without success. He kept a lookout for the man with the lantern, but could not meet him, as far as he could tell, though he saw many whom he thought was the person he sought. Nor did he make any inquiries for fear of being laughed at. One evening, about a week after Sammy had been caught in the "pirate cave," he proposed, after supper, that he and his chums pay another visit to the lighthouse. He had taken some pictures of it with his camera, and wanted to show them to Lucy and her parents. "All right, I'm with you," said Frank, and Bob nodded to show that he would go, too. They saw the light flashing, as they started from the cottage, and struck across the now lonely beach. The rays of light came every so often, flashing over their heads, and out toward the inlet, where the sea and cove met. Suddenly, as they walked along, Bob glanced up and exclaimed: "See! The light has gone out!" They all looked up. "So it has!" faltered Frank. "The lighthouse is dark!" said Sammy slowly. "Fellows, it must be wreckers at work! They've overpowered the light-keeper, and put out the light to draw some ship in toward shore so she'll be wrecked! That's what it is--wreckers! Come on!" CHAPTER VI JUST IN TIME For a moment Bob and Frank were so startled at not seeing the light flashing out, as it always did after sunset, that they did not stop to think what Sammy's excited words meant. They raced on after him, toward the entrance to the lighthouse, intent only on finding out what was the matter. "It sure is wreckers," Sammy kept saying over and over again. "Some bad men are trying to get the ship on the rocks, and when she breaks up they'll get all the valuable cargo that comes ashore!" Then Frank paid some attention to what his chum was saying. "Hold on there!" he cried. "That's some more of your wild imagination, Sammy." "Wreckers! Who ever heard of wreckers?" Bob wanted to know. "I did!" exclaimed Sammy. "I'm sure they've put out the light!" "How could they?" asked Bob. "Mr. Floyd has been there all the while." "They--they overpowered him," said Sammy, hesitating a bit over the long word. "Well, what about his wife and daughter?" Frank wanted to know. "I guess they wouldn't let any wreckers put out the light." "Mrs. Floyd and Lucy are away this evening," said Sammy. "I saw them go past our cottage. They said they were going to the moving picture show over in town, and would stay all night with some relations. It's all a plot--that's what it is! The wreckers knew Mr. Floyd would be alone." Bob and Frank looked at Sammy a little differently now. It was true that the wife and daughter of the light-keeper had gone away. The two chums remembered this, now that Sammy had recalled it to their mind. The keeper was alone in the tower. And certainly something must have happened, for the light was out, and as the boys raced toward it they glanced up, every now and then, hoping to see the bright beams flashing. But the tower remained in darkness. As they ran on they saw a light flashing along the path ahead of them. It swayed from side to side, and flickered so the boys easily guessed that it was a lantern being carried by someone. "There they are now!" cried Sammy, in much excitement. "Who?" Bob wanted to know. "Some of the wreckers! They're making signals! Don't let them see us!" Frank and Bob hesitated. They did not know what to do, and, though they knew that Sammy was much given to imagination, and to excitement, this time he might be partly right, they thought. "What shall we do?" asked Frank. "Let's get away from here," proposed Bob. "Come on--run!" advised Frank. "It's too late--they've seen us and they're coming right this way!" exclaimed Bob. The person with the lantern, whoever he might be, was headed directly for the boys, and coming on swiftly. "Fellows, we can't run," called Sammy. "Whatever happens we've either got to give the alarm about the light being out, or we've got to go to the tower, see what's the matter, and start it ourselves. We've got to stand our ground." "Maybe someone from the town will notice that the light's out, and come over," suggested Frank, hopefully. "They can't see the light from the back, over in town," put in Sammy. "You can only see it from in front, or at either side, the way we are now. The back part of the light is always dark." "That's so," admitted Bob. "But what can we do? Who is this coming with the lantern?" They did not have long to wait to find out, for the figure, with the swinging light, was running now. The path was narrow and the boys stepped to one side, slacking in their pace a little. Then, as the stranger with the lantern came opposite them, Sammy and his chums gasped in astonishment. The person who ran past them, paying no more attention to the boys than if he had not seen them, was an old man, and as he flashed by, Sammy cried: "It's the same one--the man who was digging for the gold!" "So it was!" exclaimed Frank. "Let's take after him," suggested Bob. "Maybe he's seen the trouble at the lighthouse and is going for help. Then we won't have to go. Let's follow him!" "No, don't!" cried Sammy Brown, catching hold of Bob's coat. "Why not?" "Because it's dangerous!" "Dangerous? How?" "That man's one of the wreckers!" whispered Sammy, hoarsely. "He's just been to the lighthouse to put out the lamp, and now he's going to join his gang. We'd better not interfere with him." "Why, I thought you said he was looking for pirate gold!" exclaimed Bob. "Well, I guess I was mistaken," admitted Sammy. The boys had come to a stop, and were looking after the man who was running away from them, his lantern bobbing from side to side. "I'm sure he's a wrecker anyhow," went on Sammy. "He looked like a desperate character!" "Say, I don't believe you know what you're talking about!" burst out Frank. "Maybe that man has seen the trouble at the lighthouse, and has gone for help. But, for all that, I think we'd better go there ourselves, and see if we can do anything." "Maybe you're right," admitted Sammy, as he looked in the direction of the bobbing lantern. "Anyhow I don't believe it would be a good thing to follow that man. Say, we're getting as badly mixed up in a mystery here, as we were on Pine Island." "Yes, and maybe it will turn out just as easy," spoke Frank. "No, I'm sure something is going to happen here," insisted Sammy. "The light being out, for one thing, shows that, and the old man digging for pirate gold is another. But come on, fellows. Some ship may go on the rocks while we're talking here." "There's no storm, that's one good thing," murmured Bob. "I thought wreckers only worked during a storm." "Maybe they do things different here," said Sammy. "Come on!" They started again toward the lighthouse, now and then looking up toward the tall tower in the hope of seeing the flashing beacon. But all was still darkness, save for the twinkling stars in the sky. [Illustration: They started again toward the lighthouse.] They reached the cottage connected with the lighthouse. The door was open, but all was dark inside. For a moment the boys hesitated. Afterwards Bob and Frank admitted that they were thinking of the same thing Sammy was--that perhaps there was a trap, and that the wreckers were waiting for them. Finally Frank called: "Hello, Mr. Floyd! Are you there? What's the matter? Why isn't the light going?" At first only a groaning voice answered them, and then they heard the stronger tones of the light-keeper crying out: "Oh, thank Providence someone has come! Quick, boys, you're just in time! Light the lamp! Never mind me! Light the lantern!" "Are you hurt?" asked Bob. "Did the wreckers attack you?" cried Sammy. "Wreckers! Good land, no!" shouted the light-keeper. "I fell down stairs, and I guess my leg is broken. And when I fell I hit against the lever that puts out the lantern, and that made it all dark. And I've been lying here ever since, calling for help, but no one heard me. I didn't know what to do, for I can't seem to move. "But you're just in time, boys. Come in, and I'll tell you how to light the lantern. Hurry, or some ship may go on the rocks! Wreckers? Good land, what made you think of them?" "Fooled again!" murmured Sammy Brown, as he and his companions entered the cottage. CHAPTER VII ON THE TRAIL "Where are you?" called Bob to the light-keeper, as the boys went into the living room. All was so dark they could see nothing. "Right here, at the foot of the stairs," answered Mr. Floyd. "I haven't been able to move since my fall." "Are you badly hurt?" asked Frank. "I don't know, but I hope not. Never mind about me, though. You must set the lantern going, for I can't do it. That is most important. I have never yet let it go out--this is the first time; but I could not help that." "Wait, I'll strike a match," said Sammy. "Then we can see what we are doing." The tiny glow illuminated the room, and the boys could see the light-keeper huddled in a heap at the foot of the stairs that led to the tower, at the top of which was the big lantern. "There's a lamp on the table," said the aged man, pointing to it. "Light that, and then go up to the lantern. Do you think you can light it?" "I guess so," answered Bob. "Your daughter showed us how it was done." "That's good. She little knew how soon you might have to do it. But if you think you can't do it, you must go for help. My wife and daughter have gone to visit relations, and will be away all night, but you can get some of the fishermen; they will know how to light the lantern." "Oh, I'm sure we can do it!" exclaimed Frank. "Lucy showed us just how it was done." "I'm thankful for that," went on the light-keeper. "Now, boys, don't bother with me!" he went on, as they advanced toward him. "Just get up aloft and set the lantern going. You see I have an arrangement so I can put it out from down here, without going all the way up. That's to save me climbing the stairs in the morning. "Well, I was coming down, from having trimmed it, a little while ago, when I slipped. I put out my hand to save myself, and, by mistake I grabbed hold of the wire I had rigged up to put out the light. It put it out, all right, and here I've lain ever since, not knowing what to do. Oh, it was terrible! "I couldn't tell when anyone would come, being all alone as I was. I called and called, but no one heard me." The boys thought of the strange figure of the old man, with the lantern, running away, and they wondered if he had heard and had not heeded. "I couldn't tell what moment some ship might go on the rocks," continued the light-keeper. "For the sailors, not seeing the light, might get off their course. I was glad there was no storm, for that would have made it much worse. "But never mind about that now. You're here, thank Providence, and you can start the light going before it's too late." "Come on!" cried Bob, and with a lantern which they had found and set aglow, to light them up the dark stairs of the tower, the three boys ascended. First, however, they had in spite of his protests, made Mr. Floyd more comfortable, by putting a pillow under his head, and straightening him out. They did not want to move him too much for fear one of his legs might be broken. Up into the lantern tower the lads went. Then with hands that trembled a little, they ignited the big wicks, first having raised the extinguishers that Mr. Floyd had accidentally pulled down over them in his fall. The machinery, that made the glass prisms turn, was still in motion, not having been stopped since it was set going early in the evening, so with this the boys had nothing to do. As soon as they had lighted the lantern, the welcome flash went sparkling out over the waters of the cove, to warn captains off the dangerous rocks. "And now we'd better get down and help Mr. Floyd," said Bob, when they had made sure that the lantern was going all right, and would not smoke. "I guess we'd better get a doctor." "I think so, too," added Frank. "Too bad about your wreckers, Sammy," he went on, with a laugh. "Aw, quit your fooling!" exclaimed the lad who sometimes let his imagination run away with him. "Something like that might have happened, anyhow." "Yes, it _might_," admitted Bob. "But it _didn't_." "I'm sure there's something queer about that man with the lantern we saw," continued Sammy. "He's after that pirate gold, I'm positive." "Well, he does act queer," admitted Frank. "We can have a try for his secret, as soon as we get this lighthouse business fixed up." "We do seem to run into the queerest things," remarked Bob. "If it isn't one thing it's another." "I like it!" exclaimed Sammy, who was always on the lookout for something to happen. That it seldom did take place never discouraged him. "Well, is everything all right?" asked Mr. Floyd, as the boys came down stairs. "Yes," answered Frank. "The lantern is going all right." "And now we'll look after you," went on Bob. "Are you badly hurt?" "I can't tell. Best have the doctor look me over, I guess. I'm more comfortable since you boys came. It isn't so much for myself that I care, but the light depends on me. Uncle Sam trusts me to keep it going, no matter what happens, and I've got to do it. If I get knocked out someone else will have to look after it." "We'll go for a doctor," said Sammy. "Yes, and maybe we'd better go tell your wife and daughter what has happened," suggested Frank. "They'll want to be with you." "I guess that would be a good plan," agreed the light-keeper. "They ought to be here, for I'm afraid I won't be able to get up and down stairs much for a while." While the boys were planning who should stay at the lighthouse, and who should go for the physician, hurried footsteps were heard outside, and a number of fishermen and sailors came crowding in. They were much surprised at what they saw. "Look here!" exclaimed one big lobsterman, "what's all this here about, John Floyd?" "We saw the light out," added another, "and we made up a committee to come and investigate." "Thinking there was trouble," put in a third. "Yes, thinking there was trouble," agreed the second speaker. "Has these boys been up to any tricks?" and he looked at the three chums suspiciously. "Indeed they have not!" exclaimed Mr. Floyd, earnestly. "If it hadn't been for these boys the light would be out yet. And if you fellows had come a little quicker, instead of waiting to form a committee, it might have been better." "Well, we didn't notice, until a few minutes ago, that the light wasn't flashin'," said a clam dealer. "You know you can't see it very well from shore. But Ted Knowlton was out in his boat after eels, and he noticed right away that there wasn't any flash. So he rowed in as fast as he could and told us." "But the boys got here first, and I'm mighty thankful to 'em!" exclaimed Mr. Floyd. "Howsomever, now that you men are here, you might lift me up on that lounge, and then get the doctor." "And we'll go for your wife!" said Bob. "We can do that, if you'll tell us where she is." The light-keeper gave them the directions for finding Mrs. Floyd and Lucy, who had gone to a relative about two miles away. The boys left, after waiting to learn that, in the opinion of the fishermen, Mr. Floyd's leg was only sprained, and not broken. Stopping at Barnacle Cottage to tell Mrs. Bouncer what had happened, and where they were going, Bob and his chums hurried to where Mrs. Floyd was staying. She and Lucy were at first much alarmed at the news, but were soon told that nothing serious had happened. They at once returned to the lighthouse with the boys. The keeper was feeling much better now, and the doctor had bandaged his leg. He would be unable to walk around for several days, it was said, and some of the fishermen agreed to come and help with the heavier work about the lighthouse until Mr. Floyd was able to be about. "Well, that's over," remarked Bob, as he and his chums went back to Barnacle Cottage again. "Quite some little excitement for a while; eh?" "That's right," agreed Frank. "But it isn't over yet," said Sammy Brown. "Why not?" asked Bob. "That is unless you're going to have a look for the wreckers, Sammy," and he nudged Frank, to show that he was only joking. "Humph! Wreckers, yes!" exclaimed Sammy. "If there _had_ happened to be any you fellows would have been glad enough to want part of the credit. But as long as there wasn't, you can only poke fun at me." "Oh, we didn't mean anything!" said Bob, quickly. "I was only joking, Sammy. Go ahead; tell us what you mean by it not being over yet." "I mean we haven't found out who that queer old man is with the lantern," said Sammy. "I'm sure there's some mystery about him." "Pirate gold; do you mean?" asked Frank. "Well, I'm not going to say that again, and have you fellows laugh at me!" exclaimed the lad who did so much sensational thinking. "But that man is after something around here." "I agree on that," said Frank. "But what is it?" asked Bob. "That's what we've got to find out!" declared Sammy, promptly. "Fellows, what's the matter with us trailing that queer man, until we find out all about him." "Trail him?" questioned Bob. "Yes," went on Sammy. "We'll try to find where he lives, and what he is after." "And why he goes about nights with a lantern," added Frank. He and Bob were now as much interested as was Sammy, and they were eager to help their chum clear up the mystery. Getting to the cottage, they found company had come to call on Mr. and Mrs. Bouncer, and before the boys went to bed they had to tell all about their adventure at the lighthouse. "My, you boys certainly do things!" exclaimed one of the callers. "Yes, too much, sometimes," said Mrs. Bouncer, with a sigh, as she looked at her son and his chums. "I never know what they'll be up to next. That's one reason I rather dreaded coming here. I didn't so much mind it at home, for though they were out on Rainbow Lake much of the time, there was a limit to that water. But here, so near the big ocean,--I don't know. I'm always afraid they'll be carried out to sea!" and she shivered slightly, as if from some unknown fear. "Carried out to sea!" exclaimed Bob. "How could we be? We never go as far as the inlet." "And I hope you never will!" exclaimed his mother. The boys told more in detail of their doings at the lighthouse and then were sent off to bed, for the hour was growing late. They only made a mention of the strange man with the lantern, whom they had passed in the darkness, and they did not tell of their intention to get on his trail, and try to find out who he was and what he was after. They thought that, had they spoken of him, permission to seek after his secret might not be given. "Well, what's on the program this morning?" asked Bob, after breakfast one day. "Me for a swim, as soon as it gets a little warmer," decided Frank, for the morning was a bit chilly. "I'm with you!" agreed Bob. "Can't you boys get a few crabs first?" asked Mrs. Bouncer. "I'd like some to make a salad. The tide is right now; isn't it?" "Yes, it's coming in, and they always bite best on the incoming tide," replied Bob, who had learned that from an old fisherman. "What do you say, fellows; shall we go crabbing?" "Sure," agreed his chums. "We can swim later." Accordingly with crab nets, pieces of meat tied on strings for bait, and a deep basket in which to keep the catch, the boys set off in their boat, for the other side of the cove, since there the larger crabs could be gotten. They had good luck, and were busy pulling in some large ones, with big blue claws, when Bob suddenly called to his companions: "Look, there he is now!" They glanced up, to see, some distance back from the beach, in a clump of scrub evergreen trees, a man digging. "There's our man of mystery!" exclaimed Sammy. "Let's trail him, fellows!" CHAPTER VIII DRIVEN BACK Sammy's two chums did not answer for a minute. They looked at each other, and then Frank exclaimed: "I've got a bite, and a big one, too. Pass that net down here!" For a moment the prospect of catching another crab was greater even than the chance of finding out something about the strange man. Bob handed his companion the net, and Frank cautiously began pulling up on the cord to which was fastened the chunk of meat-bait. With his other hand he held the net ready to plunge into the water, and scoop up his prize. "There he is!" cried Bob, whose bait was not then being taken. "Get him, Frank!" "I will. Don't get excited and rock the boat. I'll have him in a minute!" "There!" exclaimed Sammy, whose attention was also taken away from the man for the moment. "Net him!" Frank plunged the net into the water, trying to get it under the crab, which was clinging to the meat with its claws. But the boy was not quite quick enough, or else he hit the crab with the iron ring of the net, for the creature suddenly let go, and with a quick motion of his broad, swimming flippers went scurrying off into the depths again. "Oh, he got away!" cried Bob, in disappointed tones. "You weren't quite quick enough," spoke Sammy. "I was so! You jiggled my arm, and made the net hit him!" exclaimed Frank. "It was the biggest one I had, too; a yellow fellow, full of meat!" and he gazed reproachfully at Sammy. "I did not jiggle your arm!" returned Sammy. "You did so!" "I did not!" "Fellows, if we're going to trail that mysterious man, let's do it, and not scrap," suggested Bob. This was as near to a quarrel as any of the chums ever got. Frank's little burst of temper was soon over. "Well, we've got enough crabs, anyhow," he said, looking into the basket where they were kept, covered with seaweed, so the sun would not make them die. For crabs are only good when cooked alive, or soon after they have died. Otherwise they are very likely to be poisonous. "Yes, we have a good mess," agreed Sammy. "I didn't mean to jiggle your arm, if I did, Frank," he went on. "I'll give you one of my crabs to pay for it, if you say so." "You will not! They all go in the same kettle, anyhow. Say, Bob," he went on, "what's the matter with having a clam roast out on the beach some night?" "Sure we can," said Bob. "We'll build a fire, roast clams and boil crabs, and have some of the other fellows over. That'll be fun!" "It sure will," agreed Sammy. "But say, fellows, what about him?" and he nodded in the direction of the old man in the clump of evergreen trees. He was still digging away, seemingly paying no attention to anything, or anyone, around him. "Are we going to follow him, or not?" "We can't follow him, when he isn't going anywhere," observed Bob. "No, but he may start off at any time," said Sammy. "We could tell where he lives, and then we could find out something about him. As it is now we can't even tell who he is, and there are a lot of men who look like him around Lighthouse Cove." "Well, what's your plan?" asked Frank, carefully pulling up his crab line, in the hope that the big fellow had again taken the meat. One was there, but it was so small that he shook it off, not wanting to net it. "I say let's row close over to where he is," suggested Sammy. "Then, when he starts off, we can go ashore and follow him." "Maybe he's got a boat hidden somewhere on shore," said Bob. "Let's take a look." The boys scanned the beach, but could see nothing of another craft. Meanwhile, the old man in the clump of evergreens continued to dig away. He paid no attention to the boys. "Tell you what it is," said Sammy, at length, "we've got to play foxy now. We don't want any more of that hermit business." "What do you mean?" asked Frank. "Well, you know what happened when we followed that old man on Pine Island. He pushed us over a cliff into a snow bank." "Ha! Ha!" laughed Bob. "What's the matter?" demanded Sammy. "I don't see anything to laugh at." "You don't? Well, there's no snow bank, for one thing." "Well, you now what I mean," said Sammy. "He might make trouble for us. I say we'd better be careful." "That's what I say, too," agreed Frank. "Now the best way, I think, will be to let our boat drift. We can pretend we are crabbing, but we can pull up the anchor, and the tide will take us nearly to where he is digging. He can't say anything, if we do that, for we have a right to drift." "Yes, and then we can see if he has a boat," added Sammy. "I guess that's the best plan. But what about these crabs, Bob? Won't your mother want them for dinner?" "No, she's going to make them into a salad for supper. We fellows will have to cook 'em, and pick 'em out of the shells, I expect. There will be time enough when we get in. Let's trail this old man now." Accordingly the small pronged anchor, that held the boat from drifting while the crabbing was going on, was hauled up, and put in the bow. Then, while pretending to be busy with their crab lines, the boys let their craft drift with the tide over toward the shore. The old man was still digging away, but he had moved his position and was now deeper in the clump of trees. "I'm sure he's after pirate gold!" exclaimed Sammy, in a whisper, for he knew sounds carry very distinctly over water, and he did not want the digging man to hear him. "He's after something, right enough," agreed Frank. "What it is we can find out later." "There's a boat, anyhow," put in Bob, pointing to one partly hidden under some brush and seaweed not far from the shore. "That's right!" cried Sammy. "That shows he came from some other part of the Cove. We'll follow him!" But, for the present, the man did not show any sign of being about to leave the clump of trees. He was digging away, paying no attention to anything around him, save to glance up now and then. If he saw the boys, as he must have done, he gave no sign. Bob and his two chums, now that they were where they wanted to get, again threw the anchor overboard, and resumed their crabbing. But luck was not so good here, the boat being too near shore. However, they wanted an excuse for remaining near the man, and this gave them one. "Here he comes!" suddenly exclaimed Sammy, as he wound up his crab line for future use. "Get ready now, boys." The others looked up. Coming down toward the beach was the strange old man. Over his shoulder were a pick and a shovel, and in one hand he carried a square wooden box, with a strap for a handle. "What do you s'pose he has that for?" asked Frank. "To put the gold in," said Sammy, promptly, "or else that holds the map, and directions for finding the treasure." "The directions can't be very good," spoke Bob, "for he's been digging in lots of places, far apart, too. I think that gold business is all bosh!" "Hush! He'll hear you!" cautioned Frank, for the old man had looked sharply in the direction of the boys. "I don't care," spoke Bob. "This is a free country." The boys had again pulled up anchor, and taken to the oars. They were pulling out from shore now. The old man went to where the other boat was partly hidden, and slid it down over the sand to the water. Then, putting in his tools and the box, he entered the craft himself, and began to row up toward the head of the Cove. "Come on!" said Sammy, to his chums. "We've got to follow." "Do you think we'd better?" asked Frank. "Sure; why not?" was the answer. "We've got to find out about him; haven't we?" To this the others had no objection. They were as interested, now, as Sammy was in solving the mystery. So, when the old man rowed off, more quickly than the boys supposed one of his age could do, they followed, but at a distance. The day was a fine one, there was only a little wind, and the tide was with them. "But it won't be so easy rowing back against the current," said Bob. "Oh, don't worry," advised Sammy, eager to find where the strange man lived. They did not have long to wait. A little later, after turning a point of land, the man rowed up to a small dock, in front of a small house, and, tieing his boat there, got out and went up the slope. "Come on!" called Sammy, a moment later. "Let's go ashore." "Maybe he won't like it," suggested Frank. "Oh, he won't care," was the answer. "He's seen us following him, and he didn't say anything. Come on." Rather against their will, Frank and Bob followed Sammy. He sent the boat up on the beach, and threw out the anchor in the sand to hold the craft against the tide. Then, followed by his chums, he approached the small cottage. But if the boys imagined the aged man was going to witness their approach in silence they were disappointed. He reached his porch, and putting his pick, shovel and box down there, turned and hurried to meet Sammy and his chums. "Did you boys want to see me?" he asked, and his voice was rather stern. He did not speak like the fishermen of the cove, but more, as Sammy said afterward, like Mr. Tetlow, the school principal, when he was angry. "We--we just wanted to see," began Sammy, uncertain whether or not to tell his suspicions about the pirate gold, and to be allowed a share in the secret. "Now look here, boys!" interrupted the aged man, sternly. "I don't want to be harsh toward you, but you must get away from here. I said nothing when you followed me, not thinking you would land on my property. This is private land, and there has been a 'no trespass' sign up, but it has fallen down. I will put it up again. I want no strangers around here. "My neighbors around me know this, and do not bother me. It is probably because you are strangers that you have come here. Now I will not have it. Later on I may be glad to see you, but now I must ask you to leave!" He stood looking at the boys sternly. They had been ordered away, and there was nothing for them to do but to obey. CHAPTER IX IN THE BOAT "Well, we didn't find out anything." "No, we had all our trouble for our pains." "But we know where he lives--that's something we didn't know before." This last was said by Sammy Brown. His two chums, Bob and Frank, had made the other remarks. The boys were rowing toward Barnacle Cottage, having been practically driven away from the place to which they had trailed the strange old man. His manner had been severe and stern, yet the boys knew he had right and justice on his side. "We couldn't do anything but go," said Bob. "He could have had us arrested for trespass if we didn't." "That's right," admitted Frank. "Well, I didn't think he'd be quite so sharp," said Sammy, after a moment. "I thought he was a sort of simple old man, like some of the fishermen around here." "But he's a lot different," spoke Frank. "Did you see how his eyes snapped, when he told us to get away?" "I should say I did!" answered Bob. "He was real angry." "But he spoke good enough to us," said Sammy. "I s'pose it was a crazy idea to go there in broad daylight, when he was at home. Next time I'll go at night, or when he's away." "What! Are you going again?" cried Bob. "I should say I am! I'm going to get at the bottom of this yet!" declared Sammy. "And when you do get to the bottom, it will fall out, just as it always does, and you'll have all your trouble for nothing," said Frank, with a laugh. "Will I? Well, I'll see," answered Sammy, confidently. "I'm sure that man is trying to hide something." "I thought he was trying to _find_ something, from what you said at first--the pirates' gold!" laughed Bob. "Oh, you know what I mean," returned Sammy. "Quit your fooling!" They rowed on in silence for a few minutes, and suddenly Frank, who was in the stern, gave a loud yell. "What's the matter?" asked Bob. "See a shark?" "No, but a crab's got my toe! Look out! They're getting out of the basket!" He jumped up on the stern seat, holding out one bare foot--to the big toe of which a large crab was clinging with his strong claw. "Take him off!" cried Frank, dancing about. [Illustration: "Take him off!" cried Frank.] "Take him off yourself!" exclaimed Sammy. "Think we want to get nipped?" "Look out! You'll upset the boat!" cautioned Bob. "Keep still; can't you?" "No, I can't, and I guess you couldn't, either, with a big blue-claw crab nipping you!" cried Frank. "Ouch! Get him off; can't you!" He was trying to do this for himself, but the crab, that was one of the biggest caught, had one claw free, and every time Frank reached out his hand to grasp the creature, and pull it from his toe, the crab would open his other claw, and wave it around threateningly. So Frank was a bit cautious about taking hold of the creature. "Look out! The others are getting out!" cried Sammy, as he glanced at the basket of crabs. It was only too true. The boys had paid no attention to their catch for some time, and the crabs had pushed their way up from beneath the seaweed, and were crawling over the edge. "Clap something on top of the basket!" cried Sammy. "Hand me that board, Frank." "Can't! I've got troubles of my own! Ouch, let go, can't you!" he cried to the crab, which did not seem to want to do this. "Wow! One's got me, too!" exclaimed Bob, turning quickly about. "Smash him against the side of the boat!" advised Sammy to Frank, and, seeing this was good advice, the boy did so. Crack went the hard crab against the gunwale, and the claw by which it had been clinging to Frank's toe came off. Crabs claws often come loose and new ones grow on again. So the creature was not much hurt. "Whew! That's better!" gasped Frank, as he opened the nippers of the claw that still clung to his toe, in spite of the fact that it was severed from the body of the crab. "Let go, can't you!" cried Bob, to the crab nipping him. "Try Frank's trick," advised Sammy. Bob did so, but the result was not exactly what was looked for. The boy hit the crab, that had hold of his hand, such a blow against the side of the boat, that, losing his balance, Bob leaned too far over. "Look out! You'll upset us!" cried Frank, who was nursing his nipped toe. It was too late. The boat tilted, and, aided by the tide and the frantic efforts of the boys to prevent it, over went the craft, spilling out the three chums, crabs, and all. Then such confusion as there was! Gasping and choking, from their sudden and unexpected bath, the boys came to the surface of the water. They were all good swimmers, and, fortunately had on only thin shirts and light trousers--almost bathing suits, in fact. "Grab the oars!" called Sammy. "And don't let the boat get away!" added Frank. "There go the crabs!" shouted Bob, as he saw the basket containing their catch sail away on the tide, the crabs scrambling out, rejoicing in their unexpected liberty. "Too late! We can't save 'em--have to catch some more!" called Bob. "Get the oars and the boat!" "Going to right the boat?" asked Frank, as he swam to get a drifting oar. "No, it's too much work here. Let's swim with her down to the lighthouse dock, pull her out there, and dump the water out. Then we can row home." It was good advice; and the best and easiest thing to do. With the recovered oars, and their crab nets, the boys swam along toward shore, pushing the boat ahead of them. The water was not over their heads, and soon they could wade. "Had an upset; didn't you?" called Mr. Floyd, the light-keeper, who was at the dock as the boys came along. "Sort of," admitted Sammy, ruefully. "Lost all our crabs, too," added Frank. "Yes, and mother won't like it," put in Bob. "She was counting on 'em for salad for supper." "Never mind, as long as you're all right," advised the light-keeper. "And as for crabs, I've been amusing myself catching a mess this morning. I've got more than I want, and I'll let you have some. Big ones they are, too. Where you been?" They told him, and then, in a sudden burst of confidence, Sammy related about the strange old man, and told of how he had driven them away from his cottage. Mr. Floyd chuckled, as he limped about on a cane, for he was able to be around now, though he could not go up and down the tower stairs. "So you ran afoul of the professor; did you?" he asked with a laugh. "Is that who he is--a professor?" asked Sammy eagerly. "What is he always digging for--pirate's gold?" "Land love you, boy, I don't know; and no one else does, as far as I can learn," said Mr. Floyd. "He's been in these parts for some time now, but nobody knows what his game is. Digging; eh? Yes, he's always doing that." "At night, too," said Sammy. "Yes, night don't seem to make any difference to him," admitted the lighthouse-keeper. "He's a mighty queer man." "What's his name?" asked Frank, binding a bit of his handkerchief about his crab-bitten toe, while he and the other boys sat in the warm sun on the dock, letting their clothes dry. "Watson--Professor Watson he calls himself," said Mr. Floyd. "No one seems to know much about him. He doesn't mix with us folks much--lives all alone in that cabin." "Do you really think he might be looking for the pirate gold?" asked Sammy eagerly. "Well, he might be," admitted Mr. Floyd. "Lots of wiser folks, and some more foolish than he seems to be, have dug for it--but never found it. He might have the craze, too. But I wouldn't advise you boys to bother him too much." "Is he dangerous?" asked Bob. "No, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," replied the light-keeper, slowly. "But you know you have no right to go on his land, and he might have you arrested." "Did he ever have anyone taken in?" Frank wanted to know. "No, but he sued Nate Hardon, his next door neighbor, because Nate's dog dug up the garden. And the funny thing of it was that the professor didn't have anything planted in that garden, as far as any of us could find out. He just got provoked because Nate's dog dug some holes, and he sued Nate. He won his case, too, and got six cents damage." "Six cents! Is that all?" asked Sammy, in surprise. "Oh, he didn't want the money," explained the light-keeper. "He just wanted the courts to say that Nate's dog had no right in the garden, and it hadn't, I s'pose. Anyhow, Nate had to build his fence over. "But the professor, as we call him, is sure a queer character. I don't know what he's after, but whatever it is he hasn't found it. We folks leave him alone, and I guess you boys had better, too." "Did you see him around here that night, when the light went out?" asked Sammy. "No, I didn't," answered Mr. Floyd, and Sammy did not say why he had asked. The boys' clothing was nearly dry now, and, the water having been emptied from the boat, which was pulled up on the beach, the lads started for Barnacle Cottage. They took with them some of the crabs Mr. Floyd gave them, so their accident did not prevent Mr. Bouncer from having a fine supper that night. The boys built a fire out of doors, and boiled the crabs, afterward picking the meat out of the shells. Talk as they did over the queer encounter with Professor Watson they could not come to any understanding of what object he might have in digging in various places. Sammy still stuck to his idea about the buried gold, but his chums did not agree with him. Vacation days at Lighthouse Cove were slipping by. Already about half the Summer was gone, and the boys were counting with regret on the time when they would have to go back to Fairview and to school. They had more good times this Summer, so they said, than ever before. They went in swimming, rowed about in their boat, and caught so many fish and crabs that Mr. Bouncer said he could feel the salt water running out of his ears. More visits were paid to the lighthouse, too, and the boys were always welcome there since they had done Mr. Floyd such a service. The light-keeper told them many fine stories. At other times they went to the ocean beach, where the surf was heavier than in the cove near Barnacle Cottage. They were allowed to bathe in the shallow part of the ocean, near shore, but Mr. or Mrs. Bouncer kept sharp watch over them at such times. The boys made many acquaintances among the fishermen and sailors who lived at the Cove, and were often taken out in the boats. Best of all they liked to go with Silas Warner, who had a large motor boat, one that was able to go through the inlet, and out to sea, when it was not too rough. Silas often went on long fishing trips, and when he only cruised about in the Cove Mrs. Bouncer allowed her son and his chums to go with him. But she would never consent to their going out on the open ocean, though Silas often offered to take them. His boat, the _Skip_, had a cabin, and several persons could sleep aboard her. "The ocean is too dangerous for the boys," said Mrs. Bouncer. One day when Bob and his chums were down at Silas Warner's dock, watching him fix the engine in the _Skip_, he called to them: "Want to come for a ride?" "Sure. Where you going?" asked Bob. "Oh, down by the bridge. I've got to get some supplies. I won't be very long." The bridge was down near the inlet, where the ocean and cove met, surging their waters together over the sand bar. It was a fine, long trip. "I guess we can go," said Bob, as he ran to ask his mother. She gave her permission, for the day was a fine, calm one, although hot, and she knew the boys would enjoy the trip on the water. Soon, in the big motor boat, with Silas at the wheel, the boys started off in great delight. They waved good-bye to Mrs. Bouncer, who stood in the doorway of the cottage. Little did the boys think how much would happen before they saw her again. CHAPTER X CARRIED OUT TO SEA "May I steer a bit?" asked Bob, when he and his chums had ridden in the big motor boat some distance down the cove toward the bridge, that was not far from the inlet. "I guess so," answered Silas. "There aren't many craft about now, and I don't believe you'll run into anybody." "I wish I'd asked him," murmured Sammy to Frank. "But I didn't think he'd let us." All the boys were eager to take the wheel. "We can take turns," said Bob, generously. Now that he had permission to do what he had long been anxious to, he was not going to be selfish. "Can't we take turns, Silas?" he asked. "Oh, I guess so," was the good-natured answer. "It'll be as good a time as any to give you boys some points on steering. No telling when you may have a boat of your own." "I wanted my father to get one this year," said Bob, "only he said I was too young to run it, and he didn't have time. When I go back I'll tell him I can steer a boat, and maybe he'll get one." "I hope he does!" cried Sammy, with visions of what fine fun he and his chums would have in a power boat of their own. "Well, there's a heap sight more to learn about a motor boat than just steering it," said Silas, with a grin, "though maybe steering comes first. Now I'll show you what to do, and how to do it. Of course I can't show you all the different twists and turns of the channel now--it would take too long to learn them. But I can show you how to steer a boat, how to keep her straight, and how to go to port or starboard, or left and right, as they say now." The three boys gathered about him as he sat at the wheel, which was made fast to a bulkhead, or partition just outside the cabin. The cabin of the _Skip_ took up about half of the boat, the forward part. The after part was an open space, beneath the floor of which was the motor running in a sort of cockpit. The motor was covered with a cover, or hatch, as it is called, and when this was in place you could not see the machinery, though it was running beneath your feet. The cabin was of good size, and had small bunks in it that could be made up into beds. There were also lockers for food and water, and a small oil stove on which Silas cooked when he went off on fishing trips. In fact the _Skip_ was a snug little craft. "This wheel is what is called a sea wheel," went on Silas, beginning his steering lesson. "Aren't all wheels sea wheels?" asked Bob. "No, on some motor boats there are what are called land-lubber wheels." "What's the difference?" asked Frank. "It's easy to remember, once you've heard it," said Silas. "A land-lubber wheel turns in the same direction you want the boat to steer. For instance, if you want to go to the left you twist the wheel toward your left hand, and if you want to go to the right you twist it to the right. "But a sea wheel is just the opposite from this. With that, if you want your boat to go to the left, you turn the wheel to the right, and if you want to go to the right you twist the wheel to the left." "I should think you'd get all twisted up!" exclaimed Sammy. "Well, you might, at first, but once you've learned to use a sea wheel you won't want any other," went on Silas. "I'm not saying but what it might not have been better at the start, for every boat to have a wheel you could turn in the direction you wanted to go, but as long as they have sea wheels you might as well learn that way. Now we'll begin." In turn he let the boys handle the wheel, sending the boat this way and that, until they found how quickly the _Skip_ responded to her rudder. At first each of the lads got a little confused, and turned the wheel the wrong way. But soon they remembered, and when Silas, pretending he was the captain, ordered them to go to the right or left they did do it without any trouble. They passed several other boats from time to time, and Silas showed how to get by them without getting too far out of the channel, or without passing too close to the other craft. There was a compressed air whistle on the _Skip_ and the boys took great delight in blowing this. "It's a heap more fun on a trip like this than trailing that queer old Professor Watson!" exclaimed Bob. "That's right," said Frank. "I don't believe we'll bother with him any more." "No, I guess I was wrong about that pirate gold," admitted Sammy, and his chums laughed, for this was the first time he had ever given up. But he was so interested in the motor boat that he thought of little else. The trip to the bridge, just above the inlet, was rather a long one, but the boys enjoyed every bit of it, and they were sorry when the _Skip_ pulled up to a dock, and Silas announced that he would stay there for some time, buying supplies for himself, and for a number of other fishermen, who had asked him to obtain things for them. There was a general store at the bridge--a store which supplied many sailors and fishermen with the things they needed for their work. While waiting for Silas, the boys went ashore and wandered about the little settlement about the store. Finally the fisherman came out and said: "Boys, I find I've got to go down near the inlet after some stuff. Now you said your folks didn't want you to go there, and I don't want to take you when Mrs. Bouncer said you weren't to go. So you'd better stay here until I come back. I won't be long." "Oh, that's no fun!" exclaimed Bob. "I wonder if we couldn't go," suggested Frank. "There isn't any danger; is there?" asked Sammy. "I don't think so," answered Silas, "but them women folks has their own opinions. I never go agin 'em." The three chums were much disappointed, when Bob saw a telephone on the wall. "That's the thing!" he cried. "I'm going to telephone my mother at the cottage, and ask her if we can't go. I'll tell her there's no danger." "And you can tell her I said so," put in Silas, for he liked the Fairview boys, and wanted to give them the pleasures of the trip. Bob was soon talking to his mother over the wire, and, after some hesitation, she said the boys might make the longer trip. And, on the suggestion of Silas, Bob said they would probably not be home for dinner, since it would be late. "We'll just get a lunch on my boat," said Silas. "I've got plenty to eat, and a stove to cook it on." "Oh, that will be fine!" cried Sammy, and the others agreed with him. So it was arranged, and a little later the _Skip_ went under the bridge, and pointed her bow toward the broader and deeper waters that led to the inlet. It was about three miles to where the waters of the ocean and Cove met, and the channel was so twisting, on account of the shifting sands, that Silas did not like to let the boys steer. So he held the wheel himself. From time to time, as the boat went on Silas would raise the hatch cover, and look at the throbbing motor, to see that it was running all right. Once in a while he would oil it. The boys looked on with interest when he did this, and asked many questions. Silas explained how he had to spin the flywheel around to start the motor, and how he turned on the spark and gasolene. Sometimes, he said, the motor would start when the electric switch was closed, without the flywheel being turned by hand. Now and then, as the _Skip_ went along, Silas would look up at the sky, and shake his head as though in doubt. "What's the matter?" asked Sammy, after a bit. "I don't like the looks of the weather," was the answer. "It looks to me as though we were in for a heavy thunderstorm." "They're not dangerous; are they?" asked Bob. "Oh, well, not specially so. But down here, near the inlet, the wind sometimes blows pretty strong, and when the tide's running out, as it is now, there's a powerful current. I almost wish I hadn't brought you boys along." "Oh, we're not afraid," said Frank with confidence. "The _Skip_ is a good boat; isn't she?" "There's none better afloat, for her size," said Silas proudly. "I've ridden out many a gale in her down in the big bay. But of course the ocean is different. However, I'll just hurry through and maybe we can get back before she blows too hard. I think we'll have a bite to eat now, for we may not get time later. Here, one of you boys take the wheel. There's a straight course now, and I'll get out the things and make some coffee." This was soon done, and the boys sat about, eating the sandwiches Silas made. They were having the time of their lives, and the fact that in the West a big bank of black clouds was gathering, from which now and then lightning flashed, did not worry them. They were sure they would get back all right. [Illustration: The boys sat about eating the sandwiches.] Silas had to stop at a small dock, not far from the inlet, where an old sailmaker had his shanty. The fisherman was to call for a sail for one of his neighbors. Silas made fast the _Skip_ in a hurry, and, leaping out on the dock, called to the boys: "Wait here until I come back. I won't be long. Then we'll head for Lighthouse Cove." "All right," answered Bob. "We'll be all right." The darkness had increased because of the clouds, and now a strong wind sprang up. It whipped the waters of the channel into whitecaps, and this, with the strong tide that was running, made the _Skip_ strain hard at her mooring rope. The wind blew harder, and then with a sudden outbreak of fury the storm broke, the rain coming down in such torrents that the boys could not see the shanty of the sailmaker. "Get in the cabin!" cried Sammy. "That's right!" yelled Frank. "We'll be soaked here!" They tumbled into the cabin, which was below the level of the cockpit deck, and pulled the sliding doors shut. "Now we're all snug--let her rain!" cried Bob. And rain it did. The pelting drops made so much noise on the cabin roof that the boys had to shout to make each other hear. The thunder was terrific, and the bright lightning cut through the blackness that was almost as dark as night. "Say, this boat is bobbing some!" suddenly exclaimed Frank. Indeed the _Skip_ was in violent motion, and the boys did not know what to make of it. She swung about, and then brought up suddenly as the rope tightened. Then, all at once, there was a violent jerk, and the boat swung about more than ever. "I hope that rope holds!" cried Sammy. "So do I!" exclaimed Bob. "What if it should break?" Then the _Skip_ seemed to swing entirely around, and a moment later she raced off through the storm, tossing violently up and down on the waves. The boys heard confused shouts above the noise of the storm. "What is it?" cried Sammy. "Something has happened!" yelled Frank. "I'm going to have a look," said Bob resolutely, as he slid back one of the cabin doors. The burst of wind and rain in his face almost drove him within again, but he went out into the little open space. Then his worst fears were realized. The _Skip_ had broken away from her dock, and was racing before the wind and tide down the channel toward the inlet. Bob could just make out, on the end of the dock, the figure of an excited man, waving his hands to him. But what he said could not be heard. Bob was sure the man was Silas. "What is it--what's happened?" called Frank. "We've broken loose!" shouted Bob, coming back into the cabin. Even in those few seconds he had been drenched with the rain. "Broken loose from where?" asked Sammy. "From the dock. We're adrift!" "Adrift! Where are we going?" gasped Sammy and Frank together. "We're being carried out to sea, I guess," answered Bob, and there was fear in his voice, much as he tried to hide it. Meanwhile the _Skip_, at the mercy of the wind and tide, was being carried faster and faster out toward the inlet that led to the great ocean. CHAPTER XI IN THE STORM Despairingly the boys, shut up in the cabin of the _Skip_, looked at one another. They had to cling to the bunks and the sides of the bulkheads in order not to be thrown down, so violent was the motion of the craft. Sometimes the boat would whirl completely around, and after this had happened several times Bob cried: "Fellows, there's only one thing to do!" "What's that?" asked Sammy. "Can we do anything?" "We've just got to," said Frank. "If we don't we'll sink pretty soon, and be drowned. I think I know what you mean, Bob. You mean we've got to steer the boat?" "That's it! She's going every which way now, and there's no telling what may happen. If we can get at the wheel we may be able to send her ashore." "But the wheel is outside!" cried Sammy. "We can't go out in this storm to steer." "Oh, yes we can, if we had to," said Bob. "But we don't have to. There's another wheel inside the cabin, you know." And so there was, Silas having arranged this for his own comfort in stormy weather. The _Skip_ could be guided either by the wheel outside in what might be called the cockpit, or from within the cabin. And in the cabin, up forward, were small windows, or bull's-eyes, through which the steersman could look. "If we could only start the motor we could turn around and go back," suggested Frank, while they were trying to make their way up front, to the wheel, without banging against the sides of the cabin. "Oh, we'd better not try to monkey with that--especially in this storm," said Bob. "If we can only keep the boat straight ahead, so it won't whirl around so, and make us dizzy, it will be a good thing. After the storm we can try the motor." "But by that time we will be out to sea!" cried Sammy. "We can't help it," came from Bob. "Here goes now, to see what sort of a course I can steer." The wheel was twisting and turning this way and that as the waves moved the rudder. Bob turned the spokes until he had the one with ring marks on it exactly upright in front of him. When this had been done, Silas had told them, the rudder was straight, and the boat would go straight ahead. And, as Bob looked from the bull's-eye, he saw nothing ahead but a straight course of water. The waves had been whipped into whitecaps of foam, but there seemed no obstruction, and with the wind blowing them, and the tide carrying them, all the Fairview boys could do was to keep on. "It sure is some storm!" murmured Frank, as a louder clash of thunder than any before seemed to shake the very boat. "And we're in it!" murmured Sammy. "What will our folks think?" "Oh, Silas will tell them," said Bob, as he braced his feet apart to meet the heaving motion of the boat. "Yes, he's left behind there on the dock," said Frank. "Our rope must have broke when the wind and waves banged us about that time. He'll tell the folks all right." "But that won't stop mother from worrying," said Bob, anxiously, for he disliked to cause her or his father anxiety. "They'll come after us," remarked Sammy. "Silas will get another boat and come for us." "If he can find us," spoke Bob. "But if we go out to sea I don't believe he can easily pick us up." "Oh, he will, sooner or later," went on Frank, who did not seem to feel so badly about it as Bob did. "Don't get scared." "Oh, I'm not exactly scared," replied Bob, stoutly, "for this is a good boat. But a storm at sea is no fun!" "Maybe it isn't storming out there," suggested Sammy. "It's sure to be," declared Bob. "But we've got to make the best of it. We've got plenty to eat, that's one good thing." "And a good place to stay," added Frank. "We're better off than when the _Puff_ was wrecked." "But we may be wrecked yet," put in Bob. "Oh, cheer up!" advised Sammy. "We'll be laughing at this in a few hours." "But how dark it is!" said Bob. "It's almost like night!" "We've got lanterns here," suggested Frank. "Why not light them? And it might be good to show a light outside, so no other boat will run into us." "Let's do it!" cried Bob. "I'll steer and you fellows can light up. There are some oilskin suits in one of the lockers, Silas said. You can put one on when you go outside." The lighting of the lanterns made the boys feel less gloomy, and when Frank and Sammy, putting on the yellow oilskin coats, went outside and hung lanterns there, the boat was in less danger of collision. "Say, we must be almost to the ocean," cried Frank, as he and Sammy came into the cabin again. "What makes you think so?" asked Bob. "Because I can hear the booming of the surf. We'll be out on it in a little while." "Well, we can't help it," said Bob. "I thought we were there long ago, the way we bobbed up and down." "Yes, it is rough," said Sammy. "We must be almost in the inlet, fellows. Silas said it was always dangerous to go through there." "But not so bad on the out-going tide," spoke Bob, quickly, and he was glad he had remembered that point. "I guess we'll make it all right," he added, hopefully. The storm did not grow less. The lightning still flashed and the thunder rolled, while the rain came down in torrents. The cockpit was fitted with scuppers, or openings that allowed the water to run off, or otherwise the _Skip_ would have been flooded. As it was, some water came into the cabin under the doors. But the boys did not mind this. Had the motor been running they would have reached the inlet, and gone through it into the open sea, some time before. But as it was they were only blowing and drifting along. "Well, there's no use staying this way," said Frank, after a bit, as he felt of his wet clothes. "I'm going to take off some of them and get dry. We can light the oil stove." "And get something to eat," added Sammy. Somehow or other this idea seemed to make all the boys feel better. The stove was soon glowing and the cabin was cozy and warm. Indeed, but for the fact that they were storm-driven out to sea, and were so alarmed, the boys would have enjoyed the adventure. They took off some of their wet garments, and hung them near the oil stove to get dry. There were blankets in the bunks, and in these they wrapped themselves up. Frank put some coffee on the stove to warm, though the boys, as a rule did not take this beverage. Still they thought it might prevent their taking cold. Little could now be seen outside, for to the darkness of the storm was added the gloom of coming night. The boys were anxious as to what Mrs. Bouncer might think, and they did not know what would be the outcome of this drifting into the ocean. But they could do nothing except what they were doing. They could only hope for rescue. The boys were taking their coffee, and eating some of the sandwiches Silas had made, when suddenly the boat was tossed about more violently than ever before. She rose up, with her bow high in the air, and things in the cabin slid toward the stern. Then the bow went down and the stern rose up. "What's happening?" cried Frank. "Listen!" exclaimed Bob. "That's the surf!" called Sammy. "We're going through the inlet into the ocean!" There was a terrific crash of thunder, and a brilliant flash of lightning. Looking through the bull's-eyes Bob could see the heaving billows. Then, as the _Skip_ ceased her violent motions, and began to move regularly up and down, Bob cried: "We're out to sea, boys! Think of it! Out on the ocean!" CHAPTER XII DRIFTING Somehow, in spite of the fact that they tried to be brave, and to meet the danger with as stout hearts as possible, the Fairview boys could not repress a feeling of fear as the meaning of Bob's words came to them. And the speaker himself shuddered a little as he looked out on the heaving waters of the ocean, as the lightning made them plain to him. "Well, there's one good thing," said Frank, taking a long breath, "we're not so likely to run into anything out here as we were in the cove or inlet." "No, that's so," agreed Bob. "But the ocean is an awfully big place to be out on--in a small boat." "This isn't such a small boat," said Sammy, quickly. "It's better to be in this than in our rowboat." "Indeed it is!" said Frank. "Maybe we'll be all right by morning." "That's so--we will have to stay out here all night, I guess," said Bob, ruefully. "There'll be no chance of being picked up until daylight, I reckon." "If we're picked up then we'll be lucky," added Sammy. "This is different from Rainbow Lake and Pine Island. It's so much larger." "But some ship might see our lights, and come for us," suggested Frank. Bob shook his head. "I was talking to Silas about that the other day," he said. "No ships come as close in shore as this. Some trawlers, that catch moss-bunker fish for fertilizer, do, in the daytime, to let down their nets, but not at night." "Then what chance have we of being rescued?" asked Sammy. "Oh, I guess we've as good a chance as any fellows would have who had this happen to them," went on Bob. "In the morning the chances are some ship will see us. We can make some sort of flag, for a distress signal, I think. If we knew how we might fix our lanterns now, to show that we needed help. But I don't know how to do it." Neither did the other boys, so it was decided to wait until morning. Besides, none of them cared to go outside in the rain and darkness, now that they were on the open ocean. It gave them a sort of "scary" feeling. They did not say so, but they were a bit afraid, as they admitted afterward, of falling overboard. The wind and rain still kept up, but the thunder and lightning were not so bad, and for this they were glad. Then, too, they were not tossed about so violently as they had been while in the waters of the Cove and the inlet. There the shallow waters were more quickly disturbed by the wind, while the deeper sea took longer to raise large waves. But, for all that, the _Skip_ swayed and rocked in the grip of the storm, for she was but a small boat to be on such broad waters. In the hands of Silas Warner she might have ridden more easily, for her owner would have known how to steer her. Then, too, he would have started the motor, and he could have kept her head to the wind and waves, and this is always wise in a storm. But the boys could only let her drift, and this meant that at times the craft would dip down into the trough of the sea, sinking with a motion that made the lads feel as though their stomachs were going to drop out. Fortunately they were not seasick, for they were too used to the water at home, and had been in some rough weather before. So they were accustomed to the irregular motion. But it was not the more pleasant on this account. Again the _Skip_ would be blown around with her head to the wind and waves, and at such times she would rise on the crest of a big roller until, it seemed to the boys, as if she were going to shoot toward the sky. Then the boat would slip down on the other side of the big hill of water like a sled coasting down a snowy incline and the boys would look at each other as though they feared they were going to the bottom of the sea. But always the stanch little _Skip_ would come up again. "She sure is a dandy boat!" exclaimed Bob, and the others agreed with him. It was now about eight o'clock and quite dark. The storm still rumbled and rolled about the boys, but they were getting used to it now. "It's dying out," said Frank, as he put on some of his clothes that had dried by the oil stove. "Yes, by morning it will be calm again," said Sammy. "If we could only get home by morning," spoke Bob, a bit sadly, and, in spite of his resolution to be brave, he could not keep a few tears from his eyes as he thought of his mother, who, he knew, would be frantic about him. "Don't worry," said Frank, soothingly, for he guessed of what Bob was thinking. "Silas will go there and tell your folks all about it, Bob. Then he'll organize a searching party, and come after us in a big boat." "Yes, if he can find us," said Bob, gloomily. "Oh, sure he can find us!" exclaimed Sammy. There was silence for a while, with the _Skip_ drifting on in the storm and darkness. Occasionally a bigger wave than usual would break over the high bow, and come crashing down on the roof of the cabin. At times the weight of water was so heavy that the boys feared the roof would be crushed in, but the _Skip_ was made to stand hard knocks, and well she did it. "Well, what are we going to do?" asked Sammy, after a bit. The boys had put on their clothing, which was warm and dry, and they were sitting about the cabin, looking at one another, and wondering what would happen next. "What can we do?" asked Bob. "We can only drift, until morning." "Then I say let's go to bed," proposed Frank. "We can't do any good by sitting up, and maybe we can get some rest." "But supposing some vessel runs us down in the night?" suggested Bob. "That isn't likely to happen with our lights burning. Besides, staying awake won't stop that." The boys were tired enough to turn in and stretch out on the bunks, though possibly they were too alarmed and excited to sleep. As Frank had said, their outside lights, the red and green and white, were glowing, and any vessel, seeing them, would not run them down. "I say let's try something before we go to bed," said Bob. "Try what?" asked Frank. "Try to make someone hear us. Let's go outside and blow the air whistle and yell. Maybe some passing ship may hear us and take us on board." "That's a good idea!" exclaimed Sammy. "We'd better go out anyhow, and look to see if the lanterns are all right. We wouldn't want them to go out in the night." It was still raining, but not so hard, and, putting on the suits of oilskins, the three chums made their way out to the open deck of the _Skip_, behind the cabin bulkhead. Here they felt the full force of the wind, and the rain stung into their faces. Also they felt the salty spray of the ocean as it blew over the bow. All about them they could see the white-topped billows, and they looked larger than they had from the cabin. Still the _Skip_ seemed to ride them well. A glance showed the boys that the lights were all right. They were full of oil--Silas had told them he always kept them ready for instant use. "Now for a yell!" called Sammy, and the boys called together. Several times they did this, at the same time blowing the compressed air whistle. But there came no answer, nor could they see the lights of any passing ship. They appeared to be alone on the ocean in the storm and darkness. [Illustration: They appeared to be alone on the ocean.] "It's no use," said Bob, sadly. "No, let's go inside," suggested Frank. "Besides, we want to save some of the air in the tank to blow the whistle to-morrow," went on Sammy. "We can compress the air only when the motor is running, and we can't start that." "Maybe we can," suggested Bob. "I'm going to have a try at that in the morning, if we aren't picked up before." "Maybe it will start by just turning the switch. Silas said it did, sometimes," spoke Frank. "Well, don't try it now," exclaimed Bob, quickly. "We don't want to get it going when we don't know which way to steer. Let's wait." And wait they did. Into the cabin they went again, out of the wind and rain. The shelter seemed a cozy place in contrast to the blackness outside. "Didn't it all happen suddenly?" remarked Bob. "One minute we were at the dock, waiting for Silas to come back, and then, all at once, the storm came up, we broke loose, and had started to drift. It all seems like a dream." "I wish it was a dream," murmured Frank, "and that we'd wake up in Barnacle Cottage." "I wonder if anyone could have cut or loosened our rope," spoke Sammy, as though he were thinking of something. "What makes you say that?" asked Frank quickly. "The rope broke--that's what happened." "I don't know about that," went on Sammy, mysteriously. "If a person had been on that dock, and saw the boat tied there, it would be very easy to slip the rope off the post." "Yes, that's true enough," admitted Frank. "But who would do such a mean thing as that; especially when a storm was coming up, and we would be in danger? Who would do such a thing?" "Well, the queer old professor who drove us away," answered Sammy. "There! I knew he was going to say that!" cried Bob. "Oh, well, of course I'm not saying for sure," spoke Sammy, quickly. "But it might have happened. If that old man had been around he might have thought that was a good chance to get rid of us, so we wouldn't bother him again." "Well, that's all foolishness!" exclaimed Bob. "And, even if he did it, I'm not going to bother him again, anyhow." "I am!" declared Sammy. "I'm going to find out what he knows about pirate gold!" Frank and Bob laughed at him, but Sammy was very much in earnest. On and on drifted the _Skip_, driven by wind and tide. The night wore on, and the boys, unable to stay up any longer, went to the bunks to rest, lashing the steering wheel to keep the rudder straight. They did not know where they were going. They only knew they were drifting. The rain did not come down so hard now, and the wind had slackened. Only once in a while did it lighten and thunder. It must have been near morning, for a faint, hazy light was coming in through the bull's-eyes windows, when Sammy was suddenly awakened in his bunk by feeling a shock. He jumped out into the middle of the cabin, crying: "Fellows, we struck something! Maybe we've gone ashore!" CHAPTER XIII THE ABANDONED BOAT Bob and Frank were so surprised by Sammy's sudden call that they could only stare stupidly at him, and try to rub some of the sleepy feeling from their eyes. Then, as the bumping and grinding sound still kept up, Sammy cried again: "Fellows, we sure have struck something. Maybe we're at a dock! Oh, I hope so! I guess our voyage has ended!" "Good!" cried Bob. Frank went to the forward bull's-eyes and looked out. It was getting daylight. "You've got another guess coming, Sammy," he said. "We're still out on the ocean, it looks to me. We couldn't be at a dock and be moving this way." The motor boat in which they had so strangely been blown to sea was still heaving up and down, though by the silence outside the boys realized that the storm was over. "Well, we're certainly up against something," insisted Sammy. "Listen to it bump!" There was no doubt about this. The motor boat was grinding and bumping up against some object it had collided with on the ocean. And still the boys, from the cabin windows, could see nothing. "Maybe," began Sammy, as his eyes grew big with wonder, "maybe it's a whale!" "A whale!" cried Bob. "Listen to him, would you! That's as bad as the pirate gold." "It sure is," agreed Frank, as he began to dress. "Pooh!" exclaimed Sammy. "It might happen just the same, and if we find a dead whale outside you fellows won't be so ready to laugh!" "Oh, a dead whale--maybe yes," agreed Bob, for more than once Sammy had been right in his queer guesses, though a number of his wild dreams of sensational things had not proved to be true. "Yes, or a live whale either," went on Sammy, who was following Frank's example in getting into his clothes, as was Bob. "Didn't you ever read of whales scraping themselves against ships to get the barnacles off 'em." "Off the ships?" asked Frank, with a smile. "No, off the whales themselves. Anyway, I think it's barnacles. It's some kind of stuff that grows on a whale and he doesn't like it, so he scrapes it off whenever he can. Sometimes he scrapes up against a ship, and maybe that's what's happened now." "Well, we can soon see," spoke Frank. "But if it is a whale I hope he doesn't scrape too hard. He might upset this boat." "Well, we lived through one night, adrift on the ocean," remarked Sammy, as he finished dressing. "Now we'll see what it's like outside." "It's stopped raining, anyhow," went on Frank. "The storm is over." "I'm glad of it," remarked Bob. "Now we can eat breakfast without spilling things in our laps." "That's right--it is time to eat," added Sammy. "But first let's see what we're bumping into, or what's bumping us," suggested Frank. The boys were feeling much better now. They had been rested and calmed by their night's rest, and they had slept more soundly than they knew, for they were tired out. Sleep was the best thing for them, as it kept them from worrying. And they had good cause for worry. Three small boys, who knew little if anything of managing a motor boat, were adrift in one on the big ocean. The only wonder is that they were as brave as they were. "I wonder what mom thinks?" said Bob, as he slid back the bolt of the cabin door. "She couldn't help worrying--I know mine would," spoke Sammy. "But I think we'll be rescued to-day. Silas is most likely out looking for us with some of his sailor friends." "Well, I hope he finds us soon," remarked Frank. "It's all right in books, to read about being adrift at sea, but It isn't so much fun when it comes to you. I'd rather be in Lighthouse Cove." "So would I!" cried his two chums. The three Fairview boys went out on the open deck of the _Skip_, and, as they emerged from the cabin a cry of surprise came from all of them. For the motor boat's stern was bumping and rubbing up against the side of a small two-master schooner, which, with some sails set, was drifting about on the ocean, abandoned, and seemingly as much at the mercy of the wind and waves as was the _Skip_ herself. "Would you look at that!" cried Sammy. "A ship!" gasped Bob. "And that's your whale!" went on Frank. "Say, how did this happen?" None of the boys could answer. They looked off across a waste of waters. Not another craft was in sight, and they could not see land. The sun came up, seemingly out of the ocean itself, with the promise of a fair, hot day. And those two vessels--the motor boat and the schooner had, somehow, drifted together. That was the noise which had awakened Sammy--the gentle collision of the craft in the ocean. Had this happened when the storm was at its height the smaller boat might have been sunk. But the storm had passed, and the ocean only rose and fell in a gentle swell. "What brought the two together?" asked Bob. "The wind and the tide, I guess," said Frank. Later he learned that objects in water have a sort of attraction for one another, as pieces of metal are attracted to a magnet. If you will take a basin of water, and scatter some pieces of wood or cork on top, and then take care not to move or stir the water, you will find, in a few minutes, that the pieces have drawn themselves together. Sometimes only one or two will do this, and again the whole number will form a mass to float about. It is this which causes masses of driftwood to float in the form of miniature rafts, and some scientists claim that often ships, which are not under their own power, are thus drawn together in a collision. Some even go so far as to say that a big war vessel, for instance, even in motion, will draw another vessel, also in motion, toward it. And not long ago a collision of a British warship and a merchant vessel was said to be due to this cause. But the boys did not stop to think of that then--indeed they had heard nothing of it. All they knew was that their motor boat was up against a much larger and more substantial vessel, and they were glad of this, for they felt, in case of a storm, that they could take refuge on the big schooner. "How do you s'pose it happened that she got here?" asked Sammy, motioning toward the ship. "Is there anybody aboard?" was Bob's question. "Let's go and see," suggested Frank, and this seemed most practical of all. It was easy to board the schooner from the rail of the motor boat, as several ropes hung over the side of the larger craft, by means of which the boys could pull themselves up. "And we'd better do it while we're together," went on Frank. "If we drift apart we might not be able to get together again." "First let's yell, and see if there's anybody there," suggested Sammy. "They may all be asleep, and might not like it if we went aboard." "Not very likely that they're asleep," said Frank. "Someone would be on the lookout, anyhow. And there'd be a man steering, with the sails set as they are." Two of the sails were indeed set, but the main sheets, or ropes, were loose, and the boom swung back and forth with the motion of the vessel, so that, even had the wind been blowing, she would have made little headway. But it was now a dead calm. "Come on--yell!" suggested Sammy, and the three boys raised their voices in a shout. They waited a moment to see if they would get an answer, but none came. "Come on--let's go aboard!" cried Frank, as he made for the rail, to reach a dangling rope. "Wait!" suggested Bob. "Let's tie this motor boat fast, first. We may want to come back in her again." [Illustration: "Let's tie the motor boat fast".] "Why?" asked Sammy. "Because, we don't know anything about that schooner," went on Bob. "Maybe all her crew died from smallpox, or something like that. Maybe she's sinking, and we wouldn't want to stay on board if she was. You can't tell what makes her this way. Tie our boat fast, I say, and then, if we want to, we can come back on the _Skip_ if we don't like it on the _Mary Ellen_," for that was the name of the drifting schooner, as they could see painted under her stern. "Good idea," exclaimed Sammy. "We can live on the _Skip_ for a while, anyhow, if it doesn't storm again. But let's have a try on this schooner. We'll have more room there, and if it does get rough we won't mind it so." They all agreed with this plan, and soon a rope from the motor boat was made fast to a cable from the schooner. Then, making sure they would not lose the _Skip_, the boys pulled themselves over the rail of the _Mary Ellen_, and landed on her deck. They looked about them curiously. There was not a sound except the creaking of ropes in pulley blocks, and the rattle and bang of the sails as they swung to and fro, not being held in check by the main sheets. "There doesn't seem to be anybody here," said Bob. He spoke in a low voice, as though someone were dead. "Not a soul," went on Sammy, in the same quiet tones. The big boom of the forward sail swung across the deck over the heads of the boys. They ducked, but there was no need for it. "We could make that fast, anyhow," suggested Frank. "That's right," agreed Bob. As my old readers know, the boys had sailed in the _Puff_ before it was wrecked, and knew a little about such matters. By hauling on a certain rope they pulled the end of the boom, or the bottom stick to which the sail is fastened, around so that it could not swing so far to either side. Then they did the same with the other sail. "Come on, let's take a look below," said Frank. The boys hesitated for a moment, and then started for the companionway, or stairs, that led below. CHAPTER XIV THE RESCUE Standing at the head of the companionway, the three Fairview boys were in line. Then, in some strange manner, Sammy rather got behind his two chums. Frank noticed this at once. "What's the matter?" he asked, turning to Sammy. "Are you afraid to go down?" "No--no--of course not!" exclaimed Sammy, quickly. "But the stairs are so narrow----" "Pooh, they're wide enough for us three," said Frank. "Here, I'll go first if you like--I'm not afraid." "Neither am I!" retorted Sammy, as he stepped up between his chums once more. "Let's all go down together," suggested Bob. "I don't believe that there's anything down there, but----" Suddenly a deep, hollow groan sounded from somewhere in the lower region of the ship. "Hark!" cried Sammy. "Oh, we all heard it!" gasped Bob. "No need to hark! I'm going up on deck." He turned to go back up the few steps he had come down, and Sammy went with him. Only Frank stood there. "Say, what's the matter with you two fellows?" he asked. "But did you hear it?" asked Sammy. "Sure I heard it," said Frank. "It was----" But he did not need to describe it, for the sound came again, a deep, hollow groan that seemed to vibrate all through the schooner. "There--there's someone down there!" panted Bob. "Well, what of it?" asked Frank, coolly. He did not seem nearly as frightened as were his chums. "Then I'm not going down," went on Bob. "Maybe it's somebody hurt." "That's all the more reason why we ought to go down--he may need help, if it's one of the sailors who couldn't get away when the others went," insisted Frank. "Come on down." Frank's sensible talk made Bob and Sammy less afraid, and they again took their positions by their chum's side, ready to descend the companionway stairs. Every once in a while the groan would sound again, but the boys were not so easily frightened now. As they went down they looked about, but they saw no signs of disorder or confusion which they would have noticed had the captain and crew of the schooner left in a hurry, or after some struggle. Everything was in order, and it looked as if the sailors had just gone ashore in the regular way, leaving the vessel to the wind and sea. Before going down the boys had noticed that there were one or two small boats on the davits, showing that if the crew had left the schooner at sea, they had not taken all the rowing craft with them. "It's a queer puzzle," said Frank, as he and his chums looked about. "It sure is," agreed Bob. "I wonder----" "Hark!" cried Sammy. Again came that queer, groaning sound, and it was so close at hand that the boys jumped. "The noise came from there," said Bob, pointing to the captain's stateroom. "Maybe--maybe he's tied up in there--hurt," suggested Sammy. "Maybe--and maybe not!" exclaimed Frank with vigor. "I'm going to have a look!" His chums glanced at him admiringly. After just a moment of hesitation, Frank tried the knob of the stateroom door. The portal swung open easily, and the boys eagerly looked inside. They were rather disappointed, it must be confessed, when they did not see the body of the captain stretched out in his berth, bound with ropes. The stateroom was empty. "Well, what--what made that groaning noise?" asked Sammy. The groaning sound came again, and then all three of the boys saw what it was. A chest of drawers made fast to the side of the stateroom, had torn loose, probably when the schooner pitched and tossed in the storm, and this chest, swaying back and forth as the vessel rolled, scraped against the floor, making a groaning, creaking noise that sounded a good deal like a man in pain. Now that the boys were close to it, the sound did not seem quite so weird, but at a little distance almost anyone would have said it was a groan. "And that's all it was!" exclaimed Sammy. "Yes," said Frank, "that's usually the way things do turn out." For a moment the boys stood peering about the small cabin Then Bob said: "Let's look around a bit more. Maybe we can find somebody, or something, that will tell how the vessel came to be drifting this way." They opened the other stateroom doors, but inside all was in order. The bunks were made up, and there was no confusion. "Now for the place where the crew live!" cried Sammy. "The fo'cas'le!" exclaimed Frank. "I should think you'd know that by this time, Sammy." But they found nothing in the quarters where the crew ate and slept to explain the mystery. Things were not as nice there as in the cabin, but there was no disorder that would show a hasty flight from the ship. The boys went to the galley, which is the kitchen of a ship, but as they found a big coal range there, and did not want to kindle a fire in that, they decided to get their meals in their own small boat, on the oil stove. They had now made an inspection of the _Mary Ellen_, and they knew no more about her than at first. It was all a strange mystery of the sea. "We're going along some," said Frank, as he looked over the side. A little breeze had sprung up, and, now that the sails of the schooner were set to catch the wind, she went ahead through the waves, pulling the motor boat after her. "Hadn't we better steer?" asked Bob. "No, we can tie the wheel fast, while we eat," said Frank. "She'll steer herself then, and we won't have to bother." "Which way shall we steer?" asked Bob. "Straight ahead, I say," remarked Frank, who seemed to have taken command. "We don't know where we are, and we don't know which way land is, so one direction is as good as another. It will be easier to steer straight ahead, and we may sight land that way, as well as if we set the rudder to right or left." To this his chums agreed, and soon the wheel was tied fast, or "lashed" to use the proper sea term. Then the boys pulled on the rope attached to the motor boat, and brought the _Skip_ alongside. They could easily get on her raised cabin deck from the schooner rail, for the larger vessel was not very high in the water. "Say, hold on," said Frank, when they were about to go aboard. "What's the matter with us bringing our grub up from there, and staying here? It's safer here if it comes on to blow again, and we'll be more comfortable. We can use the captain's cabin, and have more room to move about." "But it will be a lot of work to cook on that big coal stove," objected Sammy. "We won't have to. We can hoist the _Skip's_ oil stove up here. It isn't very big. There's probably oil aboard here, too. I say let's stay here." "I do, too!" cried Bob; and so it was arranged. They went aboard the _Skip_ to get food, for they did not feel that they should take the stores of the schooner. Then the oil stove was hauled to the deck of the _Mary Ellen_ by means of a rope. Fortunately the sea was very smooth while this was being done, so the boys had little trouble. Then, rather tired from their work, and very hungry, they cooked a late breakfast, enjoying it very much. "This is something like!" cried Frank, as he looked about the cozy cabin. "This is real traveling." "We're not doing much traveling--we're letting the ship sail herself," remarked Sammy. "Well, it's all we can do," said Bob. "And maybe we'll be worse off when it comes to a blow. But if only mom knew where we were, and that we were safe, I shouldn't mind. I'm afraid she'll worry, and get sick." "I hope not," said Frank. "But we stand a better chance now of being picked up. Say, I never thought of it!" he cried. "We must run up a signal of distress. If some other ship sees us now they'll never know we're in trouble. We must run up a signal of distress." "How do you do it?" asked Bob. "The United States flag, upside down, will do," said Sammy, promptly. He had read of that in his books. "Yes, that will do," agreed Frank. "Come on, let's hunt for a flag." It did not take them long to find one in the locker where several signal flags were kept, and soon they discovered the right rope by which it could be hoisted to the masthead. It was sent up, with the stars down, and then the boys could only wait and hope. They made sure that the _Skip_ was well fastened to the stern of the schooner, and the rest of the day they spent going about the ship. They found a telescope, and with this they searched the horizon for a sight of other vessels. They saw several, even without the aid of the glass, but they could not signal to them, any more than they had already done, and the vessels were either too far away, or else paid no attention to the reversed flag on the mast. There was no wind to flutter it, and, naturally, it could not very well be seen from any other ship. The boys would have to trust to chance. The day passed, night came, and the boys prepared to spend another period of darkness away from the cottage at Lighthouse Cove. True, they were better off than the night before, and there was no storm, but they very much wished to be safe with their folks again. Slowly drifting before a gentle breeze, the _Mary Ellen_ made her way over the water. The boys found lanterns and lighted them, for they knew the danger of being run down in the night if they displayed no signals. They sat up rather late, and watched for the lights of some passing craft, but saw none. "I know what we can do in the morning if we're not picked up," said Frank. "What?" asked Sammy. "Make a smudge of smoke on board here. Smoke can be seen a long way, and maybe it will bring us help." "We'll try it," decided Bob. They went to bed, but they did not sleep as well as the night before. Morning came, and with it a dense fog. "That's too bad!" exclaimed Frank. "No one will see us now, and we may be in danger of a collision." "Can't we do anything?" asked Sammy. "Yes, we can blow a horn every once in a while, if we can find one, and ring the ship's bell. That's what they always do in a fog." "Then let's do it!" suggested Sammy. So while the fog hung about them--a damp, white blanket--the boys tooted the horn, and clanged the bell. This was to warn other vessels not to run into them. But, though they listened sharply, they heard no sounds that would indicate another vessel to be near them. They seemed all alone on the ocean, and they were more discouraged than before. True they were not cold, for the day was warm, and they had plenty to eat. They were in a good, stout vessel, too, and in no great danger, unless another storm should come up. But oh! how they wanted to be back on shore again! Night came, and still the fog hung down. There was hardly a breath of air, and the _Mary Ellen_ rolled on the oily swell of the sea. The night passed slowly, but with the morning came hope. Soon after sunrise the wind sprang up, and blew away the fog. Then the breeze increased, and the sails filled out. The schooner went along at a fast rate of speed. "And see!" cried Frank, "our flag shows well now. I'm sure it will be noticed by someone, and we'll soon be rescued." But the morning passed, and no rescuing ship came to them. The boys, with hearts that were much discouraged, prepared their dinner. They had seen several vessels, but though they waved pieces of sails to attract attention, the other craft did not change their course. They even shouted and blew the big fog horn, but they knew they were too far off to be heard. "Oh, well, we'll get picked up sometime," said Frank, as cheerfully as he could, "and we've got enough to eat for over a week." The boys were at dinner in the cabin and the schooner was going along under the pressure from a wind that was getting more and more strong. "Pass the beans," asked Sammy, for they had plenty of the canned variety. "Hark!" exclaimed Frank, pausing midway in reaching the dish over to his chum. "Did you hear anything?" "I didn't," said Sammy. "There it goes!" cried Frank. "Listen!" As they listened intently they all heard a dull boom, coming from somewhere in the distance. "A cannon!" cried Bob. "Someone is firing at us!" exclaimed Sammy. "More likely it's a signal gun!" burst out Frank. "Some ship has seen our distress signal. Come on up deck!" He rushed from the table, followed by the others. Then, to their surprise and delight, they saw a steamer headed directly for them, and from her bow there shot a puff of white smoke. It was a signal gun she was firing, to let the boys know she was coming to their rescue. CHAPTER XV TWO MYSTERIES CLEARED UP "Heave to! Lower your sails and we'll send you a boat!" Thus came the command through a megaphone from an officer on the deck of the steamer, which had come to a stop not far from the schooner. The steamship had approached as close as she dared. The boys, all thought of breakfast forgotten now, crowded to the rail, eager for their rescue. "Lower your sails!" came the command again, for the schooner was still sweeping on. "That's right--we've got to stop!" shouted Frank. "Come on, fellows, let's let down the sails." They knew just enough, from having sailed the _Puff_, to loosen the proper ropes. Of course they loosened a good many wrong ones before they got the right ones, but finally the two big sails came limply down. The _Mary Ellen_ slowly lost headway, and rode gently on the surface of the ocean. "That's right!" came the voice through the megaphone. "Stand by to throw us a rope. I'm sending you a boat." The rail of the steamer was crowded with passengers who were much interested in the novelty of a rescue at sea. The steamer seemed to be a coast liner, probably engaged in the fruit trade, Frank thought. In a few minutes a boat, containing several sailors, and someone in command, swept around from the other side of the steamer. It came straight for the schooner, the boys' hearts beating high with hope at each stroke of the oars. "We're all right now!" cried Bob. "Oh, I hope they have a wireless telegraph on board, so I can send word to my mother!" Loyal little chap! His first thought was of her whom he knew would be worrying so! "Oh, there's a wireless all right," said Frank, as he pointed to the wires strung between the signal masts of the steamer. "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Bob, and there were tears of joy in his eyes. "But if they take us on board the steamer, what will we do with the schooner, and the motor boat?" asked Sammy. "Oh, we won't have to worry about that!" cried Frank. "We've had troubles enough. Now we're going to take it easy!" The boat containing the sailors came nearer. The officer looked at the three boys curiously. Frank had tossed a rope over the side. The schooner's rail was so low that no accommodation ladder was needed. "Ahoy there!" called the officer, as the sailors brought the boat broadside to, and one of them held her there by clinging to the rope. "What schooner is that?" "The _Mary Ellen_," answered Frank. "Where from, and where bound?" asked the officer. "We don't know," replied Frank, with a smile. "You don't know! Well, who's in command?" "I guess we are," went on Frank. "We picked her up yesterday, and we've been aboard ever since. She was abandoned." The officer uttered a whistle of surprise. "I'll come aboard," he said, a moment later. "Fend off, and stand by until I signal you," he added, to the sailors. The officer, who proved from the lettering on his cap, to be the chief mate, was soon on the deck of the _Mary Ellen_, and then came a series of questions. Frank and his chums told about all that had happened to them from the time of being blown out to sea in the motor boat until they were seen by the steamer. "It was your flag, union down, that caught our attention," the mate said. "You're a set of plucky youngsters, and I congratulate you. Now I suppose you'd better come aboard the steamer, unless you want to take this schooner to port yourselves and claim the salvage money," he said with a smile. "Indeed we do not!" exclaimed Bob. "We've had enough of her. I want to send a wireless message to my mother--quick." "You can do that all right," said the mate. "Now I'll just have a look about, and see what the ship's papers say. They may solve the mystery. Then we'll go aboard the steamer." "But what about the _Mary Ellen_, and our motor boat?" asked Sammy. "Oh, we'll look out for them," promised the mate. "I'll have the captain send a crew aboard the schooner to work her back to port, and they'll tow your motor boat, too. You needn't worry." The mate went to the schooner-captain's cabin, and got what papers were there. These showed the _Mary Ellen_ to be sailing from New York to Savannah, Georgia, with a mixed cargo, but gave no cause for the abandoning of the craft. However, that mystery was explained later. Leaving one or two of the rowers in charge of the schooner, the mate went back with the three boys in the small boat to the steamer. There they were received by the captain most kindly, and in his cabin they told their strange story. "Well, I must say you lads are plucky!" exclaimed the commander. "And you've done yourselves a good turn, too. That schooner has a valuable cargo, and is worth considerable herself. Of course I shall have to lay claim, in the name of the owners of my vessel, to most of the salvage, for my crew will take her to port. But I will see that you boys get your proper share." Bob and his chums were most surprised by their good luck. The passengers of the steamer heard the lads' story, and made much of the boys, who were glad indeed to be safe on a vessel that could take them to some place whence they could reach Lighthouse Cove again. Bob's first thought was to telegraph his mother that they were safe, and soon the wireless was cracking out a message that, when it was received, made Mrs. Bouncer a most happy mother, for it told her that Bob and his chums were all right. More sailors were sent aboard the schooner to work her to the nearest port, towing the motor boat. Then the steamer started off again, with the boys as passengers. The captain promised to land them at a port where they could get a train back to Lighthouse Cove, and this he did, later in the day, sending them ashore in a launch. That night Bob and his chums were home again. By turns the boys told their story. "Oh, but we were so worried!" exclaimed Mrs. Bouncer. "Of course it wasn't your fault, though. Silas kept telling us that his boat would ride out the storm, but your father has hired a large motor boat and is off searching for you." But the good news soon reached Mr. Bouncer, for it was telegraphed all along the coast, and he heard it when he put in at a port to get gasolene. Then he hurried back to Barnacle Cottage. "But what made the schooner abandoned?" asked Bob's father, when he had heard the story. The boys did not know, but a day or so later that mystery was cleared. It seemed that, just before the storm that sent Bob and his chums to sea, the schooner had put in at a small port for a supply of fresh water, hers having leaked away because of faulty casks. All the crew was given shore leave, and the captain, too, went off to attend to some business. A watchman alone was left in charge, while the _Mary Ellen_ was docked. Then came a small hurricane. A neighboring vessel broke her mooring rope and crowded down on the schooner. The latter parted her cable and swung out into the channel. Then the wind caught her and sent her to sea, much as the boys had been blown. In the confusion that followed no one thought of trying to save the _Mary Ellen_ and away she went without a soul aboard, for the watchman had fallen overboard while trying to lower the sails. He was not, however, drowned. So, after all, there was not much of a mystery about the schooner. She was claimed by her captain and crew, and her' owners gladly paid the salvage money, of which our young heroes received their proper share. Their parents put it in the bank for them. A few days later Silas Warner got back his motor boat, which had been only slightly damaged. "Well, that's over," said Sammy, a few days after their return from their unexpected voyage to sea. "Now if we could only find the pirate gold, we'd be all right." "Oh, you're foolish!" exclaimed Frank. "There never was any pirate gold." "Well, what was Professor Watson digging for?" demanded Sammy. "I don't know," said Frank, "But it wasn't gold." "There he is now, digging again," said Bob, quickly, "and he's on our beach, too. I guess now we've got a right to ask him what he's after." Rather bashfully the boys approached the old man. He paid no attention to them, but went on digging. Suddenly he was observed to throw aside his shovel, make a grab for something in the sand, and then he cried out: "I have it! I have it! At last I have found it!" Eagerly the boys rushed forward. The man did not seem to notice them, but was closely looking at something in his hand. "Have you found the pirate gold?" asked Bob, boldly. The man looked at the boys. He did not seem annoyed now. "Gold! No, I wasn't looking for gold," he said. "But I have found a very rare kind of seashell for which I have been searching all Summer. At last my scientific collection is complete. My search is ended!" The boys did not know what to think. "Weren't you looking for gold?" asked Sammy, much amazed. "Gold! No, I care nothing for gold. I am a college professor and from my studies I decided that a certain rare seashell was to be found on this coast. I came here, and dug in many places for it. I even dug at night, for the creature that lives in this shell is said to prefer to feed at night. But I never had any luck until now." "Then you know nothing about pirates," said Sammy, sadly. The professor looked curiously at them. "Ah, I have seen you boys before," he said, musingly. "Yes, we followed you once," said Frank. "I remember now. And I drove you away. I did not mean to be impolite, but this shell is a very delicate one, and you were walking over the land where I thought I might find one. I feared you would crush it. That is why I asked you to leave. But it is all right now. See, I have the treasure," and he showed the boys a curious pink and blue shell in his hand. To them it did not amount to much, but probably to the scientist it was very valuable. The boys asked the professor about the night they had met him when the lighthouse beacon was out. He explained that he had just received word from an old fisherman, one of several he had told of his quest, with a command to kept it secret, that some sort of shells, very like the one the scientist wanted, might be found in a certain place. There the professor went, taking a light with him, and it was thus the boys met him. "And so ends that mystery," murmured Bob. "Well, I'm glad it's over," said Frank. "Maybe now you can think of something else besides pirate gold, Sammy, and we can have some fun." "Yes, it's all over," said Sammy. "I wonder what will happen next?" And what did occur I will relate to you in the next volume of this series, to be called "Fairview Boys on a Ranch; Or, Riding with the Cowboys." But the days at Lighthouse Cove were not yet over. There still remained some glorious Summer weather and the boys enjoyed it to the utmost. They went swimming, crabbing and boating, but they never again went so near the inlet that they were in danger of being carried out to sea. And they neither looked for nor found the pirate gold although they did find some very pretty seashells. And now we will take leave of the Fairview boys. THE END. 
34024	----	Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net [Illustration: SHE WAS UNCONSCIOUS WHEN THEY LIFTED HER OUT. Ruth Fielding at Lighthouse Point. Page 78] RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT OR NITA, THE GIRL CASTAWAY BY ALICE B. EMERSON Author of Ruth Fielding of The Red Mill, Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Books for Girls By ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL Or, Solving the Campus Mystery. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP Or, Lost in the Backwoods. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT Or, Nita, the Girl Castaway. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys. Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1913, by Cupples & Leon Company Ruth Fielding at Lighthouse Point Printed in U.S.A. CONTENTS Chapter Page I AN INITIATION 1 II THE FOX AT WORK 9 III ON LAKE OSAGO 16 IV TROUBLE AT THE RED MILL 24 V THE TINTACKER MINE 32 VI UNCLE JABEZ AT HIS WORST 42 VII THE SIGNAL GUN 49 VIII THE LIFEBOAT IS LAUNCHED 57 IX THE GIRL IN THE RIGGING 64 X THE DOUBLE CHARGE 72 XI THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAY 80 XII BUSY IZZY IN A NEW ASPECT 90 XIII CRAB PROVES TO BE OF THE HARDSHELL VARIETY 97 XIV THE TRAGIC INCIDENT IN A FISHING EXCURSION 103 XV TOM CAMERON TO THE RESCUE 114 XVI RUTH'S SECRET 120 XVII WHAT WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER 128 XVIII ANOTHER NIGHT ADVENTURE 137 XIX THE GOBLINS' GAMBOL 145 XX "WHAR'S MY JANE ANN?" 153 XXI CRAB MAKES HIS DEMAND 162 XXII THIMBLE ISLAND 171 XXIII MAROONED 179 XXIV PLUCKY MOTHER PURLING 187 XXV WHAT JANE ANN WANTED 196 RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT CHAPTER I AN INITIATION A brown dusk filled the long room, for although the windows were shrouded thickly and no lamp burned, some small ray of light percolated from without and made dimly visible the outlines of the company there gathered. The low, quavering notes of an organ sighed through the place. There was the rustle and movement of a crowd. To the neophyte, who had been brought into the hall with eyes bandaged, it all seemed very mysterious and awe-inspiring. Now she was set in a raised place and felt that before her was the company of masked and shrouded figures, in scarlet dominoes like those worn by the two guards who had brought her from the anteroom. The bandage was whisked from her eyes; but she could see nothing of her surroundings, nor of the company before which she stood. "Candidate!" spoke a hollow, mysterious voice somewhere in the gloom, yet sounding so close to her ear that she started. "Candidate! you stand before the membership body of the S. B.'s. You are as yet unknown to them and they unknown to you. If you enter the secret association of the S. B.'s you must throw off and despise forever all ties of a like character. Do you agree?" The candidate obeyed, in so far as she prodded her sharply in the ribs and a shrill voice whispered: "Say you do--gump!" The candidate obeyed, in so far as she proclaimed that she did, at least. "It is an oath," went on the sepulchral voice. "Remember!" In chorus the assembly immediately repeated, "Remember!" in solemn tones. "Candidate!" repeated the leading voice, "you have been taught the leading object of our existence as a society. What is it?" Without hesitation now, the candidate replied: "Helpfulness." "It is right. And now, what do our initials stand for?" "Sweetbriar," replied the shaking voice of the candidate. "True. That is what our initials stand for to the world at large--to those who are not initiated into the mysteries of the S. B.'s. But those letters may stand for many things and it is my privilege to explain to you now that they likewise are to remind us all of two virtues that each Sweetbriar is expected to practice--to be sincere and to befriend. Remember! Sincerity--Befriend. Remember!" Again the chorus of mysterious voices chanted: "Remember!" "And now let the light shine upon the face of the candidate, that the Shrouded Sisterhood may know her where'er they meet her. Once! Twice! Thrice! Light!" At the cry the ray of a spot-light flashed out of the gloom at the far end of the long room and played glaringly upon the face and figure of the candidate. She herself was more blinded by the glare than she had been by the bandage. There was a rustle and movement in the room, and the leading voice went on: "Sisters! the novice is now revealed to us all. She has now entered into the outer circle of the Sweetbriars. Let her know us, where'er she meets us, by our rallying cry. Once! Twice! Thrice! _Now!_" Instantly, and in unison, the members chanted the following "yell": "S. B.--Ah-h-h! S. B.--Ah-h-h! Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S. B.--All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die-- This be our battle-cry-- Briarwood Hall! _That's All!_" With the final word the spot-light winked out and the other lights of the hall flashed on. The assembly of hooded and shrouded figures were revealed. And Helen Cameron, half smiling and half crying, found herself standing upon the platform before her schoolmates who had already joined the secret fraternity known as "The Sweetbriars." Beside her, and presiding over the meeting, she found her oldest and dearest friend at Briarwood Hall--Ruth Fielding. A small megaphone stood upon the table at Ruth's hand, and its use had precluded Helen's recognition of her chum's voice as the latter led in the ritual of the fraternity. Like their leader, the other Sweetbriars had thrown back their scarlet hoods, and Helen recognized almost all of the particular friends with whom she had become associated since she had come--with Ruth Fielding--the autumn before to Briarwood Hall. The turning on of the lights was the signal for general conversation and great merriment. It was the evening of the last day but one of the school year, and discipline at Briarwood Hall was relaxed to a degree. However, the fraternity of the Sweetbriars had grown in favor with Mrs. Grace Tellingham, the preceptress of the school, and with the teachers, since its inception. Now the fifty or more girls belonging to the society (fully a quarter of the school membership) paired off to march down to the dining hall, where a special collation was spread. Helen Cameron went down arm-in-arm with the president of the S. B.'s. "Oh, Ruthie!" the new member exclaimed, "I think it's ever so nice--much better than the initiation of the old Upedes. I can talk about them now," and she laughed, "because they are--as Tommy says--'busted all to flinders.' Haven't held a meeting for more than a month, and the last time--whisper! this is a secret, and I guess the last remaining secret of the Upedes--there were only The Fox and I there!" "I'm glad you're one of us at last, Helen," said Ruth Fielding, squeezing her chum as they went down the stairs. "And I ought to have been an original member along with you, Ruth," said Helen, thoughtfully. "The Up and Doing Club hadn't half the attractiveness that your society has----" "Don't call it _my_ society. We don't want any one-girl club. That was the trouble with the Up and Doings--just as 'too much faculty' is the objection to the Forward Club." "Oh, I detest the Fussy Curls just as much as ever," declared Helen, quickly, "although Madge Steele _is_ president." "Well, we 'Infants,' as they called us last fall when we entered Briarwood, are in control of the S. B.'s, and we can help each other," said Ruth, with satisfaction. "But you talk about the Upedes being a one-girl club. I know The Fox was all-in-all in that. But you're pretty near the whole thing in the S. B.'s, Ruthie," and Helen laughed, slily. "Why, they say you wrote all the ritual and planned everything." "Never mind," said Ruth, calmly; "we can't have a dictator in the S. B.'s without changing the constitution. The same girl can't be president for more than one year." "But you deserve to boss it all," said her chum, warmly. "And I for one wouldn't mind if you did." Helen was a very impulsive, enthusiastic girl. When she and Ruth Fielding had come to Briarwood Hall she had immediately taken up with a lively and thoughtless set of girls who had banded themselves into the Up and Doing Club, and whose leader was Mary Cox, called "The Fox," because of her shrewdness. Ruth had not cared for this particular society and, in time, she and most of the other new pupils formed the Sweetbriar Club. Helen Cameron, loyal to her first friends at the school, had not fallen away from Mary Cox and joined the Sweetbriars until this very evening, which was, as we have seen, the evening before the final day of the school year. Ruth Fielding took the head of the table when the girls sat down to supper and the other officers of the club sat beside her. Helen was therefore separated from her, and when the party broke up late in the evening (the curfew bell at nine o'clock was abolished for this one night) the chums started for their room in the West Dormitory at different times. Ruth went with Mercy Curtis, who was lame; outside the dining hall Helen chanced to meet Mary Cox, who had been calling on some party in the East Dormitory building. "Hello, Cameron!" exclaimed The Fox. "So you've finally been roped in by the 'Soft Babies' have you? I thought that chum of yours--Fielding--would manage to get you hobbled and tied before vacation." "You can't say I wasn't loyal to the Upedes as long as there was any society to be loyal to," said Helen, quickly, and with a flush. "Oh, well; you'll be going down to Heavy's seashore cottage with them now, I suppose?" said The Fox, still watching Helen curiously. "Why, of course! I intended to before," returned the younger girl. "We all agreed about that last winter when we were at Snow Camp." "Oh, you did, eh?" laughed the other. "Well, if you hadn't joined the Soft Babies you wouldn't have been 'axed,' when it came time to go. This is going to be an S. B. frolic. Your nice little Ruth Fielding says she won't go if Heavy invites any but her precious Sweetbriars to be of the party." "I don't believe it, Mary Cox!" cried Helen. "I mean, that _you_ must be misinformed. Somebody has maligned Ruth." "Humph! Maybe, but it doesn't look like it. Who is going to Lighthouse Point?" demanded The Fox, carelessly. "Madge Steele, for although she is president of the Fussy Curls, she is likewise honorary member of the S. B.'s." "That is so," admitted Helen. "Heavy, herself," pursued Mary Cox, "Belle and Lluella, who have all backslid from the Upedes, and yourself." "But you've been invited," said Helen, quickly. "Not much. I tell you, if you and Belle and Lluella had not joined her S. B.'s you wouldn't have been numbered among Heavy's house party. Don't fool yourself on that score," and with another unpleasant laugh, the older girl walked on and left Helen in a much perturbed state of mind. CHAPTER II THE FOX AT WORK Ruth Fielding, after the death of her parents, when she was quite a young girl, had come from Darrowtown to live with her mother's uncle at the Red Mill, on the Lumano River near Cheslow, as was related in the first volume of this series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill; Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret." Ruth had found Uncle Jabez very hard to get along with at first, for he was a miser, and his kinder nature seemed to have been crusted over by years of hoarding and selfishness. But through a happy turn of circumstances Ruth was enabled to get at the heart of her crotchety uncle, and when Ruth's very dear friend, Helen Cameron, planned to go to boarding school, Uncle Jabez was won over to sending Ruth with her. The fun and work of that first half at school are related in the second volume of the series, entitled "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall; Or, Solving the Campus Mystery." In the third volume of the series, "Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp; Or, Lost in the Backwoods," Ruth and some of her school friends spend a part of the mid-winter vacation at Mr. Cameron's hunting lodge in the Big Woods, where they enjoy many winter sports and have adventures galore. Ruth and Helen occupied a "duo" room on the second floor of the West Dormitory; but when Mercy Curtis, the lame girl, had come to Briarwood in the middle of the first term, the chums had taken her in with them, the occupants of that particular study being known thereafter among the girls of Briarwood as the Triumvirate. Helen, when deserted by The Fox, who, from that first day at Briarwood Hall, had shown herself to be jealous of Ruth Fielding, for some reason, went slowly up to her room and found Ruth and Mercy there before her. There was likewise a stout, doll-faced, jolly girl with them, known to the other girls as "Heavy," but rightly owning the name of Jennie Stone. "Here she is now!" cried this latter, on Helen's appearance. "'The candidate will now advance and say her a-b-abs!' You looked scared to death when they shot you with the lime-light. I was chewing a caramel when they initiated me, and I swallowed it whole, and pretty near choked, when the spot-light was turned on." Mercy, who was a very sharp girl indeed, was looking at Helen slily. She saw that something had occasioned their friend annoyance. "What's happened to you since we came from the supper, Helen?" she asked. "Indigestion!" gasped Heavy. "I've some pepsin tablets in my room. Want one, Nell?" "No. I am all right," declared Helen. "Well, we were just waiting for you to come in," the stout girl said. "Maybe we'll all be so busy to-morrow that we won't have time to talk about it. So we must plan for the Lighthouse Point campaign now." "Oh!" said Helen, slowly. "So you can make up your party now?" "Of course! Why, we really made it up last winter; didn't we?" laughed Heavy. "But we didn't know whether we could go or not then," Ruth Fielding said. "You didn't know whether _I_ could go, I suppose you mean?" suggested Helen. "Why--not particularly," responded Ruth, in some wonder at her chum's tone. "I supposed you and Tom would go. Your father so seldom refuses you anything." "Oh!" "I didn't know how Uncle Jabez would look at it," pursued Ruth. "But I wrote him a while ago and told him you and Mercy were going to accept Jennie's invite, and he said I could go to Lighthouse Point, too." "Oh!" said Helen again. "You didn't wait until I joined the S. B.'s, then, to decide whether you would accept Heavy's invitation, or not?" "Of course not!" "How ridiculous!" cried Heavy. "Well, it's to be a Sweetbriar frolic; isn't it, Heavy?" asked Helen, calmly. "No. Madge and Bob Steele are going. And your brother Tom," chuckled the stout girl. "And perhaps that Isadore Phelps. You wouldn't call Busy Izzy a Sweetbriar; would you?" "I don't mean the boys," returned Helen, with some coolness. Suddenly Mercy Curtis, her head on one side and her thin little face twisted into a most knowing grimace, interrupted. "I know what this means!" she exclaimed. "What do _you_ mean, Goody Two-Sticks?" demanded Ruth, kindly. "Our Helen has a grouch." "Nonsense!" muttered Helen, flushing again. "I thought something didn't fit her when she came in," said Heavy, calmly. "But I thought it was indigestion." "What _is_ the matter, Helen?" asked Ruth Fielding in wonder. "'Fee, fi, fo fum! I see the negro run!'--into the woodpile!" ejaculated the lame girl, in her biting way. "I know what is the matter with Queen Helen of Troy. She's been with The Fox." Ruth and Heavy stared at Mercy in surprise; but Helen turned her head aside. "That's the answer!" chuckled the shrewd little creature. "I saw them walk off together after supper. And The Fox has been trying to make trouble--same as usual." "Mary Cox! Why, that's impossible," said Heavy, good-naturedly. "She wouldn't say anything to make Helen feel bad." Mercy darted an accusing fore-finger at Helen, and still kept her eyes screwed up. "I dare you to tell! I dare you to tell!" she cried in a singsong voice. Helen had to laugh at last. "Well, Mary Cox said you had decided to have none but Sweetbriars at the cottage on the beach, Heavy." "Lot she knows about it," grunted the stout girl. "Why, Heavy asked her to go; didn't she?" cried Ruth. "Well, that was last Winter. I didn't press her," admitted the stout girl. "But she's your roommate, like Belle and Lluella," said Ruth, in some heat. "Of course you've got to ask her." "Don't you do it. She's a spoil-sport," declared Mercy Curtis, in her sharp way. "The Fox will keep us all in hot water." "Do be still, Mercy!" cried Ruth. "This is Heavy's own affair. And Mary Cox has been her roommate ever since she's been at Briarwood." "I don't know that Belle and Lluella can go with us," said the stout girl, slowly. "The fright they got up in the woods last Winter scared their mothers. I guess they think I'm too reckless. Sort of wild, you know," and the stout girl's smile broadened. "But you intended inviting Mary Cox?" demanded Ruth, steadily. "Yes. I said something about it to her. But she wouldn't give me a decided answer then." "Ask her again." "Don't you do it!" exclaimed Mercy, sharply. "I mean it, Jennie," Ruth said. "I can't please both of you," said the good-natured stout girl. "Please me. Mercy doesn't mean what she says. If Mary Cox thinks that I am opposed to your having her at Lighthouse Point, I shall be offended if you do not immediately insist upon her being one of the party." "And that'll suit The Fox right down to the ground," exclaimed Mercy. "That is what she was fishing for when she got at Helen to-night." "Did _I_ say she said anything about Lighthouse Point?" quickly responded Helen. "You didn't have to," rejoined Mercy, sharply. "We knew." "At least," Ruth said to Heavy, quietly, yet with decision, "you will ask your old friend to go?" "Why--if you don't mind." "There seems to have been some truth in Mary's supposition, then," Ruth said, sadly. "She thinks I intended to keep her out of a good time. I never thought of such a thing. If Mary Cox does not accept your invitation, Heavy, I shall be greatly disappointed. Indeed, I shall be tempted to decline to go to the shore with you. Now, remember that, Jennie Stone." "Oh, shucks! you're making too much fuss about it," said the stout girl, rising lazily, and speaking in her usual drawling manner. "Of course I'll have her--if she'll go. Father's bungalow is big enough, goodness knows. And we'll have lots of fun there." She went her leisurely way to the door. Had she been brisker of movement, when she turned the knob she would have found Mary Cox with her ear at the keyhole, drinking in all that had been said in the room of the triumvirate. But The Fox was as swift of foot as she was shrewd and sly of mind. She was out of sight and hearing when Jennie Stone came out into the corridor. CHAPTER III ON LAKE OSAGO The final day of the school year was always a gala occasion at Briarwood Hall. Although Ruth Fielding and her chum, Helen Cameron, had finished only their first year, they both had important places in the exercises of graduation. Ruth sang in the special chorus, while Helen played the violin in the school orchestra. Twenty-four girls were in the graduating class. Briarwood Hall prepared for Wellesley, or any of the other female colleges, and when Mrs. Grace Tellingham, the preceptress, graduated a girl with a certificate it meant that the young lady was well grounded in all the branches that Briarwood taught. The campus was crowded with friends of the graduating class, and of the Seniors in particular. It was a very gay scene, for the June day was perfect and the company were brightly dressed. The girls, however, including the graduating class, were dressed in white only. Mrs. Tellingham had established that custom some years before, and the different classes were distinguished only by the color of their ribbons. Helen Cameron's twin brother, Tom, and Madge Steele's brother, Bob, attended the Seven Oaks Military Academy, not many miles from Briarwood. Their graduation exercises and "Breaking Up," as the boys called it, were one day later than the same exercises at Briarwood. So the girls did not start for home until the morning of the latter day. Old Dolliver, the stage driver, brought his lumbering stage to the end of the Cedar Walk at nine o'clock, to which point Tony Foyle, the man-of-all-work, had wheeled the girls' baggage. Ruth, and Helen, and Mercy Curtis had bidden their room good-bye and then made the round of the teachers before this hour. They gathered here to await the stage with Jennie Stone, Madge and Mary Cox. The latter had agreed to be one of the party at Lighthouse Point and was going home with Heavy to remain during the ensuing week, before the seashore party should be made up. The seven girls comfortably filled the stage, with their hand luggage, while the trunks and suitcases in the boot and roped upon the roof made the Ark seem top-heavy. There was a crowd of belated pupils, and those who lived in the neighborhood, to see them off, and the coach finally rolled away to the famous tune of "Uncle Noah, He Built an Ark," wherein Madge Steele put her head out of the window and "lined out" a new verse to the assembled "well-wishers": "And they didn't know where they were at, One wide river to cross! Till the Sweetbriars showed 'em that! One wide river to cross! One wide river! One wide river of Jordan-- One wide river! One wide river to cross!" For although Madge Steele was now president of the Forward Club, a much older school fraternity than the Sweetbriars, she was, like Mrs. Tellingham, and Miss Picolet, the French teacher, and others of the faculty, an honorary member of the society started by Ruth Fielding. The Sweetbriars, less than one school year old, was fast becoming the most popular organization at Briarwood Hall. Mary Cox did not join in the singing, nor did she have a word to say to Ruth during the ride to the Seven Oaks station. Tom and Bob, with lively, inquisitive, harum-scarum Isadore Phelps--"Busy Izzy," as his mates called him--were at the station to meet the party from Briarwood Hall. Tom was a dark-skinned, handsome lad, while Bob was big, and flaxen-haired, and bashful. Madge, his sister, called him "Sonny" and made believe he was at the pinafore stage of growth instead of being almost six feet tall and big in proportion. "Here's the dear little fellow!" she cried, jumping lightly out to be hugged by the big fellow. "Let Sister see how he's grown since New Year's. Why, we'd hardly have known our Bobbins; would we, Ruthie? Let me fix your tie--it's under your ear, of course. Now, that's a neat little boy. You can shake hands with Ruthie, and Helen, and Mary, and Jennie, and Mercy Curtis--and help Uncle Noah get off the trunks." The three boys, being all of the freshman class at Seven Oaks, had less interest in the final exercises of the term at the Academy than the girls had had at Briarwood; therefore the whole party took a train that brought them to the landing at Portageton, on Osago Lake, before noon. From that point the steamer _Lanawaxa_ would transport them the length of the lake to another railroad over which the young folks must travel to reach Cheslow. At this time of year the great lake was a beautiful sight. Several lines of steamers plied upon it; the summer resorts on the many islands which dotted it, and upon the shores of the mainland, were gay with flags and banners; the sail up the lake promised to be a most delightful one. And it would have been so--delightful for the whole party--had it not been for a single member. The Fox could not get over her unfriendly feeling, although Ruth Fielding gave her no cause at all. Ruth tried to talk to Mary, at first; but finding the older girl determined to be unpleasant, she let her alone. On the boat the three boys gathered camp-chairs for the party up forward, and their pocket money went for candy and other goodies with which to treat their sisters and the latter's friends. There were not many people aboard the _Lanawaxa_ on this trip and the young folks going home from school had the forward upper deck to themselves. There was a stiff breeze blowing that drove the other passengers into the inclosed cabins. But the girls and their escorts were in high spirits. As Madge Steele declared, "they had slipped the scholastic collar for ten long weeks." "And if we can't find a plenty of fun in that time it's our own fault," observed Heavy--having some trouble with her articulation because of the candy in her mouth. "Thanks be to goodness! no rising bell--no curfew--no getting anywhere at any particular time. Oh, I'm just going to lie in the sand all day, when we get to the Point----" "And have your meals brought to you, Heavy?" queried Ruth, slily. "Never you mind about the meals, Miss. Mammy Laura's going down with us to cook, and if there's one thing Mammy Laura loves to do, it's to cook messes for me--and bring them to me. She's always been afraid that my health was delicate and that I needed more nourishing food than the rest of the family. Such custards! Um! um!" "Do go down and see if there is anything left on the lunch counter, boys," begged Helen, anxiously. "Otherwise we won't get Heavy home alive." "I _am_ a little bit hungry, having had no dinner," admitted the stout girl, reflectively. The boys went off, laughing. "She's so feeble!" cried Mary Cox, pinching the stout girl. "We never should travel with her alone. There ought to be a trained nurse and a physician along. I'm worried to death about her----" "Ouch! stop your pinching!" commanded Jennie, and rose up rather suddenly, for her, to give chase to her tormentor. The Fox was as quick as a cat, and Heavy was lubberly in her movements. The lighter girl, laughing shrilly, ran forward and vaulted over the low rail that separated the awning-covered upper deck from the unrailed roof of the lower deck forward. "You'd better come back from there!" Ruth cried, instantly. "It's wet and slippery." The Fox turned on her instantly, her face flushed and her eyes snapping. "Mind your business, Miss!" she cried, stamping her foot. "I can look out----" Her foot slipped. Heavy thoughtlessly laughed. None of them really thought of danger save Ruth. But Mary Cox lost her foothold, slid toward the edge of the sloping deck, and the next instant, as the _Lanawaxa_ plunged a little sideways (for the sharp breeze had raised quite a little sea) The Fox shot over the brink of the deck and, with a scream, disappeared feet-first into the lake. It all happened so quickly that nobody but the group of girls on the forward deck had seen the accident. And Madge, Heavy and Helen were all helpless--so frightened that they could only cry out. "She can't swim!" gasped Helen. "She'll be drowned." "The paddle-wheel will hit her!" added Madge. "Oh! where are those useless boys?" demanded the stout girl. "They're never around when they could be of use." But Ruth said never a word. The emergency appealed to her quite as seriously as it did to her friends. But she knew that if Mary Cox was to be saved they must act at once. She flung off her cap and light outside coat. She wore only canvas shoes, and easily kicked them off and ran, in her stocking-feet, toward the paddle-box. Onto this she climbed by the short ladder and sprang out upon its top just as The Fox came up after her plunge. By great good fortune the imperiled girl had been carried beyond the paddles. But the _Lanawaxa_ was steaming swiftly past the girl in the water. Ruth knew very well that Mary Cox could not swim. She was one of the few girls at Briarwood who had been unable to learn that accomplishment, under the school instructor, in the gymnasium pool. Whereas Ruth herself had taken to the art "like a duck to water." Mary's face appeared but for a moment above the surface. Ruth saw it, pale and despairing; then a wave washed over it and the girl disappeared for a second time. CHAPTER IV TROUBLE AT THE RED MILL The screams of the other girls had brought several of the male passengers as well as some of the boat's crew to the forward deck. Mercy Curtis, who had lain down in a stateroom to rest, drew back the blind and saw Ruth poised on the wheel-box. "Don't you do that, Ruth Fielding!" cried the lame girl, who knew instinctively what her friend's intention was. But Ruth paid no more attention to her than she had to the other girls. She was wearing a heavy serge skirt, and she knew it would hamper her in the water. With nimble fingers she unfastened this and dropped it upon the deck. Then, without an instant's hesitation, she sprang far out from the steamer, her body shooting straight down, feet-first, to the water. Ruth was aware as she shot downward that Tom Cameron was at the rail over her head. The _Lanawaxa_ swept by and he, having run astern, leaned over and shouted to her. She had a glimpse of something swinging out from the rail, too, and dropping after her into the lake, and as the water closed over her head she realized that he had thrown one of the lifebuoys. But deep as the water was, Ruth had no fear for herself. She loved to swim and the instructor at Briarwood had praised her skill. The only anxiety she had as she sank beneath the surface was for Mary Cox, who had already gone down twice. She had leaped into the lake near where The Fox had disappeared. Once beneath the surface, Ruth opened her eyes and saw the shadow of somebody in the water ahead. Three strokes brought her within reach of it. She seized Mary Cox by the hair, and although her school fellow was still sinking, Ruth, with sturdy strokes, drew her up to the surface. What a blessing it was to obtain a draught of pure air! But The Fox was unconscious, and Ruth had to bear her weight up, while treading water, until she could dash the drops from her eyes. There was the lifebuoy not ten yards away. She struck out for it with one hand, while towing Mary with the other. Long before the steamer had been stopped and a boat lowered and manned, Ruth and her burden reached the great ring, and the girls were comparatively safe. Tom Cameron came in the boat, having forced himself in with the crew, and it was he who hauled Mary Cox over the gunwale, and then aided Ruth into the boat. "That's the second time you've saved that girl from drowning, Ruth," he gasped. "The first time was last Fall when you and I hauled her out of the hole in the ice on Triton Lake. And now she would have gone down and stayed down if you hadn't dived for her. Now! don't you ever do it again!" concluded the excited lad. Had Ruth not been so breathless she must have laughed at him; but there really was a serious side to the adventure. Mary Cox did not recover her senses until after they were aboard the steamer. Ruth was taken in hand by a stewardess, undressed and put between blankets, and her clothing dried and made presentable before the steamer docked at the head of the lake. As Tom Cameron had said, Mary Cox had fallen through the ice early in the previous Winter, and Ruth had aided in rescuing her; The Fox had never even thanked the girl from the Red Mill for such aid. And now Ruth shrank from meeting her and being thanked on this occasion. Ruth had to admit to herself that she looked forward with less pleasure to the visit to the seashore with Heavy because Mary Cox was to be of the party. She could not like The Fox, and she really had ample reason. The other girls ran into the room where Ruth was and reported when Mary became conscious, and how the doctor said that she would never have come up to the surface again, she had taken so much water into her lungs, had not Ruth grasped her. They had some difficulty in bringing The Fox to her senses. "And aren't you the brave one, Ruthie Fielding!" cried Heavy. "Why, Mary Cox owes her life to you--she actually does _this_ time. Before, when you and Tom Cameron helped her out of the water, she acted nasty about it----" "Hush, Jennie!" commanded Ruth. "Don't say another word about it. If I had not jumped into the lake after Mary, somebody else would." "Pshaw!" cried Heavy, "you can't get out of it that way. And I'm glad it happened. Now we _shall_ have a nice time at Lighthouse Point, for Mary can't be anything but fond of you, child!" Ruth, however, had her doubts. She remained in the stateroom as long as she could after the _Lanawaxa_ docked. When she was dressed and came out on the deck the train that took Heavy and The Fox and the Steeles and Busy Izzy home, had gone. The train to Cheslow started a few minutes later. "Come on, Miss Heroine!" said Tom, grinning at her as she came out on the deck. "You needn't be afraid now. Nobody will thank you. I didn't hear her say a grateful word myself--and I bet _you_ won't, either!" Helen said nothing at all about The Fox; but she looked grave. The former president of the Upedes had influenced Helen a great deal during this first year at boarding school. Had Ruth Fielding been a less patient and less faithful chum, Helen and she would have drifted apart. And perhaps an occasional sharp speech from Mercy was what had served more particularly to show Helen how she was drifting. Now the lame girl observed: "The next time you see Mary Cox fall overboard, Ruth, I hope you'll let her swallow the whole pond, and walk ashore without your help." "If your name _is_ 'Mercy' you show none to either your friends or enemies; do you?" returned Ruth, smiling. The girl from the Red Mill refused to discuss the matter further, and soon had them all talking upon a pleasanter theme. It was evening when they reached Cheslow and Mercy's father, of course, who was the station agent, and Mr. Cameron, were waiting for them. The big touring car belonging to the dry-goods merchant was waiting for the young folk, and after they had dropped Mercy Curtis at the little cottage on the by-street, the machine traveled swiftly across the railroad and out into the suburbs of the town. The Red Mill was five miles from the railroad station, while the Camerons' fine home, "Outlook," stood some distance beyond. Before they had gotten out of town, however, the car was held up in front of a big house set some distance back from the road, and before which, on either side of the arched gateway, was a green lamp. The lamps were already lighted and as the Cameron car came purring along the street, with Helen herself under the steering wheel (for she had begged the privilege of running it home) a tall figure came hurrying out of the gateway, signaling them to stop. "It's Doctor Davison himself!" cried Ruth, in some excitement. "And how are all the Sweetbriars?" demanded the good old physician, their staunch friend and confidant. "Ah, Tom, my fine fellow! have they drilled that stoop out of your shoulders?" "We're all right, Dr. Davison--and awfully glad to see you," cried Ruth, leaning out of the tonneau to shake hands with him. "Ah! here's the sunshine of the Red Mill--and they're needing sunshine there, just now, I believe," said the doctor. "Did you bring my Goody Two-Sticks home all right?" "She's all right, Doctor," Helen assured him. "And so are we--only Ruth's been in the lake." "In Lake Osago?" "Yes, sir--and it was wet," Tom told him, grinning. "I suppose she was trying to find that out," returned Dr. Davison. "Did you get anything else out of it, Ruthie Fielding?" "A girl," replied Ruth, rather tartly. "Oh-ho! Well, _that_ was something," began the doctor, when Ruth stopped him with an abrupt question: "Why do you say that they need me at home, sir?" "Why--honey--they're always glad to have you there, I reckon," said the doctor, slowly. "Uncle Jabez and Aunt Alviry will both be glad to see you----" "There's trouble, sir; what is it?" asked Ruth, gravely, leaning out of the car so as to speak into his ear. "There _is_ trouble; isn't there? What is it?" "I don't know that I can exactly tell you, Ruthie," he replied, with gravity. "But it's there. You'll see it." "Aunt Alviry----" "Is all right." "Then it's Uncle Jabez?" "Yes, my child. It is Uncle Jabez. What it is you will have to find out, I am afraid, for _I_ have not been able to," said the doctor, in a whisper. "Maybe it is given to you, my dear, to straighten out the tangles at the Red Mill." He invited them all down to sample Old Mammy's cakes and lemonade the first pleasant afternoon, and then the car sped on. But Ruth was silent. What she might find at the Red Mill troubled her. CHAPTER V THE TINTACKER MINE It was too late to more than see the outlines of the mill and connecting buildings as the car rushed down the hill toward the river road, between which and the river itself, and standing on a knoll, the Red Mill was. Ruth could imagine just how it looked--all in dull red paint and clean white trimmings. Miserly as Jabez Potter was about many things, he always kept his property in excellent shape, and the mill and farmhouse, with the adjoining outbuildings, were painted every Spring. A lamp burned in the kitchen; but all else was dark about the place. "Don't look very lively, Ruth," said Tom. "I don't believe they expect you." But even as he spoke the door opened, and a broad beam of yellow lamplight shot out across the porch and down the path. A little, bent figure was silhouetted in the glow. "There's Aunt Alviry!" cried Ruth, in delight. "I know _she's_ all right." "All excepting her back and her bones," whispered Helen. "Now, Ruthie! don't you let anything happen to veto our trip to Heavy's seaside cottage." "Oh! don't suggest such a thing!" cried her brother. But Ruth ran up the path after bidding them good-night, with her heart fast beating. Dr. Davison's warning had prepared her for almost any untoward happening. But Aunt Alvirah only looked delighted to see the girl as Ruth ran into her arms. Aunt Alvirah was a friendless old woman whose latter years would have been spent at the Cheslow Almshouse had not Jabez Potter taken her to keep house for him more than ten years before. Ill-natured people said that the miller had done this to save paying a housekeeper; but in Aunt Alvirah's opinion it was an instance of Mr. Potter's kindness of heart. "You pretty creetur!" cried Aunt Alvirah, hugging Ruth close to her. "And how you've growed! What a smart girl you are getting to be! Deary, deary me! how I have longed for you to git back, Ruthie. Come in! Come in! Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she complained, under her breath, as she hobbled into the house. "How's the rheumatics, Aunty?" asked Ruth. "Just the same, deary. Up one day, and down the next. Allus will be so, I reckon. I'd be too proud to live if I didn't have my aches and pains--Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" as she lowered herself into her rocker. "Where's Uncle Jabez?" cried Ruth. "Sh!" admonished Aunt Alvirah. "Don't holler, child. You'll disturb him." "Not _sick?_" whispered Ruth, in amazement. "No--o. Not sick o' body, I reckon, child," returned Aunt Alvirah. "What _is_ it, Aunt Alviry? What's the matter with him?" pursued the girl, anxiously. "He's sick o' soul, I reckon," whispered the old woman. "Sumpin's gone wrong with him. You know how Jabez is. It's money matters." "Oh, has he been robbed again?" cried Ruth. "Sh! not jest like that. Not like what Jasper Parloe did to him. But it's jest as bad for Jabez, I reckon. Anyway, he takes it jest as hard as he did when his cash-box was lost that time. But you know how close-mouthed he is, Ruthie. He won't talk about it." "About _what?_" demanded Ruth, earnestly. Aunt Alvirah rose with difficulty from her chair and, with her usual murmured complaint of "Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" went to the door which led to the passage. Off this passage Uncle Jabez's room opened. She closed the door and hobbled back to her chair, but halted before sitting down. "I never thought to ask ye, deary," she said. "Ye must be very hungry. Ye ain't had no supper." "You sit right down there and keep still," said Ruth, smiling as she removed her coat. "I guess I can find something to eat." "Well, there's cocoa. You make you a warm drink. There's plenty of pie and cake--and there's eggs and ham if you want them." "Don't you fret about me," repeated Ruth. "What makes you so mussed up?" demanded Aunt Alvirah, the next moment. "Why, Ruth Fielding! have you been in the water?" "Yes, ma'am. But you know water doesn't hurt me." "Dear child! how reckless you are! Did you fall in the lake?" "No, Aunty. I jumped in," returned the girl, and then told her briefly about her adventure on the _Lanawaxa_. "Goodness me! Goodness me!" exclaimed Aunt Alvirah. "Whatever would your uncle say if he knew about it?" "And what is the matter with Uncle Jabez?" demanded Ruth, sitting down at the end of the table to eat her "bite." "You haven't told me that." "I 'lowed to do so," sighed the old woman. "But I don't want him to hear us a-gossipin' about it. You know how Jabez is. I dunno as he knows _I_ know what I know----" "That sounds just like a riddle, Aunt Alvirah!" laughed Ruth. "And I reckon it _is_ a riddle," she said. "I only know from piecin' this, that, and t'other together; but I reckon I fin'ly got it pretty straight about the Tintacker Mine--and your uncle's lost a power o' money by it, Ruthie." "What's the Tintacker Mine?" demanded Ruth, in wonder. "It's a silver mine. I dunno where it is, 'ceptin' it's fur out West and that your uncle put a lot of money into it and he can't git it out." "Why not?" "'Cause it's busted, I reckon." "The mine's 'busted'" repeated the puzzled Ruth. "Yes. Or so I s'pect. I'll tell ye how it come about. The feller come along here not long after you went to school last Fall, Ruthie." "What fellow?" asked Ruth, trying to get at the meat in the nut, for Aunt Alvirah was very discursive. "Now, you lemme tell it my own way, Ruthie," admonished the old woman. "You would better," and the girl laughed, and nodded. "It was one day when I was sweepin' the sittin' room--ye know, what Mercy Curtis had for her bedroom while she was out here last Summer." Ruth nodded again encouragingly, and the little old woman went on in her usual rambling way: "I was a-sweepin', as I say, and Jabez come by and put his head in at the winder. 'That's too hard for ye, Alviry,' says he. 'Let the dust be--it ain't eatin' nothin'.' Jest like a man, ye know! "'Well,' says I, 'if I didn't sweep onc't in a while, Jabez, we'd be wadin' to our boot-tops in dirt.' Like that, ye know, Ruthie. And he says, 'They hev things nowadays for suckin' up the dirt, instead of kickin' it up that-a-way,' and with that a voice says right in the yard, 'You're right there, Mister. An' I got one of 'em here to sell ye.' "There was a young feller in the yard with a funny lookin' rig-a-ma-jig in his hand, and his hat on the back of his head, and lookin' jest as busy as a toad that's swallered a hornet. My! you wouldn't think that feller had a minnit ter stay, the way he acted. Scurcely had time to sell Jabez one of them 'Vac-o-jacs,' as he called 'em." "A vacuum cleaner!" exclaimed Ruth. "That's something like it. Only it was like a carpet-sweeper, too. I seen pitchers of 'em in the back of a magazine onc't. I never b'lieved they was for more'n ornament; but that spry young feller come in and worked it for me, and he sucked up the dust out o' that ingrain carpet till ye couldn't beat a particle out o' it with an ox-goad! "But I didn't seem ter favor that Vac-o-jac none," continued Aunt Alvirah. "Ye know how close-grained yer Uncle is. I don't expect him ter buy no fancy fixin's for an ol' creetur like me. But at noon time he come in and set one o' the machines in the corner." "He bought it!" cried Ruth. "That's what he done. He says, 'Alviry, ef it's any good to ye, there it is! I calkerlate that's a smart young man. He got five dollars out o' me easier than _I_ ever got five dollars out of a man in all my days.' "I tell ye truthful, Ruthie! I can't use it by myself. It works too hard for anybody that's got my back and bones. But Ben, he comes in once in a while and works it for me. I reckon your uncle sends him." "But, Aunt Alviry!" cried Ruth. "What about the Tintacker Mine? You haven't told me a thing about _that_." "But I'm a-comin' to it," declared the old woman. "It's all of a piece--that and the Vac-o-jac. I seen the same young feller that sold Jabez the sweeper hangin' about the mill a good bit. And nights Jabez figgered up his accounts and counted his money till 'way long past midnight sometimes. Bimeby he says to me, one day: "'Alviry, that Vac-o-jac works all right; don't it?' "I didn't want to tell him it was hard to work, and it does take up the dirt, so I says 'Yes.' "'Then I reckon I'll give the boy the benefit of the doubt, and say he's honest,' says Jabez. "I didn't know what he meant, and I didn't ask. 'Twouldn't be _my_ place ter ask Jabez Potter his business--you know that, Ruthie. So I jest watched and in a day or two back come the young sweeper feller again, and we had him to dinner. This was long before Thanksgivin'. They sat at the table after dinner and I heard 'em talking about the mine." "Ah-ha!" exclaimed Ruth, with a smile. "Now we come to the mine, do we?" "I told you it was all of a piece," said Aunt Alvirah, complacently. "Well, it seemed that the boy's father--this agent warn't more than a boy, but maybe he was a sharper, jest the same--the boy's father and another man found the mine. Prospected for it, did they say?" "That is probably the word," agreed Ruth, much interested. "Well, anyhow, they found it and got out some silver. Then the boy's father bought out the other man. Then he stopped finding silver in it. And then he died, and left the mine to his folks. But the boy went out there and rummaged around the mine and found that there was still plenty of silver, only it had to be treated--or put through something--a pro--a prospect----" "Process?" suggested Ruth. "That's it, deary. Some process to refine the silver, or git it out of the ore, or something. It was all about chemicals and machinery, and all that. Your Uncle Jabez seemed to understand it, but it was all Dutch to me," declared Aunt Alvirah. "Well, what happened?" "Why," continued the old woman, "the Tintacker Mine, as the feller called it, couldn't be made to pay without machinery being bought, and all that. He had to take in a partner, he said. And I jedge your Uncle Jabez bought into the mine. Now, for all I kin hear, there ain't no mine, or no silver, or no nothin'. Leastwise, the young feller can't be heard from, and Jabez has lost his money--and a big sum it is, Ruthie. It's hurt him so that he's got smaller and smaller than ever. Begrudges the very vittles we have on the table, I believe. I'm afraid, deary, that unless there's a change he won't want you to keep on at that school you're going to, it's so expensive," and Aunt Alvirah gathered the startled girl into her arms and rocked her to and fro on her bosom. "That's what I was comin' to, deary," she sobbed. "I had ter tell ye; he told me I must. Ye can't go back to Briarwood, Ruthie, when it comes Fall." CHAPTER VI UNCLE JABEZ AT HIS WORST It was true that Mr. Potter had promised Ruth only one year at school. The miller considered he owed his grand-niece something for finding and restoring to him his cash-box which he had lost, and which contained considerable money and the stocks and bonds in which he had invested. Jabez Potter prided himself on being strictly honest. He was just according to his own notion. He owed Ruth something for what she had done--something more than her "board and keep"--and he had paid the debt. Or, so he considered. There had been a time when Uncle Jabez seemed to be less miserly. His hard old heart had warmed toward his niece--or, so Ruth believed. And he had taken a deep interest--for him--in Mercy Curtis, the lame girl. Ruth knew that Uncle Jabez and Dr. Davison together had made it possible for Mercy to attend Briarwood Hall. Of course, Uncle Jabez would cut off that charity as well, and the few tears Ruth cried that night after she went to bed were as much for Mercy's disappointment as for her own. "But maybe Dr. Davison will assume the entire cost of keeping Mercy at school," thought the girl of the Red Mill. "Or, perhaps, Mr. Curtis may have paid the debts he contracted while Mercy was so ill, and will be able to help pay her expenses at Briarwood." But about herself she could have no such hope. She knew that the cost of her schooling had been considerable. Nor had Uncle Jabez, been niggardly with her about expenditures. He had given her a ten-dollar bill for spending money at the beginning of each half; and twice during the school year had sent her an extra five-dollar bill. Her board and tuition for the year had cost over three hundred dollars; it would cost more the coming year. If Uncle Jabez had actually lost money in this Tintacker Mine Ruth could be sure that he meant what he had left to Aunt Alvirah to tell her. He would not pay for another school year. But Ruth was a persevering little body and she came of determined folk. She had continued at the district school when the circumstances were much against her. Now, having had a taste of Briarwood for one year, she was the more anxious to keep on for three years more. Besides, there was the vision of college beyond! She knew that if she remained at home, all she could look forward to was to take Aunt Alvirah's place as her uncle's housekeeper. She would have no chance to get ahead in life. Life at the Red Mill seemed a very narrow outlook indeed. Ruth meant to get an education. Somehow (there were ten long weeks of Summer vacation before her) she must think up a scheme for earning the money necessary to pay for her second year's tuition. Three hundred and fifty dollars! that was a great, great sum for a girl of Ruth Fielding's years to attempt to earn. How should she "begin to go about it"? It looked an impossible task. But Ruth possessed a fund of good sense. She was practical, if imaginative, and she was just sanguine enough to keep her temper sweet. Lying awake and worrying over it wasn't going to do her a bit of good; she knew that. Therefore she did not indulge herself long, but wiped away her tears, snuggled down into the pillow, and dropped asleep. In the morning she saw Uncle Jabez when she came down stairs. The stove smoked and he was growling about it. "Good morning, Uncle!" she cried and ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him--whether he would be kissed, or not! "There! there! so you're home; are you?" he growled. Ruth was glad to notice that he called it her _home_. She knew that he did not want a word to be said about what Aunt Alvirah had told her over night, and she set about smoothing matters over in her usual way. "You go on and 'tend to your outside chores, Uncle," she commanded. "I'll build this fire in a jiffy." "Huh! I reckon you've forgotten how to build a kitchen fire--livin' so long in a steam-heated room," he grunted. "Now, don't you believe that!" she assured him, and running out to the shed for a handful of fat-pine, or "lightwood," soon had the stove roaring comfortably. "What a comfort you be, my pretty creetur," sighed Aunt Alvirah, as she hobbled down stairs. "Oh, my back and oh, my bones! This is going to be a _creaky day_. I feel the dampness." "Don't you believe it, Aunty!" cried the girl. "The sun's going to come out and drive away every atom of this mist. Cheer up!" And she was that way all day; but deep down in her heart there was a very tender spot indeed, and in her mind the thought of giving up Briarwood rankled like a barbed arrow. She would _not_ give it up if she could help. But how ever could she earn three hundred and fifty dollars? The idea seemed preposterous. Aside from being with Aunt Alvirah, and helping her, Ruth's homecoming was not at all as she had hoped it would be. Uncle Jabez was more taciturn than ever, it seemed to the girl. She could not break through the crust of his manner. If she followed him to the mill, he was too busy to talk, or the grinding-stones made so much noise that talking was impossible. At night he did not even remain in the kitchen to count up the day's gains and to study his accounts. Instead, he retired with the cash-box and ledger to his own room. She found no opportunity of opening any discussion about Briarwood, or about the mysterious Tintacker Mine, upon which subject Aunt Alvirah had been so voluble. If the old man had lost money in the scheme, he was determined to give her no information at first hand about it. At first she was doubtful whether she should go to Lighthouse Point. Indeed, she was not sure that she _could_ go. She had no money. But before the week was out at dinner one day Uncle Jabez pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the table to her, and said: "I said ye should go down there to the seaside for a spell, Ruth. Make that money do ye," and before she could either thank him or refuse the money, Uncle Jabez stumped out of the house. In the afternoon Helen drove over in the pony carriage to take Ruth to town, so the latter could assure her chum that she would go to Lighthouse Point and be one of Jennie Stone's bungalow party. They called on Dr. Davison and the girl from the Red Mill managed to get a word in private with the first friend she had made on her arrival at Cheslow (barring Tom Cameron's mastiff, Reno) and told him of conditions as she had found them at home. "So, it looks as though I had got to make my own way through school, Doctor, and it troubles me a whole lot," Ruth said to the grave physician. "But what bothers me, too, is Mercy----" "Don't worry about Goody Two-Sticks," returned the doctor, quickly. "Your uncle served notice on me a week before you came home that he could not help to put her through Briarwood beyond this term that is closed. I told him he needn't bother. Sam Curtis is in better shape than he was, and we'll manage to find the money to put that sharp little girl of his where she can get all the education she can possibly soak in. But you, Ruth----" "I'm going to find a way, too," declared Ruth, independently, yet secretly feeling much less confidence than she appeared to have. Mercy was all ready for the seaside party when the girls called at the Curtis cottage. The lame girl was in her summer house, sewing and singing softly to herself. She no longer glared at the children as they ran by, or shook her fist at them as she used to, because they could dance and she could not. On Monday they would start for the shore, meeting Heavy and the others on the train, and spending a good part of the day riding to Lighthouse Point. Mr. Cameron had exercised his influence with certain railroad officials and obtained a private car for the young folk. The Cameron twins and Ruth and Mercy would get aboard the car at Cheslow, and Jennie Stone and her other guests would join them at Jennie's home town. Between that day and the time of her departure Ruth tried to get closer to Uncle Jabez; but the miller went about with lowering brow and scarcely spoke to either Ruth or Aunt Alvirah. "It's jest as well ye air goin' away again so quick, my pretty," said the old woman, sadly. "When Jabez gits one o' these moods on him there ain't nobody understands him so well as me. I don't mind if he don't speak. I talk right out loud what I have to say an' he can hear an' reply, or hear an' keep dumb, jest whichever he likes. They say 'hard words don't break no bones' an' sure enough bein' as dumb as an oyster ain't hurtin' none, either. You go 'long an' have your fun with your mates, Ruthie. Mebbe Jabez will be over his grouch when you come back." But Ruth was afraid that the miller would change but little unless there was first an emphatic betterment in the affairs of the Tintacker Mine. CHAPTER VII THE SIGNAL GUN The train did not slow down for Sandtown until after mid-afternoon, and when the party of young folk alighted from the private car there were still five miles of heavy roads between them and Lighthouse Point. It had been pleasant enough when Ruth Fielding and her companions left Cheslow, far up in New York State; but now to the south and east the heavens were masked by heavy, lead-colored clouds, and the wind came from the sea in wild, rain-burdened gusts. "My! how sharp it is!" cried Ruth. "And it's salt!" "The salt's in the air--especially when there is a storm at sea," explained Heavy. "And I guess we've landed just in time to see a gale. I hope it won't last long and spoil our good time." "Oh, but to see the ocean in a storm--that will be great!" cried Madge Steele. The Stones' house had been open for some days and there were two wagons in readiness for the party. The three boys and the baggage went in one, while the five girls crowded into the other and both wagons were driven promptly toward the shore. The girls were just as eager as they could be, and chattered like magpies. All but Mary Cox. She had been much unlike her usual self all day. When she had joined the party in the private car that morning, Ruth noticed that The Fox looked unhappy. Her eyes were swollen as though she had been weeping and she had very little to say. For one thing Ruth was really thankful. The Fox said nothing to her about the accident on the _Lanawaxa_. She may have been grateful for Ruth's timely assistance when she fell into Lake Osago; but she succeeded in effectually hiding her gratitude. Heavy, however, confided to Ruth that Mary had found sore trouble at home when she returned from Briarwood. Her father had died the year before and left his business affairs in a tangle. Mary's older brother, John, had left college and set about straightening out matters. And now something serious had happened to John. He had gone away on business and for weeks his mother had heard nothing from him. "I didn't know but Mary would give up coming with us--just as Lluella and Belle did," said the stout girl. "But there is nothing she can do at home, and I urged her to come. We must all try to make it particularly pleasant for her." Ruth was perfectly willing to do her share; but one can scarcely make it pleasant for a person who refuses to speak to one. And the girl from the Red Mill could not help feeling that The Fox had done her best to make _her_ withdraw from Jennie Stone's party. The sea was not in sight until the wagons had been driven more than half the distance to the Stone bungalow. Then, suddenly rounding a sandy hill, they saw the wide sweep of the ocean in the distance, and the small and quieter harbor on the inviting shore of which the bungalow was built. Out upon the far point of this nearer sandy ridge was built the white shaft of the Sokennet Light. Sokennet village lay upon the other side of the harbor. On this side a few summer homes had been erected, and beyond the lighthouse was a low, wind-swept building which Heavy told the girls was the life saving station. "We'll have lots of fun down there. Cap'n Abinadab Cope is just the nicest old man you ever saw!" declared Heavy. "And he can tell the most thrilling stories of wrecks along the coast. And there's the station 'day book' that records everything they do, from the number of pounds of coal and gallons of kerosene used each day, to how they save whole shiploads of people----" "Let's ask him to save a shipload for our especial benefit," laughed Madge. "I suppose there's only one wreck in fifteen or twenty years, hereabout." "Nothing of the kind! Sometimes there are a dozen in one winter. And lots of times the surfmen go off in a boat and save ships from being wrecked. In a fog, you know. Ships get lost in a fog sometimes, just as folks get lost in a forest----" "Or in a blizzard," cried Helen, with a lively remembrance of their last winter's experience at Snow Camp. "Nothing like that will happen here, you know," said Ruth, laughing. "Heavy promised that we shouldn't be lost in a snowstorm at Lighthouse Point." "But hear the sea roar!" murmured Mary Cox. "Oh! look at the waves!" They had now come to where they could see the surf breaking over a ledge, or reef, off the shore some half-mile. The breakers piled up as high--seemingly--as a tall house; and when they burst upon the rock they completely hid it for the time. "Did you ever see such a sight!" cried Madge. "'The sea in its might'!" The gusts of rain came more plentifully as they rode on, and so rough did the wind become, the girls were rather glad when the wagons drove in at the gateway of the Stone place. Immediately around the house the owner had coaxed some grass to grow--at an expense, so Jennie said, of about "a dollar a blade." But everywhere else was the sand--cream-colored, yellow, gray and drab, or slate where the water washed over it and left it glistening. The entrance was at the rear; the bungalow faced the cove, standing on a ridge which--as has been before said--continued far out to the lighthouse. "And a woman keeps the light. Her husband kept it for many, many years; but he died a year ago and the government has continued her as keeper. She's a nice old lady, is Mother Purling, and she can tell stories, too, that will make your hair curl!" "I'm going over there right away," declared Mary, who had begun to be her old self again. "Mine is as straight as an Indian's." "A woman alone in a lighthouse! isn't that great?" cried Helen. "She is alone sometimes; but there is an assistant keeper. His name is Crab--and that's what he is!" declared Heavy. "Oh, I can see right now that we're going to have great fun here," observed Madge. This final conversation was carried on after the girls had run into the house for shelter from a sharp gust of rain, and had been taken upstairs by their hostess to the two big rooms in the front of the bungalow which they were to sleep in. From the windows they could see across the cove to the village and note all the fishing and pleasure boats bobbing at their moorings. Right below them was a long dock built out from Mr. Stone's property, and behind it was moored a motor-launch, a catboat, and two rowboats--quite a little fleet. "You see, there isn't a sail in the harbor--nor outside. That shows that the storm now blowing up is bound to be a stiff one," explained Heavy. "For the fishermen of Sokennet are as daring as any on the coast, and I have often seen them run out to the banks into what looked to be the very teeth of a gale!" Meanwhile, the boys had been shown to a good-sized room at the back of the house, and they were already down again and outside, breasting the intermittent squalls from the sea. They had no curls and furbelows to arrange, and ran all about the place before dinner time. But ere that time arrived the night had shut down. The storm clouds hung low and threatened a heavy rainfall at any moment. Off on the horizon was a livid streak which seemed to divide the heavy ocean from the wind-thrashed clouds. The company that gathered about the dinner table was a lively one, even if the wind did shriek outside and the thunder of the surf kept up a continual accompaniment to their conversation--like the deeper notes of a mighty organ. Mr. Stone, himself, was not present; but one of Heavy's young aunts had come down to oversee the party, and she was no wet blanket upon the fun. Of course, the "goodies" on the table were many. Trust Heavy for that. The old black cook, who had been in the Stone family for a generation, doted on the stout girl and would cook all day to please her young mistress. They had come to the dessert course when suddenly Tom Cameron half started from his chair and held up a hand for silence. "What's the matter, Tommy?" demanded Busy Izzy, inquisitively. "What do you hear?" "Listen!" commanded Tom. The hilarity ceased suddenly, and all those at the table listened intently. The sudden hush made the noise of the elements seem greater. "What did you hear?" finally asked his sister. "A gun--there!" A distant, reverberating sound was repeated. They all heard it. Heavy and her aunt, Miss Kate, glanced at each other with sudden comprehension. "What is it?" Ruth cried. "It's a signal gun," Heavy said, rather weakly. "A ship in distress," explained Miss Kate, and her tone hushed their clamor. A third time the report sounded. The dining room door opened and the butler entered. "What is it, Maxwell?" asked Miss Kate. "A ship on the Second Reef, Miss," he said hurriedly. "She was sighted just before dark, driving in. But it was plain that she was helpless, and had gone broadside on to the rock. She'll break up before morning, the fishermen say. It will be an awful wreck, ma'am, for there is no chance of the sea going down." CHAPTER VIII THE LIFEBOAT IS LAUNCHED The announcement quelled all the jollity of the party on the instant. Heavy even lost interest in the sweetmeats before her. "Goodness me! what a terrible thing," cried Helen Cameron. "A ship on the rocks!" "Let's go see it!" Busy Izzy cried. "If we can," said Tom. "Is it possible, Miss Kate?" Heavy's aunt looked at the butler for information. He was one of those well-trained servants who make it their business to know everything. "I can have the ponies put into the long buckboard. The young ladies can drive to the station; the young gentlemen can walk. It is not raining very hard at present." Mercy elected to remain in the house with Miss Kate. The other girls were just as anxious to go to the beach as the boys. There were no timid ones in the party. But when they came down, dressed in rainy-weather garments, and saw the man standing at the ponies' heads, glistening in wet rubber, if one had withdrawn probably all would have given up the venture. The boys had already gone on ahead, and the ship's gun sounded mournfully through the wild night, at short intervals. They piled into the three seats of the buckboard, Ruth sitting beside the driver. The ponies dashed away along the sandy road. It was two miles to the life saving station. They passed the three boys when they were only half way to their destination. "Tell 'em not to save all the people from the wreck till we get there!" shouted Tom Cameron. None of the visitors to Lighthouse Point realized the seriousness of the happening as yet. They were yet to see for the first time a good ship battering her life out against the cruel rocks. Nor did the girls see the wreck at first, for a pall of darkness lay upon the sea. There were lights in the station and a huge fire of driftwood burned on the beach. Around this they saw figures moving, and Heavy said, as she alighted: "We'll go right down there. There are some women and children already--see? Sam will put the horses under the shed here." The five girls locked arms and ran around the station. When they came to the front of the building, a great door was wheeled back at one side and men in oilskins were seen moving about a boat in the shed. The lifeboat was on a truck and they were just getting ready to haul her down to the beach. "And the wreck must have struck nearly an hour ago!" cried Madge. "How slow they are." "No," said Heavy thoughtfully. "It is July now, and Uncle Sam doesn't believe there will be any wrecks along this coast until September. In the summer Cap'n Abinadab keeps the station alone. It took some time to-night to find a crew--and possibly some of these men are volunteers." But now that the life-savers had got on the ground, they went to work with a briskness and skill that impressed the onlookers. They tailed onto the drag rope and hauled the long, glistening white boat down to the very edge of the sea. The wind was directly onshore, and it was a fight to stand against it, let alone to haul such a heavy truck through the wet sand. Suddenly there was a glow at sea and the gun boomed out again. Then a pale signal light burned on the deck of the foundered vessel. As the light grew those ashore could see her lower rigging and the broken masts and spars. She lay over toward the shore and her deck seemed a snarl of lumber. Between the reef and the beach, too, the water was a-foul with wreckage and planks of all sizes. "Lumber-laden, boys--and her deck load's broke loose!" shouted one man. The surf roared in upon the sands, and then sucked out again with a whine which made Ruth shudder. The sea seemed like some huge, ravening beast eager for its prey. "How can they ever launch the boat into those waves?" Ruth asked of Heavy. "Oh, they know how," returned the stout girl. But the life-savers were in conference about their captain. He was a short, sturdy old man with a squarely trimmed "paint-brush" beard. The girls drew nearer to the group and heard one of the surfmen say: "We'll smash her, Cap, sure as you're born! Those planks are charging in like battering-rams." "We'll try it, Mason," returned Cap'n Abinadab. "I don't believe we can shoot a line to her against this gale. Ready!" The captain got in at the stern and the others took their places in the boat. Each man had a cork belt strapped around his body under his arms. There were a dozen other men to launch the lifeboat into the surf when the captain gave the word. He stood up and watched the breakers rolling in. As a huge one curved over and broke in a smother of foam and spray he shouted some command which the helpers understood. The boat started, truck and all, and immediately the men launching her were waist deep in the surging, hissing sea. The returning billow carried the boat off the truck, and the lifeboatmen plunged in their oars and pulled. Their short sharp strokes were in such unison that the men seemed moved by the same mind. The long boat shot away from the beach and mounted the incoming wave like a cork. The men ashore drew back the boat-truck out of the way. The lifeboat seemed to hang on that wave as though hesitating to take the plunge. Ruth thought that it would be cast back--a wreck itself--upon the beach. But suddenly it again sprang forward, and the curling surf hid boat and men for a full minute from the gaze of those on shore. The girls clung together and gazed eagerly out into the shifting shadows that overspread the riotous sea. "They've sunk!" gasped Helen. "No, no!" cried Heavy. "There! see them?" The boat's bow rose to meet the next wave. They saw the men pulling as steadily as though the sea were smooth. Old Cap'n Abinadab still stood upright in the stern, grasping the heavy steering oar. "I've read," said Ruth, more quietly, "that these lifeboats are unsinkable--unless they are completely wrecked. Water-tight compartments, you know." "That's right, Miss," said one of the men nearby. "She can't sink. But she can be smashed--Ah!" A shout came back to them from the sea. The wind whipped the cry past them in a most eerie fashion. "Cap'n Abinadab shouting to the men," explained Heavy, breathlessly. Suddenly another signal light was touched off upon the wreck. The growing light flickered over the entire expanse of lumber-littered sea between the reef and the beach. They could see the lifeboat more clearly. She rose and sank, rose and sank, upon wave after wave, all the time fighting her way out from the shore. Again and again they heard the awesome cry. The captain was warning his men how to pull to escape the charging timbers. The next breaker that rolled in brought with it several great planks that were dashed upon the beach with fearful force. The splinters flew into the air, the wind whipping them across the sands. The anxious spectators had to dodge. The timbers ground together as the sea sucked them back. Again and again they were rolled in the surf, splintering against each other savagely. "One of those would go through that boat like she was made of paper!" bawled one of the fishermen. At that moment they saw the lifeboat lifted upon another huge wave. She was a full cable's length from the shore, advancing very slowly. In the glare of the Coston light the anxious spectators saw her swerve to port to escape a huge timber which charged upon her. The girls screamed. The great stick struck the lifeboat a glancing blow. In an instant she swung broadside to the waves, and then rolled over and over in the trough of the sea. A chorus of shouts and groans went up from the crowd on shore. The lifeboat and her courageous crew had disappeared. CHAPTER IX THE GIRL IN THE RIGGING "Oh! isn't it awful!" cried Helen, clinging to Ruth Fielding. "I wish I hadn't come." "They're lost!" quavered Mary Cox. "They're drowned!" But Heavy was more practical. "They can't drown so easily--with those cork-vests on 'em. There! the boat's righted." It was a fact. Much nearer the shore, it was true, but the lifeboat was again right side up. They saw the men creep in over her sides and seize the oars which had been made fast to her so that they could not be lost. But the lifeboat was not so buoyant, and it was plain that she had been seriously injured. Cap'n Abinadab dared not go on to the wreck. "That timber mashed her in for'ard," declared a fisherman standing near the girls. "They've got to give it up this time." "Can't steer in such a clutter of wreckage," declared another. "Not with an oared boat. She ought to be a motor. Every other station on this coast, from Macklin to Cape Brender, has a lifeboat driven by a motor. Sokennet allus has to take other folks' leavin's." Helplessly the lifeboat drifted shoreward. The girls watched her, almost holding their breath with excitement. The three boys raced down to the beach now and joined them. "Crickey!" yelped little Isadore Phelps. "We're almost too late to see the fun!" "Hush!" commanded Ruth, sharply. "Your idea of fun, young man, is very much warped," Madge Steele added. "Haven't they got the wrecked people off?" demanded Tom, in wonder. At the moment an added Coston burned up on the wreck. Its uncertain glare revealed the shrouds and torn lower rigging. They saw several figures--outlined in the glaring light--lashed to the stays and broken spars. The craft was a schooner, lumber-laden, and the sea had now cast her so far over on her beam-ends that her deck was like a wall confronting the shore. Against this background the crew were visible, clinging desperately to hand-holds, or lashed to the rigging. And a great cry went suddenly up from the crowd ashore. "There's women aboard her--poor lost souls!" quavered one old dame who had seen many a terrifying wreck along the coast. Ruth Fielding's sharper eyes had discovered that one of the figures clinging to the wreck was too small for a grown person. "It's a child!" she murmured. "It's a girl. Oh, Helen! there's a girl--no older than we--on that wreck!" The words of the men standing about them proved Ruth's statement to be true. Others had descried the girl's figure in that perilous situation. There was a woman, too, and seven men. Seven men were ample to man a schooner of her size, and probably the other two were the captain's wife and daughter. But if escape to the shore depended upon the work of the lifeboat and her crew, the castaways were in peril indeed, for the boat was coming shoreward now with a rush. With her came the tossing, charging timbers washed from the deck load. The sea between the reef and the beach was now a seething mass of broken and splintering planks and beams. No craft could live in such a seaway. But Ruth and her friends were suddenly conscious of a peril nearer at hand. The broken lifeboat with its crew was being swept shoreward upon a great wave, and with the speed of an express train. The great, curling, foam-streaked breaker seemed to hurl the heavy boat through the air. "They'll be killed! Oh, they will!" shrieked Mary Cox. The long craft, half-smothered in foam, and accompanied by the plunging timbers from the wreck, darted shoreward with increasing velocity. One moment it was high above their heads, with the curling wave ready to break, and the sea sucking away beneath its keel--bared for half its length. Crash! Down the boat was dashed, with a blow that (so it seemed to the unaccustomed spectators) must tear it asunder. The crew were dashed from their places by the shock. The waiting longshoremen ran to seize the broken boat and drag it above high-water mark. One of the crew was sucked back with the undertow and disappeared for a full minute. But he came in, high on the next wave, and they caught and saved him. To the amazement of Ruth Fielding and her young companions, none of the seven men who had manned the boat seemed much the worse for their experience. They breathed heavily and their faces were grim. She could almost have sworn that the youngest of the crew--he had the figure "6" worked on the sleeve of his coat--had tears of disappointment in his eyes. "It's a desperate shame, lads!" croaked old Cap'n Abinadab. "We're bested. And the old boat's badly smashed. But there's one thing sure--no other boat, nor no other crew, couldn't do what we started to do. Ain't no kick comin' on that score." "And can't the poor creatures out there be helped? Must they drown?" whispered Helen in Ruth's ear. Ruth did not believe that these men would give up so easily. They were rough seamen; but the helplessness of the castaways appealed to them. "Come on, boys!" commanded the captain of the life saving crew. "Let's git out the wagon. I don't suppose there's any use, unless there comes a lull in this etarnal gale. But we'll try what gunpowder will do." "What are they going to attempt now?" Madge Steele asked. "The beach wagon," said somebody. "They've gone for the gear." This was no explanation to the girls until Tom Cameron came running back from the house and announced that the crew were going to try to reach the schooner with a line. "They'll try to save them with the breeches buoy," he said. "They've got a life-car here; but they never use that thing nowadays if they can help. Too many castaways have been near smothered in it, they say. If they can get a line over the wreck they'll haul the crew in, one at a time." "And that girl!" cried Ruth. "I hope they will send her ashore first. How frightened she must be." There was no more rain falling now, although the spray whipped from the crests of the waves was flung across the beach and wet the sightseers. But with the lightening of the clouds a pale glow seemed to spread itself upon the tumultuous sea. The wreck could be seen almost as vividly as when the signal lights were burned. The torn clouds were driven across the heavens as rapidly as the huge waves raced shoreward. And behind both cloud and wave was the seething gale. There seemed no prospect of the wind's falling. Ruth turned to see the crew which had failed to get the lifeboat to the wreck, trundling a heavy, odd-looking, two-wheeled wagon down upon the beach. They worked as though their fight with the sea had been but the first round of the battle. Their calmness and skillful handling of the breeches buoy gear inspired the onlookers with renewed hope. "Oh, Cap'n Abinadab and the boys will get 'em this time," declared Heavy. "You just watch." And Ruth Fielding and the others were not likely to miss any motion of the crew of the life saving station. The latter laid out the gear with quick, sure action. The cannon was placed in position and loaded. The iron bar to which the line was attached was slipped into the muzzle of the gun. The men stood back and the captain pulled the lanyard. Bang! The sharp bark of the line-gun echoed distressingly in their ears. It jumped back a pace, for the captain had charged it to the full limit allowed by the regulations. A heavier charge might burst the gun. The line-iron hurtled out over the sea in a long, graceful curve, the line whizzing after it. The line unwound so rapidly from the frame on which it was coiled that Ruth's gaze could not follow it. The sea was light enough for them to follow the course of the iron, however, and a groan broke from the lips of the onlookers when they saw that the missile fell far short of the wreck. To shoot the line into the very teeth of this gale, as Cap'n Abinadab had said, was futile. Yet he would not give up the attempt. This was the only way that was now left for them to aid the unfortunate crew of the lumber schooner. If they could not get the breeches buoy to her the sea would be the grave of the castaways. For already the waves, smashing down upon the grounded wreck, were tearing it apart. She would soon break in two, and then the remaining rigging and spars would go by the board and with them the crew and passengers. Yet Captain Abinadab Cope refused to give over his attempts to reach the wreck. "Haul in!" he commanded gruffly, when the line fell short. Ruth marveled at the skill of the man who rewound the wet line on the pegs of the frame that held it. In less than five minutes the life-savers were ready for another shot. "You take it when the regular crew are at practice, sometimes," whispered Heavy, to Ruth, "and they work like lightning. They'll shoot the line and get a man ashore in the breeches buoy in less than two minutes. But this is hard work for these volunteers--and it means so much!" Ruth felt as though a hand clutched at her heart. The unshed tears stung her eyes. If they should fail--if all this effort should go for naught! Suppose that unknown girl out there on the wreck should be washed ashore in the morning, pallid and dead. The thought almost overwhelmed the girl from the Red Mill. As the gun barked a second time and the shot and line hurtled seaward, Ruth Fielding's pale lips uttered a whispered prayer. CHAPTER X THE DOUBLE CHARGE But again the line fell short. "They'll never be able to make it," Tom Cameron said to the shivering girls. "Oh, I really wish we hadn't come down here," murmured his sister. "Oh, pshaw, Nell! don't be a baby," he growled. But he was either winking back the tears himself, or the salt spray had gotten into his eyes. How could anybody stand there on the beach and feel unmoved when nine human beings, in view now and then when the billows fell, were within an ace of awful death? Again and again the gun was shotted and the captain pulled the lanyard. He tried to catch the moment when there was a lull in the gale; but each time the shot fell short. It seemed to be merely a waste of human effort and gunpowder. "I've 'phoned to the Minot Cove station," the captain said, during one of the intervals while they were hauling in the line. "They've got a power boat there, and if they can put to sea with her they might get around to the other side of the reef and take 'em off." "She'll go to pieces before a boat can come from Minot Cove," declared one grizzled fisherman. "I fear so, Henry," replied the captain. "But we got to do what we can. They ain't give me no leeway with this gun. Orders is never to give her a bigger charge than what she's gettin' now. But, I swan----" He did not finish his sentence, but gravely measured out the next charge of powder. When he had loaded the gun he waved everybody back. "Git clean away, you lads. All of ye, now! She'll probably blow up, but there ain't no use in more'n one of us blowin' up with her." "What you done, Cap'n?" demanded one of his crew. "Never you mind, lad. Step back, I tell ye. She's slewed right now, I reckon." "What have you got in her?" demanded the man again. "I'm goin' to reach them folk if I can," returned Cap'n Abinadab. "I've double charged her. If she don't carry the line this time, she never will. And she may carry it over the wreck, even if she blows up. Look out!" "Don't ye do it!" cried the man, Mason, starting forward. "If you pull that lanyard ye'll be blowed sky-high." "Well, who should pull it if I don't?" demanded the old captain of the station, grimly. "Guess old 'Binadab Cope ain't goin' to step back for you young fellers yet a while. Come! git, I tell ye! Far back--afar back." "Oh! he'll be killed!" murmured Ruth. "You come back here, Ruth Fielding!" commanded Tom, clutching her arm. "If that gun blows up we want to be a good bit away." The whole party ran back. They saw the last of the crew leave the old captain. He stood firmly, at one side of the gun, his legs placed wide apart; they saw him pull the lanyard. Fire spat from the muzzle of the gun and with a shriek the shot-line was carried seaward, toward the wreck. The old gun, double charged, turned a somersault and buried its muzzle in the sand. The captain dodged, and went down--perhaps thrown by the force of the explosion. But the gun did not burst. However, he was upon his feet again in a moment, and all the crowd were shouting their congratulations. The flying line had carried squarely over the middle of the wreck. "Now, will they know what to do with it?" gasped Ruth. "Wait! see that man--that man in the middle? The line passed over his shoulder!" cried Heavy. "See! he's got it." "And he's hauling on it," cried Tom. "There goes the line with the board attached," said Madge Steele, exultantly. The girls had already examined this painted board. On it were plain, though brief, instructions in English, French, and Italian, to the wrecked crew as to what they should do to aid in their own rescue. But this schooner was probably from up Maine way, or the "blue-nose country" of Nova Scotia, and her crew would be familiar with the rigging of the breeches buoy. They saw, as another light was burned on the wreck, the man who had seized the line creep along to the single mast then standing. It was broken short off fifteen feet above the deck. He hauled out the shot-line, and then a mate came to his assistance and they rigged the larger line that followed and attached the block to the stump of the mast. Then on shore the crew of the life saving station and the fishermen--even the boys from the bungalow--hauled on the cable, and soon sent the gear across the tossing waves. They had erected a stout pair of wooden "shears" in the sand and over this the breeches buoy gear ran. It went out empty, but the moment it reached the staggering wreck the men there popped the woman into the sack and those ashore hauled in. Over and through the waves she came, and when they caught her at the edge of the surf and dragged the heavy buoy on to the dry land, she was all but breathless, and was crying. "Don't ye fear, Missus," said one rough but kindly boatman. "We'll have yer little gal ashore in a jiffy." "She--she isn't my child, poor thing," panted the woman. "I'm Captain Kirby's wife. Poor Jim! he won't leave till the last one----" "Of course he won't, ma'am--and you wouldn't want him to," broke in Cap'n Cope. "A skipper's got to stand by his ship till his crew an' passengers are safe. Now, you go right up to the station----" "Oh, no, no!" she cried. "I must see them all safe ashore." The huge buoy was already being hauled back to the wreck. There was no time to be lost, for the waves had torn away the after-deck and it was feared the forward deck and the mast would soon go. Ruth went to the woman and spoke to her softly. "Who is the little girl, please?" she asked. "She ain't little, Miss--no littler than you," returned Mrs. Kirby. "Her name is Nita." "Nita?" "That's what she calls herself." "Nita what?" asked Ruth. "I don't know, I'm sure. I believe she's run away from her folks. She won't tell much about herself. She only came aboard at Portland. In fact, I found her there on the dock, and she seemed hungry and neglected, and she told us first that she wanted to go to her folks in New York--and that's where the _Whipstitch_ was bound." "The _Whipstitch_ is the name of the schooner?" "Yes, Miss. And now Jim's lost her. But--thanks be!--she was insured," said the captain's wife. At that moment another hearty shout went up from the crowd on shore. The breeches buoy was at the wreck again. They saw the men there lift the girl into the buoy, which was rigged like a great pair of overalls. The passenger sat in this sack, with her legs thrust through the apertures below, and clung to the ring of the buoy, which was level with her shoulders. She started from the ship in this rude conveyance, and the girls gathered eagerly to greet her when she landed. But several waves washed completely over the breeches buoy and the girl was each time buried from sight. She was unconscious when they lifted her out. She was a black-haired girl of fourteen or thereabout, well built and strong. The captain's wife was too anxious about the crew to pay much attention to the waif, and Ruth and her friends bore Nita, the castaway, off to the station, where it was warm. The boys remained to see the last of the crew--Captain Kirby himself--brought ashore. And none too soon was this accomplished, for within the half hour the schooner had broken in two. Its wreckage and the lumber with which it had been loaded so covered the sea between the reef and the shore that the waves were beaten down, and had it been completely calm an active man could have traveled dry-shod over the flotsam to the reef. Meanwhile Nita had been brought to her senses. But there was nothing at the station for the girl from the wreck to put on while her own clothing was dried, and it was Heavy who came forward with a very sensible suggestion. "Let's take her home with us. Plenty of things there. Wrap her up good and warm and we'll take her on the buckboard. We can all crowd on--all but the boys." The boys had not seen enough yet, anyway, and were not ready to go; but the girls were eager to return to the bungalow--especially when they could take the castaway with them. "And there we'll get her to tell us all about it," whispered Helen to Ruth. "My! she must have an interesting story to tell." CHAPTER XI THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAY There was only the cook in the station and nobody to stop the girls from taking Nita away. She had recovered her senses, but scarcely appreciated as yet where she was; nor did she seem to care what became of her. Heavy called the man who had driven them over, and in ten minutes after she was ashore the castaway was on the buckboard with her new friends and the ponies were bearing them all at a spanking pace toward the Stone bungalow on Lighthouse Point. The fact that this strange girl had been no relation of the wife of the schooner's captain, and that Mrs. Kirby seemed, indeed, to know very little about her, mystified the stout girl and her friends exceedingly. They whispered a good deal among themselves about the castaway; but she sat between Ruth and Helen and they said little to her during the ride. She had been wrapped in a thick blanket at the station and was not likely to take cold; but Miss Kate and old Mammy Laura bustled about a good deal when Nita was brought into the bungalow; and very shortly she was tucked into one of the beds on the second floor--in the very room in which Ruth and Helen and Mercy were to sleep--and Miss Kate had insisted upon her swallowing a bowl of hot tea. Nita seemed to be a very self-controlled girl. She didn't weep, now that the excitement was past, as most girls would have done. But at first she was very silent, and watched her entertainers with snapping black eyes and--Ruth thought--in rather a sly, sharp way. She seemed to be studying each and every one of the girls--and Miss Kate and Mammy Laura as well. The boys came home after a time and announced that every soul aboard the _Whipstitch_ was safe and sound in the life saving station. And the captain's wife had sent over word that she and her husband would go back to Portland the next afternoon. If the girl they had picked up there on the dock wished to return, she must be ready to go with them. "What, go back to that town?" cried the castaway when Ruth told her this, sitting right up in bed. "Why, that's the _last_ place!" "Then you don't belong in Portland?" asked Ruth. "I should hope not!" "Nor in Maine?" asked Madge, for the other girls were grouped about the room. They were all anxious to hear the castaway's story. The girl was silent for a moment, her lips very tightly pressed together. Finally she said, with her sly look: "I guess I ain't obliged to tell you that; am I?" "Witness does not wish to incriminate herself," snapped Mercy, her eyes dancing. "Well, I don't know that I'm bound to tell you girls everything I know," said the strange girl, coolly. "Right-oh!" cried Heavy, cordially. "You're visiting me. I don't know as it is anybody's business how you came to go aboard the _Whipstitch_----" "Oh, I don't mind telling you that," said the girl, eagerly. "I was hungry." "Hungry!" chorused her listeners, and Heavy said: "Fancy being hungry, and having to go aboard a ship to get a meal!" "That was it exactly," said Nita, bluntly. "But Mrs. Kirby was real good to me. And the schooner was going to New York and that's where I wanted to go." "Because your folks live there?" shot in The Fox. "No, they don't, Miss Smartie!" snapped back the castaway. "You don't catch me so easy. I wasn't born yesterday, Miss! My folks don't live in New York. Maybe I haven't any folks. I came from clear way out West, anyway--so now! I thought 'way down East must be the finest place in the world. But it isn't." "Did you run away to come East?" asked Ruth, quietly. "Well--I came here, anyway. And I don't much like it, I can tell you." "Ah-ha!" cried Mercy Curtis, chuckling to herself. "I know. She thought Yankee Land was just flowing in milk and honey. Listen! here's what she said to herself before she ran away from home: "I wish I'd lived away Down East, Where codfish salt the sea, And where the folks have apple sass And punkin pie fer tea!" "That's the 'Western Girl's Lament,'" pursued Mercy. "So you found 'way down East nothing like what you thought it was?" The castaway scowled at the sharp-tongued lame girl for a moment. Then she nodded. "It's the folks," she said. "You're all so afraid of a stranger. Do I look like I'd _bite_?" "Maybe not ordinarily," said Helen, laughing softly. "But you do not look very pleasant just now." "Well, people haven't been nice to me," grumbled the Western girl. "I thought there were lots of rich men in the East, and that a girl could make friends 'most anywhere, and get into nice families----" "To _work?_" asked Ruth, curiously. "No, no! You know, you read a lot about rich folks taking up girls and doing everything for them--dressing them fine, and sending them to fancy schools, and all that." "I never read of any such thing in my life!" declared Mary Cox. "I guess you've been reading funny books." "Huh!" sniffed the castaway, who was evidently a runaway and was not made sorry for her escapade even by being wrecked at sea. "Huh! I like a story with some life in it, I do! Jib Pottoway had some dandy paper-covered novels in his locker and he let me read 'em----" "Who under the sun is Jib Pottoway?" gasped Helen. "That isn't a real name; is it?" "It's ugly enough to be real; isn't it?" retorted the strange girl, chuckling. "Yep. That's Jib's real name. 'Jibbeway Pottoway'--that's the whole of it." "Oh, oh!" cried Heavy, with her hand to her face. "It makes my jaw ache to even try to say it." "What is he?" asked Madge, curiously. "Injun," returned the Western girl, laconically. "Or, part Injun. He comes from 'way up Canada way. His folks had Jibbeway blood." "But _who_ is he?" queried Ruth, curiously. "Why, he's a puncher that works for----Well, he's a cow puncher. That's 'nuff. It don't matter where he works," added the girl, gruffly. "That might give away where you come from, eh?" put in Mercy. "It might," and Nita laughed. "But what is your name?" asked Ruth. "Nita, I tell you." "Nita what?" "Never mind. Just Nita. Mebbe I never had another name. Isn't one name at a time sufficient, Miss?" "I don't believe that is your really-truly name," said Ruth, gravely. "I bet you're right, Ruth Fielding!" cried Heavy, chuckling. "'Nita' and 'Jib Pottoway' don't seem to go together. 'Nita' is altogether too fancy." "It's a nice name!" exclaimed the strange girl, in some anger. "It was the name of the girl in the paper-covered novel--and it's good enough for me." "But what's your real name?" urged Ruth. "I'm not telling you that," replied the runaway, shortly. "Then you prefer to go under a false name--even among your friends?" asked the girl from the Red Mill. "How do I know you're my friends?" demanded Nita, promptly. "We can't very well be your enemies," said Helen, in some disgust. "I don't know. Anybody's my enemy who wants to send me back--well, anyone who wants to return me to the place I came from." "Was it an institution?" asked Mary Cox quickly. "What's that?" demanded Nita, puzzled. "What do you mean by an 'institution'?" "She means a sort of school," explained Ruth. "Yes!" exclaimed The Fox, sharply. "A reform school, or something of the kind. Maybe an almshouse." "Never heard of 'em," returned Nita, unruffled by the insinuation. "Guess they don't have 'em where I come from. Did _you_ go to one, Miss?" Heavy giggled, and Madge Steele rapped The Fox smartly on the shoulder. "There!" said the senior. "It serves you right, Mary Cox. You're answered." "Now, I tell you what it is!" cried the strange girl, sitting up in bed again and looking rather flushed, "if you girls are going to nag me, and bother me about who I am, and where I come from, and what my name is--though Nita's a good enough name for anybody----" "Anybody but Jib Pottoway," chuckled Heavy. "Well! and _he_ warn't so bad, if he _was_ half Injun," snapped the runaway. "Well, anyway, if you don't leave me alone I'll get out of bed right now and walk out of here. I guess you haven't any hold on me." "Better wait till your clothes are dry," suggested Madge. "Aunt Kate would never let you go," said Heavy. "I'll go to-morrow morning, then!" cried the runaway. "Why, we don't mean to nag you," interposed Ruth, soothingly. "But of course we're curious--and interested." "You're like all the other Eastern folk I've met," declared Nita. "And I don't like you much. I thought _you_ were different." "You've been expecting some rich man to adopt you, and dress you in lovely clothes, and all that, eh?" said Mercy Curtis. "Well! I guess there are not so many millionaires in the East as they said there was," grumbled Nita. "Or else they've already got girls of their own to look after," laughed Ruth. "Why, Helen here, has a father who is very rich. But you couldn't expect him to give up Helen and Tom and take you into his home instead, could you?" Nita glanced at the dry-goods merchant's daughter with more interest for a moment. "And Heavy's father is awfully rich, too," said Ruth. "But he's got Heavy to support----" "And that's some job," broke in Madge, laughing. "Two such daughters as Heavy would make poor dear Papa Stone a pauper!" "Well," said Nita, again, "I've talked enough. I won't tell you where I come from. And Nita _is_ my name--now!" "It is getting late," said Ruth, mildly. "Don't you all think it would be a good plan to go to bed? The wind's gone down some. I guess we can sleep." "Good advice," agreed Madge Steele. "The boys have been abed some time. To-morrow is another day." Heavy and she and Mary went off to their room. The others made ready for bed, and the runaway did not say another word to them, but turned her face to the wall and appeared, at least, to be soon asleep. Ruth crept in beside her so as not to disturb their strange guest. She was a new type of girl to Ruth--and to the others. Her independence of speech, her rough and ready ways, and her evident lack of the influence of companionship with refined girls were marked in this Nita's character. Ruth wondered much what manner of home she could have come from, why she had run away from it, and what Nita really proposed doing so far from home and friends. These queries kept the girl from the Red Mill awake for a long time--added to which was the excitement of the evening, which was not calculated to induce sleep. She would have dropped off some time after the other girls, however, had she not suddenly heard a door latch somewhere on this upper floor, and then the creep, creep, creeping of a rustling step in the hall. It continued so long that Ruth wondered if one of the girls in the other room was ill, and she softly arose and went to the door, which was ajar. And what she saw there in the hall startled her. CHAPTER XII BUSY IZZY IN A NEW ASPECT The stair-well was a wide and long opening and around it ran a broad balustrade. There was no stairway to the third floor of this big bungalow, only the servants' staircase in the rear reaching those rooms directly under the roof. So the hall on this second floor, out of which the family bedrooms opened, was an L-shaped room, with the balustrade on one hand. And upon that balustrade Ruth Fielding beheld a tottering figure in white, plainly visible in the soft glow of the single light burning below, yet rather ghostly after all. She might have been startled in good earnest had she not first of all recognized Isadore Phelps' face. He was balancing himself upon the balustrade and, as she came to the door, he walked gingerly along the narrow strip of moulding toward Ruth. "Izzy! whatever are you doing?" she hissed. The boy never said a word to her, but kept right on, balancing himself with difficulty. He was in his pajamas, his feet bare, and--she saw it at last--his eyes tight shut. "Oh! he's asleep," murmured Ruth. And that surely was Busy Izzy's state at that moment. Sound asleep and "tight-rope walking" on the balustrade. Ruth knew that it would be dangerous to awaken him suddenly--especially as it might cause him to fall down the stair-well. She crept back into her room and called Helen. The two girls in their wrappers and slippers went into the hall again. There was Busy Izzy tottering along in the other direction, having turned at the wall. Once they thought he would plunge down the stairway, and Helen grabbed at Ruth with a squeal of terror. "Sh!" whispered her chum. "Go tell Tom. Wake him up. The boys ought to tie Izzy in bed if he is in the habit of doing this." "My! isn't he a sight!" giggled Helen, as she ran past the gyrating youngster, who had again turned for a third perambulation of the railing. She whispered Tom's name at his open door and in a minute the girls heard him bound out of bed. He was with them--sleepy-eyed and hastily wrapping his robe about him--in a moment. "For the land's sake!" he gasped, when he saw his friend on the balustrade. "What are you----" "Sh!" commanded Ruth. "He's asleep." Tom took in the situation at a glance. Madge Steele peered out of her door at that moment. "Who is it--Bobbins?" she asked. "No. It's Izzy. He's walking in his sleep," said Ruth. "He's a regular somnambulist," exclaimed Helen. "Never mind. Don't call him names. He can't help it," said Madge. Helen giggled again. Tom had darted back to rouse his chum. Bob Steele appeared, more tousled and more sleepy-looking than Tom. "What's the matter with that fellow now?" he grumbled. "He's like a flea--you never know where he's going to be next! Ha! he'll fall off that and break his silly neck." And as Busy Izzy was just then nearest his end of the hall in his strange gyrations, Bob Steele stepped forward and grabbed him, lifting him bodily off the balustrade. Busy Izzy screeched, but Tom clapped a hand over his mouth. "Shut up! want to raise the whole neighborhood?" grunted Bobbins, dragging the lightly attired, struggling boy back into their room. "Ha! I'll fix you after this. I'll lash you to the bedpost every night we're here--now mark that, young man!" It seemed that the youngster often walked in his sleep, but the girls had not known it. Usually, at school, his roommates kept the dormitory door locked and the key hidden, so that he couldn't get out to do himself any damage running around with his eyes shut. The party all got to sleep again after that and there was no further disturbance before morning. They made a good deal of fun of Isadore at the breakfast table, but he took the joking philosophically. He was always playing pranks himself; but he had learned to take a joke, too. He declared that all he dreamed during the night was that he was wrecked in an iceboat on Second Reef and that the only way for him to get ashore was to walk on a cable stretched from the wreck to the beach. He had probably been walking that cable--in his mind--when Ruth had caught him balancing on the balustrade. The strange girl who persisted in calling herself "Nita" came down to the table in some of Heavy's garments, which were a world too large for her. Her own had been so shrunk and stained by the sea-water that they would never be fit to put on again. Aunt Kate was very kind to her, but she looked at the runaway oddly, too. Nita had been just as uncommunicative to her as she had been to the girls in the bedroom the night before. "If you don't like me, or don't like my name, I can go away," she declared to Miss Kate, coolly. "I haven't got to stay here, you know." "But where will you go? what will you do?" demanded that young lady, severely. "You say the captain of the schooner and his wife are nothing to you?" "I should say not!" exclaimed Nita. "They were nice and kind to me, though." "And you can't go away until you have something decent to wear," added Heavy's aunt. "That's the first thing to 'tend to." And although it was a bright and beautiful morning after the gale, and there were a dozen things the girls were all eager to see, they spent the forenoon in trying to make up an outfit for Nita so that she would be presentable. The boys went off with Mr. Stone's boatkeeper in the motor launch and Mary Cox was quite cross because the other girls would not leave Miss Kate to fix up Nita the best she could, so that they could all accompany the boys. But in the afternoon the buckboard was brought around and they drove to the lighthouse. Nita, even in her nondescript garments, was really a pretty girl. No awkwardness of apparel could hide the fact that she had nice features and that her body was strong and lithe. She moved about with a freedom that the other girls did not possess. Even Ruth was not so athletic as the strange girl. And yet she seemed to know nothing at all about the games and the exercises which were commonplace to the girls from Briarwood Hall. There was a patch of wind-blown, stunted trees and bushes covering several acres of the narrowing point, before the driving road along the ridge brought the visitors to Sokennet Light. While they were driving through this a man suddenly bobbed up beside the way and the driver hailed him. "Hullo, you Crab!" he said. "Found anything 'long shore from that wreck?" The man stood up straight and the girls thought him a very horrid-looking object. He had a great beard and his hair was dark and long. "He's a bad one for looks; ain't he, Miss?" asked the driver of Ruth, who sat beside him. "He isn't very attractive," she returned. "Ha! I guess not. And Crab's as bad as he looks, which is saying a good deal. He comes of the 'wreckers.' Before there was a light here, or life saving stations along this coast, there was folks lived along here that made their livin' out of poor sailors wrecked out there on the reefs. Some said they used to toll vessels onto the rocks with false lights. Anyhow, Crab's father, and his gran'ther, was wreckers. He's assistant lightkeeper; but he oughtn't to be. I don't see how Mother Purling can get along with him." "She isn't afraid of him; is she?" queried Ruth. "She isn't afraid of anything," said Heavy, quickly, from the rear seat. "You wait till you see her." The buckboard went heavily on toward the lighthouse; but the girls saw that the man stood for a long time--as long as they were in sight, at least--staring after them. "What do you suppose he looked at Nita so hard for?" whispered Helen in Ruth's ear. "I thought he was going to speak to her." But Ruth had not noticed this, nor did the runaway girl seem to have given the man any particular attention. CHAPTER XIII CRAB PROVES TO BE OF THE HARDSHELL VARIETY They came to the lighthouse. There was only a tiny, whitewashed cottage at the foot of the tall shaft. It seemed a long way to the brass-trimmed and glistening lantern at the top. Ruth wondered how the gaunt old woman who came to the door to welcome them could ever climb those many, many stairs to the narrow gallery at the top of the shaft. She certainly could not suffer as Aunt Alvirah did with _her_ back and bones. Sokennet Light was just a steady, bright light, sending its gleam far seaward. There was no mechanism for turning, such as marks the revolving lights in so many lighthouses. The simplicity of everything about Sokennet Light was what probably led the department officials to allow Mother Purling to remain after her husband died in harness. "Jack Crab has done his cleaning and gone about his business," said Mother Purling, to the girls. "Ye may all climb up to the lantern if ye wish; but touch nothing." Beside the shaft of the light was a huge fog bell. That was rung by clockwork. Mother Purling showed Ruth and her companions how it worked before the girls started up the stairs. Mercy remained in the little house with the good old woman, for she never could have hobbled up those spiral stairs. "It's too bad about that girl," said Nita, brusquely, to Ruth. "Has she always been lame?" Ruth warmed toward the runaway immediately when she found that Nita was touched by Mercy Curtis' affliction. She told Nita how the lame girl had once been much worse off than she was now, and all about her being operated on by the great physician. "She's so much better off now than she was!" cried Ruth. "And so much happier!" "But she's a great nuisance to have along," snapped Mary Cox, immediately behind them. "She had better stayed at home, I should think." Ruth flushed angrily, but before she could speak, Nita said, looking coolly at The Fox: "You're a might snappy, snarly sort of a girl; ain't you? And you think you are dreadfully smart. But somebody told you that. It ain't so. I've seen a whole lot smarter than you. You wouldn't last long among the boys where _I_ come from." "Thank you!" replied Mary, her head in the air. "I wouldn't care to be liked by the boys. It isn't ladylike to think of the boys all the time----" "These are grown men, I mean," said Nita, coolly. "The punchers that work for--well, just cow punchers. You call them cowboys. They know what's good and fine, jest as well as Eastern folks. And a girl that talks like you do about a cripple wouldn't go far with them." "I suppose your friend, the half-Indian, is a critic of deportment," said The Fox, with a laugh. "Well, Jib wouldn't say anything mean about a cripple," said Nita, in her slow way, and The Fox seemed to have no reply. But this little by-play drew Ruth Fielding closer to the queer girl who had selected her "hifaluting" name because it was the name of a girl in a paper-covered novel. Nita had lived out of doors, that was plain. Ruth believed, from what the runaway had said, that she came from the plains of the great West. She had lived on a ranch. Perhaps her folks owned a ranch, and they might even now be searching the land over for their daughter. The thought made the girl from the Red Mill very serious, and she determined to try and gain Nita's confidence and influence her, if she could, to tell the truth about herself and to go back to her home. She knew that she could get Mr. Cameron to advance Nita's fare to the West, if the girl would return. But up on the gallery in front of the shining lantern of the lighthouse there was no chance to talk seriously to the runaway. Heavy had to sit down when she reached this place, and she declared that she puffed like a steam engine. Then, when she had recovered her breath, she pointed out the places of interest to be seen from the tower--the smoke of Westhampton to the north; Fuller's Island, with its white sands and gleaming green lawns and clumps of wind-blown trees; the long strip of winding coast southward, like a ribbon laid down for the sea to wash, and far, far to the east, over the tumbling waves, still boisterous with the swell of last night's storm, the white riding sail of the lightship on No Man's Shoal. They came down after an hour, wind-blown, the taste of salt on their lips, and delighted with the view. They found the ugly, hairy man sitting on the doorstep, listening with a scowl and a grin to Mercy's sharp speeches. "I don't know what brought you back here to the light, Jack Crab, at this time of day," said Mother Purling. "You ain't wanted." "I likes to see comp'ny, too, _I_ do," growled the man. "Well, these girls ain't your company," returned the old woman. "Now! get up and be off. Get out of the way." Crab rose, surlily enough, but his sharp eyes sought Nita. He looked her all over, as though she were some strange object that he had never seen before. "So you air the gal they brought ashore off the lumber schooner last night?" he asked her. "Yes, I am," she returned, flatly. "You ain't got no folks around here; hev ye?" he continued. "No, I haven't." "What's your name?" "Puddin' Tame!" retorted Mercy, breaking in, in her shrill way. "And she lives in the lane, and her number's cucumber! There now! do you know all you want to know, Hardshell?" Crab growled something under his breath and went off in a hangdog way. "That's a bad man," said Mercy, with confidence. "And he's much interested in you, Miss Nita Anonymous. Do you know why?" "I'm sure I don't," replied Nita, laughing quite as sharply as before, but helping the lame girl to the buckboard with kindliness. "You look out for him, then," said Mercy, warningly. "He's a hardshell crab, all right. And either he thinks he knows you, or he's got something in his mind that don't mean good to you." But only Ruth heard this. The others were bidding Mother Purling good-bye. CHAPTER XIV THE TRAGIC INCIDENT IN A FISHING EXCURSION The boys had returned when the party drove back to the bungalow from the lighthouse. A lighthouse might be interesting, and it was fine to see twenty-odd miles to the No Man's Shoal, and Mother Purling might be a _dear_--but the girls hadn't done anything, and the boys had. They had fished for halibut and had caught a sixty-five-pound one. Bobbins had got it on his hook; but it took all three of them, with the boatkeeper's advice, to get the big, flapping fish over the side. They had part of that fish for supper. Heavy was enraptured, and the other girls had a saltwater appetite that made them enjoy the fish, too. It was decided to try for blackfish off the rocks beyond Sokennet the next morning. "We'll go over in the _Miraflame_"--(that was the name of the motor boat)--"and we'll take somebody with us to help Phineas," Heavy declared. Phineas was the boatman who had charge of Mr. Stone's little fleet. "Phin is a great cook and he'll get us up a regular fish dinner----" "Oh, dear, Jennie Stone! how _can_ you?" broke in Helen, with her hands clasped. "How can I _what_, Miss?" demanded the stout girl, scenting trouble. "How can you, when we are eating such a perfect dinner as this, be contemplating any other future occasion when we possibly shall be hungry?" The others laughed, but Heavy looked at her school friends with growing contempt. "You talk--you talk," she stammered, "well! you don't talk English--that I'm sure of! And you needn't put it all on me. You all eat with good appetites. And you'd better thank me, not quarrel with me. If I didn't think of getting nice things to eat, you'd miss a lot, now I tell you. You don't know how I went out in Mammy Laura's kitchen this very morning, before most of you had your hair out of curl-papers, and just _slaved_ to plan the meals for to-day." "Hear! hear!" chorused the boys, drumming with their knife handles on the table. "We're for Jennie! She's all right." "See!" flashed in Mercy, with a gesture. "Miss Stone has won the masculine portion of the community by the only unerring way--the only straight path to the heart of a boy is through his stomach." "I guess we can all thank Jennie," said Ruth, laughing quietly, "for her attention to our appetites. But I fear if she had expected to fast herself to-day she'd still be abed!" They were all lively at dinner, and they spent a lively evening, towards the end of which Bob Steele gravely went out of doors and brought in an old boat anchor, or kedge, weighing so many pounds that even he could scarcely carry it upstairs to the bed chamber which he shared with Tom and Isadore. "What are you going to do with that thing, Bobby Steele?" demanded his sister. "Going to anchor Busy Izzy to it with a rope. I bet he won't walk far in his sleep to-night," declared Bobbins. With the fishing trip in their minds, all were astir early the next morning. Miss Kate had agreed to go with them, for Mercy believed that she could stand the trip, as the sea was again calm. She could remain in the cabin of the motor boat while the others were fishing off the rocks for tautog and rock-bass. The boys all had poles; but the girls said they would be content to cast their lines from the rock and hope for nibbles from the elusive blackfish. The _Miraflame_ was a roomy craft and well furnished. When they started at nine o'clock the party numbered eleven, besides the boatman and his assistant. To the surprise of Ruth--and it was remarked in whispers by the other girls, too--Phineas, the boatkeeper, had chosen Jack Crab to assist him in the management of the motor boat. "Jack doesn't have to be at the light till dark. The old lady gets along all right alone," explained Phineas. "And it ain't many of these longshoremen who know how to handle a motor. Jack's used to machinery." He seemed to feel that it was necessary to excuse himself for hiring the hairy man. But Heavy only said: "Well, as long as he behaves himself I don't care. But I didn't suppose you liked the fellow, Phin." "I don't. It was Hobson's choice, Miss," returned the sailor. Phineas, the girls found, was a very pleasant and entertaining man. And he knew all about fishing. He had supplied the bait for tautog, and the girls and boys of the party, all having lived inland, learned many things that they hadn't known before. "Look at this!" cried Madge Steele, the first to discover a miracle. "He says this bait for tautog is scallops! Now, that quivering, jelly-like body is never a scallop. Why, a scallop is a firm, white lump----" "It's a mussel," said Heavy, laughing. "It's only the 'eye' of the scallop you eat, Miss," explained Phineas. "Now I know just as much as I did before," declared Madge. "So I eat a scallop's _eye_, do I? We had them for breakfast this very morning--with bacon." "So you did, Miss. I raked 'em up myself yesterday afternoon," explained Phineas. "You eat the 'eye,' but these are the bodies, and they are the reg'lar natural food of the tautog, or blackfish." "The edible part of the scallop is that muscle which adheres to the shell--just like the muscle that holds the clam to its shell," said Heavy, who, having spent several summers at the shore, was better informed than her friends. Phineas showed the girls how to bait their hooks with the soft bodies of the scallop, warning them to cover the point of the hooks well, and to pull quickly if they felt the least nibble. "The tautog is a small-mouthed fish--smaller, even, than the bass the boys are going to cast for. So, when he touches the hook at all, you want to grab him." "Does it _hurt_ the fish to be caught?" asked Helen, curiously. Phineas grinned. "I never axed 'em, ma'am," he said. The _Miraflame_ carried them swiftly down the cove, or harbor, of Sokennet and out past the light. The sea was comparatively calm, but the surf roared against the rocks which hedged in the sand dunes north of the harbor's mouth. It was in this direction that Phineas steered the launch, and for ten miles the craft spun along at a pace that delighted the whole party. "We're just skimming the water!" cried Tom Cameron. "Oh, Nell! I'm going to coax father till he buys one for us to use on the Lumano." "I'll help tease," agreed his twin, her eyes sparkling. Nita, the runaway, looked from brother to sister with sudden interest. "Does your father give you everything you ask him for?" she demanded. "Not much!" cried Tom. "But dear old dad is pretty easy with us and--Mrs. Murchiston says--gives in to us too much." "But, does he buy you such things as boats--right out--for you just to play with?" "Why, of course!" cried Tom. "And I couldn't even have a piano," muttered Nita, turning away with a shrug. "I told him he was a mean old hunks!" "Whom did you say that to?" asked Ruth, quietly. "Never you mind!" returned Nita, angrily. "But that's what he is." Ruth treasured these observations of the runaway. She was piecing them together, and although as yet it was a very patched bit of work, she was slowly getting a better idea of who Nita was and her home surroundings. Finally the _Miraflame_ ran in between a sheltering arm of rock and the mainland. The sea was very still in here, the heave and surge of the water only murmuring among the rocks. There was an old fishing dock at which the motor boat was moored. Then everybody went ashore and Phineas and Jack Crab pointed out the best fishing places along the rocks. These were very rugged ledges, and the water sucked in among them, and hissed, and chuckled, and made all sorts of gurgling sounds while the tide rose. There were small caves and little coves and all manner of odd hiding places in the rocks. But the girls and boys were too much interested in the proposed fishing to bother about anything else just then. Phineas placed Ruth on the side of a round-topped boulder, where she stood on a very narrow ledge, with a deep green pool at her feet. She was hidden from the other fishers--even from the boys, who clambered around to the tiny cape that sheltered the basin into which the motor boat had been run, and from the point of which they expected to cast for bass. "Now, Miss," said the boatkeeper, "down at the bottom of this still pool Mr. Tautog is feeding on the rocks. Drop your baited hook down gently to him. And if he nibbles, pull sharply at first, and then, with a stead, hand-over-hand motion, draw him in." Ruth was quite excited; but once she saw Nita and the man, Crab, walking farther along the rocks, and Ruth wondered that the fellow was so attentive to the runaway. But this was merely a passing thought. Her mind returned to the line she watched. She pulled it up after a long while; the hook was bare. Either Mr. Tautog had been very, very careful when he nibbled the bait, or the said bait had slipped off. It was not easy to make the jelly-like body of the scallop remain on the hook. But Ruth was as anxious to catch a fish as the other girls, and she had watched Phineas with sharp and eager eyes when he baited the hook. Ruth dropped it over the edge of the rock again after a minute. It sank down, down, down----Was that a nibble? She felt the faintest sort of a jerk on the line. Surely something was at the bait! Again the jerk. Ruth returned the compliment by giving the line a prompt tug. Instantly she knew that she had hooked him! "Oh! _oh!_ OH!" she gasped, in a rising scale of delight and excitement. She pulled in on the line. The fish was heavy, and he tried to pull his way, too. The blackfish is not much of a fighter, but he can sag back and do his obstinate best to remain in the water when the fisher is determined to get him out. This fellow weighed two pounds and a half and was well hooked. Ruth, her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing, hauled in, and in, and in----There he came out of the water, a plump, glistening body, that flapped and floundered in the air, and on the ledge at her feet. She desired mightily to cry out; but Phineas had warned them all to be still while they fished. Their voices might scare all the fish away. She unhooked it beautifully, seizing it firmly in the gills. Phineas had shown her where to lay any she might catch in a little cradle in the rock behind her. It was a damp little hollow, and Mr. Tautog could not flop out into the sea again. Oh! it was fun to bait the hook once more with trembling fingers, and heave the weighted line over the edge of the narrow ledge on which she stood. There might be another--perhaps even a bigger one--waiting down there to seize upon the bait. And just then Mary Cox, her hair tousled and a distressfully discontented expression on her face, came around the corner of the big boulder. "Oh! Hullo!" she said, discourteously. "You here?" "Sh!" whispered Ruth, intent on the line and the pool of green water. "What's the matter with you?" snapped The Fox. "Don't say you've got a bite! I'm sick of hearing them say it over there----" "I've caught one," said Ruth, with pride, pointing to the glistening tautog lying on the rock. "Oh! Of course, 'twould be you who got it," snarled Mary. "I bet he gave you the best place." "_Please_ keep still!" begged Ruth. "I believe I've got another bite." "Have a dozen for all I care," returned Mary. "I want to get past you." "Wait! I feel a nibble----" But Mary pushed rudely by. She took the inside of the path, of course. The ledge was very narrow, and Ruth was stooping over the deep pool, breathlessly watching the line. With a half-stifled scream Ruth fell forward, flinging out both hands. Mary clutched at her--she _did_ try to save her. But she was not quick enough. Ruth dropped like a plummet and the green water closed over her with scarcely a splash. Mary did not cry out. She was speechless with fear, and stood with clasped hands, motionless, upon the path. "She can swim! she can swim!" was the thought that shuttled back and forth in The Fox's brain. But moment after moment passed and Ruth did not come to the surface. The pool was as calm as before, save for the vanishing rings that broke against the surrounding rocks. Mary held her breath. She began to feel as though it were a dream, and that her school companion had not really fallen into the pool. It must be an hallucination, for Ruth did not come to the surface again! CHAPTER XV TOM CAMERON TO THE RESCUE The three boys were on the other side of the narrow inlet where the _Miraflame_ lay. Phineas had told them that bass were more likely to be found upon the ocean side; therefore they were completely out of sight. The last Tom, Bob and Isadora saw of the girls, the fishermen were placing them along the rocky path, and Mercy was lying in a deck chair on the deck of the launch, fluttering a handkerchief at them as they went around the end of the reef. "I bet they don't get a fish," giggled Isadore. "And even Miss Kate's got a line! What do girls know about fishing?" "If there's any tautog over there, I bet Helen and Ruth get 'em. They're all right in any game," declared the loyal Tom. "Madge will squeal and want somebody to take the fish off her hook, if she does catch one," grinned Bob. "She puts on lots of airs because she's the oldest; but she's a regular 'scare-cat,' after all." "Helen and Ruth are good fellows," returned Tom, with emphasis. "They're quite as good fun as the ordinary boy--of course, not you, Bobbins, or Busy Izzy here; but they are all right." "What do you think of that Nita girl?" asked Busy Izzy, suddenly. "I believe there's something to her," declared Bob, with conviction. "She ain't afraid of a living thing, I bet!" "There is something queer about her," Tom added, thoughtfully. "Have you noticed how that Crab fellow looks at her?" "I see he hangs about her a good bit," said Isadore, quickly. "Why, do you suppose?" "That's what I'd like to know," returned Tom Cameron. They were now where Phineas had told them bass might be caught, and gave their attention to their tackle. All three boys had fished for perch, pike, and other gamey fresh-water fish; but this was their first casting with a rod into salt water. "A true disciple of Izaak Walton should be dumb," declared Tom, warningly eyeing Isadore. "Isn't he allowed any leeway at all--not even when he lands a fish?" demanded the irrepressible. "Not above a whisper," grunted Bob Steele, trying to bait his hook with his thumb instead of the bait provided by Phineas. "Jingo!" "Old Bobbins has got the first bite," chuckled Tom, under his breath, as he made his cast. The reel whirred and the hook fell with a light splash into a little eddy where the water seemed to swirl about a sunken rock. "You won't catch anything there," said Isadore. "I'll gag you if you don't shut up," promised Tom. Suddenly his line straightened out. The hook seemed to be sucked right down into a hole between the rocks, and the reel began to whir. It stopped and Tom tried it. "Pshaw! that ain't a bite," whispered Isadore. At Tom's first attempt to reel in, the fish that had seized his hook started--for Spain! At least, it shot seaward, and the boy knew that Spain was about the nearest dry land if the fish kept on in that direction. "A strike!" Tom gasped and let his reel sing for a moment or two. Then, when the drag of the line began to tell on the bass, he carefully wound in some of it. The fish turned and finally ran toward the rocks once more. Then Tom wound up as fast as he could, trying to keep the line taut. "He'll tangle you all up, Tommy," declared Bob, unable, like Isadore, to keep entirely still. Tom was flushed and excited, but said never a word. He played the big bass with coolness after all, and finally tired it out, keeping it clear of the tangles of weed down under the rock, and drew it forth--a plump, flopping, gasping victim. Bob and Isadore were then eager to do as well and began whipping the water about the rocks with more energy than skill. Tom, delighted with his first kill, ran over the rocks with the fish to show it to the girls. As he surmounted the ridge of the rocky cape he suddenly saw Nita, the runaway, and Jack Crab, in a little cove right below him. The girl and the fisherman had come around to this side of the inlet, away from Phineas and the other girls. They did not see Tom behind and above them. Nita was not fishing, and Crab had unfolded a paper and was showing it to her. At this distance the paper seemed like a page torn from some newspaper, and there were illustrations as well as reading text upon the sheet which Crab held before the strange girl's eyes. "There it is!" Tom heard the lighthouse keeper's assistant say, in an exultant tone. "You know what I could get if I wanted to show this to the right parties. _Now_, what d'ye think of it, Sissy?" What Nita thought, or what she said, Tom did not hear. Indeed, scarcely had the two come into his line of vision, and he heard these words, when something much farther away--across the inlet, in fact--caught the boy's attention. He could see his sister and some of the other girls fishing from the rocky path; but directly opposite where he stood was Ruth. He saw Mary Cox meet and speak with her, the slight struggle of the two girls for position on the narrow ledge, and Ruth's plunge into the water. "Oh, by George!" shouted Tom, as Ruth went under, and he dropped the flopping bass and went down the rocks at a pace which endangered both life and limb. His shout startled Nita and Jack Crab. But they had not seen Ruth fall, nor did they understand Tom's great excitement. The inlet was scarcely more than a hundred yards across; but it was a long way around to the spot where Ruth had fallen, or been pushed, from the rock. Tom never thought of going the long way to the place. He tore off his coat, kicked off his canvas shoes, and, reaching the edge of the water, dived in head first without a word of explanation to the man and girl beside him. He dived slantingly, and swam under water for a long way. When he came up he was a quarter of the distance across the inlet. He shook the water from his eyes, threw himself breast high out of the sea, and shouted: "Has she come up? I don't see her!" Nobody but Mary Cox knew what he meant. Helen and the other girls were screaming because they had seen Tom fling himself into the sea but they had not seen Ruth fall in. Nor did Mary Cox find voice enough to tell them when they ran along the ledge to try and see what Tom was swimming for. The Fox stood with glaring eyes, trying to see into the deep pool. But the pool remain unruffled and Ruth did not rise to the surface. "Has she come up?" again shouted Tom, rising as high as he could in the water, and swimming with an overhand stroke. There seemed nobody to answer him; they did not know what he meant. The boy shot through the water like a fish. Coming near the rock, he rose up with a sudden muscular effort, then dived deep. The green water closed over him and, when Helen and the others reached the spot where Mary Cox stood, wringing her hands and moaning, Tom had disappeared as utterly as Ruth herself. CHAPTER XVI RUTH'S SECRET "What has happened?" "Where's Ruth?" "Mary Cox! why don't you answer?" The Fox for once in her career was stunned. She could only shake her head and wring her hands. Helen was the first of the other girls to suspect the trouble, and she cried: "Ruth's overboard! That's the reason Tom has gone in. Oh, oh! why don't they come up again?" And almost immediately all the others saw the importance of that question. Ruth Fielding had been down fully a minute and a half now, and Tom had not come up once for air. Nita had set off running around the head of the inlet, and Crab shuffled along in her wake. The strange girl ran like a goat over the rocks. Phineas, who had been aboard the motor boat and busy with his famous culinary operations, now came lumbering up to the spot. He listened to a chorused explanation of the situation--tragic indeed in its appearance. Phineas looked up and down the rocky path, and across the inlet, and seemed to swiftly take a marine "observation." Then he snorted. "They're all right!" he exclaimed. "_What?_" shrieked Helen. "All right?" repeated Heavy. "Why, Phineas----" She broke off with a startled gurgle. Phineas turned quickly, too, and looked over the high boulder. There appeared the head of Ruth Fielding and, in a moment, the head of Tom Cameron beside it. "You both was swept through the tunnel into the pool behind, sir," said Phineas, wagging his head. "Oh, I was never so scared in my life," murmured Ruth, clambering down to the path, the water running from her clothing in little streams. "Me, too!" grunted Tom, panting. "The tide sets in through that hole awfully strong." "I might have told you about it," grunted Phineas; "but I didn't suppose airy one of ye was going for to jump into the sea right here." "We didn't--intentionally," declared Ruth. "How ever did it happen, Ruthie?" demanded Heavy. There was a moment's silence. Tom grew red in the face, but he kept his gaze turned from Mary Cox. Ruth answered calmly enough: "It was my own fault. Mary was just coming along to pass me. I had a bite. Between trying to let her by and 'tending my fish,' I fell in--and now I have lost fish, line, and all." "Be thankful you did not lose your life, Miss Fielding," said Aunt Kate. "Come right down to the boat and get those wet things off. You, too, Tom." At that moment Nita came to the spot. "Is she safe? Is she safe?" she cried. "Don't I look so?" returned Ruth, laughing gaily. "And here's the fish I _did_ catch. I mustn't lose him." Nita stepped close to the girl from the Red Mill and tugged at her wet sleeve. "What are you going to do to her?" she whispered. "Do to who?" "That girl." "What are you talking about?" demanded Ruth. "I saw her," said Nita. "I saw her push you. She ought to be thrown into the water herself." "Hush!" commanded Ruth. "You're mistaken. You didn't see straight, my dear." "Yes, I did," declared the Western girl, firmly. "She's been mean to you, right along. I've noticed it. She threw you in." "Don't say such a thing again!" commanded Ruth, warmly. "You have no right." "Huh!" said Nita, eyeing her strangely. "It's your own business, I suppose. But I am not blind." "I hope not," sad Ruth, calmly. "But I hope, too, you will not repeat what you just said--to anyone." "Why--if you really don't want me to," said Nita, slowly. "Truly, I don't wish you to," said Ruth, earnestly. "I don't even admit that you are right, mind----" "Oh, it's your secret," said Nita, shortly, and turned away. And Ruth had a word to say to Tom, too, as they hurried side by side to the boat, he carrying the fish. "Now, Tommy--remember!" she said. "I won't be easy in my mind, just the same, while that girl is here," growled Master Tom. "That's foolish. She never meant to do it." "Huh! She was scared, of course. But she's mean enough----" "Stop! somebody will hear you. And, anyway," Ruth added, remembering what Nita had said, "it's _my_ secret." "True enough; it is." "Then don't tell it, Tommy," she added, with a laugh. But it was hard to meet the sharp eye of Mercy Curtis and keep the secret. "And pray, Miss, why did you have to go into the water after the fish?" Mercy demanded. "I was afraid he would get away," laughed Ruth. "And who helped you do it?" snapped the lame girl. "Helped me do what?" "Helped you tumble in." "Now, do you suppose I needed help to do so silly a thing as that?" cried Ruth. "You needed help to do it the other day on the steamboat," returned Mercy, slily. "And I saw The Fox following you around that way." "Why, what nonsense you talk, Mercy Curtis!" But Ruth wondered if Mercy was to be so easily put off. The lame girl was so very sharp. However, Ruth was determined to keep her secret. Not a word had she said to Mary Cox. Indeed, she had not looked at her since she climbed out of the open pool behind the boulder and, well-nigh breathless, reached the rock after that perilous plunge. Tom she had sworn to silence, Nita she had warned to be still, and now Mercy's suspicions were to be routed. "Poor, poor girl!" muttered Ruth, with more sorrow than anger. "If she is not sorry and afraid yet, how will she feel when she awakes in the night and remembers what might have been?" Nevertheless, the girl from the Red Mill did not allow her secret to disturb her cheerfulness. She hid any feeling she might have had against The Fox. When they all met at dinner on the _Miraflame_, she merely laughed and joked about her accident, and passed around dainty bits of the baked tautog that Phineas had prepared especially for her. That fisherman's chowder was a marvel, and altogether he proved to be as good a cook as Heavy had declared. The boys had caught several bass, and they caught more after dinner. But those were saved to take home. The girls, however, had had enough fishing. Ruth's experience frightened them away from the slippery rocks. Mary Cox was certainly a very strange sort of a girl; but her present attitude did not surprise Ruth. Mary had, soon after Ruth entered Briarwood Hall, taken a dislike to the younger girl. Ruth's new club--the Sweetbriars--had drawn almost all the new girls in the school, as well as many of Mary's particular friends; while the Up and Doing Club, of which Mary was the leading spirit, was not alone frowned upon by Mrs. Tellingham and her assistants, but lost members until--as Helen Cameron had said--the last meeting of the Upedes consisted of The Fox and Helen herself. The former laid all this at Ruth Fielding's door. She saw Ruth's influence and her club increase, while her own friends fell away from her. Twice Ruth had helped to save Mary from drowning, and on neither occasion did the older girl seem in the least grateful. Now Ruth was saving her from the scorn of the other girls and--perhaps--a request from Heavy's Aunt Kate that Mary pack her bag and return home. Ruth hoped that Mary would find some opportunity of speaking to her alone before the day was over. But, even when the boys returned from the outer rocks with a splendid string of bass, and the bow of the _Miraflame_ was turned homeward, The Fox said never a word to her. Ruth crept away into the bows by herself, her mind much troubled. She feared that the fortnight at Lighthouse Point might become very unpleasant, if Mary continued to be so very disagreeable. Suddenly somebody tapped her on the arm. The motor boat was pushing toward the mouth of Sokennet Harbor and the sun was well down toward the horizon. The girls were in the cabin, singing, and Madge was trying to make her brother sing, too; but Bob's voice was changing and what he did to the notes of the familiar tunes was a caution. But it was Tom Cameron who had come to Ruth. "See here," said the boy, eagerly. "See what I picked up on the rocks over there." "Over where?" asked Ruth, looking curiously at the folded paper in Tom's hand. "Across from where you fell in, Ruth. Nita and that Crab fellow were standing there when I went down the rocks and dived in for you. And I saw them looking at this sheet of newspaper," and Tom began to slowly unfold it as he spoke. CHAPTER XVII WHAT WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER "Whatever have you got there, Tom?" asked Ruth, curiously. "Hush! I reckon Crab lost it when you fell in the water and stirred us all up so," returned the boy, with a grin. "Lost that paper?" "Yes. You see, it's a page torn from the Sunday edition of a New York daily. On this side is a story of some professor's discoveries in ancient Babylon." "Couldn't have interested Jack Crab much," remarked Ruth, smiling. "That's what I said myself," declared Tom, hastily. "Therefore, I turned it over. And _this_ is what Crab was showing that Nita girl, I am sure." Ruth looked at the illustrated sheet that Tom spread before her. There was a girl on a very spirited cow pony, swinging a lariat, the loop of which was about to settle over the broadly spreading horns of a Texas steer. The girl was dressed in a very fancy "cow-girl" costume, and the picture was most spirited indeed. In one corner, too, was a reproduction of a photograph of the girl described in the newspaper article. "Why! it doesn't look anything like Nita," gasped Ruth, understanding immediately why Tom had brought the paper to her. "Nope. You needn't expect it to. Those papers use any old photograph to make illustrations from. But read the story." It was all about the niece of a very rich cattle man in Montana who had run away from the ranch on which she had lived all her life. It was called Silver Ranch, and was a very noted cattle range in that part of the West. The girl's uncle raised both horses and cattle, was very wealthy, had given her what attention a single man could in such a situation, and was now having a countrywide search made for the runaway. "Jane Ann Hicks Has Run Away From a Fortune" was the way the paper put it in a big "scare head" across the top of the page; and the text went on to tell of rough Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, and how he had begun in the early cattle days as a puncher himself and had now risen to the sole proprietorship of Silver Ranch. "Bill's one possession besides his cattle and horses that he took any joy in was his younger brother's daughter, Jane Ann. She is an orphan and came to Bill and he has taken sole care of her (for a woman has never been at Silver Ranch, save Indian squaws and a Mexican cook woman) since she could creep. Jane Ann is certainly the apple of Old Bill's eye. "But, as Old Bill has told the Bullhide chief of police, who is sending the pictures and description of the lost girl all over the country, 'Jane Ann got some powerful hifalutin' notions.' She is now a well-grown girl, smart as a whip, pretty, afraid of nothing on four legs, and just as ignorant as a girl brought up in such an environment would be. Jane Ann has been reading novels, perhaps. As the Eastern youth used to fill up on cheap stories of the Far West, and start for that wild and woolly section with the intention of wiping from the face of Nature the last remnant of the Red Tribes, so it may be that Jane Ann Hicks has read of the Eastern millionaire and has started for the Atlantic seaboard for the purpose of lassoing one--or more--of those elusive creatures. "However, Old Bill wants Jane Ann to come home. Silver Ranch will be hers some day, when Old Bill passes over the Great Divide, and he believes that if she is to be Montana's coming Cattle Queen his niece would better not know too much about the effete East." And in this style the newspaper writer had spread before his readers a semi-humorous account (perhaps fictitious) of the daily life of the missing heiress of Silver Ranch, her rides over the prairies and hills on half-wild ponies, the round-ups, calf-brandings, horse-breakings, and all other activities supposed to be part and parcel of ranch life. "My goodness me!" gasped Ruth, when she had hastily scanned all this, "do you suppose that any sane girl would have run away from all that for just a foolish whim?" "Just what I say," returned Tom. "Cracky! wouldn't it be great to ride over that range, and help herd the cattle, and trail wild horses, and--and----" "Well, that's just what one girl got sick of, it seems," finished Ruth, her eyes dancing. "Now! whether this same girl is the one we know----" "I bet she is," declared Tom. "Betting isn't proof, you know," returned Ruth, demurely. "No. But Jane Ann Hicks is this young lady who wants to be called 'Nita'--Oh, glory! what a name!" "If it is so," Ruth rejoined, slowly, "I don't so much wonder that she wanted a fancy name. 'Jane Ann Hicks'! It sounds ugly; but an ugly name can stand for a truly beautiful character." "That fact doesn't appeal to this runaway girl, I guess," said Tom. "But the question is: What shall we do about it?" "I don't know as we can do anything about it," Ruth said, slowly. "Of course we don't know that this Hicks girl and Nita are the same." "What was Crab showing her the paper for?" "What can Crab have to do with it, anyway?" returned Ruth, although she had not forgotten the interest the assistant lighthouse keeper had shown in Nita from the first. "Don't know. But if he recognized her----" "From the picture?" asked Ruth. "Well! you look at it. That drawing of the girl on horseback looks more like her than the photographic half-tone," said Tom. "She looks just that wild and harum-scarum!" Ruth laughed. "There _is_ a resemblance," she admitted. "But I don't understand why Crab should have any interest in the girl, anyway." "Neither do I. Let's keep still about it. Of course, we'll tell Nell," said Tom. "But nobody else. If that old ranchman is her uncle he ought to be told where she is." "Maybe she was not happy with him, after all," said Ruth, thoughtfully. "My goodness!" Tom cried, preparing to go back to the other boys who were calling him. "I don't see how anybody could be unhappy under such conditions." "That's all very well for a boy," returned the girl, with a superior air. "But think! she had no girls to associate with, and the only women were squaws and a Mexican cook!" Ruth watched Nita, but did not see the assistant lighthouse keeper speak to the runaway during the passage home, and from the dock to the bungalow Ruth walked by Nita's side. She was tempted to show the page of the newspaper to the other girl, but hesitated. What if Nita really _was_ Jane Hicks? Ruth asked herself how _she_ would feel if she were burdened with that practical but unromantic name, and had to live on a lonely cattle ranch without a girl to speak to. "Maybe I'd run away myself," thought Ruth. "I was almost tempted to run away from Uncle Jabez when I first went to live at the Red Mill." She had come to pity the strange girl since reading about the one who had run away from Silver Ranch. Whether Nita had any connection with the newspaper article or not, Ruth had begun to see that there might be situations which a girl couldn't stand another hour, and from which she was fairly forced to flee. The fishing party arrived home in a very gay mood, despite the incident of Ruth's involuntary bath. Mary Cox kept away from the victim of the accident and when the others chaffed Ruth, and asked her how she came to topple over the rock, The Fox did not even change color. Tom scolded in secret to Ruth about Mary. "She ought to be sent home. I'll not feel that you're safe any time she is in your company. I've a mind to tell Miss Kate Stone," he said. "I'll be dreadfully angry if you do such a thing, Tom," Ruth assured him, and that promise was sufficient to keep the boy quiet. They were all tired and not even Helen objected when bed was proposed that night. In fact, Heavy went to sleep in her chair, and they had a dreadful time waking her up and keeping her awake long enough for her to undress, say her prayers, and get into bed. In the other girls' room Ruth and her companions spent little time in talking or frolicking. Nita had begged to sleep with Mercy, with whom she had spent considerable time that day and evening; and the lame girl and the runaway were apparently both asleep before Ruth and Helen got settled for the night. Then Helen dropped asleep between yawns and Ruth found herself lying wide-awake, staring at the faintly illuminated ceiling. Of a sudden, sleep had fled from her eyelids. The happenings of the day, the mystery of Nita, the meanness of Mary Cox, her own trouble at the mill, the impossibility of her going to Briarwood next term unless she found some way of raising money for her tuition and board, and many, many other thoughts, trooped through Ruth Fielding's mind for more than an hour. Mostly the troublesome thoughts were of her poverty and the seeming impossibility of her ever discovering any way to earn such a quantity of money as three hundred and fifty dollars. Her chum, lying asleep beside her, did not dream of this problem that continually troubled Ruth's mind. The clock down stairs tolled eleven solemn strokes. Ruth did not move. She might have been sound asleep, save for her open eyes, their gaze fixed upon the ceiling. Suddenly a beam of light flashed in at one window, swinging from right to left, like the blade of a phantom scythe, and back again. Ruth did not move, but the beam of light took her attention immediately from her former thoughts. Again and once again the flash of light was repeated. Then she suddenly realized what it was. Somebody was walking down the path toward the private dock, swinging a lantern. She would have given it no further thought had not a door latch clicked. Whether it was the latch of her room, or another of the bedrooms on this floor of the bungalow, Ruth could not tell. But in a moment she heard the balustrade of the stair creak. "It's Izzy again!" thought Ruth, sitting up in bed. "He's walking in his sleep. The boys did not tie him." She crept out of bed softly so as not to awaken Helen or the other girls and went to the door. When she opened it and peered out, there was no ghostly figure "tight-roping it" on the balustrade. But she heard a sound below--in the lower hall. Somebody was fumbling with the chain of the front door. "He's going out! I declare, he's going out!" thought Ruth and sped to the window. She heard the jar of the big front door as it was opened, and then pulled shut again. She heard no step on the porch, but a figure soon fluttered down the steps. It was not Isadore Phelps, however. Ruth knew that at first glance. Indeed, it was not a boy who started away from the house, running on the grass beside the graveled walk. Ruth turned back hastily and looked at the other bed--at Mercy's bed. The place beside the lame girl was empty. Nita had disappeared! CHAPTER XVIII ANOTHER NIGHT ADVENTURE Ruth was startled, to say the least, by the discovery that Nita was absent. And how softly the runaway girl must have crept out of bed and out of the room for Ruth--who had been awake--not to hear her! "She certainly is a sly little thing!" gasped Ruth. But as she turned back to see what had become of the figure running beside the path, the lantern light was flashed into her eyes. Again the beam was shot through the window and danced for a moment on the wall and ceiling. "It is a signal!" thought Ruth. "There's somebody outside besides Nita--somebody who wishes to communicate with her." Even as she realized this she saw the lantern flash from the dock. That was where it had been all the time. It was a dark-lantern, and its ray had been intentionally shot into the window of their room. The figure she had seen steal away from the bungalow had now disappeared. If it was Nita--as Ruth believed--the strange girl might be hiding in the shadow of the boathouse. However, the girl from the Red Mill did not stand idly at the window for long. It came to her that somebody ought to know what was going on. Her first thought was that Nita was bent on running away from her new friends--although, as as far as any restraint was put upon her, she might have walked away at any time. "But she ought not to go off like this," thought Ruth, hurrying into her own garments. By the faint light that came from outside she could see to dress; and she saw, too, that Nita's clothing had disappeared. "Why, the girl must have dressed," thought Ruth, in wonder. "How could she have done it with me lying here awake?" Meanwhile, her own fingers were busy and in two minutes from the time she had turned from the window, she opened the hall door again and tiptoed out. The house was perfectly still, save for the ticking of the big clock. She sped down the stairway, and as she passed the glimmering face of the time-keeper she glanced at it and saw that the minute hand was just eight minutes past the hour. In a closet under the stairs were the girls' outside garments, and hats. She found somebody's tam-o'-shanter and her own sweater-coat, and slipped both on in a hurry. When she opened the door the chill, salt air, with not a little fog in it, breathed into the close hall. She stepped out, pulled the door to and latched it, and crossed the porch. The harbor seemed deserted. Two or three night lights sparkled over on the village side. What vessels rode at anchor showed no lights at their moorings. But the great, steady, yellow light of the beacon on the point shone steadily--a wonderfully comforting sight, Ruth thought, at this hour of the night. There were no more flashes of lantern light from the dock. Nor did she hear a sound from that direction as she passed out through the trimly cut privet hedge and took the shell walk to the boathouse. She was in canvas shoes and her step made no sound. In a moment or two she was in the shadow again. Then she heard voices--soft, but earnest tones--and knew that two people were talking out there toward the end of the dock. One was a deep voice; the other might be Nita's--at least, it was a feminine voice. "Who under the sun can she have come here to meet?" wondered Ruth, anxiously. "Not one of the boys. This can't be merely a lark of some kind----" Something scraped and squeaked--a sound that shattered the silence of the late evening completely. A dog instantly barked back of the the bungalow, in the kennels. Other dogs on the far shore of the cove replied. A sleep-walking rooster began to crow clamorously, believing that it was already growing day. The creaking stopped in a minute, and Ruth heard a faint splash. The voices had ceased. "What can it mean?" thought the anxious girl. She could remain idle there behind the boathouse no longer. She crept forth upon the dock to reconnoiter. There seemed to be nobody there. And then, suddenly, she saw that the catboat belonging to Mr. Stone's little fleet--the "_Jennie S._" it was called, named for Heavy herself--was some distance from her moorings. The breeze was very light; but the sail was raised and had filled, and the catboat was drifting quite rapidly out beyond the end of the dock. It was so dark in the cockpit that Ruth could not distinguish whether there were one or two figures aboard, or who they were; but she realized that somebody was off on a midnight cruise. "And without saying a word about it!" gasped Ruth. "Could it be, after all, one of the boys and Nita? Are they doing this just for the fun of it?" Yet the heavy voice she had heard did not sound like that of either of the three boys at the bungalow. Not even Bob Steele, when his unfortunate voice was pitched in its very lowest key, could rumble like this voice. The girl of the Red Mill was both troubled and frightened. Suppose Nita and her companion should be wrecked in the catboat? She did not believe that the runaway girl knew anything about working a sailboat. And who was her companion on this midnight escapade? Was he one of the longshoremen? Suddenly she thought of Jack Crab. But Crab was supposed to be at the lighthouse at this hour; wasn't he? She could not remember what she had heard about the lighthouse keeper's assistant. Nor could Ruth decide at once whether to go back to the house and give the alarm, or not. Had she known where Phineas, the boatkeeper, lodged, she would certainly have tried to awaken him. He ought to be told that one of the boats was being used--and, of course, without permission. The sail of the catboat drifted out of sight while she stood there undecided. She could not pursue the _Jennie S._ Had she known where Phineas was, they might have gone after the catboat in the _Miraflame;_ but otherwise Ruth saw no possibility of tracking the two people who had borrowed the _Jennie S._ Nor was she sure that it was desirable to go in, awaken the household, and report the disappearance of Nita. The cruise by night might be a very innocent affair. "And then again," murmured Ruth, "there may be something in it deeper than I can see. We do not really know who this Nita is. That piece in the paper may not refer to her at all. Suppose, instead of having run away from a rich uncle and a big cattle ranch, Nita comes from bad people? Mrs. Kirby and the captain knew nothing about her. It may be that some of Nita's bad friends have followed her here, and they may mean to rob the Stones! "Goodness! that's a very bad thought," muttered Ruth, shaking her head. "I ought not to suspect the girl of anything like that. Although she is so secret, and so rough of speech, she doesn't seem to be a girl who has lived with really bad people." Ruth could not satisfy herself that it would be either right or wise to go in and awaken Miss Kate, or even the butler. But she could not bring herself to the point of going to bed, either, while Nita was out on the water. She couldn't think of sleep, anyway. Not until the catboat came back to the dock did she move out of the shadow of the boathouse. And it was long past one o'clock when this occurred. The breeze had freshened, and the _Jennie S._ had to tack several times before the boatman made the moorings. The starlight gave such slight illumination that Ruth could not see who was in the boat. The sail was dropped, the boat moored, and then, after a bit, she heard a heavy step upon the dock. Only one person came toward her. Ruth peered anxiously out of the shadow. A man slouched along the dock and reached the shell road. He turned east, moving away toward the lighthouse. It was Jack Crab. "And Nita is not with him!" gasped Ruth. "What has he done with her? Where has he taken her in the boat? What does it mean?" She dared not run after Crab and ask him. She was really afraid of the man. His secret communication with Nita was no matter to be blurted out to everybody, she was sure. Nita had gone to meet him of her own free will. She was not obliged to sail away with Crab in the catboat. Naturally, the supposition was that she had decided to remain away from the bungalow of her own intention, too. "It is not my secret," thought Ruth. "She was merely a visitor here. Miss Kate, even, had no command over her actions. She is not responsible for Nita--none of us is responsible. "I only hope she won't get into any trouble through that horrid Jack Crab. And it seems so ungrateful for Nita to walk out of the house without saying a word to Heavy and Miss Kate. "I'd best keep my own mouth shut, however, and let things take their course. Nita wanted to go away, or she would not have done so. She seemed to have no fear of Jack Crab; otherwise she would not have met him at night and gone away with him. "Ruth Fielding! you mind your own business," argued the girl of the Red Mill, finally going back toward the silent house. "At least, wait until we see what comes of this before you tell everything you know." And so deciding, she crept into the house, locked the door again, got into her room without disturbing any of the other girls, and so to bed and finally to sleep, being little the wiser for her midnight escapade. CHAPTER XIX THE GOBLINS' GAMBOL Helen awoke Ruth in the morning with the question that was bound to echo and re-echo through the bungalow for that, and subsequent days: "Where is Nita?" Ruth could truthfully answer: "I do not know." Nor did anybody else know, or suspect, or imagine. What had happened in the night was known only to Ruth and she had determined not to say a word concerning it unless she should be pointedly examined by Miss Kate, or somebody else in authority. Nobody else had heard or seen Nita leave the bungalow. Indeed, nobody had heard Ruth get up and go out, either. The catboat rocked at its moorings, and there was no trace of how Nita had departed. As to _why_ she had gone so secretly--well, that was another matter. They were all of the opinion that the runaway was a very strange girl. She had gone without thanking Miss Kate or Heavy for their entertainment. She was evidently an ungrateful girl. These opinions were expressed by the bulk of the party at the bungalow. But Ruth and Helen and the latter's brother had their own secret about the runaway. Helen had been shown the paper Tom had found. She and Tom were convinced that Nita was really Jane Ann Hicks and that she had been frightened away by Jack Crab. Crab maybe had threatened her. On this point Ruth could not agree. But she could not explain her reason for doubting it without telling more than she wished to tell; therefore she did not insist upon her own opinion. In secret she read over again the article in the newspaper about the lost Jane Ann Hicks. Something she had not noticed before now came under her eye. It was at the end of the article--at the bottom of the last column on the page: "Old Bill certainly means to find Jane Ann if he can. He has told Chief Penhampton, of Bullhide, to spare no expense. The old man says he'll give ten good steers--or five hundred dollars in hard money--for information leading to the apprehension and return of Jane Ann. And he thinks some of starting for the East himself to hunt her up if he doesn't hear soon." "That poor old man," thought Ruth, "really loves his niece. If I was sure Nita was the girl told of here, I'd be tempted to write to Mr. Hicks myself." But there was altogether too much to do at Lighthouse Point for the young folks to spend much time worrying about Nita. Phineas said that soft-shell crabs were to be found in abundance at the mouth of the creek at the head of the cove, and that morning the boys made nets for all hands--at least, they found the poles and fastened the hoops to them, while the girls made the bags of strong netting--and after dinner the whole party trooped away (Mercy excepted) to heckle the crabs under the stones and snags where Phineas declared they would be plentiful. The girls were a bit afraid of the creatures at first, when they were shaken out of the scoops; but they soon found that the poor things couldn't bite until the new shells hardened. The boys took off their shoes and stockings and waded in, whereupon Bob suddenly began to dance and bawl and splash the water all over himself and his companions. "What under the sun's the matter with you, Bobbins?" roared Tom, backing away from his friend to escape a shower-bath. "Oh! he's got a fit!" squealed Isadore. "It's cramps!" declared Heavy, from the shore, and in great commiseration. "For pity's sake, little boy!" cried Bob's sister, "what is the matter with you now? He's the greatest child! always getting into some mess." Bob continued to dance; but he got into shoal water after a bit and there it was seen that he was doing a sort of Highland fling on one foot. The other had attached to it a big hardshell crab; and no mortgage was ever clamped upon a poor man's farm any tighter than Mr. Crab was fastened upon Bob's great toe. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" repeated the big fellow, whacking away at the crab with the handle of his net. Isadore tried to aid him, and instead of hitting the crab with _his_ stick, barked Bob's ankle bone nicely. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" yelled the youth in an entirely different key. The girls were convulsed with laughter; but Tom got the big crab and the big boy apart. Bob wasn't satisfied until he had placed the hardshell between two stones and wrecked it--smashed it flat as a pancake. "There! I know that fellow will never nip another inoffensive citizen," groaned Bob, and he sat on a stone and nursed his big toe and his bruised ankle until the others were ready to go home. They got a nice mess of crabs; but Bob refused to eat any. "Never want to see even crabs _a la_ Newburgh again," he grunted. "And I don't believe that even a fried soft-shell crab is dead enough so that it can't bite a fellow!" There was a splendid smooth bit of beach beyond the dock where they bathed, and even Mercy had taken a dip that morning; but when the girls went to their bedrooms at night each girl found pinned to her nightdress a slip of paper--evidently a carbon copy of a typewritten message. It read: "THE GOBLINS' GAMBOL--You are instructed to put on your bathing suit, take a wrap, and meet for a Goblins' Gambol on the beach at ten sharp. The tide will be just right, and there is a small moon. Do not fail." The girls giggled a good deal over this. They all declared they had not written the message, or caused it to be written. There was a typewriter downstairs, Heavy admitted; but she had never used it. Anyhow, the suggestion was too tempting to refuse. At ten the girls, shrouded in their cloaks and water proofs, crept down stairs and out of the house. The door was locked, and they could not imagine who had originated this lark. The boys did not seem to be astir at all. "If Aunt Kate hears of this I expect she'll say something," chuckled Heavy. "But we've been pretty good so far. Oh, it is just warm and nice. I bet the water will be fine." They trooped down to the beach, Mercy limping along with the rest. Ruth and Helen gave her aid when she reached the sand, for her crutches hampered her there. "Come on! the water's fine!" cried Madge, running straight into the smooth sea. They were soon sporting in it, and having a great time, but keeping near the shore because the boys were not there, when suddenly Helen began to squeal--and then Madge. Those two likewise instantly disappeared beneath the water, their cries ending in articulate gurgles. "Oh! Oh!" cried Heavy. "There's somebody here! Something's got me!" She was in shallow water, and she promptly sat down. Whatever had grabbed her vented a mighty grunt, for she pinioned it for half a minute under her weight. When she could scramble up she had to rescue what she had fallen on, and it proved to be Isadore--very limp and "done up." "It's the boys," squealed Helen, coming to the surface. "Tom swam under water and caught me." "And this is that horrid Bob!" cried Madge. "What have you got there, Heavy?" "I really don't know," giggled the stout girl. "What do you think it looks like?" "My--goodness--me!" panted Busy Izzy. "I thought--it--it was Ruth! Why--why don't you look where you're sitting, Jennie Stone?" But the laugh was on Isadore and he could not turn the tables. The boys had been out to the diving float watching the girls come in. And in a minute or two Miss Kate joined them, too. It was she who had planned the moonlight dip and for half an hour they ran races on the sand, and swam, and danced, and had all sorts of queer larks. Miss Kate was about to call them out and "shoo" the whole brood into the house again when they heard a horse, driven at high speed, coming over the creek bridge. "Hullo! here comes somebody in a hurry," said Tom. "That's right. He's driving this way, not toward the railroad station," rejoined Heavy. "It's somebody from Sokennet." "Who can it be this time of night?" was her aunt's question as they waited before the gateway as the carriage wheeled closer. "There's a telegraph office, you know, at Sokennet," said Heavy, thoughtfully. "And--yes!--that's Brickman's old horse. Hullo!" "Whoa! Hullo, Miss!" exclaimed a hoarse voice. "Glad I found you up. Here's a message for you." "For me?" cried Heavy, and dripping as she was, ran out to the carriage. "Sign on this place, Miss. Here's a pencil. Thank you, Miss; it's paid for. That's the message," and he put a telegraph envelope into her hand. On the outside of the envelope was written, "Stone, Lighthouse Point." Under the lamp on the porch Heavy broke the seal and drew out the message, while the whole party stood waiting. She read it once to herself, and was evidently immensely surprised. Then she read it out loud, and her friends were just as surprised as she was: "Stone, Lighthouse Point, Sokennet.--Hold onto her. I am coming right down. "W. HICKS." CHAPTER XX "WHAR'S MY JANE ANN?" Three of Heavy's listeners knew in an instant what the telegram meant--who it was from, and who was mentioned in it--Ruth, Helen and Tom. But how, or why the telegram had been sent was as great a mystery to them as to the others; therefore their surprise was quite as unfeigned as that of the remaining girls and boys. "Why, somebody's made a mistake," said Heavy. "Such a telegram couldn't be meant for me." "And addressed only to 'Stone,'" said her aunt. "It is, of course, a mistake." "And who are we to hold on to?" laughed Mary Cox, prepared to run into the house again. "Wait!" cried Mercy, who had come leaning upon Madge's arm from the shore. "Don't you see who that message refers to?" "No!" they chorused. "To that runaway girl, of course," said the cripple. "That's plain enough, I hope." "To Nita!" gasped Heavy. "But who is it that's coming here for her? And how did 'W. Hicks' know she was here?" demanded Ruth. "Maybe Captain and Mrs. Kirby told all about her when they got to Boston. News of her, and where she was staying, got to her friends," said Mercy Curtis. "That's the 'why and wherefore' of it--believe me!" "That sounds very reasonable," admitted Aunt Kate. "The Kirbys would only know our last name and would not know how to properly address either Jennie or me. Come, now! get in on the rubber mats in your rooms and rub down well. The suits will be collected and rinsed out and hung to dry before Mammy Laura goes to bed. If any of you feel the least chill, let me know." But it was so warm and delightful a night that there was no danger of colds. The girls were so excited by the telegram and had so much to say about the mystery of Nita, the castaway, that it was midnight before any of them were asleep. However, they had figured out that the writer of the telegram, leaving New York, from which it was sent at half after eight, would be able to take a train that would bring him to Sandtown very early in the morning; and so the excited young folks were all awake by five o'clock. It was a hazy morning, but there was a good breeze from the land. Tom declared he heard the train whistle for the Sandtown station, and everybody dressed in a hurry, believing that "W. Hicks" would soon be at the bungalow. There were no public carriages at the station to meet that early train, and Miss Kate had doubted about sending anybody to meet the person who had telegraphed. In something like an hour, however, they saw a tall man, all in black, striding along the sandy road toward the house. As he came nearer he was seen to be a big-boned man, with broad shoulders, long arms, and a huge reddish mustache, the ends of which drooped almost to his collar. Such a mustache none of them had ever seen before. His black clothes would have fitted a man who weighed a good fifty pounds more than he did, and so the garments hung baggily upon him. He wore a huge, black slouched hat, with immensely broad brim. He strode immediately to the back door--that being the nearest to the road by which he came--and the boys and girls in the breakfast room crowded to the windows to see him. He looked neither to right nor left, however, but walked right into the kitchen, where they at once heard a thunderous voice demand: "Whar's my Jane Ann? Whar's my Jane Ann, I say?" Mammy Laura evidently took his appearance and demand in no good part. She began to sputter, but his heavy voice rode over hers and quenched it: "Keep still, ol' woman! I want to see your betters. Whar's my Jane Ann?" "Lawsy massy! what kine ob a man is yo'?" squealed the fat old colored woman. "T' come combustucatin' inter a pusson's kitchen in disher way----" "Be still, ol' woman!" roared the visitor again. "Whar's my Jane Ann?" The butler appeared then and took the strange visitor in hand. "Come this way, sir. Miss Kate will see you," he said, and led the big man into the front of the house. "I don't want none o' your 'Miss Kates,'" growled the stranger. "I want my Jane Ann." Heavy's little Aunt looked very dainty indeed when she appeared before this gigantic Westerner. The moment he saw her, off came his big hat, displaying a red, freckled face, and a head as bald as an egg. He was a very ugly man, saving when he smiled; then innumerable humorous wrinkles appeared about his eyes and the pale blue eyes themselves twinkled confidingly. "Your sarvent, ma'am," he said. "Your name Stone?" "It is, sir. I presume you are 'W. Hicks'?" she said. "That's me--Bill Hicks. Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, Montanny." "I hope you have not come here, Mr. Hicks, to be disappointed. But I must tell you at the start," said Miss Kate, "that I never heard of you before _I_ received your very remarkable telegram." "Huh! that can well be, ma'am--that can well be. But they got your letter at the ranch, and Jib, he took it into Colonel Penhampton, and the Colonel telegraphed me to New York, where I'd come a-hunting her----" "Wait, wait, wait!" cried Miss Kate, eagerly. "I don't understand at all what you are talking about." "Why--why, I'm aimin' to talk about my Jane Ann," exclaimed the cattle man. "Jane Ann who?" she gasped. "Jane Ann Hicks. My little gal what you've got her and what you wrote about----" "You are misinformed, sir," declared Miss Kate. "I have never written to you--or to anybody else--about any person named Jane Ann Hicks." "Oh, mebbe you don't know her by that name. She had some hifalutin' idee before she vamoosed about not likin' her name--an' I give her that thar name myself!" added Bill Hicks, in an aggrieved tone. "Nor have I written about any other little girl, or by any other name," rejoined Miss Kate. "I have written no letter at all." "You didn't write to Silver Ranch to tell us that my little Jane Ann was found?" gasped the man. "No, sir." "Somebody else wrote, then?" "I do not know it, if they did," Miss Kate declared. "Then somebody's been a-stringin' of me?" he roared, punching his big hat with a clenched, freckled fist in a way that made Miss Kate jump. "Oh!" she cried. "Don't you be afeared, ma'am," said the big man, more gently. "But I'm mighty cast down--I sure am! Some miser'ble coyote has fooled me. That letter said as how my little niece was wrecked on a boat here and that a party named Stone had taken her into their house at Lighthouse Point----" "It's Nita!" cried Miss Kate. "What's that?" he demanded. "You're speaking of Nita, the castaway!" "I'm talkin' of my niece, Jane Ann Hicks," declared the rancher. "That's who I'm talking of." "But she called herself Nita, and would not tell us anything about herself." "It might be, ma'am. The little skeezicks!" chuckled the Westerner, his eyes twinkling suddenly. "That's a mighty fancy name--'Nita.' And so she _is_ here with you, after all?" "No." "Not here?" he exclaimed, his big, bony face reddening again. "No, sir. I believe she has been here--your niece." "And where'd she go? What you done with her?" he demanded, his overhanging reddish eyebrows coming together in a threatening scowl. "Hadn't you better sit down, Mr. Hicks, and let me tell you all about it?" suggested Miss Kate. "Say, Miss!" he ejaculated. "I'm anxious, I be. When Jane Ann first run away from Silver Ranch, I thought she was just a-playin' off some of her tricks on me. I never supposed she was in earnest 'bout it--no, ma'am! "I rid into Bullhide arter two days. And instead of findin' her knockin' around there, I finds her pony at the greaser's corral, and learns that she's took the train East. That did beat me. I didn't know she had any money, but she'd bought a ticket to Denver, and it took a right smart of money to do it. "I went to Colonel Penhampton, I did," went on Hicks, "and told him about it. He heated up the wires some 'twixt Bullhide and Denver; but she'd fell out o' sight there the minute she'd landed. Denver's some city, ma'am. I finds that out when I lit out arter Jane Ann and struck that place myself. "Wal! 'twould be teejious to you, ma'am, if I told whar I have chased arter that gal these endurin' two months. Had to let the ranch an' ev'rythin' else go to loose ends while I follered news of her all over. My gosh, ma'am! how many gals there is runs away from their homes! Ye wouldn't believe the number 'nless ye was huntin' for a pertic'lar one an' got yer rope on so many that warn't her!" "You have had many disappointments, sir?" said Miss Kate, beginning to feel a great sympathy for this uncouth man. He nodded his great, bald, shining head. "I hope you ain't going to tell me thar's another in store for me right yere," he said, in a much milder voice. "I cannot tell you where Nita--if she is your niece--is now," said Miss Kate, firmly. "She's left you?" "She went away some time during the night--night before last." "What for?" he asked, suspiciously. "I don't know. We none of us knew. We made her welcome and said nothing about sending her away, or looking for her friends. I did not wish to frighten her away, for she is a strangely independent girl----" "You bet she is!" declared Mr. Hicks, emphatically. "I hoped she would gradually become confiding, and then we could really do something for her. But when we got up yesterday morning she had stolen out of the house in the night and was gone." "And ye don't know whar Jane Ann went?" he said, with a sort of groan. Miss Kate shook her head; but suddenly a voice interrupted them. Ruth Fielding parted the curtains and came into the room. "I hope you will pardon me, Miss Kate," she said softly. "And this gentleman, too. I believe I can tell him how Nita went away--and perhaps through what I know he may be able to find her again." CHAPTER XXI CRAB MAKES HIS DEMAND Bill Hicks beckoned the girl from the Red Mill forward. "You come right here, Miss," he said, "and let's hear all about it. I'm a-honin' for my Jane Ann somethin' awful--ye don't know what a loss she is to me. And Silver Ranch don't seem the same no more since she went away." "Tell me," said Ruth, curiously, as she came forward, "was what the paper said about it all true?" "Why, Ruth, what paper is this? What do you know about this matter that I don't know?" cried Miss Kate. "I'm sorry, Miss Kate," said the girl; "but it wasn't my secret and I didn't feel I could tell you----" "I know what you mean, little Miss," Hicks interrupted. "That New York newspaper--with the picter of Jane Ann on a pony what looked like one o' these horsecar horses? Most ev'rythin' they said in that paper was true about her--and the ranch." "And she has had to live out there without any decent woman, and no girls to play with, and all that?" "Wal!" exclaimed Mr. Hicks. "That ain't sech a great crime; is it?" "I don't wonder so much she ran away," Ruth said, softly. "But I am sorry she did not stay here until you came, sir." "But where is she?" chorused both the ranchman and Miss Kate, and the latter added: "Tell what you know about her departure, Ruth." So Ruth repeated all that she had heard and seen on the night Nita disappeared from the Stone bungalow. "And this man, Crab, can be found down yonder at the lighthouse?" demanded the ranchman, rising at the end of Ruth's story. "He is there part of the time, sir," Miss Kate said. "He is a rather notorious character around here--a man of bad temper, I believe. Perhaps you had better go to the authorities first----" "What authorities?" demanded the Westerner in surprise. "The Sokennet police." Bill Hicks snorted. "I don't need police in this case, ma'am," he said. "I know what to do with this here Crab when I find him. And if harm's come to my Jane Ann, so much the worse for him." "Oh, I hope you will be patient, sir," said Miss Kate. "Nita was not a bit afraid of him, I am sure," Ruth hastened to add. "He would not hurt her." "No. I reckon he wants to make money out of me," grunted Bill Hicks, who did not lack shrewdness. "He sent the letter that told me she was here, and then he decoyed her away somewhere so's to hold her till I came and paid him the reward. Wal! let me git my Jane Ann back, safe and sound, and he's welcome to the five hundred dollars I offered for news of her." "But first, Mr. Hicks," said Miss Kate, rising briskly, "you'll come to breakfast. You have been traveling all night----" "That's right, ma'am. No chance for more than a peck at a railroad sandwich--tough critters, them!" "Ah! here is Tom Cameron," she said, having parted the portières and found Tom just passing through the hall. "Mr. Hicks, Tom. Nita's uncle." "Er--Mr. Bill Hicks, of the Silver Ranch!" ejaculated Tom. "So you've hearn tell of me, too, have you, younker?" quoth the ranchman, good-naturedly. "Well, my fame's spreadin'." "And it seems that _I_ am the only person here who did not know all about your niece," said Miss Kate Stone, drily. "Oh, no, ma'am!" cried Tom. "It was only Ruth and Helen and I who knew anything about it. And we only suspected. You see, we found the newspaper article which told about that bully ranch, and the fun that girl had----" "Jane Ann didn't think 'twas nice enough for her," grunted the ranchman. "She wanted high-heeled slippers--and shift--shift-on hats--and a pianner! Common things warn't good enough for Jane Ann." Ruth laughed, for she wasn't at all afraid of the big Westerner. "If chiffon hats and French heeled slippers would have kept Nita--I mean, Jane Ann--at home, wouldn't it have been cheaper for you to have bought 'em?" she asked. "It shore would!" declared the cattleman, emphatically. "But when the little girl threatened to run away I didn't think she meant it." Meanwhile Miss Kate had asked Tom to take the big man up stairs where he could remove the marks of travel. In half an hour he was at the table putting away a breakfast that made even Mammy Laura open her eyes in wonder. "I'm a heavy feeder, Miss," he said apologetically, to Ruth. "Since I been East I often have taken my breakfast in two restaurants, them air waiters stare so. I git it in relays, as ye might say. Them restaurant people ain't used to seeing a _man_ eat. And great cats! how they do charge for vittles!" But ugly as he was, and big and rude as he was, there was a simplicity and open-heartedness about Mr. Hicks that attracted more than Ruth Fielding. The boys, because Tom was enthusiastic about the old fellow, came in first. But the girls were not far behind, and by the time Mr. Hicks had finished breakfast the whole party was in the room, listening to his talk of his lost niece, and stories of Silver Ranch and the growing and wonderful West. Mercy Curtis, who had a sharp tongue and a sharper insight into character, knew just how to draw Bill Hicks out. And the ranchman, as soon as he understood that Mercy was a cripple, paid her the most gallant attentions. And he took the lame girl's sharp criticisms in good part, too. "So you thought you could bring up a girl baby from the time she could crawl till she was old enough to get married--eh?" demanded Mercy, in her whimsical way. "What a smart man you are, Mr. Bill Hicks!" "Ya-as--ain't I?" he groaned. "I see now I didn't know nothin'." "Not a living thing!" agreed Mercy. "Bringing up a girl among a lot of cow--cow--what do you call 'em?" "Punchers," he finished, wagging his head. "That's it. Nice society for a girl. Likely to make her ladylike and real happy, too." "Great cats!" ejaculated the ranchman, "I thought I was doin' the square thing by Jane Ann----" "And giving her a name like that, too!" broke in Mercy. "How dared you?" "Why--why----" stammered Mr. Hicks. "It was my grandmother's name--and she was as spry a woman as ever I see." "Your grandmother's name!" gasped Mercy. "Then, what right had you to give it to your niece? And when she way a helpless baby, too! Wasn't she good enough to have a name of her own--and one a little more modern?" "Miss, you stump me--you sure do!" declared Mr. Hicks, with a sigh. "I never thought a gal cared so much for them sort o' things. They're surprisin' different from boys; ain't they?" "Hope you haven't found it out too late, Mister Wild and Woolly," said Mercy, biting her speech off in her sharp way. "You had better take a fashion magazine and buy Nita--or whatever she wants to call herself--clothes and hats like other girls wear. Maybe you'll be able to keep her on a ranch, then." "Wal, Miss! I'm bound to believe you've got the rights of it. I ain't never had much knowledge of women-folks, and that's a fact----" He was interrupted by the maid coming to the door. "There's a boy here, Miss Kate," she said, "who is asking for the gentleman." "Asking for the gentleman?" repeated Miss Kate. "Yes, ma'am. The gentleman who has just came. The gentleman from the West." "Axing for _me?_" cried the ranchman, getting up quickly. "It must be for you, sir," said Aunt Kate. "Let the boy come in, Sally." In a minute a shuffling, tow-headed, bare-footed lad of ten years or so entered bashfully. He was a son of one of the fishermen living along the Sokennet shore. "You wanter see me, son?" demanded the Westerner. "Bill Hicks, of Bullhide?" "Dunno wot yer name is, Mister," said the boy. "But air you lookin' for a gal that was brought ashore from the wreck of that lumber schooner?" "That's me!" cried Mr. Hicks. "Then I got suthin' for ye," said the boy, and thrust a soiled envelope toward him. "Jack Crab give it to me last night. He said I was to come over this morning an' wait for you to come. Phin says you had come, w'en I got here. That's all." "Hold on!" cried Tom Cameron, as the boy started to go out, and Mr. Hicks ripped open the envelope. "Say, where is this Crab man?" "Dunno." "Where did he go after giving you the note?" "Dunno." Just then Mr. Hicks uttered an exclamation that drew all attention to him and the fisherman's boy slipped out. "Great cats!" roared Bill Hicks. "Listen to this, folks! What d'ye make of it? "'Now I got you right. Whoever you be, you are wanting to get hold of the girl. I know where she is. You won't never know unless I get that five hundred dols. The paper talked about. You leave it at the lighthouse. Mis Purling will take care of it and I reckon on getting it from her when I want it. When she has got the five hundred dols. I will let you know how to find the girl. So, no more at present, from "'J. Crab.' "Listen here to it, will ye? Why, if once I get my paws on this here Crab----" "You want to get the girl most; don't you?" interrupted Mercy, sharply. "Of course!" "Then you'd better see if paying the money to him--just as he says--won't bring her to you. You offered the reward, you know." "But maybe he doesn't really know anything about Nita!" cried Heavy. "And maybe he knows just where she is," said Ruth. "Wal! he seems like a mighty sharp feller," admitted the cattleman, seriously. "I want my Jane Ann back. I don't begredge no five hundred dollars. I'm a-goin' over to that lighthouse and see what this Missus Purling--you say she's the keeper?--knows about it. That's what I'm going to do!" finished Hicks with emphasis. CHAPTER XXII THIMBLE ISLAND Miss Kate said of course he could use the buckboard and ponies, and it was the ranchman's own choice that the young folks went, too. There was another wagon, and they could all crowd aboard one or the other vehicle--even Mercy Curtis went. "I don't believe that Crab man will show up at the light," Ruth said to Tom and Helen. "He's plainly made up his mind that he won't meet Nita's friends personally. And to think of his getting five hundred dollars so easy!" and she sighed. For the reward Mr. Hicks had offered for news of his niece, which would lead to her apprehension and return to his guardianship, would have entirely removed from Ruth Fielding's mind her anxiety about Briarwood. Let the Tintacker Mine, in which Uncle Jabez had invested, remain a deep and abiding mystery, if Ruth could earn that five hundred dollars. But if Jack Crab had placed Nita in good hands and was merely awaiting an opportunity to exchange her for the reward which the runaway's uncle had offered, then Ruth need not hope for any portion of the money. And certainly, Crab would make nothing by hiding the girl away and refusing to give her up to Mr. Hicks. "And if I took money for telling Mr. Hicks where Nita was, why--why it would be almost like taking blood money! Nita liked me, I believe; I think she ought to be with her uncle, and I am sure he is a nice man. But it would be playing the traitor to report her to Mr. Hicks--and that's a fact!" concluded Ruth, taking herself to task. "I could not think of earning money in such a contemptible way." Whether her conclusion was right, or not, it seemed right to Ruth, and she put the thought of the reward out of her mind from that instant. The ranchman had taken a liking to Ruth and when he climbed into the buckboard he beckoned the girl from the Red Mill to a seat beside him. He drove the ponies, but seemed to give those spirited little animals very little attention. Ruth knew that he must be used to handling horses beside which the ponies seemed like tame rabbits. "Now what do you think of my Jane Ann?" was the cattleman's question. "Ain't she pretty cute?" "I am not quite sure that I know what you mean by that, Mr. Hicks," Ruth answered, demurely. "But she isn't as smart as she ought to be, or she wouldn't have gone off with Jack Crab." "Huh!" grunted the other. "Mebbe you're right on that p'int. He didn't have no drop on her--that's so! But ye can't tell what sort of a yarn he give her." "She would better have had nothing to say to him," said Ruth, emphatically. "She should have confided in Miss Kate. Miss Kate and Jennie were treating her just as nicely as though she were an invited guest. Nita--or Jane, as you call her--may be smart, but she isn't grateful in the least." "Oh, come now, Miss----" "No. She isn't grateful," repeated Ruth. "She never even suggested going over to the life saving station and thanking Cap'n Abinadab and his men for bringing her ashore from the wreck of the _Whipstitch._" "Great cats! I been thinkin' of that," sighed the Westerner. "I want to see them and tell 'em what I think of 'em. I 'spect Jane Ann never thought of such a thing." "But I liked her, just the same," Ruth went on, slowly. "She was bold, and brave, and I guess she wouldn't ever do a really mean thing." "I reckon not, Miss!" agreed Mr. Hicks. "My Jane Ann is plumb square, she is. I can forgive her for running away from us. Mebbe thar was reason for her gittin' sick of Silver Ranch. I--I stand ready to give her 'bout ev'rything she wants--in reason--when I git her back thar." "Including a piano?" asked Ruth, curiously. "Great cats! that's what we had our last spat about," groaned Bill Hicks. "Jib, he's had advantages, he has. Went to this here Carlisle Injun school ye hear so much talk about. It purty nigh ruined him, but he _can_ break hosses. And thar he l'arned to play one o' them pianners. We was all in to Bullhide one time--we'd been shipping steers--and we piled into the Songbird Dancehall--had the place all to ourselves, for it was daytime--and Jib sot down and fingered them keys somethin' scand'lous. Bashful Ike--he's my foreman--says he never believed before that a sure 'nough man like Jibbeway Pottoway could ever be so ladylike! "Wal! My Jane Ann was jest enchanted by that thar pianner--yes, Miss! She was jest enchanted. And she didn't give me no peace from then on. Said she wanted one o' the critters at the ranch so Jib could give her lessons. And I jest thought it was foolishness--and it cost money--oh, well! I see now I was a pretty mean old hunks----" "That's what I heard her call you once," chuckled Ruth. "At least, I know now that she was speaking of you, sir." "She hit me off right," sighed Mr. Hicks. "I hadn't never been used to spending money. But, laws, child! I got enough. I been some waked up since I come East. Folks spend money here, that's a fact." They found Mother Purling's door opened at the foot of the lighthouse shaft, and the flutter of an apron on the balcony told them that the old lady had climbed to the lantern. "She doesn't often do that," said Heavy. "Crab does all the cleaning and polishing up there." "He's left her without any help, then," Ruth suggested. "That's what it means." And truly, that is what it did mean, as they found out when Ruth, the Cameron twins, and the Westerner climbed the spiral staircase to the gallery outside the lantern. "Yes; that Crab ain't been here this morning," Mother Purling admitted when Ruth explained that there was reason for Mr. Hicks wishing to see him. "He told me he was mebbe going off for a few days. 'Then you send me a substitute, Jack Crab,' I told him; but he only laughed and said he wasn't going to send a feller here to work into his job. He _is_ handy, I allow. But I'm too old to be left all stark alone at this light. I'm going to have another man when Jack's month is out, just as sure as eggs is eggs!" Mr. Hicks was just as polite to the old lady as he had been to Miss Kate; and he quickly explained his visit to the lighthouse, and showed her the two letters that Crab had written. "Well, ain't that the beatenest?" she cried. "Jack Crab is just as mean as they make 'em, I always did allow. But this is the capsheaf of all his didoes. And you say he run off with the little girl the other night in Mr. Stone's catboat? I dunno where he could have taken her. And that day he'd been traipsing off fishing with you folks on the motor launch; hadn't he? He's been leavin' me to do his work too much. This settles it. Me and Jack Crab parts company at the end of this month!" "But what is Mr. Hicks to do about his niece, Mother Purling?" cried Ruth. "Will he pay the five hundred dollars to you----?" "I just guess he won't!" cried the old lady, vigorously. "I ain't goin' to be collector for Crab in none of his risky dealin's--no, ma'am!" "Then he says he won't give Nita up," exclaimed Tom. "Can't help it. I'm a government employe. I can't afford to be mixed up in no such didoes." "Now, I say, Missus!" exclaimed the cattleman, "this is shore too bad! Ye might know somethin' about whar I kin find this yere reptile by the name of Crab--though I reckon a crab is a inseck, not a reptile," and the ranchman grinned ruefully. The young folks could scarcely control their laughter at this, and the idea that a crustacean might be an insect was never forgotten by the Cameron twins and Ruth Fielding. "I dunno where he is," said Mother Purling, shortly. "I can't keep track of the shiftless critter. Ha'f the time when he oughter be here he's out fishing in the dory, yonder--or over to Thimble Island." "Which is Thimble Island?" asked Tom, quickly. "Just yon," said the lighthouse keeper, pointing to a cone-shaped rock--perhaps an imaginative person would call it thimble-shaped--lying not far off shore. The lumber schooner had gone on the reef not far from it. "Ain't no likelihood of his being over thar now, Missus?" asked Mr. Hicks, quickly. "An' ye could purty nigh throw a stone to it!" scoffed the old woman. "Not likely. B'sides, I dunno as there's a landin' on the island 'ceptin' at low tide. I reckon if he's hidin', Jack Crab is farther away than the Thimble. But I don't know nothin' about him. And I can't accept no money for him--that's all there is to that." And really, that did seem to be all there was to it. Even such a go-ahead sort of a person as Mr. Hicks seemed balked by the lighthouse keeper's attitude. There seemed nothing further to do here. Ruth was rather interested in what Mother Purling had said about Thimble Island, and she lingered to look at the conical rock, with the sea foaming about it, when the others started down the stairway. Tom came back for her. "What are you dreaming about, Ruthie?" he demanded, nudging her. "I was wondering, Tommy," she said, "just why Jack Crab went so often to the Thimble, as she says he does. I'd like to see that island nearer to; wouldn't you?" "We'll borrow the catboat and sail out to it. I can handle the _Jennie S._ I bet Helen would like to go," said Tom, at once. "Oh, I don't suppose that Crab man is there. It's just a barren rock," said Ruth. "But I _would_ like to see the Thimble." "And you shall," promised Tom. But neither of them suspected to what strange result that promise tended. CHAPTER XXIII MAROONED It was after luncheon before the three friends got away from the Stone bungalow in the catboat. Tom owned a catrigged boat himself on the Lumano river, and Helen and Ruth, of course, were not afraid to trust themselves to his management of the _Jennie S._ The party was pretty well broken up that day, anyway. Mercy and Miss Kate remained at home and the others found amusement in different directions. Nobody asked to go in the _Jennie S._, for which Ruth was rather glad. Mr. Hicks had gone over to Sokennet with the avowed intention of interviewing every soul in the town for news of Jack Crab. Somebody, surely, must know where the assistant lighthouse keeper was, and the Westerner was not a man to be put off by any ordinary evasion. "My Jane Ann may be hiding over thar amongst them fishermen," he declared to Ruth before he went away. "He couldn't have sailed far with her that night, if he was back in 'twixt two and three hours. No, sir-ree!" And that was the thought in Ruth's mind. Unless Crab had sailed out and put Nita aboard a New York, or Boston, bound steamer, it seemed impossible that the girl could have gotten very far from Lighthouse Point. "Shall we take one of the rowboats in tow, Ruth?" queried Tom, before they left the Stone dock. "No, no!" returned the girl of the Red Mill, hastily. "We couldn't land on that island, anyway." "Only at low tide," rejoined Tom. "But it will be about low when we get outside the point." "You don't really suspect that Crab and Nita are out there, Ruth?" whispered Helen, in her chum's ear. "It's a crazy idea; isn't it?" laughed Ruth. Yet she was serious again in a moment. "I thought, when Mother Purling spoke of his going there so much, that maybe he had a reason--a particular reason." "Phineas told me that Jack Crab was the best pilot on this coast," remarked Tom. "He knows every channel, and shoal, and reef from Westhampton to Cape o' Winds. If there was a landing at Thimble Island, and any secret place upon it, Jack Crab would be likely to know of it." "Can you sail us around the Thimble?" asked Ruth. "That's all we want." "I asked Phin before we started. The sea is clear for half a mile and more all around the Thimble. We can circle it, all right, if the wind holds this way." "That's all I expect you to do, Tommy," responded Ruth, quickly. But they all three eyed the conical-shaped rock very sharply as the _Jennie S._ drew nearer. They ran between the lighthouse and the Thimble. The tide, in falling, left the green and slime-covered ledges bare. "A boat could get into bad quarters there, and easily enough," said Tom, as they ran past. But when he tacked and the catboat swung her head seaward, they began to observe the far side of the Thimble. It was almost circular, and probably all of a thousand yards in circumference. The waves now ran up the exposed ledges, hissing and gurgling among the cavities, and sometimes throwing up spume-like geysers between the boulders. "A bad rock for any vessel to stub her toe against trying to make Sokennet Harbor," quoth Tom Cameron. "They say that the wreckers used to have a false beacon here in the old times. They used to bring a sheep out here and tie a lantern to its neck. Then, at low tide, they'd drive the poor sheep over the rocks and the bobbing up and down of the lantern would look like a riding light on some boat at anchor. Then the lost vessel would dare run in for an anchorage, too, and she'd be wrecked. Jack Crab's grandfather was hanged for it. So Phineas told me." "How awful!" gasped Helen. But Ruth suddenly seized her hand, exclaiming: "See there! what is it fluttering on the rock? Look, Tom!" At the moment the boy could not do so, as he had his hands full with the tiller and sheet, and his eyes were engaged as well. When he turned to look again at the Thimble, what had startled Ruth had disappeared. "There was something white fluttering against the rock. It was down there, either below high-water mark, or just above. I can't imagine what it was." "A seabird, perhaps," suggested Helen. "Then where did it go to so suddenly? I did not see it fly away," Ruth returned. The catboat sailed slowly past the seaward side of the Thimble. There were fifty places in which a person might hide upon the rock--plenty of broken boulders and cracks in the base of the conical eminence that formed the peculiarly shaped island. The three watched the rugged shore very sharply as the catboat beat up the wind--the girls especially giving the Thimble their attention. A hundred pair of eyes might have watched them from the island, as far as they knew. But certainly neither Ruth nor Helen saw anything to feed their suspicion. "What shall we do now?" demanded Tom. "Where do you girls want to go?" "I don't care," Helen said. "Seen all you want to of that deserted island, Ruthie?" "Do you mind running back again, Tom?" Ruth asked. "I haven't any reason for asking it--no good reason, I mean." "Pshaw! if we waited for a reason for everything we did, some things would never be done," returned Tom, philosophically. "There isn't a thing there," declared Helen. "But I don't care in the least where you sail us, Tom." "Only not to Davy Jones' Locker, Tommy," laughed Ruth. "I'll run out a way, and then come back with the wind and cross in front of the island again," said Tom, and he performed this feat in a very seamanlike manner. "I declare! there's a landing we didn't see sailing from the other direction," cried Helen. "See it--between those two ledges?" "A regular dock; but you couldn't land there at high tide, or when there was any sea on," returned her brother. "That's the place!" exclaimed Ruth. "See that white thing fluttering again? That's no seagull." "Ruth is right," gasped Helen. "Oh, Tom! There's something fluttering there--a handkerchief, is it?" "Sing out! as loud as ever you can!" commanded the boy, eagerly. "Hail the rock." They all three raised their voices. There was no answer. But Tom was pointing the boat's nose directly for the opening between the sharp ledges. "If there is nobody on the Thimble now, there _has_ been somebody there recently," he declared. "I'm going to drop the sail and run in there. Stand by with the oars to fend off, girls. We don't want to scratch the catboat more than we can help." His sister and Ruth sprang to obey him. Each with an oar stood at either rail and the big sail came down on the run. But the _Jennie S._ had headway sufficient to bring her straight into the opening between the ledges. Tom ran forward, seized the rope in the bow, and leaped ashore, carrying the coil of the painter with him. Helen and Ruth succeeded in stopping the boat's headway with the oars, and the craft lay gently rocking in the natural dock, without having scraped her paint an atom. "A fine landing!" exclaimed Tom, taking a turn or two with the rope about a knob of rock. "Yes, indeed," returned Ruth. She gave a look around. "My, what a lonely spot!" "It is lonely," the youth answered. "Kind of a Robinson Crusoe place," and he gave a short laugh. "Listen!" cried Ruth, and held up her hand as a warning. "What did you hear, Ruth?" "I thought I heard somebody talking, or calling." "You did?" Tom listened intently. "I don't hear anything." He listened again. "Yes, I do! Where did it come from?" "I think it came from yonder," and the girl from the Red Mill pointed to a big, round rock ahead of them. "Maybe it did, Ruth. We'll--yes, you are right!" exclaimed the boy. As he spoke there was a scraping sound ahead of them and suddenly a tousled black head popped, up over the top of the boulder from which fluttered the bit of white linen that had first attracted Ruth's attention. "Gracious goodness!" gasped Helen. "It's Nita!" cried Ruth. "Oh, oh!" shrilled the lost girl, flying out of concealment and meeting Ruth as she leaped ashore. "Is it really you? Have you come for me? I--I thought I'd have to stay here alone forever. I'd given up all hope of any boat seeing me, or my signal. I--I'm 'most dead of fear, Ruth Fielding! Do, do take me back to land with you." The Western girl was clearly panic-stricken. The boldness and independence she had formerly exhibited were entirely gone. Being marooned on this barren islet had pretty well sapped the courage of Miss Jane Ann Hicks. CHAPTER XXIV PLUCKY MOTHER PURLING Tom Cameron audibly chuckled; but he made believe to be busy with the painter of the catboat and so did not look at the Western girl. The harum-scarum, independent, "rough and ready" runaway was actually on the verge of tears. But--really--it was not surprising. "How long have you been out here on this rock?" demanded Helen, in horror. "Ever since I left the bungalow." "Why didn't you wave your signal from the top of the rock, so that it could be seen on the point?" asked Ruth, wonderingly. "There's no way to get to the top of the rock--or around to the other side of it, either," declared the runaway. "Look at these clothes! They are nearly torn off. And see my hands!" "Oh, you poor, poor thing!" exclaimed Helen, seeing how the castaway's hands were torn. "I tried it. I've shouted myself hoarse. No boat paid any attention to me. They were all too far away, I suppose." "And did that awful man, Crab, bring you here?" cried Ruth. "Yes. It was dark when he landed and showed me this cave in the rock. There was food and water. Why, I've got plenty to eat and drink even now. But nobody has been here----" "Didn't he come back?" queried Tom, at last taking part in the conversation. "He rowed out here once. I told him I'd sink his boat with a rock if he tried to land. I was afraid of him," declared the girl. "But why did you come here with him that night?" demanded Ruth. "'Cause I was foolish. I didn't know he was so bad then. I thought he'd really help me. He told me Jennie's aunt had written to my uncle----" "Old Bill Hicks," remarked Tom, chuckling. "Yes. I'm Jane Hicks. I'm not Nita," said the girl, gulping down something like a sob. "We read all about you in the paper," said Helen, soothingly. "Don't you mind." "And your uncle's come, and he's just as anxious to see you as he can be," declared Ruth. "So they _did_ send for him?" cried Jane Ann. "No. Crab wrote a letter to Silver Ranch himself. He got you out here so as to be sure to collect five hundred dollars from your uncle before he gave you up," grunted Tom. "Nice mess of things you made by running off from us." "Oh, I'll go back with Uncle Bill--I will, indeed," said the girl. "I've been so lonely and scared out here. Seems to me every time the tide rose, I'd be drowned in that cave. The sea's horrid, I think! I never want to see it again." "Well," Tom observed, "I guess you won't have to worry about Crab any more. Get aboard the catboat. We'll slip ashore mighty easy now, and let him whistle for you--or the money. Mr. Hicks won't have to pay for getting you back." "I expect he's awful mad at me," sighed Jane Ann, _alias_ Nita. "I know that he is awfully anxious to get you back again, my dear," said Ruth. "He is altogether too good a man for you to run away from." "Don't you suppose I know that, Miss?" snapped the girl from the ranch. They embarked in the catboat and Tom showed his seamanship to good advantage when he got the _Jennie S._ out of that dock without rubbing her paint. But the wind was very light and they had to run down with it past the island and then beat up between the Thimble and the lighthouse, toward the entrance to Sokennet Harbor. Indeed, the breeze fell so at times that the catboat made no headway. In one of these calms Helen sighted a rowboat some distance away, but pulling toward them from among the little chain of islands beyond the reef on which the lumber schooner had been wrecked. "Here's a fisherman coming," she said. "Do you suppose he'd take us ashore in his boat, Tom? We could walk home from the light. It's growing late and Miss Kate will be worried." "Why, Sis, I can scull this old tub to the landing below the lighthouse yonder. We don't need to borrow a boat. Then Phineas can come around in the _Miraflame_ to-morrow morning and tow the catboat home." But Jane Ann had leaped up at once to eye the coming rowboat--and not with favor. "That looks like the boat that Crab came out to the Thimble in," she exclaimed. "Why! it _is_ him." "Jack Crab!" exclaimed Helen, in terror. "He's after you, then." "Well he won't get her," declared Tom, boldly. "What can we do against that man?" demanded Ruth, anxiously. "I'm afraid of him myself. Let's try to get ashore." "Yes, before he catches us," begged Helen. "Do, Tom!" There was no hope of the wind helping them, and the man in the rowboat was pulling strongly for the becalmed _Jennie S._ Tom instantly dropped her sail and seized one of the oars. He could scull pretty well, and he forced the heavy boat through the quiet sea directly for the lighthouse landing. The three girls were really much disturbed; Crab pulled his lighter boat much faster than Tom could drive the _Jennie S._ and it was a question if he would not overtake her before she reached the landing. "He sees me," said Jane Hicks, excitedly. "He'll get hold of me if he can. And maybe he'll hurt you folks." "He's got to catch us first," grunted Tom, straining at the oar. "We're going to beat him, Tommy!" cried Helen, encouragingly. "Don't give up!" Once Crab looked around and bawled some threat to them over his shoulder. But they did not reply. His voice inspired Tom with renewed strength--or seemed to. The boy strained at his single oar, and the _Jennie S._ moved landward at a good, stiff pace. "Stand ready with the painter, Ruth!" called Tom, at last. "We must fasten the boat before we run." "And where will we run to?" demanded Helen. "To the light, of course," returned her chum. "Give _me_ the hitch-rein!" cried Jane Ann Hicks, snatching the coil of line from Ruth's hand, and the next moment she leaped from the deck of the catboat to the wharf. The distance was seven or eight feet, but she cleared it and landed on the stringpiece. She threw the line around one of the piles and made a knot with a dexterity that would have surprised her companions at another time. But there was no opportunity then for Tom, Helen and Ruth to stop to notice it. All three got ashore the moment the catboat bumped, and they left her where she was and followed the flying Western girl up the wharf and over the stretches of sand towards the lightkeeper's cottage. Before their feet were off the planks of the wharf Jack Crab's boat collided with the _Jennie S._ and the man scrambled upon her deck, and across it to the wharf. He left his own dory to go ashore if it would, and set out to catch the girl who--he considered--was worth five hundred dollars to him. But Jane Ann and her friends whisked into the little white house at the foot of the light shaft, and slammed the door before Crab reached it. "For the Land of Goshen!" cried the old lady, who was sitting knitting in her tiny sitting-room. "What's the meaning of this?" "It's Crab! It's Jack Crab!" cried Helen, almost in hysterics. "He's after us!" Tom had bolted the door. Now Crab thundered upon it, with both feet and fists. "Let me in!" he roared from outside. "Mother Purling! you let me git that gal!" "What does this mean?" repeated the lighthouse keeper, sternly. "Ain't this the gal that big man was after this morning?" she demanded, pointing at Jane Ann. "Yes, Mrs. Purling--it is Jane Hicks. And this dreadful Crab man has kept her out on the Thimble all this time--alone!" cried Ruth. "Think of it! Now he has chased us in here----" "I'll fix that Jack Crab," declared the plucky old woman, advancing toward the door. "Hi, you, Jack! go away from there." "You open this door, Mother Purling, if you knows what's best for you," commanded the sailor. "You better git away from that door, if you knows what's best for _you_, Jack Crab!" retorted the old woman. "I don't fear ye." "I see that man here this morning. Did he leave aught for me?" cried Crab, after a moment. "If he left the five hundred dollars he promised to give for the gal, he can have her. Give me the money, and I'll go my ways." "I ain't no go-between for a scoundrel such as you, Jack Crab," declared the lighthouse keeper. "There's no money here for ye." "Then I'll have the gal if I tear the lighthouse down for it--stone by stone!" roared the fellow. "And it's your kind that always blows before they breeches," declared Mother Purling, referring to the habit of the whale, which spouts before it upends and dives out of sight. "Go away!" "I won't go away!" "Yes, ye will, an' quick, too!" "Old woman, ye don't know me!" stormed the unreasonable man. "I want that money, an' I'm bound to have it--one way or th' other!" "You'll get nuthin', Jack Crab, but a broken head if ye keep on in this fashion," returned the woman of the lighthouse, her honest wrath growing greater every moment. "We'll see about that!" howled the man. "Are ye goin' to let me in or not?" "No, I tell ye! Go away!" "Then I'll bust my way in, see ef I don't!" At that the fellow threw himself against the door, and the screws of one hinge began to tear out of the woodwork. Mother Purling saw it, and motioned the frightened girls and Tom toward the stairway which led to the gallery around the lantern. "Go up yon!" she commanded. "Shut and lock that door on ye. He'll not durst set foot on government property, and that's what the light is. Go up." She shooed them all into the stairway and slammed the door. There she stood with her back against it, while, at the next blow, Jack Crab forced the outer door of her cottage inward and fell sprawling across its wreck into the room. CHAPTER XXV WHAT JANE ANN WANTED Ruth and her companions could not see what went on in the cottage; but they did not mount the stairs. They could not leave the old woman--plucky as she was--to fight Jack Crab alone. But they need not have been so fearful for Mother Purling's safety. The instant the man fell into the main room of the cottage, Mother Purling darted to the stove, seized the heavy poker which lay upon the hearth, and sprang for the rascal. Jack Crab had got upon his knees, threatening her with dire vengeance. The old lighthouse keeper never said a word in reply, but brought the heavy poker down upon his head and shoulders with right good will, and Jack Crab's tune changed on the instant. Again and again Mother Purling struck him. He rolled upon the floor, trying to extricate himself from the wreck of her door, and so escape. But before he could do this, and before the old woman had ceased her attack, there was a shout outside, a horse was brought to an abrupt halt at the gate, and a huge figure in black flung itself from the saddle, and came running through the gate and up to the cottage. "What you got there, Missus?" roared the deep voice of Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, and at the sound of his voice Jane Ann burst open the door at the foot of the stairs and ran out to meet him. "This here's the man you want to meet, I guess," panted the old woman, desisting at length in her use of the poker. "Do ye want him now, Mister?" "Uncle Bill!" shrieked Jane Ann. "Great cats!" cried the cattleman. "Is it Jane Ann herself? Is she alive?" The girl flung herself into the big man's arms. "I'm all right, Uncle!" she cried, laughing and crying together. "And that man yonder didn't hurt me--only kep' me on a desert island till Ruth and Tom and Helen found me." "Then he kin go!" declared Bill Hicks, turning suddenly as Crab started through the door. "And here's what will help him!" The Westerner swung his heavy boot with the best intention in the world and caught Jack Crab just as he was going down the step. With a yell of pain the fellow sailed through the air, landing at least ten feet from the doorway. But he was up from his hands and knees and running hard in an instant, and he ran so hard, and to such good purpose, that he ran right out of this story then and there. Ruth Fielding and her friends never saw the treacherous fellow again. "But if he'd acted like he oughter," said Mr. Hicks, "and hadn't put my Jane Ann out on that thar lonesome rock, and treated her the way he done, I should have considered myself in his debt. I'd have paid him the five hundred dollars, sure enough. I'd have paid it over willingly if he'd left my gal with these nice people and only told me whar she was. But I wouldn't give him a cent now--not even if he was starvin'. For if I found him in that condition I'd see he got food and not money," and the big man chuckled. "So you haven't got to pay five hundred dollars for me, then, Uncle Bill?" said his niece, as they sat on the porch of the Stones' bungalow, talking things over. "No, I haven't. No fault of yours, though, you little rascal. I dunno but I ought to divide it 'twixt them three friends of yourn that found ye." "Not for us!" cried Tom and Helen. "Nor for me," said Ruth, earnestly. "It would not be right. I never should respect myself again if I thought I had tried to find Nita for money." "But if it hadn't been for Ruth we'd never have sailed over there to the Thimble," declared Tom. The Western girl had been thinking seriously; now she seized her uncle by the arm. "I tell you what I want, Uncle Bill!" she cried. "Something beside the pianner and the shift-on hat?" he grumbled, but his blue eyes twinkled. "Those things don't count," she declared earnestly. "But this five hundred dollars, Uncle Bill, you haven't got to pay that Crab man. So you just spend it by taking all these girls and boys that have been so nice to me out to Silver Ranch. They think it must be the finest place that ever happened--and I don't know but 'tis, Uncle, if you don't have too much of it," she added. "Great cats! that would shore be some doin's; wouldn't it?" exclaimed the cattleman, grinning broadly. "You bet it would! We'll take Ruth and Helen and Tom and Heavy an--why, every last one of 'em that'll go. We'll show 'em a right good time; is it a go, Uncle Bill?" And it certainly was "a go," for we shall meet Ruth and her friends next in a volume entitled, "Ruth Fielding at Silver Ranch; Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys." Old Bill Hicks' hearty invitation could not be accepted, however, until the various young folks had written home to their parents and guardians about it. And the expectation of what fun they could have on Silver Ranch did not spoil the fun to be found closer at hand, at Lighthouse Point. The remainder of that fortnight at the bungalow would long be remembered by Ruth and her girl friends, especially. Mr. Hicks got board at Sokennet; but Jane Ann (although they all called her "Nita" save The Fox, who took some delight in teasing her about her ugly name) remained at the bungalow. The cattleman could not do too much for anybody who had been kind to his niece, and had the life saving men not refused absolutely to accept anything from him, he would have made them all a present because they had rescued Jane Ann from the wreck of the _Whipstitch_. Nevertheless, Mr. Hicks found out something that he _could_ do for the life-savers, and he presented the station with a fine library--something which all the surfmen, and Cap'n Abinadab as well, could enjoy during the long winter days and evenings. Nor did the ranchman forget Mother Purling at the lighthouse. Up from New York came the finest black silk dress and bonnet that the big man could buy for money in any shop, and no present could have so delighted the plucky old lighthouse keeper. She had longed, she said, for a black silk dress all her life. Before the young folks departed from Lighthouse Point, too, Miss Kate invited the life-savers, and Mother Purling, and Phineas and some of the other longshoremen and their wives to a "party" at the bungalow. And there were good things to eat (Heavy saw to _that_, of course) and a moving-picture entertainment brought down from the city for that evening, and a big display of fireworks afterward on the shore. This wound up Ruth Fielding's visit to Lighthouse Point. The fortnight of fun was ended all too soon. She and Helen and Tom, and the rest of the visitors, started for home, all promising, if their parents and guardians agreed, to meet Jane Ann Hicks and her uncle a week later, in Syracuse, ready for the long and delightful journey across the continent to Bullhide, Montana. "Well, we certainly did have some great times," was Tom's comment, after the last goodbyes had been spoken and the young folks were homeward bound. "Oh, it was lovely," answered his twin sister. "And think of how we helped Nita--I mean Jane Ann." "Most of the credit for that goes to Ruth," said Tom. "Oh, no!" cried the girl from the Red Mill. "Yes, we certainly had a grand time," she added. "I love the bounding sea, and the shifting sands, and the lighthouse, and all!" "Oh, I do hope we can go out to that ranch!" sighed Helen. "I have always wanted to visit such a place, to see the cattle and the cowboys, and the boundless prairies." "And I want to ride a broncho," put in her brother. "They say some of 'em can go like the wind. Ruth, you'll have to ride, too." "Take your last look at the sea!" came from Heavy. "Maybe we won't get another look at it for a long time." All turned to look at the rolling waves, glistening brightly in the Summer sun. "Isn't it lovely!" "Good-bye, Old Ocean, good-bye!" sang out Helen. Ruth threw a kiss to the waves. Then the ocean faded from their sight. And here we will leave Ruth Fielding and say good-bye. THE END THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. Ruth Fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. 1. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL 2. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL 3. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP 4. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT 5. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH 6. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND 7. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM 8. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES 9. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES 10. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE 11. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE 12. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE 13. RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS 14. RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT 15. RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND 16. RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST 17. RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST 18. RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE 19. RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING 20. RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH 21. RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS 22. RUTH FIELDING IN ALASKA 23. RUTH FIELDING AND HER GREAT SCENARIO CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE BETTY GORDON SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM or The Mystery of a Nobody At twelve Betty is left an orphan. 2. BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON or Strange Adventures in a Great City Betty goes to the National Capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. 3. BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL or The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune From Washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. A splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. 4. BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL or The Treasure of Indian Chasm Seeking treasures of Indian Chasm makes interesting reading. 5. BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP or The Mystery of Ida Bellethorne At Mountain Camp Betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in Washington. 6. BETTY GORDON AT OCEAN PARK or School Chums on the Boardwalk A glorious outing that Betty and her chums never forgot. 7. BETTY GORDON AND HER SCHOOL CHUMS or Bringing the Rebels to Terms Rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies make a fascinating story. 8. BETTY GORDON AT RAINBOW RANCH or Cowboy Joe's Secret Betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. 9. BETTY GORDON IN MEXICAN WILDS or The Secret of the Mountains Betty receives a fake telegram and finds both Bob and herself held for ransom in a mountain cave. 10. BETTY GORDON AND THE LOST PEARL or A Mystery of the Seaside Betty and her chums go to the ocean shore for a vacation and there Betty becomes involved in the disappearance of a string of pearls worth a fortune. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE BARTON BOOKS FOR GIRLS By MAY HOLLIS BARTON 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid May Hollis Barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. Her style is somewhat of a mixture of that of Louisa M. Alcott and Mrs. L. T. Meade, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. Clean tales that all girls will enjoy reading. 1. THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTRY or Laura Mayford's City Experiences Laura was the oldest of five children and when daddy got sick she felt she must do something. She had a chance to try her luck in New York, and there the country girl fell in with many unusual experiences. 2. THREE GIRL CHUMS AT LAUREL HALL or The Mystery of the School by the Lake When the three chums arrived at the boarding school they found the other students in the grip of a most perplexing mystery. How this mystery was solved, and what good times the girls had, both in school and on the lake, go to make a story no girl would care to miss. 3. NELL GRAYSON'S RANCHING DAYS or A City Girl in the Great West Showing how Nell, when she had a ranch girl visit her in Boston, thought her chum very green, but when Nell visited the ranch in the great West she found herself confronting many conditions of which she was totally ignorant. A stirring outdoor story. 4. FOUR LITTLE WOMEN OF ROXBY or The Queer Old Lady Who Lost Her Way Four sisters are keeping house and having trouble to make both ends meet. One day there wanders in from a stalled express train an old lady who cannot remember her identity. The girls take the old lady in, and, later, are much astonished to learn who she really is. 5. PLAIN JANE AND PRETTY BETTY or The Girl Who Won Out The tale of two girls, one plain but sensible, the other pretty but vain. Unexpectedly both find they have to make their way in the world. Both have many trials and tribulations. A story of a country town and then a city. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE LINGER-NOT SERIES By AGNES MILLER 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid This new series of girls' books is in a new style of story writing. The interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. Incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted. 1. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE MYSTERY HOUSE or The Story of Nine Adventurous Girls How the Linger-Not girls met and formed their club seems commonplace, but this writer makes it fascinating, and how they made their club serve a great purpose continues the interest to the end, and introduces a new type of girlhood. 2. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE VALLEY FEUD or The Great West Point Chain The Linger-Not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures that turned out happily for all, and made the valley better because of their visit. 3. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THEIR GOLDEN QUEST or The Log of the Ocean Monarch For a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the California gold-rush, seems unnatural until the reader sees how it happened, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance, forms a fine story. 4. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE WHISPERING CHARMS or The Secret from Old Alaska Whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the Far North or occupied with quiet home duties, the Linger-Not girls could work unitedly to solve a colorful mystery in a way that interpreted American freedom to a sad young stranger, and brought happiness to her and to themselves. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE GIRL SCOUT SERIES By LILIAN GARIS 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid The highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organizations of America form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume. 1. THE GIRL SCOUT PIONEERS or Winning the First B. C. A story of the True Tred Troop in a Pennsylvania town. Two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. The story is correct in scout detail. 2. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT BELLAIRE or Maid Mary's Awakening The story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. How she was discovered by the Bellaire Troop and came into her own as "Maid Mary" makes a fascinating story. 3. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT SEA CREST or The Wig Wag Rescue Luna Land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and Kitty Scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the Girl Scouts come. 4. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP COMALONG or Peg of Tamarack Hills The girls of Bobolink Troop spend their summer on the shores of Lake Hocomo. Their discovery of Peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. 5. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT ROCKY LEDGE or Nora's Real Vacation Nora Blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. Her dislike for the rugged life of Girl Scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little Lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York BILLIE BRADLEY SERIES By JANET D. WHEELER 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER INHERITANCE or The Queer Homestead at Cherry Corners Billie Bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. How Billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. 2. BILLIE BRADLEY AT THREE-TOWERS HALL or Leading a Needed Rebellion Three-Towers Hall was a boarding school for girls. For a short time after Billie arrived there all went well. But then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! The girls wired for the head to come back--and all ended happily. 3. BILLIE BRADLEY ON LIGHTHOUSE ISLAND or The Mystery of the Wreck One of Billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on Lighthouse Island, near the coast. The school girls made up a party and visited the Island. There was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. They could tell nothing of themselves, and Billie and her chums set to work to solve the mystery of their identity. 4. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER CLASSMATES or The Secret of the Locked Tower Billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who have broken through the ice. There is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. 5. BILLIE BRADLEY AT TWIN LAKES or Jolly Schoolgirls Afloat and Ashore A tale of outdoor adventure in which Billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. They visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. Billie befriended Hulda and the mystery surrounding the girl was finally cleared up. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE CURLYTOPS SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS Author of the famous Bedtime Animal Stories 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM or Vacation Days in the Country A tale of happy vacation days on a farm. 2. THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND or Camping out with Grandpa The Curlytops camp on Star Island. 3. THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN or Grand Fun with Skates and Sleds The Curlytops on lakes and hills. 4. THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH or Little Folks on Ponyback Out West on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time. 5. THE CURLYTOPS AT SILVER LAKE or On the Water with Uncle Ben The Curlytops camp out on the shores of a beautiful lake. 6. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS or Uncle Toby's Strange Collection An old uncle leaves them to care for his collection of pets. 7. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PLAYMATES or Jolly Times Through the Holidays They have great times with their uncle's collection of animals. 8. THE CURLYTOPS IN THE WOODS or Fun at the Lumber Camp Exciting times in the forest for Curlytops. 9. THE CURLYTOPS AT SUNSET BEACH or What Was Found in the Sand The Curlytops have a fine time at the seashore. 10. THE CURLYTOPS TOURING AROUND or The Missing Photograph Albums The Curlytops get in some moving pictures. 11. THE CURLYTOPS IN A SUMMER CAMP or Animal Joe's Menagerie There is great excitement as some mischievous monkeys break out of Animal Joe's Menagerie. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOM SERIES By MABEL C. HAWLEY 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT BROOKSIDE FARM Mother called them her Four Little Blossoms, but Daddy Blossom called them Bobby, Meg, and the twins. The twins, Twaddles and Dot, were a comical pair and always getting into mischief. The children had heaps of fun around the big farm. 2. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT OAK HILL SCHOOL In the Fall, Bobby and Meg had to go to school. It was good fun, for Miss Mason was a kind teacher. Then the twins insisted on going to school, too, and their appearance quite upset the class. In school something very odd happened. 3. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AND THEIR WINTER FUN Winter came and with it lots of ice and snow, and oh! what fun the Blossoms had skating and sledding. And once Bobby and Meg went on an errand and got lost in a sudden snowstorm. 4. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS ON APPLE TREE ISLAND The Four Little Blossoms went to a beautiful island in the middle of a big lake and there had a grand time on the water and in the woods. And in a deserted cabin they found some letters which helped an old man to find his missing wife. 5. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS THROUGH THE HOLIDAYS The story starts at Thanksgiving. They went skating and coasting, and they built a wonderful snowman, and one day Bobby and his chums visited a carpenter shop on the sly, and that night the shop burnt down, and there was trouble for the boys. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE Author of The Motor Girls Series, Radio Girls Series, & c. 12mo. Illustrated Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid Dorothy Dale is the daughter of an old Civil War veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small Eastern town. Her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. The Dorothy Dale Series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY DOROTHY DALE AT GLEN WOOD SCHOOL DOROTHY DALE'S GREAT SECRET DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS DOROTHY DALE'S QUEER HOLIDAYS DOROTHY DALE'S CAMPING DAYS DOROTHY DALE'S SCHOOL RIVALS DOROTHY DALE IN THE CITY DOROTHY DALE'S PROMISE DOROTHY DALE IN THE WEST DOROTHY DALE'S STRANGE DISCOVERY DOROTHY DALE'S ENGAGEMENT DOROTHY DALE TO THE RESCUE Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York 
15124	----	THE LIGHTHOUSE By R.M.BALLANTYNE Author of "The Coral Island" &c. BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW BOMBAY E-Test prepared by Roy Brown CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE ROCK. II. THE LOVERS AND THE PRESS-GANG. III. OUR HERO OBLIGED TO GO TO SEA. IV. THE BURGLARY. V. THE BELL ROCK INVADED. VI. THE CAPTAIN CHANGES HIS QUARTERS. VII. RUBY IN DIFFICULTIES. VIII THE SCENE CHANGES--RUBY IS VULCANIZED. IX. STORMS AND TROUBLES. X. THE RISING OF THE TIDE--A NARROW ESCAPE. XI. A STORM, AND A DISMAL STATE OF THINGS ON BOARD THE PHAROS. XII. BELL ROCK BILLOWS--AN UNEXPECTED VISIT--A DISASTER AND A RESCUE. XIII. A SLEEPLESS BUT A PLEASANT NIGHT. XIV. SOMEWHAT STATISTICAL. XV. RUBY HAS A RISE IN LIFE, AND A FALL. XVI. NEW ARRANGEMENTS--THE CAPTAIN'S PHILOSOPHY IN REGARD TO PIPEOLOGY. XVII. A MEETING WITH OLD FRIENDS, AND AN EXCURSION. XVIII. THE BATTLE OF ARBROATH, AND OTHER WARLIKE MATTERS. XIX. AN ADVENTURE--SECRETS REVEALED, AND A PRIZE. XX. THE SMUGGLERS ARE "TREATED" TO GIN AND ASTONISHMENT. XXI. THE BELL ROCK AGAIN--A DREARY NIGHT IN A STRANGE HABITATION. XXII. LIFE IN THE BEACON--STORY OF THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE. XXIII. THE STORM. XXIV. A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS. XXV. THE BELL ROOK IN A FOG--NARROW ESCAPE OF THE SMEATON. XXVI. A SUDDEN AND TREMENDOUS CHANGE IN FORTUNES. XXVII. OTHER THINGS BESIDES MURDER "WILL OUT". XXVIII. THE LIGHTHOUSE COMPLETED--RUBY'S ESCAPE FROM TROUBLE BY A DESPERATE VENTURE. XXIX. THE WRECK. XXX. OLD FRIENDS IN NEW CIRCUMSTANCES. XXXI. MIDNIGHT CHAT IN A LANTERN. XXXII. EVERYDAY LIFE ON THE BELL ROOK, AND OLD MEMORIES RECALLED. XXXIII. CONCLUSION. THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER I THE ROCK Early on a summer morning, about the beginning of the nineteenth century, two fishermen of Forfarshire wended their way to the shore, launched their boat, and put off to sea. One of the men was tall and ill-favoured, the other, short and well-favoured. Both were square-built, powerful fellows, like most men of the class to which they belonged. It was about that calm hour of the morning which precedes sunrise, when most living creatures are still asleep, and inanimate nature wears, more than at other times, the semblance of repose. The sea was like a sheet of undulating glass. A breeze had been expected, but, in defiance of expectation, it had not come, so the boatmen were obliged to use their oars. They used them well, however, insomuch that the land ere long appeared like a blue line on the horizon, then became tremulous and indistinct, and finally vanished in the mists of morning. The men pulled "with a will,"--as seamen pithily express in silence. Only once during the first hour did the ill-favoured man venture a remark. Referring to the absence of wind, he said, that "it would be a' the better for landin' on the rock." This was said in the broadest vernacular dialect, as, indeed, was everything that dropped from the fishermen's lips. We take the liberty of modifying it a little, believing that strict fidelity here would entail inevitable loss of sense to many of our readers. The remark, such as it was, called forth a rejoinder from the short comrade, who stated his belief that "they would be likely to find somethin' there that day." They then relapsed into silence. Under the regular stroke of the oars the boat advanced steadily, straight out to sea. At first the mirror over which they skimmed was grey, and the foam at the cutwater leaden-coloured. By degrees they rowed, as it were, into a brighter region. The sea ahead lightened up, became pale yellow, then warmed into saffron, and, when the sun rose, blazed into liquid gold. The words spoken by the boatmen, though few, were significant. The "rock" alluded to was the celebrated and much dreaded Inch Cape--more familiarly known as the Bell Rock--which being at that time unmarked by lighthouse or beacon of any kind, was the terror of mariners who were making for the firths of Forth and Tay. The "something" that was expected to be found there may be guessed at, when we say that one of the fiercest storms that ever swept our eastern shores had just exhausted itself after strewing the coast with wrecks. The breast of ocean, though calm on the surface, as has been said, was still heaving with a mighty swell, from the effects of the recent elemental conflict. "D'ye see the breakers noo, Davy?" enquired the ill-favoured man, who pulled the aft oar. "Ay, and hear them, too," said Davy Spink, ceasing to row, and looking over his shoulder towards the seaward horizon. "Yer een and lugs are better than mine, then," returned the ill-favoured comrade, who answered, when among his friends, to the name of Big Swankie, otherwise, and more correctly, Jock Swankie. "Od! I believe ye're right," he added, shading his heavy red brows with his heavier and redder hand, "that _is_ the rock, but a man wad need the een o' an eagle to see onything in the face o' sik a bleezin' sun. Pull awa', Davy, we'll hae time to catch a bit cod or a haddy afore the rock's bare." Influenced by these encouraging hopes, the stout pair urged their boat in the direction of a thin line of snow-white foam that lay apparently many miles away, but which was in reality not very far distant. By degrees the white line expanded in size and became massive, as though a huge breaker were rolling towards them; ever and anon jets of foam flew high into the air from various parts of the mass, like smoke from a cannon's mouth. Presently, a low continuous roar became audible above the noise of the oars; as the boat advanced, the swells from the southeast could be seen towering upwards as they neared the foaming spot, gradually changing their broad-backed form, and coming on in majestic walls of green water, which fell with indescribable grandeur into the seething caldron. No rocks were visible, there was no apparent cause for this wild confusion in the midst of the otherwise calm sea. But the fishermen knew that the Bell Rock was underneath the foam, and that in less than an hour its jagged peaks would be left uncovered by the falling tide. As the swell of the sea came in from the eastward, there was a belt of smooth water on the west side of the rock. Here the fishermen cast anchor, and, baiting their hand-lines, began to fish. At first they were unsuccessful, but before half an hour had elapsed, the cod began to nibble, and Big Swankie ere long hauled up a fish of goodly size. Davy Spink followed suit, and in a few minutes a dozen fish lay spluttering in the bottom of the boat. "Time's up noo," said Swankie, coiling away his line. "Stop, stop, here's a wallupper," cried Davy, who was an excitable man; "we better fish a while langer--bring the cleek, Swankie, he's ower big to--noo, lad, cleek him! that's it!--Oh-o-o-o!" The prolonged groan with which Davy brought his speech to a sudden termination was in consequence of the line breaking and the fish escaping, just as Swankie was about to strike the iron hook into its side. "Hech! lad, that was a guid ane," said the disappointed man with a sigh; "but he's awa'." "Ay," observed Swankie, "and we must awa' too, so up anchor, lad. The rock's lookin' oot o' the sea, and time's precious." The anchor was speedily pulled up, and they rowed towards the rock, the ragged edges of which were now visible at intervals in the midst of the foam which they created. At low tide an irregular portion of the Bell Rock, less than a hundred yards in length, and fifty yards in breadth, is uncovered and left exposed for two or three hours. It does not appear in the form of a single mass or islet, but in a succession of serrated ledges of various heights, between and amongst which the sea flows until the tide has fallen pretty low. At full ebb the rock appears like a dark islet, covered with seaweed, and studded with deep pools of water, most of which are connected with the sea by narrow channels running between the ledges. The highest part of the rock does not rise more than seven feet above the level of the sea at the lowest tide. To enter one of the pools by means of the channels above referred to is generally a matter of difficulty, and often of extreme danger, as the swell of the sea, even in calm weather, bursts over these ledges with such violence as to render the channels at times impassable. The utmost caution, therefore, is necessary. Our fishermen, however, were accustomed to land there occasionally in search of the remains of wrecks, and knew their work well. They approached the rock on the lee side, which was, as has been said, to the westward. To a spectator viewing them from any point but from the boat itself, it would have appeared that the reckless men were sailing into the jaws of certain death, for the breakers burst around them so confusedly in all directions that their instant destruction seemed inevitable. But Davy Spink, looking over his shoulder as he sat at the bow-oar, saw a narrow lead of comparatively still water in the midst of the foam, along which he guided the boat with consummate skill, giving only a word or two of direction to Swankie, who instantly acted in accordance therewith. "Pull, pull, lad," said Davy. Swankie pulled, and the boat swept round with its bow to the east just in time to meet a billow, which, towering high above its fellows, burst completely over the rocks, and appeared to be about to sweep away all before it. For a moment the boat was as if embedded in snow, then it sank once more into the lead among the floating tangle, and the men pulled with might and main in order to escape the next wave. They were just in time. It burst over the same rocks with greater violence than its predecessor, but the boat had gained the shelter of the next ledge, and lay floating securely in the deep, quiet pool within, while the men rested on their oars, and watched the chaos of the water rush harmlessly by. In another moment they had landed and secured the boat to a projecting rock. Few words of conversation passed between these practical men. They had gone there on particular business. Time and tide proverbially wait for no man, but at the Bell Rock they wait a much briefer period than elsewhere. Between low water and the time when it would be impossible to quit the rock without being capsized', there was only a space of two or three hours--sometimes more, frequently less--so it behoved the men to economize time. Rocks covered with wet seaweed and rugged in form are not easy to walk over; a fact which was soon proved by Swankie staggering violently once or twice, and by Spink falling flat on his back. Neither paid attention to his comrade's misfortunes in this way. Each scrambled about actively, searching with care among the crevices of the rocks, and from time to time picking up articles which they thrust into their pockets or laid on their shoulders, according as weight and dimensions required. In a short time they returned to their boat pretty well laden. "Weel, lad, what luck?" enquired Spink, as Swankie and he met--the former with a grappling iron on his shoulder, the latter staggering under the weight of a mass of metal. "Not much," replied Swankie; "nothin' but heavy metal this mornin', only a bit of a cookin' stove an' a cannon shot--that's all." "Never mind, try again. There must ha' bin two or three wrecks on the rock this gale," said Davy, as he and his friend threw their burdens into the boat, and hastened to resume the search. At first Spink was the more successful of the two. He returned to the boat with various articles more than once, while his comrade continued his rambles unsuccessfully. At last, however, Big Swankie came to a gully or inlet where a large mass of the _débris_ of a wreck was piled up in indescribable confusion, in the midst of which lay the dead body of an old man. Swankie's first impulse was to shout to his companion, but he checked himself, and proceeded to examine the pockets of the dead man. Raising the corpse with some difficulty he placed it on the ledge of rock. Observing a ring on the little finger of the right hand, he removed it and put it hastily in his pocket. Then he drew a red morocco case from an inner breast pocket in the dead man's coat. To his surprise and delight he found that it contained a gold watch and several gold rings and brooches, in some of which were beautiful stones. Swankie was no judge of jewellery, but he could not avoid the conviction that these things must needs be valuable. He laid the case down on the rock beside him, and eagerly searched the other pockets. In one he found a large clasp-knife and a pencil-case; in another a leather purse, which felt heavy as he drew it out. His eyes sparkled at the first glance he got of the contents, for they were sovereigns! Just as he made this discovery, Davy Spink climbed over the ledge at his back, and Swankie hastily thrust the purse underneath the body of the dead man. "Hallo! lad, what have ye there? Hey! watches and rings--come, we're in luck this mornin'." "_We!_" exclaimed Swankie, somewhat sternly, "_you_ didn't find that case." "Na, lad, but we've aye divided, an' I dinna see what for we should change our plan noo." "We've nae paction to that effec'--the case o' kickshaws is mine," retorted Swankie. "Half o't," suggested Spink. "Weel, weel," cried the other with affected carelessness, "I'd scorn to be sae graspin'. For the matter o' that ye may hae it all to yersel', but I'll hae the next thing we git that's worth muckle a' to _mysel_'." So saying Swankie stooped to continue his search of the body, and in a moment or two drew out the purse with an exclamation of surprise. "See, I'm in luck, Davy! Virtue's aye rewarded, they say. This is mine, and I doot not there'll be some siller intilt." "Goold!" cried Davy, with dilated eyes, as his comrade emptied the contents into his large hand, and counted over thirty sovereigns. "Ay, lad, ye can keep the what-d'ye-ca'-ums, and I'll keep the siller." "I've seen that face before," observed Spink, looking intently at the body. "Like enough," said Swankie, with an air of indifference, as he put the gold into his pocket. "I think I've seed it mysel'. It looks like auld Jamie Brand, but I didna ken him weel." "It's just him," said Spink, with a touch of sadness. "Ay, ay, that'll fa' heavy on the auld woman. But, come, it'll no' do to stand haverin' this way. Let's see what else is on him." They found nothing more of any value; but a piece of paper was discovered, wrapped up in oilskin, and carefully fastened with red tape, in the vest pocket of the dead man. It contained writing, and had been so securely wrapped up, that it was only a little damped. Davy Spink, who found it, tried in vain to read the writing; Davy's education had been neglected, so he was fain to confess that he could not make it out. "Let _me_ see't," said Swankie. "What hae we here? 'The sloop is hard an--an--'" ("'fast,' maybe," suggested Spink). "Ay, so 'tis. I canna make out the next word, but here's something about the jewel-case." The man paused and gazed earnestly at the paper for a few minutes, with a look of perplexity on his rugged visage. "Weel, man, what is't?" enquired Davy. "Hoot! I canna mak' it oot," said the other, testily, as if annoyed at being unable to read it. He refolded the paper, and thrust it into his bosom, saying, "Come, we're wastin' time. Let's get on wi' our wark." "Toss for the jewels and the siller," said Spink, suggestively. "Very weel," replied the other, producing a copper. "Heeds, you win the siller; tails, I win the box;--heeds it is, so the kickshaws is mine. Weel, I'm content," he added, as he handed the bag of gold to his comrade, and received the jewel-case in exchange. In another hour the sea began to encroach on the rock, and the fishermen, having collected as much as time would permit of the wrecked materials, returned to their boat. They had secured altogether above two hundredweight of old metal,--namely, a large piece of a ship's caboose, a hinge, a lock of a door, a ship's marking-iron, a soldier's bayonet, a cannon ball, a shoebuckle, and a small anchor, besides part of the cordage of the wreck, and the money and jewels before mentioned. Placing the heavier of these things in the bottom of the boat, they pushed off. "We better take the corp ashore," said Spink, suddenly. "What for? They may ask what was in the pockets," objected Swankie. "Let them ask," rejoined the other, with a grin. Swankie made no reply, but gave a stroke with his oar which sent the boat close up to the rocks. They both re-landed in silence, and, lifting the dead body of the old man, laid it in the stern sheets of the boat. Once more they pushed off. Too much delay had been already made. The surf was breaking over the ledges in all directions, and it was with the utmost difficulty that they succeeded in getting clear out into deep water. A breeze which had sprung up from the east, tended to raise the sea a little, but when they finally got away from the dangerous reef, the breeze befriended them. Hoisting the foresail, they quickly left the Bell Rock far behind them, and, in the course of a couple of hours, sailed into the harbour of Arbroath. CHAPTER II THE LOVERS AND THE PRESS-GANG About a mile to the eastward of the ancient town of Arbroath the shore abruptly changes its character, from a flat beach to a range of, perhaps, the wildest and most picturesque cliffs on the east coast of Scotland. Inland the country is rather flat, but elevated several hundred feet above the level of the sea, towards which it slopes gently until it reaches the shore, where it terminates in abrupt, perpendicular precipices, varying from a hundred to two hundred feet in height. In many places the cliffs overhang the water, and all along the coast they have been perforated and torn up by the waves, so as to present singularly bold and picturesque outlines, with caverns, inlets, and sequestered "coves" of every form and size. To the top of these cliffs, in the afternoon of the day on which our tale opens, a young girl wended her way,--slowly, as if she had no other object in view than a stroll, and sadly, as if her mind were more engaged with the thoughts within than with the magnificent prospect of land and sea without. The girl was "Fair, fair, with golden hair," and apparently about twenty years of age. She sought out a quiet nook among the rocks at the top of the cliffs, near to a circular chasm, with the name of which (at that time) we are not acquainted, but which was destined ere long to acquire a new name and celebrity from an incident which shall be related in another part of this story. Curiously enough, just about the same hour, a young man was seen to wend his way to the same cliffs, and, from no reason whatever with which we happened to be acquainted, sought out the same nook! We say "he was seen", advisedly, for the maid with the golden hair saw him. Any ordinary observer would have said that she had scarcely raised her eyes from the ground since sitting down on a piece of flower-studded turf near the edge of the cliff, and that she certainly had not turned her head in the direction of the town. Yet she saw him,--however absurd the statement may appear, we affirm it confidently,--and knew that he was coming. Other eyes there were that also saw the youth--eyes that would have caused him some degree of annoyance had he known they were upon him--eyes that he would have rejoiced to tinge with the colours black and blue! There were thirteen pair of them, belonging to twelve men and a lieutenant of the navy. In those days the barbarous custom of impressment into the Royal Navy was in full operation. England was at war with France. Men were wanted to fight our battles, and when there was any difficulty in getting men, press-gangs were sent out to force them into the service. The youth whom we now introduce to the reader was a sailor, a strapping, handsome one, too; not, indeed, remarkable for height, being only a little above the average--five feet, ten inches, or thereabouts--but noted for great depth of chest, breadth of shoulder, and development of muscle; conspicuous also for the quantity of close, clustering, light-brown curls round his head, and for the laughing glance of his dark blue eyes. Not a hero of romance, by any means. No, he was very matter of fact, and rather given to meditation than to mischief. The officer in charge of the press-gang had set his heart on this youth (so had another individual, of whom more anon!) but the youth, whose name was Ruby Brand, happened to have an old mother who was at that time in very bad health, and she had also set her heart, poor body, on the youth, and entreated him to stay at home just for one half-year. Ruby willingly consented, and from that time forward led the life of a dog in consequence of the press-gang. Now, as we have said, he had been seen leaving the town by the lieutenant, who summoned his men and went after him--cautiously, however, in order to take him by surprise, for Ruby, besides being strong and active as a lion, was slippery as an eel. Going straight as an arrow to the spot where she of the golden hair was seated, the youth presented himself suddenly to her, sat down beside her, and exclaiming "Minnie", put his arm round her waist. "Oh, Ruby, don't," said Minnie, blushing. Now, reader, the "don't" and the blush had no reference to the arm round the waist, but to the relative position of their noses, mouths, and chins, a position which would have been highly improper and altogether unjustifiable but for the fact that Ruby was Minnie's accepted lover. "Don't, darling, why not?" said Ruby in surprise. "You're so rough," said Minnie, turning her head away. "True, dear, I forgot to shave this morning----" "I don't mean that," interrupted the girl quickly, "I mean rude and--and--is that a sea-gull?" "No, sweetest of your sex, it's a butterfly; but it's all the same, as my metaphysical Uncle Ogilvy would undertake to prove to you, thus, a butterfly is white and a gull is white,--therefore, a gull is a butterfly." "Don't talk nonsense, Ruby." "No more I will, darling, if you will listen to me while I talk sense." "What is it?" said the girl, looking earnestly and somewhat anxiously into her lover's face, for she knew at once by his expression that he had some unpleasant communication to make. "You're not going away?" "Well, no--not exactly; you know I promised to stay with mother; but the fact is that I'm so pestered and hunted down by that rascally press-gang, that I don't know what to do. They're sure to nab me at last, too, and then I shall have to go away whether I will or no, so I've made up my mind as a last resource, to----" Ruby paused. "Well?" said Minnie. "Well, in fact to do what will take me away for a short time, but----" Ruby stopped short, and, turning his head on one side, while a look of fierce anger overspread his face, seemed to listen intently. Minnie did not observe this action for a few seconds, but, wondering why he paused, she looked up, and in surprise exclaimed-- "Ruby! what do you----" "Hush! Minnie, and don't look round," said he in a low tone of intense anxiety, yet remaining immovably in the position which he had assumed on first sitting down by the girl's side, although the swelled veins of his neck and his flushed forehead told of a fierce conflict of feeling within. "It's the press-gang after me again. I got a glance of one o' them out of the tail of my eye, creeping round the rocks. They think I haven't seen them. Darling Minnie--one kiss. Take care of mother if I don't turn up soon." "But how will you escape----" "Hush, dearest girl! I want to have as much of you as I can before I go. Don't be afraid. They're honest British tars after all, and won't hurt _you_, Minnie." Still seated at the girl's side, as if perfectly at his ease, yet speaking in quick earnest tones, and drawing her closely to him, Ruby waited until he heard a stealthy tread behind him. Then he sprang up with the speed of thought, uttered a laugh of defiance as the sailors rushed towards him, and leaping wildly off the cliff, fell a height of about fifty feet into the sea. Minnie uttered a scream of horror, and fell fainting into the arms of the bewildered lieutenant. "Down the cliffs--quick! he can't escape if you look alive. Stay, one of you, and look after this girl. She'll roll over the edge on recovering, perhaps." It was easy to order the men down the cliffs, but not so easy for them to obey, for the rocks were almost perpendicular at the place, and descended sheer into the water. "Surround the spot," shouted the lieutenant. "Scatter yourselves--away! there's no beach here." The lieutenant was right. The men extended themselves along the top of the cliffs so as to prevent Ruby's escape, in the event of his trying to ascend them, and two sailors stationed themselves in ambush in the narrow pass at the spot where the cliffs terminate in the direction of the town. The leap taken by Ruby was a bold one. Few men could have ventured it; indeed, the youth himself would have hesitated had he not been driven almost to desperation. But he was a practised swimmer and diver, and knew well the risk he ran. He struck the water with tremendous force and sent up a great mass of foam, but he had entered it perpendicularly, feet foremost, and in a few seconds returned to the surface so close to the cliffs that they overhung him, and thus effectually concealed him from his pursuers. Swimming cautiously along for a short distance close to the rocks, he came to the entrance of a cavern which was filled by the sea. The inner end of this cave opened into a small hollow or hole among the cliffs, up the sides of which Ruby knew that he could climb, and thus reach the top unperceived, but, after gaining the summit, there still lay before him the difficulty of eluding those who watched there. He felt, however, that nothing could be gained by delay, so he struck at once into the cave, swam to the inner end, and landed. Wringing the water out of his clothes, he threw off his jacket and vest in order to be as unencumbered as possible, and then began to climb cautiously. Just above the spot where Ruby ascended there chanced to be stationed a seaman named Dalls. This man had lain down flat on his breast, with his head close to the edge of the cliff, so as to observe narrowly all that went on below, but, being a stout, lethargic man, he soon fell fast asleep! It was just at the spot where this man lay that Ruby reached the summit. The ascent was very difficult. At each step the hunted youth had to reach his hand as high above his head as possible, and grasp the edge of a rock or a mass of turf with great care before venturing on another step. Had one of these points of rock, or one of these tufts of grass, given way, he would infallibly have fallen down the precipice and been killed. Accustomed to this style of climbing from infancy, however, he advanced without a sensation of fear. On reaching the top he peeped over, and, seeing that no one was near, prepared for a rush. There was a mass of brown turf on the bank above him. He grasped it with all his force, and swung himself over the edge of the cliff. In doing so he nearly scalped poor Dalls, whose hair was the "turf" which he had seized, and who, uttering a hideous yell, leaped upon Ruby and tried to overthrow him. But Dalls had met his match. He received a blow on the nose that all but felled him, and instantly after a blow on each eye, that raised a very constellation of stars in his brain, and laid him prone upon the grass. His yell, however, and the noise of the scuffle, were heard by those of the press-gang who were nearest to the scene of conflict. They rushed to the rescue, and reached the spot just as Ruby leaped over his prostrate foe and fled towards Arbroath. They followed with a cheer, which warned the two men in ambush to be ready. Ruby was lithe as a greyhound. He left his pursuers far behind him, and dashed down the gorge leading from the cliffs to the low ground beyond. Here he was met by the two sailors, and by the lieutenant, who had joined them. Minnie was also there, having been conducted thither by the said lieutenant, who gallantly undertook to see her safe into the town, in order to prevent any risk of her being insulted by his men. On hearing the shout of those who pursued Ruby, Winnie hurried away, intending to get free from the gang, not feeling that the lieutenant's protection was either desirable or necessary. When Ruby reached the middle of the gorge, which we have dignified with the name of "pass", and saw three men ready to dispute his passage, he increased his speed. When he was almost up to them he turned aside and sprang nimbly up the almost perpendicular wall of earth on his right. This act disconcerted the men, who had prepared to receive his charge and seize him, but Ruby jumped down on the shoulders of the one nearest, and crushed him to the ground with his weight. His clenched fist caught the lieutenant between the eyes and stretched him on his back--the third man wisely drew aside to let this human thunderbolt pass by! He did pass, and, as the impetuous and quite irresistible locomotive is brought to a sudden pause when the appropriate breaks are applied, so was he brought to a sudden halt by Minnie a hundred yards or so farther on. "Oh! don't stop," she cried eagerly, and hastily thrusting him away. "They'll catch you!" Panting though he was, vehemently, Ruby could not restrain a laugh. "Catch me! no, darling; but don't be afraid of them. They won't hurt you, Minnie, and they _can't_ hurt _me_--except in the way of cutting short our interview. Ha! here they come. Goodbye, dearest; I'll see you soon again." At that moment five or six of the men came rushing down the pass with a wild cheer. Ruby made no haste to run. He stood in an easy attitude beside Minnie; leisurely kissed her little hand, and gently smoothed down her golden hair. Just as the foremost pursuer came within fifteen yards or so of them, he said, "Farewell, my lassie, I leave you in good hands"; and then, waving his cap in the air, with a cheer of more than half-jocular defiance, he turned and fled towards Arbroath as if one of the nor'-east gales, in its wildest fury, were sweeping him over the land. CHAPTER III OUR HERO OBLIGED TO GO TO SEA When Ruby Brand reached the outskirts of Arbroath, he checked his speed and walked into his native town whistling gently, and with his hands in his pockets, as though he had just returned from an evening walk. He directed his steps to one of the streets near the harbour, in which his mother's cottage was situated. Mrs. Brand was a delicate, little old woman--so little and so old that people sometimes wondered how it was possible that she could be the mother of such a stalwart son. She was one of those kind, gentle, uncomplaining, and unselfish beings, who do not secure much popularity or admiration in this world, but who secure obedient children, also steadfast and loving friends. Her favourite book was the Bible; her favourite hope in regard to earthly matters, that men should give up fighting and drinking, and live in peace; her favourite theory that the study of _truth_ was the object for which man was created, and her favourite meal--tea. Ruby was her only child. Minnie was the daughter of a distant relation, and, having been left an orphan, she was adopted by her. Mrs. Brand's husband was a sailor. He commanded a small coasting sloop, of which Ruby had been the mate for several years. As we have said, Ruby had been prevailed on to remain at home for some months in order to please his mother, whose delicacy of health was such that his refusal would have injured her seriously; at least the doctor said so, therefore Ruby agreed to stay. The sloop _Penguin_, commanded by Ruby's father, was on a voyage to Newcastle at that time, and was expected in Arbroath every day. But it was fated never more to cast anchor in that port. The great storm, to which reference has been made in a previous chapter, caused many wrecks on the shores of Britain. The _Penguin_ was one of the many. In those days telegraphs, railroads, and penny papers did not exist. Murders were committed then, as now, but little was said, and less was known about them. Wrecks occurred then, as now, but few, except the persons immediately concerned, heard of them. "Destructive fires", "terrible accidents", and the familiar round of "appalling catastrophes" occurred then, as now, but their influence was limited, and their occurrence soon forgotten. We would not be understood to mean that "now" (as compared with "then",) all is right and well; that telegraphs and railways and daily papers are all-potent and perfect. By no means. We have still much to learn and to do in these improved times; and, especially, there is wanting to a large extent among us a sympathetic telegraphy, so to speak, between the interior of our land and the sea-coast, which, if it existed in full and vigorous play, would go far to improve our condition, and raise us in the esteem of Christian nations. Nevertheless, as compared with now, the state of things then was lamentably imperfect. The great storm came and went, having swept thousands of souls into eternity, and hundreds of thousands of pounds into nonentity. Lifeboats had not been invented. Harbours of refuge were almost unknown, and although our coasts bristled with dangerous reefs and headlands, lighthouses were few and far between. The consequence was, that wrecks were numerous; and so also were wreckers,--a class of men, who, in the absence of an efficient coastguard, subsisted to a large extent on what they picked up from the wrecks that were cast in their way, and who did not scruple, sometimes, to _cause_ wrecks, by showing false lights in order to decoy vessels to destruction. We do not say that all wreckers were guilty of such crimes, but many of them were so, and their style of life, at the best, had naturally a demoralizing influence upon all of them. The famous Bell Rock, lying twelve miles off the coast of Forfarshire, was a prolific source of destruction to shipping. Not only did numbers of vessels get upon it, but many others ran upon the neighbouring coasts in attempting to avoid it. Ruby's father knew the navigation well, but, in the confusion and darkness of the furious storm, he miscalculated his position and ran upon the rock, where, as we have seen, his body was afterwards found by the two fishermen. It was conveyed by them to the cottage of Mrs. Brand, and when Ruby entered he found his mother on her knees by the bedside, pressing the cold hand of his father to her breast, and gazing with wild, tearless eyes into the dead face. We will not dwell upon the sad scenes that followed. Ruby was now under the necessity of leaving home, because his mother being deprived of her husband's support naturally turned in distress to her son. But Ruby had no employment, and work could not be easily obtained at that time in the town, so there was no other resource left him but to go to sea. This he did in a small coasting sloop belonging to an old friend, who gave him part of his wages in advance to enable him to leave his mother a small provision, at least for a short time. This, however, was not all that the widow had to depend on. Minnie Gray was expert with her needle, and for some years past had contributed not a little to the comforts of the household into which she had been adopted. She now set herself to work with redoubled zeal and energy. Besides this, Mrs. Brand had a brother, a retired skipper, who obtained the complimentary title of Captain from his friends. He was a poor man, it is true, as regarded money, having barely sufficient for his own subsistence, but he was rich in kindliness and sympathy, so that he managed to make his small income perform wonders. On hearing of his brother-in-law's death, Captain Ogilvy hastened to afford all the consolation in his power to his sorrowing sister. The captain was an eccentric old man, of rugged aspect. He thought that there was not a worse comforter on the face of the earth than himself, because, when he saw others in distress, his heart invariably got into his throat, and absolutely prevented him from saying a single word. He tried to speak to his sister, but all he could do was to take her hand and weep. This did the poor widow more good than any words could have done, no matter how eloquently or fitly spoken. It unlocked the fountain of her own heart, and the two wept together. When Captain Ogilvy accompanied Ruby on board the sloop to see him off, and shook hands as he was about to return to the shore, he said-- "Cheer up, Ruby; never say die so long as there's a shot in the locker. That's the advice of an old salt, an' you'll find it sound, the more you ponder of it. Wen a young feller sails away on the sea of life, let him always go by chart and compass, not forgettin' to take soundin's w'en cruisin' off a bad coast. Keep a sharp lookout to wind'ard, an' mind yer helm--that's _my_ advice to you lad, as ye go 'A-sailin' down life's troubled stream, All as if it wor a dream'". The captain had a somewhat poetic fancy (at least he was impressed with the belief that he had), and was in the habit of enforcing his arguments by quotations from memory. When memory failed he supplemented with original composition. "Goodbye, lad, an' Providence go wi' ye." "Goodbye, uncle. I need not remind you to look after mother when I'm away." "No, nephy, you needn't; I'll do it whether or not." "And Minnie, poor thing, she'll need a word of advice and comfort now and then, uncle." "And she shall have it, lad," replied the captain with a tremendous wink, which was unfortunately lost on the nephew, in consequence of its being night and unusually dark, "advice and comfort on demand, gratis; for 'Woman, in her hours of ease, Is most uncommon hard to please'; but she _must_ be looked arter, ye know, and made of, d'ye see? so Ruby, boy, farewell." Half-an-hour before midnight was the time chosen for the sailing of the sloop _Termagant_, in order that she might get away quietly and escape the press-gang. Ruby and his uncle had taken the precaution to go down to the harbour just a few minutes before sailing, and they kept as closely as possible to the darkest and least-frequented streets while passing through the town. Captain Ogilvy returned by much the same route to his sister's cottage, but did not attempt to conceal his movements. On the contrary, knowing that the sloop must have got clear of the harbour by that time, he went along the streets whistling cheerfully. He had been a noted, not to say noisy, whistler when a boy, and the habit had not forsaken him in his old age. On turning sharp round a corner, he ran against two men, one of whom swore at him, but the other cried-- "Hallo! messmate, yer musical the night. Hey, Captain Ogilvy, surely I seed you an' Ruby slinkin' down the dark side o' the market-gate half an 'oor ago?" "Mayhap ye did, an' mayhap ye didn't," retorted the captain, as he walked on; "but as it's none o' your business to know, I'll not tell ye." "Ay, ay? O but ye're a cross auld chap. Pleasant dreams t' ye." This kindly remark, which was expressed by our friend Davy Spink, was lost on the captain, in consequence of his having resumed his musical recreation with redoubled energy, as he went rolling back to the cottage to console Mrs. Brand, and to afford "advice and comfort gratis" to Minnie Gray. CHAPTER IV THE BURGLARY On the night in question, Big Swankie and a likeminded companion, who went among his comrades by the name of the Badger, had planned to commit a burglary in the town, and it chanced that the former was about that business when Captain Ogilvy unexpectedly ran against him and Davy Spink. Spink, although a smuggler, and by no means a particularly respectable man, had not yet sunk so low in the scale of life as to be willing to commit burglary. Swankie and the Badger suspected this, and, although they required his assistance much, they were afraid to ask him to join, lest he should not only refuse, but turn against them. In order to get over the difficulty, Swankie had arranged to suggest to him the robbery of a store containing gin, which belonged to a smuggler, and, if he agreed to that, to proceed further and suggest the more important matter in hand. But he found Spink proof against the first attack. "I tell 'ee, I'll hae naething to do wi't," said he, when the proposal was made. "But," urged Swankie, "he's a smuggler, and a cross-grained hound besides. It's no' like robbin' an honest man." "An' what are we but smugglers'!" retorted Spink; "an' as to bein' cross-grained, you've naethin' to boast o' in that way. Na, na, Swankie, ye may do't yersel, I'll hae nae hand in't. I'll no objec' to tak a bit keg o' Auchmithie water [Footnote] noo and then, or to pick up what comes to me by the wund and sea, but I'll steal frae nae man." [Footnote: Smuggled spirits.] "Ay, man, but ye've turned awfu' honest all of a suddent," said the other with a sneer. "I wonder the thretty sovereigns I gied ye the other day, when we tossed for them and the case o' kickshaws, havena' brunt yer pooches." Davy Spink looked a little confused. "Aweel," said he, "it's o' nae use greetin' ower spilt milk, the thing's done and past noo, and I canna help it. Sae guid-night to 'ee." Swankie, seeing that it was useless to attempt to gain over his comrade, and knowing that the Badger was waiting impatiently for him near the appointed house, hurried away without another word, and Davy Spink strolled towards his home, which was an extremely dirty little hut, near the harbour. At the time of which we write, the town of Arbroath was neither so well lighted nor so well guarded as it now is. The two burglars found nothing to interfere with their deeds of darkness, except a few bolts and bars, which did not stand long before their expert hands. Nevertheless, they met with a check from an unexpected quarter. The house they had resolved to break into was inhabited by a widow lady, who was said to be wealthy, and who was known to possess a considerable quantity of plate and jewels. She lived alone, having only one old servant and a little girl to attend upon her. The house stood on a piece of ground not far from the ruins of the stately abbey which originated and gave celebrity to the ancient town of Aberbrothoc. Mrs. Stewart's house was full of Eastern curiosities, some of them of great value, which had been sent to her by her son, then a major in the East India Company's service. Now, it chanced that Major Stewart had arrived from India that very day, on leave of absence, all unknown to the burglars, who, had they been aware of the fact, would undoubtedly have postponed their visit to a more convenient season. As it was, supposing they had to deal only with the old lady and her two servants, they began their work between twelve and one that night, with considerable confidence, and in great hopes of a rich booty. A small garden surrounded the old house. It was guarded by a wall about eight feet high, the top of which bristled with bottle-glass. The old lady and her domestics regarded this terrible-looking defence with much satisfaction, believing in their innocence that no human creature could succeed in getting over it. Boys, however, were their only dread, and fruit their only care, when they looked complacently at the bottle-glass on the wall, and, so far, they were right in their feeling of security, for boys found the labour, risk, and danger to be greater than the worth of the apples and pears. But it was otherwise with men. Swankie and the Badger threw a piece of thick matting on the wall; the former bent down, the latter stepped upon his back, and thence upon the mat; then he hauled his comrade up, and both leaped into the garden. Advancing stealthily to the door, they tried it and found it locked. The windows were all carefully bolted, and the shutters barred. This they expected, but thought it as well to try each possible point of entrance, in the hope of finding an unguarded spot before having recourse to their tools. Such a point was soon found, in the shape of a small window, opening into a sort of scullery at the back of the house. It had been left open by accident. An entrance was easily effected by the Badger, who was a small man, and who went through the house with the silence of a cat, towards the front door. There were two lobbies, an inner and an outer, separated from each other by a glass door. Cautiously opening both doors, the Badger admitted his comrade, and then they set to work. A lantern, which could be uncovered or concealed in a moment, enabled them to see their way. "That's the dinin'-room door," whispered the Badger. "Hist! haud yer jaw," muttered Swankie; "I ken that as weel as you." Opening the door, they entered and found the plate-chest under the sideboard. It was open, and a grin of triumph crossed the sweet countenances of the friends as they exchanged glances, and began to put silver forks and spoons by the dozen into a bag which they had brought for the purpose. When they had emptied the plate-chest, they carried the bag into the garden, and, climbing over the wall, deposited it outside. Then they returned for more. Now, old Mrs. Stewart was an invalid, and was in the habit of taking a little weak wine and water before retiring to rest at night. It chanced that the bottle containing the port wine had been left on the sideboard, a fact which was soon discovered by Swankie, who put the bottle to his mouth, and took a long pull. "What is't?" enquired the Badger, in a low tone. "Prime!" replied Swankie, handing over the bottle, and wiping his mouth with the cuff of his coat. The Badger put the bottle to his mouth, but unfortunately for him, part of the liquid went down the "wrong throat". The result was that the poor man coughed, once, rather loudly. Swankie, frowning fiercely, and shaking his fist, looked at him in horror; and well he might, for the Badger became first red and then purple in the face, and seemed as if he were about to burst with his efforts to keep down the cough. It came, however, three times, in spite of him,--not violently, but with sufficient noise to alarm them, and cause them to listen for five minutes intently ere they ventured to go on with their work, in the belief that no one had been disturbed. But Major Stewart had been awakened by the first cough. He was a soldier who had seen much service, and who slept lightly. He raised himself in his bed, and listened intently on hearing the first cough. The second cough caused him to spring up and pull on his trousers; the third cough found him half-way downstairs, with a boot-jack in his hand, and when the burglars resumed work he was peeping at them through the half-open door. Both men were stooping over the plate-chest, the Badger with his back to the door, Swankie with his head towards it. The major raised the boot-jack and took aim. At the same moment the door squeaked, Big Swankie looked up hastily, and, in technical phraseology, "doused the glim". All was dark in an instant, but the boot-jack sped on its way notwithstanding. The burglars were accustomed to fighting, however, and dipped their heads. The boot-jack whizzed past, and smashed the pier-glass on the mantelpiece to a thousand atoms. Major Stewart being expert in all the devices of warfare, knew what to expect, and drew aside. He was not a moment too soon, for the dark lantern flew through the doorway, hit the opposite wall, and fell with a loud clatter on the stone floor of the lobby. The Badger followed at once, and received a random blow from the major that hurled him head over heels after the lantern. There was no mistaking the heavy tread and rush of Big Swankie as he made for the door. Major Stewart put out his foot, and the burglar naturally tripped over it; before he could rise the major had him by the throat. There was a long, fierce struggle, both being powerful men; at last Swankie was hurled completely through the glass door. In the fall he disengaged himself from the major, and, leaping up, made for the garden wall, over which he succeeded in clambering before the latter could seize him. Thus both burglars escaped, and Major Stewart returned to the house half-naked,--his shirt having been torn off his back,--and bleeding freely from cuts caused by the glass door. Just as he re-entered the house, the old cook, under the impression that the cat had got into the pantry, and was smashing the crockery, entered the lobby in her nightdress, shrieked "Mercy on us!" on beholding the major, and fainted dead away. Major Stewart was too much annoyed at having failed to capture the burglars to take any notice of her. He relocked the door, and assuring his mother that it was only robbers, and that they had been beaten off, retired to his room, washed and dressed his wounds, and went to bed. Meanwhile Big Swankie and the Badger, laden with silver, made for the shore, where they hid their treasure in a hole. "I'll tell 'ee a dodge," said the Badger. "What may that be?" enquired Swankie. "You said ye saw Ruby Brand slinking down the market-gate, and that's he's off to sea?" "Ay, and twa or three more folk saw him as weel as me." "Weel, let's tak' up a siller spoon, or somethin', an' put it in the auld wife's garden, an' they'll think it was him that did it." "No' that bad!" said Swankie, with a chuckle. A silver fork and a pair of sugar-tongs bearing old Mrs. Stewart's initials were accordingly selected for this purpose, and placed in the little garden in the front of Widow Brand's cottage. Here they were found in the morning by Captain Ogilvy, who examined them for at least half-an-hour in a state of the utmost perplexity. While he was thus engaged one of the detectives of the town happened to pass, apparently in some haste. "Hallo! shipmate," shouted the captain. "Well?" responded the detective. "Did ye ever see silver forks an' sugar-tongs growin' in a garden before?" "Eh?" exclaimed the other, entering the garden hastily; "let me see. Oho! this may throw some light on the matter. Did you find them here?" "Ay, on this very spot." "Hum. Ruby went away last night, I believe?" "He did." "Some time after midnight?" enquired the detective. "Likely enough," said the captain, "but my chronometer ain't quite so reg'lar since we left the sea; it might ha' bin more,--mayhap less." "Just so. You saw him off?" "Ay; but you seem more than or'nar inquisitive today----" "Did he carry a bundle?" interrupted the detective. "Ay, no doubt." "A large one?" "Ay, a goodish big 'un." "Do you know what was in it?" enquired the detective, with a knowing look. "I do, for I packed it," replied the captain; "his kit was in it." "Nothing more?" "Nothin' as I knows of." "Well, I'll take these with me just now," said the officer, placing the fork and sugar-tongs in his pocket. "I'm afraid, old man, that your nephew has been up to mischief before he went away. A burglary was committed in the town last night, and this is some of the plate. You'll hear more about it before long, I dare say. Good day to ye." So saying, the detective walked quickly away, and left the captain in the centre of the garden staring vacantly before him, in speechless amazement. CHAPTER V THE BELL ROCK INVADED A year passed away. Nothing more was heard of Ruby Brand, and the burglary was believed to be one of those mysteries which are destined never to be solved. About this time great attention was being given by Government to the subject of lighthouses. The terrible number of wrecks that had taken place had made a deep impression on the public mind. The position and dangerous character of the Bell Rock, in particular, had been for a long time the subject of much discussion, and various unsuccessful attempts had been made to erect a beacon of some sort thereon. There is a legend that in days of old one of the abbots of the neighbouring monastery of Aberbrothoc erected a bell on the Inchcape Rock, which was tolled in rough weather by the action of the waves on a float attached to the tongue, and thus mariners were warned at night and in foggy weather of their approach to the rock, the great danger of which consists in its being a sunken reef, lying twelve miles from the nearest land, and exactly in the course of vessels making for the firths of Forth and Tay. The legend further tells how that a Danish pirate, named Ralph the Rover, in a mischievous mood, cut the bell away, and that, years afterwards, he obtained his appropriate reward by being wrecked on the Bell Rock, when returning from a long cruise laden with booty. Whether this be true or not is an open question, but certain it is that no beacon of any kind was erected on this rock until the beginning of the nineteenth century, after a great storm in 1799 had stirred the public mind, and set springs in motion, which from that time forward have never ceased to operate. Many and disastrous were the shipwrecks that occurred during the storm referred to, which continued, with little intermission, for three days. Great numbers of ships were driven from their moorings in the Downs and Yarmouth Roads; and these, together with all vessels navigating the German Ocean at that time, were drifted upon the east coast of Scotland. It may not, perhaps, be generally known that there are only three great inlets or estuaries to which the mariner steers when overtaken by easterly storms in the North Sea--namely, the Humber, and the firths of Forth and Moray. The mouth of the Thames is too much encumbered by sand-banks to be approached at night or during bad weather. The Humber is also considerably obstructed in this way, so that the Roads of Leith, in the Firth of Forth, and those of Cromarty, in the Moray Firth, are the chief places of resort in easterly gales. But both of these had their special risks. On the one hand, there was the danger of mistaking the Dornoch Firth for the Moray, as it lies only a short way to the north of the latter; and, in the case of the Firth of Forth, there was the terrible Bell Rock. Now, during the storm of which we write, the fear of those two dangers was so strong upon seamen that many vessels were lost in trying to avoid them, and much hardship was sustained by mariners who preferred to seek shelter in higher latitudes. It was estimated that no fewer than seventy vessels were either stranded or lost during that single gale, and many of the crews perished. At one wild part of the coast, near Peterhead, called the Bullers of Buchan, after the first night of the storm, the wrecks of seven vessels were found in one cove, without a single survivor of the crews to give an account of the disaster. The "dangers of the deep" are nothing compared with the _dangers of the shore_. If the hard rocks of our island could tell the tale of their experience, and if we landsmen could properly appreciate it, we should understand more clearly why it is that sailors love blue (in other words, deep) water during stormy weather. In order to render the Forth more accessible by removing the danger of the Bell Rock, it was resolved by the Commissioners of Northern Lights to build a lighthouse upon it. This resolve was a much bolder one than most people suppose, for the rock on which the lighthouse was to be erected was a sunken reef, visible only at low tide during two or three hours, and quite inaccessible in bad weather. It was the nearest approach to building a house in the sea that had yet been attempted! The famous Eddystone stands on a rock which is _never quite_ under water, although nearly so, for its crest rises a very little above the highest tides, while the Bell Rock is eight or ten feet under water at high tides. It must be clear, therefore, to everyone, that difficulties, unusual in magnitude and peculiar in kind, must have stood in the way of the daring engineer who should undertake the erection of a tower on a rock twelve miles out on the stormy sea, and the foundation of which was covered with ten or twelve feet of water every tide; a tower which would have to be built perfectly, yet hastily; a tower which should form a comfortable home, fit for human beings to dwell in, and yet strong enough to withstand the utmost fury of the waves, not merely whirling round it, as might be the case on some exposed promontory, but rushing at it, straight and fierce from the wild ocean, in great blue solid billows that should burst in thunder on its sides, and rush up in scarcely less solid spray to its lantern, a hundred feet or more above its foundation. An engineer able and willing to undertake this great work was found in the person of the late Robert Stevenson of Edinburgh, whose perseverance and talent shall be commemorated by the grandest and most useful monument ever raised by man, as long as the Bell Rock lighthouse shall tower above the sea. It is not our purpose to go into the details of all that was done in the construction of this lighthouse. Our peculiar task shall be to relate those incidents connected with this work which have relation to the actors in our tale. We will not, therefore, detain the reader by telling him of all the preliminary difficulties that were encountered and overcome in this "Robinson Crusoe" sort of work; how that a temporary floating lightship, named the _Pharos_, was prepared and anchored in the vicinity of the rock in order to be a sort of depot and rendezvous and guide to the three smaller vessels employed in the work, as well as a light to shipping generally, and a building-yard was established at Arbroath, where every single stone of the lighthouse was cut and nicely fitted before being conveyed to the rock. Neither shall we tell of the difficulties that arose in the matter of getting blocks of granite large enough for such masonry, and lime of a nature strong enough to withstand the action of the salt sea. All this, and a great deal more of a deeply interesting nature, must remain untold, and be left entirely to the reader's imagination. [Footnote] [Footnote: It may be found, however, in minute detail, in the large and interesting work entitled _Steveson's Bell Rock Lighthouse.] Suffice it to say that the work was fairly begun in the month of August, 1807; that a strong beacon of timber was built, which was so well constructed that it stood out all the storms that beat against it during the whole time of the building operations; that close to this beacon the pit or foundation of the lighthouse was cut down deep into the solid rock; that the men employed could work only between two and three hours at a time, and had to pump the water out of this pit each tide before they could resume operations; that the work could only be done in the summer months, and when engaged in it the men dwelt either in the _Pharos_ floating light, or in one of the attending vessels, and were not allowed to go ashore--that is, to the mainland, about twelve miles distant; that the work was hard, but so novel and exciting that the artificers at last became quite enamoured of it, and that ere long operations were going busily forward, and the work was in a prosperous and satisfactory state of advancement. Things were in this condition at the Bell Rock, when, one fine summer evening, our friend and hero, Ruby Brand, returned, after a long absence, to his native town. CHAPTER VI THE CAPTAIN CHANGES HIS QUARTERS It was fortunate for Ruby that the skipper of the vessel ordered him to remain in charge while he went ashore, because he would certainly have been recognized by numerous friends, and his arrival would speedily have reached the ears of the officers of justice, who seem to be a class of men specially gifted with the faculty of never forgetting. It was not until darkness had begun to settle down on the town that the skipper returned on board, and gave him leave to go ashore. Ruby did not return in the little coaster in which he had left his native place. That vessel had been wrecked not long after he joined her, but the crew were saved, and Ruby succeeded in obtaining a berth as second mate of a large ship trading between Hull and the Baltic. Returning from one of his voyages with a pretty good sum of money in his pocket, he resolved to visit his mother and give it to her. He therefore went aboard an Arbroath schooner, and offered to work his passage as an extra hand. Remembering his former troubles in connexion with the press-gang, he resolved to conceal his name from the captain and crew, who chanced to be all strangers to him. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Brand had not heard of Ruby since he left her. On the contrary, both she and Minnie Gray got letters as frequently as the postal arrangements of those days would admit of; and from time to time they received remittances of money, which enabled them to live in comparative comfort. It happened, however, that the last of these remittances had been lost, so that Mrs. Brand had to depend for subsistence on Minnie's exertions, and on her brother's liberality. The brother's power was limited, however, and Minnie had been ailing for some time past, in consequence of her close application to work, so that she could not earn as much as usual. Hence it fell out that at this particular time the widow found herself in greater pecuniary difficulties than she had ever been in before. Ruby was somewhat of an original. It is probable that every hero is. He resolved to surprise his mother by pouring the money he had brought into her lap, and for this purpose had, while in Hull, converted all his savings into copper, silver, and gold. Those precious metals he stowed separately into the pockets of his huge pea-jacket, and, thus heavily laden, went ashore about dark, as soon as the skipper returned. At this precise hour it happened that Mrs. Brand, Minnie Gray, and Captain Ogilvy were seated at their supper in the kitchen of the cottage. Two days previously the captain had called, and said to Mrs. Brand-- "I tell 'ee what it is, sister, I'm tired of livin' a solitary bachelor life, all by myself, so I'm goin' to make a change, lass." Mrs. Brand was for some moments speechless, and Minnie, who was sewing near the window, dropped her hands and work on her lap, and looked up with inexpressible amazement in her sweet blue eyes. "Brother," said Mrs. Brand earnestly, "you don't mean to tell me that you're going to marry at _your_ time of life?" "Eh! what? Marry?" The captain looked, if possible, more amazed than his sister for a second or two, then his red face relaxed into a broad grin, and he sat down on a chair and chuckled, wiping the perspiration (he seemed always more or less in a state of perspiration) from his bald head the while. "Why, no, sister, I'm not going to marry; did I speak of marryin'?" "No; but you spoke of being tired of a bachelor life, and wishing to change." "Ah! you women," said the captain, shaking his head--"always suspecting that we poor men are wantin' to marry you. Well, pr'aps you ain't far wrong neither; but I'm not goin' to be spliced yet-a-while, lass. Marry, indeed! 'Shall I, wastin' in despair, Die, 'cause why? a woman's rare?'" "Oh! Captain Ogilvy, that's not rightly quoted," cried Minnie, with a merry laugh. "Ain't it?" said the captain, somewhat put out; for he did not like to have his powers of memory doubted. "No; surely women are not _rare_," said Minnie. "Good ones are," said the captain stoutly. "Well; but that's not the right word." "What _is_ the right word, then?" asked the captain with affected sternness, for, although by nature disinclined to admit that he could be wrong, he had no objection to be put right by Minnie. "Die because a woman's f----," said Minnie, prompting him. "F----, 'funny?'" guessed the captain. "No; it's not 'funny'," cried Minnie, laughing heartily. "Of course not," assented the captain, "it could not be 'funny' nohow, because 'funny' don't rhyme with 'despair'; besides, lots o' women ain't funny a bit, an' if they was, that's no reason why a man should die for 'em; what _is_ the word, lass?" "What am _I_?" asked Minnie, with an arch smile, as she passed her fingers through the clustering masses of her beautiful hair. "An angel, beyond all doubt," said the gallant captain, with a burst of sincerity which caused Minnie to blush and then to laugh. "You're incorrigible, captain, and you are so stupid that it's of no use trying to teach you." Mrs. Brand--who listened to this conversation with an expression of deep anxiety on her meek face, for she could not get rid of her first idea that her brother was going to marry--here broke in with the question,-- "When is it to be, brother?" "When is what to be, sister?" "The--the marriage." "I tell you I _ain't_ a-goin' to marry," repeated the captain; "though why a stout young feller like me, just turned sixty-four, _shouldn't_ marry, is more than I can see. You know the old proverbs, lass--'It's never too late to marry'; 'Never ventur', never give in'; 'John Anderson my jo John, when we was first--first----'" "Married," suggested Minnie. "Just so," responded the captain, "and everybody knows that _he_ was an old man. But no, I'm not goin' to marry; I'm only goin' to give up my house, sell off the furniture, and come and live with _you_." "Live with me!" ejaculated Mrs. Brand. "Ay, an' why not? What's the use o' goin' to the expense of two houses when one'll do, an' when we're both raither scrimp o' the ready? You'll just let me have the parlour. It never was a comf'rable room to sit in, so it don't matter much your givin' it up; it's a good enough sleepin' and smokin' cabin, an' we'll all live together in the kitchen. I'll throw the whole of my _tree_mendous income into the general purse, always exceptin' a few odd coppers, which I'll retain to keep me a-goin' in baccy. We'll sail under the same flag, an' sit round the same fire, an' sup at the same table, and sleep in the same--no, not exactly that, but under the same roof-tree, which'll be a more hoconomical way o' doin' business, you know; an' so, old girl, as the song says-- 'Come an' let us be happy together, For where there's a will there's a way, An' we won't care a rap for the weather So long as there's nothin' to pay'." "Would it not be better to say, 'so long as there's _something_ to pay?'" suggested Minnie. "No, lass, it _wouldn't_," retorted the captain. "You're too fond of improvin' things. I'm a stanch old Tory, I am. I'll stick to the old flag till all's blue. None o' your changes or improvements for me." This was a rather bold statement for a man to make who improved upon almost every line he ever quoted; but the reader is no doubt acquainted with parallel instances of inconsistency in good men even in the present day. "Now, sister," continued Captain Ogilvy, "what d'ye think of my plan?" "I like it well, brother," replied Mrs. Brand with a gentle smile. "Will you come soon?" "To-morrow, about eight bells," answered the captain promptly. This was all that was said on the subject. The thing was, as the captain said, settled off-hand, and accordingly next morning he conveyed such of his worldly goods as he meant to retain possession of to his sister's cottage--"the new ship", as he styled it. He carried his traps on his own broad shoulders, and the conveyance of them cost him three distinct trips. They consisted of a huge sea-chest, an old telescope more than a yard long, and cased in leather; a quadrant, a hammock, with the bedding rolled up in it, a tobacco-box, the enormous old Family Bible in which the names of his father, mother, brothers, and sisters were recorded; and a brown teapot with half a lid. This latter had belonged to the captain's mother, and, being fond of it, as it reminded him of the "old ooman", he was wont to mix his grog in it, and drink the same out of a teacup, the handle of which was gone, and the saucer of which was among the things of the past. Notwithstanding his avowed adherence to Tory principles, Captain Ogilvy proceeded to make manifold radical changes and surprising improvements in the little parlour, insomuch that when he had completed the task, and led his sister carefully (for she was very feeble) to look at what he had done, she became quite incapable of expressing herself in ordinary language; positively refused to believe her eyes, and never again entered that room, but always spoke of what she had seen as a curious dream! No one was ever able to discover whether there was not a slight tinge of underlying jocularity in this remark of Mrs. Brand, for she was a strange and incomprehensible mixture of shrewdness and innocence; but no one took much trouble to find out, for she was so lovable that people accepted her just as she was, contented to let any small amount of mystery that seemed to be in her to remain unquestioned. "The parlour" was one of those well-known rooms which are occasionally met with in country cottages, the inmates of which are not wealthy. It was reserved exclusively for the purpose of receiving visitors. The furniture, though old, threadbare, and dilapidated, was kept scrupulously clean, and arranged symmetrically. There were a few books on the table, which were always placed with mathematical exactitude, and a set of chairs, so placed as to give one mysteriously the impression that they were not meant to be sat upon. There was also a grate, which never had a fire in it, and was never without a paper ornament in it, the pink and white aspect of which caused one involuntarily to shudder. But the great point, which was meant to afford the highest gratification to the beholder, was the chimney-piece. This spot was crowded to excess in every square inch of its area with ornaments, chiefly of earthenware, miscalled china, and shells. There were great white shells with pink interiors, and small brown shells with spotted backs. Then there were china cups and saucers, and china shepherds and shepherdesses, represented in the act of contemplating the heavens serenely, with their arms round each other's waists. There were also china dogs and cats, and a huge china cockatoo as a centre-piece; but there was not a single spot the size of a sixpence on which the captain could place his pipe or his tobacco-box! "We'll get these things cleared away," said Minnie, with a laugh, on observing the perplexed look with which the captain surveyed the chimney-piece, while the changes above referred to were being made in the parlour; "we have no place ready to receive them just now, but I'll have them all put away to-morrow." "Thank'ee, lass," said the captain, as he set down the sea-chest and seated himself thereon; "they're pretty enough to look at, d'ye see, but they're raither in the way just now, as my second mate once said of the rocks when we were cruising off the coast of Norway in search of a pilot." The ornaments were, however, removed sooner than anyone had anticipated. The next trip that the captain made was for his hammock (he always slept in one), which was a long unwieldy bundle, like a gigantic bolster. He carried it into the parlour on his shoulder, and Minnie followed him. "Where shall I sling it, lass?" "Here, perhaps," said Minnie. The captain wheeled round as she spoke, and the end of the hammock swept the mantelpiece of all its ornaments, as completely as if the besom of destruction had passed over it. "Shiver my timbers!" gasped the captain, awestruck by the hideous crash that followed. "You've shivered the ornaments at any rate," said Minnie, half-laughing and half-crying. "So I have, but no matter. Never say die so long's there a shot in the locker. There's as good fish in the sea as ever come out of it; so bear a hand, my girl, and help me to sling up the hammock." The hammock was slung, the pipe of peace was smoked, and thus Captain Ogilvy was fairly installed in his sister's cottage. It may, perhaps, be necessary to remind the reader that all this is a long digression; that the events just narrated occurred a few days before the return of Ruby, and that they have been recorded here in order to explain clearly the reason of the captain's appearance at the supper table of his sister, and the position which he occupied in the family. When Ruby reached the gate of the small garden, Minnie had gone to the captain's room to see that it was properly prepared for his reception, and the captain himself was smoking his pipe close to the chimney, so that the smoke should ascend it. The first glance through the window assured the youth that his mother was, as letters had represented her, much better in health than she used to be. She looked so quiet and peaceful, and so fragile withal, that Ruby did not dare to "surprise her" by a sudden entrance, as he had originally intended, so he tapped gently at the window, and drew back. The captain laid down his pipe and went to the door. "What, Ruby!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. "Hush, uncle! How is Minnie; where is she?" "I think, lad," replied the captain in a tone of reproof, "that you might have enquired for your mother first." "No need," said Ruby, pointing to the window; "I _see_ that she is there and well, thanks be to God for that:--but Minnie?" "She's well, too, boy, and in the house. But come, get inside. I'll explain, after." This promise to "explain" was given in consequence of the great anxiety he, the captain, displayed to drag Ruby into the cottage. The youth did not require much pressing, however. He no sooner heard that Minnie was well, than he sprang in, and was quickly at his mother's feet. Almost as quickly a fair vision appeared in the doorway of the inner room, and was clasped in the young sailor's arms with the most thorough disregard of appearances, not to mention propriety. While this scene was enacting, the worthy captain was engaged in active proceedings, which at once amused and astonished his nephew, and the nature and cause of which shall be revealed in the next chapter. CHAPTER VII RUBY IN DIFFICULTIES Having thrust his nephew into the cottage, Captain Ogilvy's first proceeding was to close the outer shutter of the window and fasten it securely on the inside. Then he locked, bolted, barred, and chained the outer door, after which he shut the kitchen door, and, in default of any other mode of securing it, placed against it a heavy table as a barricade. Having thus secured the premises in front, he proceeded to fortify the rear, and, when this was accomplished to his satisfaction, he returned to the kitchen, sat down opposite the widow, and wiped his shining pate. "Why, uncle, are we going to stand out a siege that you take so much pains to lock up?" Ruby sat down on the floor at his mother's feet as he spoke, and Minnie sat down on a low stool beside him. "Maybe we are, lad," replied the captain; "anyhow, it's always well to be ready-- 'Ready, boys, ready, We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again'." "Come uncle, explain yourself." "Explain myself, nephy? I can neither explain myself nor anybody else. D'ye know, Ruby, that you're a burglar?" "Am I, uncle? Well, I confess that that's news." "Ay, but it's true though, at least the law in Arbroath says so, and if it catches you, it'll hang you as sure as a gun." Here Captain Ogilvy explained to his nephew the nature of the crime that was committed on the night of his departure, the evidence of his guilt in the finding part of the plate in the garden, coupled with his sudden disappearance, and wound up by saying that he regarded him, Ruby, as being in a "reg'lar fix". "But surely," said Ruby, whose face became gradually graver as the case was unfolded to him, "surely it must be easy to prove to the satisfaction of everyone that I had nothing whatever to do with this affair?" "Easy to prove it!" said the captain in an excited tone; "wasn't you seen, just about the hour of the robbery, going stealthily down the street, by Big Swankie and Davy Spink, both of whom will swear to it." "Yes, but _you_ were with me, uncle." "Ay, so I was, and hard enough work I had to convince them that I had nothin' to do with it myself, but they saw that I couldn't jump a stone wall eight foot high to save my life, much less break into a house, and they got no further evidence to convict me, so they let me off; but it'll go hard with you, nephy, for Major Stewart described the men, and one o' them was a big strong feller, the description bein' as like you as two peas, only their faces was blackened, and the lantern threw the light all one way, so he didn't see them well. Then, the things found in our garden,--and the villains will haul me up as a witness against you, for, didn't I find them myself?" "Very perplexing; what shall I do?" said Ruby. "Clear out," cried the captain emphatically. "What! fly like a real criminal, just as I have returned home? Never. What say _you_, Minnie?" "Stand your trial, Ruby. They cannot--they dare not--condemn the innocent." "And you, mother?" "I'm sure I don't know what to say," replied Mrs. Brand, with a look of deep anxiety, as she passed her fingers through her son's hair, and kissed his brow. "I have seen the innocent condemned and the guilty go free more than once in my life." "Nevertheless, mother, I will give myself up, and take my chance. To fly would be to give them reason to believe me guilty." "Give yourself up!" exclaimed the captain, "you'll do nothing of the sort. Come, lad, remember I'm an old man, and an uncle. I've got a plan in my head, which I think will keep you out of harm's way for a time. You see my old chronometer is but a poor one,--the worse of the wear, like its master,--and I've never been able to make out the exact time that we went aboard the _Termagant_ the night you went away. Now, can _you_ tell me what o'clock it was?" "I can." '"Xactly?" "Yes, exactly, for it happened that I was a little later than I promised, and the skipper pointed to his watch, as I came up the side, and jocularly shook his head at me. It was exactly eleven P.M." "Sure and sartin o' that?" enquired the captain, earnestly. "Quite, and his watch must have been right, for the town-clock rung the hour at the same time." "Is that skipper alive?" "Yes." "Would he swear to that?" "I think he would." "D'ye know where he is?" "I do. He's on a voyage to the West Indies, and won't be home for two months, I believe." "Humph!" said the captain, with a disappointed look. "However, it can't be helped; but I see my way now to get you out o' this fix. You know, I suppose, that they're buildin' a lighthouse on the Bell Rock just now; well, the workmen go off to it for a month at a time, I believe, if not longer, and don't come ashore, and it's such a dangerous place, and troublesome to get to, that nobody almost ever goes out to it from this place, except those who have to do with it. Now, lad, you'll go down to the workyard the first thing in the mornin', before daylight, and engage to go off to work at the Bell Rock. You'll keep all snug and quiet, and nobody'll be a bit the wiser. You'll be earnin' good wages, and in the meantime I'll set about gettin' things in trim to put you all square." "But I see many difficulties ahead," objected Ruby. "Of course ye do," retorted the captain. "Did ye ever hear or see anything on this earth that hadn't rocks ahead o' some sort? It's our business to steer past 'em, lad, not to 'bout ship and steer away. But state yer difficulties." "Well, in the first place, I'm not a stonemason or a carpenter, and I suppose masons and carpenters are the men most wanted there." "Not at all, blacksmiths are wanted there," said the captain, "and I know that you were trained to that work as a boy." "True, I can do somewhat with the hammer, but mayhap they won't engage me." "But they _will_ engage you, lad, for they are hard up for an assistant blacksmith just now, and I happen to be hand-and-glove with some o' the chief men of the yard, who'll be happy to take anyone recommended by me." "Well, uncle, but suppose I do go off to the rock, what chance have you of making things appear better than they are at present?" "I'll explain that, lad. In the first place, Major Stewart is a gentleman, out-and-out, and will listen to the truth. He swears that the robbery took place at one o'clock in the mornin', for he looked at his watch and at the clock of the house, and heard it ring in the town, just as the thieves cleared off over the wall. Now, if I can get your old skipper to take a run here on his return from the West Indies, he'll swear that you was sailin' out to the North Sea _before twelve_, and that'll prove that you _couldn't_ have had nothin' to do with it, d'ye see?" "It sounds well," said Ruby dubiously, "but do you think the lawyers will see things in the light you do?" "Hang the lawyers! d'ye think they will shut their eyes to _the truth?_" "Perhaps they may, in which case they will hang _me_, and so prevent my taking your advice to hang _them_," said Ruby. "Well, well, but you agree to my plan?" asked the captain. "Shall I agree, Minnie? it will separate me from you again for some time." "Yet it is necessary," answered Minnie, sadly; "yes, I think you should agree to go." "Very well, then, that's settled," said Ruby, "and now let us drop the subject, because I have other things to speak of; and if I must start before daylight my time with you will be short----" "Come here a bit, nephy, I want to have a private word with 'ee in my cabin," said the captain, interrupting him, and going into his own room. Ruby rose and followed. "You haven't any----" The captain stopped, stroked his bald head, and looked perplexed. "Well, uncle?" "Well, nephy, you haven't--in short, have ye got any money about you, lad?" "Money? yes, a _little_; but why do you ask?" "Well, the fact is, that your poor mother is hard up just now," said the captain earnestly, "an' I've given her the last penny I have o' my own; but she's quite----" Ruby interrupted his uncle at this point with a boisterous laugh. At the same time he flung open the door and dragged the old man with gentle violence back to the kitchen. "Come here, uncle." "But, avast! nephy, I haven't told ye all yet." "Oh! don't bother me with such trifles just now," cried Ruby, thrusting his uncle into a chair and resuming his own seat at his mother's side; "we'll speak of that at some other time; meanwhile let me talk to mother. "Minnie, dear," he continued, "who keeps the cash here; you or mother?" "Well, we keep it between us," said Minnie, smiling; "your mother keeps it in her drawer and gives me the key when I want any, and I keep an account of it." "Ah! well, mother, I have a favour to ask of you before I go." "Well, Ruby?" "It is that you will take care of my cash for me. I have got a goodish lot of it, and find it rather heavy to carry in my pockets--so, hold your apron steady and I'll give it to you." Saying this he began to empty handful after handful of coppers into the old woman's apron; then, remarking that "that was all the browns", he began to place handful after handful of shillings and sixpences on the top of the pile until the copper was hid by silver. The old lady, as usual when surprised, became speechless; the captain smiled and Minnie laughed, but when Ruby put his hand into another pocket and began to draw forth golden sovereigns, and pour them into his mother's lap, the captain became supremely amazed, the old woman laughed, and,--so strangely contradictory and unaccountable is human nature,--Minnie began to cry. Poor girl! the tax upon her strength had been heavier than anyone knew, heavier than she could bear, and the sorrow of knowing, as she had come to know, that it was all in vain, and that her utmost efforts had failed to "keep the wolf from the door", had almost broken her down. Little wonder, then, that the sight of sudden and ample relief upset her altogether. But her tears, being tears of joy, were soon and easily dried--all the more easily that it was Ruby who undertook to dry them. Mrs. Brand sat up late that night, for there was much to tell and much to hear. After she had retired to rest the other three continued to hold converse together until grey dawn began to appear through the chinks in the window-shutters. Then the two men rose and went out, while Minnie laid her pretty little head on the pillow beside Mrs. Brand, and sought, and found, repose. CHAPTER VIII THE SCENE CHANGES--RUBY IS VULCANIZED As Captain Ogilvy had predicted, Ruby was at once engaged as an assistant blacksmith on the Bell Rock. In fact, they were only too glad to get such a powerful, active young fellow into their service; and he was shipped off with all speed in the sloop _Smeaton_, with a few others who were going to replace some men who had become ill and were obliged to leave. A light westerly breeze was blowing when they cast off the moorings of the sloop. "Goodbye, Ruby," said the captain, as he was about to step on the pier. "Remember your promise, lad, to keep quiet, and don't try to get ashore, or be hold communication with anyone till you hear from me." "All right, uncle, I won't forget, and I'll make my mind easy, for I know that my case is left in good hands." Three hours elapsed ere the _Smeaton_ drew near to the Bell Rock. During this time, Ruby kept aloof from his fellow-workmen, feeling disposed to indulge the sad thoughts which filled his mind. He sat down on the bulwarks, close to the main shrouds, and gazed back at the town as it became gradually less and less visible in the faint light of morning. Then he began to ponder his unfortunate circumstances, and tried to imagine how his uncle would set about clearing up his character and establishing his innocence; but, do what he would, Ruby could not keep his mind fixed for any length of time on any subject or line of thought, because of a vision of sweetness which it is useless to attempt to describe, and which was always accompanied by, and surrounded with, a golden halo. At last the youth gave up the attempt to fix his thoughts, and allowed them to wander as they chose, seeing that they were resolved to do so whether he would or no. The moment these thoughts had the reins flung on their necks, and were allowed to go where they pleased, they refused, owing to some unaccountable species of perversity, to wander at all, but at once settled themselves comfortably down beside the vision with golden hair, and remained there. This agreeable state of things was rudely broken in upon by the hoarse voice of the mate shouting-- "Stand by to let go the anchor." Then Ruby sprang on the deck and shook himself like a great mastiff, and resolved to devote himself, heart and soul, from that moment, to the work in which he was about to engage. The scene that presented itself to our hero when he woke up from his dreams would have interested and excited a much less enthusiastic temperament than his. The breeze had died away altogether, just as if, having wafted the _Smeaton_ to her anchorage, there were no further occasion for its services. The sea was therefore quite calm, and as there had only been light westerly winds for some time past, there was little or none of the swell that usually undulates the sea. One result of this was, that, being high water when the Smeaton arrived, there was no sign whatever of the presence of the famous Bell Rock. It lay sleeping nearly two fathoms below the sea, like a grim giant in repose, and not a ripple was there to tell of the presence of the mariner's enemy. The sun was rising, and its slanting beams fell on the hulls of the vessels engaged in the service, which lay at anchor at a short distance from each other. These vessels, as we have said, were four in number, including the Smeaton. The others were the _Sir Joseph Banks_, a small schooner-rigged vessel; the _Patriot_, a little sloop; and the _Pharos_ lightship, a large clumsy-looking Dutch-built ship, fitted with three masts, at the top of which were the lanterns. It was intended that this vessel should do duty as a lightship until the lighthouse should be completed. Besides these there were two large boats, used for landing stones and building materials on the rock. These vessels lay floating almost motionless on the calm sea, and at first there was scarcely any noise aboard of them to indicate that they were tenanted by human beings, but when the sound of the _Smeaton's_ cable was heard there was a bustle aboard of each, and soon faces were seen looking inquisitively over the sides of the ships. The _Smeaton's_ boat was lowered after the anchor was let go, and the new hands were transferred to the _Pharos_, which was destined to be their home for some time to come. Just as they reached her the bell rang for breakfast, and when Ruby stepped upon the deck he found himself involved in all the bustle that ensues when men break off from work and make preparation for the morning meal. There were upwards of thirty artificers on board the lightship at this time. Some of these, as they hurried to and fro, gave the new arrivals a hearty greeting, and asked, "What news from the shore?" Others were apparently too much taken up with their own affairs to take notice of them. While Ruby was observing the busy scene with absorbing interest, and utterly forgetful of the fact that he was in any way connected with it, an elderly gentleman, whose kind countenance and hearty manner gave indication of a genial spirit within, came up and accosted him: "You are our assistant blacksmith, I believe?" "Yes, sir, I am," replied Ruby, doffing his cap, as if he felt instinctively that he was in the presence of someone of note. "You have had considerable practice, I suppose, in your trade?" "A good deal, sir, but not much latterly, for I have been at sea for some time." "At sea? Well, that won't be against you here," returned the gentleman, with a meaning smile. "It would be well if some of my men were a little more accustomed to the sea, for they suffer much from sea-sickness. You can go below, my man, and get breakfast. You'll find your future messmate busy at his, I doubt not. Here, steward," (turning to one of the men who chanced to pass at the moment,) "take Ruby Brand--that is your name, I think?" "It is, sir." "Take Brand below, and introduce him to James Dove as his assistant." The steward escorted Ruby down the ladder that conducted to those dark and littered depths of the ship's hull that were assigned to the artificers as their place of abode. But amidst a good deal of unavoidable confusion, Ruby's practised eye discerned order and arrangement everywhere. "This is your messmate, Jamie Dove," said the steward, pointing to a massive dark man, whose outward appearance was in keeping with his position as the Vulcan of such an undertaking as he was then engaged in. "You'll find him not a bad feller if you only don't cross him." He added, with a wink, "His only fault is that he's given to spoilin' good victuals, being raither floored by sea-sickness if it comes on to blow ever so little." "Hold your clapper, lad," said the smith, who was at the moment busily engaged with a mess of salt pork, and potatoes to match. "Who's your friend?" "No friend of mine, though I hope he'll be one soon," answered the steward. "Mr. Stevenson told me to introduce him to you as your assistant." The smith looked up quickly, and scanned our hero with some interest; then, extending his great hard hand across the table, he said, "Welcome, messmate; sit down, I've only just begun." Ruby grasped the hand with his own, which, if not so large, was quite as powerful, and shook the smith's right arm in a way that called forth from that rough-looking individual a smile of approbation. "You've not had breakfast, lad?" "No, not yet," said Ruby, sitting down opposite his comrade. "An' the smell here don't upset your stummick, I hope?" The smith said this rather anxiously. "Not in the least," said Ruby with a laugh, and beginning to eat in a way that proved the truth of his words; "for the matter o' that, there's little smell and no motion just now." "Well, there isn't much," replied the smith, "but, woe's me! you'll get enough of it before long. All the new landsmen like you suffer horribly from sea-sickness when they first come off." "But I'm not a landsman," said Ruby. "Not a landsman!" echoed the other. "You're a blacksmith, aren't you?" "Ay, but not a landsman. I learned the trade as a boy and lad; but I've been at sea for some time past." "Then you won't get sick when it blows?" "Certainly not; will _you_?" The smith groaned and shook his head, by which answer he evidently meant to assure his friend that he would, most emphatically. "But come, it's of no use groanin' over what can't be helped. I get as sick as a dog every time the wind rises, and the worst of it is I don't never seem to improve. Howsever, I'm all right when I get on the rock, and that's the main thing." Ruby and his friend now entered upon a long and earnest conversation as to their peculiar duties at the Bell Rock, with which we will not trouble the reader. After breakfast they went on deck, and here Ruby had sufficient to occupy his attention and to amuse him for some hours. As the tide that day did not fall low enough to admit of landing on the rock till noon, the men were allowed to spend the time as they pleased. Some therefore took to fishing, others to reading, while a few employed themselves in drying their clothes, which had got wet the previous day, and one or two entertained themselves and their comrades with the music of the violin and flute. All were busy with one thing or another, until the rock began to show its black crest above the smooth sea. Then a bell was rung to summon the artificers to land. This being the signal for Ruby to commence work, he joined his friend Dove, and assisted him to lower the bellows of the forge into the boat. The men were soon in their places, with their various tools, and the boats pushed off--Mr. Stevenson, the engineer of the building, steering one boat, and the master of the _Pharos_, who was also appointed to the post of landing-master, steering the other. They landed with ease on this occasion on the western side of the rock, and then each man addressed himself to his special duty with energy. The time during which they could work being short, they had to make the most of it. "Now, lad," said the smith, "bring along the bellows and follow me. Mind yer footin', for it's slippery walkin' on them tangle-covered rocks. I've seen some ugly falls here already." "Have any bones been broken yet?" enquired Ruby, as he shouldered the large pair of bellows, and followed the smith cautiously over the rocks. "Not yet; but there's been an awful lot o' pipes smashed. If it goes on as it has been, we'll have to take to metal ones. Here we are, Ruby, this is the forge, and I'll be bound you never worked at such a queer one before. Hallo! Bremner!" he shouted to one of the men. "That's me," answered Bremner. "Bring your irons as soon as you like! I'm about ready for you." "Ay, ay, here they are," said the man, advancing with an armful of picks, chisels, and other tools, which required sharpening. He slipped and fell as he spoke, sending all the tools into the bottom of a pool of water; but, being used to such mishaps, he arose, joined in the laugh raised against him, and soon fished up the tools. "What's wrong!" asked Ruby, pausing in the work of fixing the bellows, on observing that the smith's face grew pale, and his general expression became one of horror. "Not sea-sick, I hope?" "Sea-sick," gasped the smith, slapping all his pockets hurriedly, "it's worse than that; I've forgot the matches!" Ruby looked perplexed, but had no consolation to offer. "That's like you," cried Bremner, who, being one of the principal masons, had to attend chiefly to the digging out of the foundation-pit of the building, and knew that his tools could not be sharpened unless the forge fire could be lighted. "Suppose you hammer a nail red-hot," suggested one of the men, who was disposed to make game of the smith. "I'll hammer your nose red-hot," replied Dove, with a most undovelike scowl, "I could swear that I put them matches in my pocket before I started." "No, you didn't," said George Forsyth, one of the carpenters--a tall loose-jointed man, who was chiefly noted for his dislike to getting into and out of boats, and climbing up the sides of ships, because of his lengthy and unwieldy figure--"No, you didn't, you turtle-dove, you forgot to take them; but I remembered to do it for you; so there, get up your fire, and confess yourself indebted to me for life." "I'm indebted to 'ee for fire," said the smith, grasping the matches eagerly. "Thank'ee, lad, you're a true Briton." "A tall 'un, rather," suggested Bremner. "Wot never, never, never will be a slave," sang another of the men. "Come, laddies, git up the fire. Time an' tide waits for naebody," said John Watt, one of the quarriers. "We'll want thae tools before lang." The men were proceeding with their work actively while those remarks were passing, and ere long the smoke of the forge fire arose in the still air, and the clang of the anvil was added to the other noises with which the busy spot resounded. The foundation of the Bell Rock Lighthouse had been carefully selected by Mr. Stevenson; the exact spot being chosen not only with a view to elevation, but to the serrated ridges of rock, that might afford some protection to the building, by breaking the force of the easterly seas before they should reach it; but as the space available for the purpose of building was scarcely fifty yards in diameter, there was not much choice in the matter. The foundation-pit was forty-two feet in diameter, and sunk five feet into the solid rock. At the time when Ruby landed, it was being hewn out by a large party of the men. Others were boring holes in the rock near to it, for the purpose of fixing the great beams of a beacon, while others were cutting away the seaweed from the rock, and making preparations for the laying down of temporary rails to facilitate the conveying of the heavy stones from the boats to their ultimate destination. All were busy as bees. Each man appeared to work as if for a wager, or to find out how much he could do within a given space of time. To the men on the rock itself the aspect of the spot was sufficiently striking and peculiar, but to those who viewed it from a boat at a short distance off it was singularly interesting, for the whole scene of operations appeared like a small black spot, scarcely above the level of the waves, on which a crowd of living creatures were moving about with great and incessant activity, while all around and beyond lay the mighty sea, sleeping in the grand tranquillity of a calm summer day, with nothing to bound it but the blue sky, save to the northward, where the distant cliffs of Forfar rested like a faint cloud on the horizon. The sounds, too, which on the rock itself were harsh and loud and varied, came over the water to the distant observer in a united tone, which sounded almost as sweet as soft music. The smith's forge stood on a ledge of rock close to the foundation-pit, a little to the north of it. Here Vulcan Dove had fixed a strong iron framework, which formed the hearth. The four legs which supported it were let into holes bored from six to twelve inches into the rock, according to the inequalities of the site. These were wedged first with wood and then with iron, for as this part of the forge and the anvil was doomed to be drowned every tide, or twice every day, besides being exposed to the fury of all the storms that might chance to blow, it behoved them to fix things down with unusual firmness. The block of timber for supporting the anvil was fixed in the same manner, but the anvil itself was left to depend on its own weight and the small stud fitted into the bottom of it. The bellows, however, were too delicate to be left exposed to such forces as the stormy winds and waves, they were therefore shipped and unshipped every tide, and conveyed to and from the rock in the boats with the men. Dove and Ruby wrought together like heroes. They were both so powerful that the heavy implements they wielded seemed to possess no weight when in their strong hands, and their bodies were so lithe and active as to give the impression of men rejoicing, revelling, in the enjoyment of their work. "That's your sort; hit him hard, he's got no friends," said Dove, turning a mass of red-hot metal from side to side, while Ruby pounded it with a mighty hammer, as if it were a piece of putty. "Fire and steel for ever," observed Ruby, as he made the sparks fly right and left. "Hallo! the tide's rising." "Ho! so it is," cried the smith, finishing off the piece of work with a small hammer, while Ruby rested on the one he had used and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "It always serves me in this way, lad," continued the smith, without pausing for a moment in his work. "Blow away, Ruby, the sea is my greatest enemy. Every day, a'most, it washes me away from my work. In calm weather, it creeps up my legs, and the legs o' the forge too, till it gradually puts out the fire, and in rough weather it sends up a wave sometimes that sweeps the whole concern black out at one shot. "It will _creep_ you out to-day, evidently," said Ruby, as the water began to come about his toes. "Never mind, lad, we'll have time to finish them picks this tide, if we work fast." Thus they toiled and moiled, with their heads and shoulders in smoke and fire, and their feet in water. Gradually the tide rose. "Pump away, Ruby! Keep the pot bilin', my boy," said the smith. "The wind blowin', you mean. I say, Dove, do the other men like the work here?" "Like it, ay, they like it well. At first we were somewhat afraid o' the landin' in rough weather, but we've got used to that now. The only bad thing about it is in the rolling o' that horrible _Pharos_. She's so bad in a gale that I sometimes think she'll roll right over like a cask. Most of us get sick then, but I don't think any of 'em are as bad as me. They seem to be gettin' used to that too. I wish I could. Another blow, Ruby." "Time's up," shouted one of the men. "Hold on just for a minute or two," pleaded the smith, who, with his assistant, was by this time standing nearly knee-deep in water. The sea had filled the pit some time before, and driven the men out of it. These busied themselves in collecting the tools and seeing that nothing was left lying about, while the men who were engaged on those parts of the rocks that were a few inches higher, continued their labours until the water crept up to them. Then they collected their tools, and went to the boats, which lay awaiting them at the western landing-place. "Now, Dove," cried the landing-master, "come along; the crabs will be attacking your toes if you don't." "It's a shame to gi'e Ruby the chance o' a sair throat the very first day," cried John Watt. "Just half a minute more," said the smith, examining a pickaxe, which he was getting up to that delicate point of heat which is requisite to give it proper temper. While he gazed earnestly into the glowing coals a gentle hissing sound was heard below the frame of the forge, then a gurgle, and the fire became suddenly dark and went out! "I knowed it! always the way!" cried Dove, with a look of disappointment. "Come, lad, up with the bellows now, and don't forget the tongs." In a few minutes more the boats pushed off and returned to the Pharos, three and a half hours of good work having been accomplished before the tide drove them away. Soon afterwards the sea overflowed the whole of the rock, and obliterated the scene of those busy operations as completely as though it had never been! CHAPTER IX STORMS AND TROUBLES A week of fine weather caused Ruby Brand to fall as deeply in love with the work at the Bell Rock as his comrades had done. There was an amount of vigour and excitement about it, with a dash of romance, which quite harmonized with his character. At first he had imagined it would be monotonous and dull, but in experience he found it to be quite the reverse. Although there was uniformity in the general character of the work, there was constant variety in many of the details; and the spot on which it was carried on was so circumscribed, and so utterly cut off from all the world, that the minds of those employed became concentrated on it in a way that aroused strong interest in every trifling object. There was not a ledge or a point of rock that rose ever so little above the general level, that was not named after, and intimately associated with, some event or individual. Every mass of seaweed became a familiar object. The various little pools and inlets, many of them not larger than a dining-room table, received high-sounding and dignified names--such as _Port Stevenson, Port, Erskine, Taylor's Track, Neill's Pool_, &c. Of course the fish that frequented the pools, and the shell-fish that covered the rock, became subjects of much attention, and, in some cases, of earnest study. Robinson Crusoe himself did not pry into the secrets of his island-home with half the amount of assiduity that was displayed at this time by many of the men who built the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The very fact that their time was limited acted as a spur, so that on landing each tide they rushed hastily to the work, and the amateur studies in natural history to which we have referred were prosecuted hurriedly during brief intervals of rest. Afterwards, when the beacon house was erected, and the men dwelt upon the rock, these studies (if we may not call them amusements) were continued more leisurely, but with unabated ardour, and furnished no small amount of comparatively thrilling incident at times. One fine morning, just after the men had landed, and before they had commenced work, "Long Forsyth", as his comrades styled him, went to a pool to gather a little dulse, of which there was a great deal on the rock, and which was found to be exceedingly grateful to the palates of those who were afflicted with sea-sickness. He stooped over the pool to pluck a morsel, but paused on observing a beautiful fish, about a foot long, swimming in the clear water, as quietly as if it knew the man to be a friend, and were not in the least degree afraid of him. Forsyth was an excitable man, and also studious in his character. He at once became agitated and desirous of possessing that fish, for it was extremely brilliant and variegated in colour. He looked round for something to throw at it, but there was nothing within reach. He sighed for a hook and line, but as sighs never yet produced hooks or lines he did not get one. Just then the fish swam slowly to the side of the pool on which the man kneeled, as if it actually desired more intimate acquaintance. Forsyth lay fiat down and reached out his hand toward it; but it appeared to think this rather too familiar, for it swam slowly beyond his reach, and the man drew back. Again it came to the side, much nearer. Once more Forsyth lay down, reaching over the pool as far as he could, and insinuating his hand into the water. But the fish moved off a little. Thus they coquetted with each other for some time, until the man's comrades began to observe that he was "after something". "Wot's he a-doin' of?" said one. "Reachin' over the pool, I think," replied another. "Ye don't mean he's sick?" cried a third. The smile with which this was received was changed into a roar of laughter as poor Forsyth's long legs were seen to tip up into the air, and the whole man to disappear beneath the water. He had overbalanced himself in his frantic efforts to reach the fish, and was now making its acquaintance in its native element! The pool, although small in extent, was so deep that Forsyth, long though he was, did not find bottom. Moreover, he could not swim, so that when he reached the surface he came up with his hands first and his ten fingers spread out helplessly; next appeared his shaggy head, with the eyes wide open, and the mouth tight shut. The moment the latter was uncovered, however, he uttered a tremendous yell, which was choked in the bud with a gurgle as he sank again. The men rushed to the rescue at once, and the next time Forsyth rose he was seized by the hair of the head and dragged out of the pool. It has not been recorded what became of the fish that caused such an alarming accident, but we may reasonably conclude that it sought refuge in the ocean cavelets at the bottom of that miniature sea, for Long Forsyth was so very large, and created such a terrible disturbance therein, that no fish exposed to the full violence of the storm could have survived it! "Wot a hobject!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, a short, thickset, little Englishman, who, having been born and partly bred in London, was rather addicted to what is styled chaffing. "Was you arter a mermaid, shipmate?" "Av coorse he was," observed Ned O'Connor, an Irishman, who was afflicted with the belief that he was rather a witty fellow, "av coorse he was, an' a merry-maid she must have bin to see a human spider like him kickin' up such a dust in the say." "He's like a drooned rotten," observed John Watt; "tak' aff yer claes, man, an' wring them dry." "Let the poor fellow be, and get along with you," cried Peter Logan, the foreman of the works, who came up at that moment. With a few parting remarks and cautions, such as,--"You'd better bring a dry suit to the rock next time, lad," "Take care the crabs don't make off with you, boy," "and don't be gettin' too fond o' the girls in the sea," &c., the men scattered themselves over the rock and began their work in earnest, while Forsyth, who took the chaffing in good part, stripped himself and wrung the water out of his garments. Episodes of this kind were not unfrequent, and they usually furnished food for conversation at the time, and for frequent allusion afterwards. But it was not all sunshine and play, by any means. Not long after Ruby joined, the fine weather broke up, and a succession of stiff breezes, with occasional storms, more or less violent, set in. Landing on the rock became a matter of extreme difficulty, and the short period of work was often curtailed to little more than an hour each tide. The rolling of the _Pharos_ lightship, too, became so great that sea-sickness prevailed to a large extent among the landsmen. One good arose out of this evil, however. Landing on the Bell Rock invariably cured the sickness for a time, and the sea-sick men had such an intense longing to eat of the dulse that grew there, that they were always ready and anxious to get into the boats when there was the slightest possibility of landing. Getting into the boats, by the way, in a heavy sea, when the lightship was rolling violently, was no easy matter. When the fine weather first broke up, it happened about midnight, and the change commenced with a stiff breeze from the eastward. The sea rose at once, and, long before daybreak, the Pharos was rolling heavily in the swell, and straining violently at the strong cable which held her to her moorings. About dawn Mr. Stevenson came on deck. He could not sleep, because he felt that on his shoulders rested not only the responsibility of carrying this gigantic work to a satisfactory conclusion, but also, to a large extent, the responsibility of watching over and guarding the lives of the people employed in the service. "Shall we be able to land to-day, Mr. Wilson?" he said, accosting the master of the _Pharos_, who has been already introduced as the landing-master. "I think so; the barometer has not fallen much; and even although the wind should increase a little, we can effect a landing by the Fair Way, at Hope's Wharf." "Very well, I leave it entirely in your hands; you understand the weather better than I do, but remember that I do not wish my men to run unnecessary or foolish risk." It may be as well to mention here that a small but exceedingly strong tramway of iron-grating had been fixed to the Bell Rock at an elevation varying from two to four feet above it, and encircling the site of the building. This tramway or railroad was narrow, not quite three feet in width; and small trucks were fitted to it, so that the heavy stones of the building might be easily run to the exact spot they were to occupy. From this circular rail several branch lines extended to the different creeks where the boats deposited the stones. These lines, although only a few yards in length, were dignified with names--as, _Kennedy's Reach, Lagan's Reach, Watt's Reach_, and _Slights Reach_. The ends of them, where they dipped into the sea, were named _Hope's Wharf, Duff's Wharf, Rae's Wharf, &c_.; and these wharves had been fixed on different sides of the rock, so that, whatever wind should blow, there would always be one of them on the lee-side available for the carrying on of the work. _Hope's Wharf_ was connected with _Port Erskine_, a pool about twenty yards long by three or four wide, and communicated with the side of the lighthouse by _Watt's Reach_, a distance of about thirty yards. About eight o'clock that morning the bell rang for breakfast. Such of the men as were not already up began to get out of their berths and hammocks. To Ruby the scene that followed was very amusing. Hitherto all had been calm and sunshine. The work, although severe while they were engaged, had been of short duration, and the greater part of each day had been afterwards spent in light work, or in amusement. The summons to meals had always been a joyful one, and the appetites of the men were keenly set. Now, all this was changed. The ruddy faces of the men were become green, blue, yellow, and purple, according to temperament, but few were flesh-coloured or red. When the bell rang there was a universal groan below, and half a dozen ghostlike individuals raised themselves on their elbows and looked up with expressions of the deepest woe at the dim skylight. Most of them speedily fell back again, however, partly owing to a heavy lurch of the vessel, and partly owing to indescribable sensations within. "Blowin'!" groaned one, as if that single word comprehended the essence of all the miseries that seafaring man is heir to. "O dear!" sighed another, "why did I ever come here?" "Och! murder, I'm dyin', send for the praist an' me mother!" cried O'Connor, as he fell flat down on his back and pressed both hands tightly over his mouth. The poor blacksmith lost control over himself at this point and--found partial relief! The act tended to relieve others. Most of the men were much too miserable to make any remark at all, a few of them had not heart even to groan; but five or six sat up on the edge of their beds, with a weak intention of turning out They sat there swaying about with the motions of the ship in helpless indecision, until a tremendous roll sent them flying, with unexpected violence, against the starboard bulkheads. "Come, lads," cried Ruby, leaping out of his hammock, "there's nothing like a vigorous jump to put sea-sickness to flight." "Humbug!" ejaculated Bremner, who owned a little black dog, which lay at that time on the pillow gazing into his master's green face, with wondering sympathy. "Ah, Ruby," groaned the smith, "it's all very well for a sea-dog like you that's used to it, but----" James Dove stopped short abruptly. It is not necessary to explain the cause of his abrupt silence. Suffice it to say that he did not thereafter attempt to finish that sentence. "Steward!" roared Joe Dumsby. "Ay, ay, shipmate, what's up?" cried the steward, who chanced to pass the door of the men's sleeping-place, with a large dish of boiled salt pork, at the moment. "Wot's up?" echoed Dumsby. "Everythink that ever went into me since I was a hinfant must be 'up' by this time. I say, is there any chance of gettin' on the rock to-day?" "O yes. I heard the cap'n say it would be quite easy, and they seem to be makin' ready now, so if any of 'ee want breakfast you'd better turn out." This speech acted like a shock of electricity on the wretched men. In a moment every bed was empty, and the place was in a bustle of confusion as they hurriedly threw on their clothes. Some of them even began to think of the possibility of venturing on a hard biscuit and a cup of tea, but a gust of wind sent the fumes of the salt pork into the cabin at the moment, and the mere idea of food filled them with unutterable loathing. Presently the bell rang again. This was the signal for the men to muster, the boats being ready alongside. The whole crew at once rushed on deck, some of them thrusting biscuits into their pockets as they passed the steward's quarters. Not a man was absent on the roll being called. Even the smith crawled on deck, and had spirit enough left to advise Ruby not to forget the bellows; to which Ruby replied by recommending his comrade not to forget the matches. Then the operation of embarking began. The sea at the time was running pretty high, with little white flecks of foam tipping the crests of the deep blue waves. The eastern sky was dark and threatening. The black ridges of the Bell Rock were visible only at times in the midst of the sea of foam that surrounded them. Anyone ignorant of their nature would have deemed a landing absolutely impossible. The _Pharos_, as we have said, was rolling violently from side to side, insomuch that those who were in the boats had the greatest difficulty in preventing them from being stove in; and getting into these boats had much the appearance of an exceedingly difficult and dangerous feat, which active and reckless men might undertake for a wager. But custom reconciles one to almost anything. Most of the men had had sufficient experience by that time to embark with comparative ease. Nevertheless, there were a few whose physical conformation was such that they could do nothing neatly. Poor Forsyth was one of these. Each man had to stand on the edge of the lightship, outside the bulwarks, holding on to a rope, ready to let go and drop into the boat when it rose up and met the vessel's roll. In order to facilitate the operation a boat went to either side of the ship, so that two men were always in the act of watching for an opportunity to spring. The active men usually got in at the first or second attempt, but others missed frequently, and were of course "chaffed" by their more fortunate comrades. The embarking of "Long Forsyth" was always a scene in rough weather, and many a narrow escape had he of a ducking. On the present occasion, being very sick, he was more awkward than usual. "Now, Longlegs," cried the men who held the boat on the starboard side, as Forsyth got over the side and stood ready to spring, "let's see how good you'll be to-day." He was observed by Joe Dumsby, who had just succeeded in getting into the boat on the port side of the ship, and who always took a lively interest in his tall comrade's proceedings. "Hallo! is that the spider?" he cried, as the ship rolled towards him, and the said spider appeared towering high on the opposite bulwark, sharply depicted against the grey sky. It was unfortunate for Joe that he chanced to be on the opposite side from his friend, for at each roll the vessel necessarily intervened and hid him for a few seconds from view. Next roll, Forsyth did not dare to leap, although the gunwale of the boat came within a foot of him. He hesitated, the moment was lost, the boat sank into the hollow of the sea, and the man was swung high into the air, where he was again caught sight of by Dumsby. "What! are you there yet?" he cried. "You must be fond of a swing----" Before he could say more the ship rolled over to the other side, and Forsyth was hid from view. "Now, lad, now! now!" shouted the boat's crew, as the unhappy man once more neared the gunwale. Forsyth hesitated. Suddenly he became desperate and sprang, but the hesitation gave him a much higher fall than he would otherwise have had; it caused him also to leap wildly in a sprawling manner, so that he came down on the shoulders of his comrades "all of a lump". Fortunately they were prepared for something of the sort, so that no damage was done. When the boats were at last filled they pushed off and rowed towards the rock. On approaching it the men were cautioned to pull steadily by Mr. Stevenson, who steered the leading boat. It was a standing order in the landing department that every man should use his greatest exertions in giving to the boats sufficient velocity to preserve their steerage way in entering the respective creeks at the rock, that the contending seas might not overpower them at places where the free use of the oars could not be had on account of the surrounding rocks or the masses of seaweed with which the water was everywhere encumbered at low tide. This order had been thoroughly impressed upon the men, as carelessness or inattention to it might have proved fatal to all on board. As the leading boat entered the fairway, its steersman saw that more than ordinary caution would be necessary; for the great green billows that thundered to windward of the rock came sweeping down on either side of it, and met on the lee side, where they swept onward with considerable, though much abated force. "Mind your oars, lads; pull steady," said Mr. Stevenson, as they began to get amongst the seaweed. The caution was unnecessary as far as the old hands were concerned; but two of the men happened to be new hands, who had come off with Ruby, and did not fully appreciate the necessity of strict obedience. One of these, sitting at the bow oar, looked over his shoulder, and saw a heavy sea rolling towards the boat, and inadvertently expressed some fear. The other man, on hearing this, glanced round, and in doing so missed a stroke of his oar. Such a preponderance was thus given to the rowers on the opposite side, that when the wave struck the boat, it caught her on the side instead of the bow, and hurled her upon a ledge of shelving rocks, where the water left her. Having been _kanted_ to seaward, the next billow completely filled her, and, of course, drenched the crew. Instantly Ruby Brand and one or two of the most active men leaped out, and, putting forth all their strength, turned the boat round so as to meet the succeeding sea with its bow first. Then, after making considerable efforts, they pushed her off into deep water, and finally made the landing-place. The other boat could render no assistance; but, indeed, the whole thing was the work of a few minutes. As the boats could not conveniently leave the rock till flood-tide, all hands set to work with unwonted energy in order to keep themselves warm, not, however, before they ate heartily of their favourite dulse--the blacksmith being conspicuous for the voracious manner in which he devoured it. Soon the bellows were set up; the fire was kindled, and the ring of the anvil heard; but poor Dove and Ruby had little pleasure in their work that day; for the wind blew the smoke and sparks about their faces, and occasionally a higher wave than ordinary sent the spray flying round them, to the detriment of their fire. Nevertheless they plied the hammer and bellows unceasingly. The other men went about their work with similar disregard of the fury of the elements and the wet condition of their garments. CHAPTER X THE RISING OF THE TIDE--A NARROW ESCAPE The portion of the work that Mr. Stevenson was now most anxious to get advanced was the beacon. The necessity of having an erection of this kind was very obvious, for, in the event of anything happening to the boats, there would be no refuge for the men to fly to; and the tide would probably sweep them all away before their danger could be known, or assistance sent from the attendant vessels. Every man felt that his personal safety might depend on the beacon during some period of the work. The energies of all, therefore, were turned to the preliminary arrangements for its erection. As the beacon would require to withstand the utmost fury of the elements during all seasons of the year, it was necessary that it should be possessed of immense strength. In order to do this, six cuttings were made in the rock for the reception of the ends of the six great beams of the beacon. Each beam was to be fixed to the solid rock by two strong and massive bats, or stanchions, of iron. These bats, for the fixing of the principal and diagonal beams and bracing chains, required fifty-four holes, each measuring a foot and a half deep, and two inches wide. The operation of boring such holes into the solid rock, was not an easy or a quick one, but by admirable arrangements on the part of the engineer, and steady perseverance on the part of the men, they progressed faster than had been anticipated. Three men were attached to each jumper, or boring chisel; one placed himself in a sitting posture, to guide the instrument, and give it a turn at each blow of the hammer; he also sponged and cleaned out the hole, and supplied it occasionally with a little water, while the other two, with hammers of sixteen pounds weight, struck the jumper alternately, generally bringing the hammer with a swing round the shoulder, after the manner of blacksmith work. Ruby, we may remark in passing, occupied himself at this work as often as he could get away from his duties at the forge, being particularly fond of it, as it enabled him to get rid of some of his superabundant energy, and afforded him a suitable exercise for his gigantic strength. It also tended to relieve his feelings when he happened to think of Minnie being so near, and he so utterly and hopelessly cut off from all communication with her. But to return to the bat-holes. The three men relieved each other in the operations of wielding the hammers and guiding the jumpers, so that the work never flagged for a moment, and it was found that when the tools were of a very good temper, these holes could be sunk at the rate of one inch per minute, including stoppages. But the tools were not always of good temper; and severely was poor Dove's temper tried by the frequency of the scolds which he received from the men, some of whom were clumsy enough, Dove said, to spoil the best tempered tool in the world. But the most tedious part of the operation did not lie in the boring of these holes. In order that they should be of the required shape, two holes had to be bored a few inches apart from each other, and the rock cut away from between them. It was this latter part of the work that took up most time. Those of the men who were not employed about the beacon were working at the foundation-pit. While the party were thus busily occupied on the Bell Rock, an event occurred which rendered the importance of the beacon, if possible, more obvious than ever, and which wellnigh put an end to the career of all those who were engaged on the rock at that time. The _Pharos_ floating light lay at a distance of above two miles from the Bell Rock; but one of the smaller vessels, the sloop _Smeaton_, lay much closer to it, and some of the artificers were berthed aboard of her, instead of the floating light. Some time after the landing of the two boats from the _Pharos_, the _Smeaton's_ boat put off and landed eight men on the rock; soon after which the crew of the boat pushed off and returned to the _Smeaton_ to examine her riding-ropes, and see that they were in good order, for the wind was beginning to increase, and the sea to rise. The boat had no sooner reached the vessel than the latter began to drift, carrying the boat along with her. Instantly those on board endeavoured to hoist the mainsail of the Smeaton, with the view of working her up to the buoy from which she had parted; but it blew so hard, that by the time she was got round to make a tack towards the rock, she had drifted at least three miles to leeward. The circumstance of the _Smeaton_ and her boat having drifted was observed first by Mr. Stevenson, who prudently refrained from drawing attention to the fact, and walked slowly to the farther point of the rock to watch her. He was quickly followed by the landing-master, who touched him on the shoulder, and in perfect silence, but with a look of intense anxiety, pointed to the vessel. "I see it, Wilson. God help us if she fails to make the rock within a very short time," said Mr. Stevenson. "She will _never_ reach us in time," said Wilson, in a tone that convinced his companion he entertained no hope. "Perhaps she may," he said hurriedly; "she is a good sailer." "Good sailing," replied the other, "cannot avail against wind and tide together. No human power can bring that vessel to our aid until long after the tide has covered the Bell Rock." Both remained silent for some time, watching with intense anxiety the ineffectual efforts of the little vessel to beat up to windward. In a few minutes the engineer turned to his companion and said, "They cannot save us, Wilson. The two boats that are left--can they hold us all?" The landing-master shook his head. "The two boats," said he, "will be completely filled by their own crews. For ordinary rough weather they would be quite full enough. In a sea like that," he said, pointing to the angry waves that were being gradually lashed into foam by the increasing wind, "they will be overloaded." "Come, I don't know that, Wilson; we may devise something," said Mr. Stevenson, with a forced air of confidence, as he moved slowly towards the place where the men were still working, busy as bees and all unconscious of the perilous circumstances in which they were placed. As the engineer pondered the prospect of deliverance, his thoughts led him rather to despair than to hope. There were thirty-two persons in all upon the rock that day, with only two boats, which, even in good weather, could not unitedly accommodate more than twenty-four sitters. But to row to the floating light with so much wind and in so heavy a sea, a complement of eight men for each boat was as much as could with propriety be attempted, so that about half of their number was thus unprovided for. Under these circumstances he felt that to despatch one of the boats in expectation of either working the Smeaton sooner up to the rock, or in hopes of getting her boat brought to their assistance would, besides being useless, at once alarm the workmen, each of whom would probably insist upon taking to his own boat, and leaving the eight men of the Smeaton to their chance. A scuffle might ensue, and he knew well that when men are contending for life the results may be very disastrous. For a considerable time the men remained in ignorance of terrible conflict that was going on in their commander's breast. As they wrought chiefly in sitting or kneeling postures, excavating the rock or boring with jumpers, their attention was naturally diverted from everything else around them. The dense volumes of smoke, too, that rose from the forge fire, so enveloped them as to render distant objects dim or altogether invisible. While this lasted,--while the numerous hammers were going and the anvil continued to sound, the situation of things did not appear so awful to the only two who were aware of what had occurred. But ere long the tide began to rise upon those who were at work on the lower parts of the beacon and lighthouse. From the run of the sea upon the rock, the forge fire was extinguished sooner than usual; the volumes of smoke cleared away, and objects became visible in every direction. After having had about three hours' work, the men began pretty generally to make towards their respective boats for their jackets and socks. Then it was that they made the discovery that one boat was absent. Only a few exclamations were uttered. A glance at the two boats and a hurried gaze to seaward were sufficient to acquaint them with their awful position. Not a word was spoken by anyone. All appeared to be silently calculating their numbers, and looking at each other with evident marks of perplexity depicted in their countenances. The landing-master, conceiving that blame might attach to him for having allowed the boat to leave the rock, kept a little apart from the men. All eyes were turned, as if by instinct, to Mr. Stevenson. The men seemed to feel that the issue lay with him. The engineer was standing on an elevated part of the rock named Smith's Ledge, gazing in deep anxiety at the distant _Smeaton_, in the hope that he might observe some effort being made, at least, to pull the boat to their rescue. Slowly but surely the tide rose, overwhelming the lower parts of the rock; sending each successive wave nearer and nearer to the feet of those who were now crowded on the last ledge that could afford them standing-room. The deep silence that prevailed was awful! It proved that each mind saw clearly the impossibility of anything being devised, and that a deadly struggle for precedence was inevitable. Mr. Stevenson had all along been rapidly turning over in his mind various schemes which might be put in practice for the general safety, provided the men could be kept under command. He accordingly turned to address them on the perilous nature of their circumstances; intending to propose that all hands should strip off their upper clothing when the higher parts of the rock should be laid under water; that the seamen should remove every unnecessary weight and encumbrance from the boats; that a specified number of men should go into each boat; and that the remainder should hang by the gunwales, while the boats were to be rowed gently towards the _Smeaton_, as the course to the floating light lay rather to windward of the rock. But when he attempted to give utterance to his thoughts the words refused to come. So powerful an effect had the awful nature of their position upon him, that his parched tongue could not articulate. He learned, from terrible experience, that saliva is as necessary to speech as the tongue itself. Stooping hastily, he dipped his hand into a pool of salt water and moistened his mouth. This produced immediate relief and he was about to speak, when Ruby Brand, who had stood at his elbow all the time with compressed lips and a stern frown on his brow, suddenly took off his cap, and waving it above his head, shouted "A boat! a boat!" with all the power of his lungs. All eyes were at once turned in the direction to which he pointed, and there, sure enough, a large boat was seen through the haze, making towards the rock. Doubtless many a heart there swelled with gratitude to God, who had thus opportunely and most unexpectedly sent them relief at the eleventh hour; but the only sound that escaped them was a cheer, such as men seldom give or hear save in eases of deliverance in times of dire extremity. The boat belonged to James Spink, the Bell Rock pilot, who chanced to have come off express from Arbroath that day with letters. We have said that Spink came off _by chance_; but, when we consider all the circumstances of the case, and the fact that boats seldom visited the Bell Rock at any time, and never during bad weather, we are constrained to feel that God does in His mercy interfere sometimes in a peculiar and special manner in human affairs, and that there was something more and higher than mere chance in the deliverance of Stevenson and his men upon this occasion. The pilot-boat, having taken on board as many as it could hold, set sail for the floating light; the other boats then put off from the rock with the rest of the men, but they did not reach the _Pharos_ until after a long and weary pull of three hours, during which the waves broke over the boats so frequently as to necessitate constant baling. When the floating light was at last reached, a new difficulty met them, for the vessel rolled so much, and the men were so exhausted, that it proved to be a work of no little toil and danger to get them all on board. Long Forsyth, in particular, cost them all an infinite amount of labour, for he was so sick, poor fellow, that he could scarcely move. Indeed, he did at one time beg them earnestly to drop him into the sea and be done with him altogether, a request with which they of course refused to comply. However, he was got up somehow, and the whole of them were comforted by a glass of rum and thereafter a cup of hot coffee. Ruby had the good fortune to obtain the additional comfort of a letter from Minnie, which, although it did not throw much light on the proceedings of Captain Ogilvy (for that sapient seaman's proceedings were usually involved in a species of obscurity which light could not penetrate), nevertheless assured him that something was being done in his behalf, and that, if he only kept quiet for a time, all would be well. The letter also assured him of the unalterable affection of the writer, an assurance which caused him to rejoice to such an extent that he became for a time perfectly regardless of all other sublunary things, and even came to look upon the Bell Rock as a species of paradise, watched over by the eye of an angel with golden hair, in which he could indulge his pleasant dreams to the utmost. That he had to indulge those dreams in the midst of storm and rain and smoke, surrounded by sea and seaweed, workmen and hammers, and forges and picks, and jumpers and seals, while his strong muscles and endurance were frequently tried to the uttermost, was a matter of no moment to Ruby Brand. All experience goes to prove that great joy will utterly overbear the adverse influence of physical troubles, especially if those troubles are without, and do not touch the seats of life within. Minnie's love, expressed as it was in her own innocent, truthful, and straightforward way, rendered his body, big though it was, almost incapable of containing his soul. He pulled the oar, hammered the jumper, battered the anvil, tore at the bellows, and hewed the solid Bell Rock with a vehemence that aroused the admiration of his comrades, and induced Jamie Dove to pronounce him to be the best fellow the world ever produced. CHAPTER XI A STORM, AND A DISMAL STATE OF THINGS ON BOARD THE _PHAROS_ From what has been said at the close of the last chapter, it will not surprise the reader to be told that the storm which blew during that night had no further effect on Ruby Brand than to toss his hair about, and cause a ruddier glow than usual to deepen the tone of his bronzed countenance. It was otherwise with many of his hapless comrades, a few of whom had also received letters that day, but whose pleasure was marred to some extent by the qualms within. Being Saturday, a glass of rum was served out in the evening, according to custom, and the men proceeded to hold what is known by the name of "Saturday night at sea". This being a night that was usually much enjoyed on board, owing to the home memories that were recalled, and the familiar songs that were sung; owing, also, to the limited supply of grog, which might indeed cheer, but could not by any possibility inebriate, the men endeavoured to shake off their fatigue, and to forget, if possible, the rolling of the vessel. The first effort was not difficult, but the second was not easy. At first, however, the gale was not severe, so they fought against circumstances bravely for a time. "Come, lads," cried the smith, in a species of serio-comic desperation, when they had all assembled below, "let's drink to sweethearts and wives." "Hear, hear! Bless their hearts! Sweethearts and wives!" responded the men. "Hip, hip!" The cheer that followed was a genuine one. "Now for a song, boys," cried one of the men, "and I think the last arrivals are bound to sing first." "Hear, hear! Ruby, lad, you're in for it," said the smith, who sat near his assistant. "What shall I sing?" enquired Ruby. "Oh! let me see," said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who endeavoured to recall something. "Could you come Beet'oven's symphony on B flat?" "Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe," cried O'Connor, "sure the young man can only sing on the sharp kays; ain't he always sharpin' the tools, not to speak of his appetite?" "You've a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend," said Dumsby, in a tone of reproof. "Hallo! stop your jokes," cried the smith; "if you treat us to any more o' that sort o' thing we'll have ye dipped over the side, and hung up to dry at the end o' the mainyard. Fire away, Ruby, my tulip!" "Ay, that's hit," said John Watt. "Gie us the girl ye left behind ye." Ruby flushed suddenly, and turned towards the speaker with a look of surprise. "What's wrang, freend? Hae ye never heard o' that sang?" enquired Watt. "O yes, I forgot," said Ruby, recovering himself in some confusion. "I know the song--I--I was thinking of something--of----" "The girl ye left behind ye, av coorse," put in O'Connor, with a wink. "Come, strike up!" cried the men. Ruby at once obeyed, and sang the desired song with a sweet, full voice, that had the effect of moistening some of the eyes present. The song was received enthusiastically. "Your health and song, lad," said Robert Selkirk, the principal builder, who came down the ladder and joined them at that moment. "Thank you, now it's my call," said Ruby. "I call upon Ned O'Connor for a song." "Or a speech," cried Forsyth. "A spaitch is it?" said O'Connor, with a look of deep modesty. "Sure, I never made a spaitch in me life, except when I axed Mrs. O'Connor to marry me, an' I never finished that spaitch, for I only got the length of 'Och! darlint', when she cut me short in the middle with 'Sure, you may have me, Ned, and welcome!'" "Shame, shame!" said Dove, "to say that of your wife." "Shame to yersilf," cried O'Connor indignantly. "Ain't I payin' the good woman a compliment, when I say that she had pity on me bashfulness, and came to me help when I was in difficulty?" "Quite right, O'Connor; but let's have a song if you won't speak." "Would ye thank a cracked tay-kittle for a song?" said Ned. "Certainly not," replied Peter Logan, who was apt to take things too literally. "Then don't ax _me_ for wan," said the Irishman, "but I'll do this for ye, messmates: I'll read ye the last letter I got from the mistress, just to show ye that her price is beyond all calkerlation." A round of applause followed this offer, as Ned drew forth a much-soiled letter from the breast pocket of his coat, and carefully unfolding it, spread it on his knee. "It begins," said O'Connor, in a slightly hesitating tone, "with some expressions of a--a--raither endearin' character, that perhaps I may as well pass." "No, no," shouted the men, "let's have them all. Out with them, Paddy!" "Well, well, av ye _will_ have them, here they be. "'GALWAY. "'My own purty darlin' as has bin my most luved sin' the day we wos marrit, you'll be grieved to larn that the pig's gone to its long home,'" Here O'Connor paused to make some parenthetical remarks, with which, indeed, he interlarded the whole letter. "The pig, you must know, lads, was an old sow as belonged to me wife's gran'-mother, an' besides bein' a sort o' pet o' the family, was an uncommon profitable crature. But to purceed. She goes on to say,-- "'We waked her' (that's the pig, boys) 'yisterday, and buried her this mornin'. Big Rory, the baist, was for aitin' her, but I wouldn't hear of it; so she's at rest, an' so is old Molly Mallone. She wint away just two minutes be the clock before the pig, and wos burried the day afther. There's no more news as I knows of in the parish, except that your old flame Mary got married to Teddy O'Rook, an' they've been fightin' tooth an' nail ever since, as I towld ye they would long ago. No man could live wid that woman. But the schoolmaster, good man, has let me off the cow. Ye see, darlin', I towld him ye wos buildin' a palace in the say, to put ships in afther they wos wrecked on the coast of Ameriky, so ye couldn't be expected to send home much money at prisint. An' he just said, 'Well, well, Kathleen, you may just kaip the cow, and pay me whin ye can'. So put that off yer mind, my swait Ned. "'I'm sorry to hear the Faries rowls so bad, though what the Faries mains is more nor I can tell.' (I spelled the word quite krect, lads, but my poor mistress hain't got the best of eyesight.) 'Let me know in yer nixt, an' be sure to tell me if Long Forsyth has got the bitter o' say-sickness. I'm koorius about this, bekaise I've got a receipt for that same that's infallerable, as his Riverence says. Tell him, with my luv, to mix a spoonful o' pepper, an' two o' salt, an' wan o' mustard, an' a glass o' whisky in a taycup, with a sprinklin' o' ginger; fill it up with goat's milk, or ass's, av ye can't git goat's; hait it in a pan, an' drink it as hot as he can--hotter, if possible. I niver tried it meself, but they say it's a suverin' remidy; and if it don't do no good, it's not likely to do much harm, bein' but a waik mixture. Me own belaif is, that the milk's a mistake, but I suppose the doctors know best. "'Now, swaitest of men, I must stop, for Neddy's just come in howlin' like a born Turk for his tay; so no more at present from, yours till deth, "'KATHLEEN O'CONNOR.'" "Has she any sisters?" enquired Joe Dumsby eagerly, as Ned folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket. "Six of 'em," replied Ned; "every one purtier and better nor another." "Is it a long way to Galway?" continued Joe. "Not long; but it's a coorious thing that Englishmen never come back from them parts whin they wance ventur' into them." Joe was about to retort when the men called for another song. "Come, Jamie Dove, let's have 'Rule, Britannia'." Dove was by this time quite yellow in the face, and felt more inclined to go to bed than to sing; but he braced himself up, resolved to struggle manfully against the demon that oppressed him. It was in vain! Poor Dove had just reached that point in the chorus where Britons stoutly affirm that they "never, never, never shall be slaves", when a tremendous roll of the vessel caused him to spring from the locker, on which he sat, and rush to his berth. There were several of the others whose self-restraint was demolished by this example; these likewise fled, amid the laughter of their companions, who broke up the meeting and went on deck. The prospect of things there proved, beyond all doubt, that Britons never did, and never will, rule the waves. The storm, which had been brewing for some time past, was gathering fresh strength every moment, and it became abundantly evident that the floating light would have her anchors and cables tested pretty severely before the gale was over. About eight o'clock in the evening the wind shifted to east-south-east; and at ten it became what seamen term a hard gale, rendering it necessary to veer out about fifty additional fathoms of the hempen cable. The gale still increasing, the ship rolled and laboured excessively, and at midnight eighty fathoms more were veered out, while the sea continued to strike the vessel with a degree of force that no one had before experienced. That night there was little rest on board the _Pharos_. Everyone who has been "at sea" knows what it is to lie in one's berth on a stormy night, with the planks of the deck only a few inches from one's nose, and the water swashing past the little port that _always_ leaks; the seas striking against the ship; the heavy sprays falling on the decks; and the constant rattle and row of blocks, spars, and cordage overhead. But all this was as nothing compared with the state of things on board the floating light, for that vessel could not rise to the seas with the comparatively free motions of a ship, sailing either with or against the gale. She tugged and strained at her cable, as if with the fixed determination of breaking it, and she offered all the opposition of a fixed body to the seas. Daylight, though ardently longed for, brought no relief. The gale continued with unabated violence. The sea struck so hard upon the vessel's bows that it rose in great quantities, or, as Ruby expressed it, in "green seas", which completely swept the deck as far aft as the quarter-deck, and not unfrequently went completely over the stern of the ship. Those "green seas" fell at last so heavily on the skylights that all the glass was driven in, and the water poured down into the cabins, producing dire consternation in the minds of those below, who thought that the vessel was sinking. "I'm drowned intirely," roared poor Ned O'Connor, as the first of those seas burst in and poured straight down on his hammock, which happened to be just beneath the skylight. Ned sprang out on the deck, missed his footing, and was hurled with the next roll of the ship into the arms of the steward, who was passing through the place at the time. Before any comments could be made the dead-lights were put on, and the cabins were involved in almost absolute darkness. "Och! let me in beside ye," pleaded Ned with the occupant of the nearest berth. "Awa' wi' ye! Na, na," cried John Watt, pushing the unfortunate man away. "Cheinge yer wat claes first, an' I'll maybe let ye in, if ye can find me again i' the dark." While the Irishman was groping about in search of his chest, one of the officers of the ship passed him on his way to the companion ladder, intending to go on deck. Ruby Brand, feeling uncomfortable below, leaped out of his hammock and followed him. They had both got about halfway up the ladder when a tremendous sea struck the ship, causing it to tremble from stem to stern. At the same moment someone above opened the hatch, and putting his head down, shouted for the officer, who happened to be just ascending. "Ay, ay," replied the individual in question. Just as he spoke, another heavy sea fell on the deck, and, rushing aft like a river that has burst its banks, hurled the seaman into the arms of the officer, who fell back upon Ruby, and all three came down with tons of water into the cabin. The scene that followed would have been ludicrous, had it not been serious. The still rising sea caused the vessel to roll with excessive violence, and the large quantity of water that had burst in swept the men, who had jumped out of their beds, and all movable things, from side to side in indescribable confusion. As the water dashed up into the lower tier of beds, it was found necessary to lift one of the scuttles in the floor, and let it flow into the limbers of the ship. Fortunately no one was hurt, and Ruby succeeded in gaining the deck before the hatch was reclosed and fastened down upon the scene of discomfort and misery below. This state of things continued the whole day. The seas followed in rapid succession, and each, as it struck the vessel, caused her to shake all over. At each blow from a wave the rolling and pitching ceased for a few seconds, giving the impression that the ship had broken adrift, and was running with the wind, or in the act of sinking; but when another sea came, she ranged up against it with great force. This latter effect at last became the regular intimation to the anxious men below that they were still riding safely at anchor. No fires could be lighted, therefore nothing could be cooked, so that the men were fain to eat hard biscuits--those of them at least who were able to eat at all--and lie in their wet blankets all day. At ten in the morning the wind had shifted to north-east, and blew, if possible, harder than before, accompanied by a much heavier swell of the sea; it was therefore judged advisable to pay out more cable, in order to lessen the danger of its giving way. During the course of the gale nearly the whole length of the hempen cable, of 120 fathoms, was veered out, besides the chain-moorings, and, for its preservation, the cable was carefully "served", or wattled, with pieces of canvas round the windlass, and with leather well greased in the hawse-hole, where the chafing was most violent. As may readily be imagined, the gentleman on whom rested nearly all the responsibility connected with the work at the Bell Rock, passed an anxious and sleepless time in his darkened berth. During the morning he had made an attempt to reach the deck, but had been checked by the same sea that produced the disasters above described. About two o'clock in the afternoon great alarm was felt in consequence of a heavy sea that struck the ship, almost filling the waist, and pouring down into the berths below, through every chink and crevice of the hatches and skylights. From the motion being suddenly checked or deadened, and from the flowing in of the water above, every individual on board thought that the ship was foundering--at least all the landsmen were fully impressed with that idea. Mr. Stevenson could not remain below any longer. As soon as the ship again began to range up to the sea, he made another effort to get on deck. Before going, however, he went through the various apartments, in order to ascertain the state of things below. Groping his way in darkness from his own cabin, he came to that of the officers of the ship. Here all was quiet, as well as dark. He next entered the galley and other compartments occupied by the artificers; here also all was dark, but not quiet, for several of the men were engaged in prayer, or repeating psalms in a full tone of voice, while others were protesting that if they should be fortunate enough to get once more ashore, no one should ever see them afloat again; but so loud was the creaking of the bulk-heads, the dashing of water, and the whistling noise of the wind, that it was hardly possible to distinguish words or voices. The master of the vessel accompanied Mr. Stevenson, and, in one or two instances, anxious and repeated enquiries were made by the workmen as to the state of things on deck, to all of which he returned one characteristic answer--"It can't blow long in this way, lads; we _must_ have better weather soon." The next compartment in succession, moving forward, was that allotted to the seamen of the ship. Here there was a characteristic difference in the scene. Having reached the middle of the darksome berth without the inmates being aware of the intrusion, the anxious engineer was somewhat reassured and comforted to find that, although they talked of bad weather and cross accidents of the sea, yet the conversation was carried on in that tone and manner which bespoke ease and composure of mind. "Well, lads," said Mr. Stevenson, accosting the men, "what think you of this state of things? Will the good ship weather it?" "Nae fear o' her, sir," replied one confidently, "she's light and new; it'll tak' a heavy sea to sink her." "Ay," observed another, "and she's got little hold o' the water, good ground-tackle, and no tophamper; she'll weather anything, sir." Having satisfied himself that all was right below, Mr. Stevenson returned aft and went on deck, where a sublime and awful sight awaited him. The waves appeared to be what we hear sometimes termed "mountains high". In reality they were perhaps about thirty feet of unbroken water in height, their foaming crests being swept and torn by the furious gale. All beyond the immediate neighbourhood of the ship was black and chaotic. Upon deck everything movable was out of sight, having either been stowed away below previous to the gale, or washed overboard. Some parts of the quarter bulwarks were damaged by the breach of the sea, and one of the boats was broken, and half-full of water. There was only one solitary individual on deck, placed there to watch and give the alarm if the cable should give way, and this man was Ruby Brand, who, having become tired of having nothing to do, had gone on deck, as we have seen, and volunteered his services as watchman. Ruby had no greatcoat on, no overall of any kind, but was simply dressed in his ordinary jacket and trousers. He had thrust his cap into his pocket in order to prevent it being blown away, and his brown locks were streaming in the wind. He stood just aft the foremast, to which he had lashed himself with a gasket or small rope round his waist, to prevent his falling on the deck or being washed overboard. He was as thoroughly wet as if he had been drawn through the sea, and this was one reason why he was so lightly clad, that he might wet as few clothes as possible, and have a dry change when he went below. There appeared to be a smile on his lips as he faced the angry gale and gazed steadily out upon the wild ocean. He seemed to be enjoying the sight of the grand elemental strife that was going on around him. Perchance he was thinking of someone not very far away--with golden hair! Mr. Stevenson, coupling this smile on Ruby's face with the remarks of the other seamen, felt that things were not so bad as they appeared to unaccustomed eyes, nevertheless he deemed it right to advise with the master and officers as to the probable result, in the event of the ship drifting from her moorings. "It is my opinion," said the master, on his being questioned as to this, "that we have every chance of riding out the gale, which cannot continue many hours longer with the same fury; and even if she should part from her anchor, the storm-sails have been laid ready to hand, and can be bent in a very short time. The direction of the wind being nor'-east, we could sail up the Forth to Leith Roads; but if this should appear doubtful, after passing the May we can steer for Tyningham Sands, on the western side of Dunbar, and there run the ship ashore. From the flatness of her bottom and the strength of her build, I should think there would be no danger in beaching her even in a very heavy sea." This was so far satisfactory, and for some time things continued in pretty much the state we have just described, but soon after there was a sudden cessation of the straining motion of the ship which surprised everyone. In another moment Ruby shouted "All hands a-hoy! ship's adrift!" The consternation that followed may be conceived but not described. The windlass was instantly manned, and the men soon gave out that there was no strain on the cable. The mizzen-sail, which was occasionally bent for the purpose of making the ship ride easily, was at once set; the other sails were hoisted as quickly as possible, and they bore away about a mile to the south-westward, where, at a spot that was deemed suitable, the best-bower anchor was let go in twenty fathoms water. Happily the storm had begun to abate before this accident happened. Had it occurred during the height of the gale, the result might have been most disastrous to the undertaking at the Bell Rock. Having made all fast, an attempt was made to kindle the galley fire and cook some food. "Wot are we to 'ave, steward?" enquired Joe Dumsby, in a feeble voice. "Plumduff, my boy, so cheer up," replied the steward, who was busy with the charming ingredients of a suet pudding, which was the only dish to be attempted, owing to the ease with which it could be both cooked and served up. Accordingly, the suet pudding was made; the men began to cat; the gale began to "take off", as seaman express it; and, Although things were still very far removed from a state of comfort, they began to be more endurable; health began to return to the sick, and hope to those who had previously given way to despair. CHAPTER XII BELL ROCK BILLOWS--AN UNEXPECTED VISIT--A DISASTER AND A RESCUE It is pleasant, it is profoundly enjoyable, to sit on the margin of the sea during the dead calm that not unfrequently succeeds a wild storm, and watch the gentle undulations of the glass-like surface, which the very gulls seem to be disinclined to ruffle with their wings as they descend to hover above their own reflected images. It is pleasant to watch this from the shore, where the waves fall in low murmuring ripples, or from the ship's deck, far out upon the sea, where there is no sound of water save the laving of the vessel's bow as she rises and sinks in the broad-backed swell; but there is something more than pleasant, there is something deeply and peculiarly interesting, in the same scene when viewed from such a position as the Bell Rock; for there, owing to the position of the rock and the depth of water around it, the observer beholds, at the same moment, the presence, as it were, of storm and calm. The largest waves there are seen immediately after a storm has passed away, not during its continuance, no matter how furious the gale may have been, for the rushing wind has a tendency to blow down the waves, so to speak, and prevent their rising to their utmost height. It is when the storm is over that the swell rises; but as this swell appears only like large undulations, it does not impress the beholder with its magnitude until it draws near to the rock and begins to feel the checking influence of the bottom of the sea. The upper part of the swell, having then greater velocity than the lower part, assumes more and more the form of a billow. As it comes on it towers up like a great green wall of glittering glass, moving with a grand, solemn motion, which does not at first give the idea of much force or impetus. As it nears the rock, however, its height (probably fifteen or twenty feet) becomes apparent; its velocity increases; the top, with what may be termed gentle rapidity, rushes in advance of the base; its dark green side becomes concave; the upper edge lips over, then curls majestically downwards, as if bowing to a superior power, and a gleam of light flashes for a moment on the curling top. As yet there is no sound; all has occurred in the profound silence of the calm, but another instant and there is a mighty crash--a deafening roar; the great wall of water has fallen, and a very sea of churning foam comes leaping, bursting, spouting over rocks and ledges, carrying all before it with a tremendous sweep that seems to be absolutely irresistible until it meets the higher ledges of rock, when it is hurled back, and retires with a watery hiss that suggests the idea of baffled rage. But it is not conquered. With the calm majesty of unalterable determination, wave after wave comes on, in slow, regular succession, like the inexhaustible battalions of an unconquerable foe, to meet with a similar repulse again and again. There is, however, this peculiar difference between the waves on the ordinary seashore and the billows on the Bell Rock, that the latter, unlike the former, are not always defeated. The spectator on shore plants his foot confidently at the very edge of the mighty sea, knowing that "thus far it may come, but no farther". On the Bell Rock the rising tide makes the conflict, for a time, more equal. Now, the rock stands proudly above the sea: anon the sea sweeps furiously over the rock with a roar of "Victory!" Thus the war goes on, and thus the tide of battle daily and nightly ebbs and flows all the year round. But when the cunning hand of man began to interfere, the aspect of things was changed, the sea was forced to succumb, and the rock, once a dreaded enemy, became a servant of the human race. True, the former rages in rebellion still, and the latter, although compelled to uphold the light that warns against itself, continues its perpetual warfare with the sea; but both are effectually conquered by means of the wonderful intelligence that God has given to man, and the sea for more than half a century has vainly beat against the massive tower whose foundation is on the Bell Rock. But all this savours somewhat of anticipation. Let us return to Ruby Brand, in whose interest we have gone into this long digression; for he it was who gazed intently at the mingled scene of storm and calm which we have attempted to describe, and it was he who thought out most of the ideas which we have endeavoured to convey. Ruby had lent a hand to work the pump at the foundation-pit that morning. After a good spell at it he took his turn of rest, and, in order to enjoy it fully, went as far out as he could upon the seaward ledges, and sat down on a piece of rock to watch the waves. While seated there, Robert Selkirk came and sat down beside him. Selkirk was the principal builder, and ultimately laid every stone of the lighthouse with his own hand. He was a sedate, quiet man, but full of energy and perseverance. When the stones were landed faster than they could be built into their places, he and Bremner, as well as some of the other builders, used to work on until the rising tide reached their waists. "It's a grand sight, Ruby," said Selkirk, as a larger wave than usual fell, and came rushing in torrents of foam up to their feet, sending a little of the spray over their heads. "It is indeed a glorious sight," said Ruby. "If I had nothing to do, I believe I could sit here all day just looking at the waves and thinking." "Thinkin'!" repeated Selkirk, in a musing tone of voice. "Can ye tell, lad, what ye think about when you're lookin' at the waves?" Ruby smiled at the oddness of the question. "Well," said he, "I don't think I ever thought of that before." "Ah, but _I_ have!" said the other, "an' I've come to the conclusion that for the most part we don't think, properly speakin', at all; that our thoughts, so to speak, think for us; that they just take the bit in their teeth and go rumblin' and tumblin' about anyhow or nohow!" Ruby knitted his brows and pondered. He was one of those men who, when they don't understand a thing, hold their tongues and think. "And," continued Selkirk, "it's curious to observe what a lot o' nonsense one thinks too when one is lookin' at the waves. Many a time I have pulled myself up, thinkin' the most astonishin' stuff ye could imagine." "I would hardly have expected this of such a grave kind o' man as you," said Ruby. "Mayhap not. It is not always the gravest looking that have the gravest thoughts." "But you don't mean to say that you never think sense," continued Ruby, "when you sit looking at the waves?" "By no means," returned his companion; "I'm only talking of the way in which one's thoughts will wander. Sometimes I think seriously enough. Sometimes I think it strange that men can look at such a scene as that, and scarcely bestow a thought upon Him who made it." "Speak for yourself, friend," said Ruby, somewhat quickly; "how know you that other men don't think about their Creator when they look at His works?" "Because," returned Selkirk, "I find that I so seldom do so myself, even although I wish to and often try to; and I hold that every man, no matter what he is or feels, is one of a class who think and feel as he does; also, because many people, especially Christians, have told me that they have had the same experience to a large extent; also, and chiefly, because, as far as unbelieving man is concerned, the Bible tells me that 'God is not in all his thoughts'. But, Ruby, I did not make the remark as a slur upon men in general, I merely spoke of a fact,--an unfortunate fact,--that it is not natural to us, and not easy, to rise from nature to nature's God, and I thought you would agree with me." "I believe you are right," said Ruby, half-ashamed of the petulance of his reply; "at any rate, I confess you are right as far as I am concerned." As Selkirk and Ruby were both fond of discussion, they continued this subject some time longer, and there is no saying how far they would have gone down into the abstruse depths of theology, had not their converse been interrupted by the appearance of a boat rowing towards the rock. "Is yonder craft a fishing boat, think you?" said Ruby, rising and pointing to it. "Like enough, lad. Mayhap it's the pilot's, only it's too soon for him to be off again with letters. Maybe it's visitors to the rock, for I see something like a woman's bonnet." As there was only one woman in the world at that time as far as Ruby was concerned (of course putting his mother out of the question!), it will not surprise the reader to be told that the youth started, that his cheek reddened a little, and his heart beat somewhat faster than usual. He immediately smiled, however, at the absurdity of supposing it possible that the woman in the boat could be Minnie, and as the blacksmith shouted to him at that moment, he turned on his heel and leaped from ledge to ledge of rock until he gained his wonted place at the forge. Soon he was busy wielding the fore-hammer, causing the sparks to fly about himself and his comrade in showers, while the anvil rang out its merry peal. Meanwhile the boat drew near. It turned out to be a party of visitors, who had come off from Arbroath to see the operations at the Bell Rock. They had been brought off by Spink, the pilot, and numbered only three--namely, a tall soldierlike man, a stout sailor-like man, and a young woman with--yes,--with golden hair. Poor Ruby almost leaped over the forge when he raised his eyes from his work and caught sight of Minnie's sweet face. Minnie had recognized her lover before the boat reached the rock, for he stood on an elevated ledge, and the work in which he was engaged, swinging the large hammer round his shoulder, rendered him very conspicuous. She had studiously concealed her face from him until quite close, when, looking him straight in the eyes without the least sign of recognition, she turned away. We have said that the first glance Ruby obtained caused him to leap nearly over the forge; the second created such a revulsion of feeling that he let the fore-hammer fall. "Hallo! Got a spark in yer eye?" enquired Dove, looking up anxiously. It flashed across Ruby at that instant that the look given him by Minnie was meant to warn him not to take any notice of her, so he answered the smith's query with "No, no; I've only let the hammer fall, don't you see? Get on, old boy, an' don't let the metal cool." The smith continued his work without further remark, and Ruby assisted, resolving in his own mind to be a little more guarded as to the expression of his feelings. Meanwhile Mr. Stevenson received the visitors, and showed them over the works, pointing out the peculiarities thereof, and the difficulties that stood in the way. Presently he came towards the forge, and said, "Brand, the stout gentleman there wishes to speak to you. He says he knew you in Arbroath. You can spare him for a few minutes, I suppose, Mr. Dove?" "Well, yes, but not for long," replied the smith. "The tide will soon be up, and I've enough to do to get through with all these." Ruby flung down his hammer at the first word, and hastened to the ledge of rock where the visitors were standing, as far apart from the workmen as the space of the rock would admit of. The stout gentleman was no other than his uncle, Captain Ogilvy, who put his finger to his lips as his nephew approached, and gave him a look of mystery that was quite sufficient to put the latter on his guard. He therefore went forward, pulled off his cap, and bowed respectfully to Minnie, who replied with a stiff curtsy, a slight smile, and a decided blush. Although Ruby now felt convinced that they were all acting a part, he could scarcely bear this cold reception. His impulse was to seize Minnie in his arms; but he did not even get the comfort of a cold shake of the hand. "Nephy," said the captain in a hoarse whisper, putting his face close to that of Ruby, "mum's the word! Silence, mystery, an' all that sort o' thing. Don't appear to be an old friend, lad; and as to Minnie here-- 'O no, we never mention her, Her name it's never heard.' Allow me to introduce you to Major Stewart, whose house you broke into, you know, Ruby, when 'All in the Downs the fleet was moored,' at least when the _Termagant_ was waitin' for you to go aboard." Here the captain winked and gave Ruby a facetious poke in the ribs, which was not quite in harmony with the ignorance of each other he was endeavouring to inculcate. "Young man," said the major quietly, "we have come off to tell you that everything is in a prosperous state as regards the investigation into your innocence--the private investigation I mean, for the authorities happily know nothing of your being here. Captain Ogilvy has made me his confidant in this matter, and from what he tells me I am convinced that you had nothing to do with this robbery. Excuse me if I now add that the sight of your face deepens this conviction." Ruby bowed to the compliment. "We were anxious to write at once to the captain of the vessel in which you sailed," continued the major, "but you omitted to leave his full name and address when you left. We were afraid to write to you, lest your name on the letter might attract attention, and induce a premature arrest. Hence our visit to the rock to-day. Please to write the address in this pocket-book." The major handed Ruby a small green pocket-book as he spoke, in which the latter wrote the full name and address of his late skipper. "Now, nephy," said the captain, "we must, I'm sorry to say, bid ye good day, and ask you to return to your work, for it won't do to rouse suspicion, lad. Only keep quiet here, and do yer dooty--'England expects _every_ man to do his dooty'--and as sure as your name's Ruby all will be shipshape in a few weeks." "I thank you sincerely," said Ruby, addressing the major, but looking at Minnie. Captain Ogilvy, observing this, and fearing some display of feeling that would be recognized by the workmen, who were becoming surprised at the length of the interview, placed himself between Minnie and her lover. "No, no, Ruby," said he, solemnly. "I'm sorry for ye, lad, but it won't do. Patience is a virtue, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." "My mother?" said Ruby, wishing to prolong the interview. "Is well," said the captain. "Now, goodbye, lad, and be off." "Goodbye, Minnie," cried Ruby, stepping forward suddenly and seizing the girl's hand; then, wheeling quickly round, he sprang over the rocks, and returned to his post. "Ha! it's time," cried the smith. "I thought you would never be done makin' love to that there girl. Come, blaze away!" Ruby felt so nettled by the necessity that was laid upon him of taking no notice of Minnie, that he seized the handle of the bellows passionately, and at the first puff blew nearly all the fire away. "Hallo! messmate," cried the smith, clearing the dust from his eyes; "what on airth ails ye? You've blowed the whole consarn out!" Ruby made no reply, but, scraping together the embers, heaped them up and blew more gently. In a short time the visitors re-entered their boat, and rowed out of the creek in which it had been lying. Ruby became so exasperated at not being able even to watch the boat going away, that he showered terrific blows on the mass of metal the smith was turning rapidly on the anvil. "Not so fast, lad; not so fast," cried Dove hurriedly. Ruby's chafing spirit blew up just at that point; he hit the iron a crack that knocked it as flat as a pancake, and then threw down the hammer and deliberately gazed in the direction of the boat. The sight that met his eyes appalled him. The boat had been lying in the inlet named Port Stevenson. It had to pass out to the open sea through _Wilson's Track_, and past a small outlying rock named _Gray's Rock_--known more familiarly among the men as _Johnny Gray_. The boat was nearing this point, when the sea, which had been rising for some time, burst completely over the seaward ledges, and swept the boat high against the rocks on the left. The men had scarcely got her again into the track when another tremendous billow, such as we have already described, swept over the rocks again and swamped the boat, which, being heavily ballasted, sank at once to the bottom of the pool. It was this sight that met the horrified eyes of Ruby when he looked up. He vaulted over the bellows like an antelope, and, rushing over _Smith's Ledge_ and _Trinity Ledge_, sprang across _Port Boyle_, and dived head foremost into _Neill's Pool_ before any of the other men, who made a general rush, could reach the spot. A few powerful strokes brought Ruby to the place where the major and the captain, neither of whom could swim, were struggling in the water. He dived at once below these unfortunates, and almost in a second, reappeared with Minnie in his arms. A few seconds sufficed to bring him to _Smith's Ledge_, where several of his comrades hauled him and his burden beyond the reach of the next wave, and where, a moment or two later, the major and captain with the crew of the boat were landed in safety. To bear the light form of Minnie in his strong arms to the highest and driest part of the rock was the work of a few moments to Ruby. Brief though those moments were, however, they were precious to the youth beyond all human powers of calculation, for Minnie recovered partial consciousness, and fancying, doubtless, that she was still in danger, flung her arms round his neck, and grasped him convulsively. Reader, we tell you in confidence that if Ruby had at that moment been laid on the rack and torn limb from limb, he would have cheered out his life triumphantly. It was not only that he knew she loved him--_that_ be knew before,--but he had saved the life of the girl he loved, and a higher terrestrial happiness can scarcely be attained by man. Laying her down as gently as a mother would her firstborn, Ruby placed a coat under her head, and bade his comrades stand back and give her air. It was fortunate for him that one of the foremen, who understood what to do, came up at this moment, and ordered him to leave off chafing the girl's hand with his wet fists, and go get some water boiled at the forge if he wanted to do her good. Second words were not needed. The bellows were soon blowing, and the fire glowed in a way that it had not done since the works at the Bell Rock began. Before the water quite boiled some tea was put in, and, with a degree of speed that would have roused the jealousy of any living waiter, a cup of tea was presented to Minnie, who had recovered almost at the moment Ruby left her. She drank a little, and then closing her eyes, moved her lips silently for a few seconds. Captain Ogilvy, who had attended her with the utmost assiduity and tenderness as soon as he had wrung the water out of his own garments, here took an opportunity of hastily pouring something into the cup out of a small flask. When Minnie looked up again and smiled, he presented her with the cup. She thanked him, and drank a mouthful or two before perceiving that it had been tampered with. "There's something in it," she said hurriedly. "So there is, my pet," said the captain, with a benignant smile, "a little nectar, that will do you more good than all the tea. Come now, don't shake your head, but down with it all, like a good child." But Minnie was proof against persuasion, and refused to taste any more. "Who was it that saved me, uncle?" (She had got into the way of calling the captain "uncle".) "Ruby Brand did it, my darlin'," said the old man with a look of pride. "Ah! you're better now; stay, don't attempt to rise." "Yes, yes, uncle," she said, getting up and looking round, "it is time that we should go now; we have a long way to go, you know. Where is the boat?" "The boat, my precious, is at the bottom of the sea." As he said this, he pointed to the mast, half of which was seen rising out of the pool where the boat had gone down. "But you don't need to mind," continued the captain, "for they're goin' to send us in one o' their own boats aboord the floatin' lightship, where we'll get a change o' clothes an' some-thin' to eat." As he spoke, one of the sailors came forward and announced that the boat was ready, so the captain and the major assisted Minnie into the boat, which soon pushed off with part of the workmen from the rock. It was to be sent back for the remainder of the crew, by which time the tide would render it necessary that all should leave. Ruby purposely kept away from the group while they were embarking, and after they were gone proceeded to resume work. "You took a smart dive that time, lad," observed Joe Dumsby as they went along. "Not more than anyone would do for a girl," said Ruby. "An' such a purty wan, too," said O'Connor. "Ah! av she's not Irish, she should ha' bin." "Ye're a lucky chap to hae sic a chance," observed John Watt. "Make up to her, lad," said Forsyth; "I think she couldn't refuse ye after doin' her such service." "Time enough to chaff after work is over," cried Ruby with a laugh, as he turned up his sleeves, and, seizing the hammer, began, as his friend Dove said, "to work himself dry". In a few minutes, work was resumed, and for another hour all continued busy as bees, cutting and pounding at the flinty surface of the Bell Rock. CHAPTER XIII A SLEEPLESS BUT A PLEASANT NIGHT The evening which followed the day that has just been described was bright, calm, and beautiful, with the starry host unclouded and distinctly visible to the profoundest depths of space. As it was intended to send the _Smeaton_ to Arbroath next morning for a cargo of stones from the building-yard, the wrecked party were prevailed on to remain all night on board the _Pharos_, instead of going ashore in one of the ship's boats, which could not well be spared at the time. This arrangement, we need hardly say, gave inexpressible pleasure to Ruby, and was not altogether distasteful to Minnie, although she felt anxious about Mrs. Brand, who would naturally be much alarmed at the prolonged absence of herself and the captain. However, "there was no help for it"; and it was wonderful the resignation which she displayed in the circumstances. It was not Ruby's duty to watch on deck that night, yet, strange to say, Ruby kept watch the whole night long! There was no occasion whatever for Minnie to go on deck after it was dark, yet, strange to say, Minnie kept coming on deck at intervals _nearly_ the whole night long! Sometimes to "look at the stars", sometimes to "get a mouthful of fresh air", frequently to find out what "that strange noise could be that had alarmed her", and at last--especially towards the early hours of morning--for no reason whatever, except that "she could not sleep below". It was very natural that when Minnie paced the quarterdeck between the stern and the mainmast, and Ruby paced the forepart of the deck between the bows and the mainmast, the two should occasionally meet at the mainmast. It was also very natural that when they did meet, the girl who had been rescued should stop and address a few words of gratitude to the man who had saved her. But it was by no means natural--nay, it was altogether unnatural and unaccountable, that, when it became dark, the said man and the said girl should get into a close and confidential conversation, which lasted for hours, to the amusement of Captain Ogilvy and the major, who quite understood it, and to the amazement of many of the ship's crew, who couldn't understand it at all. At last Minnie bade Ruby a final good night and went below, and Ruby, who could not persuade himself that it was final, continued to walk the deck until his eyes began to shut and open involuntarily like those of a sick owl. Then he also went below, and, before he fell quite asleep (according to his own impression), was awakened by the bell that called the men to land on the rock and commence work. It was not only Ruby who found it difficult to rouse himself that morning. The landing-bell was rung at four o'clock, as the tide suited at that early hour, but the men were so fatigued that they would gladly have slept some hours longer. This, however, the nature of the service would not admit of. The building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse was a peculiar service. It may be said to have resembled duty in the trenches in military warfare. At times the work was light enough, but for the most part it was severe and irregular, as the men had to work in all kinds of weather, as long as possible, in the face of unusual difficulties and dangers, and were liable to be called out at all unseasonable hours. But they knew and expected this, and faced the work like men. After a growl or two, and a few heavy sighs, they all tumbled out of their berths, and, in a very short time, were mustered on deck, where a glass of rum and a biscuit were served to each, being the regular allowance when they had to begin work before breakfast. Then they got into the boats and rowed away. Ruby's troubles were peculiar on this occasion. He could not bear the thought of leaving the _Pharos_ without saying goodbye to Minnie; but as Minnie knew nothing of such early rising, there was no reasonable hope that she would be awake. Then he wished to put a few questions to his uncle which he had forgotten the day before, but his uncle was at that moment buried in profound repose, with his mouth wide open, and a trombone solo proceeding from his nose, which sadly troubled the unfortunates who lay near him. As there was no way of escape from these difficulties, Ruby, like a wise man, made up his mind to cast them aside, so, after swallowing his allowance, he shouldered his big bellows, heaved a deep sigh, and took his place in one of the boats alongside. The lassitude which strong men feel when obliged to rise before they have had enough of rest soon wears off. The two boats had not left the _Pharos_ twenty yards astern, when Joe Dumsby cried, "Ho! boys, let's have a race." "Hooray!" shouted O'Connor, whose elastic spirits were always equal to anything, "an' sure Ruby will sing us 'The girl we've left behind us'. Och! an' there she is, av I'm not draymin'." At that moment a little hand was waved from one of the ports of the floating light. Ruby at once waved his in reply, but as the attention of the men had been directed to the vessel by Ned's remark, each saw the salutation, and, claiming it as a compliment to himself, uttered a loud cheer, which terminated in a burst of laughter, caused by the sight of Ruby's half-angry, half-ashamed expression of face. As the other boat had shot ahead, however, at the first mention of the word "race", the men forgot this incident in their anxiety to overtake their comrades. In a few seconds both boats were going at full speed, and they kept it up all the way to the rock. While this was going on, the _Smeaton's_ boat was getting ready to take the strangers on board the sloop, and just as the workmen landed on the rock, the _Smeaton_ cast loose her sails, and proceeded to Arbroath. There were a few seals basking on the Bell Rock this morning when the men landed. These at once made off, and were not again seen during the day. At first, seals were numerous on the rock. Frequently from fifty to sixty of them were counted at one time, and they seemed for a good while unwilling to forsake their old quarters, but when the forge was set up they could stand it no longer. Some of the boldest ventured to sun themselves there occasionally, but when the clatter of the anvil and the wreaths of smoke became matters of daily occurrence, they forsook the rock finally, and sought the peace and quiet which man denied them there in other regions of the deep. The building of the lighthouse was attended with difficulties at every step. As a short notice of some of these, and an account of the mode in which the great work was carried on, cannot fail to be interesting to all who admire those engineering works which exhibit prominently the triumph of mind over matter, we shall turn aside for a brief space to consider this subject. CHAPTER XIV SOMEWHAT STATISTICAL It has been already said that the Bell Rock rises only a few feet out of the sea at low tide. The foundation of the tower, sunk into the solid rock, was just three feet three inches above low water of the lowest spring-tides, so that the lighthouse may be said with propriety to be founded beneath the waves. One great point that had to be determined at the commencement of the operations was the best method of landing the stones of the building, this being a delicate and difficult process, in consequence of the weight of the stones and their brittle nature, especially in those parts which were worked to a delicate edge or formed into angular points. As the loss of a single stone, too, would stop the progress of the work until another should be prepared at the workyard in Arbroath and sent off to the rock, it may easily be imagined that this matter of the landing was of the utmost importance, and that much consultation was held in regard to it. It would seem that engineers, as well as doctors, are apt to differ. Some suggested that each particular stone should be floated to the rock, with a cork buoy attached to it; while others proposed an air-tank, instead of the cork buoy. Others, again, proposed to sail over the rock at high water in a flat-bottomed vessel, and drop the stones one after another when over the spot they were intended to occupy. A few, still more eccentric and daring in their views, suggested that a huge cofferdam or vessel should be built on shore, and as much of the lighthouse built in this as would suffice to raise the building above the level of the highest tides; that then it should be floated off to its station on the rock, which should be previously prepared for its reception; that the cofferdam should be scuttled, and the ponderous mass of masonry, weighing perhaps 1000 tons, allowed to sink at once into its place! All these plans, however, were rejected by Mr. Stevenson, who resolved to carry the stones to the rock in boats constructed for the purpose. These were named praam boats. The stones were therefore cut in conformity with exactly measured moulds in the workyard at Arbroath, and conveyed thence in the sloops already mentioned to the rock, where the vessels were anchored at a distance sufficient to enable them to clear it in case of drifting. The cargoes were then unloaded at the moorings, and laid on the decks of the praam boats, which conveyed them to the rock, where they were laid on small trucks, run along the temporary rails, to their positions, and built in at once. Each stone of this building was treated with as much care and solicitude as if it were a living creature. After being carefully cut and curiously formed, and conveyed to the neighbourhood of the rock, it was hoisted out of the hold and laid on the vessel's deck, when it was handed over to the landing-master, whose duty it became to transfer it, by means of a combination of ropes and blocks, to the deck of the praam boat, and then deliver it at the rock. As the sea was seldom calm during the building operations, and frequently in a state of great agitation, lowering the stones on the decks of the praam boats was a difficult matter. In the act of working the apparatus, one man was placed at each of the guy-tackles. This man assisted also at the purchase-tackles for raising the stones; and one of the ablest and most active of the crew was appointed to hold on the end of the fall-tackle, which often required all his strength and his utmost agility in letting go, for the purpose of lowering the stone at the instant the word "lower" was given. In a rolling sea, much depended on the promptitude with which this part of the operation was performed. For the purpose of securing this, the man who held the tackle placed himself before the mast in a sitting, more frequently in a lying posture, with his feet stretched under the winch and abutting against the mast, as by this means he was enabled to exert his greatest strength. The signal being given in the hold that the tackle was hooked to the stone and all ready, every man took his post, the stone was carefully, we might almost say tenderly raised, and gradually got into position over the praam boat; the right moment was intently watched, and the word "lower" given sternly and sharply. The order was obeyed with exact promptitude, and the stone rested on the deck of the praam boat. Six blocks of granite having been thus placed on the boat's deck, she was rowed to a buoy, and moored near the rock until the proper time of the tide for taking her into one of the landing creeks. We are thus particular in describing the details of this part of the work, in order that the reader may be enabled to form a correct estimate of what may be termed the minor difficulties of the undertaking. The same care was bestowed upon the landing of every stone of the building; and it is worthy of record, that notwithstanding the difficulty of this process in such peculiar circumstances, not a single stone was lost, or even seriously damaged, during the whole course of the erection of the tower, which occupied four years in building, or rather, we should say, four seasons, for no work was or could be done during winter. A description of the first entire course of the lower part of the tower, which was built solid, will be sufficient to give an idea of the general nature of the whole work. This course or layer consisted of 123 blocks of stone, those in the interior being sandstone, while the outer casing was of granite. Each stone was fastened to its neighbour above, below, and around by means of dovetails, joggles, oaken trenails, and mortar. Each course was thus built from its centre to its circumference, and as all the courses from the foundation to a height of thirty feet were built in this way, the tower, up to that height, became a mass of solid stone, as strong and immovable as the Bell Rock itself. Above this, or thirty feet from the foundation, the entrance door was placed, and the hollow part of the tower began. Thus much, then, as to the tower itself, the upper part of which will be found described in a future chapter. In regard to the subsidiary works, the erection of the beacon house was in itself a work of considerable difficulty, requiring no common effort of engineering skill. The principal beams of this having been towed to the rock by the _Smeaton_, all the stanchions and other material for setting them up were landed, and the workmen set about erecting them as quickly as possible, for if a single day of bad weather should occur before the necessary fixtures could be made, the whole apparatus would be infallibly swept away. The operation being, perhaps, the most important of the season, and one requiring to be done with the utmost expedition, all hands were, on the day in which its erection was begun, gathered on the rock, besides ten additional men engaged for the purpose, and as many of the seamen from the Pharos and other vessels as could be spared. They amounted altogether to fifty-two in number. About half-past eight o'clock in the morning a derrick, or mast, thirty feet high, was erected, and properly supported with guy-ropes for suspending the block for raising the first principal beam of the beacon, and a winch-machine was bolted down to the rock for working the purchase-tackle. The necessary blocks and tackle were likewise laid to hand and properly arranged. The men were severally allotted in squads to different stations; some were to bring the principal beams to hand, others were to work the tackles, while a third set had the charge of the iron stanchions, bolts, and wedges, so that the whole operation of raising the beams and fixing them to the rock might go forward in such a manner that some provision might be made, in any stage of the work, for securing what had been accomplished, in case of an adverse change of weather. The raising of the derrick was the signal for three hearty cheers, for this was a new era in the operations. Even that single spar, could it be preserved, would have been sufficient to have saved the workmen on that day when the Smeaton broke adrift and left them in such peril. This was all, however, that could be accomplished that tide. Next day, the great beams, each fifty feet long, and about sixteen inches square, were towed to the rock about seven in the morning, and the work immediately commenced, although they had gone there so much too early in the tide that the men had to work a considerable time up to their middle in water. Each beam was raised by the tackle affixed to the derrick, until the end of it could be placed or "stepped" into the hole which had been previously prepared for its reception; then two of the great iron stanchions or supports were set into their respective holes on each side of the beam, and a rope passed round them to keep it from slipping, until it could be more permanently fixed. This having been accomplished, the first beam became the means of raising the second, and when the first and second were fastened at the top, they formed a pair of shears by which the rest were more easily raised to their places. The heads of the beams were then fitted together and secured with ropes in a temporary manner, until the falling of the tide would permit the operations to be resumed. Thus the work went on, each man labouring with all his might, until this important erection was completed. The raising of the first beams took place on a Sunday. Indeed, during the progress of the works at the Bell Rock, the men were accustomed to work regularly on Sundays when possible; but it is right to say that it was not done in defiance of, or disregard to, God's command to cease from labour on the Sabbath day, but because of the urgent need of a lighthouse on a rock which, unlighted, would be certain to wreck numerous vessels and destroy many lives in time to come, as it had done in time past. Delay in this matter might cause death and disaster, therefore it was deemed right to carry on the work on Sundays. [Footnote] [Footnote: It was always arranged, however, to have public worship on Sundays when practicable. And this arrangement was held to during the continuance of the work. Indeed, the manner in which Mr. Stevenson writes in regard to the conclusion of the day's work at the beacon, which we have described, shows clearly that he felt himself to be acting in this matter in accordance with the spirit of our Saviour, who wrought many of His works of mercy on the Sabbath day. Mr. Stevenson writes thus:-- "All hands having returned to their respective ships, they got a shift of dry clothes, and some refreshment. Being Sunday, they were afterwards convened by signal on board of the lighthouse yacht, when prayers were read, for every heart upon this occasion felt gladness, and every mind was disposed to be thankful for the happy and successful termination of the operations of this day." It is right to add that the men, although requested, were not constrained to work on Sundays. They were at liberty to decline if they chose. A few conscientiously refused at first, but were afterwards convinced of the necessity of working on all opportunities that offered, and agreed to do so.] An accident happened during the raising of the last large beam of the beacon, which, although alarming, fortunately caused no damage. Considering the nature of the work, it is amazing, and greatly to the credit of all engaged, that so few accidents occurred during the building of the lighthouse. When they were in the act of hoisting the sixth and last log, and just about to kant it into its place, the iron hook of the principal purchase-block gave way, and the great beam, measuring fifty feet in length, fell upon the rock with a terrible crash; but although there were fifty-two men around the beacon at the time, not one was touched, and the beam itself received no damage worth mentioning. Soon after the beacon had been set up, and partially secured to the rock, a severe gale sprang up, as if Ocean were impatient to test the handiwork of human engineers. Gales set in from the eastward, compelling the attending sloops to slip from their moorings, and run for the shelter of Arbroath and St. Andrews, and raising a sea on the Bell Rock which was described as terrific, the spray rising more than thirty feet in the air above it. In the midst of all this turmoil the beacon stood securely, and after the weather moderated, permitting the workmen once more to land, it was found that no damage had been done by the tremendous breaches of the sea over the rock. That the power of the waves had indeed been very great, was evident from the effects observed on the rock itself, and on materials left there. Masses of rock upwards of a ton in weight had been cast up by the sea, and then, in their passage over the Bell Rock, had made deep and indelible ruts. An anchor of a ton weight, which had been lost on one side of the rock, was found to have been washed up and over it to the other side. Several large blocks of granite that had been landed and left on a ledge, were found to have been swept away like pebbles, and hurled into a hole at some distance; and the heavy hearth of the smith's forge, with the ponderous anvil, had been washed from their places of supposed security. From the time of the setting up of the beacon a new era in the work began. Some of the men were now enabled to remain on the rock all day, working at the lighthouse when the tide was low, and betaking themselves to the beacon when it rose, and leaving it at night; for there was much to do before this beacon could be made the habitable abode which it finally became; but it required the strictest attention to the state of the weather, in case of their being overtaken with a gale, which might prevent the possibility of their being taken off the rock. At last the beacon was so far advanced and secured that it was deemed capable of withstanding any gale that might blow. As yet it was a great ungainly pile of logs, iron stanchions, and bracing-chains, without anything that could afford shelter to man from winds or waves, but with a platform laid from its cross-beams at a considerable height above high-water mark. The works on the rock were in this state, when two memorable circumstances occurred in the Bell Rock annals, to which we shall devote a separate chapter. CHAPTER XV RUBY HAS A RISE IN LIFE, AND A FALL James Dove, the blacksmith, had, for some time past, been watching the advancing of the beacon-works with some interest, and a good deal of impatience. He was tired of working so constantly up to the knees in water, and aspired to a drier and more elevated workshop. One morning he was told by the foreman that orders had been given for him to remove his forge to the beacon, and this removal, this "flitting", as he called it, was the first of the memorable events referred to in the last chapter. "Hallo! Ruby, my boy," cried the elated son of Vulcan, as he descended the companion ladder, "we're goin' to flit, lad. We're about to rise in the world, so get up your bellows. It's the last time we shall have to be bothered with them in the boat, I hope." "That's well," said Ruby, shouldering the unwieldy bellows; "they have worn my shoulders threadbare, and tried my patience almost beyond endurance." "Well, it's all over now, lad," rejoined the smith. "In future you shall have to blow up in the beacon yonder; so come along." "Come, Ruby, that ought to comfort the cockles o' yer heart," said O'Connor, who passed up the ladder as he spoke; "the smith won't need to blow you up any more, av you're to blow yourself up in the beacon in futur'. Arrah! there's the bell again. Sorrow wan o' me iver gits to slape, but I'm turned up immadiately to go an' poke away at that rock--faix, it's well named the Bell Rock, for it makes me like to _bellow_ me lungs out wid vexation." "That pun is _below_ contempt," said Joe Dumsby, who came up at the moment. "That's yer sort, laddies; ye're guid at ringing the changes on that head onyway," cried Watt. "I say, we're gittin' a _belly_-full of it," observed Forsyth, with a rueful look "I hope nobody's goin' to give us another!" "It'll create a _rebellion_," said Bremner, "if ye go on like that" "It'll bring my _bellows_ down on the head o' the next man that speaks!" cried Ruby, with indignation. "Don't you hear the bell, there?" cried the foreman down the hatchway. There was a burst of laughter at this unconscious continuation of the joke, and the men sprang up the ladder,--down the side, and into the boats, which were soon racing towards the rock. The day, though not sunny, was calm and agreeable, nevertheless the landing at the rock was not easily accomplished, owing to the swell caused by a recent gale. After one or two narrow escapes of a ducking, however, the crews landed, and the bellows, instead of being conveyed to their usual place at the forge, were laid at the foot of the beacon. The carriage of these bellows to and fro almost daily had been a subject of great annoyance to the men, owing to their being so much in the way, and so unmanageably bulky, yet so essential to the progress of the works, that they did not dare to leave them on the rock, lest they should be washed away, and they had to handle them tenderly, lest they should get damaged. "Now, boys, lend a hand with the forge," cried the smith, hurrying towards his anvil. Those who were not busy eating dulse responded to the call, and in a short time the ponderous _matériel_ of the smithy was conveyed to the beacon, where, in process of time, it was hoisted by means of tackle to its place on the platform to which reference has already been made. When it was safely set up and the bellows placed in position, Ruby went to the edge of the platform, and, looking down on his comrades below, took off his cap and shouted in the tone of a Stentor, "Now, lads, three cheers for the Dovecot!" This was received with a roar of laughter and three tremendous cheers. "Howld on, boys," cried O'Connor, stretching out his hand as if to command silence; "you'll scare the dove from his cot altogether av ye roar like that!" "Surely they're sendin' us a fire to warm us," observed one of the men, pointing to a boat which had put off from the _Smeaton_, and was approaching the rock by way of _Macurich's Track_. "What can'd be, I wonder?" said Watt; "I think I can smell somethin'." "I halways thought you 'ad somethink of an old dog in you," said Dumsby. "Ay, man!" said the Scot with a leer, "I ken o' war beasts than auld dowgs." "Do you? come let's 'ear wat they are," said the Englishman. "Young puppies," answered the other. "Hurrah! dinner, as I'm a Dutchman," cried Forsyth. This was indeed the case. Dinner had been cooked on board the _Smeaton_ and sent hot to the men; and this,--the first dinner ever eaten on the Bell Rock,--was the second of the memorable events before referred to. The boat soon ran into the creek and landed the baskets containing the food on _Hope's Wharf_. The men at once made a rush at the viands, and bore them off exultingly to the flattest part of the rock they could find. "A regular picnic," cried Dumsby in high glee, for unusual events, of even a trifling kind, had the effect of elating those men more than one might have expected. "Here's the murphies," cried O'Connor, staggering over the slippery weed with a large smoking tin dish. "Mind you don't let 'em fall," cried one. "Have a care," shouted the smith; "if you drop them I'll beat you red-hot, and hammer ye so flat that the biggest flatterer as ever walked won't be able to spread ye out another half-inch." "Mutton! oh!" exclaimed Forsyth, who had been some time trying to wrench the cover off the basket containing a roast leg, and at last succeeded. "Here, spread them all out on this rock. You han't forgot the grog, I hope, steward?" "No fear of him: he's a good feller, is the steward, when he's asleep partiklerly. The grog's here all right." "Dinna let Dumsby git baud o't, then," cried Watt. "What! hae ye begood a'ready? Patience, man, patience. Is there ony saut?" "Lots of it, darlin', in the say. Sure this shape must have lost his tail somehow. Och, murther! if there isn't Bobby Selkirk gone an' tumbled into Port Hamilton wid the cabbage, av it's not the carrots!" "There now, don't talk so much, boys," cried Peter Logan. "Let's drink success to the Bell Rock Lighthouse." It need scarcely be said that this toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and that it was followed up with "three times three". "Now for a song. Come, Joe Dumsby, strike up," cried one of the men. O'Connor, who was one of the most reckless of men in regard to duty and propriety, here shook his head gravely, and took upon himself to read his comrade a lesson. "Ye shouldn't talk o' sitch things in workin' hours," said he. "Av we wos all foolish, waake-hidded cratures like _you_, how d'ye think we'd iver git the lighthouse sot up! Ate yer dinner, lad, and howld yer tongue." "O Ned, I didn't think your jealousy would show out so strong," retorted his comrade. "Now, then, Dumsby, fire away, if it was only to aggravate him." Thus pressed, Joe Dumsby took a deep draught of the small-beer with which the men were supplied, and began a song of his own composition. When the song was finished the meal was also concluded, and the men returned to their labours on the rock; some to continue their work with the picks at the hard stone of the foundation-pit, others to perform miscellaneous jobs about the rock, such as mixing the mortar and removing debris, while James Dove and his fast friend Ruby Brand mounted to their airy "cot" on the beacon, from which in a short time began to proceed the volumes of smoke and the clanging sounds that had formerly arisen from "Smith's Ledge ". While they were all thus busily engaged, Ruby observed a boat advancing towards the rock from the floating light. He was blowing the bellows at the time, after a spell at the fore-hammer. "We seem to be favoured with unusual events to-day, Jamie," said he, wiping his forehead with the corner of his apron with one hand, while he worked the handle of the bellows with the other, "yonder comes another boat; what can it be, think you?" "Surely it can't be tea!" said the smith with a smile, as he turned the end of a pickaxe in the fire, "it's too soon after dinner for that." "It looks like the boat of our friends the fishermen, Big Swankie and Davy Spink," said Ruby, shading his eyes with his hand, and gazing earnestly at the boat as it advanced towards them. "Friends!" repeated the smith, "rascally smugglers, both of them; they're no friends of mine." "Well, I didn't mean bosom friends," replied Ruby, "but after all, Davy Spink is not such a bad fellow, though I can't say that I'm fond of his comrade." The two men resumed their hammers at this point in the conversation, and became silent as long as the anvil sounded. The boat had reached the rock when they ceased, and its occupants were seen to be in earnest conversation with Peter Logan. There were only two men in the boat besides its owners, Swankie and Spink. "What can they want?" said Dove, looking down on them as he turned to thrust the iron on which he was engaged into the fire. As he spoke the foreman looked up. "Ho! Ruby Brand," he shouted, "come down here; you're wanted." "Hallo! Ruby," exclaimed the smith, "_more_ friends o' yours! Your acquaintance is extensive, lad, but there's no girl in the case this time." Ruby made no reply, for an indefinable feeling of anxiety filled his breast as he threw down the fore-hammer and prepared to descend. On reaching the rock he advanced towards the strangers, both of whom were stout, thickset men, with grave, stern countenances. One of them stepped forward and said, "Your name is----" "Ruby Brand," said the youth promptly, at the same time somewhat proudly, for he knew that he was in the hands of the Philistines. The man who first spoke hereupon drew a small instrument from his pocket, and tapping Ruby on the shoulder, said-- "I arrest you, Ruby Brand, in the name of the King." The other man immediately stepped forward and produced a pair of handcuffs. At sight of these Ruby sprang backward, and the blood rushed violently to his forehead, while his blue eyes glared with the ferocity of those of a tiger. "Come, lad, it's of no use, you know," said the man, pausing; "if you won't come quietly we must find ways and means to compel you." "Compel me!" cried Ruby, drawing himself up with a look of defiance and a laugh of contempt, that caused the two men to shrink back in spite of themselves. "Ruby," said the foreman, gently, stepping forward and laying his hand on the youth's shoulder, "you had better go quietly, for there's no chance of escape from these fellows. I have no doubt it's a mistake, and that you'll come off with flyin' colours, but it's best to go quietly whatever turns up." While Logan was speaking, Ruby dropped his head on his breast, the officer with the handcuffs advanced, and the youth held out his hands, while the flush of anger deepened into the crimson blush of shame. It was at this point that Jamie Dove, wondering at the prolonged absence of his friend and assistant, looked down from the platform of the beacon, and beheld what was taking place. The stentorian roar of amazement and rage that suddenly burst from him, attracted the attention of all the men on the rock, who dropped their tools and looked up in consternation, expecting, no doubt, to behold something terrible. Their eyes at once followed those of the smith, and no sooner did they see Ruby being led in irons to the boat, which lay in _Port Hamilton_, close to _Sir Ralph the Rover's Ledge_, than they uttered a yell of execration, and rushed with one accord to the rescue. The officers, who were just about to make their prisoner step into the boat, turned to face the foe,--one, who seemed to be the more courageous of the two, a little in advance of the other. Ned O'Connor, with that enthusiasm which seems to be inherent in Irish blood, rushed with such irresistible force against this man that he drove him violently back against his comrade, and sent them both head over heels into Port Hamilton. Nay, with such momentum was this act performed, that Ned could not help but follow them, falling on them both as they came to the surface and sinking them a second time, amid screams and yells of laughter. O'Connor was at once pulled out by his friends. The officers also were quickly landed. "I ax yer parding, gintlemen," said the former, with an expression of deep regret on his face, "but the say-weed _is_ so slippy on them rocks we're a'most for iver doin' that sort o' thing be the merest accident. But av yer as fond o' cowld wather as meself ye won't objec' to it, although it do come raither onexpected." The officers made no reply, but, collaring Ruby, pushed him into the boat. Again the men made a rush, but Peter Logan stood between them and the boat. "Lads," said he, holding up his hand, "it's of no use resistin' the law. These are King's officers, and they are only doin' their duty. Sure am I that Ruby Brand is guilty of no crime, so they've only to enquire into it and set him free." The men hesitated, but did not seem quite disposed to submit without another struggle. "It's a shame to let them take him," cried the smith. "So it is. I vote for a rescue," cried Joe Dumsby. "Hooray! so does I," cried O'Connor, stripping off his waistcoat, and for once in his life agreeing with Joe. "Na, na, lads," cried John Watt, rolling up his sleeves, and baring his brawny arms as if about to engage in a fight, "it'll raver do to interfere wi' the law; but what d'ye say to gie them anither dook?" Seeing that the men were about to act upon Watt's suggestion, Baby started up in the boat, and turning to his comrades, said: "Boys, it's very kind of you to be so anxious to save me, but you can't----" "Fail, but we can, darlin'," interrupted O'Connor. "No, you can't," repeated Ruby firmly, "because I won't let yon. I don't think I need say to you that I am innocent," he added, with a look in which truth evidently shone forth like a sunbeam, "but now that they have put these irons on me I will not consent that they shall be taken off except by the law which put them on." While he was speaking the boat had been pushed off, and in a few seconds it was beyond the reach of the men. "Depend upon it, comrades," cried Ruby, as they pulled away, "that I shall be back again to help you to finish the work on the Bell Rock." "So you will, lad, so you will," cried the foreman. "My blessin' on ye," shouted O'Connor. "Ach! ye dirty villains, ye low-minded spalpeens," he added, shaking his fist at the officers of justice. "Don't be long away, Ruby," cried one. "Never say die," shouted another, earnestly. "Three cheers for Ruby Brand!" exclaimed Forsyth, "hip! hip! hip!----" The cheer was given with the most vociferous energy, and then the men stood in melancholy silence on _Ralph the Saver's Ledge_, watching the boat that bore their comrade to the shore. CHAPTER XVI NEW ARRANGEMENTS--THE CAPTAIN'S PHILOSOPHY IN REGARD TO PIPEOLOGY That night our hero was lodged in the common jail of Arbroath. Soon after, he was tried, and, as Captain Ogilvy had prophesied, was acquitted. Thereafter he went to reside for the winter with his mother, occupying the same room as his worthy uncle, as there was not another spare one in the cottage, and sleeping in a hammock, slung parallel with and close to that of the captain. On the night following his release from prison, Ruby lay on his back in his hammock meditating intently on the future, and gazing at the ceiling, or rather at the place where he knew the ceiling to be, for it was a dark night, and there was no light in the room, the candle having just been extinguished. We are not strictly correct, however, in saying that there was _no_ light in the room, for there was a deep red glowing spot of fire near to Captain Ogilvy's head, which flashed and grew dim at each alternate second of time. It was, in fact, the captain's pipe, a luxury in which that worthy man indulged morning, noon, and night. He usually rested the bowl of the pipe on and a little over the edge of his hammock, and, lying on his back, passed the mouthpiece over the blankets into the corner of his mouth, where four of his teeth seemed to have agreed to form an exactly round hole suited to receive it. At each draw the fire in the bowl glowed so that the captain's nose was faintly illuminated; in the intervals the nose disappeared. The breaking or letting fall of this pipe was a common incident in the captain's nocturnal history, but he had got used to it, from long habit, and regarded the event each time it occurred with the philosophic composure of one who sees and makes up his mind to endure an inevitable and unavoidable evil. "Ruby," said the captain, after the candle was extinguished. "Well, uncle?" "I've bin thinkin', lad,----" Here the captain drew a few whiffs to prevent the pipe from going out, in which operation he evidently forgot himself and went on thinking, for he said nothing more. "Well, uncle, what have you been thinking?" "Eh! ah, yes, I've bin thinkin', lad (puff), that you'll have to (puff)--there's somethin' wrong with the pipe to-night, it don't draw well (puff)--you'll have to do somethin' or other in the town, for it won't do to leave the old woman, lad, in her delicate state o' health. Had she turned in when you left the kitchen?" "Oh yes, an hour or more." "An' Blue Eyes, 'The tender bit flower that waves in the breeze, And scatters its fragrance all over the seas'-- has she turned in too?" "She was just going to when I left," replied Ruby; "but what has that to do with the question?" "I didn't say as it had anything to do with it, lad. Moreover, there ain't no question between us as I knows on (puff); but what have you to say to stoppin' here all water?" "Impossible," said Ruby, with a sigh. "No so, lad; what's to hinder?--Ah! there she goes." The pipe fell with a crash to the floor, and burst with a Bright shower of sparks, like a little bombshell. "That's the third, Ruby, since I turned in," said the captain, getting slowly over the side of his hammock, and alighting on the floor heavily. "I won't git up again if it goes another time." After knocking off the chimney-piece five or six articles which appeared to be made of tin from the noise they made in falling, the captain succeeded in getting hold of another pipe and the tinder-box, for in those days flint and steel were the implements generally used in procuring a light. With much trouble he re-lit the pipe. "Now, Ruby, lad, hold it till I tumble in." "But I can't see the stem, uncle." "What a speech for a seaman to make! Don't you see the fire in the bowl?" "Yes, of course." "Well, just make a grab two inches astarn of the bowl and you'll hook the stem." The captain was looking earnestly into the bowl while he spoke, stuffing down the burning tobacco with the end of his little finger. Ruby, acting in rather too prompt obedience to the instructions, made a "grab" as directed, and caught his uncle by the nose. A yell and an apology followed of course, in the midst of which the fourth pipe was demolished. "Oh! uncle, what a pity!" "Ah! Ruby, that comes o' inconsiderate youth, which philosophers tell us is the nat'ral consequence of unavoidable necessity, for you can't put a young head on old shoulders, d'ye see?" From the tone in which this was said Ruby knew that the captain was shaking his head gravely, and from the noise of articles being kicked about and falling, he became aware that the unconquerable man was filling a fifth pipe. This one was more successfully managed, and the captain once more got into his hammock, and began to enjoy himself. "Well, Ruby, where was I? O ay; what's to hinder you goin' and gettin' employed in the Bell Rock workyard? There's plenty to do, and good wages there." It may be as well to inform the reader here, that although the operations at the Bell Rock had come to an end for the season about the beginning of October, the work of hewing the stones for the lighthouse was carried on briskly during the winter at the workyard on shore; and as the tools, &c., required constant sharpening and mending, a blacksmith could not be dispensed with. "Do you think I can get in again?" enquired Ruby. "No doubt of it, lad. But the question is, are ye willin' to go if they'll take you?" "Quite willing, uncle." "Good: then that's all square, an' I knows how to lay my course--up anchor to-morrow mornin', crowd all sail, bear down on the workyard, bring-to off the countin'-room, and open fire on the superintendent." The captain paused at this point, and opened fire with his pipe for some minutes. "Now," he continued, "there's another thing I want to ax you. I'm goin' to-morrow afternoon to take a cruise along the cliffs to the east'ard in the preventive boat, just to keep up my sea legs. They've got scent o' some smugglin' business that's goin' on, an' my friend Leftenant Lindsay has asked me to go. Now, Ruby, if you want a short cruise of an hour or so you may come with me." Baby smiled at the manner in which this offer was made, and replied: "With pleasure, uncle." "So, then, that's settled too. Good night, nephy." The captain turned on his side, and dropped the pipe on the floor, where it was shivered to atoms. It must not be supposed that this was accidental. It was done on purpose. Captain Ogilvy had found from experience that it was not possible to stretch out his arm to its full extent and lay the pipe on the chimney-piece, without waking himself up just at that critical moment when sleep was consenting to be wooed. He also found that on the average he broke one in every four pipes that he thus attempted to deposit. Being a philosophical and practical man, he came to the conclusion that it would be worth while to pay something for the comfort of being undisturbed at the minute of time that lay between the conclusion of smoking and the commence of repose. He therefore got a sheet of foolscap and a pencil, and spent a whole forenoon in abstruse calculations. He ascertained the exact value of three hundred and sixty-five clay pipes. From this he deducted a fourth for breakages that would have certainly occurred in the old system of laying the pipes down every night, and which, therefore, he felt, in a confused sort of way, ought not to be charged in the estimates of a new system. Then he added a small sum to the result for probable extra breakages, such as had occurred that night, and found that the total was not too high a price for a man in his circumstances to pay for the blessing he wished to obtain. From that night forward he deliberately dropped his pipe every night over the side of his hammock before going to sleep. The captain, in commenting on this subject, was wont to observe that everything in life, no matter how small, afforded matter of thought to philosophical men. He had himself found a pleasing subject of study each morning in the fact that some of the pipes survived the fall of the previous night. This led him to consider the nature of clay pipes in general, and to test them in various ways. It is true he did not say that anything of importance resulted from his peculiar studies, but he argued that a true philosopher looks for facts, and leaves results alone. One discovery he undoubtedly did make, which was, that the pipes obtained from a certain maker in the town invariably broke, while those obtained from another maker broke only occasionally. Hence he came to the conclusion that one maker was an honest man, the other a doubtful character, and wisely bestowed his custom in accordance with that opinion. About one minute after the falling of the pipe Ruby Brand fell asleep, and about two minutes after that Captain Ogilvy began to snore, both of which conditions were maintained respectively and uninterruptedly until the birds began to whistle and the sun began to shine. CHAPTER XVII A MEETING WITH OLD FRIENDS, AND AN EXCURSION Next morning the captain and his nephew "bore down", as the former expressed it, on the workyard, and Ruby was readily accepted, his good qualities having already been well tested at the Bell Rock. "Now, boy, we'll go and see about the little preventive craft," said the captain on quitting the office. "But first," said Ruby, "let me go and tell my old comrade Dove that I am to be with him again." There was no need to enquire the way to the forge, the sound of the anvil being distinctly heard above all the other sounds of that busy spot. The workyard at Arbroath, where the stones for the lighthouse were collected and hewn into shape before being sent off to the rock, was an enclosed piece of ground, extending to about three-quarters of an acre, conveniently situated on the northern side of the Lady Lane, or Street, leading from the western side of the harbour. Here were built a row of barracks for the workmen, and several apartments connected with the engineer's office, mould-makers' department, stores, workshops for smiths and joiners, stables, &c., extending 150 feet along the north side of the yard. All of these were fully occupied, there being upwards of forty men employed permanently. Sheds of timber were also constructed to protect the workmen in wet weather; and a kiln was built for burning lime. In the centre of the yard stood a circular platform of masonry on which the stones were placed when dressed, so that each stone was tested and marked, and each "course" or layer of the lighthouse fitted up and tried, before being shipped to the rock. The platform measured 44 feet in diameter. It was founded with large broad stones at a depth of about 2 feet 6 inches, and built to within 10 inches of the surface with rubble work, on which a course of neatly dressed and well-jointed masonry was laid, of the red sandstone from the quarries to the eastward of Arbroath, which brought the platform on a level with the surface of the ground. Here the dressed part of the first entire course, or layer, of the lighthouse was lying, and the platform was so substantially built as to be capable of supporting any number of courses which it might be found convenient to lay upon it in the further progress of the work. Passing this platform, the captain and Ruby threaded their way through a mass of workyard _debris_ until they came to the building from which the sounds of the anvil proceeded. For a few minutes they stood looking at our old friend Jamie Dove, who, with bared arms, was causing the sparks to fly, and the glowing metal to yield, as vigorously as of old. Presently he ceased hammering, and turning to the fire thrust the metal into it. Then he wiped his brow, and glanced towards the door. "What! eh! Ruby Brand?" he shouted in surprise. "Och! or his ghost!" cried Ned O'Connor, who had been Appointed to Ruby's vacant situation. "A pretty solid ghost you'll find me," said Ruby with a laugh, as he stepped forward and seized the smith by the hand. "Musha! but it's thrue," cried O'Connor, quitting the bellows, and seizing Ruby's disengaged hand, which he shook almost as vehemently as the smith did the other. "Now, then, don't dislocate him altogether," cried the captain, who was much delighted with this warm reception; "he's goin' to jine you, boys, so have mercy on his old timbers." "Jine us!" cried the smith. "Ay, been appointed to the old berth," said Ruby, "so I'll have to unship _you_, Ned." "The sooner the better; faix, I niver had much notion o' this fiery style o' life; it's only fit for sallymanders and bottle-imps. But when d'ye begin work, lad?" "To-morrow, I believe. At least, I was told to call at the office to-morrow. To-day I have an engagement." "Ay, an' it's time we was under weigh," said Captain Ogilvy, taking his nephew by the arm. "Come along, lad, an' don't keep them waiting." So saying they bade the smith goodbye, and, leaving the forge, walked smartly towards that part of the harbour where the boats lay. "Ruby," said the captain, as they went along, "it's lucky it's such a fine day, for Minnie is going with us." Ruby said nothing, but the deep flush of pleasure that overspread his countenance proved that he was not indifferent to the news. "You see she's bin out of sorts," continued the captain, "for some time back; and no wonder, poor thing, seein' that your mother has been so anxious about you, and required more than usual care, so I've prevailed on the leftenant to let her go. She'll get good by our afternoon's sail, and we won't be the worse of her company. What say ye to that, nephy?" Ruby said that he was glad to hear it; but he thought a great deal more than he said, and among other things he thought that the lieutenant might perhaps be rather in the way; but as his presence was unavoidable, he made up his mind to try to believe that he, the lieutenant, would in all probability be an engaged man already. As to the possibility of his seeing Minnie and being indifferent to her (in the event of his being a free man), he felt that such an idea was preposterous! Suddenly a thought flashed across him and induced a question-- "Is the lieutenant married, uncle?" "Not as I know of, lad; why d'ye ask?" "Because--because--married men are so much pleasanter than----" Ruby stopped short, for he just then remembered that his uncle was a bachelor. "'Pon my word, youngster! go on, why d'ye stop in your purlite remark?" "Because," said Ruby, laughing, "I meant to say that _young_ married men were so much more agreeable than _young_ bachelors." "Humph!" ejaculated the captain, who did not see much force in the observation, "and how d'ye know the leftenant's a _young_ man? I didn't say he was young; mayhap he's old. But here he is, so you'll judge for yourself." At the moment a tall, deeply-bronzed man of about thirty years of age walked up and greeted Captain Ogilvy familiarly as his "buck", enquiring, at the same time, how his "old timbers" were, and where the "bit of baggage" was. "She's to be at the end o' the pier in five minutes," said the captain, drawing out and consulting a watch that was large enough to have been mistaken for a small eight-day clock. "This is my nephy, Ruby. Ruby Brand--Leftenant Lindsay. True blues, both of ye-- 'When shall we three meet again? Where the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow, And the thunder, lightenin', and the rain, Riots up above, and also down below, below, below.' Ah! here comes the pretty little craft." Minnie appeared as he spoke, and walked towards them with a modest, yet decided air that was positively bewitching. She was dressed in homely garments, but that served to enhance the beauty of her figure, and she had on the plainest of little bonnets, but that only tended to make her face more lovely. Ruby thought it was perfection. He glanced at Lieutenant Lindsay, and perceiving that he thought so too (as how could he think otherwise?) a pang of jealousy shot into his breast. But it passed away when the lieutenant, after politely assisting Minnie into the boat, sat down beside the captain and began to talk earnestly to him, leaving Minnie entirely to her lover. We may remark here, that the title of "leftenant", bestowed on Lindsay by the captain was entirely complimentary. The crew of the boat rowed out of the harbour, and the lieutenant steered eastward, towards the cliffs that have been mentioned in an earlier part of our tale. The day turned out to be one of those magnificent and exceptional days which appear to have been cut out of summer and interpolated into autumn. It was bright, warm, and calm, so calm that the boat's sail was useless, and the crew had to row; but this was, in Minnie's estimation, no disadvantage, for it gave her time to see the caves and picturesque inlets which abound all along that rocky coast. It also gave her time to--but no matter. "O how very much I should like to have a little boat," said Minnie, with enthusiasm, "and spend a long day rowing in and out among these wild rocks, and exploring the caves! Wouldn't it be delightful, Ruby?" Ruby admitted that it would, and added, "You shall have such a day, Minnie, if we live long." "Have you ever been in the _Forbidden Cave?_" enquired Minnie. "I'll warrant you he has," cried the captain, who overheard the question; "you may be sure that wherever Ruby is forbidden to go, there he'll be sure to go!" "Ay, is he so self-willed?" asked the lieutenant, with a smile, and a glance at Minnie. "A mule; a positive mule," said the captain. "Come, uncle, you know that I don't deserve such a character, and it's too bad to give it to me to-day. Did I not agree to come on this excursion at once, when you asked me?" "Ay, but you wouldn't if I had _ordered_ you," returned the captain. "I rather think he would," observed the lieutenant, with another smile, and another glance at Minnie. Both smiles and glances were observed and noted by Ruby, whose heart felt another pang shoot through it; but this, like the former, subsided when the lieutenant again addressed the captain, and devoted himself to him so exclusively, that Ruby began to feel a touch of indignation at his want of appreciation of _such_ a girl as Minnie. "He's a stupid ass," thought Ruby to himself, and then, turning to Minnie, directed her attention to a curious natural arch on the cliffs, and sought to forget all the rest of the world. In this effort he was successful, and had gradually worked himself into the firm belief that the world was paradise, and that he and Minnie were its sole occupants--a second edition, as it were, of Adam and Eve--when the lieutenant rudely dispelled the sweet dream by saying sharply to the man at the bow-oar-- "Is that the boat, Baker? You ought to know it pretty well." "I think it is, sir," answered the man, resting on his oar a moment, and glancing over his shoulder; "but I can't be sure at this distance." "Well, pull easy," said the lieutenant; "you see, it won't do to scare them, Captain Ogilvy, and they'll think we're a pleasure party when they see a woman in the boat." Ruby thought they would not be far wrong in supposing them a pleasure party. He objected, mentally, however, to Minnie being styled a "woman"--not that he would have had her called a man, but he thought that _girl_ would have been more suitable--angel, perhaps, the most appropriate term of all. "Come, captain, I think I will join you in a pipe," said the lieutenant, pulling out a tin case, in which he kept the blackest of little cutty pipes. "In days of old our ancestors loved to fight--now we degenerate souls love to smoke the pipe of peace." "I did not know that your ancestors were enemies," said Minnie to the captain. "Enemies, lass! ay, that they were. What! have ye never heard tell o' the great fight between the Ogilvys and Lindsays?" "Never," said Minnie. "Then, my girl, your education has been neglected, but I'll do what I can to remedy that defect." Here the captain rekindled his pipe (which was in the habit of going out, and requiring to be relighted), and, clearing his throat with the emphasis of one who is about to communicate something of importance, held forth as follows. CHAPTER XVIII THE BATTLE OF ARBROATH, AND OTHER WARLIKE MATTERS "It was in the year 1445--that's not far short o' four hundred years ago--ah! _tempus fugit_, which is a Latin quotation, my girl, from Horace Walpole, I believe, an' signifies time and tide waits for no man; that's what they calls a free translation, you must know; well, it was in the winter o' 1445 that a certain Alexander Ogilvy of Inverquharity was chosen to act as Chief Justiciar in these parts--I suppose that means a kind of upper bailiff, a sort o' bo's'n's mate, to compare great things with small. He was set up in place of one o' the Lindsay family, who, it seems, was rather extravagant, though whether his extravagance lay in wearin' a beard (for he was called Earl Beardie), or in spendin' too much cash, I can't take upon me for to say. Anyhow, Beardie refused to haul down his colours, so the Ogilvys mustered their men and friends, and the Lindsays did the same, and they went at it, hammer and tongs, and fowt what ye may call the Battle of Arbroath, for it was close to the old town where they fell to. "It was a most bloody affair. The two families were connected with many o' the richest and greatest people in the land, and these went to lend a hand when they beat to quarters, and there was no end o' barbed horses, as they call them--which means critters with steel spikes in their noses, I'm told--and lots of embroidered banners and flags, though I never heard that anyone hoisted the Union Jack; but, however that may be, they fowt like bluejackets, for five hundred men were left dead on the field, an' among them a lot o' the great folk. "But I'm sorry to say that the Ogilvys were licked, though I say it that shouldn't," continued the captain, with a sigh, as he relighted his pipe. "Howsever, 'Never ventur', never win, Blaze away an' don't give in," as Milton remarks in his preface to the _Pilgrim's Progress_." "True, captain," said the lieutenant, "and you know that 'he who fights and runs away, shall live to fight another day'." "Leftenant," said the captain gravely, "your quotation, besides bein' a kind o' desecration, is not applicable; 'cause the Ogilvys did _not_ run away. They fowt on that occasion like born imps, an' they would ha' certainly won the day, if they hadn't been, every man jack of 'em, cut to pieces before the battle was finished." "Well said, uncle," exclaimed Ruby, with a laugh. "No doubt the Ogilvys would lick the Lindsays _now_ if they had a chance." "I believe they would," said the lieutenant, "for they have become a race of heroes since the great day of the Battle of Arbroath. No doubt, Miss Gray," continued the lieutenant, turning to Minnie with an arch smile, "no doubt you have heard of that more recent event, the threatened attack on Arbroath by the French fire-eater, Captain Fall, and the heroic part played on that occasion by an Ogilvy--an uncle, I am told, of my good friend here?" "I have heard of Captain Fall, of course," replied Minnie, "for it was not many years before I was born that his visit took place, and Mrs. Brand has often told me of the consternation into which the town was thrown by his doings; but I never heard of the deeds of the Ogilvy to whom you refer." "No? Now, that _is_ surprising! How comes it, captain, that you have kept so silent on this subject?" "'Cause it ain't true," replied the captain stoutly, yet with a peculiar curl about the corners of his mouth, that implied something in the mind beyond what he expressed with the lips. "Ah! I see--modesty," said Lindsay. "Your uncle is innately modest, Miss Gray, and never speaks of anything that bears the slightest resemblance to boasting. See, the grave solemnity with which he smokes while I say this proves the truth of my assertion. Well, since he has never told you, I will tell you myself. You have no objection, captain?" The captain sent a volume of smoke from his lips, and followed it up with-- "Fire away, shipmet." The lieutenant, having drawn a few whiffs in order to ensure the continued combustion of his pipe, related the following anecdote, which is now matter of history, as anyone may find by consulting the archives of Arbroath. "In the year 1781, on a fine evening of the month of May, the seamen of Arbroath who chanced to be loitering about the harbour observed a strange vessel manoeuvring in the offing. They watched and commented on the motions of the stranger with considerable interest, for the wary skill displayed by her commander proved that he was unacquainted with the navigation of the coast, and from the cut of her jib they knew that the craft was a foreigner. After a time she took up a position, and cast anchor in the bay, directly opposite the town. "At that time we were, as we still are, and as it really appears likely to me we ever shall be, at war with France; but as the scene of the war was far removed from Arbroath, it never occurred to the good people that the smell of powder could reach their peaceful town. That idea was somewhat rudely forced upon them when the French flag was run up to the mizzen-top, and a white puff of smoke burst from the vessel, which was followed by a shot, that went hissing over their heads, and plumped right into the middle of the town! "That shot knocked over fifteen chimney-pots and two weathercocks in Market-gate, went slap through a house in the suburbs, and finally stuck in the carcass of an old horse belonging to the Provost of the town, which didn't survive the shock--the horse, I mean, not the Provost. "It is said that there was an old gentleman lying in bed in a room of the house that the shot went through. He was a sort of 'hipped' character, and believed that he could not walk, if he were to try ever so much. He was looking quietly at the face of a great Dutch clock when the shot entered and knocked the clock inside out, sending its contents in a shower over the old gentleman, who jumped up and rushed out of the house like a maniac! He was cured completely from that hour. At least, so it's said, but I don't vouch for the truth of the story. "However, certain it is that the shot was fired, and was followed up by two or three more; after which the Frenchman ceased firing, and a boat was seen to quit the side of the craft, bearing a flag of truce. "The consternation into which the town was thrown is said to have been tremendous." "That's false," interrupted the captain, removing his pipe while he spoke. "The word ain't appropriate. The men of Arbroath doesn't know nothin' about no such word as 'consternation '. They was _surprised_, if ye choose, an' powerfully enraged mayhap, but they wasn't consternated by no means," "Well, I don't insist on the point," said the lieutenant, "but chroniclers write so----" "Chroniclers write lies sometimes," interrupted the captain curtly. "Perhaps they do; but you will admit, I dare say, that the women and children were thrown into a great state of alarm." "I'm not so sure of that," interposed Ruby. "In a town where the men were so bold, the women and children would be apt to feel very much at their ease. At all events, I am acquainted with some women who are not easily frightened." "Really, I think it is not fair to interrupt the story in this way," said Minnie, with a laugh. "Right, lass, right," said the captain. "Come, leftenant, spin away at yer yarn, and don't ventur' too much commentary thereon, 'cause it's apt to lead to error, an' ye know, as the poet says-- 'Errors in the heart breed errors in the brain, An' these are apt to twist ye wrong again.' I'm not 'xactly sure o' the precise words in this case, but that's the sentiment, and everybody knows that sentiment is everything in poetry, whether ye understand it or not. Fire away, leftenant, an' don't be long-winded if ye can help it." "Well, to return to the point," resumed Lindsay. "The town was certainly thrown into a tremendous state of _some_ sort, for the people had no arms of any kind wherewith to defend themselves. There were no regular soldiers, no militia, and no volunteers. Everybody ran wildly about in every direction, not knowing what to do. There was no leader, and, in short, the town was very like a shoal of small fish in a pool when a boy wades in and makes a dash amongst them. "At last a little order was restored by the Provost, who was a sensible old man, and an old soldier to boot, but too infirm to take as active a part in such an emergency as he would have done had he been a dozen years younger. He, with several of the principal men of the town, went down to the beach to receive the bearers of the flag of truce. "The boat was manned by a crew of five or six seamen, armed with cutlasses, and arquebusses. As soon as its keel grated on the sand a smart little officer leaped ashore, and presented to the Provost a letter from Captain Fall, which ran somewhat in this fashion:-- "'AT SEA, _May twenty-third_. "'GENTLEMEN,--I send these two words to inform you, that I will have you to bring-to the French colour in less than a quarter of an hour, or I set the town on fire directly. Such is the order of my master, the King of France, I am sent by. Send directly the Mair and chiefs of the town to make some agreement with me, or I'll make my duty. It is the will of yours, G. FALL. "'To MONSIEUR MAIB of the town called Arbrought, or in his absence to the chief man after him in Scotland.' "On reading this the Provost bowed respectfully to the officer, and begged of him to wait a few minutes while he should consult with his chief men. This was agreed to, and the Provost said to his friends, as he walked to a neighbouring house-- "'Ye see, freens, this whipper-snapper o' a tade-eater has gotten the whup hand o' us; but we'll be upsides wi' him. The main thing is to get delay, so cut away, Tam Cargill, and tak' horse to Montrose for the sodgers. Spare na the spur, lad, an' gar them to understan' that the case is urgent." "While Tam Cargill started away on his mission, the Provost, whose chief aim was to gain time and cause delay, penned an epistle to the Frenchman, in which he stated that he had neglected to name the terms on which he would consent to spare the town, and that he would consider it extremely obliging if he would, as speedily as possible, return an answer, stating them, in order that they might be laid before the chief men of the place. "When the Provost, who was a grave, dignified old man, with a strong dash of humour in him, handed this note to the French officer, he did so with a humble obeisance that appeared to afford much gratification to the little man. As the latter jumped into the boat and ordered the men to push off, the Provost turned slowly to his brother magistrates with a wink and a quiet smile that convulsed them with suppressed laughter, and did more to encourage any of the wavering or timid inhabitants than if he had harangued them heroically for an hour. "Some time after the boat returned with a reply, which ran thus:-- "'AT SEA, _eight o'clock in the Afternoon_, "'GENTLEMEN,--I received just now your answer, by which you say I ask no terms. I thought it was useless, since I asked you to come aboard for agreement. But here are my terms:--I will have £30,000 sterling at least, and six of the chiefs men of the town for otage. Be speedy, or I shot your town away directly, and I set fire to it. I am, gentlemen, your servant, G. FALL. "'I sent some of my crew to you, but if some harm happens to them, you'll be sure we'll hang up the mainyard all the prisoners we have aboard. "'To Monsieurs the chiefs men of Arbrought in Scotland.' "I'm not quite certain," continued the lieutenant, "what were the exact words of the Provost's reply to this letter, but they conveyed a distinct and contemptuous refusal to accede to any terms, and, I believe, invited Fall to come ashore, where, if he did not get precisely what he had asked, he would be certain to receive a great deal more than he wanted. "The enraged and disappointed Frenchman at once began a, heavy fire upon the town, and continued it for a long time, but fortunately it did little or no harm, as the town lay in a somewhat low position, and Fall's guns being too much elevated, the shot passed over it. "Next day another letter was sent to the Provost by some fishermen, who were captured while fishing off the Bell Rock. This letter was as tremendous as the two former. I can give it to you, word for word, from memory. "'AT SEA, _May 24th_. "'GENTLEMEN,--See whether you will come to some terms with me, or I come in presently with my cutter into the arbour, and I will cast down the town all over. Make haste, because I have no time to spare. I give you a quarter of an hour to your decision, and after I'll make my duty. I think it would he better for you, gentlemen, to come some of you aboard presently, to settle the affairs of your town. You'll sure no to be hurt. I give you my parole of honour. I am your, 'G. FALL.' "When the Provost received this he looked round and said, 'Now, gentlemen all, we'll hae to fight. Send me Ogilvy.' "'Here I am, Provost,' cried a stout, active young fellow; something like what the captain must have been when he was young, I should think!" "Ahem!" coughed the captain. "Well," continued Lindsay, "the Provost said, 'Now, Ogilvy, you're a smart cheel, an' ken aboot war and strategy and the like: I charge ye to organize the men o' the toon without delay, and tak' what steps ye think adveesable. Meanwhile, I'll away and ripe oot a' the airms and guns I can find. Haste ye, lad, an' mak' as muckle noise aboot it as ye can.' '"Trust me,' said Ogilvy, who appeared to have been one of those men who regard a fight as a piece of good fun. "Turning to the multitude, who had heard the commission given, and were ready for anything, he shouted, 'Now, boys, ye heard the Provost. I need not ask if you are all ready to fight----' "A deafening cheer interrupted the speaker, who, when it ceased, proceeded-- "'Well, then, I've but one piece of advice to give ye: _Obey orders at once_. When I tell ye to halt, stop dead like lampposts; when I say, "Charge!" go at them like wild cats, and drive the Frenchmen into the sea!' 'Hurrah!' yelled the crowd, for they were wild with excitement and rage, and only wanted a leader to organize them and make them formidable. When the cheer ceased, Ogilvy cried, 'Now, then, every man who knows how to beat a kettledrum and blow a trumpet come here.' "About twenty men answered to the summons, and to these Ogilvy said aloud, in order that all might hear, 'Go, get you all the trumpets, drums, horns, bugles, and trombones in the town; beat the drums till they split, and blow the bugles till they burst, and don't give in till ye can't go on. The rest of you,' he added, turning to the crowd, 'go, get arms, guns, swords, pistols, scythes, pitchforks, pokers--anything, everything--and meet me at the head of Market-gate--away!' "No king of necromancers ever dispersed his legions more rapidly than did Ogilvy on that occasion. They gave one final cheer, and scattered like chaff before the wind, leaving their commander alone, with a select few, whom he kept by him as a sort of staff to consult with and despatch with orders. "The noise that instantly ensued in the town was something pandemoniacal. Only three drums were found, but tin kettles and pans were not wanting, and these, superintended by Hugh Barr, the town drummer, did great execution. Three key-bugles, an old French horn, and a tin trumpet of a mail-coach guard, were sounded at intervals in every quarter of the town, while the men were marshalled, and made to march hither and thither in detached bodies, as if all were busily engaged in making preparations for a formidable defence. "In one somewhat elevated position a number of men were set to work with spades, picks, and shovels, to throw up an earthwork. When it had assumed sufficiently large dimensions to attract the attention of the French, a body of men, with blue jackets, and caps with bits of red flannel hanging down the sides, were marched up behind it at the double, and posted there. "Meanwhile Ogilvy had prepared a dummy field piece, by dismounting a cart from its wheels and fixing on the axle a great old wooden pump, not unlike a big gun in shape; another cart was attached to this to represent a limber; four horses were harnessed to the affair; two men mounted these, and, amid a tremendous flourish of trumpets and beating of drums, the artillery went crashing along the streets and up the eminence crowned by the earthwork, where they wheeled the gun into position. "The artillerymen sprang at the old pump like true Britons, and began to sponge it out as if they had been bred to gunnery from childhood, while the limber was detached and galloped to the rear. In this operation the cart was smashed to pieces, and the two hindmost horses were thrown; but this mattered little, as they had got round a corner, and the French did not see it. "Fall and his brave men seem to have been upset altogether by these warlike demonstrations, for the moment the big gun made its appearance the sails were shaken loose, and the French privateer sheered off, capturing as he left the bay, however, several small vessels, which he carried off as prizes to France. And so," concluded the lieutenant, "Captain Fall sailed away, and never was heard of more." "Well told; well told, leftenant," cried the captain, whose eyes sparkled at the concluding account of the defensive operations, "and true every word of it." "That's good testimony to my truthfulness, then," said Lindsay, laughing, "for you were there yourself!" "There yourself, uncle?" repeated Minnie, with a glance of surprise that quickly changed into a look of intelligence, as she exclaimed, with a merry laugh, "Ah! I see. It was you, uncle, who did it all; who commanded on that occasion----" "My child," said the captain, resuming his pipe with an expression of mild reproof on his countenance, "don't go for to pry too deep into things o' the past. I _may_ have been a fire-eater once--I _may_ have been a gay young feller as could----; but no matter. Avast musin'! As Lord Bacon says-- 'The light of other days is faded, An' all their glory 'a past; My boots no longer look as they did, But, like my coat, are goin' fast.' But I say, leftenant, how long do you mean to keep pullin' about here, without an enemy, or, as far as I can see, an object in view? Don't you think we might land, and let Minnie see some of the caves?" "With all my heart, captain, and here is a convenient bay to run the boat ashore." As he spoke the boat shot past one of those bold promontories of red sandstone which project along that coast in wild picturesque forms, terminating in some instances in detached headlands, elsewhere in natural arches. The cliffs were so close to the boat that they could have been touched by the oars, while the rocks, rising to a considerable height, almost overhung them. Just beyond this a beautiful bay opened up to view, with a narrow strip of yellow shingle round the base of the cliffs, which here lost for a short distance their rugged character, though not their height, and were covered with herbage. A zigzag path led to the top, and the whole neighbourhood was full of ocean-worn coves and gullies, some of them dry, and many filled with water, while others were filled at high tide, and left empty when the tides fell. "O how beautiful! and what a place for smugglers!" was Minnie's enthusiastic exclamation on first catching sight of the bay. "The smugglers and you would appear to be of one mind," said Ruby, "for they are particularly fond of this place." "So fond of it," said the lieutenant, "that I mean to wait for them here in anticipation of a moonlight visit this night, if my fair passenger will consent to wander in such wild places at such late hours, guarded from the night air by my boat-cloak, and assured of the protection of my stout boatmen in case of any danger, although there is little prospect of our meeting with any greater danger than a breeze or a shower of rain." Minnie said that she would like nothing better; that she did not mind the night air; and, as to danger from men, she felt that she should be well cared for in present circumstances. As she uttered the last words she naturally glanced at Ruby, for Minnie was of a dependent and trusting nature; but as Ruby happened to be regarding her intently, though quite accidentally, at the moment, she dropped her eyes and blushed. It is wonderful the power of a little glance at times. The glance referred to made Ruby perfectly happy. It conveyed to him the assurance that Minnie regarded the protection of the entire boat's crew, including the lieutenant, as quite unnecessary, and that she deemed his single arm all that she required or wanted. The sun was just dipping behind the tall cliffs, and his parting rays were kissing the top of Minnie's head as if they positively could not help it, and had recklessly made up their mind to do it, come what might! Ruby looked at the golden light kissing the golden hair, and he felt---- Oh! you know, reader; if you have ever been in similar circumstances, you _understand_ what he felt; if you have not, no words from me, or from any other man, can ever convey to you the most distant idea of _what_ Ruby felt on that occasion! On reaching the shore they all went up to the green banks at the foot of the cliffs, and turned round to watch the men as they pulled the boat to a convenient point for re-embarking at a moment's notice. "You see," said the lieutenant, pursuing a conversation which he had been holding with the captain, "I have been told that Big Swankie, and his mate Davy Spink (who, it seems, is not over-friendly with him just now), mean to visit one of the luggers which is expected to come in to-night, before the moon rises, and bring off some kegs of Auchmithie water, which, no doubt, they will try to hide in Dickmont's Den. I shall lie snugly here on the watch, and hope to nab them before they reach that celebrated old smuggler's abode." "Well, I'll stay about here," said the captain, "and show Minnie the caves. I would like to have taken her to see the Gaylet Pot, which is one o' the queerest hereabouts; but I'm too old for such rough work now." "But I am not too old for it," interposed Ruby, "so if Minnie would like to go----" "But I won't desert _you_, uncle," said Minnie hastily. "Nay, lass, call it not desertion. I can smoke my pipe here, an' contemplate. I'm fond of contemplation-- 'By the starry light of the summer night, On the banks of the blue Moselle,' though, for the matter o' that, moonlight'll do, if there's no stars. I think it's good for the mind, Minnie, and keeps all taut. Contemplation is just like takin' an extra pull on the lee braces. So you may go with Ruby, lass." Thus advised, and being further urged by Ruby himself, and being moreover exceedingly anxious to see this cave, Minnie consented; so the two set off together, and, climbing to the summit of the cliffs, followed the narrow footpath that runs close to their giddy edge all along the coast. In less than half an hour they reached the Giel or Gaylet Pot. CHAPTER XIX AN ADVENTURE--SECRETS REVEALED, AND A PRIZE The Giel or Gaylet Pot, down into which Ruby, with great care and circumspection, led Minnie, is one of the most curious of Nature's freaks among the cliffs of Arbroath. In some places there is a small scrap of pebbly beach at the base of those perpendicular cliffs; in most places there is none--the cliffs presenting to the sea almost a dead wall, where neither ship nor boat could find refuge from the storm. The country, inland, however, does not partake of the rugged nature of the cliffs. It slopes gradually towards them--so gradually that it may be termed flat, and if a stranger were to walk towards the sea over the fields in a dark night, the first intimation he would receive of his dangerous position would be when his foot descended into the terrible abyss that would receive his shattered frame a hundred feet below. In one of the fields there is a hole about a hundred yards across, and as deep as the cliffs in that part are high. It is about fifty or eighty yards from the edge of the cliffs, and resembles an old quarry; but it is cut so sharply out of the flat field that it shows no sign of its existence until the traveller is close upon it. The rocky sides, too, are so steep, that at first sight it seems as if no man could descend into it. But the most peculiar point about this hole is, that at the foot of it there is the opening of a cavern, through which the sea rolls into the hole, and breaks in wavelets on a miniature shore. The sea has forced its way inland and underground until it has burst into the bottom of this hole, which is not inaptly compared to a pot with water boiling at the bottom of it. When a spectator looks into the cave, standing at the bottom of the "Pot", he sees the seaward opening at the other end--a bright spot of light in the dark interior. "You won't get nervous, Minnie?" said Ruby, pausing when about halfway down the steep declivity, where the track, or rather the place of descent, became still more steep and difficult; "a slip here would be dangerous." "I have no fear, Ruby, as long as you keep by me." In a few minutes they reached the bottom, and, looking up, the sky appeared above them like a blue circular ceiling, with the edges of the Gaylet Pot sharply defined against it. Proceeding over a mass of fallen rock, they reached the pebbly strand at the cave's inner mouth. "I can see the interior now, as my eyes become accustomed to the dim light," said Minnie, gazing up wistfully into the vaulted roof, where the edges of projecting rocks seemed to peer out of darkness. "Surely this must be a place for smugglers to come to!" "They don't often come here. The place is not so suitable as many of the other caves are." From the low, subdued tones in which they both spoke, it was evident that the place inspired them with feelings of awe. "Come, Minnie," said Ruby, at length, in a more cheerful tone, "let us go into this cave and explore it." "But the water may be deep," objected Minnie; "besides, I do not like to wade, even though it be shallow." "Nay, sweet one; do you think I would ask you to wet your pretty feet? There is very little wading required. See, I have only to raise you in my arms and take two steps into the water, and a third step to the left round that projecting rock, where I can set you down on another beach inside the cave. Your eyes will soon get used to the subdued light, and then you will see things much more clearly than you would think it possible viewed from this point." Minnie did not require much pressing. She had perfect confidence in her lover, and was naturally fearless in disposition, so she was soon placed on the subterranean beach of the Gaylet Cave, and for some time wandered about in the dimly-lighted place, leaning on Ruby's arm. Gradually their eyes became accustomed to the place, and then its mysterious beauty and wildness began to have full effect on their minds, inducing them to remain for a long time silent, as they sat side by side on a piece of fallen rock. They sat looking in the direction of the seaward entrance to the cavern, where the light glowed brightly on the rocks, gradually losing its brilliancy as it penetrated the cave, until it became quite dim in the centre. No part of the main cave was quite dark, but the offshoot, in which the lovers sat, was almost dark. To anyone viewing it from the outer cave it would have appeared completely so. "Is that a sea-gull at the outlet?" enquired Minnie, after a long pause. Ruby looked intently for a moment in the direction indicated. "Minnie," he said quickly, and in a tone of surprise, "that is a large gull, if it be one at all, and uses oars instead of wings. Who can it be? Smugglers never come here that I am aware of, and Lindsay is not a likely man to waste his time in pulling about when he has other work to do." "Perhaps it may be some fishermen from Auchmithie," suggested Minnie, "who are fond of exploring, like you and me." "Mayhap it is, but we shall soon see, for here they come. We must keep out of sight, my girl." Ruby rose and led Minnie into the recesses of the cavern, where they were speedily shrouded in profound darkness, and could not be seen by anyone, although they themselves could observe all that occurred in the space in front of them. The boat, which had entered the cavern by its seaward mouth, was a small one, manned by two fishermen, who were silent as they rowed under the arched roof; but it was evident that their silence did not proceed from caution, for they made no effort to prevent or check the noise of the oars. In a few seconds the keel grated on the peebles, and one of the men leaped out. "Noo, Davy," he said, in a voice that sounded deep and hollow under that vaulted roof, "oot wi' the kegs. Haste ye, man." "Tis Big Swankie," whispered Ruby. "There's nae hurry," objected the other fisherman, who, we need scarcely inform the reader, was our friend, Davy Spink. "Nae hurry!" repeated his comrade angrily. "That's aye yer cry. Half 'o oor ventures hae failed because ye object to hurry." "Hoot, man! that's enough o't," said Spink, in the nettled tone of a man who has been a good deal worried. Indeed, the tones of both showed that these few sentences were but the continuation of a quarrel which had begun elsewhere. "It's plain to me that we must pairt, freen'," said Swankie in a dogged manner, as he lifted a keg out of the boat and placed it on the ground. "Ay," exclaimed Spink, with something of a sneer, "an" d'ye think I'll pairt without a diveesion o' the siller tea-pats and things that ye daurna sell for fear o' bein' fund out?" "I wonder ye dinna claim half o' the jewels and things as weel," retorted Swankie; "ye hae mair right to _them_, seein' ye had a hand in findin' them." "_Me_ a hand in findin' them," exclaimed Spink, with sudden indignation. "Was it _me_ that fand the deed body o' the auld man on the Bell Rock? Na, na, freend. I hae naething to do wi' deed men's jewels." "Have ye no?" retorted the other. "It's strange, then, that ye should entertain such sma' objections to deed men's siller." "Weel-a-weel, Swankie, the less we say on thae matters the better. Here, tak' hand o' the tither keg." The conversation ceased at this stage abruptly. Evidently each had touched on the other's weak point, so both tacitly agreed to drop the subject. Presently Big Swankie took out a flint and steel, and proceeded to strike a light. It was some some time before the tinder would catch. At each stroke of the steel a shower of brilliant sparks lit up his countenance for an instant, and this momentary glance showed that its expression was not prepossessing by any means. Ruby drew Minnie farther into the recess which concealed them, and awaited the result with some anxiety, for he felt that the amount of knowledge with which he had become possessed thus unintentionally, small though it was, was sufficient to justify the smugglers in regarding him as a dangerous enemy. He had scarcely drawn himself quite within the shadow of the recess, when Swankie succeeded in kindling a torch, which filled the cavern with a lurid light, and revealed its various forms, rendering it, if possible, more mysterious and unearthly than ever. "Here, Spink," cried Swankie, who was gradually getting into better humour, "haud the light, and gie me the spade." "Ye better put them behind the rock, far in," suggested Spink. The other seemed to entertain this idea for a moment, for he raised the torch above his head, and, advancing into the cave, carefully examined the rocks at the inner end. Step by step he drew near to the place where Ruby and Minnie were concealed, muttering to himself, as he looked at each spot that might possibly suit his purpose, "Na, na, the waves wad wash the kegs oot o' that if it cam' on to blaw." He made another step forward, and the light fell almost on the head of Ruby, who felt Minnie's arm tremble. He clenched his hands with that feeling of resolve that comes over a man when he has made up his mind to fight. Just then an exclamation of surprise escaped from his comrade. "Losh! man, what have we here?" he cried, picking up a small object that glittered in the light. Minnie's heart sank, for she could see that the thing was a small brooch which she was in the habit of wearing in her neckerchief, and which must have been detached when Ruby carried her into the cave. She felt assured that this would lead to their discovery; but it had quite the opposite effect, for it caused Swankie to turn round and examine the trinket with much curiosity. A long discussion as to how it could have come there immediately ensued between the smugglers, in the midst of which a wavelet washed against Swankie's feet, reminding him that the tide was rising, and that he had no time to lose. "There's nae place behint the rocks," said he quickly, putting the brooch in his pocket, "so we'll just hide the kegs amang the stanes. Lucky for us that we got the rest o' the cargo run ashore at Auchmithie. This'll lie snugly here, and we'll pull past the leftenant, who thinks we havena seen him, with oor heeds up and oor tongues in oor cheeks." They both chuckled heartily at the idea of disappointing the preventive officer, and while one held the torch the other dug a hole in the beach deep enough to contain the two kegs. "In ye go, my beauties," said Swankie, covering them up. "Mony's the time I've buried ye." "Ay, an' mony's the time ye've helped at their resurrection," added Spink, with a laugh. "Noo, we'll away an' have a look at the kegs in the Forbidden Cave," said Swankie, "see that they're a' richt, an' then have our game wi' the land-sharks." Next moment the torch was dashed against the stones and extinguished, and the two men, leaping into their boat, rowed away. As they passed through the outer cavern, Ruby heard them arrange to go back to Auchmithie. Their voices were too indistinct to enable him to ascertain their object in doing so, but he knew enough of the smugglers to enable him to guess that it was for the purpose of warning some of their friends of the presence of the preventive boat, which their words proved that they had seen. "Now, Minnie," said he, starting up as soon as the boat had disappeared, "this is what I call good luck, for not only shall we be able to return with something to the boat, but we shall be able to intercept big Swankie and his comrade, and offer them a glass of their own gin!" "Yes, and I shall be able to boast of having had quite a little adventure," said Minnie, who, now that her anxiety was over, began to feel elated. They did not waste time in conversation, however, for the digging up of two kegs from a gravelly beach with fingers instead of a spade was not a quick or easy thing to do; so Ruby found as he went down on his knees in that dark place and began the work. "Can I help you?" asked his fair companion after a time. "Help me! What? Chafe and tear your little hands with work that all but skins mine? Nay, truly. But here comes one, and the other will soon follow. Yo, heave, HO!" With the well-known nautical shout Ruby put forth an herculean effort, and tore the kegs out of the earth. After a short pause he carried Minnie out of the cavern, and led her to the field above by the same path by which they had descended. Then he returned for the kegs of gin. They were very heavy, but not too heavy for the strength of the young giant, who was soon hastening with rapid strides towards the bay, where they had left their friends. He bore a keg under each arm, and Minnie tripped lightly by his side,--and laughingly, too, for she enjoyed the thought of the discomfiture that was in store for the smugglers. CHAPTER XX THE SMUGGLERS ARE "TREATED" TO GIN AND ASTONISHMENT They found the lieutenant and Captain Ogilvy stretched on the grass, smoking their pipes together. The daylight had almost deepened into night, and a few stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky. "Hey! what have we here--smugglers'!" cried the captain, springing up rather quickly, as Ruby came unexpectedly on them. "Just so, uncle," said Minnie, with a laugh. "We have here some gin, smuggled all the way from Holland, and have come to ask your opinion of it." "Why, Ruby, how came you by this?" enquired Lindsay in amazement, as he examined the kegs with critical care. "Suppose I should say that I have been taken into confidence by the smugglers and then betrayed them." "I should reply that the one idea was improbable, and the other impossible," returned the lieutenant. "Well, I have at all events found out their secrets, and now I reveal them." In a few words Ruby acquainted his friends with all that has just been narrated. The moment he had finished, the lieutenant ordered his men to launch the boat. The kegs were put into the stern-sheets, the party embarked, and, pushing off, they rowed gently out of the bay, and crept slowly along the shore, under the deep shadow of the cliffs. "How dark it is getting!" said Minnie, after they had rowed for some time in silence. "The moon will soon be up," said the lieutenant. "Meanwhile I'll cast a little light on the subject by having a pipe. Will you join me, captain?" This was a temptation which the captain never resisted; indeed, he did not regard it as a temptation at all, and would have smiled at the idea of resistance. "Minnie, lass," said he, as he complacently filled the blackened bowl, and calmly stuffed down the glowing tobacco with the end of that marvellously callous little finger, "it's a wonderful thing that baccy. I don't know what man would do without it." "Quite as well as woman does, I should think," replied Minnie. "I'm not so sure of that, lass. It's more nat'ral for man to smoke than for woman. Ye see, woman, lovely woman, should be 'all my fancy painted her, both lovely and divine'. It would never do to have baccy perfumes hangin' about her rosy lips." "But, uncle, why should man have the disagreeable perfumes you speak of hanging about _his_ lips?" "I don't know, lass. It's all a matter o' feeling. 'Twere vain to tell thee all I feel, how much my heart would wish to say;' but of this I'm certain sure, that I'd never git along without my pipe. It's like compass, helm, and ballast all in one. Is that the moon, leftenant?" The captain pointed to a faint gleam of light on the horizon, which he knew well enough to be the moon; but he wished to change the subject. "Ay is it, and there comes a boat. Steady, men! lay on your oars a bit." This was said earnestly. In one instant all were silent, and the boat lay as motionless as the shadows of the cliffs among which it was involved. Presently the sound of oars was heard. Almost at the same moment, the upper edge of the moon rose above the horizon, and covered the sea with rippling silver. Ere long a boat shot into this stream of light, and rowed swiftly in the direction of Arbroath. "There are only two men in it," whispered the lieutenant. "Ay, these are my good friends Swankie and Spink, who know a deal more about other improper callings besides smuggling, if I did not greatly mistake their words," cried Ruby. "Give way, lads!" cried the lieutenant. The boat sprang at the word from her position under the cliffs, and was soon out upon the sea in full chase of the smugglers, who bent to their oars more lustily, evidently intending to trust to their speed. "Strange," said the lieutenant, as the distance between the two began sensibly to decrease, "if these be smugglers, with an empty boat, as you lead me to suppose they are, they would only be too glad to stop and let us see that they had nothing aboard that we could touch. It leads me to think that you are mistaken, Ruby Brand, and that these are not your friends." "Nay, the same fact convinces me that they are the very men we seek; for they said they meant to have some game with you, and what more amusing than to give you a long, hard chase for nothing?" "True; you are right. Well, we will turn the tables on them. Take the helm for a minute, while I tap one of the kegs." The tapping was soon accomplished, and a quantity of the spirit was drawn off into the captain's pocket-flask. "Taste it, captain, and let's have your opinion." Captain Ogilvy complied. He put the flask to his lips, and, on removing it, smacked them, and looked at the party with that extremely grave, almost solemn expression, which is usually assumed by a man when strong liquid is being put to the delicate test of his palate. "Oh!" exclaimed the captain, opening his eyes very wide indeed. What "oh" meant, was rather doubtful at first; but when the captain put the flask again to his lips, and took another pull, a good deal longer than the first, much, if not all of the doubt was removed. "Prime! nectar!" he murmured, in a species of subdued ecstasy, at the end of the second draught. "Evidently the right stuff," said Lindsay, laughing. "Liquid streams--celestial nectar, Darted through the ambient sky," said the captain; "liquid, ay, liquid is the word." He was about to test the liquid again:-- "Stop! stop! fair play, captain; it's my turn now," cried the lieutenant, snatching the flask from his friend's grasp, and applying it to his own lips. Both the lieutenant and Ruby pronounced the gin perfect, and as Minnie positively refused either to taste or to pronounce judgment, the flask was returned to its owner's pocket. They were now close on the smugglers, whom they hailed, and commanded to lay on their oars. The order was at once obeyed, and the boats were speedily rubbing sides together. "I should like to examine your boat, friends," said the lieutenant as he stepped across the gunwales. "Oh! sir, I'm thankfu' to find you're not smugglers," said Swankie, with an assumed air of mingled respect and alarm. "If we'd only know'd ye was preventives we'd ha' backed oars at once. There's nothin' here; ye may seek as long's ye please. The hypocritical rascal winked slyly to his comrade as he said this. Meanwhile Lindsay and one of the men examined the contents of the boat, and, finding nothing contraband, the former said-- "So, you're honest men, I find. Fishermen, doubtless?" "Ay, some o' yer crew ken us brawly," said Davy Spink with a grin. "Well, I won't detain you," rejoined the lieutenant; "it's quite a pleasure to chase honest men on the high seas in these times of war and smuggling. But it's too bad to have given you such a fright, lads, for nothing. What say you to a glass of gin?" Big Swankie and his comrade glanced at each other in surprise. They evidently thought this an unaccountably polite Government officer, and were puzzled. However, they could do no less than accept such a generous offer. "Thank'ee, sir," said Big Swankie, spitting out his quid and significantly wiping his mouth. "I hae nae objection. Doubtless it'll be the best that the like o' you carries in yer bottle." "The best, certainly," said the lieutenant, as he poured out a bumper, and handed it to the smuggler. "It was smuggled, of course, and you see His Majesty is kind enough to give his servants a little of what they rescue from the rascals, to drink his health." "Weel, I drink to the King," said Swankie, "an' confusion to all his enemies, 'specially to smugglers." He tossed off the gin with infinite gusto, and handed back the cup with a smack of the lips and a look that plainly said, "More, if you please!" But the hint was not taken. Another bumper was filled and handed to Davy Spink, who had been eyeing the crew of the boat with great suspicion. He accepted the cup, nodded curtly, and said-- "Here's t' ye, gentlemen, no forgettin' the fair leddy in the stern-sheets." While he was drinking the gin the lieutenant turned to his men-- "Get out the keg, lads, from which that came, and refill the flask. Hold it well up in the moonlight, and see that ye don't spill a single drop, as you value your lives. Hey! my man, what ails you? Does the gin disagree with your stomach, or have you never seen a smuggled keg of spirits before, that you stare at it as if it were a keg of ghosts!" The latter part of this speech was addressed to Swankie, who no sooner beheld the keg than his eyes opened up until they resembled two great oysters. His mouth slowly followed suit. Davy Spink's attention having been attracted, he became subject to similar alterations of visage. "Hallo!" cried the captain, while the whole crew burst into a laugh, "you must have given them poison. Have you a stomach-pump, doctor?" he said, turning hastily to Ruby. "No, nothing but a penknife and a tobacco-stopper. If they're of any use to you----" He was interrupted by a loud laugh from Big Swankie, who quickly recovered his presence of mind, and declared that he had never tasted such capital stuff in his life. "Have ye much o't, sir?" "O yes, a good deal. I have _two_ kegs of it," (the lieutenant grinned very hard at this point), "and we expect to get a little more to-night." "Ha!" exclaimed Davy Spink, "there's no doot plenty o't in the coves hereaway, for they're an awfu' smugglin' set. Whan did ye find the twa kegs, noo, if I may ask?" "Oh, certainly. I got them not more than an hour ago." The smugglers glanced at each other and were struck dumb; but they were now too much on their guard to let any further evidence of surprise escape them. "Weel, I wush ye success, sirs," said Swankie, sitting down to his oar. "It's likely ye'll come across mair if ye try Dickmont's Den. There's usually somethin' hidden there-aboots." "Thank you, friend, for the hint," said the lieutenant, as he took his place at the tiller-ropes, "but I shall have a look at the Gaylet Cove, I think, this evening." "What! the Gaylet Cove?" cried Spink. "Ye might as weel look for kegs at the bottom o' the deep sea." "Perhaps so; nevertheless, I have taken a fancy to go there. If I find nothing, I will take a look into the Forbidden Cave." "The Forbidden Cave!" almost howled Swankie. "Wha iver heard o' smugglers hidin' onything there? The air in't wad pushen a rotten." "Perhaps it would, yet I mean to try." "Weel-a-weel, ye may try, but ye might as weel seek for kegs o' gin on the Bell Rock." "Ha! it's not the first time that strange things have been found on the Bell Bock," said Ruby suddenly. "I have heard of jewels, even, being discovered there." "Give way, men; shove off," cried the lieutenant. "A pleasant pull to you, lads. Good night." The two boats parted, and while the lieutenant and his friends made for the shore, the smugglers rowed towards Arbroath in a state of mingled amazement and despair at what they had heard and seen. "It was Ruby Brand that spoke last, Davy." "Ay; he was i' the shadow o' Captain Ogilvy and I couldna see his face, but I thought it like his voice when he first spoke." "Hoo _can_ he hae come to ken aboot the jewels?" "That's mair than I can tell." "I'll bury them," said Swankie, "an' then it'll puzzle onybody to tell whaur they are." "Ye'll please yoursell," said Spink. Swankie was too angry to make any reply, or to enter into further conversation with his comrade about the kegs of gin, so they continued their way in silence. Meanwhile, as Lieutenant Lindsay and his men had a night of work before them, the captain suggested that Minnie, Ruby, and himself should be landed within a mile of the town, and left to find their way thither on foot. This was agreed to; and while the one party walked home by the romantic pathway at the top of the cliffs, the other rowed away to explore the dark recesses of the Forbidden Cave. CHAPTER XXI THE BELL ROCK AGAIN--A DREARY NIGHT IN A STRANGE HABITATION During that winter Ruby Brand wrought diligently in the workyard at the lighthouse materials, and, by living economically, began to save a small sum of money, which he laid carefully by with a view to his marriage with Minnie Gray. Being an impulsive man, Ruby would have married Minnie, then and there, without looking too earnestly to the future. But his mother had advised him to wait till he should have laid by a little for a "rainy day". The captain had recommended patience, tobacco, and philosophy, and had enforced his recommendations with sundry apt quotations from dead and living novelists, dramatists, and poets. Minnie herself, poor girl, felt that she ought not to run counter to the wishes of her best and dearest friends, so she too advised delay for a "little time"; and Ruby was fain to content himself with bewailing his hard lot internally, and knocking Jamie Dove's bellows, anvils, and sledge-hammers about in a way that induced that son of Vulcan to believe his assistant had gone mad! As for big Swankie, he hid his ill-gotten gains under the floor of his tumble-down cottage, and went about his evil courses as usual in company with his comrade Davy Spink, who continued to fight and make it up with him as of yore. It must not be supposed that Ruby forgot the conversation he had overheard in the Gaylet Cove. He and Minnie and his uncle had frequent discussions in regard to it, but to little purpose; for although Swankie and Spink had discovered old Mr. Brand's body on the Bell Rock, it did not follow that any jewels or money they had found there were necessarily his. Still Ruby could not divest his mind of the feeling that there was some connexion between the two, and he was convinced, from what had fallen from Davy Spink about "silver teapots and things", that Swankie was the man of whose bad deeds he himself had been suspected. As there seemed no possibility of bringing the matter home to him, however, he resolved to dismiss the whole affair from his mind in the meantime. Things were very much in this state when, in the spring, the operations at the Bell Bock were resumed. Jamie Dove, Ruby, Robert Selkirk, and several of the principal workmen, accompanied the engineers on their first visit to the rock, and they sailed towards the scene of their former labours with deep and peculiar interest, such as one might feel on renewing acquaintance with an old friend who had passed through many hard and trying struggles since the last time of meeting. The storms of winter had raged round the Bell Rock as usual--as they had done, in fact, since the world began; but that winter the handiwork of man had also been exposed to the fury of the elements there. It was known that the beacon had survived the storms, for it could be seen by telescope from the shore in clear weather--like a little speck on the seaward horizon. Now they were about to revisit the old haunt, and have a close inspection of the damage that it was supposed must certainly have been done. To the credit of the able engineer who planned and carried out the whole works, the beacon was found to have resisted winds and waves successfully. It was on a bitterly cold morning about the end of March that the first visit of the season was paid to the Bell Rock. Mr. Stevenson and his party of engineers and artificers sailed in the lighthouse yacht; and, on coming within a proper distance of the rock, two boats were lowered and pushed off. The sea ran with such force upon the rock that it seemed doubtful whether a landing could be effected. About half-past eight, when the rock was fairly above water, several attempts were made to land, but the breach of the sea was still so great that they were driven back. On the eastern side the sea separated into two distinct waves, which came with a sweep round the western side, where they met, and rose in a burst of spray to a considerable height. Watching, however, for what the sailors termed a smooth, and catching a favourable opportunity, they rowed between the two seas dexterously, and made a successful landing at the western creek. The sturdy beacon was then closely examined. It had been painted white at the end of the previous season, but the lower parts of the posts were found to have become green--the sea having clothed them with a soft garment of weed. The sea-birds had evidently imagined that it was put up expressly for their benefit; for a number of cormorants and large herring-gulls had taken up their quarters on it--finding it, no doubt, conveniently near to their fishing-grounds. A critical inspection of all its parts showed that everything about it was in a most satisfactory state. There was not the slightest indication of working or shifting in the great iron stanchions with which the beams were fixed, nor of any of the joints or places of connexion; and, excepting some of the bracing-chains which had been loosened, everything was found in the same entire state in which it had been left the previous season. Only those who know what that beacon had been subjected to can form a correct estimate of the importance of this discovery, and the amount of satisfaction it afforded to those most interested in the works at the Bell Rock. To say that the party congratulated themselves would be far short of the reality. They hailed the event with cheers, and their looks seemed to indicate that some piece of immense and unexpected good fortune had befallen each individual. From that moment Mr. Stevenson saw the practicability and propriety of fitting up the beacon, not only as a place of refuge in case of accidents to the boats in landing, but as a residence for the men during the working months. From that moment, too, poor Jamie Dove began to see the dawn of happier days; for when the beacon should be fitted up as a residence he would bid farewell to the hated floating light, and take up his abode, as ho expressed it, "on land". "On land!" It is probable that this Jamie Dove was the first man, since the world began, who had entertained the till then absurdly preposterous notion that the fatal Bell Rock was "land", or that it could be made a place of even temporary residence. A hundred years ago men would have laughed at the bare idea. Fifty years ago that idea was realized; for more than half a century that sunken reef has been, and still is, the safe and comfortable home of man! Forgive, reader, our tendency to anticipate. Let us proceed with our inspection. Having ascertained that the foundations of the beacon were all right, the engineers next ascended to the upper parts, where they found the cross-beams and their fixtures in an equally satisfactory condition. On the top a strong chest had been fixed the preceding season, in which had been placed a quantity of sea-biscuits and several bottles of water, in case of accident to the boats, or in the event of shipwreck occurring on the rock. The biscuit, having been carefully placed in tin canisters, was found in good condition, but several of the water-bottles had burst, in consequence, it was supposed, of frost during the winter. Twelve of the bottles, however, remained entire, so that the Bell Rock may be said to have been transformed, even at that date, from a point of destruction into a place of comparative safety. While the party were thus employed, the landing-master reminded them that the sea was running high, and that it would be necessary to set off while the rock afforded anything like shelter to the boats, which by that time had been made fast to the beacon and rode with much agitation, each requiring two men with boat-hooks to keep them from striking each other, or ranging up against the beacon. But under these circumstances the greatest confidence was felt by everyone, from the security afforded by that temporary erection; for, supposing that the wind had suddenly increased to a gale, and that it had been found inadvisable to go into the boats; or supposing they had drifted or sprung a leak from striking upon the rocks, in any of these possible, and not at all improbable, cases, they had now something to lay hold of, and, though occupying the dreary habitation of the gull and the cormorant, affording only bread and water, yet _life_ would be preserved, and, under the circumstances, they would have been supported by the hope of being ultimately relieved. Soon after this the works at the Bell Rock were resumed, with, if possible, greater vigour than before, and ere long the "house" was fixed to the top of the beacon, and the engineer and his men took up their abode there. Think of this, reader. Six great wooden beams were fastened to a rock, over which the waves roared twice everyday, and on the top of these a pleasant little marine residence was nailed, as one might nail a dove-cot on the top of a pole! This residence was ultimately fitted up in such a way as to become a comparatively comfortable and commodious abode. It contained four storeys. The first was the mortar-gallery, where the mortar for the lighthouse was mixed as required; it also supported the forge. The second was the cook-room. The third the apartment of the engineer and his assistants; and the fourth was the artificer's barrack-room. This house was of course built of wood, but it was firmly put together, for it had to pass through many a terrific ordeal. In order to give some idea of the interior, we shall describe the cabin of Mr. Stevenson. It measured four feet three inches in breadth on the floor, and though, from the oblique direction of the beams of the beacon, it widened towards the top, yet it did not admit of the full extension of the occupant's arms when he stood on the floor. Its length was little more than sufficient to admit of a cot-bed being suspended during the night. This cot was arranged so as to be triced up to the roof during the day, thus leaving free room for occasional visitors, and for comparatively free motion, A folding table was attached with hinges immediately under the small window of the apartment. The remainder of the space was fitted up with books, barometer, thermometer, portmanteau, and two or three camp-stools. The walls were covered with green cloth, formed into panels with red tape, a substance which, by the way, might have had an _accidental_ connexion with the Bell Rock Lighthouse, but which could not, by any possibility, have influenced it as a _principle_, otherwise that building would probably never have been built, or, if built, would certainly not have stood until the present day! The bed was festooned with yellow cotton stuff, and the diet being plain, the paraphernalia of the table was proportionally simple. It would have been interesting to know the individual books required and used by the celebrated engineer in his singular abode, but his record leaves no detailed account of these. It does, however, contain a sentence in regard to one volume which we deem it just to his character to quote. He writes thus:-- "If, in speculating upon the abstract wants of man in such a state of exclusion, one were reduced to a single book, the Sacred Volume, whether considered for the striking diversity of its story, the morality of its doctrine, or the important truths of its gospel, would have proved by far the greatest treasure." It may be easily imagined that in a place where the accommodation of the principal engineer was so limited, that of the men was not extensive. Accordingly, we find that the barrack-room contained beds for twenty-one men. But the completion of the beacon house, as we have described it, was not accomplished in one season. At first it was only used as a smith's workshop, and then as a temporary residence in fine weather. One of the first men who remained all night upon it was our friend Bremner. He became so tired of the floating light that he earnestly solicited, and obtained, permission to remain on the beacon. At the time it was only in a partially sheltered state. The joiners had just completed the covering of the roof with a quantity of tarpaulin, which the seamen had laid over with successive coats of hot tar, and the sides of the erection had been painted with three coats of white lead. Between the timber framing of the habitable part, the interstices were stuffed with moss, but the green baize cloth with which it was afterwards lined had not been put on when Bremner took possession. It was a splendid summer evening when the bold man made his request, and obtained permission to remain. None of the others would join him. When the boats pushed off and left him the solitary occupant of the rock, he felt a sensation of uneasiness, but, having formed his resolution, he stuck by it, and bade his comrades good night cheerfully. "Good night, and _goodbye_," cried Forsyth, as he took his seat at the oar. "Farewell, dear," cried O'Connor, wiping his eyes with a _very_ ragged pocket handkerchief. "You won't forget me?" retorted Bremner. "Never," replied Dumsby, with fervour. "Av the beacon should be carried away, darlin'," cried O'Connor, "howld tight to the provision-chest, p'raps ye'll be washed ashore." "I'll drink your health in water, Paddy," replied Bremner. "Faix, I hope it won't be salt wather," retorted Ned. They continued to shout good wishes, warnings, and advice to their comrade until out of hearing, and then waved adieu to him until he was lost to view. We have said that Bremner was alone, yet he was not entirely so; he had a comrade with him, in the shape of his little black dog, to which reference has already been made. This creature was of that very thin and tight-skinned description of dog, that trembles at all times as if afflicted with chronic cold, summer and winter. Its thin tail was always between its extremely thin legs, as though it lived in a perpetual condition of wrong-doing, and were in constant dread of deserved punishment. Yet no dog ever belied its looks more than did this one, for it was a good dog, and a warmhearted dog, and never did a wicked thing, and never was punished, so that its excessive humility and apparent fear and trembling were quite unaccountable. Like all dogs of its class it was passionately affectionate, and intensely grateful for the smallest favour. In fact, it seemed to be rather thankful than otherwise for a kick when it chanced to receive one, and a pat on the head, or a kind word made it all but jump out of its black skin for very joy. Bremner called it "Pup". It had no other name, and didn't seem to wish for one. On the present occasion it was evidently much perplexed, and very unhappy, for it looked at the boat, and then wistfully into its master's face, as if to say, "This is awful; have you resolved that we shall perish together?" "Now, Pup," said Bremner, when the boat disappeared in the shades of evening, "you and I are left alone on the Bell Rock!" There was a touch of sad uncertainty in the wag of the tail with which Pup received this remark. "But cheer up, Pup," cried Bremner with a sudden burst of animation that induced the creature to wriggle and dance on its hind legs for at least a minute, "you and I shall have a jolly night together on the beacon; so come along." Like many a night that begins well, that particular night ended ill. Even while the man spoke, a swell began to rise, and, as the tide had by that time risen a few feet, an occasional billow swept over the rocks and almost washed the feet of Bremner as he made his way over the ledges. In five minutes the sea was rolling all round the foot of the beacon, and Bremner and his friend were safely ensconced on the mortar-gallery. There was no storm that night, nevertheless there was one of those heavy ground swells that are of common occurrence in the German Ocean. It is supposed that this swell is caused by distant westerly gales in the Atlantic, which force an undue quantity of water into the North Sea, and thus produce the apparent paradox of great rolling breakers in calm weather. On this night there was no wind at all, but there was a higher swell than usual, so that each great billow passed over the rock with a roar that was rendered more than usually terrible, in consequence of the utter absence of all other sounds. At first Bremner watched the rising tide, and as he sat up there in the dark he felt himself dreadfully forsaken and desolate, and began to comment on things in general to his dog, by way of inducing a more sociable and cheery state of mind. "Pup, this is a lugubrious state o' things. Wot d'ye think o't?" Pup did not say, but he expressed such violent joy at being noticed, that he nearly fell off the platform of the mortar-gallery in one of his extravagant gyrations. "That won't do, Pup," said Bremner, shaking his head at the creature, whose countenance expressed deep contrition. "Don't go on like that, else you'll fall into the sea and be drownded, and then I shall be left alone. What a dark night it is, to be sure! I doubt if it was wise of me to stop here. Suppose the beacon were to be washed away?" Bremner paused, and Pup wagged his tail interrogatively, as though to say, "What then?" "Ah! it's of no use supposin'," continued the man slowly. "The beacon has stood it out all winter, and it ain't likely it's goin' to be washed away to-night. But suppose I was to be took bad?" Again the dog seemed to demand, "What then?" "Well, that's not very likely either, for I never was took bad in my life since I took the measles, and that's more than twenty years ago. Come, Pup, don't let us look at the black side o' things, let us try to be cheerful, my dog. Hallo!" The exclamation was caused by the appearance of a green billow, which in the uncertain light seemed to advance in a threatening attitude towards the beacon as if to overwhelm it, but it fell at some distance, and only rolled in a churning sea of milky foam among the posts, and sprang up and licked the beams, as a serpent might do before swallowing them. "Come, it was the light deceived me. If I go for to start at every wave like that I'll have a poor night of it, for the tide has a long way to rise yet. Let's go and have a bit supper, lad." Bremner rose from the anvil, on which he had seated himself, and went up the ladder into the cook-house above. Here all was pitch dark, owing to the place being enclosed all round, which the mortar-gallery was not, but a light was soon struck, a lamp trimmed, and the fire in the stove kindled. Bremner now busied himself in silently preparing a cup of tea, which, with a quantity of sea-biscuit, a little cold salt pork, and a hunch of stale bread, constituted his supper. Pup watched his every movement with an expression of earnest solicitude, combined with goodwill, in his sharp intelligent eyes. When supper was ready Pup had his share, then, feeling that the duties of the day were now satisfactorily accomplished, he coiled himself up at his master's feet, and went to sleep. His master rolled himself up in a rug, and lying down before the fire, also tried to sleep, but without success for a long time. As he lay there counting the number of seconds of awful silence that elapsed between the fall of each successive billow, and listening to the crash and the roar as wave after wave rushed underneath him, and caused his habitation to tremble, he could not avoid feeling alarmed in some degree. Do what he would, the thought of the wrecks that had taken place there, the shrieks that must have often rung above these rocks, and the dead and mangled bodies that must have lain among them, _would_ obtrude upon him and banish sleep from his eyes. At last he became somewhat accustomed to the rush of waters and the tremulous motion of the beacon. His frame, too, exhausted by a day of hard toil, refused to support itself, and he sank into slumber. But it was not unbroken. A falling cinder from the sinking fire would awaken him with a start; a larger wave than usual would cause him to spring up and look round in alarm; or a shrieking sea-bird, as it swooped past, would induce a dream, in which the cries of drowning men arose, causing him to awake with a cry that set Pup barking furiously. Frequently during that night, after some such dream, Bremner would get up and descend to the mortar-gallery to see that all was right there. He found the waves always hissing below, but the starry sky was calm and peaceful above, so he returned to his couch comforted a little, and fell again into a troubled sleep, to be again awakened by frightful dreams of dreadful sights, and scenes of death and danger on the sea. Thus the hours wore slowly away. As the tide fell the noise of waves retired a little from the beacon, and the wearied man and dog sank gradually at last into deep, untroubled slumber. So deep was it, that they did not hear the increasing noise of the gulls as they wheeled round the beacon after having breakfasted near it; so deep, that they did not feel the sun as it streamed through an opening in the woodwork and glared on their respective faces; so deep, that they were ignorant of the arrival of the boats with the workmen, and were dead to the shouts of their companions, until one of them, Jamie Dove, put his head up the hatchway and uttered one of his loudest roars, close to their ears. Then indeed Bremner rose up and looked bewildered, and Pup, starting up, barked as furiously as if its own little black body had miraculously become the concentrated essence of all the other noisy dogs in the wide world rolled into one! CHAPTER XXII LIFE IN THE BEACON--STORY OF THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE Some time after this a number of the men took up their permanent abode in the beacon house, and the work was carried on by night as well as by day, when the state of the tide and the weather permitted. Immense numbers of fish called poddlies were discovered to be swimming about at high water. So numerous were they, that the rock was sometimes hidden by the shoals of them. Fishing for these thenceforth became a pastime among the men, who not only supplied their own table with fresh fish, but at times sent presents of them to their friends in the vessels. All the men who dwelt on the beacon were volunteers, for Mr. Stevenson felt that it would be cruel to compel men to live at such a post of danger. Those who chose, therefore, remained in the lightship or the tender, and those who preferred it went to the beacon. It is scarcely necessary to add, that among the latter were found all the "sea-sick men!" These bold artificers were not long of having their courage tested. Soon after their removal to the beacon they experienced some very rough weather, which shook the posts violently, and caused them to twist in a most unpleasant way. But it was not until some time after that a storm arose, which caused the stoutest-hearted of them all to quail more than once. It began on the night of as fine a day as they had had the whole season. In order that the reader may form a just conception of what we are about to describe, it may not be amiss to note the state of things at the rock, and the employment of the men at the time. A second forge had been put up on the higher platform of the beacon, but the night before that of which we write, the lower platform had been burst up by a wave, and the mortar and forge thereon, with all the implements, were cast down. The damaged forge was therefore set up for the time on its old site, near the foundation-pit of the lighthouse, while the carpenters were busy repairing the mortar-gallery. The smiths were as usual busy sharpening picks and irons, and making bats and stanchions, and other iron work connected with the building operations. The landing-master's crew were occupied in assisting the millwrights to lay the railways to hand, and joiners were kept almost constantly employed in fitting picks to their handles, which latter were very frequently broken. Nearly all the miscellaneous work was done by seamen. There was no such character on the Bell Rock as the common labourer. The sailors cheerfully undertook the work usually performed by such men, and they did it admirably. In consequence of the men being able to remain on the beacon, the work went on literally "by double tides"; and at night the rock was often ablaze with torches, while the artificers wrought until the waves drove them away. On the night in question there was a low spring-tide, so that a night-tide's work of five hours was secured. This was one of the longest spells they had had since the beginning of the operations. The stars shone brightly in a very dark sky. Not a breath of air was felt. Even the smoke of the forge fire rose perpendicularly a short way, until an imperceptible zephyr wafted it gently to the west. Yet there was a heavy swell rolling in from the eastward, which caused enormous waves to thunder on Ralph the Rover's Ledge, as if they would drive down the solid rock. Mingled with this solemn, intermittent roar of the sea was the continuous clink of picks, chisels, and hammers, and the loud clang of the two forges; that on the beacon being distinctly different from the other, owing to the wooden erection on which it stood rendering it deep and thunderous. Torches and forge fires cast a glare over all, rendering the foam pale green and the rocks deep red. Some of the active figures at work stood out black and sharp against the light, while others shone in its blaze like red-hot fiends. Above all sounded an occasional cry from the sea-gulls, as they swooped down into the magic circle of light, and then soared away shrieking into darkness. "Hard work's not easy," observed James Dove, pausing in the midst of his labours to wipe his brow. "True for ye; but as we've got to arn our brid be the sweat of our brows, we're in the fair way to fortin," said Ned O'Connor, blowing away energetically with the big bellows. Ned had been reappointed to this duty since the erection of the second forge, which was in Ruby's charge. It was our hero's hammer that created such a din up in the beacon, while Dove wrought down on the rock. "We'll have a gale to-night," said the smith; "I know that by the feelin' of the air." "Well, I can't boast o' much knowledge o' feelin'," said O'Connor; "but I believe you're right, for the fish towld me the news this mornin'." This remark of Ned had reference to a well-ascertained fact, that, when a storm was coming, the fish invariably left the neighbourhood of the rock; doubtless in order to seek the security of depths which are not affected by winds or waves. While Dove and his comrade commented on this subject, two of the other men had retired to the south-eastern end of the rock to take a look at the weather. These were Peter Logan, the foreman, whose position required him to have a care for the safety of the men as well as for the progress of the work, and our friend Bremner, who had just descended from the cooking-room, where he had been superintending the preparation of supper. "It will be a stiff breeze, I fear, to-night," said Logan. "D'ye think so?" said Bremner; "it seems to me so calm that I would think a storm a'most impossible. But the fish never tell lies." "True. You got no fish to-day, I believe?" said Logan. "Not a nibble," replied the other. As he spoke, he was obliged to rise from a rock on which he had seated himself, because of a large wave, which, breaking on the outer reefs, sent the foam a little closer to his toes than was agreeable. "That was a big one, but yonder is a bigger," cried Logan. The wave to which he referred was indeed a majestic wall of water. It came on with such an awful appearance of power, that some of the men who perceived it could not repress a cry of astonishment. In another moment it fell, and, bursting over the rocks with a terrific roar, extinguished the forge fire, and compelled the men to take refuge in the beacon. Jamie Dove saved his bellows with difficulty. The other men, catching up their things as they best might, crowded up the ladder in a more or less draggled condition. The beacon house was gained by means of one of the main beams, which had been converted into a stair, by the simple process of nailing small battens thereon, about a foot apart from each other. The men could only go up one at a time, but as they were active and accustomed to the work, they were all speedily within their place of refuge. Soon afterwards the sea covered the rock, and the place where they had been at work was a mass of seething foam. Still there was no wind; but dark clouds had begun to rise on the seaward horizon. The sudden change in the appearance of the rock after the last torches were extinguished was very striking. For a few seconds there seemed to be no light at all. The darkness of a coal mine appeared to have settled down on the scene. But this soon passed away, as the men's eyes became accustomed to the change, and then the dark loom of the advancing billows, the pale light of the flashing foam, and occasional gleams of phosphorescence, and glimpses of black rocks in the midst of all, took the place of the warm, busy scene which the spot had presented a few minutes before. "Supper, boys!" shouted Bremner. Peter Bremner, we may remark in passing, was a particularly useful member of society. Besides being small and corpulent, he was a capital cook. He had acted during his busy life both as a groom and a house-servant; he had been a soldier, a sutler, a writer's clerk, and an apothecary--in which latter profession he had acquired the art of writing and suggesting recipes, and a taste for making collections in natural history. He was very partial to the use of the lancet, and quite a terrible adept at tooth-drawing. In short, Peter was the factotum of the beacon house, where, in addition to his other offices, he filled those of barber and steward to the admiration of all. But Bremner came out in quite a new and valuable light after he went to reside in the beacon--namely, as a storyteller. During the long periods of inaction that ensued, when the men were imprisoned there by storms, he lightened many an hour that would have otherwise hung heavily on their hands, and he cheered the more timid among them by speaking lightly of the danger of their position. On the signal for supper being given, there was a general rush down the ladders into the kitchen, where as comfortable a meal as one could wish for was smoking in pot and pan and platter. As there were twenty-three to partake, it was impossible, of course, for all to sit down to table. They were obliged to stow themselves away on such articles of furniture as came most readily to hand, and eat as they best could. Hungry men find no difficulty in doing this. For some time the conversation was restricted to a word or two. Soon, however, as appetite began to be appeased, tongues began to loosen. The silence was first broken by a groan. "Ochone!" exclaimed O'Connor, as well as a mouthful of pork and potatoes would allow him; "was it _you_ that groaned like a dyin' pig?" The question was put to Forsyth, who was holding his head between his hands, and swaying his body to and fro in agony. "Hae ye the oolic, freen'?" enquired John Watt, in a tone of sympathy. "No--n--o," groaned Forsyth, "it's a--a--to--tooth!" "Och! is that all?" "Have it out, man, at once." "Bam a red-hot skewer into it." "No, no; let it alone, and it'll go away." Such was the advice tendered, and much more of a similar nature, to the suffering man. "There's nothink like 'ot water an' cold," said Joe Dumsby in the tones of an oracle. "Just fill your mouth with bilin' 'ot water, an' dip your face in a basin o' cold, and it's sartain to cure." "Or kill," suggested Jamie Dove. "It's better now," said Forsyth, with a sigh of relief. "I scrunched a bit o' bone into it; that was all." "There's nothing like the string and the red-hot poker," suggested Ruby Brand. "Tie the one end o' the string to a post and t'other end to the tooth, an' stick a red-hot poker to your nose. Away it comes at once." "Hoot! nonsense," said Watt. "Ye might as weel tie a string to his lug an' dip him into the sea. Tak' my word for't, there's naethin' like pooin'." "D'you mean pooh pooin'?" enquired Dumsby. Watt's reply was interrupted by a loud gust of wind, which burst upon the beacon house at that moment and shook it violently. Everyone started up, and all clustered round the door and windows to observe the appearance of things without. Every object was shrouded in thick darkness, but a flash of lightning revealed the approach of the storm which had been predicted, and which had already commenced to blow. All tendency to jest instantly vanished, and for a time some of the men stood watching the scene outside, while others sat smoking their pipes by the fire in silence. "What think ye of things?" enquired one of the men, as Ruby came up from the mortar-gallery, to which he had descended at the first gust of the storm. "I don't know what to think," said he gravely. "It's clear enough that we shall have a stiffish gale. I think little of that with a tight craft below me and plenty of sea-room; but I don't know what to think of a _beacon_ in a gale." As he spoke another furious burst of wind shook the place, and a flash of vivid lightning was speedily followed by a crash of thunder, that caused some hearts there to beat faster and harder than usual. "Pooh!" cried Bremner, as he proceeded coolly to wash up his dishes, "that's nothing, boys. Has not this old timber house weathered all the gales o' last winter, and d'ye think it's goin' to come down before a summer breeze? Why, there's a lighthouse in France, called the Tour de Cordouan, which rises right out o' the sea, an' I'm told it had some fearful gales to try its metal when it was buildin'. So don't go an' git narvous." "Who's gittin' narvous?" exclaimed George Forsyth, at whom Bremner had looked when he made the last remark. "Sure ye misjudge him," cried O'Connor. "It's only another twist o' the toothick. But it's all very well in you to spake lightly o' gales in that fashion. Wasn't the Eddy-stone Lighthouse cleared away wan stormy night, with the engineer and all the men, an' was niver more heard on?" "That's true," said Ruby. "Come, Bremner, I have heard you say that you had read all about that business. Let's hear the story; it will help to while away the time, for there's no chance of anyone gettin' to sleep with such a row outside." "I wish it may be no worse than a row outside," said Forsyth in a doleful tone, as he shook his head and looked round on the party anxiously. "Wot! another fit o' the toothick?" enquired O'Connor ironically. "Don't try to put us in the dismals," said Jamie Dove, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling that solace of his leisure hours. "Let us hear about the Eddystone, Bremner; it'll cheer up our spirits a bit." "Will it though?" said Bremner, with a look that John Watt described as "awesome". "Well, we shall see." "You must know, boys----" '"Ere, light your pipe, my 'earty," said Dumsby. "Hold yer tongue, an' don't interrupt him," cried one of the men, flattening Dumsby's cap over his eyes. "And don't drop yer Aaitches," observed another, "'cause if ye do they'll fall into the sea an' be drownded, an' then yell have none left to put into their wrong places when ye wants 'em." "Come, Bremner, go on." "Well, then, boys," began Bremner, "you must know that it is more than a hundred years since the Eddystone Lighthouse was begun--in the year 1696, if I remember rightly--that would be just a hundred and thirteen years to this date. Up to that time these rocks were as great a terror to sailors as the Bell Rock is now, or, rather, as it was last year, for now that this here comfortable beacon has been put up, it's no longer a terror to nobody----" "Except Geordie Forsyth," interposed O'Connor. "Silence," cried the men. "Well," resumed Bremner, "as you all know, the Eddystone Rocks lie in the British Channel, fourteen miles from Plymouth and ten from the Ram Head, an' open to a most tremendious sea from the Bay o' Biscay and the Atlantic, as I knows well, for I've passed the place in a gale, close enough a'most to throw a biscuit on the rocks. "They are named the Eddystone Rocks because of the whirls and eddies that the tides make among them; but for the matter of that, the Bell Rock might be so named on the same ground. Howsever, it's six o' one an' half a dozen o' t'other. Only there's this difference, that the highest point o' the Eddystone is barely covered at high water, while here the rock is twelve or fifteen feet below water at high tide. "Well, it was settled by the Trinity Board in 1696, that a lighthouse should be put up, and a Mr. Winstanley was engaged to do it. He was an uncommon clever an' ingenious man. He used to exhibit wonderful waterworks in London; and in his house, down in Essex, he used to astonish his friends, and frighten them sometimes, with his queer contrivances. He had invented an easy chair which laid hold of anyone that sat down in it, and held him prisoner until Mr. Winstanley set him free. He made a slipper also, and laid it on his bedroom floor, and when anyone put his foot into it he touched a spring that caused a ghost to rise from the hearth. He made a summer house, too, at the foot of his garden, on the edge of a canal, and if anyone entered into it and sat down, he very soon found himself adrift on the canal. "Such a man was thought to be the best for such a difficult work as the building of a lighthouse on the Eddystone, so he was asked to undertake it, and agreed, and began it well. He finished it, too, in four years, his chief difficulty being the distance of the rock from land, and the danger of goin' backwards and forwards. The light was first shown on the 14th November, 1698. Before this the engineer had resolved to pass a night in the building, which he did with a party of men; but he was compelled to pass more than a night, for it came on to blow furiously, and they were kept prisoners for eleven days, drenched with spray all the time, and hard up for provisions. "It was said the sprays rose a hundred feet above the lantern of this first Eddystone Lighthouse. Well, it stood till the year 1703, when repairs became necessary, and Mr. Winstanley went down to Plymouth to superintend. It had been prophesied that this lighthouse would certainly be carried away. But dismal prophecies are always made about unusual things. If men were to mind prophecies there would be precious little done in this world. Howsever, the prophecies unfortunately came true. Winstanley's friends advised him not to go to stay in it, but he was so confident of the strength of his work that he said he only wished to have the chance o' bein' there in the greatest storm that ever blew, that he might see what effect it would have on the buildin'. Poor man! he had his wish. On the night of the 26th November a terrible storm arose, the worst that had been for many years, and swept the lighthouse entirely away. Not a vestige of it or the people on it was ever seen afterwards. Only a few bits of the iron fastenings were left fixed in the rocks." "That was terrible," said Forsyth, whose uneasiness was evidently increasing with the rising storm. "Ay, but the worst of it was," continued Bremner, "that, owing to the absence of the light, a large East Indiaman went on the rocks immediately after, and became a total wreck. This, however, set the Trinity House on putting up another which was begun in 1706, and the light shown in 1708. This tower was ninety-two feet high, built partly of wood and partly of stone. It was a strong building, and stood for forty-nine years. Mayhap it would have been standin' to this day but for an accident, which you shall hear of before I have done. While this lighthouse was building, a French privateer carried off all the workmen prisoners to France, but they were set at liberty by the King, because their work was of such great use to all nations. "The lighthouse, when finished, was put in charge of two keepers, with instructions to hoist a flag when anything was wanted from the shore. One of these men became suddenly ill, and died. Of course his comrade hoisted the signal, but the weather was so bad that it was found impossible to send a boat off for four weeks. The poor keeper was so afraid that people might suppose he had murdered his companion that he kept the corpse beside him all that time. What his feelin's could have been I don't know, but they must have been awful; for, besides the horror of such a position in such a lonesome place, the body decayed to an extent----" "That'll do, lad; don't be too partickler," said Jamie Dove. The others gave a sigh of relief at the interruption, and Bremner continued-- "There were always _three_ keepers in the Eddystone after that. Well, it was in the year 1755, on the 2nd December, that one o' the keepers went to snuff the candles, for they only burned candles in the lighthouses at that time, and before that time great open grates with coal fires were the most common; but there were not many lights either of one kind or another in those days. On gettin' up to the lantern he found it was on fire. All the efforts they made failed to put it out,' and it was soon burned down. Boats put off to them, but they only succeeded in saving the keepers; and of them, one went mad on reaching the shore, and ran off, and never was heard of again; and another, an old man, died from the effects of melted lead which had run down his throat from the roof of the burning lighthouse. They did not believe him when he said he had swallowed lead, but after he died it was found to be a fact. "The tower became red-hot, and burned for five days before it was utterly destroyed. This was the end o' the second Eddystone. Its builder was a Mr. John Rudyerd, a silk mercer of London. "The third Eddystone, which has now stood for half a century as firm as the rock itself, and which bids fair to stand till the end of time, was begun in 1756 and completed in 1759. It was lighted by means of twenty-four candles. Of Mr. Smeaton, the engineer who built it, those who knew him best said that 'he had never undertaken anything without completing it to the satisfaction of his employers'. "D'ye know, lads," continued Bremner in a half-musing tone, "I've sometimes been led to couple this character of Smeaton with the text that he put round the top of the first room of the lighthouse--'Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it'; and also the words, 'Praise God', which he cut in Latin on the last stone, the lintel of the lantern door. I think these words had somethin' to do with the success of the last Eddystone Lighthouse." "I agree with you," said Robert Selkirk, with a nod of hearty approval; "and, moreover, I think the Bell Rock Lighthouse stands a good chance of equal success, for whether he means to carve texts on the stones or not I don't know, but I feel assured that _our_ engineer is animated by the same spirit." When Bremner's account of the Eddystone came to a close, most of the men had finished their third or fourth pipes, yet no one proposed going to rest. The storm without raged so furiously that they felt a strong disinclination to separate. At last, however, Peter Logan rose, and said he would turn in for a little. Two or three of the others also rose, and were about to ascend to their barrack, when a heavy sea struck the building, causing it to quiver to its foundation. CHAPTER XXIII THE STORM "'Tis a fearful night," said Logan, pausing with his foot on the first step of the ladder. "Perhaps we had better sit up." "What's the use?" said O'Connor, who was by nature reckless. "Av the beacon howlds on, we may as well slape as not; an' if it don't howld on, why, we'll be none the worse o' slapin' anyhow." "_I_ mean to sit up," said Forsyth, whose alarm was aggravated by another fit of violent toothache. "So do I," exclaimed several of the men, as another wave dashed against the beacon, and a quantity of spray came pouring down from the rooms above. This latter incident put an end to further conversation. While some sprang up the ladder to see where the leak had occurred, Ruby opened the door, which was on the lee side of the building, and descended to the mortar-gallery to look after his tools, which lay there. Here he was exposed to the full violence of the gale, for, as we have said, this first floor of the beacon was not protected by sides. There was sufficient light to enable him to see all round for a considerable distance. The sight was not calculated to comfort him. The wind was whistling with what may be termed a vicious sound among the beams, to one of which Ruby was obliged to cling to prevent his being carried away. The sea was bursting, leaping, and curling wildly over the rocks, which were now quite covered, and as he looked down through the chinks in the boards of the floor, he could see the foam whirling round the beams of his trembling abode, and leaping up as if to seize him. As the tide rose higher and higher, the waves roared straight through below the floor, their curling backs rising terribly near to where he stood, and the sprays drenching him and the whole edifice completely. As he gazed into the dark distance, where the turmoil of waters seemed to glimmer with ghostly light against a sky of the deepest black, he missed the light of the _Smeaton_, which, up to that time, had been moored as near to the lee of the rock as was consistent with safety. He fancied she must have gone down, and it was not till next day that the people on the beacon knew that she had parted her cables, and had been obliged to make for the Firth of Forth for shelter from the storm. While he stood looking anxiously in the direction of the tender, a wave came so near to the platform that he almost involuntarily leaped up the ladder for safety. It broke before reaching the beacon, and the spray dashed right over it, carrying away several of the smith's tools. "Ho, boys! lend a hand here, some of you," shouted Ruby, as he leaped down on the mortar-gallery again. Jamie Dove, Bremner, O'Connor, and several others were at his side in a moment, and, in the midst of tremendous sprays, they toiled to secure the movable articles that lay there. These were passed up to the sheltered parts of the house; but not without great danger to all who stood on the exposed gallery below. Presently two of the planks were torn up by a sea, and several bags of coal, a barrel of small beer, and a few casks containing lime and sand, were all swept away. The men would certainly have shared the fate of these, had they not clung to the beams until the sea had passed. As nothing remained after that which could be removed to the room above, they left the mortar-gallery to its fate, and returned to the kitchen, where they were met by the anxious glances and questions of their comrades. The fire, meanwhile, could scarcely be got to burn, and the whole place was full of smoke, besides being wet with the sprays that burst over the roof, and found out all the crevices that had not been sufficiently stopped up. Attending to these leaks occupied most of the men at intervals during the night. Ruby and his friend the smith spent much of the time in the doorway, contemplating the gradual destruction of their workshop. For some time the gale remained steady, and the anxiety of the men began to subside a little, as they became accustomed to the ugly twisting of the great beams, and found that no evil consequences followed. In the midst of this confusion, poor Forsyth's anxiety of mind became as nothing compared with the agony of his toothache! Bremner had already made several attempts to persuade the miserable man to have it drawn, but without success. "I could do it quite easy," said he, "only let me get a hold of it, an' before you could wink I'd have it out." "Well, you may try," cried Forsyth in desperation, with a face of ashy paleness. It was an awful situation truly. In danger of his life; suffering the agonies of toothache, and with the prospect of torments unbearable from an inexpert hand; for Forsyth did not believe in Bremner's boasted powers. "What'll you do it with?" he enquired meekly. "Jamie Dove's small pincers. Here they are," said Bremner, moving about actively in his preparations, as if he enjoyed such work uncommonly. By this time the men had assembled round the pair, and almost forgot the storm in the interest of the moment. "Hold him, two of you," said Bremner, when his victim was seated submissively on a cask. "You don't need to hold me," said Forsyth, in a gentle tone. "Don't we!" said Bremner. "Here, Dove, Ned, grip his arms, and some of you stand by to catch his legs; but you needn't touch them unless he kicks. Ruby, you're a strong fellow; hold his head." The men obeyed. At that moment Forsyth would have parted with his dearest hopes in life to have escaped, and the toothache, strange to say, left him entirely; but he was a plucky fellow at bottom; having agreed to have it done, he would not draw back. Bremner introduced the pincers slowly, being anxious to get a good hold of the tooth. Forsyth uttered a groan in anticipation! Alarmed lest he should struggle too soon, Bremner made a sudden grasp and caught the tooth. A wrench followed; a yell was the result, and the pincers slipped! This was fortunate, for he had caught the wrong tooth. "Now be aisy, boy," said Ned O'Connor, whose sympathies were easily roused. "Once more," said Bremner, as the unhappy man opened his mouth. "Be still, and it will be all the sooner over." Again Bremner inserted the instrument, and fortunately caught the right tooth. He gave a terrible tug, that produced its corresponding howl; but the tooth held on. Again! again! again! and the beacon house resounded with the deadly yells of the unhappy man, who struggled violently, despite the strength of those who held him. "Och! poor sowl!" ejaculated O'Connor. Bremner threw all his strength into a final wrench, which tore away the pincers and left the tooth as firm as ever! Forsyth leaped up and dashed his comrades right and left. "That'll do," he roared, and darted up the ladder into the apartment above, through which he ascended to the barrack-room, and flung himself on his bed. At the same time a wave burst on the beacon with such force that every man there, except Forsyth, thought it would be carried away. The wave not only sprang up against the house, but the spray, scarcely less solid than the wave, went quite over it, and sent down showers of water on the men below. Little cared Forsyth for that. He lay almost stunned on his couch, quite regardless of the storm. To his surprise, however, the toothache did not return. Nay, to make a long story short, it never again returned to that tooth till the end of his days! The storm now blew its fiercest, and the men sat in silence in the kitchen listening to the turmoil, and to the thundering blows given by the sea to their wooden house. Suddenly the beacon received a shock so awful, and so thoroughly different from any that it had previously received, that the men sprang to their feet in consternation. Ruby and the smith were looking out at the doorway at the time, and both instinctively grasped the woodwork near them, expecting every instant that the whole structure would be carried away; but it stood fast. They speculated a good deal on the force of the blow they had received, but no one hit on the true cause; and it was not until some days later that they discovered that a huge rock of fully a ton weight had been washed against the beams that night. While they were gazing at the wild storm, a wave broke up the mortar-gallery altogether, and sent its remaining contents into the sea. All disappeared in a moment; nothing was left save the powerful beams to which the platform had been nailed. There was a small boat attached to the beacon. It hung from two davits, on a level with the kitchen, about thirty feet above the rock. This had got filled by the sprays, and the weight of water proving too much for the tackling, it gave way at the bow shortly after the destruction of the mortar-gallery, and the boat hung suspended by the stern-tackle. Here it swung for a few minutes, and then was carried away by a sea. The same sea sent an eddy of foam round towards the door and drenched the kitchen, so that the door had to be shut, and as the fire had gone out, the men had to sit and await their fate by the light of a little oil-lamp. They sat in silence, for the noise was now so great that it was difficult to hear voices, unless when they were raised to a high pitch. Thus passed that terrible night; and the looks of the men, the solemn glances, the closed eyes, the silently moving lips, showed that their thoughts were busy reviewing bygone days and deeds; perchance in making good resolutions for the future--"if spared!" Morning brought a change. The rush of the sea was indeed still tremendous, but the force of the gale was broken and the danger was past. CHAPTER XXIV A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS Time rolled on, and the lighthouse at length began to grow. It did not rise slowly, as does an ordinary building. The courses of masonry having been formed and fitted on shore during the winter, had only to be removed from the work-yard at Arbroath to the rock, where they were laid, mortared, wedged, and trenailed, as fast as they could be landed. Thus, foot by foot it grew, and soon began to tower above its foundation. From the foundation upwards for thirty feet it was built solid. From this point rose the spiral staircase leading to the rooms above. We cannot afford space to trace its erection step by step, neither is it desirable that we should do so. But it is proper to mention, that there were, as might be supposed, leading points in the process--eras, as it were, in the building operations. The first of these, of course, was the laying of the foundation stone, which was done ceremoniously, with all the honours. The next point was the occasion when the tower showed itself for the first time above water at full tide. This was a great event. It was proof positive that the sea had been conquered; for many a time before that event happened had the sea done its best to level the whole erection with the rock. Three cheers announced and celebrated the fact, and a "glass" all round stamped it on the memories of the men. Another noteworthy point was the connexion--the marriage, if the simile may be allowed--of the tower and the beacon. This occurred when the former rose to a few feet above high-water mark, and was effected by means of a rope-bridge, which was dignified by the sailors with the name of "Jacob's ladder". Heretofore the beacon and lighthouse had stood in close relation to each other. They were thenceforward united by a stronger tie; and it is worthy of record that their attachment lasted until the destruction of the beacon after the work was done. Jacob's ladder was fastened a little below the doorway of the beacon. Its other end rested on, and rose with, the wall of the tower. At first it sloped downward from beacon to tower; gradually it became horizontal; then it sloped upward. When this happened it was removed, and replaced by a regular wooden bridge, which extended from the doorway of the one structure to that of the other. Along this way the men could pass to and fro at all tides, and during any time of the day or night. This was a matter of great importance, as the men were no longer so dependent on tides as they had been, and could often work as long as their strength held out. Although the work was regular, and, as some might imagine, rather monotonous, there were not wanting accidents and incidents to enliven the routine of daily duty. The landing of the boats in rough weather with stones, &c., was a never-failing source of anxiety, alarm, and occasionally amusement. Strangers sometimes visited the rock, too, but these visits were few and far between. Accidents were much less frequent, however, than might have been expected in a work of the kind. It was quite an event, something to talk about for days afterwards, when poor John Bonnyman, one of the masons, lost a finger. The balance crane was the cause of this accident. We may remark, in passing, that this balance crane was a very peculiar and clever contrivance, which deserves a little notice. It may not have occurred to readers who are unacquainted with mechanics that the raising of ponderous stones to a great height is not an easy matter. As long as the lighthouse was low, cranes were easily raised on the rock, but when it became too high for the cranes to reach their heads up to the top of the tower, what was to be done? Block-tackles could not be fastened to the skies! Scaffolding in such a situation would not have survived a moderate gale. In these circumstances Mr. Stevenson constructed a _balance_ crane, which was fixed in the centre of the tower, and so arranged that it could be raised along with the rising works. This crane resembled a cross in form. At one arm was hung a movable weight, which could be run out to its extremity, or fixed at any part of it. The other arm was the one by means of which the stones were hoisted. When a stone had to be raised; its weight was ascertained, and the movable weight was so fixed as _exactly_ to counterbalance it. By this simple contrivance all the cumbrous and troublesome machinery of long guys and bracing-chains extending from the crane to the rock below were avoided. Well, Bonnyman was attending to the working of the crane, and directing the lowering of a stone into its place, when he inadvertently laid his left hand on a part of the machinery where it was brought into contact with the chain, which passed over his forefinger, and cut it so nearly off that it was left hanging by a mere shred of skin. The poor man was at once sent off in a fast rowing boat to Arbroath, where the finger was removed and properly dressed.[1] [Footnote 1: It is right to state that this man afterwards obtained a lightkeeper's situation from the Board of Commissioners of Northern Lights, who seem to hare taken a kindly interest in all their servants, especially those of them who had suffered in the service.] A much more serious accident occurred at another time, however, which resulted in the death of one of the seamen belonging to the _Smeaton_. It happened thus. The _Smeaton_ had been sent from Arbroath with a cargo of stones one morning, and reached the rock about half-past six o'clock A.M. The mate and one of the men, James Scott, a youth of eighteen years of age, got into the sloop's boat to make fast the hawser to the floating buoy of her moorings. The tides at the time were very strong, and the mooring-chain when sweeping the ground had caught hold of a rock or piece of wreck, by which the chain was so shortened, that when the tide flowed the buoy got almost under water, and little more than the ring appeared at the surface. When the mate and Scott were in the act of making the hawser fast to the ring, the chain got suddenly disentangled at the bottom, and the large buoy, measuring about seven feet in length by three in diameter in the middle, vaulted upwards with such force that it upset the boat, which instantly filled with water. The mate with great difficulty succeeded in getting hold of the gunwale, but Scott seemed to have been stunned by the buoy, for he lay motionless for a few minutes on the water, apparently unable to make any exertion to save himself, for he did not attempt to lay hold of the oars or thwarts which floated near him. A boat was at once sent to the rescue, and the mate was picked up, but Scott sank before it reached the spot. This poor lad was a great favourite in the service, and for a time his melancholy end cast a gloom over the little community at the Bell Rock. The circumstances of the case were also peculiarly distressing in reference to the boy's mother, for her husband had been for three years past confined in a French prison, and her son had been the chief support of the family. In order in some measure to make up to the poor woman for the loss of the monthly aliment regularly allowed her by her lost son, it was suggested that a younger brother of the deceased might be taken into the service. This appeared to be a rather delicate proposition, but it was left to the landing-master to arrange according to circumstances. Such was the resignation, and at the same time the spirit of the poor woman, that she readily accepted the proposal, and in a few days the younger Scott was actually afloat in the place of his brother. On this distressing case being represented to the Board, the Commissioners granted an annuity of £5 to the lad's mother. The painter who represents only the sunny side of nature portrays a one-sided, and therefore a false view of things, for, as everyone knows, nature is not all sunshine. So, if an author makes his pen-and-ink pictures represent only the amusing and picturesque view of things, he does injustice to his subject. We have no pleasure, good reader, in saddening you by accounts of "fatal accidents", but we have sought to convey to you a correct impression of things, and scenes, and incidents at the building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, as they actually were, and looked, and occurred. Although there was much, _very_ much, of risk, exposure, danger, and trial connected with the erection of that building, there was, in the good providence of God, very little of severe accident or death. Yet that little must be told,--at least touched upon,--else will our picture remain incomplete as well as untrue. Now, do not imagine, with a shudder, that these remarks are the prelude to something that will harrow up your feelings. Not so. They are merely the apology, if apology be needed, for the introduction of another "accident". Well, then. One morning the artificers landed on the rock at a quarter-past six, and as all hands were required for a piece of special work that day, they breakfasted on the beacon, instead of returning to the tender, and spent the day on the rock. The special work referred to was the raising of the crane from the eighth to the ninth course--an operation which required all the strength that could be mustered for working the guy-tackles. This, be it remarked, was before the balance crane, already described, had been set up; and as the top of the crane stood at the time about thirty-five feet above the rock, it became much more unmanageable than heretofore. At the proper hour all hands were called, and detailed to their several posts on the tower, and about the rock. In order to give additional purchase or power in tightening the tackle, one of the blocks of stone was suspended at the end of the movable beam of the crane, which, by adding greatly to the weight, tended to slacken the guys or supporting-ropes in the direction to which the beam with the stone was pointed, and thereby enabled the men more easily to brace them one after another. While the beam was thus loaded, and in the act of swinging round from one guy to another, a great strain was suddenly brought upon the opposite tackle, with the end of which the men had very improperly neglected to take a turn round some stationary object, which would have given them the complete command of the tackle. Owing to this simple omission, the crane, with the large stone at the end of the beam, got a preponderancy to one side, and, the tackle alluded to having rent, it fell upon the building with a terrible crash. The men fled right and left to get out of its way; but one of them, Michael Wishart, a mason, stumbled over an uncut trenail and rolled on his back, and the ponderous crane fell upon him. Fortunately it fell so that his body lay between the great shaft and the movable beam, and thus he escaped with his life, but his feet were entangled with the wheel-work, and severely injured. Wishart was a robust and spirited young fellow, and bore his sufferings with wonderful firmness while he was being removed. He was laid upon one of the narrow frame-beds of the beacon, and despatched in a boat to the tender. On seeing the boat approach with the poor man stretched on a bed covered with blankets, and his face overspread with that deadly pallor which is the usual consequence of excessive bleeding, the seamen's looks betrayed the presence of those well-known but indescribable sensations which one experiences when brought suddenly into contact with something horrible. Relief was at once experienced, however, when Wishart's voice was heard feebly accosting those who first stepped into the boat. He was immediately sent on shore, where the best surgical advice was obtained, and he began to recover steadily, though slowly. Meanwhile, having been one of the principal masons, Robert Selkirk was appointed to his vacant post. And now let us wind up this chapter of accidents with an account of the manner in which a party of strangers, to use a slang but expressive phrase, came to grief during a visit to the Bell Rock. One morning, a trim little vessel was seen by the workmen making for the rock at low tide. From its build and size, Ruby at once judged it to be a pleasure yacht. Perchance some delicate shades in the seamanship, displayed in managing the little vessel, had influenced the sailor in forming his opinion. Be this as it may, the vessel brought up under the lee of the rock and cast anchor. It turned out to be a party of gentlemen from Leith, who had run down the firth to see the works. The weather was fine, and the sea calm, but these yachters had yet to learn that fine weather and a calm sea do not necessarily imply easy or safe landing at the Bell Rock! They did not know that the swell which had succeeded a recent gale was heavier than it appeared to be at a distance; and, worst of all, they did not know, or they did not care to remember, that "there is a time for all things", and that the time for landing at the Bell Rock is limited. Seeing that the place was covered with workmen, the strangers lowered their little boat and rowed towards them. "They're mad," said Logan, who, with a group of the men, watched the motions of their would-be visitors. "No," observed Joe Dumsby; "they are brave, but hignorant." "Faix, they won't be ignorant long!" cried Ned O'Connor, as the little boat approached the rock, propelled by two active young rowers in Guernsey shirts, white trousers, and straw hats. "You're stout, lads, both of ye, an' purty good hands at the oar, _for gintlemen_; but av ye wos as strong as Samson it would puzzle ye to stem these breakers, so ye better go back." The yachters did not hear the advice, and they would not have taken it if they had heard it. They rowed straight up towards the landing-place, and, so far, showed themselves expert selectors of the right channel; but they soon came within the influence of the seas, which burst on the rock and sent up jets of spray to leeward. These jets had seemed very pretty and harmless when viewed from the deck of the yacht, but they were found on a nearer approach to be quite able, and, we might almost add, not unwilling, to toss up the boat like a ball, and throw it and its occupants head over heels into the air. But the rowers, like most men of their class, were not easily cowed. They watched their opportunity--allowed the waves to meet and rush on, and then pulled into the midst of the foam, in the hope of crossing to the shelter of the rock before the approach of the next wave. Heedless of a warning cry from Ned O'Connor, whose anxiety began to make him very uneasy, the amateur sailors strained every nerve to pull through, while their companion who sat at the helm in the stern of the boat seemed to urge them on to redoubled exertions. Of course their efforts were in vain. The next billow caught the boat on its foaming crest, and raised it high in the air. For one moment the wave rose between the boat and the men on the rock, and hid her from view, causing Ned to exclaim, with a genuine groan, "'Arrah! they's gone!" But they were not; the boat's head had been carefully kept to the sea, and, although she had been swept back a considerable way, and nearly half-filled with water, she was still afloat. The chief engineer now hailed the gentlemen, and advised them to return and remain on board their vessel until the state of the tide would permit him to send a proper boat for them. In the meantime, however, a large boat from the floating light, pretty deeply laden with lime, cement, and sand, approached, when the strangers, with a view to avoid giving trouble, took their passage in her to the rock. The accession of three passengers to a boat, already in a lumbered state, put her completely out of trim, and, as it unluckily happened, the man who steered her on this occasion was not in the habit of attending the rock, and was not sufficiently aware of the run of the sea at the entrance of the eastern creek. Instead, therefore, of keeping close to the small rock called Johnny Gray, he gave it, as Ruby expressed it, "a wide berth". A heavy sea struck the boat, drove her to leeward, and, the oars getting entangled among the rocks and seaweed, she became unmanageable. The next sea threw her on a ledge, and, instantly leaving her, she canted seaward upon her gunwale, throwing her crew and part of her cargo into the water. All this was the work of a few seconds. The men had scarce time to realize their danger ere they found themselves down under the water; and when they rose gasping to the surface, it was to behold the next wave towering over them, ready to fall on their heads. When it fell it scattered crew, cargo, and boat in all directions. Some clung to the gunwale of the boat, others to the seaweed, and some to the thwarts and oars which floated about, and which quickly carried them out of the creek to a considerable distance from the spot where the accident happened. The instant the boat was overturned, Ruby darted towards one of the rock boats which lay near to the spot where the party of workmen who manned it had landed that morning. Wilson, the landing-master, was at his side in a moment. "Shove off, lad, and jump in!" cried Wilson. There was no need to shout for the crew of the boat. The men were already springing into her as she floated off. In a few minutes all the men in the water were rescued, with the exception of one of the strangers, named Strachan. This gentleman had been swept out to a small insulated rock, where he clung to the seaweed with great resolution, although each returning sea laid him completely under water, and hid him for a second or two from the spectators on the rock. In this situation he remained for ten or twelve minutes; and those who know anything of the force of large waves will understand how severely his strength and courage must have been tried during that time. When the boat reached the rock the most difficult part was still to perform, as it required the greatest nicety of management to guide her in a rolling sea, so as to prevent her from being carried forcibly against the man whom they sought to save. "Take the steering-oar, Ruby; you are the best hand at this," said Wilson. Ruby seized the oar, and, notwithstanding the breach of the seas and the narrowness of the passage, steered the boat close to the rock at the proper moment. "Starboard, noo, stiddy!" shouted John Watt, who leant suddenly over the bow of the boat and seized poor Strachan by the hair. In another moment he was pulled inboard with the aid of Selkirk's stout arms, and the boat was backed out of danger. "Now, a cheer, boys!" cried Ruby. The men did not require urging to this. It burst from them with tremendous energy, and was echoed back by their comrades on the rock, in the midst of whose wild hurrah, Ned O'Connor's voice was distinctly heard to swell from a cheer into a yell of triumph! The little rock on which this incident occurred was called _Strachan's Ledge_, and it is known by that name at the present day. CHAPTER XXV THE BELL ROCK IN A FOG--NARROW ESCAPE OF THE _SMEATON_ Change of scene is necessary to the healthful working of the human mind; at least, so it is said. Acting upon the assumption that the saying is true, we will do our best in this chapter for the human minds that condescend to peruse these pages, by leaping over a space of time, and by changing at least the character of the scene, if not the locality. We present the Bell Rock under a new aspect, that of a dense fog and a dead calm. This is by no means an unusual aspect of things at the Bell Rock, but as we have hitherto dwelt chiefly on storms, it may be regarded as new to the reader. It was a June morning. There had been few breezes and no storms for some weeks past, so that the usual swell of the ocean had gone down, and there were actually no breakers on the rock at low water, and no ruffling of the surface at all at high tide. The tide had about two hours before overflowed the rock, and driven the men into the beacon house, where, having breakfasted, they were at the time enjoying themselves with pipes and small talk. The lighthouse had grown considerably by this time. Its unfinished top was more than eighty feet above the foundation; but the fog was so dense that only the lower part of the column could be seen from the beacon, the summit being lost, as it were, in the clouds. Nevertheless that summit, high though it was, did not yet project beyond the reach of the sea. A proof of this had been given in a very striking manner, some weeks before the period about which we now write, to our friend George Forsyth. George was a studious man, and fond of reading the Bible critically. He was proof against laughter and ridicule, and was wont sometimes to urge the men into discussions. One of his favourite arguments was somewhat as follows-- "Boys," he was wont to say, "you laugh at me for readin' the Bible carefully. You would not laugh at a schoolboy for reading his books carefully, would you? Yet the learnin' of the way of salvation is of far more consequence to me than book learnin' is to a schoolboy. An astronomer is never laughed at for readin' his books o' geometry an' suchlike day an' night--even to the injury of his health--but what is an astronomer's business to him compared with the concerns of my soul to _me_? Ministers tell me there are certain things I must know and believe if I would be saved--such as the death and resurrection of our Saviour Jesus Christ; and they also point out that the Bible speaks of certain Christians, who did well in refusin' to receive the Gospel at the hands of the apostles, without first enquirin' into these things, to see if they were true. Now, lads, _if_ these things that so many millions believe in, and that you all profess to believe in, are lies, then you may well laugh at me for enquirin' into them; but if they be true, why, I think the devils themselves must be laughing at _you_ for _not_ enquirin' into them!" Of course, Forsyth found among such a number of intelligent men, some who could argue with him, as well as some who could laugh at him. He also found one or two who sympathized openly, while there were a few who agreed in their hearts, although they did not speak. Well, it was this tendency to study on the part of Forsyth, that led him to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near one of the windows of the lowest room. Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that. The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a ton of water coming down through story after story, carrying lime, mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along with it. To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror, which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them to the door, just in time to see their comrade's long legs carry him across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the bridge. But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the beacon in the fog, and the calm of that still morning in June. Some of the men inside were playing draughts, others were finishing their breakfast; one was playing "Auld Lang Syne", with many extempore flourishes and trills, on a flute, which was very much out of tune. A few were smoking, of course (where exists the band of Britons who can get on without that?), and several were sitting astride on the cross-beams below, bobbing--not exactly for whales, but for any monster of the deep that chose to turn up. The men fishing, and the beacon itself, loomed large and mysterious in the half-luminous fog. Perhaps this was the reason that the sea-gulls flew so near them, and gave forth an occasional and very melancholy cry, as if of complaint at the changed appearance of things. "There's naethin' to be got the day," said John Watt, rather peevishly, as he pulled up his line and found the bait gone. Baits are _always_ found gone when lines are pulled up! This would seem to be an angling law of nature. At all events, it would seem to have been a very aggravating law of nature on the present occasion, for John Watt frowned and growled to himself as he put on another bait. "There's a bite!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, with a look of doubt, at the same time feeling his line. "Poo'd in then," said Watt ironically. "No, 'e's hoff," observed Joe. "Hm! he never was on," muttered Watt. "What are you two growling at?" said Ruby, who sat on one of the beams at the other side. "At our luck, Ruby," said Joe. "Ha! was that a nibble?" ("Naethin' o' the kind," from Watt.) "It was! as I live it's large; an 'addock, I think." "A naddock!" sneered Watt; "mair like a bit o' tangle than----eh! losh me! it _is_ a fish----" "Well done, Joe!" cried Bremner, from the doorway above, as a large rock-cod was drawn to the surface of the water. "Stay, it's too large to pull up with the line. I'll run down and gaff it," cried Ruby, fastening his own line to the beam, and descending to the water by the usual ladder, on one of the main beams. "Now, draw him this way--gently, not too roughly--take time. Ah! that was a miss--he's off; no! Again; now then----" Another moment, and a goodly cod of about ten pounds weight was wriggling on the iron hook which Ruby handed up to Dumsby, who mounted with his prize in triumph to the kitchen. From that moment the fish began to "take". While the men were thus busily engaged, a boat was rowing about in the fog, vainly endeavouring to find the rock. It was the boat of two fast friends, Jock Swankie and Davy Spink. These worthies were in a rather exhausted condition, having been rowing almost incessantly from daybreak. "I tell 'ee what it is," said Swankie; "I'll be hanged if I poo another stroke." He threw his oar into the boat, and looked sulky. "It's my belief," said his companion, "that we ought to be near aboot Denmark be this time." "Denmark or Rooshia, it's a' ane to me," rejoined Swankie; "I'll hae a smoke." So saying, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco box, and began to cut the tobacco. Davy did the same. Suddenly both men paused, for they heard a sound. Each looked enquiringly at the other, and then both gazed into the thick fog. "Is that a ship?" said Davy Spink. They seized their oars hastily. "The beacon, as I'm a leevin' sinner!" exclaimed Swankie. If Spink had not backed his oar at that moment, there is some probability that Swankie would have been a dead, instead of a living, sinner in a few minutes, for they had almost run upon the north-east end of the Bell Rock, and distinctly heard the sound of voices on the beacon. A shout settled the question at once, for it was replied to by a loud holloa from Ruby. In a short time the boat was close to the beacon, and the water was so very calm that day, that they were able to venture to hand the packet of letters with which they had come off into the beacon, even although the tide was full. "Letters," said Swankie, as he reached out his hand with the packet. "Hurrah!" cried the men, who were all assembled on the mortar-gallery, looking down at the fishermen, excepting Ruby, Watt, and Dumsby, who were still on the cross-beams below. "Mind the boat; keep her aff," said Swankie, stretching out his hand with the packet to the utmost, while Dumsby descended the ladder and held out his hand to receive it. "Take care," cried the men in chorus, for news from shore was always a very exciting episode in their career, and the idea of the packet being lost filled them with sudden alarm. The shout and the anxiety together caused the very result that was dreaded. The packet fell into the sea and sank, amid a volley of yells. It went down slowly. Before it had descended a fathom, Ruby's head cleft the water, and in a moment he returned to the surface with the packet in his hand amid a wild cheer of joy; but this was turned into a cry of alarm, as Ruby was carried away by the tide, despite his utmost efforts to regain the beacon. The boat was at once pushed off, but so strong was the current there, that Ruby was carried past the rock, and a hundred yards away to sea, before the boat overtook him. The moment he was pulled into her he shook himself, and then tore off the outer covering of the packet in order to save the letters from being wetted. He had the great satisfaction of finding them almost uninjured. He had the greater satisfaction, thereafter, of feeling that he had done a deed which induced every man in the beacon that night to thank him half a dozen times over; and he had the greatest possible satisfaction in finding that among the rest he had saved two letters addressed to himself, one from Minnie Gray, and the other from his uncle. The scene in the beacon when the contents of the packet were delivered was interesting. Those who had letters devoured them, and in many cases read them (unwittingly) half-aloud. Those who had none read the newspapers, and those who had neither papers nor letters listened. Ruby's letter ran as follows (we say his letter, because the other letter was regarded, comparatively, as nothing):-- "ARBROATH, &c. "DARLING RUBY,--I have just time to tell you that we have made a discovery which will surprise you. Let me detail it to you circumstantially. Uncle Ogilvy and I were walking on the pier a few days ago, when we overheard a conversation between two sailors, who did not see that we were approaching. We would not have stopped to listen, but the words we heard arrested our attention, so----O what a pity! there, Big Swankie has come for our letters. Is it not strange that _he_ should be the man to take them off? I meant to have given you such an account of it, especially a description of the case. They won't wait. Come ashore as soon as you can, dearest Ruby." The letter broke off here abruptly. It was evident that the writer had been obliged to close it abruptly, for she had forgotten to sign her name. "'A description of the case'; _what_ case?" muttered Ruby in vexation. "O Minnie, Minnie, in your anxiety to go into details you have omitted to give me the barest outline. Well, well, darling, I'll just take the will for the deed, but I _wish_ you had----" Here Ruby ceased to mutter, for Captain Ogilvy's letter suddenly occurred to his mind. Opening it hastily, he read as follows:-- "DEAR NEFFY,--I never was much of a hand at spellin', an' I'm not rightly sure o' that word, howsever, it reads all square, so ittle do. If I had been the inventer o' writin' I'd have had signs for a lot o' words. Just think how much better it would ha' bin to have put a regular [Square] like that instead o' writin' s-q-u-a-r-e. Then _round_ would have bin far better O, like that. An' crooked thus ~~~~~; see how significant an' suggestive, if I may say so; no humbug--all fair an' above-board, as the pirate said, when he ran up the black flag to the peak. "But avast speckillatin' (shiver my timbers! but that last was a pen-splitter), that's not what I sat down to write about. My object in takin' up the pen, neffy, is two-fold, 'Double, double, toil an' trouble', as Macbeath said,--if it wasn't Hamlet. "We want you to come home for a day or two, if you can git leave, lad, about this strange affair. Minnie said she was goin' to give you a full, true, and partikler account of it, so it's of no use my goin' over the same course. There's that blackguard Swankie come for the letters. Ha! it makes me chuckle. No time for more------" This letter also concluded abruptly, and without a signature. "There's a pretty kettle o' fish!" exclaimed Ruby aloud. "So 'tis, lad; so 'tis," said Bremner, who at that moment had placed a superb pot of codlings on the fire; "though why ye should say it so positively when nobody's denyin' it, is more nor I can tell." Ruby laughed, and retired to the mortar-gallery to work at the forge and ponder. He always found that he pondered best while employed in hammering, especially if his feelings were ruffled. Seizing a mass of metal, he laid it on the anvil, and gave it five or six heavy blows to straighten it a little, before thrusting it into the fire. Strange to say, these few blows of the hammer were the means, in all probability, of saving the sloop _Smeaton_ from being wrecked on the Bell Rock! That vessel had been away with Mr. Stevenson at Leith, and was returning, when she was overtaken by the calm and the fog. At the moment that Ruby began to hammer, the _Smeaton_ was within a stone's cast of the beacon, running gently before a light air which had sprung up. No one on board had the least idea that the tide had swept them so near the rock, and the ringing of the anvil was the first warning they got of their danger. The lookout on board instantly sang out, "Starboard har-r-r-d! beacon ahead!" and Ruby looked up in surprise, just as the _Smeaton_ emerged like a phantom-ship out of the fog. Her sails fluttered as she came up to the wind, and the crew were seen hurrying to and fro in much alarm. Mr. Stevenson himself stood on the quarter-deck of the little vessel, and waved his hand to assure those on the beacon that they had sheered off in time, and were safe. This incident tended to strengthen the engineer in his opinion that the two large bells which were being cast for the lighthouse, to be rung by the machinery of the revolving light, would be of great utility in foggy weather. While the _Smeaton_ was turning away, as if with a graceful bow to the men on the rock, Ruby shouted: "There are letters here for you, sir." The mate of the vessel called out at once, "Send them off in the shore-boat; we'll lay-to." No time was to be lost, for if the _Smeaton_ should get involved in the fog it might be very difficult to find her; so Ruby at once ran for the letters, and, hailing the shore-boat which lay quite close at hand, jumped into it and pushed off. They boarded the _Smeaton_ without difficulty and delivered the letters. Instead of returning to the beacon, however, Ruby was ordered to hold himself in readiness to go to Arbroath in the shore-boat with a letter from Mr. Stevenson to the superintendent of the workyard. "You can go up and see your friends in the town, if you choose," said the engineer, "but be sure to return by tomorrow's forenoon tide. We cannot dispense with your services longer than a few hours, my lad, so I shall expect you to make no unnecessary delay." "You may depend upon me, sir," said Ruby, touching his cap, as he turned away and leaped into the boat. A light breeze was now blowing, so that the sails could be used. In less than a quarter of an hour sloop and beacon were lost in the fog, and Ruby steered for the harbour of Arbroath, overjoyed at this unexpected and happy turn of events, which gave him an opportunity of solving the mystery of the letters, and of once more seeing the sweet face of Minnie Gray. But an incident occurred which delayed these desirable ends, and utterly changed the current of Ruby's fortunes for a time. CHAPTER XXVI A SUDDEN AND TREMENDOUS CHANGE IN RUBY'S FORTUNES What a variety of appropriate aphorisms there are to express the great truths of human experience! "There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip" is one of them. Undoubtedly there is. So is there "many a miss of a sweet little kiss". "The course of true love", also, "never did run smooth". Certainly not. Why should it? If it did we should doubt whether the love were true. Our own private belief is that the course of true love is always uncommonly rough, but collective human wisdom has seen fit to put the idea in the negative form. So let it stand. Ruby had occasion to reflect on these things that day, but the reflection afforded him no comfort whatever. The cause of his inconsolable state of mind is easily explained. The boat had proceeded about halfway to Arbroath when they heard the sound of oars, and in a few seconds a ship's gig rowed out of the fog towards them. Instead of passing them the gig was steered straight for the boat, and Ruby saw that it was full of men-of-war's men. He sprang up at once and seized an oar. "Out oars!" he cried. "Boys, if ever you pulled hard in your lives, do so now. It's the press-gang!" Before those few words were uttered the two men had seized the oars, for they knew well what the press-gang meant, and all three pulled with such vigour that the boat shot over the smooth sea with double speed. But they had no chance in a heavy fishing boat against the picked crew of the light gig. If the wind had been a little stronger they might have escaped, but the wind had decreased, and the small boat overhauled them yard by yard. Seeing that they had no chance, Ruby said, between his set teeth: "Will ye fight, boys?" "_I_ will," cried Davy Spink sternly, for Davy had a wife and little daughter on shore, who depended entirely on his exertions for their livelihood, so he had a strong objection to go and fight in the wars of his country. "What's the use?" muttered Big Swankie, with a savage scowl. He, too, had a strong disinclination to serve in the Royal Navy, being a lazy man, and not overburdened with courage. "They've got eight men of a crew, wi' pistols an' cutlashes." "Well, it's all up with us," cried Ruby, in a tone of sulky anger, as he tossed his oar overboard, and, folding his arms on his breast, sat sternly eyeing the gig as it approached. Suddenly a beam of hope shot into his heart. A few words will explain the cause thereof. About the time the works at the Bell Rock were in progress, the war with France and the Northern Powers was at its height, and the demand for men was so great that orders were issued for the establishment of an impress service at Dundee, Arbroath, and Aberdeen. It became therefore necessary to have some protection for the men engaged in the works. As the impress officers were extremely rigid in the execution of their duty, it was resolved to have the seamen carefully identified, and, therefore, besides being described in the usual manner in the protection-bills granted by the Admiralty, each man had a ticket given to him descriptive of his person, to which was attached a silver medal emblematical of the lighthouse service. That very week Ruby had received one of the protection-medals and tickets of the Bell Rock, a circumstance which he had forgotten at the moment. It was now in his pocket, and might perhaps save him. When the boat ranged up alongside, Ruby recognized in the officer at the helm the youth who had already given him so much annoyance. The officer also recognized Ruby, and, with a glance of surprise and pleasure, exclaimed: "What! have I bagged you at last, my slippery young lion?" Ruby smiled as he replied, "Not _quite_ yet, my persevering young jackall." (He was sorely tempted to transpose the word into jackass, but he wisely restrained himself.) "I'm not so easily caught as you think." "Eh! how? what mean you?" exclaimed the officer, with an expression of surprise, for he knew that Ruby was now in his power. "I have you safe, my lad, unless you have provided yourself with a pair of wings. Of course, I shall leave one of you to take your boat into harbour, but you may be sure that I'll not devolve that pleasant duty upon you." "_I_ have not provided myself with wings exactly," returned Ruby, pulling out his medal and ticket; "but here is something that will do quite as well" The officer's countenance fell, for he knew at once what it was. He inspected it, however, closely. "Let me see," said he, reading the description on the ticket, which ran thus-- BELL BOOK WORKYARD, ARBBOATH, _"20th June,_ 1810. _"Ruby Brand, seaman and blacksmith, in the service of the Honourable the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, aged 25 years, 5 feet 10 inches high, very powerfully made, fair complexion, straight nose, dark-blue eyes, and curling auburn hair," This description was signed by the engineer of the works; and on the obverse was written, _"The bearer, Ruby Brand, is serving as a blacksmith in the erection of the Bell Rock Lighthouse."_ "This is all very well, my fine fellow," said the officer, "but I have been deceived more than once with these medals and tickets. How am I to know that you have not stolen it from someone?" "By seeing whether the description agrees," replied Ruby. "Of course, I know that as well as you, and I don't find the description quite perfect. I would say that your hair is light-brown, now, not auburn, and your nose is a little Roman, if anything; and there's no mention of whiskers, or that delicate moustache. Why, look here," he added, turning abruptly to Big Swankie, "this might be the description of your comrade as well as, if not better than, yours. What's your name?" "Swankie, sir," said that individual ruefully, yet with a gleam of hope that the advantages of the Bell Rock medal might possibly, in some unaccountable way, accrue to himself, for he was sharp enough to see that the officer would be only too glad to find any excuse for securing Ruby. "Well, Swankie, stand up, and let's have a look at you," said the officer, glancing from the paper to the person of the fisherman, and commenting thereon. "Here we have 'very powerfully made'--no mistake about that--strong as Samson; 'fair complexion'--that's it exactly; 'auburn hair'--so it is. Auburn is a very undecided colour; there's a great deal of red in it, and no one can deny that Swankie has a good deal of red in _his_ hair." There was indeed no denying this, for it was altogether red, of an intense carroty hue. "You see, friend," continued the officer, turning to Ruby, "that the description suits Swankie very well." "True, as far as you have gone," said Ruby, with a quiet smile; "but Swankie is six feet two in his stockings, and his nose is turned up, and his hair don't curl, and his eyes are light-green, and his complexion is sallow, if I may not say yellow----" "Fair, lad; fair," said the officer, laughing in spite of himself. "Ah! Ruby Brand, you are jealous of him! Well, I see that I'm fated not to capture you, so I'll bid you good day. Meanwhile your companions will be so good as to step into my gig." The two men rose to obey. Big Swankie stepped over the gunwale, with the fling of a sulky, reckless man, who curses his fate and submits to it. Davy Spink had a very crestfallen, subdued look. He was about to follow, when a thought seemed to strike him. He turned hastily round, and Ruby was surprised to see that his eyes were suffused with tears, and that his features worked with the convulsive twitching of one who struggles powerfully to restrain his feelings. "Ruby Brand," said he, in a deep husky voice, which trembled at first, but became strong as he went on; "Ruby Brand, I deserve nae good at your hands, yet I'll ask a favour o' ye. Ye've seen the wife and the bairn, the wee ane wi' the fair curly pow. Ye ken the auld hoose. It'll be mony a lang day afore I see them again, if iver I come back ava. There's naebody left to care for them. They'll be starvin' soon, lad. Wull ye--wull ye look--doon?" Poor Davy Spink stopped here, and covered his face with his big sunburnt hands. A sudden gush of sympathy filled Ruby's heart. He started forward, and drawing from his pocket the letter with which he was charged, thrust it into Spink's hand, and said hurriedly-- "Don't fail to deliver it the first thing you do on landing. And hark'ee, Spink, go to Mrs. Brand's cottage, and tell them there _why_ I went away. Be sure you see them _all_, and explain _why_ it was. Tell Minnie Gray that I will be _certain_ to return, if God spares me." Without waiting for a reply he sprang into the gig, and gave the other boat a shove, that sent it several yards off. "Give way, lads," cried the officer, who was delighted at this unexpected change in affairs, though he had only heard enough of the conversation to confuse him as to the cause of it. "Stop! stop!" shouted Spink, tossing up his arms. "I'd rather not," returned the officer. Davy seized the oars, and, turning his boat in the direction of the gig, endeavoured to overtake it, As well might the, turkey-buzzard attempt to catch the swallow. He was left far behind, and when last seen faintly through the fog, he was standing up in the stern of the boat wringing his hands. Ruby had seated himself in the bow of the gig, with his face turned steadily towards the sea, so that no one could see it. This position he maintained in silence until the boat ranged up to what appeared like the side of a great mountain, looming through the mist. Then he turned round, and, whatever might have been the struggle within his breast, all traces of it had left his countenance, which presented its wonted appearance of good-humoured frankness. We need scarcely say that the mountain turned out to be a British man-of-war. Ruby was quickly introduced to his future messmates, and warmly received by them. Then he was left to his own free will during the remainder of that day, for the commander of the vessel was a kind man, and did not like to add to the grief of the impressed men by setting them to work at once. Thus did our hero enter the Royal Navy; and many a long and weary day and month passed by before he again set foot in his native town. CHAPTER XXVII OTHER THINGS BESIDES MURDER "WILL OUT" Meanwhile Davy Spink, with his heart full, returned slowly to the shore. He was long of reaching it, the boat being very heavy for one man to pull. On landing he hurried up to his poor little cottage, which was in a very low part of the town, and in a rather out-of-the-way corner of that part. "Janet," said he, flinging himself into a rickety old armchair that stood by the fireplace, "the press-gang has catched us at last, and they've took Big Swankie away, and, worse than that----" "Oh!" cried Janet, unable to wait far more, "that's the best news I've heard for mony a day. Ye're sure they have him safe?" "Ay, sure enough," said Spink dryly; "but ye needna be sae glad aboot it, for Swankie was aye good to _you_." "Ay, Davy," cried Janet, putting her arm round her husband's neck, and kissing him, "but he wasna good to _you_. He led ye into evil ways mony a time when ye would rather hae keepit oot o' them. Na, na, Davy, ye needna shake yer heed; I ken'd fine." "Weel, weel, hae'd yer ain way, lass, but Swankie's awa" to the wars, and so's Ruby Brand, for they've gotten him as weel." "Ruby Brand!" exclaimed the woman. "Ay, Ruby Brand; and this is the way they did it." Here Spink detailed to his helpmate, who sat with folded hands and staring eyes opposite to her husband, all that had happened. When he had concluded, they discussed the subject together. Presently the little girl came bouncing into the room, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, a dirty face, and fair ringlets very much dishevelled, and with a pitcher of hot soup in her hands. Davy caught her up, and kissing her, said abruptly, "Maggie, Big Swankie's awa' to the wars." The child looked enquiringly in her father's face, and he had to repeat his words twice before she quite realized the import of them. "Are ye jokin', daddy?" "No, Maggie; it's true. The press-gang got him and took him awa', an' I doot we'll never see him again." The little girl's expression changed while he spoke, then her lip trembled, and she burst into tears. "See there, Janet," said Spink, pointing to Maggie, and looking earnestly at his wife. "Weel-a-weel," replied Janet, somewhat softened, yet with much firmness, "I'll no deny that the man was fond o' the bairn, and it liked him weel enough; but, my certes! he wad hae made a bad man o' you if he could. But I'm real sorry for Ruby Brand; and what'll the puir lassie Gray dot Ye'll hae to gang up an' gie them the message." "So I will; but that's like somethin' to eat, I think?" Spink pointed to the soup. "Ay, it's a' we've got, so let's fa' to; and haste ye, lad. It's a sair heart she'll hae this night--wae's me!" While Spink and his wife were thus employed, Widow Brand, Minnie Gray, and Captain Ogilvy were seated at tea, round the little table in the snug kitchen of the widow's cottage. It might have been observed that there were two teapots on the table, a large one and a small, and that the captain helped himself out of the small one, and did not take either milk or sugar. But the captain's teapot did not necessarily imply tea. In fact, since the death of the captain's mother, that small teapot had been accustomed to strong drink only. It never tasted tea. "I wonder if Ruby will get leave of absence," said the captain, throwing himself back in his armchair, in order to be able to admire, with greater ease, the smoke, as it curled towards the ceiling from his mouth and pipe. "I do hope so," said Mrs. Brand, looking up from her knitting, with a little sigh. Mrs. Brand usually followed up all her remarks with a little sigh. Sometimes the sigh was very little. It depended a good deal on the nature of her remark whether the sigh was of the little, less, or least description; but it never failed, in one or other degree, to close her every observation. "I _think_ he will," said Minnie, as she poured a second cup of tea for the widow. "Ay, that's right, lass," observed the captain; "there's nothin' like hope-- 'The pleasures of hope told a flatterin' tale Regardin' the fleet when Lord Nelson get sail.' Fill me out another cup of tea, Hebe." It was a pleasant little fiction with the captain to call his beverage "tea". Minnie filled out a small cupful of the contents of the little teapot, which did, indeed, resemble tea, but which smelt marvellously like hot rum and water. "Enough, enough. Come on, Macduff! Ah! Minnie, this is prime Jamaica; it's got such a--but I forgot; you don't understand nothin' about nectar of this sort." The captain smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then said, with a sudden chuckle-- "Wasn't it odd, sister, that we should have found it all out in such an easy sort o' way? If criminals would always tell on themselves as plainly as Big Swankie did, there would be no use for lawyers." "Swankie would not have spoken so freely," said Minnie, with a laugh, "if he had known that we were listening." "That's true, girl," said the captain, with sudden gravity; "and I don't feel quite easy in my mind about that same eavesdropping. It's a dirty thing to do--especially for an old sailor, who likes everything to be fair and above-board; but then, you see, the natur' o' the words we couldn't help hearin' justified us in waitin' to hear more. Yes, it was quite right, as it turned out A little more tea, Minnie. Thank'ee, lass. Now go, get the case, and let us look over it again." The girl rose, and, going to a drawer, quickly returned with a small red leather case in her hand. It was the identical jewel case that Swankie had found on the dead body at the Bell Rock! "Ah! that's it; now, let us see; let us see." He laid aside his pipe, and for some time felt all his pockets, and looked round the room, as if in search of something. "What are you looking for, uncle?" "The specs, lass; these specs'll be the death o' me." Minnie laughed. "They're on your brow, uncle!" "So they are! Well, well----" The captain smiled deprecatingly, and, drawing his chair close to the table, began to examine the box. Its contents were a strange mixture, and it was evident that the case had not been made to hold them. There was a lady's gold watch, of very small size, and beautifully formed; a set of ornaments, consisting of necklace, bracelets, ring, and ear-rings of turquoise and pearls set in gold, of the most delicate and exquisite chasing; also, an antique diamond cross of great beauty, besides a number of rings and bracelets of considerable value. As the captain took these out one by one, and commented on them, he made use of Minnie's pretty hand and arm to try the effect of each, and truly the ornaments could not have found a more appropriate resting-place among the fairest ladies of the land. Minnie submitted to be made use of in this, way with a pleased and amused expression; for, while she greatly admired the costly gems, she could not help smiling at the awkwardness of the captain in putting them on. "Read the paper again," said Minnie, after the contents of the box had been examined. The captain took up a small parcel covered with oiled cloth, which contained a letter. Opening it, he began to read, but was interrupted by Mrs. Brand, who had paid little attention to the jewels. "Read it out loud, brother," said she, "I don't hear you well. Read it out; I love to hear of my darling's gallant deeds." The captain cleared his throat, raised his voice, and read slowly:-- "'LISBON, _10th March_, 1808. "'DEAR CAPTAIN BRAND,--I am about to quit this place for the East in a few days, and shall probably never see you again. Pray accept the accompanying case of jewels as a small token of the love and esteem in which you are held by a heart-broken father. I feel assured that if it had been in the power of man to have saved my drowning child your gallant efforts would have been successful. It was ordained otherwise; and I now pray that I may be enabled to say "God's will be done". But I cannot bear the sight of these ornaments. I have no relatives--none at least who deserve them half so well as yourself. Do not pain me by refusing them. They may be of use to you if you are ever in want of money, being worth, I believe, between three and four hundred pounds. Of course, you cannot misunderstand my motive in mentioning this. No amount of money could in any measure represent the gratitude I owe to the man who risked his life to save my child. May God bless you, sir." The letter ended thus, without signature; and the captain ceased to read aloud. But there was an addition to the letter written in pencil, in the hand of the late Captain Brand, which neither he nor Minnie had yet found courage to read to the poor widow. It ran thus:-- "Our doom is sealed. My schooner is on the Bell Rock. It is blowing a gale from N.E., and she is going to pieces fast. We are all standing under the lee of a ledge of rock--six of us. In half an hour the tide will be roaring over the spot. God in Christ help us! It is an awful end. If this letter and box is ever found, I ask the finder to send it, with my blessing, to Mrs. Brand, my beloved wife, in Arbroath." The writing was tremulous, and the paper bore the marks of having been soiled with seaweed. It was unsigned. The writer had evidently been obliged to close it hastily. After reading this in silence the captain refolded the letter. "No wonder, Minnie, that Swankie did not dare to offer such things for sale. He would certainly have been found out. Wasn't it lucky that we heard him tell Spink the spot under his floor where he had hidden them?" At that moment there came a low knock to the door. Minnie opened it, and admitted Davy Spink, who stood in the middle of the room twitching his cap nervously, and glancing uneasily from one to another of the party. "Hallo, Spink!" cried the captain, pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazing at the fisherman in surprise, "you don't seem to be quite easy in your mind. Hope your fortunes have not sprung a leak!" "Weel, Captain Ogilvy, they just have; gone to the bottom, I might a'most say. I've come to tell ye--that--the fact is, that the press-gang have catched us at last, and ta'en awa' my mate, Jock Swankie, better kenn'd as Big Swankie." "Hem--well, my lad, in so far as that does damage to you, I'm sorry for it; but as regards society at large, I rather think that Swankie havin' tripped his anchor is a decided advantage. If you lose by this in one way, you gain much in another; for your mate's companionship did ye no good. Birds of a feather should flock together. You're better apart, for I believe you to be an honest man, Spink." Davy looked at the captain in unfeigned astonishment. "Weel, ye're the first man that iver said that, an' I thank 'ee, sir, but you're wrang, though I wush ye was right. But that's no' what I cam' to tell ye." Here the fisherman's indecision of manner returned. "Come, make a clean breast of it, lad. There are none here but friends." "Weel, sir, Ruby Brand----" He paused, and Minnie turned deadly pale, for she jumped at once to the right conclusion. The widow, on the other hand, listened for more with deep anxiety, but did not guess the truth. "The fact is, Ruby's catched too, an' he's awa' to the wars, and he sent me to--ech, sirs! the auld wuman's fentit." Poor Widow Brand had indeed fallen back in her chair in a state bordering on insensibility. Minnie was able to restrain her feelings so as to attend to her. She and the captain raised her gently, and led her into her own room, from whence the captain returned, and shut the door behind him. "Now, Spink," said he, "tell me all about it, an' be partic'lar." Davy at once complied, and related all that the reader already knows, in a deep, serious tone of voice, for he felt that in the captain he had a sympathetic listener. When he had concluded, Captain Ogilvy heaved a sigh so deep that it might have been almost considered a groan, then he sat down on his armchair, and, pointing to the chair from which the widow had recently risen, said, "Sit down, lad." As he advanced to comply, Spink's eyes for the first time fell on the case of jewels. He started, paused, and looked with a troubled air at the captain. "Ha!" exclaimed the latter with a grin; "you seem to know these things; old acquaintances, eh!" "It wasna' me that stole them," said Spink hastily. "I did not say that anyone stole them." "Weel, I mean that--that----" He stopped abruptly, for he felt that in whatever way he might attempt to clear himself, he would unavoidably criminate, by implication, his absent mate. "I know what you mean, my lad; sit down." Spink sat down on the edge of the chair, and looked at the other uneasily. "Have a cup of tea?" said the captain abruptly, seizing the small pot and pouring out a cupful. "Thank 'ee--I--I niver tak' tea." "Take it to-night, then. It will do you good." Spink put the cup to his lips, and a look of deep surprise overspread his rugged countenance as he sipped the contents. The captain nodded. Spink's look of surprise changed into a confidential smile; he also nodded, winked, and drained the cup to the bottom. "Yes," resumed the captain; "you mean that you did not take the case of jewels from old Brand's pocket on that day when you found his body on the Bell Rock, though you were present, and saw your comrade pocket the booty. You see I know all about it, Davy, an' your only fault lay in concealing the matter, and in keepin' company with that scoundrel." The gaze of surprise with which Spink listened to the first part of this speech changed to a look of sadness towards the end of it. "Captain Ogilvy," said he, in a tone of solemnity that was a strong contrast to his usual easy, careless manner of speaking, "you ca'd me an honest man, an' ye think I'm clear o' guilt in this matter, but ye're mista'en. Hoo ye cam' to find oot a' this I canna divine, but I can tell ye somethin' mair than ye ken. D'ye see that bag?" He pulled a small leather purse out of his coat pocket, and laid it with a little bang on the table. The captain nodded. "Weel, sir, that was _my_ share o' the plunder, thretty goolden sovereigns. We tossed which o' us was to hae them, an' the siller fell to me. But I've niver spent a boddle o't. Mony a time have I been tempit, an' mony a time wad I hae gi'en in to the temptation, but for a certain lass ca'd Janet, that's been an angel, it's my belief, sent doon frae heeven to keep me frae gawin to the deevil a'thegither. But be that as it may, I've brought the siller to them that owns it by right, an' so my conscience is clear o't at lang last." The sigh of relief with which Davy Spink pushed the bag of gold towards his companion, showed that the poor man's mind was in truth released from a heavy load that had crushed it for years. The captain, who had lit his pipe, stared at the fisherman through the smoke for some time in silence; then he began to untie the purse, and said slowly, "Spink, I said you were an honest man, an' I see no cause to alter my opinion." He counted out the thirty gold pieces, put them back into the bag, and the bag into his pocket. Then he continued, "Spink, if this gold was mine I would--but no matter, it's not mine, it belongs to Widow Brand, to whom I shall deliver it up. Meantime, I'll bid you good night. All these things require reflection. Call back here to-morrow, my fine fellow, and I'll have something to say to you. Another cup of tea?" "Weel, I'll no objec'." Davy Spink rose, swallowed the beverage, and left the cottage. The captain returned, and stood for some time irresolute with his hand on the handle of the door of his sister's room. As he listened, he heard a sob, and the tones of Minnie's voice as if in prayer. Changing his mind, he walked softly across the kitchen into his own room, where, having trimmed the candle, refilled and lit his pipe, he sat down at the table, and, resting his arms thereon, began to meditate. CHAPTER XXVIII THE LIGHTHOUSE COMPLETED--RUBY'S ESCAPE FROM TROUBLE BY A DESPERATE VENTURE There came a time at last when the great work of building the Bell Rock Lighthouse drew to a close. Four years after its commencement it was completed, and on the night of the 1st of February, 1811, its bright beams were shed for the first time far and wide over the sea. It must not be supposed, however, that this lighthouse required four years to build it. On the contrary, the seasons in which work could be done were very short. During the whole of the first season of 1807, the aggregate time of low-water work, caught by snatches of an hour or two at a tide, did not amount to fourteen days of ten hours! while in 1808 it fell short of four weeks. A great event is worthy of very special notice. We should fail in our duty to our readers if we were to make only passing reference to this important event in the history of our country. That 1st of February, 1811, was the birthday of a new era, for the influence of the Bell Rock Light on the shipping interests of the kingdom (not merely of Scotland, by any means), was far greater than people generally suppose. Here is a _fact_ that may well be weighed with attention; that might be not inappropriately inscribed in diamond letters over the lintel of the lighthouse door. Up to the period of the building of the lighthouse, the known history of the Bell Rock was a black record of wreck, ruin, and death. Its unknown history, in remote ages, who shall conceive, much less tell? _Up_ to that period, seamen dreaded the rock and shunned it--ay, so earnestly as to meet destruction too often in their anxious efforts to avoid it. _From_ that period the Bell Rock has been a friendly point, a guiding star--hailed as such by storm-tossed mariners--marked as such on the charts of all nations. From that date not a single night for more than half a century has passed, without its wakeful eye beaming on the waters, or its fog-bells sounding on the air; and, best of all, _not a single wreck has occurred on that rock from that period down to the present day!_ Say not, good reader, that much the same may be said of all lighthouses. In the first place, the history of many lighthouses is by no means so happy as that of this one. In the second place, all lighthouses are not of equal importance. Few stand on an equal footing with the Bell Rock, either in regard to its national importance or its actual pedestal. In the last place, it is our subject of consideration at present, and we object to odious comparisons while we sing its praises! Whatever may be said of the other lights that guard our shores, special gratitude is due to the Bell Rock--to those who projected it--to the engineer who planned and built it--to God, who inspired the will to dare, and bestowed the skill to accomplish, a work so difficult, so noble, so prolific of good to man! * * * * * The nature of our story requires that we should occasionally annihilate time and space. Let us then leap over both, and return to our hero, Ruby Brand. His period of service in the Navy was comparatively brief, much more so than either he or his friends anticipated. Nevertheless, he spent a considerable time in his new profession, and, having been sent to foreign stations, he saw a good deal of what is called "service", in which he distinguished himself, as might have been expected, for coolness and courage. But we must omit all mention of his warlike deeds, and resume the record of his history at that point which bears more immediately on the subject of our tale. It was a wild, stormy night in November. Ruby's ship had captured a French privateer in the German Ocean, and, a prize crew having been put aboard, she was sent away to the nearest port, which happened to be the harbour of Leith, in the Firth of Forth. Ruby had not been appointed one of the prize crew; but he resolved not to miss the chance of again seeing his native town, if it should only be a distant view through a telescope. Being a favourite with his commander, his plea was received favourably, and he was sent on board the Frenchman. Those who know what it is to meet with an unexpected piece of great good fortune, can imagine the delight with which Ruby stood at the helm on the night in question, and steered for _home_! He was known by all on board to be the man who understood best the navigation of the Forth, so that implicit trust was placed in him by the young officer who had charge of the prize. The man-of-war happened to be short-handed at the time the privateer was captured, owing to her boats having been sent in chase of a suspicious craft during a calm. Some of the French crew were therefore left on board to assist in navigating the vessel. This was unfortunate, for the officer sent in charge turned out to be a careless man, and treated the Frenchmen with contempt. He did not keep strict watch over them, and the result was, that, shortly after the storm began, they took the English crew by surprise, and overpowered them. Ruby was the first to fall. As he stood at the wheel, indulging in pleasant dreams, a Frenchman stole up behind him, and felled him with a handspike. When he recovered he found that he was firmly bound, along with his comrades, and that the vessel was lying-to. One of the Frenchmen came forward at that moment, and addressed the prisoners in broken English. "Now, me boys," said he, "you was see we have konker you again. You behold the sea?" pointing over the side; "well, that bees your bed to-night if you no behave. Now, I wants to know, who is best man of you as onderstand dis cost? Speak de trut', else you die." The English lieutenant at once turned to Ruby. "Well, cast him loose; de rest of you go b'low--good day, ver' moch indeed." Here the Frenchman made a low bow to the English, who were led below, with the exception of Ruby. "Now, my goot mans, you onderstand dis cost?" "Yes. I know it well." "It is dangereoux?" "It is--very; but not so much so as it used to be before the Bell Rock Light was shown." "Have you see dat light?" "No; never. It was first lighted when I was at sea; but I have seen a description of it in the newspapers, and should know it well." "Ver goot; you will try to come to dat light an' den you will steer out from dis place to de open sea. Afterwards we will show you to France. If you try mischief--_voilà!_" The Frenchman pointed to two of his comrades who stood, one on each side of the wheel, with pistols in their hands, ready to keep Ruby in order. "Now, cut him free. Go, sare; do your dooty." Ruby stepped to the wheel at once, and, glancing at the compass, directed the vessel's head in the direction of the Bell Rock. The gale was rapidly increasing, and the management of the helm required his undivided attention; nevertheless his mind was busy with anxious thoughts and plans of escape. He thought with horror of a French prison, for there were old shipmates of his who had been captured years before, and who were pining in exile still. The bare idea of being separated indefinitely, perhaps for ever, from Minnie, was so terrible, that for a moment he meditated an attack, single-handed, on the crew; but the muzzle of a pistol on each side of him induced him to pause and reflect! Reflection, however, only brought him again to the verge of despair. Then he thought of running up to Leith, and so take the Frenchmen prisoners; but this idea was at once discarded, for it was impossible to pass up to Leith Roads without seeing the Bell Rock light, and the Frenchmen kept a sharp lookout. Then he resolved to run the vessel ashore and wreck her, but the thought of his comrades down below induced him to give that plan up. Under the influence of these thoughts he became inattentive, and steered rather wildly once or twice. "Stiddy. Ha! you tink of how you escape?" "Yes, I do," said Ruby, doggedly. "Good, and have you see how?" "No," replied Ruby, "I tell you candidly that I can see no way of escape." "Ver good, sare; mind your helm." At that moment a bright star of the first magnitude rose on the horizon, right ahead of them. "Ha! dat is a star," said the Frenchman, after a few moments' observation of it. "Stars don't go out," replied Ruby, as the light in question disappeared. "It is de light'ouse den?" "I don't know," said Ruby, "but we shall soon see." Just then a thought flashed into Ruby's mind. His heart beat quick, his eye dilated, and his lip was tightly compressed as it came and went. Almost at the same moment another star rose right ahead of them. It was of a deep red colour; and Ruby's heart beat high again, for he was now certain that it was the revolving light of the Bell Rock, which shows a white and red light alternately every two minutes. "_Voilà!_ that must be him now," exclaimed the Frenchman, pointing to the light, and looking enquiringly at Ruby. "I have told you," said the latter, "that I never saw the light before. I believe it to be the Bell Rock Light; but it would be as well to run close and see. I think I could tell the very stones of the tower, even in a dark night. Anyhow, I know the rock itself too well to mistake it." "Be there plenty watter?" "Ay; on the east side, close to the rock, there is enough water to float the biggest ship in your navy." "Good; we shall go close." There was a slight lull in the gale at this time, and the clouds broke a little, allowing occasional glimpses of moonlight to break through and tinge the foaming crests of the waves. At last the light, that had at first looked like a bright star, soon increased, and appeared like a glorious sun in the stormy sky. For a few seconds it shone intensely white and strong, then it slowly died away and disappeared; but almost before one could have time to wonder what had become of it, it returned in the form of a brilliant red sun, which also shone for a few seconds, steadily, and then, like the former, slowly died out. Thus, alternating, the red and white suns went round. In a few minutes the tall and graceful column itself became visible, looking pale and spectral against the black sky. At the same time the roar of the surf broke familiarly on Ruby's ears. He steered close past the north end of the rock, so close that he could see the rocks, and knew that it was low water. A gleam of moonlight broke out at the time, as if to encourage him. "Now," said Ruby, "you had better go about, for if we carry on at this rate, in the course we are going, in about an hour you will either be a dead man on the rocks of Forfar, or enjoying yourself in a Scotch prison!" "Ha! ha!" laughed the Frenchman, who immediately gave the order to put the vessel about; "good, ver good; bot I was not wish to see the Scottish prison, though I am told the mountains be ver superb." While he was speaking, the little vessel lay over on her new course, and Ruby steered again past the north side of the rock. He shaved it so close that the Frenchman shouted, "_Prenez garde_", and put a pistol to Ruby's ear. "Do you think I wish to die?" asked Ruby, with a quiet smile. "Now, captain, I want to point out the course, so as to make you sure of it. Bid one of your men take the wheel, and step up on the bulwarks with me, and I will show you." This was such a natural remark in the circumstances, and moreover so naturally expressed, that the Frenchman at once agreed. He ordered a seaman to take the wheel, and then stepped with Ruby upon the bulwarks at the stern of the vessel. "Now, you see the position of the lighthouse," said Ruby, "well, you must keep your course due east after passing it. If you steer to the nor-ard o' that, you'll run on the Scotch coast; if you bear away to the south'ard of it, you'll run a chance, in this state o' the tide, of getting wrecked among the Farne Islands; so keep her head _due east_." Ruby said this very impressively; so much so, that the Frenchman looked at him in surprise. "Why you so particulare?" he enquired, with a look of suspicion. "Because I am going to leave you," said Ruby, pointing to the Bell Rock, which at that moment was not much more than a hundred yards to leeward. Indeed, it was scarcely so much, for the outlying rock at the northern end named _Johnny Gray_, lay close under their lee as the vessel passed. Just then a great wave burst upon it, and, roaring in wild foam over the ledges, poured into the channels and pools on the other side. For one instant Ruby's courage wavered, as he gazed at the flood of boiling foam. "What you say?" exclaimed the Frenchman, laying his hand on the collar of Ruby's jacket. The young sailor started, struck the Frenchman a backhanded blow on the chest, which hurled him violently against the man at the wheel, and, bending down, sprang with a wild shout into the sea. So close had he steered to the rock, in order to lessen the danger of his reckless venture, that the privateer just weathered it. There was not, of course, the smallest chance of recapturing Ruby. No ordinary boat could have lived in the sea that was running at the time, even in open water, much less among the breakers of the Bell Rock. Indeed, the crew felt certain that the English sailor had allowed despair to overcome his judgment, and that he must infallibly be dashed to pieces on the rocks, so they did not check their onward course, being too glad to escape from the immediate neighbourhood of such a dangerous spot. Meanwhile Ruby buffeted the billows manfully. He was fully alive to the extreme danger of the attempt, but he knew exactly what he meant to do. He trusted to his intimate knowledge of every ledge and channel and current, and had calculated his motions to a nicety. He knew that at the particular state of the tide at the time, and with the wind blowing as it then did, there was a slight eddy at the point of _Cunningham's Ledge_. His life, he felt, depended on his gaining that eddy. If he should miss it, he would be dashed against _Johnny Gray's_ rock, or be carried beyond it and cast upon _Strachan's Ledge_ or _Scoreby's Point_, and no man, however powerful he might be, could have survived the shock of being launched on any of these rocks. On the other hand, if, in order to avoid these dangers, he should swim too much to windward, there was danger of his being carried on the crest of a billow and hurled upon the weather side of _Cunningham's Ledge_, instead of getting into the eddy under its lee. All this Ruby had seen and calculated when he passed the north end of the rock the first time, and he had fixed the exact spot where he should take the plunge on repassing it. He acted so promptly that a few minutes sufficed to carry him towards the eddy, the tide being in his favour. But when he was about to swim into it, a wave burst completely over the ledge, and, pouring down on his head, thrust him back. He was almost stunned by the shock, but retained sufficient presence of mind to struggle on. For a few seconds he managed to bear up against wind and tide, for he put forth his giant strength with the energy of a desperate man, but gradually he was carried away from the rock, and for the first time his heart sank within him. Just then one of those rushes or swirls of water, which are common among rocks in such a position, swept him again forward, right into the eddy which he had struggled in vain to reach, and thrust him violently against the rock. This back current was the precursor of a tremendous billow, which came towering on like a black moving wall. Ruby saw it, and, twining his arm amongst the seaweed, held his breath. The billow fell! Only those who have seen the Bell Rock in a storm can properly estimate the roar that followed. None but Ruby himself could tell what it was to feel that world of water rushing overhead. Had it fallen directly upon him, it would have torn him from his grasp and killed him, but its full force had been previously spent on _Cunningham's Ledge_. In another moment it passed, and Ruby, quitting his hold, struck out wildly through the foam. A few strokes carried him through _Sinclair's_ and _Wilson's_ tracks into the little pool formerly mentioned as _Port Stevenson_.[1] [Footnote 1: The author has himself bathed in Fort Stevenson, so that the reader may rely on the fidelity of this description of it and the surrounding ledges.] Here he was in comparative safety. True, the sprays burst over the ledge called _The Last Hope_ in heavy masses, but these could do him no serious harm, and it would take a quarter of an hour at least for the tide to sweep into the pool. Ruby therefore swam quietly to _Trinity Ledge_, where he landed, and, stepping over it, sat down to rest, with a thankful heart, on _Smith's Ledge_, the old familiar spot where he and Jamie Dove had wrought so often and so hard at the forge in former days. He was now under the shadow of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, which towered high above his head; and the impression of immovable solidity which its cold, grey, stately column conveyed to his mind, contrasted powerfully with the howling wind and the raging sea around. It seemed to him, as he sat there within three yards of its granite base, like the impersonation of repose in the midst of turmoil; of peace surrounded by war; of calm and solid self-possession in the midst of fretful and raging instability. No one was there to welcome Ruby. The lightkeepers, high up in the apartments in their wild home, knew nothing and heard nothing of all that had passed so near them. The darkness of the night and the roaring of the storm was all they saw or heard of the world without, as they sat in their watch tower reading or trimming their lamps. But Ruby was not sorry for this; he felt glad to be alone with God, to thank Him for his recent deliverance. Exhausting though the struggle had been, its duration was short, so that he soon recovered his wonted strength. Then, rising, he got upon the iron railway, or "rails", as the men used to call it, and a few steps brought him to the foot of the metal ladder conducting to the entrance door. Climbing up, he stood at last in a place of safety, and disappeared within the doorway of the lighthouse. CHAPTER XXIX THE WRECK Meantime the French privateer sped onward to her doom. The force with which the French commander fell when Ruby cast him off, had stunned him so severely that it was a considerable time before he recovered. The rest of the crew were therefore in absolute ignorance of how to steer. In this dilemma they lay-to for a short time, after getting away to a sufficient distance from the dangerous rock, and consulted what was to be done. Some advised one course, and some another, but it was finally suggested that one of the English prisoners should be brought up and commanded to steer out to sea. This advice was acted on, and the sailor who was brought up chanced to be one who had a partial knowledge of the surrounding coasts. One of the Frenchmen who could speak a few words of English, did his best to convey his wishes to the sailor, and wound up by producing a pistol, which he cocked significantly. "All right," said the sailor, "I knows the coast, and can run ye straight out to sea. That's the Bell Rock Light on the weather-bow, I s'pose." "Oui, dat is de Bell Roke." "Wery good; our course is due nor'west." So saying, the man took the wheel and laid the ship's course accordingly. Now, he knew quite well that this course would carry the vessel towards the harbour of Arbroath, into which he resolved to run at all hazards, trusting to the harbour-lights to guide him when he should draw near. He knew that he ran the strongest possible risk of getting himself shot when the Frenchmen should find out his faithlessness, but he hoped to prevail on them to believe the harbour-lights were only another lighthouse, which they should have to pass on their way out to sea, and then it would be too late to put the vessel about and attempt to escape. But all his calculations were useless, as it turned out, for in half an hour the men at the bow shouted that there were breakers ahead, and before the helm could be put down, they struck with such force that the topmasts went overboard at once, and the sails, bursting their sheets and tackling, were blown to ribbons. Just then a gleam of moonlight struggled through the wrack of clouds, and revealed the dark cliffs of the Forfar coast, towering high above them. The vessel had struck on the rocks at the entrance to one of those rugged bays with which that coast is everywhere indented. t the first glance, the steersman knew that the doom of all on board was fixed, for the bay was one of those which are surrounded by almost perpendicular cliffs; and although, during calm weather, there was a small space between the cliffs and the sea, which might be termed a beach, yet during a storm the waves lashed with terrific fury against the rocks, so that no human being might land there. It chanced at the time that Captain Ogilvy, who took great delight in visiting the cliffs in stormy weather, had gone out there for a midnight walk with a young friend, and when the privateer struck, he was standing on the top of the cliffs. He knew at once that the fate of the unfortunate people on board was almost certain, but, with his wonted energy, he did his best to prevent the catastrophe. "Run, lad, and fetch men, and ropes, and ladders. Alarm the whole town, and use your legs well. Lives depend on your speed," said the captain, in great excitement. The lad required no second bidding. He turned and fled like a greyhound. The lieges of Arbroath were not slow to answer the summons. There were neither lifeboats nor mortar-apparatus in those days, but there were the same willing hearts and stout arms then as now, and in a marvellously short space of time, hundreds of the able-bodied men of the town, gentle and semple, were assembled on these wild cliffs, with torches, rope, &c.; in short, with all the appliances for saving life that the philanthropy of the times had invented or discovered. But, alas! these appliances were of no avail. The vessel went to pieces on the outer point of rocks, and part of the wreck, with the crew clinging to it, drifted into the bay. The horrified people on the cliffs looked down into that dreadful abyss of churning water and foam, into which no one could descend. Ropes were thrown again and again, but without avail. Either it was too dark to see, or the wrecked men were paralysed. An occasional shriek was heard above the roar of the tempest, as, one after another, the exhausted men fell into the water, or were wrenched from their hold of the piece of wreck. At last one man succeeded in catching hold of a rope, and was carefully hauled up to the top of the cliff. It was found that this was one of the English sailors. He had taken the precaution to tie the rope under his arms, poor fellow, having no strength left to hold on to it; but he was so badly bruised as to be in a dying state when laid on the grass. "Keep back and give him air," said Captain Ogilvy, who had taken a prominent part in the futile efforts to save the crew, and who now kneeled at the sailor's side, and moistened his lips with a little brandy. The poor man gave a confused and rambling account of the circumstances of the wreck, but it was sufficiently intelligible to make the captain acquainted with the leading particulars. "Were there many of your comrades aboard?" he enquired. The dying man looked up with a vacant expression. It was evident that he did not quite understand the question, but he began again to mutter in a partly incoherent manner. "They're all gone," said he, "every man of 'em but me! All tied together in the hold. They cast us loose, though, after she struck. All gone! all gone!" After a moment he seemed to try to recollect something. "No," said he, "we weren't all together. They took Ruby on deck, and I never saw _him_ again. I wonder what they did----" Here he paused. "Who, did you say?" enquired the captain with deep anxiety. "Ruby--Ruby Brand," replied the man. "What became of him, said you?" "Don't know." "Was _he_ drowned?" "Don't know," repeated the man. The captain could get no other answer from him, so he was compelled to rest content, for the poor man appeared to be sinking. A sort of couch had been prepared for him, on which he was carried into the town, but before he reached it he was dead. Nothing more could be done that night, but next day, when the tide was out, men were lowered down the precipitous sides of the fatal bay, and the bodies of the unfortunate seamen were sent up to the top of the cliffs by means of ropes. These ropes cut deep grooves in the turf, as the bodies were hauled up one by one and laid upon the grass, after which they were conveyed to the town, and decently interred. The spot where this melancholy wreck occurred is now pointed out to the visitor as "The Seamen's Grave", and the young folk of the town have, from the time of the wreck, annually recut the grooves in the turf, above referred to, in commemoration of the event, so that these grooves may be seen there at the present day. It may easily be imagined that poor Captain Ogilvy returned to Arbroath that night with dark forebodings in his breast. He could not, however, imagine how Ruby came to be among the men on board of the French prize; and tried to comfort himself with the thought that the dying sailor had perhaps been a comrade of Ruby's at some time or other, and was, in his wandering state of mind, mixing him up with the recent wreck. As, however, he could come to no certain conclusion on this point, he resolved not to tell what he had heard either to his sister or Minnie, but to confine his anxieties, at least for the present, to his own breast. CHAPTER XXX OLD FRIENDS IN NEW CIRCUMSTANCES Let us now return to Ruby Brand; and in order that the reader may perfectly understand the proceedings of that bold youth, let us take a glance at the Bell Bock Lighthouse in its completed condition. We have already said that the lower part, from the foundation to the height of thirty feet, was built of solid masonry, and that at the top of this solid part stood the entrance-door of the building--facing towards the south. The position of the door was fixed after the solid part had been exposed to a winter's storms. The effect on the building was such that the most sheltered or lee side was clearly indicated; the weather-side being thickly covered with limpets, barnacles, and short green seaweed, while the lee-side was comparatively free from such incrustations. The walls at the entrance-door are nearly seven feet thick, and the short passage that pierces them leads to the foot of a spiral staircase, which conducts to the lowest apartment in the tower, where the walls decrease in thickness to three feet. This room is the provision store. Here are kept water-tanks and provisions of all kinds, including fresh vegetables which, with fresh water, are supplied once a fortnight to the rock all the year round. The provision store is the smallest apartment, for, as the walls of the tower decrease in thickness as they rise, the several apartments necessarily increase as they ascend. The second floor is reached by a wooden staircase or ladder, leading up through a "manhole" in the ceiling. Here is the lightroom store, which contains large tanks of polished metal for the oil consumed by the lights. A whole year's stock of oil, or about 1100 gallons, is stored in these tanks. Here also is a small carpenter's bench and tool-box, besides an endless variety of odds and ends,--such as paint-pots, brushes, flags, waste for cleaning the reflectors, &c. &c. Another stair, similar to the first, leads to the third floor, which is the kitchen of the building. It stands about sixty-six feet above the foundation. We shall have occasion to describe it and the rooms above presently. Meanwhile, let it suffice to say, that the fourth floor contains the men's sleeping berths, of which there are six, although three men is the usual complement on the rock. The fifth floor is the library, and above that is the lantern; the whole building, from base to summit, being 115 feet high. At the time when Ruby entered the door of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, as already described, there were three keepers in the building, one of whom was on his watch in the lantern, while the other two were in the kitchen. These men were all old friends. The man in the lantern was George Forsyth, who had been appointed one of the light-keepers in consideration of his good services and steadiness. He was seated reading at a small desk. Close above him was the blazing series of lights, which revolved slowly and steadily by means of machinery, moved by a heavy weight. A small bell was struck slowly but regularly by the same machinery, in token that all was going on well. If that bell had ceased to sound, Forsyth would at once have leaped up to ascertain what was wrong with the lights. So long as it continued to ring he knew that all was well, and that he might continue his studies peacefully--not quietly, however, for, besides the rush of wind against the thick plate glass of the lantern, there was the never-ceasing roar of the ventilator, in which the heated air from within and the cold air from without met and kept up a terrific war. Keepers get used to that sound, however, and do not mind it. Each keeper's duty was to watch for three successive hours in the lantern. Not less familiar were the faces of the occupants of the kitchen. To this apartment Ruby ascended without anyone hearing him approach, for one of the windows was open, and the roar of the storm effectually drowned his light footfall. On reaching the floor immediately below the kitchen he heard the tones of a violin, and when his head emerged through the manhole of the kitchen floor, he paused and listened with deep interest, for the air was familiar. Peeping round the corner of the oaken partition that separated the manhole from the apartment, he beheld a sight which filled his heart with gladness, for there, seated on a camp stool, with his back leaning against the dresser, his face lighted up by the blaze of a splendid fire, which burned in a most comfortable-looking kitchen range, and his hands drawing forth most pathetic music from a violin, sat his old friend Joe Dumsby, while opposite to him on a similar camp stool, with his arm resting on a small table, and a familiar black pipe in his mouth, sat that worthy son of Vulcan, Jamie Dove. The little apartment glowed with ruddy light, and to Ruby, who had just escaped from a scene of such drear and dismal aspect, it appeared, what it really was, a place of the most luxurious comfort. Dove was keeping time to the music with little puffs of smoke, and Joe was in the middle of a prolonged shake, when Ruby passed through the doorway and stood before them. Dove's eyes opened to their widest, and his jaw dropt, so did his pipe, and the music ceased abruptly, while the faces of both men grew pale. "I'm not a ghost, boys," said Ruby, with a laugh, which afforded immense relief to his old comrades. "Come, have ye not a welcome for an old messmate who swims off to visit you on such a night as this?" Dove was the first to recover. He gasped, and, holding out both arms, exclaimed, "Ruby Brand!" "And no mistake!" cried Ruby, advancing and grasping his friend warmly by the hands. For at least half a minute the two men shook each other's hands lustily and in silence. Then they burst into a loud laugh, while Joe, suddenly recovering, went crashing into a Scotch reel with energy so great that time and tune were both sacrificed. As if by mutual impulse, Ruby and Dove began to dance! But this was merely a spurt of feeling, more than half-involuntary. In the middle of a bar Joe flung down the fiddle, and, springing up, seized Ruby round the neck and hugged him, an act which made him aware of the fact that he was dripping wet. "Did ye _swim_ hoff to the rock?" he enquired, stepping back, and gazing at his friend with a look of surprise, mingled with awe. "Indeed I did." "But how? why? what mystery are ye rolled up in?" exclaimed the smith. "Sit down, sit down, and quiet yourselves," said Ruby, drawing a stool near to the fire, and seating himself. "I'll explain, if you'll only hold your tongues, and not look so scared like." "No, Ruby; no, lad, you must change yer clothes first," said the smith, in a tone of authority; "why, the fire makes you steam like a washin' biler. Come along with me, an' I'll rig you out." "Ay, go hup with 'im, Ruby. Bless me, this is the most amazin' hincident as ever 'appened to me. Never saw nothink like it." As Dove and Ruby ascended to the room above, Joe went about the kitchen talking to himself, poking the fire violently, overturning the camp stools, knocking about the crockery on the dresser, and otherwise conducting himself like a lunatic. Of course Ruby told Dove parts of his story by fits and starts as he was changing his garments; of course he had to be taken up to the lightroom and go through the same scene there with Forsyth that had occurred in the kitchen; and, of course, it was not until all the men, himself included, had quite exhausted themselves, that he was able to sit down at the kitchen fire and give a full and connected account of himself, and of his recent doings. After he had concluded his narrative, which was interrupted by frequent question and comment, and after he had refreshed himself with a cup of tea, he rose and said-- "Now, boys, it's not fair to be spending all the night with you here, while my old comrade Forsyth sits up yonder all alone. I'll go up and see him for a little." "We'll go hup with 'ee, lad," said Dumsby. "No ye won't," replied Ruby; "I want him all to myself for a while; fair play and no favour, you know, used to be our watchword on the rock in old times. Besides, his watch will be out in a little, so ye can come up and fetch him down." "Well, go along with you," said the smith. "Hallo! that must have been a big 'un." This last remark had reference to a distinct tremor in the building, caused by the falling of a great wave upon it. "Does it often get raps like that?" enquired Ruby, with a look of surprise. "Not often," said Dove, "once or twice durin' a gale, mayhap, when a bigger one than usual chances to fall on us at the right angle. But the lighthouse shakes worst just the gales begin to take off and when the swell rolls in heavy from the east'ard." "Ay, that's the time," quoth Joe. "W'y, I've 'eard all the cups and saucers on the dresser rattle with the blows o' them heavy seas, but the gale is gittin' to be too strong to-night to shake us much." "Too strong!" exclaimed Ruby. "Ay. You see w'en it blows very hard, the breakers have not time to come down on us with a 'eavy tellin' blow, they goes tumblin' and swashin' round us and over us, hammerin' away wildly every how, or nohow, or anyhow, just like a hexcited man fightin' in a hurry. The after-swell, _that's_ wot does it. _That's_ wot comes on slow, and big, and easy, but powerful, like a great prize-fighter as knows what he can do, and means to do it." "A most uncomfortable sort of residence," said Ruby, as he turned to quit the room. "Not a bit, when ye git used to it," said the smith. "At first we was rather skeered, but we don't mind now. Come, Joe, give us 'Rule, Britannia'--'pity she don't rule the waves straighter', as somebody writes somewhere." So saying, Dove resumed his pipe, and Dumsby his fiddle, while Ruby proceeded to the staircase that led to the rooms above. Just as he was about to ascend, a furious gust of wind swept past, accompanied by a wild roar of the sea; at the same moment a mass of spray dashed against the small window at his side. He knew that this window was at least sixty feet above the rock, and he was suddenly filled with a strong desire to have a nearer view of the waves that had force to mount so high. Instead, therefore, of ascending to the lantern, he descended to the doorway, which was open, for, as the storm blew from the eastward, the door was on the lee-side. There were two doors--one of metal, with thick plate-glass panels at the inner end of the passage; the other, at the outer end of it, was made of thick solid wood bound with metal, and hung so as to open outwards. When the two leaves of this heavy door were shut they were flush with the tower, so that nothing was presented for the waves to act upon. But this door was never closed except in cases of storm from the southward. The scene which presented itself to our hero when he stood in the entrance passage was such as neither pen nor pencil can adequately depict. The tide was full, or nearly so, and had the night been calm the water would have stood about twelve or fourteen feet on the sides of the tower, leaving a space of about the same height between its surface and the spot at the top of the copper ladder where Ruby stood; but such was the wild commotion of the sea that this space was at one moment reduced to a few feet, as the waves sprang up towards the doorway, or nearly doubled, as they sank hissing down to the very rock. Acres of white, leaping, seething foam covered the spot where the terrible Bell Rock lay. Never for a moment did that boiling cauldron get time to show one spot of dark-coloured water. Billow after billow came careering on from the open sea in quick succession, breaking with indescribable force and fury just a few yards to windward of the foundations of the lighthouse, where the outer ledges of the rock, although at the time deep down in the water, were sufficiently near the surface to break their first full force, and save the tower from destruction, though not from many a tremendous blow and overwhelming deluge of water. When the waves hit the rock they were so near that the lighthouse appeared to receive the shock. Rushing round it on either side, the cleft billows met again to leeward, just opposite the door, where they burst upwards in a magnificent cloud of spray to a height of full thirty feet. At one time, while Ruby held on by the man-ropes at the door and looked over the edge, he could see a dark abyss with the foam shimmering pale far below; another instant, and the solid building perceptibly trembled, as a green sea hit it fair on the weather-side. A continuous roar and hiss followed as the billow swept round, filled up the dark abyss, and sent the white water gleaming up almost into the doorway. At the same moment the sprays flew by on either side of the column, so high that a few drops were thrown on the lantern. To Ruby's eye these sprays appeared to be clouds driving across the sky, so high were they above his head. A feeling of awe crept over him as his mind gradually began to realize the world of water which, as it were, overwhelmed him--water and foam roaring and flying everywhere--the heavy seas thundering on the column at his back--the sprays from behind arching almost over the lighthouse, and meeting those that burst up in front, while an eddy of wind sent a cloud swirling in at the doorway, and drenched him to the skin! It was an exhibition of the might of God in the storm such as he had never seen before, and a brief sudden exclamation of thanksgiving burst from the youth's lips, as he thought of how hopeless his case would have been had the French vessel passed the lighthouse an hour later than it did. The contrast between the scene outside and that inside the Bell Rock Lighthouse at that time was indeed striking. Outside there was madly raging conflict; inside there were peace, comfort, security: Ruby, with his arms folded, standing calmly in the doorway; Jamie Dove and Joe Dumsby smoking and fiddling in the snug kitchen; George Forsyth reading (the _Pilgrim's Progress_ mayhap, or _Robinson Crusoe_, for both works were in the Bell Rock library) by the bright blaze of the crimson and white lamps, high up in the crystal lantern. If a magician had divided the tower in two from top to bottom while some ship was staggering past before the gale, he would have presented to the amazed mariners the most astonishing picture of "war without and peace within" that the world ever saw! CHAPTER XXXI MIDNIGHT CHAT IN A LANTERN "I'll have to borrow another shirt and pair of trousers from you, Dove," said Ruby with a laugh, as he returned to the kitchen. "What! been having another swim?" exclaimed the smith. "Not exactly, but you see I'm fond o' water. Come along, lad." In a few minutes the clothes were changed, and Ruby was seated beside Forsyth, asking him earnestly about his friends on shore. "Ah! Ruby," said Forsyth, "I thought it would have killed your old mother when she was told of your bein' caught by them sea-sharks, and taken off to the wars. You must know I came to see a good deal of your friends, through--through--hoot! what's the name? the fair-haired lass that lives with----" "Minnie?" suggested Ruby, who could not but wonder that any man living should forget her name for a moment. "Ay, Minnie it is. She used to come to see my wife about some work they wanted her to do, and I was now and again sent up with a message to the cottage, and Captain Ogilvy always invited me in to take a glass out of his old teapot. Your mother used to ask me ever so many questions about you, an' what you used to say and do on the rock when this lighthouse was buildin'. She looked so sad and pale, poor thing; I really thought it would be all up with her, an' I believe it would, but for Minnie. It was quite wonderful the way that girl cheered your mother up, by readin' bits o' the Bible to her, an' tellin' her that God would certainly send you back again. She looked and spoke always so brightly too." "Did she do that?" exclaimed Ruby, with emotion. Forsyth looked for a moment earnestly at his friend. "I mean," continued Ruby, in some confusion, "did she look bright when she spoke of my bein' away?" "No lad, it was when she spoke of you comin' back; but I could see that her good spirits was partly put on to keep up the old woman." For a moment or two the friends remained silent. Suddenly Forsyth kid his hand on the other's shoulder, and said impressively: "Ruby Brand, it's my belief that that girl is rather fond of you." Ruby looked up with a bright smile, and said, "D'you think so? Well, d'ye know, I believe she is." "Upon my word, youngster," exclaimed the other, with a look of evident disgust, "your conceit is considerable. I had thought to be somewhat confidential with you in regard to this idea of mine, but you seem to swallow it so easy, and to look upon it as so natural a thing, that--that--Do you suppose you've nothin' to do but ask the girl to marry you and she'll say 'Yes' at once?" "I do," said Ruby quietly; "nay, I am sure of it." Forsyth's eyes opened very wide indeed at this. "Young man," said he, "the sea must have washed all the modesty you once had out of you----" "I hope not," interrupted the other, "but the fact is that I put the question you have supposed to Minnie long ago, and she _did_ say 'Yes' to it then, so it's not likely she's goin' to draw back now." "Whew! that alters the case," cried Forsyth, seizing his friend's hand, and wringing it heartily. "Hallo! you two seem to be on good terms, anyhow," observed Jamie Dove, whose head appeared at that moment through the hole in the floor by which the lantern communicated with the room below. "I came to see if anything had gone wrong, for your time of watch is up." "So it is," exclaimed Forsyth, rising and crossing to the other side of the apartment, where he applied his lips to a small tube in the wall. "What are you doing?" enquired Ruby. "Whistling up Joe," said Forsyth. "This pipe runs down to the sleepin' berths, where there's a whistle close to Joe's ear. He must be asleep. I'll try again." He blew down the tube a second time and listened for a reply, which came up a moment or two after in a sharp whistle through a similar tube reversed; that is, with the mouthpiece below and the whistle above. Soon after, Joe Dumsby made his appearance at the trapdoor, looking very sleepy. "I feels as 'eavy as a lump o' lead," said he. "Wot an 'orrible thing it is to be woke out o' a comf'r'able sleep." Just as he spoke the lighthouse received a blow so tremendous that all the men started and looked at each other for a moment in surprise. "I say, is it warranted to stand _anything?_" enquired Ruby seriously. "I hope it is," replied the smith, "else it'll be a blue lookout for _us_. But we don't often get such a rap as that. D'ye mind the first we ever felt o' that sort, Forsyth? It happened last month. I was on watch at the time, Forsyth was smokin' his pipe in the kitchen, and Dumsby was in bed, when a sea struck us with such force that I thought we was done for. In a moment Forsyth and Joe came tumblin' up the ladder--Joe in his shirt. 'It must have been a ship sailed right against us,' says Forsyth, and with that we all jumped on the rail that runs round the lantern there and looked out, but no ship could be seen, though it was a moonlight night. You see there's plenty o' water at high tide to let a ship of two hundred tons, drawin' twelve feet, run slap into us, and we've sometimes feared this in foggy weather; but it was just a blow of the sea. We've had two or three like it since, and are gettin' used to it now." "Well, we can't get used to do without sleep," said Forsyth, stepping down through the trapdoor, "so I'll bid ye all good night." "'Old on! Tell Ruby about Junk before ye go," cried Dumsby. "Ah! well, I'll tell 'im myself. You must know, Ruby, that we've got what they calls an hoccasional light-keeper ashore, who larns the work out 'ere in case any of us reg'lar keepers are took ill, so as 'e can supply our place on short notice. Well, 'e was out 'ere larnin' the dooties one tremendous stormy night, an' the poor fellow was in a mortial fright for fear the lantern would be blowed right hoff the top o' the stone column, and 'imself along with it. You see, the door that covers the manhole there is usually shut when we're on watch, but Junk (we called 'im Junk 'cause 'e wos so like a lump o' fat pork), 'e kep the door open all the time an' sat close beside it, so as to be ready for a dive. Well, it was my turn to watch, so I went up, an' just as I puts my fut on the first step o' the lantern-ladder there comes a sea like wot we had a minit ago; the wind at the same time roared in the wentilators like a thousand fiends, and the spray dashed agin the glass. Junk gave a yell, and dived. He thought it wos all over with 'im, and wos in sich a funk that he came down 'ead foremost, and would sartinly 'ave broke 'is neck if 'e 'adn't come slap into my buzzum! I tell 'e it was no joke, for 'e wos fourteen stone if 'e wos an ounce, an'----" "Come along, Ruby," said Dove, interrupting; "the sooner we dive too the better, for there's no end to that story when Dumsby get off in full swing. Good night!" "Good night, lads, an' better manners t'ye!" said Joe, as he sat down beside the little desk where the lightkeepers were wont during the lonely watch-hours of the night to read, or write, or meditate. CHAPTER XXXII EVERYDAY LIFE ON THE BELL ROCK, AND OLD MEMORIES RECALLED The sun shone brightly over the sea next morning; so brightly and powerfully that it seemed to break up and disperse by force the great storm-clouds which hung about the sky, like the fragments of an army of black bullies who had done their worst and been baffled. The storm was over; at least, the wind had moderated down to a fresh, invigorating breeze. The white crests of the billows were few and far between, and the wild turmoil of waters had given place to a grand procession of giant waves, that thundered on the Bell Rock Lighthouse, at once with more dignity and more force than the raging seas of the previous night. It was the sun that awoke Ruby, by shining in at one of the small windows of the library, in which he slept. Of course it did not shine in his face, because of the relative positions of the library and the sun, the first being just below the lantern, and the second just above the horizon, so that the rays struck upwards, and shone with dazzling brilliancy on the dome-shaped ceiling. This was the second time of wakening for Ruby that night, since he lay down to rest. The first wakening was occasioned by the winding up of the machinery which kept the lights in motion, and the chain of which, with a ponderous weight attached to it, passed through a wooden pilaster close to his ear, causing such a sudden and hideous din that the sleeper, not having been warned of it, sprang like a Jack-in-the-box out of bed into the middle of the room, where he first stared vacantly around him like an unusually surprised owl, and then, guessing the cause of the noise, smiled pitifully, as though to say, "Poor fellow, you're easily frightened," and tumbled back into bed, where he fell asleep again instantly. On the second time of wakening Ruby rose to a sitting posture, yawned, looked about him, yawned again, wondered what o'clock it was, and then listened. No sound could be heard save the intermittent roar of the magnificent breakers that beat on the Bell Rock. His couch was too low to permit of his seeing anything but sky out of his windows, three of which, about two feet square, lighted the room. He therefore jumped up, and, while pulling on his garments, looked towards the east, where the sun greeted and almost blinded him. Turning to the north window, a bright smile lit up his countenance, and "A blessing rest on you" escaped audibly from his lips, as he kissed his hand towards the cliffs of Forfarshire, which were seen like a faint blue line on the far-off horizon, with the town of Arbroath just rising above the morning mists. He gazed out at this north window, and thought over all the scenes that had passed between him and Minnie from the time they first met, down to the day when they last parted. One of the sweetest of the mental pictures that he painted that morning with unwonted facility, was that of Minnie sitting at his mother's feet, comforting her with the words of the Bible. At length he turned with a sigh to resume his toilette. Looking out at the southern window, he observed that the rocks were beginning to be uncovered, and that the "rails", or iron pathway that led to the foot of the entrance-door ladder, were high enough out of the water to be walked upon. He therefore hastened to descend. We know not what appearance the library presented at the time when Ruby Brand slept in it; but we can tell, from personal experience, that, at the present day, it is a most comfortable and elegant apartment. The other rooms of the lighthouse, although thoroughly substantial in their furniture and fittings, are quite plain and devoid of ornament, but the library, or "stranger's room", as it is sometimes called, being the guest-chamber, is fitted up in a style worthy of a lady's boudoir, with a Turkey carpet, handsome chairs, and an elaborately carved oak table, supported appropriately by a centre stem of three twining dolphins. The dome of the ceiling is painted to represent stucco panelling, and the partition which cuts off the small segment of this circular room that is devoted to passage and staircase, is of panelled oak. The thickness of this partition is just sufficient to contain the bookcase; also a cleverly contrived bedstead, which can be folded up during the day out of sight. There is also a small cupboard of oak, which serves the double purpose of affording shelf accommodation and concealing the iron smoke-pipe which rises from the kitchen, and, passing through the several storeys, projects a few feet above the lantern. The centre window is ornamented with marble sides and top, and above it stands a marble bust of Robert Stevenson, the engineer of the building, with a marble slab below bearing testimony to the skill and energy with which he had planned and executed the work. If not precisely what we have described it to be at the present time, the library must have been somewhat similar on that morning when our hero issued from it and descended to the rock. The first stair landed him at the entrance to the sleeping-berths. He looked into one, and observed Forsyth's head and arms lying in the bed, in that peculiarly negligent style that betokens deep and sweet repose. Dumsby's rest was equally sound in the next berth. This fact did not require proof by ocular demonstration; his nose announced it sonorously over the whole building. Passing to the kitchen, immediately below, Ruby found his old messmate, Jamie Dove, busy in the preparation of breakfast. "Ha! Ruby, good mornin'; you keep up your early habits, I see. Can't shake yer paw, lad, 'cause I'm up to the elbows in grease, not to speak o' sutt an' ashes." "When did you learn to cook, Jamie?" said Ruby, laughing. "When I came here. You see we've all got to take it turn and turn about, and it's wonderful how soon a feller gets used to it. I'm rather fond of it, d'ye know? We haven't overmuch to work on in the way o' variety, to be sure, but what we have there's lots of it, an' it gives us occasion to exercise our wits to invent somethin' new. It's wonderful what can be done with fresh beef, cabbage, carrots, potatoes, flour, tea, bread, mustard, sugar, pepper, an' the like, if ye've got a talent that way." "You've got it all off by heart, I see," said Ruby. "True, boy, but it's not so easy to get it all off yer stomach sometimes. What with confinement and want of exercise we was troubled with indigestion at first, but we're used to it now, and I have acquired quite a fancy for cooking. No doubt you'll hear Forsyth and Joe say that I've half-pisoned them four or five times, but that's all envy; besides, a feller can't learn a trade without doin' a little damage to somebody or something at first. Did you ever taste blackbird pie?" "No," replied Ruby, "never." "Then you shall taste one to-day, for we caught fifty birds last week." "Caught fifty birds?" "Ay, but I'll tell ye about it some other time. Be off just now, and get as much exercise out o' the rock as ye can before breakfast." The smith resumed his work as he said this, and Ruby descended. He found the sea still roaring over the rock, but the rails were so far uncovered that he could venture on them, yet he had to keep a sharp lookout, for, whenever a larger breaker than usual struck the rock, the gush of foaming water that flew over it was so great that a spurt or two would sometimes break up between the iron bars, and any one of these spurts would have sufficed to give him a thorough wetting. In a short time, however, the sea went back and left the rails free. Soon after that Ruby was joined by Forsyth and Dumsby, who had come down for their morning promenade. They had to walk in single file while taking exercise, as the tramway was not wide enough for two, and the rock, even when fully uncovered, did not afford sufficient level space for comfortable walking, although at low water (as the reader already knows) it afforded fully a hundred yards of scrambling ground, if not more. They had not walked more than a few minutes when they were joined by Jamie Dove, who announced breakfast, and proceeded to take two or three turns by way of cooling himself. Thereafter the party returned to the kitchen, where they sat down to as good a meal as any reasonable man could desire. There was cold boiled beef--the remains of yesterday's dinner--and a bit of broiled cod, a native of the Bell Rock, caught from the doorway at high water the day before. There was tea also, and toast--buttered toast, hot out of the oven. Dove was peculiarly good at what may be styled toast-cooking. Indeed, all the lightkeepers were equally good. The bread was cut an inch thick, and butter was laid on as plasterers spread plaster with a trowel. There was no scraping off a bit here to put it on there; no digging out pieces from little caverns in the bread with the point of the knife; no repetition of the work to spread it thinner, and, above all, no omitting of corners or edges;--no, the smallest conceivable fly could not have found the minutest atom of dry footing on a Bell Rock slice of toast, from its centre to its circumference. Dove had a liberal heart, and he laid on the butter with a liberal hand. Fair play and no favour was his motto, quarter-inch thick was his gauge, railway speed his practice. The consequence was that the toast floated, as it were, down the throats of the men, and compensated to some extent for the want of milk in the tea. "Now, boys, sit in," cried Dove, seizing the teapot. "We have not much variety," observed Dumsby to Ruby, in an apologetic tone. "Variety!" exclaimed Forsyth, "what d'ye call that?" pointing to the fish. "Well, that _is_ a hextra morsel, I admit," returned Joe; "but we don't get that every day; 'owsever, wot there is is good, an' there's plenty of it, so let's fall to." Forsyth said grace, and then they all "fell to", with appetites peculiar to that isolated and breezy spot, where the wind blows so fresh from the open sea that the nostrils inhale culinary odours, and the palates seize culinary products, with unusual relish. There was something singularly unfeminine in the manner in which the duties of the table were performed by these stalwart guardians of the Rock. We are accustomed to see such duties performed by the tender hands of woman, or, it may be, by the expert fingers of trained landsmen; but in places where woman may not or can not act with propriety,--as on shipboard, or in sea-girt towers,--men go through such feminine work in a way that does credit to their versatility,--also to the strength of culinary materials and implements. The way in which Jamie Dove and his comrades knocked about the pans, teapots, cups and saucers, &c., without smashing them, would have astonished, as well as gratified, the hearts of the fraternity of tinsmiths and earthenware manufacturers. We have said that everything in the lighthouse was substantial and very strong. All the woodwork was oak, the floors and walls of solid stone,--hence, when Dove, who had no nerves or physical feelings, proceeded with his cooking, the noise he caused was tremendous. A man used to woman's gentle ways would, on seeing him poke the fire, have expected that the poker would certainly penetrate not only the coals, but the back of the grate also, and perchance make its appearance at the outside of the building itself, through stones, joggles, dovetails, trenails, pozzolano mortar, and all the strong materials that have withstood the fury of winds and waves for the last half-century! Dove treated the other furniture in like manner; not that he treated it ill,--we would not have the reader imagine this for a moment. He was not reckless of the household goods. He was merely indifferent as to the row he made in using them. But it was when the cooking was over, and the table had to be spread, that the thing culminated. Under the impulse of lightheartedness, caused by the feeling that his labours for the time were nearly ended, and that his reward was about to be reaped, he went about with irresistible energy, like the proverbial bull in a china shop, without reaching that creature's destructive point. It was then that a beaming smile overspread his countenance, and he raged about the kitchen with Vulcan-like joviality. He pulled out the table from the wall to the centre of the apartment, with a swing that produced a prolonged crash. Up went its two leaves with two minor crashes. Down went the four plates and the cups and saucers, with such violence and rapidity that they all seemed to be dancing on the board together. The beef all but went over the side of its dish by reason of the shock of its sudden stoppage on touching the table, and the pile of toast was only saved from scatteration by the strength of the material, so to speak, with which its successive layers were cemented. When the knives, forks, and spoons came to be laid down, the storm seemed to lull, because these were comparatively light implements, so that this period--which in shore-going life is usually found to be the exasperating one--was actually a season of relief. But it was always followed by a terrible squall of scraping wooden legs and clanking human feet when the camp stools were set, and the men came in and sat down to the meal. The pouring out of the tea, however, was the point that would have called forth the admiration of the world--had the world seen it. What a contrast between the miserable, sickly, slow-dribbling silver and other teapots of the land, and this great teapot of the sea! The Bell Rock teapot had no sham, no humbug about it. It was a big, bold-looking one, of true Britannia metal, with vast internal capacity and a gaping mouth. Dove seized it in his strong hand as he would have grasped his biggest fore-hammer. Before you could wink, a sluice seemed to burst open; a torrent of rich brown tea spouted at your cup, and it was full--the saucer too, perhaps--in a moment. But why dwell on these luxurious scenes? Reader, you can never know them from experience unless you go to visit the Bell Bock; we will therefore cease to tantalize you. During breakfast it was discussed whether or not the signal-ball should be hoisted. The signal-ball was fixed to a short staff on the summit of the lighthouse, and the rule was that it should be hoisted at a fixed hour every morning _when all was well_, and kept up until an answering signal should be made from a signal-tower in Arbroath where the keepers' families dwelt, and where each keeper in succession spent a fortnight with his family, after a spell of six weeks on the rock. It was the duty of the keeper on shore to watch for the hoisting of the ball (the "All's well" signal) each morning on the lighthouse, and to reply to it with a similar ball on the signal-tower. If, on any occasion, the hour for signalling should pass without the ball on the lighthouse being shown, then it was understood that something was wrong, and the attending boat of the establishment was sent off at once to ascertain the cause, and afford relief if necessary. The keeping down of the ball was, however, an event of rare occurrence, so that when it did take place the poor wives of the men on the rock were usually thrown into a state of much perturbation and anxiety, each naturally supposing that her husband must be seriously ill, or have met with a bad accident. It was therefore natural that there should be some hesitation about keeping down the ball merely for the purpose of getting a boat off to send Ruby ashore. "You see," said Forsyth, "the day after to-morrow the 'relief boat' is due, and it may be as well just to wait for that, Ruby, and then you can go ashore with your friend Jamie Dove, for it's his turn this time." "Ay, lad, just make up your mind to stay another day," said the smith; "as they don't know you're here they can't be wearyin' for you, and I'll take ye an' introduce you to my little wife, that I fell in with on the cliffs of Arbroath not long after ye was kidnapped. Besides, Ruby, it'll do ye good to feed like a fighting cock out here another day. Have another cup o' tea?" "An' a junk o' beef?" said Forsyth. "An' a slice o' toast?" said Dumsby. Ruby accepted all these offers, and soon afterwards the four friends descended to the rock, to take as much exercise as they could on its limited surface, during the brief period of low water that still remained to them. It may easily be imagined that this ramble was an interesting one, and was prolonged until the tide drove them into their tower of refuge. Every rock, every hollow, called up endless reminiscences of the busy building seasons. Ruby went over it all step by step with somewhat of the feelings that influence a man when he revisits the scene of his childhood. There was the spot where the forge had stood. "D'ye mind it, lad?" said Dove. "There are the holes where the hearth was fixed, and there's the rock where you vaulted over the bellows when ye took that splendid dive after the fair-haired lassie into the pool yonder." "Mind it? Ay, I should think so!" Then there were the holes where the great beams of the beacon had been fixed, and the iron bats, most of which latter were still left in the rock, and some of which may be seen there at the present day. There was also the pool into which poor Selkirk had tumbled with the vegetables on the day of the first dinner on the rock, and that other pool into which Forsyth had plunged after the mermaids; and, not least interesting among the spots of note, there was the ledge, now named the "Last Hope", on which Mr. Stevenson and his men had stood on the day when the boat had been carried away, and they had expected, but were mercifully preserved from, a terrible tragedy. After they had talked much on all these things, and long before they were tired of it, the sea drove them to the rails; gradually, as it rose higher, it drove them into the lighthouse, and then each man went to his work--Jamie Dove to his kitchen, in order to clean up and prepare dinner, and the other two to the lantern, to scour and polish the reflectors, refill and trim the lamps, and, generally, to put everything in order for the coming night. Ruby divided his time between the kitchen and lantern, lending a hand in each, but, we fear, interrupting the work more than he advanced it. That day it fell calm, and the sun shone brightly. "We'll have fog to-night," observed Dumsby to Brand, pausing in the operation of polishing a reflector, in which his fat face was mirrored with the most indescribable and dreadful distortions. "D'ye think so?" "I'm sure of it." "You're right," remarked Forsyth, looking from his elevated position to the seaward horizon. "I can see it coming now." "I say, what smell is that?" exclaimed Ruby, sniffing. "Somethink burnin'," said Dumsby, also sniffing. "Why, what can it be?" murmured Forsyth, looking round and likewise sniffing. "Hallo! Joe, look out; you're on fire!" Joe started, clapped his hand behind him, and grasped his inexpressibles, which were smouldering warmly. Ruby assisted, and the fire was soon put out, amidst much laughter. "'Ang them reflectors!" said Joe, seating himself, and breathing hard after his alarm and exertions; "it's the third time they've set me ablaze." "The reflectors, Joe?" said Ruby. "Ay, don't ye see? They've nat'rally got a focus, an' w'en I 'appen to be standin' on a sunny day in front of 'em, contemplatin' the face o' natur', as it wor, through the lantern panes, if I gits into the focus by haccident, d'ye see, it just acts like a burnin'-glass." Ruby could scarcely believe this, but after testing the truth of the statement by actual experiment he could no longer doubt it. Presently a light breeze sprang up, rolling the fog before it, and then dying away, leaving the lighthouse enshrouded. During fog there is more danger to shipping than at any other time. In the daytime, in ordinary weather, rocks and lighthouses can be seen. At nights lights can be seen, but during fog nothing can be seen until danger may be too near to be avoided. The two great fog-bells of the lighthouse were therefore set agoing, and they rang out their slow deep-toned peal all that day and all that night, as the bell of the Abbot of Aberbrothoc is said to have done in days of yore. That night Ruby was astonished, and then he was stunned! First, as to his astonishment. While he was seated by the kitchen fire chatting with his friend the smith, sometime between nine o'clock and midnight, Dumsby summoned him to the lantern to "help in catching to-morrow's dinner!" Dove laughed at the summons, and they all went up. The first thing that caught Ruby's eye at one of the window panes was the round visage of an owl, staring in with its two large eyes as if it had gone mad with amazement, and holding on to the iron frame with its claws. Presently its claws lost hold, and it fell off into outer darkness. "What think ye o' that for a beauty?" said Forsyth. Ruby's eyes, being set free from the fascination of the owl's stare, now made him aware of the fact that hundreds of birds of all kinds--crows, magpies, sparrows, tomtits, owls, larks, mavises, blackbirds, &c. &c.--were fluttering round the lantern outside, apparently bent on ascertaining the nature of the wonderful light within. "Ah! poor things," said Forsyth, in answer to Ruby's look of wonder, "they often visit us in foggy weather. I suppose they get out to sea in the fog and can't find their way back to land, and then some of them chance to cross our light and take refuge on it." "Now I'll go out and get to-morrow's dinner," said Dumsby. He went out accordingly, and, walking round the balcony that encircled the base of the lantern, was seen to put his hand up and quietly take down and wring the necks of such birds as he deemed suitable for his purpose. It seemed a cruel act to Ruby, but when he came to think of it he felt that, as they were to be stewed at any rate, the more quickly they were killed the better! He observed that the birds kept fluttering about, alighting for a few moments and flying off again, all the time that Dumsby was at work, yet Dumsby never failed to seize his prey. Presently the man came in with a small basket full of game. "Now, Ruby," said he, "I'll bet a sixpence that you don't catch a bird within five minutes." "I don't bet such large sums usually, but I'll try," said Ruby, going out. He tried and failed. Just as the five minutes were expiring, however, the owl happened to alight before his nose, so he "nabbed" it, and carried it in triumphantly. "_That_ ain't a bird," said Dumsby. "It's not a fish," retorted Ruby; "but how is it that you caught them so easily, and I found it so difficult?" "Because, lad, you must do it at the right time. You watch w'en the focus of a revolvin' light is comin' full in a bird's face. The moment it does so 'e's dazzled, and you grab 'im. If you grab too soon or too late, 'e's away. That's 'ow it is, and they're capital heatin', as you'll find." Thus much for Ruby's astonishment. Now for his being stunned. Late that night the fog cleared away, and the bells were stopped. After a long chat with his friends, Ruby mounted to the library and went to bed. Later still the fog returned, and the bells were again set agoing. Both of them being within a few feet of Ruby's head, they awakened him with a bang that caused him to feel as if the room in which he lay were a bell and his own head the tongue thereof. At first the sound was solemnizing, then it was saddening. After a time it became exasperating, and then maddening. He tried to sleep, but he only tossed. He tried to meditate, but he only wandered--not "in dreams", however. He tried to laugh, but the laugh degenerated into a growl. Then he sighed, and the sigh ended in a groan. Finally, he got up and walked up and down the floor till his legs were cold, when he turned into bed again, very tired, and fell asleep, but not to rest--to dream. He dreamt that he was at the forge again, and that he and Dove were trying to smash their anvils with the sledge-hammers--bang and bang about But the anvil would not break. At last he grew desperate, hit the horn off, and then, with another terrific blow, smashed the whole affair to atoms! This startled him a little, and he awoke sufficiently to become aware of the fog-bells. Again he dreamed. Minnie was his theme now, but, strange to say, he felt little or no tenderness towards her. She was beset by a hundred ruffians in pea-jackets and sou'westers. Something stirred him to madness. He rushed at the foe, and began to hit out at them right and left. The hitting was slow, but sure--regular as clockwork. First the right, then the left, and at each blow a seaman's nose was driven into his head, and a seaman's body lay flat on the ground. At length they were all floored but one--the last and the biggest. Ruby threw all his remaining strength into one crashing blow, drove his fist right through his antagonist's body, and awoke with a start to find his knuckles bleeding. "Hang these bells!" he exclaimed, starting up and gazing round him in despair. Then he fell back on his pillow in despair, and went to sleep in despair. Once more he dreamed. He was going to church now, dressed in a suit of the finest broadcloth, with Minnie on his arm, clothed in pure white, emblematic, it struck him, of her pure gentle spirit. Friends were with him, all gaily attired, and very happy, but unaccountably silent. Perhaps it was the noise of the wedding-bells that rendered their voices inaudible. He was struck by the solemnity as well as the pertinacity of these wedding-bells as he entered the church. He was puzzled too, being a Presbyterian, why he was to be married in church, but being a man of liberal mind, he made no objection to it. They all assembled in front of the pulpit, into which the clergyman, a very reverend but determined man, mounted with a prayer book in his hand. Ruby was puzzled again. He had not supposed that the pulpit was the proper place, but modestly attributed this to his ignorance. "Stop those bells!" said the clergyman, with stern solemnity; but they went on. "Stop them, I say!" he roared in a voice of thunder. The sexton, pulling the ropes in the middle of the church, paid no attention. Exasperated beyond endurance, the clergyman hurled the prayer book at the sexton's head, and felled him! Still the bells went on of their own accord. "Stop! sto-o-o-o-p! I say," he yelled fiercely, and, hitting the pulpit with his fist, he split it from top to bottom. Minnie cried "Shame!" at this, and from that moment the bells ceased. Whether it was that the fog-bells ceased at that time, or that Minnie's voice charmed Ruby's thoughts away, we cannot tell, but certain it is that the severely tried youth became entirely oblivious of everything. The marriage-party vanished with the bells; Minnie, alas! faded away also; finally, the roar of the sea round the Bell Rock, the rock itself, its lighthouse and its inmates, and all connected with it, faded from the sleeper's mind, and "like the baseless fabric of a vision, Left not a wrack behind." CHAPTER XXXIII CONCLUSION Facts are facts; there is no denying that. They cannot be controverted; nothing can overturn them, or modify them, or set them aside. There they stand in naked simplicity: mildly contemptuous alike of sophists and theorists. Immortal facts! Bacon founded on you; Newton found you out; Dugald Stewart and all his fraternity reasoned on you, and followed in your wake. What _would_ this world be without facts? Rest assured, reader, that those who ignore facts and prefer fancies are fools. We say it respectfully. We have no intention of being personal, whoever you may be. On the morning after Ruby was cast on the Bell Rock, our old friend Ned O'Connor (having been appointed one of the lighthouse-keepers, and having gone for his fortnight ashore in the order of his course) sat on the top of the signal-tower at Arbroath with a telescope at his eye directed towards the lighthouse, and became aware of a fact,--a fact which seemed to be contradicted by those who ought to have known better. Ned soliloquized that morning. His soliloquy will explain the circumstances to which we refer; we therefore record it here. "What's that? Sure there's something wrong wid me eye intirely this mornin'. Howld on" (he wiped it here, and applying it again to the telescope, proceeded); "wan, tshoo, three, _four_! No mistake about it. Try agin. Wan, tshoo, three, FOUR! An' yet the ball's up there as cool as a cookumber, tellin' a big lie; ye know ye are," continued Ned, apostrophizing the ball, and readjusting the glass. "There ye are, as bold as brass--av ye're not copper--tellin' me that everything goin' on as usual, whin I can see with me two eyes (wan after the other) that there's _four_ men on the rock, whin there should be only _three!_ Well, well," continued Ned, after a pause, and a careful examination of the Bell Rock, which being twelve miles out at sea could not be seen very distinctly in its lower parts, even through a good glass, "the day afther to-morrow 'll settle the question, Misther Ball, for then the Relief goes off, and faix, if I don't guv' ye the lie direct I'm not an Irishman." With this consolatory remark, Ned O'Connor descended to the rooms below, and told his wife, who immediately told all the other wives and the neighbours, so that ere long the whole town of Arbroath became aware that there was a mysterious stranger, a _fourth_ party, on the Bell Rock! Thus it came to pass that, when the relieving boat went off, numbers of fishermen and sailors and others watched it depart in the morning, and increased numbers of people of all sorts, among whom were many of the old hands who had wrought at the building of the lighthouse, crowded the pier to watch its return in the afternoon. As soon as the boat left the rock, those who had "glasses" announced that there was an "extra man in her". Speculation remained on tiptoe for nearly three hours, at the end of which time the boat drew near. "It's a man, anyhow," observed Captain Ogilvie, who was one of those near the outer end of the pier. "I say," observed his friend the "leftenant", who was looking through a telescope, "if--that's--not--Ruby--Brand--I'll eat my hat without sauce!" "You don't mean--let me see," cried the captain, snatching the glass out of his friend's hand, and applying it to his eye. "I do believe!--yes! it is Ruby, or his ghost!" By this time the boat was near enough for many of his old friends to recognize him, and Ruby, seeing that some of the faces were familiar to him, rose in the stern of the boat, took off his hat and waved it. This was the signal for a tremendous cheer from those who knew our hero; and those who did not know him, but knew that there was something peculiar and romantic in his case, and in the manner of his arrival, began to cheer from sheer sympathy; while the little boys, who were numerous, and who love to cheer for cheering's sake alone, yelled at the full pitch of their lungs, and waved their ragged caps as joyfully as if the King of England were about to land upon their shores! The boat soon swept into the harbour, and Ruby's friends, headed by Captain Ogilvy, pressed forward to receive and greet him. The captain embraced him, the friends surrounded him, and almost pulled him to pieces; finally, they lifted him on their shoulders, and bore him in triumphal procession to his mother's cottage. And where was Minnie all this time? She had indeed heard the rumour that something had occurred at the Bell Rock; but, satisfied from what she heard that it could be nothing very serious, she was content to remain at home and wait for the news. To say truth, she was too much taken up with her own sorrows and anxieties to care as much for public matters as she had been wont to do. When the uproarious procession drew near, she was sitting at Widow Brand's feet, "comforting her" in her usual way. Before the procession turned the corner of the street leading to his mother's cottage, Ruby made a desperate effort to address the crowd, and succeeded in arresting their attention. "Friends, friends!" he cried, "it's very good of you, very kind; but my mother is old and feeble; she might be hurt if we were to come on her in this fashion. We must go in quietly." "True, true," said those who bore him, letting him down, "so, good day, lad; good day. A shake o' your flipper; give us your hand; glad you're back, Ruby; good luck to 'ee, boy!" Such were the words, followed by three cheers, with which his friends parted from him, and left him alone with the captain. "We must break it to her, nephy," said the captain, as they moved towards the cottage. "'Still so gently o'er me stealin", Memory will bring back the feelin'.' It won't do to go slap into her, as a British frigate does into a French line-o'-battle ship. I'll go in an' do the breakin' business, and send out Minnie to you." Ruby was quite satisfied with the captain's arrangement, so, when the latter went in to perform his part of this delicate business, the former remained at the doorpost, expectant. "Minnie, lass, I want to speak to my sister," said the captain, "leave us a bit--and there's somebody wants to see _you_ outside." "Me, uncle!" "Ay, _you_; look alive now." Minnie went out in some surprise, and had barely crossed the threshold when she found herself pinioned in a strong man's arms! A cry escaped her as she struggled, for one instant, to free herself; but a glance was sufficient to tell who it was that held her. Dropping her head on Ruby's breast, the load of sorrow fell from her heart. Ruby pressed his lips upon her forehead, and they both rested there. It was one of those pre-eminently sweet resting-places which are vouchsafed to some, though not to all, of the pilgrims of earth, in their toilsome journey through the wilderness towards that eternal rest, in the blessedness of which all minor resting-places shall be forgotten, whether missed or enjoyed by the way. Their rest, however, was not of long duration, for in a few minutes the captain rushed out, and exclaiming "She's swounded, lad," grasped Ruby by the coat and dragged him into the cottage, where he found his mother lying in a state of insensibility on the floor. Seating himself by her side on the floor, he raised her gently, and placing her in a half-sitting, half-reclining position in his lap, laid her head tenderly on his breast. While in this position Minnie administered restoratives, and the widow ere long opened her eyes and looked up. She did not speak at first, but, twining her arms round Ruby's neck, gazed steadfastly into his face; then, drawing him closer to her heart, she fervently exclaimed "Thank God!!" and laid her head down again with a deep sigh. She too had found a resting-place by the way on that day of her pilgrimage. * * * * * Now, reader, we feel bound to tell you in confidence that there are few things more difficult than drawing a story to a close! Our tale is done, for Ruby is married to Minnie, and the Bell Rock Lighthouse is finished, and most of those who built it are scattered beyond the possibility of reunion. Yet we are loath to shake hands with them and to bid you farewell. Nevertheless, so it must be, for if we were to continue the narrative of the after-careers of our friends of the Bell Rock, the books that should be written would certainly suffice to build a new lighthouse. But we cannot make our bow without a parting word or two. Ruby and Minnie, as we have said, were married. They lived in the cottage with their mother, and managed to make it sufficiently large to hold them all by banishing the captain into the scullery. Do not suppose that this was done heartlessly, and without the captain's consent. By no means. That worthy son of Neptune assisted at his own banishment. In fact, he was himself the chief cause of it, for when a consultation was held after the honeymoon, as to "what was to be done now", he waved his hand, commanded silence, and delivered himself as follows:-- "Now, shipmates all, give ear to me, an' don't ventur' to interrupt. It's nat'ral an' proper, Ruby, that you an' Minnie and your mother should wish to live together; as the old song says, 'Birds of a feather flock together', an' the old song's right; and as the thing ought to be, an' you all want it to be, so it _shall_ be. There's only one little difficulty in the way, which is, that the ship's too small to hold us, by reason of the after-cabin bein' occupied by an old seaman of the name of Ogilvy. Now, then, not bein' pigs, the question is, what's to be done? I will answer that question: the seaman of the name of Ogilvy shall change his quarters." Observing at this point that both Ruby and his bride opened their mouths to speak, the captain held up a threatening finger, and sternly said, "Silence!" Then he proceeded-- "I speak authoritatively on this point, havin' conversed with the seaman Ogilvy, and diskivered his sentiments. That seaman intends to resign the cabin to the young couple, and to hoist his flag for the futur' in the fogs'l." He pointed, in explanation, to the scullery; a small, dirty-looking apartment off the kitchen, which was full of pots and pans and miscellaneous articles of household, chiefly kitchen, furniture. Ruby and Minnie laughed at this, and the widow looked perplexed, but perfectly happy and at her ease, for she knew that whatever arrangement the captain should make, it would be agreeable in the end to all parties. "The seaman Ogilvy and I," continued the captain, "have gone over the fogs'l" (meaning the forecastle) "together, and we find that, by the use of mops, buckets, water, and swabs, the place can be made clean. By the use of paper, paint, and whitewash, it can be made respectable; and, by the use of furniture, pictures, books, and baccy, it can be made comfortable. Now, the question that I've got to propound this day to the judge and jury is--Why not?" Upon mature consideration, the judge and jury could not answer "why not?" therefore the thing was fixed and carried out and the captain thereafter dwelt for years in the scullery, and the inmates of the cottage spent so much of their time in the scullery that it became, as it were, the parlour, or boudoir, or drawing-room of the place. When, in course of time, a number of small Brands came to howl and tumble about the cottage, they naturally gravitated towards the scullery, which then virtually became the nursery, with a stout old seaman, of the name of Ogilvy, usually acting the part of head nurse. His duties were onerous, by reason of the strength of constitution, lungs, and muscles of the young Brands, whose ungovernable desire to play with that dangerous element from which heat is evolved, undoubtedly qualified them for the honorary title of Fire-Brands. With the proceeds of the jewel case Ruby bought a little coasting vessel, with which he made frequent and successful voyages. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," no doubt, for Minnie grew fonder of Ruby every time he went away, and every time he came back. Things prospered with our hero, and you may be sure that he did not forget his old friends of the lighthouse. On the contrary, he and his wife became frequent visitors at the signal-tower, and the families of the lighthouse-keepers felt almost as much at home in "the cottage" as they did in their own houses. And each keeper, on returning from his six weeks' spell on the rock to take his two weeks' spell at the signal-tower, invariably made it his first business, _after_ kissing his wife and children, to go up to the Brands and smoke a pipe in the scullery with that eccentric old seafaring nursery-maid of the name of Ogilvy. In time Ruby found it convenient to build a top flat on the cottage, and above this a small turret, which overlooked the opposite houses, and commanded a view of the sea. This tower the captain converted into a point of lookout, and a summer smoking-room,--and many a time and oft, in the years that followed, did he and Ruby climb up there about nightfall, to smoke the pipe of peace, with Minnie beside them, and to watch the bright flashing of the red and white light on the Bell Rock, as it shone over the waters far and wide, like a star of the first magnitude, a star of hope and safety, guiding sailors to their desired haven; perchance reminding them of that star of Bethlehem which guided the shepherds to Him who is the Light of the World and the Rock of Ages. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN _At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_ 
21735	----	THE FLOATING LIGHT OF THE GOODWIN SANDS, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. PREFACE. This tale, reader--if you read it through--will give you some insight into the condition, value, and vicissitudes of the light-vessels, or floating lighthouses, which guard the shores of this kingdom, and mark the dangerous shoals lying off some of our harbours and roadsteads. It will also convey to you--if you don't skip--a general idea of the life and adventures of some of the men who have manned these interesting and curious craft in time past, as well as give you some account of the sayings and doings of several other personages more or less connected with our coasts. May you read it with pleasure and profit, and--"may your shadow never be less." I gratefully express my acknowledgment and tender my best thanks to the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House, to whose kindness I am indebted for having been permitted to spend a week on board the Gull-stream light-vessel, one of the three floating-lights which mark the Goodwin Sands; and to Robin Allen, Esquire, Secretary to the Trinity House, who has kindly furnished me with valuable books, papers, and information. I have also gratefully to tender my best thanks to Captain Valle, District Superintendent under the Trinity House at Ramsgate, for the ready and extremely kind manner in which he afforded me every facility for visiting the various light-vessels and buoys of his district, and for observing the nature and duties of the service. To the master of the Gull, whose "bunk" I occupied while he was on shore--to Mr John Leggett, the mate, who was in command during the period of my visit--and to the men of the "Floating-light" I have to offer my heartfelt thanks for not only receiving me with generous hospitality, but for treating me with hearty goodwill during my pleasant sojourn with them in their interesting and peculiar home. My best thanks, for much useful and thrilling information, are due to Mr Isaac Jarman, the coxswain, and Mr Fish, the bowman, of the Ramsgate Lifeboat-men who may be said to carry their lives continually in their hands, and whose profession it is to go out at the call of duty and systematically grapple with Death and rob him of his prey. To the Harbour Master, and Deputy Harbour Master at Ramsgate, I am also indebted for information and assistance, and to Mr Reading, the master of the Aid steam-tug, which attends upon, and shares the perils of, the Lifeboat. R.M. BALLANTYNE. EDINBURGH, 1870. CHAPTER ONE. PARTICULAR INQUIRIES. A light--clear, ruddy and brilliant, like a huge carbuncle--uprose one evening from the deep, and remained hovering about forty feet above the surface, scattering its rays far and wide, over the Downs to Ramsgate and Deal, along the coast towards Dover, away beyond the North Foreland, across the Goodwin Sands, and far out upon the bosom of the great North Sea. It was a chill November evening, when this light arose, in the year-- well, it matters not what year. We have good reasons, reader, for shrouding this point in mystery. It may have been recently; it may have been "long, long ago." We don't intend to tell. It was not the first time of that light's appearance, and it certainly was not the last. Let it suffice that what we are about to relate did happen, sometime or other within the present century. Besides being cold, the evening in question was somewhat stormy--"gusty," as was said of it by a traveller with a stern visage and remarkably keen grey eyes, who entered the coffee-room of an hotel which stood on the margin of Ramsgate harbour facing the sea, and from the upper windows of which the light just mentioned was visible. "It is, sir," said the waiter, in reply to the "gusty" observation, stirring the fire while the traveller divested himself of his hat and greatcoat. "Think it's going to blow hard?" inquired the traveller, planting himself firmly on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his waistcoat. "It may, sir, and it may not," answered the waiter, with the caution of a man who has resolved, come what may, never to commit himself. "Sometimes it comes on to blow, sir, w'en we don't look for it; at other times it falls calm w'en we least expects it. I don't pretend to understand much about the weather myself, sir, but I shouldn't wonder if it _was_ to come on to blow 'ard. It ain't an uncommon thing at Ramsgate, sir." The traveller, who was a man of few words, said "Humph!" to which the waiter dutifully replied "Yessir," feeling, no doubt, that the observation was too limited to warrant a lengthened rejoinder. The waiter of the Fortress Hotel had a pleasant, sociable, expressive countenance, which beamed into a philanthropic smile as he added-- "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Yes--tea," answered the traveller with the keen grey eyes, turning, and poking the fire with the heel of his boot. "Anything _with_ it, sir?" asked the waiter with that charmingly confident air peculiar to his class, which induces one almost to believe that if a plate of elephant's foot or a slice of crocodile's tail were ordered it would be produced, hot, in a few minutes. "D'you happen to know a man of the name of Jones in the town?" demanded the traveller, facing round abruptly. The waiter replied that he had the pleasure of knowing at least seven Joneses in the town. "Does one of the seven deal largely in cured fish and own a small sloop?" asked the traveller. "Yessir, he do, but he don't live in Ramsgate; he belongs to Yarmouth, sir, comes 'ere only now and then." "D'you know anything about him?" "No, sir, he don't frequent this 'otel." The waiter said this in a tone which showed that he deemed that fact sufficient to render Jones altogether unworthy of human interest; "but I believe," he added slowly, "that he is said to 'ave plenty of money, bears a bad character, and is rather fond of his bottle, sir." "You know nothing more?" "Nothing, sir." "Ham and eggs, dry toast and shrimps," said the keen-eyed traveller in reply to the reiterated question. Before these viands were placed on the table the brief twilight had passed away and darkness en-shrouded land and sea. After they had been consumed the traveller called for the latest local paper, to which he devoted himself for an hour with unflagging zeal--reading it straight through, apparently, advertisements and all, with as much diligence as if it were a part of his professional business to do so. Then he tossed it away, rang the bell, and ordered a candle. "I suppose," he said, pointing towards the sea, as he was about to quit the room, "that that is the floating light?" "It is one of 'em, sir," replied the waiter. "There are three lights on the sands, sir; the Northsan 'ead, the Gull-stream, and the Southsan 'ead. That one, sir, is the Gull." "How far off may it be?" "About four miles, sir." "What is the mate's name?" "Welton, sir, John Welton." "Is he aboard just now?" "Yessir, it's the master's month ashore. The master and mate 'ave it month an' month about, sir--one month afloat, next month ashore; but it seems to me, sir, that they have 'arder work w'en ashore than they 'ave w'en afloat--lookin' after the Trinity stores, sir, an' goin' off in the tender to shift and paint the buoys an' such like; but then you see, sir, w'en it's their turn ashore they always gits home to spend the nights with their families, sir, w'ich is a sort of compensation, as it were,--that's where it is, sir." "Humph! d'you know what time it is slack water out there in the afternoon just now?" "About three o'clock, sir." "Call me at nine to-morrow; breakfast at half-past; beefsteaks, coffee, dry toast. Good-night." "Yessir--good-night, sir--Number 27, sir, first floor, left-hand side." Number 27 slammed his door with that degree of violence which indicates a stout arm and an easy conscience. In less than quarter of an hour the keen grey eyes were veiled in slumber, as was proved unmistakably to the household by the sounds that proceeded from the nose to which these eyes belonged. It is not unfrequently found that strength of mind, vigour of body, high colour, and a tremendous appetite are associated with great capacity for snoring. The man with the keen grey eyes possessed all these qualities, as well as a large chin and a firm mouth, full of very strong white teeth. He also possessed the convenient power of ability to go to sleep at a moment's notice and to remain in that felicitous condition until he chose to awake. His order to be "called" in the morning had reference merely to hot water; for at the time of which we write men were still addicted to the ridiculous practice of shaving--a practice which, as every one knows, is now confined chiefly to very old men--who naturally find it difficult to give up the bad habit of a lifetime--and to little boys, who _erroneously_ suppose that the use of a sharp penknife will hasten Nature's operations. Exactly at nine o'clock, a knock at the door and "'Ot water, sir," sounded in the ears of Nunber 27. At half-past nine precisely Number 27 entered the coffee-room, and was so closely followed by the waiter with breakfast that it seemed as if that self-sacrificing functionary had sat up all night keeping the meal hot in order to testify, by excessive punctuality, the devotion of his soul to duty. The keen-eyed man had a keen appetite, if one might judge from appearances in such a matter. A thick underdone steak that overwhelmed his plate appeared to melt away rapidly from before him. Potatoes he disposed of in two bites each; small ones were immolated whole. Of mustard he used as much as might have made a small-sized plaster; pepper he sowed broadcast; he made no account whatever of salt, and sugar was as nothing before him. There was a peculiar crash in the sound produced by the biting of his toast, which was suggestive at once of irresistible power and thorough disintegration. Coffee went down in half-cup gulps; shrimps disappeared in shoals, shells and all; and--in short, his proceedings might have explained to an intelligent observer how it is that so many men grow to be exceedingly fat, and why it is that hotel proprietors cannot afford to lower their apparently exorbitant charges. The waiter, standing modestly by, and looking on with solemn interest, mentally attributed the traveller's extraordinary powers and high health to the fact that he neither smoked nor drank. It would be presumptuous in us to hazard a speculation on this subject in the face of an opinion held by one who was so thoroughly competent to judge. Breakfast over, the keen-eyed man put on his hat and overcoat and sallied forth to the harbour, where he spent the greater part of the forenoon in loitering about, inspecting the boats--particularly the lifeboat--and the shipping with much interest, and entering into conversation with the boatmen who lounged upon the pier. He was very gracious to the coxswain of the lifeboat--a bluff, deep-chested, hearty, neck-or-nothing sort of man, with an intelligent eye, almost as keen as his own, and a manner quite as prompt. With this coxswain he conversed long about the nature of his stirring and dangerous duties. He then made inquiry about his crew: how many men he had, and their circumstances; and, by the way, whether any of them happened to be named Jones. One of them was so named, the coxswain said--Tom Jones. This led the traveller to ask if Tom Jones owned a small sloop. No, he didn't own a sloop, not even a boat. Was there any other Jones in the town who owned a small sloop and dealt largely in cured fish? Yes there was, and he was a regular gallow's-bird, if all reports were true, the coxswain told him. The traveller did not press the subject long. Having brought it up as it were incidentally, he dismissed it carelessly, and again concentrated his attention and interest on the lifeboat. To all the men with whom he conversed this bluff man with the keen grey eyes put the same question, and he so contrived to put it that it seemed to be a matter of comparatively little interest to him whether there was or was not a man of the name of Jones in the town. Nevertheless, he gained all the information about Jones that he desired, and then, hiring a boat, set out for the floating light. The weather, that had appeared threatening during the night, suddenly became calm and fine, as if to corroborate the statement of the waiter of the Fortress Hotel in regard to its uncertainty; but knowing men in oilcloth sou'westers and long boots gave it as their opinion that the weather was not to be trusted. Fortunately for the traveller, it remained trustworthy long enough to serve his purpose. The calm permitted his boat to go safely alongside of the light-ship, and to climb up the side without difficulty. The vessel in which he found himself was not by any means what we should style clipper-built--quite the reverse. It was short for its length, bluff in the bows, round in the stern, and painted all over, excepting the mast and deck, of a bright red colour, like a great scarlet dragon, or a gigantic boiled lobster. It might have been mistaken for the first attempt in the ship-building way of an infatuated boy, whose acquaintance with ships was founded on hearsay, and whose taste in colour was violently eccentric. This remarkable thing had one immense mast in the middle of it, supported by six stays, like the Norse galleys of old, but it had no yards; for, although the sea was indeed its home, and it incessantly braved the fury of the storm, diurnally cleft the waters of flood and ebb-tide, and gallantly breasted the billows of ocean all the year round, it had no need of sails. It never advanced an inch on its course, for it had no course. It never made for any port. It was never either homeward or outward bound. No streaming eyes ever watched its departure; no beating hearts ever hailed its return. Its bowsprit never pointed either to "Greenland's icy mountains, or India's coral strand," for it had no bowsprit at all. Its helm was never swayed to port or starboard, although it _had_ a helm, because the vessel turned submissive with the tides, and its rudder, being lashed hard and fast amidships--like most weather-cocks--couldn't move. Its doom was to tug perpetually, day and night, from year to year, at a gigantic anchor which would not let go, and to strain at a monster chain-cable which would not snap--in short, to strive for ever, like Sisyphus, after something which can never be attained. A sad destiny, some may be tempted to exclaim. No, reader, not so sad as it appears. We have presented but one side of the picture. That curious, almost ridiculous-looking craft, was among the aristocracy of shipping. Its important office stamped it with nobility. It lay there, conspicuous in its royal colour, from day to day and year to year, to mark the fair-way between the white cliffs of Old England and the outlying shoals--distinguished in daylight by a huge ball at its mast-head, and at night by a magnificent lantern with argand lamps and concave reflectors, which shot its rays like lightning far and wide over the watery waste, while, in thick weather, when neither ball nor light could be discerned, a sonorous gong gave its deep-toned warning to the approaching mariner, and let him know his position amid the surrounding dangers. Without such warnings by night and by day, the world would suffer the loss of thousands of lives and untold millions of gold. Indeed the mere absence of such warnings for one stormy night would certainly result in loss irreparable to life and property. As well might Great Britain dispense with her armies as with her floating lights! That boiled-lobster-like craft was also, if we may be allowed to say so, stamped with magnanimity, because its services were disinterested and universal. While other ships were sailing grandly to their ports in all their canvas panoply, and swelling with the pride of costly merchandise within, each unmindful of the other, _this_ ship remained floating there, destitute of cargo, either rich or poor, never in port, always on service, serene in all the majesty of her one settled self-sacrificing purpose--to guide the converging navies of the world safely past the dangerous shoals that meet them on their passage to the world's greatest port, the Thames, or to speed them safely thence when outward-bound. That unclipperly craft, moreover, was a gallant vessel, because its post was one of danger. When other ships fled on the wings of terror--or of storm trysails--to seek refuge in harbour and roadstead, this one merely lengthened her cable--as a knight might shake loose the reins of his war-horse on the eve of conflict--and calmly awaited the issue, prepared to let the storm do its worst, and to meet it with a bold front. It lay right in the Channel, too, "i' the imminent deadly breach," as it were, prepared to risk encounter with the thousands of ships, great and small, which passed to and fro continually;--to be grazed and fouled by clumsy steersmen, and to be run into at night by unmanageable wrecks or derelicts; ready for anything in fact--come weal come woe, blow high blow low--in the way of duty, for this vessel was the Floating Light that marked the Gull-stream off the celebrated and fatal Goodwin Sands. CHAPTER TWO. THE FLOATING LIGHT BECOMES THE SCENE OF FLOATING SURMISES AND VAGUE SUSPICIONS. It must not be supposed, from what has been said, that the Gull Lightship was the only vessel of the kind that existed at that time. But she was a good type of the class of vessels (numbering at present about sixty) to which she belonged, and, both as regarded her situation and duties, was, and still is, one of the most interesting among the floating lights of the kingdom. When the keen-eyed traveller stepped upon her well-scrubbed deck, he was courteously received by the mate, Mr John Welton, a strongly-built man above six feet in height, with a profusion of red hair, huge whiskers, and a very peculiar expression of countenance, in which were united calm self-possession, coolness, and firmness, with great good-humour and affability. "You are Mr Welton, I presume?" said the traveller abruptly, touching his hat with his forefinger in acknowledgment of a similar salute from the mate. "That is my name, sir." "Will you do me the favour to read this letter?" said the traveller, selecting a document from a portly pocket-book, and presenting it. Without reply the mate unfolded the letter and quietly read it through, after which he folded and returned it to his visitor, remarking that he should be happy to furnish him with all the information he desired, if he would do him the favour to step down into the cabin. "I may set your mind at rest on one point at once," observed the stranger, as he moved towards the companion-hatch, "my investigations have no reference whatever to yourself." Mr Welton made no reply, but a slight look of perplexity that had rested on his brow while he read the letter cleared away. "Follow me, Mr Larks," he said, turning and descending the ladder sailor-fashion--which means crab-wise. "Do you happen to know anything," asked Mr Larks, as he prepared to follow, "about a man of the name of Jones? I have come to inquire particularly about him, and about your son, who, I am told--" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the cabin of the floating light. Here, with the door and skylight shut, the mate remained closeted for a long time in close conference with the keen-eyed man, much to the surprise of the two men who constituted the watch on deck, because visitors of any kind to a floating light were about as rare as snowflakes in July, and the sudden advent of a visitor, who looked and acted mysteriously, was in itself a profound mystery. Their curiosity, however, was only gratified to this extent, that they observed the stranger and the mate through the skylight bending earnestly over several newspapers spread out before them on the cabin table. In less than an hour the keen-eyed man re-appeared on deck, bade the mate an abrupt good-bye, nodded to the men who held the ropes for him, descended into the boat, and took his departure for the shore whence he had come. By this time the sun was beginning to approach the horizon. The mate of the floating light took one or two turns on the deck, at which he gazed earnestly, as if his future destiny were written there. He then glanced at the compass and at the vessel's bow, after which he leant over the side of the red-dragon, and looked down inquiringly at the flow of the tide. Presently his attention was fixed on the shore, behind which the sun was about to set, and, after a time, he directed a stern look towards the sky, as if he were about to pick a quarrel with that part of the universe, but thinking better of it, apparently, he unbent his brows, let his eyes fall again on the deck, and muttered to himself, "H'm! I expected as much." What it was that he expected, Mr John Welton never told from that day to this, so it cannot be recorded here, but, after stating the fact, he crossed his arms on his broad chest, and, leaning against the stern of his vessel, gazed placidly along the deck, as if he were taking a complacent survey of the vast domain over which he ruled. It was an interesting kingdom in detail. Leaving out of view all that which was behind him, and which, of course, he could not see, we may remark that, just before him stood the binnacle and compass, and the cabin skylight. On his right and left the territory of the quarter-deck was seriously circumscribed, and the promenade much interfered with, by the ship's boats, which, like their parent, were painted red, and which did not hang at the davits, but, like young lobsters of the kangaroo type, found shelter within their mother, when not at sea on their own account. Near to them were two signal-carronades. Beyond the skylight rose the bright brass funnel of the cabin chimney, and the winch, by means of which the lantern was hoisted. Then came another skylight, and the companion-hatch about the centre of the deck. Just beyond this stood the most important part of the vessel--the lantern-house. This was a circular wooden structure, above six feet in diameter, with a door and small windows. Inside was the lantern--the beautiful piece of costly mechanism for which the light-ship, its crew, and its appurtenances were maintained. Right through the centre of this house rose the thick unyielding mast of the vessel. The lantern, which was just a little less than its house, surrounded this mast and travelled upon it. Beyond this the capital of the kingdom, the eye of the monarch was arrested by another bright brass funnel, which was the chimney of the galley-fire, and indicated the exact position of the abode of the crew, or--to continue our metaphor--the populace, who, however, required no such indicator to tell of their existence or locality, for the chorus of a "nigger" melody burst from them, ever and anon, through every opening in the decks, with jovial violence, as they sat, busily engaged on various pieces of work below. The more remote parts of this landscape--or light-scape, if we may be allowed the expression--were filled up with the galley-skylight, the bitts, and the windlass, above which towered the gong, and around which twined the two enormous chain cables. Only one of these, however, was in use--that, with a single mushroom-anchor, being sufficient to hold the ship securely against tide and tempest. In reference to this we may remark in passing that the cable of a floating light is frequently renewed, and that the chafing of the links at the hawse-hole is distributed by the occasional paying out or hauling in of a few yards of chain--a process which is styled "easing the nip." "Horroo! me hearty, ye're as clain as a lady's watch," exclaimed a man of rugged form but pleasant countenance, as he issued from the small doorway of the lantern-house with a bundle of waste in one hand and an oil-can in the other. This was one of the lamplighters of the light-ship--Jerry MacGowl--a man whose whole soul was, so to speak, in that lantern. It was his duty to clip and trim the wicks, and fill the lamps, and polish the reflectors and brasses, and oil the joints and wheels (for this was a revolving--in other words a flashing light), and clean the glasses and windows. As there were nine lights to attend to, and get ready for nightly service, it may be easily understood that the lamplighter's duty was no sinecure. The shout of Jerry recalled the king from his contemplation of things in general to the lantern in particular. "All ready to hoist, Jerry?" inquired Mr Welton, going forward. "All ready, sir," exclaimed the man, looking at his handiwork with admiration, and carefully removing a speck of dust that had escaped his notice from one of the plate-glass windows; "An't she a purty thing now?--baits the best Ginaiva watch as iver was made. Ye might ait yer supper off her floor and shave in the reflictors." "That's a fact, Jerry, with no end of oil to your salad too," said Mr Welton, surveying the work of the lamplighter with a critical eye. "True for ye," replied Jerry, "an' as much cotton waste as ye like without sinful extravagance." "The sun will be down in a few minutes," said the mate, turning round and once more surveying the western horizon. Jerry admitted that, judging from past experience, there was reason to believe in the probability of that event; and then, being of a poetical temperament, he proceeded to expatiate upon the beauty of the evening, which was calm and serene. "D'ye know, sir," he said, gazing towards the shore, between which and the floating light a magnificent fleet of merchantmen lay at anchor waiting for a breeze--each vessel reflected clearly in the water along with the dazzling clouds of gold that towered above the setting sun--"D'ye know, sir, I niver sees a sky like that but it minds me o' the blissid green hills an' purty lakes of owld Ireland, an' fills me buzzum wid a sort of inspiration till it feels fit a'most to bust." "You should have been a poet, Jerry," observed the mate, in a contemplative tone, as he surveyed the shipping through his telescope. "Just what I've often thought mesilf, sir," replied Jerry, wiping his forehead with the bunch of waste--"many a time I've said to mesilf, in a thoughtful mood-- "Wan little knows what dirty clo'es May kiver up a poet; What fires may burn an' flout an' skurn, An' no wan iver know it." "That's splendid, Jerry; but what's the meanin' of `skurn?'" "Sorrow wan of me knows, sir, but it conveys the idee somehow; don't it, now?" "I'm not quite sure that it does," said the mate, walking aft and consulting his chronometer for the last time, after which he put his head down the hatchway and shouted, "Up lights!" in a deep sonorous voice. "Ay, ay, sir," came the ready response from below, followed by the prompt appearance of the other lamplighter and the four seamen who composed the crew of the vessel Jerry turned on his heel, murmuring, in a tone of pity, that the mate, poor man, "had no soul for poethry." Five of the crew manned the winch; the mate and Jerry went to a block-tackle which was also connected with the lifting apparatus. Then the order to hoist was given, and immediately after, just as the sun went down, the floating light went up,--a modest yet all-important luminary of the night. Slowly it rose, for the lantern containing it weighed full half a ton, and caused the hoisting chain and pulleys to groan complainingly. At last it reached its destination at the head of the thick part of the mast, but about ten or fifteen feet beneath the ball. As it neared the top, Jerry sprang up the chain-ladder to connect the lantern with the rod and pinion by means of which, with clockwork beneath, it was made to revolve and "flash" once every third of a minute. Simultaneously with the ascent of the Gull light there arose out of the sea three bright stars on the nor'-eastern horizon, and another star in the south-west. The first were the three fixed lights of the lightship that marked the North sandhead; the latter was the fixed light that guarded the South sandhead. The Goodwin sentinels were now placed for the night, and the commerce of the world might come and go, and pass those dreaded shoals, in absolute security. Ere long the lights of the shipping in the Downs were hung out, and one by one the lamps on shore shone forth--those which marked the entrance of Ramsgate harbour being conspicuous for colour and brilliancy--until the water, which was so calm as to reflect them all, seemed alive with perpendicular streams of liquid fire; land and sea appearing to be the subjects of one grand illumination. A much less poetical soul than that of the enthusiastic lamp-lighter might have felt a touch of unwonted inspiration on such a night, and in such a scene. The effect on the mind was irresistibly tranquillising. While contemplating the multitudes of vessels that lay idle and almost motionless on the glassy water, the thought naturally arose that each black hull en-shrouded human beings who were gradually sinking into rest--relaxing after the energies of the past day--while the sable cloak of night descended, slowly and soothingly, as if God were spreading His hand gently over all to allay the fever of man's busy day-life and calm him into needful rest. The watch of the floating light having been set, namely, two men to perambulate the deck--a strict watch being kept on board night and day-- the rest of the crew went below to resume work, amuse themselves, or turn in as they felt inclined. While they were thus engaged, and darkness was deepening on the scene, Welton stood on the quarterdeck observing a small sloop that floated slowly towards the lightship. Her sails were indeed set, but no breath of wind bulged them out; her onward progress was caused by the tide, which had by that time begun to set with a strong current to the northward. When within about a cable's length, the rattle of her chain told that the anchor had been let go. A few minutes later, a boat was seen to push off from the sloop and make for the lightship. Two men rowed it and a third steered. Owing to the force of the current they made the vessel with some difficulty. "Heave us a rope," cried one of the men, as they brushed past. "No visitors allowed aboard," replied Mr Welton sternly; catching up, nevertheless, a coil of rope. "Hallo! father, surely you've become very unhospitable," exclaimed another voice from the boat. "Why, Jim, is that you, my son?" cried the mate, as he flung the coil over the side. The boatmen caught it, and next moment Jim stood on the deck--a tall strapping young seaman of twenty or thereabouts--a second edition of his father, but more active and lithe in his motions. "Why you creep up to us, Jim, like a thief in the night. What brings you here, lad, at such an hour?" asked Mr Welton, senior, as he shook hands with his son. "I've come to have a talk with 'ee, father. As to creeping like a thief, a man must creep with the tide when there's no wind, d'ye see, if he don't come to an anchor. 'Tis said that time and tide wait for no man; that bein' so, I have come to see you now that I've got the chance. That's where it is. But I can't stay long, for old Jones will--" "What!" interrupted the mate with a frown, as he led his son to the forepart of the vessel, in order to be out of earshot of the watch, "have 'ee really gone an' shipped with that scoundrel again, after all I've said to 'ee?" "I have, father," answered the young man with a perplexed expression; "it is about that same that I've come to talk to 'ee, and to explain--" "You have need to explain, Jim," said the mate sternly, "for it seems to me that you are deliberately taking up with bad company; and I see in you already one o' the usual consequences; you don't care much for your father's warnings." "Don't say that, father," exclaimed the youth earnestly, "I am sure that if you knew--stay; I'll send back the boat, with orders to return for me in an hour or so." Saying this he hurried to the gangway, dismissed the boat, and returned to the forepart of the vessel, where he found his father pacing the deck with an anxious and somewhat impatient air. "Father," said Jim, as he walked up and down beside his sire, "I have made up my mind that it is my duty to remain, at least a little longer with Jones, because--" "Your duty!" interrupted the mate in surprise. "James!" he added, earnestly, "you told me not long ago that you had taken to attending the prayer-meetings at the sailors' chapel when you could manage it, and I was glad to hear you say so, because I think that the man who feels his need of the help of the Almighty, and acts upon his feeling, is safe to escape the rocks and shoals of life--always supposin' that he sails by the right chart--the Bible; but tell me, does the missionary, or the Bible, teach that it is any one's duty to take up with a swearing, drinking scoundrel, who is going from bad to worse, and has got the name of being worthy of a berth in Newgate?" "We cannot tell, father, whether all that's said of Morley Jones be true. We may have our suspicions, but we can't prove t'em; and there's no occasion to judge a man too soon." "That may be so, Jim, but that is no reason why you should consort with a man who can do you no goods and, will certainly do 'ee much harm, when you've no call for to do so. Why do 'ee stick by him--that's what I want to know--when everybody says he'll be the ruin of you? And why do 'ee always put me off with vague answers when I git upon that subject? You did not use to act like that, Jim. You were always fair an' above-board in your young days. But what's the use of askin'? It's plain that bad company has done it, an' my only wonder is, how _you_ ever come to play the hypocrite to that extent, as to go to the prayer-meeting and make believe you've turned religious." There was a little bitterness mingled with the tone of remonstrance in which this was said, which appeared to affect the young man powerfully, for his face crimsoned as he stopped and laid his hand on his father's shoulder. "Whatever follies or sins I may have committed," he said, solemnly, "I have not acted a hypocrite's part in this matter. Did you ever yet find me out, father, tellin' you a lie?" "Well, I can't say I ever did," answered the mate with a relenting smile, "'xcept that time when you skimmed all the cream off the milk and capsized the dish and said the cat done it, although you was slobbered with it from your nose to your toes--but you was a _very_ small fellow at that time, you was, and hadn't got much ballast aboard nor begun to stow your conscience." "Well, father," resumed Jim with a half-sad smile, "you may depend upon it I am not going to begin to deceive you now. My dear mother's last words to me on that dreary night when she died,--`Always stick to the _truth_, Jim, whatever it may cost you,'--have never been forgotten, and I pray God they never may be. Believe me when I tell you that I never join Morley in any of his sinful doings, especially his drinking bouts. You know that I am a total abstainer--" "No, you're not," cried Mr Welton, senior; "you don't abstain totally from bad company, Jim, and it's that I complain of." "I never join him in his drinking bouts," repeated Jim, without noticing the interruption; "and as he never confides to me any of his business transactions, I have no reason to say that I believe them to be unfair. As I said before, I may suspect, but suspicion is not knowledge; we have no right to condemn him on mere suspicion." "True, my son; but you have a perfect right to steer clear of him on mere suspicion." "No doubt," replied Jim, with some hesitation in his tone, "but there are circumstances--" "There you go again with your `circumstances,'" exclaimed Welton senior with some asperity; "why don't you heave circumstances overboard, rig the pumps and make a clean breast of it? Surely it's better to do that than let the ship go to the bottom!" "Because, father, the circumstances don't all belong to myself. Other people's affairs keep my tongue tied. I do assure you that if it concerned only myself, I would tell you everything; and, indeed, when the right time comes, I promise to tell you all--but in the meantime I-- I--" "Jim," said Mr Welton, senior, stopping suddenly and confronting his stalwart son, "tell me honestly, now, isn't there a pretty girl mixed up in this business?" Jim stood speechless, but a mantling flush, which the rays of the revolving light deepened on his sunburnt countenance, rendered speech unnecessary. "I knew it," exclaimed the mate, resuming his walk and thrusting his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, "it never was otherwise since Adam got married to Eve. Whatever mischief is going you're sure to find a woman underneath the _very_ bottom of it, no matter how deep you go! If it wasn't that the girls are at the bottom of everything good as well as everything bad, I'd be glad to see the whole bilin of 'em made fast to all the sinkers of all the buoys along the British coast and sent to the bottom of the North Sea." "I suspect that if that were done," said Jim, with a laugh, "you'd soon have all the boys on the British coast making earnest inquiries after their sinkers! But after all, father, although the girls are hard upon us sometimes, you must admit that we couldn't get on without 'em." "True for ye, boy," observed Jerry MacGowl, who, coming up at that moment, overheard the conclusion of the sentence. "It's mesilf as superscribes to that same. Haven't the swate creeturs led me the life of a dog; turned me inside out like an owld stockin', trod me in the dust as if I was benaith contimpt an' riven me heart to mortial tatters, but I couldn't get on widout 'em nohow for all that. As the pote might say, av he only knowd how to putt it in proper verse:-- "`Och, woman dear, ye darlin', It's I would iver be Yer praises caterwaulin' In swaitest melodee!'" "Mind your own business, Jerry," said the mate, interrupting the flow of the poet's inspiration. "Sure it's that same I'm doin', sir," replied the man, respectfully touching his cap as he advanced towards the gong that surrounded the windlass and uncovered it. "Don't ye see the fog a-comin' down like the wolf on the fold, an' ain't it my dooty to play a little tshune for the benefit o' the public?" Jerry hit the instrument as he spoke and drowned his own voice in its sonorous roar. He was driven from his post, however, by Dick Moy, one of the watch, who, having observed the approaching fog had gone forward to sound the gong, and displayed his dislike to interference by snatching the drumstick out of Jerry's hand and hitting him a smart blow therewith on the top of his head. As further conversation was under the circumstances impossible, John Welton and his son retired to the cabin, where the former detailed to the latter the visit of the strange gentleman with the keen grey eyes, and the conversation that had passed between them regarding Morley Jones. Still the youth remained unmoved, maintaining that suspicion was not proof, although he admitted that things now looked rather worse than they had done before. While the father and son were thus engaged, a low moaning wail and an unusual heave of the vessel caused them to hasten on deck, just as one of the watch put his head down the hatch and shouted, "A squall, sir, brewing up from the nor'-east." CHAPTER THREE. A DISTURBED NIGHT; A WRECK AND AN UNEXPECTED RESCUE. The aspect of the night had completely changed. The fog had cleared away; heavy clouds rolled athwart the sky; a deeper darkness descended on the shipping at anchor in the Downs, and a gradually increasing swell caused the Gull to roll a little and tug uneasily at her cable. Nevertheless the warning light at her mast-head retained its perpendicular position in consequence of a clever adaptation of mechanism on the principle of the universal joint. With the rise of the swell came the first rush of the squall. "If they don't send the boat at once, you'll have to spend the night with us, Jim," said the mate, looking anxiously in the direction of the sloop belonging to Morley Jones, the dark outlines of which could just be seen looming of a deeper black against the black sky. "It's too late even now," returned Jim in an anxious tone; "the boat, like everything else about the sloop, is a rotten old thing, and would be stove against the side in this swell, slight though it be as yet. But my chief trouble is, that the cables are not fit to hold her if it comes on to blow hard." For some time the wind increased until it blew half a gale. At that point it continued steady, and as it gave no indication of increasing, John Welton and his son returned to the cabin, where the latter amused himself in glancing over some of the books in the small library with which the ship was furnished, while the sire busied himself in posting up the ship's log for the day. For a considerable time they were silent, the one busily engaged writing, the other engrossed with a book. At last Mr Welton senior heaved a deep sigh, and said, while he carefully dotted an _i_ and stroked a _t_-- "It has always been my opinion, Jim, that when boys are bein' trained for the sea, they should be taught writing in a swing or an omnibus, in order to get 'em used to do it in difficult circumstances. There she goes again," he added, referring to a lurch of the vessel which caused the tail of a _y_ to travel at least two inches out of its proper course. "Now, that job's done. I'll turn in for a spell, and advise you to do the same, lad." "No, I'll go on deck and have a talk with Dick Moy. If the gale don't increase I'll perhaps turn in, but I couldn't sleep just now for thinkin' o' the sloop." "Please yourself, my son, an' you'll please me," replied the mate with a smile which ended in a yawn as he opened the door of a small sleeping berth, and disappeared into its recesses. James Welton stood for a few minutes with his back to the small fireplace, and stared meditatively at the cabin lamp. The cabin of the floating light was marvellously neat and immaculately clean. There was evidence of a well-ordered household in the tidiness with which everything was put away in its proper place, even although the fair hand of woman had nothing to do with it, and clumsy man reigned paramount and alone! The cabin itself was very small--about ten feet or so in length, and perhaps eight in width. The roof was so low that Jim could not stand quite erect because of the beams. The grate resembled a toy, and was of brass polished so bright that you might have used it for a looking-glass; the fire in it was proportionately small, but large enough for the place it had to warm. A crumb or speck of dust could scarce have been found on the floor with a microscope,--and no wonder, for whenever John Welton beheld the smallest symptom of such a blemish he seized a brush and shovel and swept it away. The books in the little library at the stern were neatly arranged, and so were the cups, plates, glasses, salt-cellars, spoons, and saucers, in the little recess that did duty as a cupboard. In short, order and cleanliness reigned everywhere. And not only was this the case in the cabin, but in every department of the ship. The bread-lockers, the oil-room next to the cabin, the galley where the men lived--all were scrupulously clean and everything therein was arranged with the method and precision that one is accustomed to expect only on board a man-of-war. And, after all, what is a floating light but a man-of-war? Its duty is, like that of any three-decker, to guard the merchant service from a dangerous foe. It is under command of the Trinity Corporation--which is tantamount to saying that it is well found and handled--and it does battle continually with the storm. What more could be said of a man-of-war? The only difference is that it does its work with less fuss and no noise! After warming himself for a short time, for the night had become bitterly cold, Jim Welton put on one of his sire's overcoats and went on deck, where he had a long walk and talk with Dick Moy, who gave it as his opinion that "it was a wery cold night," and said that he "wouldn't be surprised if it wor to come on to blow 'arder before mornin'." Dick was a huge man with a large expanse of good-natured visage, and a tendency to make all his statements with the solemnity of an oracle. Big and little men, like large and small dogs, have usually a sympathetic liking for each other. Dick Moy's chief friend on board was little Jack Shales, who was the life of the ship, and was particularly expert, as were also most of his mates, in making, during hours of leisure, beautiful workboxes and writing-desks with inlaid woods of varied colours, which were sold at a moderate price on shore, in order to eke out the monthly wage and add to the comforts of wives and little ones at Ramsgate. It may be added that Jack Shales was unquestionably the noisiest man on board. He had a good voice; could sing, and _did_ sing, from morning till night, and had the power of uttering a yell that would have put to shame the wildest warrior among the Cherokee savages! Jack Shales kept watch with Moy that night, and assisted in the conversation until a sudden snow storm induced young Welton to bid them good-night and retire below. "Good-night," said Shales, as Jim's head was disappearing down the hatchway, "stir up the fire and keep yourself warm." "That's just what I mean to do," replied Jim; "sorry I can't communicate some of the warmth to you." "But you can think of us," cried Jack, looking down the hatchway, "you can at least pity us poor babes out here in the wind and snow!" "Shut up, Jack!" said Moy with a solemn growl, "wot a tremendous jaw you've got w'en you let loose! Why, wot are 'ee starin' at now? 'Ave 'ee seed a ghost?" "No, Dick," said Shales, in a tone of voice from which every vestige of jocularity had disappeared; "look steady in the direction of the South sandhead light and--see! ain't that the flash of a gun?" "It looks like it. A wreck on the sand, I fear," muttered Dick Moy, putting up both hands to guard his eyes from the snow-flakes that were driven wildly about by the wind, which had by that time increased to a furious gale. For a few minutes the two men stood gazing intently towards the south-west horizon. Presently a faint flash was seen, so faint that they could not be certain it was that of a signal-gun. In a few minutes, however, a thin thread of red light was seen to curve upwards into the black sky. "No mistake now," cried Jack, leaping towards the cabin skylight, which he threw up, and bending down, shouted--"South sandhead light is firing, sir, and sending up rockets!" The mate, who was at the moment in the land of dreams, sprang out of them and out of his bunk, and stood on the cabin floor almost before the sentence was finished. His son, who had just drawn the blanket over his shoulders, and given vent to the first sigh of contentment with which a man usually lays his head on his pillow for the night, also jumped up, drew on coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if his life depended on his speed, and dashed on deck. There was unusual need for clothing that night, for it had become bitterly cold, a coat of ice having formed even on the salt-water spray which had blown into the boats. They found Dick Moy and Jack Shales already actively engaged--the one loading the lee gun, the other adjusting a rocket to its stick. A few hurried questions from the mate elicited all that it was needful to know. The flash of the gun from the South sandhead lightship, about six miles off, had been distinctly seen a third time, and a third rocket went up just as Welton and his son gained the deck, indicating that a vessel had struck upon the fatal Goodwin Sands. The report of the gun could not be heard, owing to the gale carrying the sound to leeward, but the bright line of the rocket was distinctly visible. At the same moment the flaring light of a burning tar-barrel was observed. It was the signal of the vessel in distress just on the southern tail of the sands. By this time the gun was charged and the rocket in position. "Look alive, Jack, fetch the poker!" cried the mate as he primed the gun. Jack Shales dived down the companion-hatch, and in another moment returned with a red-hot poker, which the mate had thrust into the cabin fire at the first alarm. He applied it in quick succession to the gun and rocket. A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the whiz of the rocket as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into the surrounding darkness. This was their answer to the South sandhead light, which, having fired three guns and sent up three rockets to attract the attention of the Gull, then ceased firing. It was also their first note of warning to the look-out on the pier of Ramsgate harbour. Of the three light-ships that guarded the sands, the Gull lay nearest to Ramsgate; hence, whichever of the other two happened to send up signals, the Gull had to reply and thenceforward to continue repeating them until the attention of the Ramsgate look-out should be gained, and a reply given. "That's a beauty," cried the mate, referring to the rocket; "fetch another, Jack; sponge her well out, Dick Moy, we'll give 'em another shot in a few minutes." Loud and clear were both the signals, but four and a half miles of distance and a fresh gale neutralised their influence. The look-out on the pier did not observe them. In less than five minutes the gun and rocket were fired again. Still no answering signal came from Ramsgate. "Load the weather gun this time," cried the mate, "they'll have a better chance of seeing the flash of that." Jack obeyed, and Jim Welton, having nothing to do but look on, sought shelter under the lee of the weather bulwarks, for the wind, according to Dick Moy, "was blowin' needles and penknives." The third gun thundered forth and shook the floating light from stem to stern, but the rocket struck the rigging and made a low wavering flight. Another was therefore sent up, but it had scarcely cut its bright line across the sky when the answering signal was observed--a rocket from Ramsgate pier! "That's all right now; _our_ duty's done," said the mate, as he went below, and, divesting himself of his outer garments, quietly turned in, while the watch, having sponged out and re-covered the guns, resumed their active perambulation of the deck. James Welton, however, could not calm down his feelings so easily. This was the first night he had ever spent in a light-ship; the scene was therefore quite new to him, and he could not help feeling somewhat disappointed at the sudden termination of the noise and excitement. He was told that the Ramsgate lifeboat could not be out in less than an hour, and it seemed to his excited spirit a terrible thing that human lives should be kept so long in jeopardy. Of course he began to think, "Is it not possible to prevent this delay?" but his better sense whispered to him that excited spirits are not the best judges in such matters, although it cannot be denied that they have an irresistible tendency to judge. There was nothing for it, however, but to exercise philosophic patience, so he went below and turned in, as sailors have it, "all standing," to be ready when the lifeboat should make its appearance. The young sailor's sleep was prompt and profound. It seemed to him but a few minutes after he had laid his head on the pillow when Jack Shale's voice again resounded in the cabin-- "Lifeboat close alongside, sir. Didn't see her till this moment. She carries no lights." The Weltons, father and son, sprang out of their bunks a second time, and, minus coat, hat, and shoes, scrambled on deck just in time to see the Broadstairs lifeboat rush past before the gale. She was close under the stern, and rendered spectrally visible by the light of the lantern. "What are you firing for?" shouted the coxswain of the boat. "Ship on the sands, bearing south," roared Jack Shales at the full pitch of his stentorian voice. There was no time for more, for the boat did not pause in her meteor-like flight. The question was asked and answered as she passed with a magnificent rush into darkness. The reply had been heard, and the lifeboat shot, straight as an arrow, to the rescue. Reader, we often hear and read of such scenes, but we can tell you from experience that vision is necessary to enable one to realise the full import of all that goes on. There was a strange thrill at the heart of young Welton when he saw the familiar blue-and-white boat leaping over the foaming billows. Often had he seen it in model and in quiescence in its boat-house, ponderous and almost ungainly; but now he saw it for the first time in action, as if endued with life. So, we fancy, warriors might speak of our heavy cavalry as _we_ see them in barracks and as _they_ saw them at Alma. Again all was silent and unexciting on board the Gull; but, not many minutes later, the watch once more shouted down the skylight-- "Tug's in sight, sir." It was afterwards ascertained that a mistake had been made in reference to the vessel that had signalled. Some one on shore had reported that the guns and rockets had been seen flashing from the _North_ sandhead vessel, whereas the report should have been, "from the vessel at the _South_ sandhead." The single word was all-important. It had the effect of sending the steam-tug Aid (which always attends upon the Ramsgate lifeboat) in the wrong direction, involving much loss of time. But we mention this merely as a fact, not as a reproof. Accidents will happen, even in the best regulated families. The Ramsgate lifeboat service is most admirably regulated; and for once that an error of this kind can be pointed out, we can point to dozens--ay, hundreds--of cases in which the steamer and lifeboat have gone, straight as the crow flies, to the rescue, and have done good service on occasions when all other lifeboats would certainly have failed; so great is the value of steam in such matters. On this occasion, however, the tug appeared somewhat late on the scene, and hailed the Gull. When the true state of the case was ascertained, her course was directed aright, and full steam let on. The Ramsgate boat was in tow far astern. As she passed, the brief questions and answers were repeated for the benefit of the coxswain, and Jim Welton observed that every man in the boat appeared to be crouching down on the thwarts except the coxswain, who stood at the steering tackles. No wonder. It is not an easy matter to sit up in a gale of wind, with freezing spray, and sometimes green seas, sweeping over one! The men were doubtless wideawake and listening, but, as far as vision went, that boat was manned by ten oilskin coats and sou'westers! A few seconds carried them out of sight, and so great was the power of steam that, despite the loss of time, they reached the neighbourhood of the wreck as soon as the Broadstairs boat, and found that the crew of the stranded vessel had already been saved, and taken ashore by the Deal lifeboat. It may be as well to observe here, that although in this case much energy was expended unnecessarily, it does not follow that it is frequently so expended. Often, far too often, all the force of lifeboat service on that coast is insufficient to meet the demands on it. The crews of the various boats in the vicinity of the Goodwin Sands are frequently called out more than once in a night, and they are sometimes out all night, visiting various wrecks in succession. In all this work the value of the steam-tug is very conspicuous, for it can tow its boat again and again to windward of a wreck, and renew the effort to save life in cases where, devoid of such aid, lifeboats would be compelled to give in after the failure of their first attempt, in consequence of their being driven helplessly to leeward. But we have forestalled our narrative. The drama, as far as the Gull-Light was concerned, ended that night with the disappearance of the tug and lifeboat. It was not until several days afterwards that her crew learned the particulars of the wreck in connection with which they had acted so brief but so important a part. Meanwhile, Dick Moy, who always walked the deck with a rolling swagger, with his huge hands thrust deep into his breeches' pockets when there was nothing for them to do, said to Jim Welton, "he'd advise 'im to go below an' clap the dead-lights on 'is peepers." Jim, approving the advice, was about to descend to the cabin, when he was arrested by a sharp cry that appeared to rise out of the waves. "Wot iver is that?" exclaimed Dick, as they all rushed to the port bow of the vessel and looked over the side. "Something in the water," cried Jack Shales, hastily catching up a coil of rope and throwing it overboard with that promptitude which is peculiar to seamen. "Why, _he_ can't kitch hold on it; it's only a dog," observed Dick Moy. All uncertainty on this point was cleared away, by a loud wail to which the poor animal gave vent, as it scraped along the ship's hull, vainly endeavouring to prevent itself from being carried past by the tide. By this time they were joined by the mate and the rest of the crew, who had heard the unwonted sounds and hurried on deck. Each man was eagerly suggesting a method of rescue, or attempting to carry one into effect, by means of a noose or otherwise, when Mr Welton, senior, observed that Mr Welton, junior, was hastily tying a rope round his waist. "Hallo! Jim," he cried, "surely you don't mean to risk your life for a dog?" "There's no risk about it, father. Why should I leave a poor dog to drown when it will only cost a ducking at the worst? You know I can swim like a cork, and I ain't easily cooled down." "You shan't do it if I can prevent," cried the mate, rushing at his reckless son. But Jim was too nimble for him. He ran to the stern of the vessel, leaped on the bulwarks, flung the end of the coil of rope among the men, and shouting, "Hold on taut, boys!" sprang into the sea. The men did "hold on" most powerfully; they did more, they hauled upon the rope, hand over hand, to a "Yo-heave-ho!" from Jerry MacGowl, which put to shame the roaring gale, and finally hauled Jim Welton on board with a magnificent Newfoundland dog in his arms, an event which was greeted with three enthusiastic cheers! CHAPTER FOUR. A NEW CHARACTER INTRODUCED. The gale was a short-lived one. On the following morning the wind had decreased to a moderate breeze, and before night the sea had gone down sufficiently to allow the boat of Mr Jones's sloop to come alongside of the floating light. Before Jim Welton bade his friends good-bye, he managed to have an earnest and private talk with each of them. Although he had never been connected with the Gull, he had frequently met with the men of that vessel, and, being one of those large-hearted sympathetic men who somehow worm themselves into the affection and confidence of most of their friends and comrades, he had something particular to say to each, either in reference to wives and families on shore, or to other members of that distracting section of the human family which, according to Mr Welton senior, lay at the foundation of all mischief. But young Welton did not confine himself to temporal matters. It has already been hinted that he had for some time been in the habit of attending prayer-meetings, but the truth was that he had recently been led by a sailor's missionary to read the Bible, and the precious Word of God had been so blessed to his soul, that he had seen his own lost condition by nature, and had also seen, and joyfully accepted, Jesus Christ as his all-sufficient Saviour. He had come to "know the truth," and "the truth had set him free;" free, not only from spiritual death and the power of sin, but free from that unmanly shame which, alas! too often prevents Christians from taking a bold stand on the Lord's side. The young sailor had, no doubt, had severe inward conflicts, which were known only to God and himself, but he had been delivered and strengthened, for he was not ashamed of Christ in the presence of his old comrades, and he sought by all the means in his power to draw them to the same blessed Saviour. "Well, good-bye, Jim," said Mr Welton, senior, as his son moved towards the gangway, when the boat came alongside, "all I've got to say to 'ee, lad, is, that you're on dangerous ground, and you have no right to shove yourself in the way of temptation." "But I don't _shove_ myself, father; I think I am led in that way. I may be wrong, perhaps, but such is my belief." "You'll not forget that message to my mother," whispered a sickly-looking seaman, whose strong-boned frame appeared to be somewhat attenuated by disease. "I'll not forget, Rainer. It's likely that we shall be in Yarmouth in a couple of days, and you may depend upon my looking up the old woman as soon after I get ashore as possible." "Hallo! hi!" shouted a voice from below, "wot's all the hurry?" cried Dick Moy, stumbling hastily up on deck while in the act of closing a letter which bore evidence of having been completed under difficulties, for its form was irregular, and its back was blotted. "Here you are, putt that in the post at Yarmouth, will 'ee, like a good fellow?" "Why, you've forgotten the address," exclaimed Jim Welton in affected surprise. "No, I 'aven't. There it is hall right on the back." "What, that blot?" "Ay, that's wot stands for Mrs Moy," said Dick, with a good-natured smile. "Sure now," observed Jerry MacGowl, looking earnestly at the letter, "it do seem to me, for all the world, as if a cat had drawed his tail across it after stumblin' over a ink-bottle." "Don't Mrs Moy live in Ramsgate?" inquired Jim Welton. "Of course she do," replied Dick. "But I'm not going there; I'm goin' to Yarmouth," said Jim. "Wot then?" retorted Dick, "d'ee suppose the clerk o' the post-office at Yarmouth ain't as well able to read as the one at Ramsgate, even though the writin' _do_ be done with a cat's tail? Go along with 'ee." Thus dismissed, Jim descended the side and was quickly on board the sloop Nora to which he belonged. On the deck of the little craft he was received gruffly by a man of powerful frame and stern aspect, but whose massive head, covered with shaggy grey curling hair, seemed to indicate superior powers of intellect. This was Morley Jones, the master and owner of the sloop. "A pretty mess you've made of it; I might have been in Yarmouth by this time," he said, testily. "More likely at the bottom of the sea," answered Jim, quietly, as he went aft and looked at the compass--more from habit than from any desire to receive information from that instrument. "Well, if I had been at the bottom o' the sea, what then? Who's to say that I mayn't risk my life if I see fit? It's not worth much," he said, gloomily. "You seem to forget that in risking your own life you risk the lives of those who sail along with you," replied Jim, with a bold yet good-humoured look at the skipper. "And what if I do risk their lives?--they ain't worth much, either, _I'm_ sure?" "Not to you, Morley, but worth a good deal to themselves, not to mention their wives and families and friends. You know well enough that if I had wished ever so much to return aboard last night your boat could not have got alongside the Gull for the sea. Moreover, you also know that if you had attempted to put to sea in such weather, this leaky tub, with rotten sails and running gear, would have been a wreck on the Goodwin sands before now, and you and I, with the two men and the boy, would have been food for the gulls and fishes." "Not at all," retorted Jones, "there's not much fear of our lives here. The lifeboat crews are too active for that; and as to the sloop, why, she's insured you know for her full value--for more than her value, indeed." Jones said this with a chuckle and a sly expression in his face, as he glanced meaningly at his companion. "I know nothing about your insurance or your cargo, and, what's more, I don't want to know," said Jim, almost angrily. "You've been at Square-Tom again," he added, suddenly laying his hand upon the shoulder of his companion and looking earnestly into his eyes. It was now Jones's turn to be angry, yet it was evident that he made an effort to restrain his feelings, as he replied, "Well, what if I have? It's one thing for you to advise me to become a teetotaller, and it's quite another thing for me to agree to do it. I tell you again, as I've often told you before, Jim Welton, that _I don't mean to do it_, and I'm not going to submit to be warned and reasoned with by you, as if you was my grandfather. I _know_ that drink is the curse of my life, and I know that it will kill me, and that I am a fool for giving way to it, but it is the only thing that makes me able to endure this life; and as for the next, I don't care for it, and _I don't believe in it_." "But your not believing in it does not make it less certain," replied Jim, quietly, but without any approach to solemnity in his tone or look, for he knew that his companion was not in a mood just then to stand such treatment. "You remember the story of the ostrich that was run down? Finding that it could not escape, it stuck its head in the sand and thought that nobody saw it. You may shut your eyes, Morley, but facts remain facts for all that." "Shutting my eyes is just what I am _not_ doing," returned Jones, flinging round and striding to the other side of the deck; then, turning quickly, he strode back, and added, with an oath, "have I not told you that I see myself, my position, and my prospects, as clearly as you do, and that I intend to face them all, and take the consequences?" Jim Welton flushed slightly, and his eyes dilated, as he replied-- "Have you not the sense to see, Morley Jones, that my remonstrances with you are at least disinterested? What would you think if I were to say to you, `Go, drink your fill till death finds you at last wallowing on the ground like a beast, or worse than a beast; I leave you to your fate?'" "I would think that Jim Welton had changed his nature," replied Jones, whose anger disappeared as quickly as it came. "I have no objection to your storming at me, Jim. You may swear at me as much as you please, but, for any sake, spare me your reasonings and entreaties, because they only rouse the evil spirit within me, without doing an atom of good; and don't talk of leaving me. Besides, let me tell you, you are not so disinterested in this matter as you think. There is some one in Yarmouth who has something to do with your interest in me." The young man flushed again at the close of this speech, but not from a feeling of anger. He dropt his eyes before the earnest though unsteady gaze of his half-tipsy companion, who burst into a loud laugh as Jim attempted some stammering reply. "Come," he added, again assuming the stern aspect which was natural to him, but giving Jim a friendly slap on the shoulder, "don't let us fall out, Jim you and I don't want to part just now. Moreover, if we have a mind to get the benefit of the tide to-night, the sooner we up anchor the better, so we won't waste any more time talking." Without waiting for a reply, Mr Jones went forward and called the crew. The anchor was weighed, the sails were set, and the sloop Nora--bending over before the breeze, as if doing homage in passing her friend the Gull-Light--put to sea, and directed her course for the ancient town and port of Yarmouth. CHAPTER FIVE. MORE NEW CHARACTERS INTRODUCED. If it be true that time and tide wait for no man, it is equally true, we rejoice to know, that authors and readers have a corresponding immunity from shackles, and are in nowise bound to wait for time or tide. We therefore propose to leave the Gull-stream light, and the Goodwin sands, and the sloop Nora, far behind us, and, skipping a little in advance of Time itself proceed at once to Yarmouth. Here, in a snug parlour, in an easy chair, before a cheerful fire, with a newspaper in his hand, sat a bluff little elderly gentleman, with a bald head and a fat little countenance, in which benignity appeared to hold perpetual though amicable rivalry with fun. That the fat little elderly gentleman was eccentric could scarcely be doubted, because he not only looked _over_ his spectacles instead of through them, but also, apparently, read his newspaper upside down. A closer inspection, however, would have shown that he was not reading the paper at all, but looking over the top of it at an object which accounted for much of the benignity, and some of the fun of his expression. At the opposite side of the table sat a very beautiful girl, stooping over a book, and so earnestly intent thereon as to be evidently quite oblivious of all else around her. She was at that interesting age when romance and reality are supposed to be pretty equally balanced in a well-regulated female mind--about seventeen. Although not classically beautiful--her nose being slightly turned upward--she was, nevertheless, uncommonly pretty, and, as one of her hopeless admirers expressed it, "desperately love-able." Jet black ringlets--then in vogue--clustered round an exceedingly fair face, on which there dwelt the hue of robust health. Poor Bob Queeker, the hopeless admirer above referred to, would have preferred that she had been somewhat paler and thinner, if that had been possible; but this is not to be wondered at, because Queeker was about sixteen years of age at that time, and wrote sonnets to the moon and other celestial bodies, and also indulged in "lines" to various terrestrial bodies, such as the lily or the snowdrop, or something equally drooping or pale. Queeker never by any chance addressed the sun, or the red-rose, or anything else suggestive of health and vigour. Yet his melancholy soul could not resist Katie,--which was this angel's name,--because, although she was energetic, and vigorous, and matter-of-fact, not to say slightly mischievous, she was intensely sympathetic and tender in her feelings, and romantic too. But her romance puzzled him. There was something too intense about it for his taste. If he had only once come upon her unawares, and caught her sitting with her hands clasped, gazing in speechless adoration at the moon, or even at a street-lamp, in the event of its being thick weather at the time, his love for her would have been without alloy. As it was, Queeker thought her "desperately love-able," and in his perplexity continued to write sonnets without number to the moon, in which efforts, however, he was singularly unsuccessful, owing to the fact that, after he had gazed at it for a considerable length of time, the orb of night invariably adopted black ringlets and a bright sunny complexion. George Durant--which was the name of the bald fat little elderly gentleman--was Katie's father. Looking at them, no one would have thought so, for Katie was tall and graceful in form; and her countenance, except when lighted up with varying emotion, was grave and serene. As Mr Durant looked at it just then, the gravity had deepened into severity; the pretty eyebrows frowned darkly at the book over which they bent, and the rosy lips represented a compound of pursing and pouting as they moved and muttered something inaudibly. "What is it that puzzles you, Katie?" asked her father, laying down the paper. "'Sh!" whispered Katie, without lifting her head; "seventeen, twenty-two, twenty-nine, thirty-six,--one pound sixteen;--no, I _can't_ get it to balance. Did you ever know such a provoking thing?" She flung down her pencil, and looked full in her father's face, where fun had, for the time, so thoroughly conquered and overthrown benignity, that the frown vanished from her brow, and the rosy lips expanded to join her sire in a hearty fit of laughter. "If you could only see your own face, Katie, when you are puzzling over these accounts, you would devote yourself ever after to drawing _it_, instead of those chalk-heads of which you are so fond." "No, I wouldn't, papa," said Katie, whose gravity quickly returned. "It's all very well for you to joke about it, and laugh at me, but I can tell you that this account _won't_ balance; there is a two-and-sixpence wrong somewhere, and you know it has to be all copied out and sent off by the evening post to-morrow. I really can't understand why we are called upon to make so many copies of all the accounts and papers for that ridiculous Board of Trade; I'm sure they have plenty of idle clerks of their own, without requiring us to slave as we do--for such a wretched salary, too!" Katie shook her curls indignantly, as she thought of the unjust demands and inadequate remuneration of Government, and resumed her work, the frowning brows and pursed coral lips giving evidence of her immediate and total absorption in the accounts. Old Mr Durant, still holding the newspaper upside down, and looking over the top of it and of his spectacles at the fair accountant, thought in his heart that if the assembled Board, of which his daughter spoke in such contemptuous terms, could only behold her labouring at their books, in order to relieve her father of part of the toil, they would incontinently give orders that he should be thenceforth allowed a salary for a competent clerk, and that all the accounts sent up from Yarmouth should be bound in cloth of gold! "Here it is, papa, I've got it!" exclaimed Katie, looking up with enthusiasm similar to that which might be expected in a youthful sportsman on the occasion of hooking his first salmon. "It was the two-and-sixpence which you told me to give to--" At that moment the outer door bell rang. "There's cousin Fanny, oh, I'm _so_ glad!" exclaimed Katie, shutting up her books and clearing away a multitude of papers with which the table was lumbered; "she has promised to stay a week, and has come in time to go with me to the singing class this afternoon. She's a darling girl, as fond of painting and drawing almost as I am, and hates cats. Oh, I do so love a girl that doesn't like cats. Eh, pussy, shall I tread on your tail?" This question was put to a recumbent cat which lay coiled up in earthly bliss in front of the fire, and which Katie had to pass in carrying her armful of books and papers to the sideboard drawer in which they were wont to repose. She put out her foot as if to carry her threat into execution. "Dare!" exclaimed Mr Durant, with whom the cat was a favourite. "Well, then, promise that if Mr Queeker comes to-night you won't let him stay to spoil our fun," said Katie, still holding her foot over the cat's unconscious tail. As she spoke, one of the rather heavy account-books (which ought to have been bound in cloth of gold) slipped off the pile, and, as ill luck would have it, fell on the identical tail in question, the cat belonging to which sprang up with a fierce caterwaul in rampant indignation. "Oh, papa, you _know_ I didn't mean it." Mr Durant's eyes twinkled with amusement as he beheld the sudden change of poor Katie's expression to intense earnestness, but before he could reply the door was thrown open; "cousin Fanny" rushed in, the cat rushed out, the two young ladies rushed into each other's arms, and went in a species of ecstatic waltz up-stairs to enjoy the delights of a private interview, leaving Mr Durant to sink into the arms of his easy chair and resume his paper--this time with the right side up! Let it be understood that the old gentleman was employed in Yarmouth under one of the departments of the Board of Trade. We refrain from entering into particulars as to which department, lest the vindictive spirit which was accredited to that branch of the Government by Miss Katie--who being a lady, must of course have been right--should induce it to lay hold of our estimable friend and make an example of him for permitting his independent daughter to expose its true character. In addition to his office in this connection Mr Durant also held the position of a retired merchant and ship-owner, and was a man of considerable wealth, although he lived in a quiet unostentatious way. In fact, his post under Government was retained chiefly for the purpose of extending his influence in his native town--for he counted himself a "bloater"--and enabling him to carry out more vigorously his schemes of Christian philanthropy. Cousin Fanny Hennings was a "darling girl" in Katie's estimation, probably because she was her opposite in many respects, though not in all. In good-humour and affection they were similar, but Fanny had none of Katie's fire, or enthusiasm, or intellect, or mischief; she had, however, a great appreciation of fun, and was an inordinate giggler. Fat, fair, and fifteen, with flaxen curls, pink cheeks, and blue eyes, she was the _beau-ideal_ of a wax-doll, and possessed about as much self-assertion as may be supposed to belong to that class of the doll-community which is constructed so as to squeak when squeezed. As Katie Durant squeezed her friend pretty often, both mentally and physically, cousin Fanny squeaked a good deal more than usual during her occasional visits to Yarmouth, and even after her return home to Margate, where she and her widowed mother dwelt--as Queeker poetically said--"in a cottage by the sea." It was usually acknowledged by all her friends that Fanny had increased her powers amazingly while absent, in so much that she learned at last to squeak on her own account without being squeezed at all. After the cousins had talked in private until they had made themselves almost too late for the singing-class, they issued from the house and betook themselves to the temple of music, where some amazing pieces were performed by some thirty young vocalists of both sexes to their own entire satisfaction, and to the entire dissatisfaction, apparently, of their teacher, whose chief delight seemed to be to check the flow of gushing melody at a critical point, and exclaim, "Try it again!" Being ignorant of classical music we do not venture to give an opinion on these points, but it is important to state, as bearing on the subject in a sanitary point of view, that all the pupils usually left the class in high spirits, with the exception of Queeker, who had a voice like a cracked tea-kettle, knew no more about music than Katie's cat--which he adored because it was Katie's--and who went to the class, which was indebted for its discord chiefly to him, wholly and solely because Katie Durant went to it, and thus afforded him an opportunity of occasionally shaking hands with her. On the present evening, however, being of a shy disposition, he could not bring himself to face cousin Fanny. He therefore left the hall miserable, and went home with desperate intentions as to the moon. Unfortunately that luminary was not visible, the sun having just set, but from his bedroom window, which commanded a view of the roadstead, he beheld the lantern of the Saint Nicolas Gatt floating-light, and addressed the following lines to it with all the fervour incident to a hopeless affection:-- "Why blaze, ye bright benignant beaming star, Guiding the homebound seaman from afar, Lighting the outbound wand'rer on his way, With all the lightsome perspicuity of day? Why not go out at once! and let be hurl'd Dark, dread, unmitigated darkness o'er the world? Why should the heavenly constellations shine? Why should the weather evermore be fine? Why should this rolling ball go whirling round? Why should the noise of mirth and music sound? Why should the sparrow chirp, the blackbird sing, The mountains echo, and the valleys ring, With all that's cheerful, humorous, and glad, Now that my heart is smitten and my brain gone mad?" Queeker fetched a long deep-drawn sigh at this point, the agony of intense composition being for a moment relaxed. Then, catching his breath and glaring, he went on in a somewhat gentler strain-- "Forgive me, Floating-light, and you, ye sun, Moon, stars, and elements of Nature, every one; I did but vent my misery and spleen In utt'ring words of fury that I hardly mean. At least I do in part--but hold! why not? Oh! cease ye fiendish thoughts that rage and plot To bring about my ruin. Hence! avaunt! Or else in pity tell me what you want. I cannot live, and yet I would not die! My hopes are blighted! Where, oh whither shall I fly? 'Tis past! I'll cease to daily with vain sophistry, And try the virtue of a calm philosophy." The effect of composition upon Queeker was such that when he had completed his task he felt greatly tranquillised, and, having shut up his portfolio, formed the sudden resolution of dropping in upon the Durants to tea. Meantime, and before the love-sick youth had begun the lines above quoted, Katie and her cousin walked home by a road which conducted them close past the edge of those extensive sandy plains called the Denes of Yarmouth. Here, at the corner of a quiet street, they were arrested by the sobbing of a little boy who sat on a railing by the roadside, swaying himself to and fro in an agony of grief. Katie's sympathetic heart was instantly touched. She at once went up to the boy, and made earnest inquiries into the cause of his distress. "Please, ma'am," said the boy, "I've lost a shillin', and I can't find it nowheres. Oh, wot ever shall I do? My mother gave it me to give with two other bobs to my poor sick brother whom I've comed all this way to see, and there I've gone an' lost it, an' I'll 'ave to lay out all night in the cold, for I dursn't go to see 'im without the money--boo, hoo!" "Oh, how _very_ unfortunate!" exclaimed Katie with real feeling for the boy, whose soul was thus steeped to all appearance in woe unutterable, was very small, and very dirty and ragged, and had an extremely handsome intelligent face, with a profusion of wild brown curls. "But I can make that up to you, poor boy," she added, drawing out her purse, "here is a shilling for you. Where do you live?" "At Ramsgate, ma'am." "At Ramsgate?" exclaimed Katie in surprise, "why, how did you manage to get here?" "I come in a lugger, ma'am, as b'longs to a friend o' ourn. We've just arrived, an' we goes away agin to-morrow." "Indeed! That will give you little time to see your sick brother. What is the matter with him?" "Oh, he's took very bad, ma'am. I'm sorry to say he's bad altogether, ma'am. Bin an' run'd away from 'ome. A'most broke his mother's 'eart, he has, an' fall'd sick here, he did." The small boy paused abruptly at this point, and looked earnestly in Katie's kind and pitiful face. "Where does your brother live?" asked Katie. The small boy looked rather perplexed, and said that he couldn't rightly remember the name of the street, but that the owner of the lugger "know'd it." Whereat Katie seemed disappointed, and said she would have been so glad to have visited him, and given him such little comforts as his disease might warrant. "Oh, ma'am," exclaimed the small boy, looking wistfully at her with his large blue eyes, "_wot_ a pity I've forgot it! The doctor ordered 'im wine too--it was as much as 'is life was worth not to 'ave wine,--but of course they couldn't afford to git 'im wine--even cheap wine would do well enough, at two bob or one bob the bottle. If you was to give me two bob--shillins I mean, ma'am--I'd git it for 'im to-night." Katie and her cousin conversed aside in low tones for a minute or two as to the propriety of complying with this proposal, and came to the conclusion that the boy was such a nice outspoken honest-like fellow, that it would do no harm to risk that sum in the circumstances. Two shillings were therefore put into the boy's dirty little hand, and he was earnestly cautioned to take care of it, which he earnestly, and no doubt honestly, promised to do. "What is your name, boy?" asked Katie, as she was about to leave him. "Billy--Billy Towler, ma'am," answered the urchin, pulling his forelock by way of respectful acknowledgment, "but my friends they calls me Walleye, chiefly in consikence o' my bein' wery much the rewerse of blind, ma'am, and niver capable of bein' cotched in a state o' slumber at no time." This reply had the effect of slightly damaging the small boy's character for simplicity in Katie's mind, although it caused both herself and her companion to laugh. "Well, Billy," she said, opening her card-case, "here is my card--give it to your sick brother, and when he sends it to me with his address written on the back of it I'll call on him." "Thankee, ma'am," said the small boy. After he had said this, he stood silently watching the retiring figure of his benefactress, until she was out of sight, and then dashing round the corner of a bye-street which was somewhat retired, he there went off into uncontrollable fits of laughter--slapped his small thighs, held his lean little sides with both hands, threw his ragged cap into the air, and in various other ways gave evidence of ecstatic delight. He was still engaged in these violent demonstrations of feeling when Morley Jones--having just landed at Yarmouth, and left the sloop _Nora_ in charge of young Welton--came smartly round the corner, and, applying his heavy boot to the small boy's person, kicked him into the middle of the road. CHAPTER SIX. THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED. "What are ye howlin' there for, an' blockin' up the Queen's highway like that, you precious young villain?" demanded Morley Jones. "An' wot are you breakin' the Queen's laws for like that?" retorted Billy Towler, dancing into the middle of the road and revolving his small fists in pugilistic fashion. "You big hairy walrus, I don't know whether to 'ave you up before the beaks for assault and battery or turn to an' give 'ee a good lickin'." Mr Jones showed all his teeth with an approving grin, and the small boy grinned in return, but still kept on revolving his fists, and warning the walrus to "look hout and defend hisself if he didn't want his daylights knocked out or his bows stove in!" "You're a smart youth, you are," said Jones. "Ha! you're afraid, are you? an' wants to make friends, but I won't 'ave it at no price. Come on, will you?" Jones, still grinning from ear to ear, made a rush at the urchin, who, however, evaded him with such ease that the man perceived he had not the smallest chance of catching him. "I say, my lad," he asked, stopping and becoming suddenly grave, "where d'you come from?" "I comes from where I b'longs to, and where I'm agoin' back to w'en it suits me." "Very good," retorted Jones, "and I suppose you don't object to earn a little money in an easy way?" "Yes, I do object," replied Billy; "it ain't worth my while to earn a _little_ money in any way, no matter how easy; I never deals in small sums. A fi' pun' note is the lowest figur' as I can stoop to." "You'll not object, however, to a gift, I daresay," remarked Jones, as he tossed a half-crown towards the boy. Billy caught it as deftly as a dog catches a bit of biscuit, looked at it in great surprise, tossed it in the air, bit its rim critically, and finally slid it into his trousers pocket. "Well, you know," he said slowly, "to obleege a _friend_, I'm willin' to accept." "Now then, youngster, if I'm willing to trust that half-crown in your clutches, you may believe I have got something to say to 'ee worth your while listenin' to; for you may see I'm not the man to give it to 'ee out o' Christian charity." "That's true," remarked Billy, who by this time had become serious, and stood with his hands in his pockets, still, however, at a respectful distance. "Well, the fact is," said Mr Jones, "that I've bin lookin' out of late for a smart lad with a light heart and a light pocket, and that ain't troubled with much of a conscience." "That's me to a tee," said Billy promptly; "my 'art's as light as a feather, and my pocket is as light as a maginstrate's wisdom. As for conscience, the last beak as I wos introdooced to said I must have bin born without a conscience altogether; an' 'pon my honour I think he wos right, for I never felt it yet, though I've often tried--'xcept once, w'en I'd cleaned out the pocket of a old ooman as was starin' in at a shop winder in Cheapside, and she fainted dead away w'en she found it out, and her little grand-darter looked so pale and pitiful that I says to myself, `Hallo! Walleye, you've bin to the wrong shop this time; go an' put it back, ye young dog;' so I obeyed orders, an' slipped back the purse while pretendin' to help the old ooman. It wos risky work, though, for a bobby twigged me, and it was only my good wind and tough pair o' shanks that saved me. Now," continued the urchin, knitting his brows as he contemplated the knotty point, "I've had my doubts whether that wos conscience, or a sort o' nat'ral weakness pecooliar to my constitootion. I've half a mind to call on the Bishop of London on the point one o' these days." "So, you're a city bird," observed Jones, admiringly. "Ah, and I can see that you're a provincial one," replied Billy, jingling the half-crown against the silver in his pocket. "What brings you so far out of your beat, Walleye?" inquired Jones. "Oh, I'm on circuit just now, makin' a tower of the provinces. I tried a case just before you came up, an' made three shillins out of it, besides no end o' promises--which, unfort'nately, I can't awail myself of--from a sweet young lady, with such a pleasant face, that I wished I could adopt her for a darter. But that's an expensive luxury, you see; can't afford it yet." "Well, youngster," said Jones, assuming a more grave yet off-hand air, "if you choose to trust me, I'll put you in the way of makin' some money without much trouble. It only requires a little false swearing, which I daresay you are used to." "No, I ain't," retorted the urchin indignantly; "I never tells a lie 'xcept w'en I can't help it. _Then_, of course, a feller _must_ do it!" "Just so, Walleye, them's my sentiments. Have you got a father?" "No, nor yet a mother," replied Billy. "As far as I'm aweer of, I wos diskivered on the steps of a city work'us, an' my first impressions in this life wos the knuckles of the old woman as banged me up. The governor used to talk a lot o' balderdash about our bein' brought up; but I knows better. I wos banged up; banged up in the mornins, banged to meals, and banged to bed; banged through thick and thin, for everything an' for nothin', until I banged myself out o' the door one fine mornin', which I banged arter me, an' 'ave bin bangin' about, a gen'lem'n at large, ever since." "Ha! got no friends and nothin' to do?" said Morley Jones. "Jis so." "Well, if you have a mind to take service with me, come along an' have a pot o' beer." The man turned on his heel and walked off to a neighbouring public-house, leaving the small boy to follow or not as he pleased, and apparently quite indifferent as to what his decision might be. Billy Towler--_alias_ Walleye--looked after him with an air of uncertainty. He did not like the look of the man, and was about to decide against him, when the jingle of the half-crown in his pocket turned the scale in his favour. Running after him, he quietly said, "I'm your man," and then began to whistle, at the same time making an abortive effort to keep step with his long-limbed employer, who said nothing in reply, but, entering a public-house, ordered two pots of beer. These, when produced, he and his little companion sat down to discuss in the most retired box in the place, and conversed in low tones. "What was it brought you to Yarmouth, Walleye?" asked Mr Jones. "Call me Billy," said the boy, "I like it better." "Well, Billy--and, by the way, you may call me Morley--my name's Jones, but, like yourself, I have a preference. Now, then, what brought you here?" "H'm, that involves a story--a hanecdote, if I may so speak," replied this precocious youngster with much gravity. "You see, some time arter I runn'd away from the work'us, I fell'd in with an old gen'lem'n with a bald head an' a fat corpus. Do 'ee happen to know, Mr Morley, 'ow it is that bald heads an' fat corpuses a'most always go together?" Morley replied that he felt himself unable to answer that difficult question; but supposed that as good-humour was said to make people fat, perhaps it made them bald also. "I dun know," continued Billy; "anyhow, this old gen'lem'n he took'd a fancy to me, an' took'd me home to his 'otel; for he didn't live in London--wos there only on a wisit at the time he felled in love with me at first sight. Well, he give me a splendacious suit of noo clo'es, an 'ad me put to a school, where I soon larned to read and write; an' I do b'lieve wos on the highroad to be Lord Mayor of London, when the old schoolmaster died, before I'd bin two year there, an' the noo un wos so fond o' the bangin' system that I couldn't stand it, an' so bid 'em all a tender farewell, an' took to the streets agin. The old gen'lem'n he comed three times from Yarmouth, where he belonged, for to see me arter I wos put to the school, an' I had a sort o' likin' for him, but not knowin' his name, and only been aweer that he lived at Yarmouth, I thought I'd have no chance o' findin' him. Over my subsikint career I'll draw a wail; it's enough to say I didn't like either it or my pals, so I made up my mind at last to go to Yarmouth an' try to find the old gen'lem'n as had adopted me--that's what he said he'd done to me. W'en I'd prigged enough o' wipes to pay my fare down, I comed away,--an' here I am." "Have you seen the old gentleman?" asked Morley, after a pause. "No, only just arrived this arternoon." "And you don't know his name, nor where he lives?" "No." "And how did you expect to escape bein' nabbed and put in limbo as a vagrant?" inquired Morley. "By gittin' employment, of coorse, from some _respectable_ gen'lem'n like yourself, an' then runnin' away from 'im w'en I'd diskivered the old chap wi' the bald head." Morley Jones smiled grimly. "Well, my advice to you is," he said, "to fight shy of the old chap, even if you do discover him. Depend upon it the life you would lead under his eye would be one of constant restraint and worry. He'd put you to school again, no doubt, where you'd get banged as before--a system I don't approve of at all--and be made a milksop and a flunkey, or something o' that sort--whereas the life you'll lead with me will be a free and easy rollikin' manly sort o' life. Half on shore and half at sea. Do what you like, go where you will,--when business has bin attended to--victuals and clothing free gratis, and pocket-money enough to enable you to enjoy yourself in a moderate sort of way. You see I'm not goin' to humbug you. It won't be all plain sailin', but what is a man worth if he ain't fit to stand a little rough-and-tumble? Besides, rough work makes a fellow take his ease with all the more zest. A life on the ocean wave one week, with hard work, and a run on shore the next week, with just enough to do to prevent one wearyin'. That's the sort o' thing for you and me, Billy, eh boy?" exclaimed the tempter, growing garrulous in his cups, and giving his small victim a pat on the shoulder, which, although meant to be a facetious touch, well-nigh unseated him. Billy Towler recovered himself, however, and received it as it was meant, in perfect good humour. The beer had mounted to his own little brain, and his large eyes glowed with more than natural light as he sat gazing into his companion's rugged face, listening with delight to the description of a mode of life which he thought admirably suited to his tastes and capabilities. He was, however, a shrewd little creature. Sad and very rough experience of life had taught him to be uncommonly circumspect for his years. "What's your business, Morley?" he demanded eagerly. "I've a lot of businesses," said Mr Jones with a drunken leer, "but my principal one is fishcuring. I'm a sort of shipowner too. Leastwise I've got two craft--one bein' a sloop, the other a boat. Moreover, I charter no end of vessels, an' do a good deal in the insurance way. But you'll understand more about these things all in good time, Billy. I live, while I'm at home, in Gravesend, but I've got a daughter and a mother livin' at Yarmouth, so I may say I've got a home at both places. It's a convenient sort o' thing, you see,--a town residence and a country villa, as it were. Come, I'll take you to the villa now, and introduce 'ee to the women." So saying, this rascal paid for the poison he had been administering in large doses to himself and his apprentice, and, taking Billy's dirty little hand in his large horny fist, led him towards the centre of the town. Poor Billy little knew the nature of the awful gulf of sin and misery into which he was now plunging with a headlong hilarious vivacity peculiarly his own. He was, indeed, well enough aware of the fact that he was a thief, and an outcast from society, and that he was a habitual breaker of the laws of God and man, but he was naturally ignorant of the extent of his guilt, as well as of the certain and terrible end to which it pointed, and, above all, he had not the most remote conception of the almost hopeless slavery to which he was doomed when once fairly secured in the baleful net which Morley Jones had begun to twine around him. But a higher Power was leading the poor child in a way that he knew not--a way that was little suspected by his tempter--a way that has been the means of snatching many and many a little one from destruction in time past, and that will certainly save many more in time to come--as long as Christian men and women band together to unite their prayers and powers for the rescue of perishing souls. Traversing several streets with unsteady gait--for he was now much the worse of drink--Mr Jones led his willing captive down one of those innumerable narrow streets, or passages, termed "rows," which bear some resemblance to the "closes" of the Scottish capital. In width they are much the same, but in cleanliness there is a vast difference, for whereas the _closes_ of the northern capital are notorious for dirt, the _rows_ of Yarmouth are celebrated for their neat tidy aspect. What the cause of the neatness of the latter may be we cannot tell, but we can bear the testimony of an eye-witness to the fact that--considering the class of inhabitants who dwell in them, their laborious lives and limited means--the _rows_ are wondrously clean. Nearly all of them are paved with pebbles or bricks. The square courts opening out of them on right and left, although ridiculously small, are so thoroughly scoured and swept that one might roll on their floors with white garments and remain unsoiled. In each court may be observed a water-bucket and scrubbing-brush wet, usually, from recent use, also a green painted box-garden of dimensions corresponding to the court, full of well-tended flowers. Almost every door has a wooden or stone step, and each step is worn and white with repeated scrubbings--insomuch that one is irresistibly led to suspect that the "Bloaters" must have a strong infusion of the Dutch element in their nature. Emerging at the lower end of the row, Mr Jones and his small companion hastened along the centre of a narrow street which led them into one of much wider dimensions, named Friar's Lane. Proceeding along this for some time, they diverged to the right into another of the rows not far from the old city-wall, at a place where one of the massive towers still rears its rugged head as a picturesque ruin. The moon sailed out from under a mass of clouds at this point, giving to objects the distinctness of daylight. Hitherto Billy Towler had retained some idea of the direction in which he was being led, but this last turn threw his topographical ideas into utter confusion. "A queer place this," he remarked, as they emerged from the narrowest passage they had yet traversed into a neat, snug, and most unexpected little square, with a garden in the middle of it, and a flagstaff in one corner. "Adam-and-Eve gardens, they call it," said Mr Jones; "we're pretty nigh home now." "I wonder they didn't call it Eden at once," observed Billy; "it would have been shorter and comes to the same thing." "Here we are at last," said Mr Jones, stumbling against a small door in one of the network of rows that surrounded this Yarmouth paradise. "Hope the women are in," he added, attempting to lift the latch, but, finding that the door was locked, he hammered at it with foot and fist violently. "Hallo!" shouted the deep voice of a man within. "Hallo, indeed! Who may _you_ be?" growled Mr Jones with an angry oath. "Open the door, will you?" The door was opened at once by James Welton, who stood aside to let the other pass. "Oh! it's you, is it?" said Mr Jones. "Didn't recognise your voice through the door. I thought you couldn't have got the sloop made snug so soon. Well, lass, how are 'ee; and how's the old ooman?" As the man made these inquiries in a half-hearty voice, he advanced into a poorly-furnished apartment, so small and low that it seemed a couple of sizes too small for him, and bestowed a kiss first upon the cheek of his old mother, who sat cowering over the fire, but brightened up on hearing his voice, and then upon the forehead of his daughter Nora, the cheerfulness of whose greeting, however, was somewhat checked when she observed the intoxicated state of her father. Nora had a face which, though not absolutely pretty, was intensely winsome in consequence of an air of quiet womanly tenderness which surrounded it as with a halo. She was barely eighteen, but her soft eyes possessed a look of sorrow and suffering which, if not natural to them, had, at all events, become habitual. "Who is this little boy, father?" she said, turning towards Billy Towler, who still stood in the doorway a silent but acute observer of all that went on. "Oh, that? why--a--that's my noo 'prentice just come down from Gravesend. He's been helpin' for some time in the `hang'" (by which Mr Jones meant the place where his fish were cured), "and I'm goin' to take him to sea with me next trip. Come in, Billy, and make yourself at home." The boy obeyed with alacrity, and made no objection to a cup of tea and slice of bread and butter which Nora placed before him--supper being just then in progress. "You'd better get aboard as soon as may be," said Jones to Jim Welton somewhat sternly. "I didn't expect you to leave the sloop tonight." "And I didn't intend to leave her," replied Jim, taking no notice of the tone in which this was said; "but I thought I'd come up to ask if you wished me to begin dischargin' early to-morrow morning." "No, we're not going to discharge," returned Jones. "Not going to discharge!" echoed Jim in surprise. "No. I find that it's not worth while discharging any part of the cargo here. On the contrary, I mean to fill up with bloaters and run over with them to the coast of France; so you can go and stow the top tier of casks more firmly, and get ready for the noo ones. Good-night." The tone in which this was said left no excuse for Jim to linger, so he bade the household good-night and departed. He had not gone far, however, when he was arrested by the sound of a light footstep. It was that of Nora, who had followed him. "Nora!" exclaimed the young sailor in surprise, returning quickly and taking one of the girl's hands in both of his. "Oh, Jim!" said Nora, with a look and tone of earnest entreaty, "don't, don't forsake him just now--if the love which you have so often professed for me be true, don't forsake him, I beseech you." Jim protested in the most emphatic terms that he had no intention of forsaking anybody, and made a great many more protestations, in the midst of which there were numerous ardent and more or less appropriate references to hearts that never deserted their colours, sheet-anchors that held on through thick and thin, and needles that pointed, without the smallest shadow of variation, to the pole. "But what makes you think I'm going to leave him?" he asked, at the end of one of those flights. "Because he is so rough to 'ee, Jim," replied the girl, leaning her head on her lover's shoulder; "he spoke so gruff even now, and I thought you went away huffed. Oh, Jim, you are the only one that has any influence over him--" "Not the only one," returned Jim, quietly smoothing the fair girl's hair with his hard strong hand. "Well, the only _man_, at any rate," continued Nora, "especially when he is overcome with that dreadful drink. Dear Jim, you won't forsake him, will you, even though he should insult, even though he should _strike_ you?" "No, never! Because he is your father, Nora, I'll stick by him in spite of all he can say or do to me, and try, God helping me, to save him. But I cannot stick by him if--" "If what?" asked the girl anxiously, observing that he hesitated. "If he does anything against the laws," said Jim in a low voice. "It isn't that I'm afraid of my good name--I'd even let that go, for _your_ sake, if by so doing I could get him out of mischief; and as long as I know nothing against him _for certain_, I'll stand by him. But if he does fall, and I come to know it, I _must_ leave him, Nora, because I won't be art and part in it. I could no longer go on my knees to pray for him if I did that, Nora. Moreover, if anything o' that sort should happen, I must leave the country, because he'd be sure to be caught and tried, and I will never stand witness against _your_ father if I can avoid it by fair means." Poor Nora hung her head as she asked in a low voice if Jim really thought her father was engaged in illegal practices. "I can't say that I do," replied the youth earnestly. "Come, cheer up, dearest Nora. After all, it is chiefly through reports that my suspicions have been aroused, and we all know how easy it is for an enemy to raise an evil report. But, Nora, I wish you had not bound me to secrecy as to my reason for sticking by your father. Why should I not say boldly that it's all for love of you?" "Why should you wish to give any reason at all, Jim, and above all, _that_ reason?" asked Nora, looking up with a blush. "Because," said the youth, with a perplexed look, "my secrecy about the matter has puzzled my father to such an extent that his confidence in me is entirely shaken. I have been all my life accustomed to open all my heart to him, and now, without rhyme or reason, as he thinks, I have suddenly gone right round on the other tack, and at the same time, as he says, I have taken up with doubtful company. Now, if--" The sound of approaching footsteps here brought the interview to an abrupt close. Nora ran back to her poor home, and Jim Welton, directing his steps towards the harbour, returned on board the little sloop which had been named after the girl of his heart. CHAPTER SEVEN. TREATS OF QUEEKER AND OTHERS--ALSO OF YOUTHFUL JEALOUSY, LOVE, POETRY, AND CONFUSION OF IDEAS. Returning, now, to the moon-struck and Katie-smitten Queeker, we find that poetic individual walking disconsolately in front of Mr George Durant's mansion. In a previous chapter it has been said that, after composing his celebrated lines to the lantern of the floating light, he resolved to drop in upon the Durants about tea-time--and well did Queeker know their tea-time, although, every time he went there uninvited, the miserable hypocrite expressed surprise at finding them engaged with that meal, and said he had supposed they must have finished tea by that time! But, on arriving at the corner of the street, his fluttering heart failed him. The thought of the cousin was a stumbling-block which he could not surmount. He had never met her before; he feared that she might be witty, or sarcastic, or sharp in some way or other, and would certainly make game of him in the presence of Katie. He had observed this cousin narrowly at the singing-class, and had been much impressed with her appearance; but whether this impression was favourable or unfavourable was to him, in the then confused state of his feelings, a matter of great uncertainty. Now that he was about to face her, he felt convinced that she must be a cynic, who would poison the mind of Katie against him, and no power within his unfortunate body was capable of inducing him to advance and raise the knocker. Thus he hung in torments of suspense until nine o'clock, when--in a fit of desperation, he rushed madly at the door and committed himself by hitting it with his fist. His equanimity was not restored by its being opened by Mr Durant himself. "Queeker!" exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise; "come in, my dear sir; did you stumble against the door? I hope you haven't hurt yourself?" "Not at all--a--no, not at all; the fact is, I ran up the steps rather hastily, and--how do you do, Miss Durant? I hope you are _quite_ well?" Poor Queeker said this and shook hands with as much earnestness as if he had not seen Katie for five years. "Quite well, thank you. My cousin, Fanny Hennings--Mr Queeker." Fanny bowed and Mr Queeker bowed, and, with a flushed countenance, asked her about the state of her health with unnatural anxiety. "Thank you, Mr Squeeker, I am very well," replied Fanny. The unhappy youth would have corrected her in regard to his name, but hesitated and missed the opportunity, and when, shortly afterwards, while engaged in conversation with Mr Durant, he observed Fanny giggling violently in a corner by herself, he felt assured that Katie had kindly made the correction for him. The announcement of supper relieved him slightly, and he was beginning to calm down over a piece of bread and cheese when the door-bell rang. Immediately after a heavy foot was heard in the passage, the parlour door was flung open, the maid announced Mr Hall, and a tall elegant young man entered the room. His figure was slender, but his chest was deep and his shoulders were broad and square. An incipient moustache of fair hair floated like a summer cloud on his upper lip, which expanded with a hearty smile as he advanced towards Mr Durant and held out his hand. "You have forgotten me, I fear," he said. "Forgotten you!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up and seizing the young man's hand, which he shook violently--"forgotten Stanley Hall--little Stanney, as I used to call you? Man, how you _are_ grown, to be sure. What a wonderful change!" "For the worse, I fear!" exclaimed the youth, laughing. "Come, no fishing for compliments, sir. Let me introduce you to my daughter Katie, my niece Fanny Hennings, and my young friend Queeker. Now, then, sit down, and make yourself at home; you're just in time; we've only just begun; ring the bell for another plate, Katie. How glad I am to see you, Stanney, my boy--I can't call you by any other than the old name, you see. How did you leave your father, and what brings you here? Come, out with it all at once. I declare you have quite excited me." Well was it for poor Queeker that every one was too much occupied with the newcomer to pay any attention to him, for he could not prevent his visage from betraying something of the feelings which harrowed up his soul. The moment he set eyes on Stanley Hall, mortal jealousy--keen, rampant, virulent jealousy of the worst type--penetrated every fibre of his being, and turned his heart to stone! We cannot afford space to detail the various shades of agony, the degrees of despair, through which this unfortunate young man passed during that evening. A thick volume would not suffice to contain it all. Language is powerless to express it. Only those who have similarly suffered can conceive it. Of course, we need scarcely add that there was no occasion for jealousy. Nothing was further from the mind of Stanley than the idea of falling in love with Katie. Nevertheless, politeness required that he should address himself to her occasionally. At such times, Queeker's soul was stabbed in an unutterable manner. He managed to command himself, notwithstanding. To his credit, be it said, that he refrained from using the carving-knife. He even joined with some show of interest (of course hypocritical) in the conversation. Stanley Hall was not only good-looking, but good-humoured, and full of quiet fun and anecdote, so that he quickly ingratiated himself with all the members of the family. "D'you know it makes me feel young again to hear these old stories about your father's college-life," said Mr Durant. "Have some more cheese, Stanney--you look like a man who ought to have a good appetite--fill your glass and pass the bottle--thanks. Now, how comes it that you have turned up in this out-of-the-way part of the world? By-the-bye, I hope you intend to stay some time, and that you will take up your quarters with me? You can't imagine how much pleasure it would give me to have the son of my old companion as a guest for some time. I'm sure that Katie joins me heartily in this hope." Queeker's spirit sank with horror, and when Katie smilingly seconded her father's proposal, his heart stood still with dismay. Fanny Hennings, who had begun to suspect that there was something wrong with Queeker, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and coughed with what appeared to be unreasonable energy. "I regret," said Stanley (and Queeker's breath came more freely), "that my stay must necessarily be short. I need not say that it would afford me the highest pleasure to accept your kind invitation" (he turned with a slight bow to Katie, and Queeker almost fainted), "but the truth is, that I have come down on a particular piece of business, in regard to which I wish to have your advice, and must return to London to-morrow or next day at furthest." Queeker's heart resumed its office. "I am sorry to hear that--very sorry. However, you shall stay to-night at all events; and you shall have the best advice I can give you on any subject you choose to mention. By the way talking of advice, you're an M.D. now, I fancy?" "Not yet," replied Stanley. "I am not quite fledged, although nearly so, and I wish to go on a voyage before completing my course." "Quite right, quite right--see a little of life first, eh? But how comes it, Stanney, that you took kindly to the work at last, for, when I knew you first you could not bear the idea of becoming a doctor?" "One's ideas change, I suppose," replied the youth, with a smile,--"probably my making the discovery that I had some talent in that direction had something to do with it." "H'm; how did you make that discovery, my boy?" asked the old gentleman. "That question can't easily be answered except by my inflicting on you a chapter of my early life," replied Stanley, laughing. "Then inflict it on us without delay, my boy. I shall delight to listen, and so, I am sure, will Katie and Fanny. As to my young friend Queeker, he is of a somewhat literary turn, and may perhaps throw the incidents into verse, if they are of a sufficiently romantic character!" Katie and Fanny declared they would be charmed to hear about it, and Queeker said, in a savagely jesting tone, that he was so used to things being inflicted on him, that he didn't mind--rather liked it than otherwise! "But you must not imagine," said Stanley, "that I have a thrilling narrative to give you, I can merely relate the two incidents which fixed my destiny in regard to a profession. You remember, I daresay, that my heart was once set upon going to sea. Well, like most boys, I refused to listen to advice on that point, and told my father that I should never make a surgeon--that I had no taste or talent for the medical profession. The more my father tried to reason me out of my desire, the more obstinate I became. The only excuse that I can plead is that I was very young, very ignorant, and very stupid. One day, however, I was left in the surgery with a number of dirty phials to wash--my father having gone to visit a patient at a short distance, when our servant came running in, saying that there was a cab at the door with a poor boy who had got his cheek badly cut. As I knew that my father would be at home in less than quarter of an hour, I ordered him to be brought in. The poor child--a little delicate boy--was very pale, and bleeding profusely from a deep gash in the cheek, made accidentally by a knife with which he had been playing. The mouth was cut open almost to the ear. We laid him on a sofa, and I did what I could to stop the flow of blood. I was not sixteen at the time, and, being very small for my age, had never before felt myself in a position to offer advice, and indeed I had not much to offer. But one of the bystanders said to me while we were looking at the child,-- "`What do you think should be done, sir?' "The mere fact of being asked my opinion gratified my vanity, and the respectful `sir' with which the question concluded caused my heart to beat high with unwonted emotion. It was the first time I had ever been addressed gravely as a man; it was a new sensation, and I think may be regarded as an era in my existence. "With much gravity I replied that of course the wound ought to be sewed up. "`Then sooner it's done the better, I think,' said the bystander, `for the poor child will bleed to death if it is allowed to go on like that.' "A sudden resolution entered into my mind. I stroked my chin and frowned, as if in deep thought, then, turning to the man who had spoken, said,--`It ought certainly to be done with as little delay as possible; I expect my father to return every minute; but as it is an urgent case, I will myself undertake it, if the parents of the child have no objection.' "`Seems to me, lad,' remarked a country fellow, who had helped to carry the child in, `that it beant a time to talk o' parients objectin' w'en the cheeld's blood'n to deth. Ye'd better fa' to work at once--if 'ee knows how.' "I cast upon this man a look of scorn, but made no reply. Going to the drawer in which the surgical instruments were kept, I took out those that suited my purpose, and went to work with a degree of coolness which astonished myself. I had often seen my father sew up wounds, and had assisted at many an operation of the kind, so that, although altogether unpractised, I was not ignorant of the proper mode of procedure. The people looked on with breathless interest. When I had completed the operation, I saw my father looking over the shoulders of the people with an expression of unutterable surprise not unmingled with amusement. I blushed deeply, and began some sort of explanation, which, however, he cut short by observing in an off-hand manner, that the thing had been done very well, and the child had better be carried into my bedroom and left there to rest for some time. He thus got the people out of the surgery, and then, when we were alone, told me that I was a born surgeon, that he could not have done it much better himself, and, in short, praised me to such an extent that I felt quite proud of my performance." Queeker, who had listened up to this point with breathless attention, suddenly said-- "D'you mean to say that you _really_ did that?" "I do," replied Stanley with an amused smile. "Sewed up a mouth cut all the way to the ear?" "Yes." "With a--a--" "With a needle and thread," said Stanley. Queeker's powers of utterance were paralysed. He looked at the young doctor with a species of awe-stricken admiration. Jealousy, for the time, was in abeyance. "This, then, was the beginning of your love for the profession?" said Mr Durant. "Undoubtedly it was, but a subsequent event confirmed me in my devotion to it, and induced me to give up all thoughts of the sea. The praise that I had received from my father--who was not usually lavish of complimentary remarks--made me ambitious to excel in other departments of surgery, so I fixed upon the extraction of teeth as my next step in the profession. My father had a pretty large practice in that way. We lived, as you remember, in the midst of a populous rural district, and had frequent visits from farm servants and labourers with heads tied up and lugubrious faces. "I began to fit myself for duty by hammering big nails into a block of wood, and drawing them out again. This was a device of my own, for I wished to give my father another surprise, and did not wish to betray what I was about, by asking his advice as to how I should proceed. I then extracted the teeth from the jaw-bones of all the sheep's-heads that I could lay hands on; after a good deal of practice in this way, I tried to tempt our cook with an offer of five shillings to let me extract a back tooth which had caused her a great deal of suffering at intervals for many months; but she was a timid woman, and would not have allowed me for five guineas, I believe, even to look into her mouth. I also tried to tempt our small stable-boy with a similar sum. He was a plucky little fellow, and, although there was not an unsound tooth in his head, agreed to let me draw one of the _smallest_ of his back teeth for seven and sixpence if it should come out the first pull, and sixpence for every extra rug! I thought the little fellow extravagant in his demands, but, rather than lose the chance, submitted. He sat down quite boldly on our operating chair, but grew pale when I advanced with the instrument; when I tried to open his mouth, he began to whimper, and finally, struggling out of my grasp, fled. I afterwards gave him sixpence, however, for affording me, as I told him, so much pleasurable anticipation. "After this I cast about for another subject, but failed to procure a live one. It occurred to me, however, that I might try my hand on two skeletons that hung in our garret, so I got their heads off without delay, and gradually extracted every tooth in their jaws. As there were about sixty teeth, I think, in each pair, I felt myself much improved before the jaws were toothless. At last, I resolved to take advantage of the first opportunity that should offer, during my father's absence, to practise on the living subject. It was not long before I had a chance. "One morning my father went out, leaving me in the surgery, as was his wont. I was deeply immersed in a book on anatomy, when I heard a tremendous double rap--as if made with the head of a stick--at the outer door, and immediately after the question put in the gruff bass voice of an Irishman, `Is the dactur within?' "A tremendous growl of disappointment followed the reply. Then, after a pause, `Is the assistant within?' This was followed by a heavy tread in the passage and, next moment; an enormous man, in very ragged fustian, with a bronzed hairy face, and a reaping-hook under his arm, stood in the surgery, his head almost touching the ceiling. "`Sure it's niver the dactur's assistant ye are?' he exclaimed, with a look of surprise. "I rose, drew myself up, and, endeavouring to look very solemn, said that I was, and demanded to know if I could do anything for him. "`Ah, then, it's a small assistant ye are, anyhow,' he remarked; but stopped suddenly and his huge countenance was convulsed with pain, as he clapped his hand to his face, and uttered a groan, which was at least three parts composed of a growl. "`Hooroo! whirr-r-hach! musha, but it's like the cratur o' Vesoovious all alive-o--in me head. Av it don't split up me jaw--there--ha--och!' "The giant stamped his foot with such violence that all the glasses, cups, and vials in the room rang again, and, clapping both hands over his mouth, he bent himself double in a paroxysm of agony. "I felt a strange mixture of wild delight and alarm shoot through me. The chance had come in my way, but in anticipating it I had somehow always contemplated operating on some poor boy or old woman. My thoughts had never depicted such a herculean and rude specimen of humanity. At first, he would not believe me capable of extracting a tooth; but I spoke with such cool self-possession and assurance--though far from feeling either--that he consented to submit to the operation. For the sake of additional security, I seated him on the floor, and took his head between my knees; and I confess that when seated thus, in such close proximity to his rugged as well as massive head, gazing into the cavern filled with elephantine tusks, my heart almost failed me. Far back, in the darkest corner of the cave, I saw the decayed tooth--a massive lump of glistening ivory, with a black pit in the middle of it. Screwing up my courage to the utmost, I applied the key. The giant winced at the touch, but clasped his hard hands together--evidently prepared for the worst. I began to twist with right good-will. The man roared furiously, and gave a convulsive heave that almost upset myself and the big chair, and disengaged the key! "`Oh, come,' said I, remonstratively, `you ought to stand it better than that! why, the worst of it was almost over.' "`Was it, though?' he inquired earnestly, with an upward glance, that gave to his countenance in that position a hideous aspect. `Sure it had need be, for the worst baits all that iver I drained of. Go at it again, me boy.' "Resolving to make sure work of it next time, I fixed the key again, and, after getting it pretty tight--at which point he evidently fancied the worst had been again reached--I put forth all my strength in one tremendous twist. "I failed for a moment to draw the tusk, but I drew forth a prolonged roar, that can by no means be conceived or described. The Irishman struggled. I held on tight to his head with my knees. The chair tottered on its legs. Letting go the hair of his head, I clapped my left hand to my right, and with both arms redoubled the strain. The roar rose into a terrible yowl. There was a crash like the rending of a forest tree. I dropped the instrument, sprang up, turned the chair on the top of the man, and cramming it down on him rushed to the door, which I threw open, and then faced about. "There was a huge iron pestle lying on a table near my hand. Seizing it, I swayed it gently to and fro, ready to knock him down with it if he should rush at me, or to turn and fly, as should seem most advisable. I was terribly excited, and a good deal alarmed as to the possible consequences, but managed with much difficulty to look collected. "The big chair was hurled into a corner as he rose sputtering from the floor, and holding his jaws with both hands. "`Och! ye spalpeen, is that the way ye trait people?' "`Yes,' I replied in a voice of forced calmness, `we usually put a restraint on strong men like you, when they're likely to be violent.' "I saw the corners of his eyes wrinkle a little, and felt more confidence. "`Arrah, but it's the jawbone ye've took out, ye goormacalluchscrowl!' "`No, it isn't, it's only the tooth,' I replied, going forward and picking it up from the floor. "The amazement of the man is not to be described. I gave him a tumbler of water, and, pointing to a basin, told him to wash out his mouth, which he did, looking at me all the time, however, and following me with his astonished eyes, as I moved about the room. He seemed to have been bereft of the power of speech; for all that he could say after that was, `Och! av yer small yer cliver!' "On leaving he asked what was to pay. I said that I'd ask nothing, as he had stood it so well; and he left me with the same look of astonishment in his eyes and words of commendation on his lips." "Well, that _was_ a tremendous experience to begin with," said Mr Durant, laughing; "and so it made you a doctor?" "It helped. When my father came home I presented him with the tooth, and from that day to this I have been hard at work; but I feel a little seedy just now from over-study, so I have resolved to try to get a berth as surgeon on board a ship bound for India, Australia, China, or South America, and, as you are a shipowner and old friend, I thought it just possible you might be not only willing but able to help me to what I want." "And you thought right, Stanney, my boy," said the old gentleman heartily; "I have a ship going to sail for India in a few weeks, and we have not yet appointed a surgeon. You shall have that berth if it suits you." At this point they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant maid with the announcement that there was a man in the lobby who wished to see Mr Durant. "I'll be back shortly," said the old gentleman to Stanley as he rose; "go to the drawing-room, girls, and give Mr Hall some music. You'll find that my Katie sings and plays very sweetly, although she won't let me say so. Fanny joins her with a fine contralto, I believe, and Queeker, too, he sings--a--a what is it, Queeker?--a bass or a baritone--eh?" Without waiting for a reply, Mr Durant left the room, and found Morley Jones standing in the lobby, hat in hand. The old gentleman's expression changed instantly, and he said with much severity-- "Well, Mr Jones, what do _you_ want?" Morley begged the favour of a private interview for a few minutes. After a moment's hesitation, Mr Durant led him into his study. "Another loan, I suppose?" said the old gentleman, as he lit the gas. "I had expected to have called to pay the last loan, sir," replied Mr Jones somewhat boldly, "but one can't force the market. I have my sloop down here loaded with herrings, and if I chose to sell at a loss, could pay my debt to you twice over; but surely it can scarcely be expected of me to do that. I hear there is a rise in France just now, and mean to run over there with them. I shall be sure to dispose of 'em to advantage. On my return, I'll pay your loan with interest." Morley Jones paused, and Mr Durant looked at him attentively for a few seconds. "Is this all you came to tell me?" "Why, no sir, not exactly," replied Jones, a little disconcerted by the stern manner of the old gentleman. "The sloop is not quite filled up, she could stow a few more casks, but I have been cleaned out, and unless I can get the loan of forty or fifty pounds--" "Ha! I thought so. Are you aware, Mr Jones, that your character for honesty has of late been called in question?" "I am aware that I have got enemies," replied the fish-merchant coldly. "If their false reports are to be believed to my disadvantage, of course I cannot expect--" "It is not my belief in their reports," replied Mr Durant, "that creates suspicion in me, but I couple these reports with the fact that you have again and again deceived me in regard to the repayment of the loans which you have already received at various times from me." "I can't help ill-luck, sir," said Morley with a downcast look. "If men's friends always deserted them at the same time with fortune there would be an end of all trade." "Mr Jones," said the other decidedly, "I tell you plainly that you are presumptuous when you count me one of your _friends_. Your deceased brother, having been an old and faithful servant of mine, was considered by me a friend, and it is out of regard to his memory alone that I have assisted _you_. Even now, I will lend you the sum you ask, but be assured it is the last you shall ever get from me. I distrust you, sir, and I tell you so--flatly." While he was speaking the old gentleman had opened a desk. He now sat down and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his visitor, who received it with a grim smile and a curt acknowledgment, and instantly took his leave. Mr Durant smoothed the frown from his brow, and returned to the drawing-room, where Katie's sweet voice instantly charmed away the memory of the evil spirit that had just left him. The table was covered with beautiful pencil sketches and chalk-heads and water-colour drawings in various stages of progression--all of which were the production of the same fair, busy, and talented little hand that copied the accounts for the Board of Trade, for love instead of money, without a blot, and without defrauding of dot or stroke a single _i_ or _t_! Queeker was gazing at one of the sketches with an aspect so haggard and savage that Mr Durant could not refrain from remarking it. "Why, Queeker, you seem to be displeased with that drawing, eh? What's wrong with it?" "Oh, ah!" exclaimed the youth, starting, and becoming very red in the face--"no, not with the drawing, it is beautiful--_most_ beautiful, but I--in--fact I was thinking, sir, that thought sometimes leads us into regions of gloom in which--where--one can't see one's way, and _ignes fatui_ mislead or--or--" "Very true, Queeker," interrupted the old gentleman, good-humouredly; "thought is a wonderful quality of the mind--transports us in a moment from the Indies to the poles; fastens with equal facility on the substantial and the impalpable; gropes among the vague generalities of the abstract, and wriggles with ease through the thick obscurities of the concrete--eh, Queeker? Come, give us a song, like a good fellow." "I never sing--I _cannot_ sing, sir," said the youth, hurriedly. "No! why, I thought Katie said you were attending the singing-class." The fat cousin was observed here to put her handkerchief to her mouth and bend convulsively over a drawing. Queeker explained that he had just begun to attend, but had not yet attained sufficient confidence to sing in public. Then, starting up he suddenly pulled out his watch, exclaimed that he was quite ashamed of having remained so late, shook hands nervously all round, and, rushing from the house, left Stanley Hall in possession of the field! Now, the poor youth's state of mind is not easily accounted for. Stanley, being a close observer, had at an early part of the evening detected the cause of Queeker's jealousy, and, being a kindly fellow, sought, by devoting himself to Fanny Hennings, to relieve his young friend; but, strange to say, Queeker was _not_ relieved! This fact was a matter of profound astonishment even to Queeker himself, who went home that night in a state of mind which cannot be adequately described, sat down before his desk, and, with his head buried in his hands, thought intensely. "Can it be," he murmured in a sepulchral voice, looking up with an expression of horror, "that I love them _both_? Impossible. Horrible! Perish the thought--yes." Seizing a pen:-- "Perish the thought Which never ought To be, Let not the thing." "Thing--wing--bing--ping--jing--ring--ling--ting--cling--dear me! what a lot of words with little or no meaning there are in the English language!--what _will_ rhyme with--ah! I have it--sting--" "Let not the thing Reveal its sting To me!" Having penned these lines, Queeker heaved a deep sigh--cast one long lingering gaze on the moon, and went to bed. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SLOOP NORA--MR. JONES BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE, AND BILLY TOWLER, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, THOUGHTFUL. A dead calm, with a soft, golden, half-transparent mist, had settled down on Old Father Thames, when, early one morning, the sloop Nora floated rather than sailed towards the mouth of that celebrated river, bent, in the absence of wind, on creeping out to sea with the tide. Jim Welton stood at the helm, which, in the circumstances, required only attention from one of his legs, so that his hands rested idly in his coat pockets. Morley Jones stood beside him. "So you managed the insurance, did you?" said Jim in a careless way, as though he put the question more for the sake of saying something than for any interest he had in the matter. Mr Jones, whose eyes and manner betrayed the fact that even at that early hour he had made application to the demon-spirit which led him captive at its will, looked suspiciously at his questioner, and replied-- "Well, yes, I've managed it." "For how much?" inquired Jim. "For 300 pounds." Jim looked surprised. "D'ye think the herring are worth that?" he asked. "No, they ain't, but there's some general cargo besides as'll make it up to that, includin' the value o' the sloop, which I've put down at 100 pounds. Moreover, Jim, I have named you as the skipper. They required his name, d'ye see, and as I'm not exactly a seafarin' man myself, an' wanted to appear only as the owner, I named you." "But that was wrong," said Jim, "for I'm _not_ the master." "Yes, you are," replied Morley, with a laugh. "I make you master now. So, pray, Captain Welton, attend to your duty, and be civil to your employer. There's a breeze coming that will send you foul o' the Maplin light if you don't look out." "What's the name o' the passenger that came aboard at Gravesend, and what makes him take a fancy to such a craft as this?" inquired Jim. "I can answer these questions for myself," said the passenger referred to, who happened at that moment to come on deck. "My name is Stanley Hall, and I have taken a fancy to the Nora chiefly because she somewhat resembles in size and rig a yacht which belonged to my father, and in which I have had many a pleasant cruise. I am fond of the sea, and prefer going to Ramsgate in this way rather than by rail. I suppose you will approve my preference of the sea?" he added, with a smile. "I do, indeed," responded Jim. "The sea is my native element. I could swim in it as soon a'most as I could walk, and I believe that--one way or other, in or on it--I have had more to do with it than with the land." "You are a good swimmer, then, I doubt not?" said Stanley. "Pretty fair," replied Jim, modestly. "Pretty fair!" echoed Morley Jones, "why, he's the best swimmer, I'll be bound, in Norfolk--ay, if he were brought to the test I do b'lieve he'd turn out to be the best in the kingdom." On the strength of this subject the two young men struck up an acquaintance, which, before they had been long together, ripened into what might almost be styled a friendship. They had many sympathies in common. Both were athletic; both were mentally as well as physically active, and, although Stanley Hall had the inestimable advantage of a liberal education, Jim Welton possessed a naturally powerful intellect, with a capacity for turning every scrap of knowledge to good use. Their conversation was at that time, however, cut short by the springing up of a breeze, which rendered it necessary that the closest attention should be paid to the management of the vessel among the numerous shoals which rendered the navigation there somewhat difficult. It may be that many thousands of those who annually leave London on voyages, short and long--of profit and pleasure--have very little idea of the intricacy of the channels through which they pass, and the number of obstructions which, in the shape of sandbanks, intersect the mouth of the Thames at its junction with the ocean. Without pilots, and an elaborate well-considered system of lights, buoys, and beacons, a vessel would be about as likely to reach London from the ocean, or _vice versa_, in safety, as a man who should attempt to run through an old timber-yard blindfold would be to escape with unbroken neck and shins. Of shoals there are the East and West Barrows, the Nob, the Knock, the John, the Sunk, the Girdler, and the Long sands, all lying like so many ground-sharks, quiet, unobtrusive, but very deadly, waiting for ships to devour, and getting them too, very frequently, despite the precautions taken to rob them of their costly food. These sand-sharks (if we may be allowed the expression) separate the main channels, which are named respectively the Swin or King's channel, on the north, and the Prince's, the Queen's, and the South channels, on the south. The channel through which the Nora passed was the Swin, which, though not used by first-class ships, is perhaps the most frequented by the greater portion of the coasting and colliery vessels, and all the east country craft. The traffic is so great as to be almost continuous; innumerable vessels being seen in fine weather passing to and fro as far as the eye can reach. To mark this channel alone there was, at the time we write of, the Mouse light-vessel, at the western extremity of the Mouse sand; the Maplin lighthouse, on the sand of the same name; the Swin middle light-vessel, at the western extremity of the Middle and Heaps sand; the Whittaker beacon, and the Sunk light-vessel on the Sunk sand--besides other beacons and numerous buoys. When we add that floating lights and beacons cost thousands and hundreds of pounds to build, and that even buoys are valued in many cases at more than a hundred pounds each, besides the cost of maintenance, it may be conceived that the great work of lighting and buoying the channels of the kingdom--apart from the _light-house_ system altogether--is one of considerable expense, constant anxiety, and vast national importance. It may also be conceived that the Elder Brethren of the Corporation of Trinity House--by whom, from the time of Henry VIII down to the present day, that arduous duty has been admirably performed--hold a position of the highest responsibility. It is not our intention, however, to trouble the reader with further remarks on this subject at this point in our tale. In a future chapter we shall add a few facts regarding the Trinity Corporation, which will doubtless prove interesting; meanwhile we have said sufficient to show that there was good reason for Jim Welton to hold his tongue and mind his helm. When the dangerous navigation was past, Mr Jones took Billy Towler apart, and, sitting down near the weather gangway, entered into a private and confidential talk with that sprightly youngster. "Billy, my boy," he said, with a leer that was meant to be at once amiable and patronising, "you and I suit each other very well, don't we?" Billy, who had been uncommonly well treated by his new master, thrust his hands into the waistband of his trousers, and, putting his head meditatively on one side, said in a low voice-- "H'm--well, yes, you suit me pretty well." The respectable fish-curer chuckled, and patted his protege on the back. After which he proceeded to discuss, or rather to detail, some matters which, had he been less affected by the contents of Square-Tom, he might have hesitated to touch upon. "Yes" he said, "you'll do very well, Billy. You're a good boy and a sharp one, which, you see, is exactly what I need. There are a lot o' small matters that I want you to do for me, and that couldn't be very well done by anybody else; 'cause, d'ye see, there ain't many lads o' your age who unite so many good qualities." "Very true," remarked Billy, gravely nodding his head--which, by the way, was now decorated with a small straw hat and blue ribbon, as was his little body with a blue Guernsey shirt, and his small legs with white duck trousers of approved sailor cut. "Now, among other things," resumed Morley, "I want you to learn some lessons." Billy shook his head with much decision. "That won't go down, Mister Jones. I don't mean for to larn no more lessons. I've 'ad more than enough o' that. Fact is I consider myself edicated raither 'igher than usual. Can't I read and write, and do a bit o' cypherin'? Moreover, I knows that the world goes round the sun, w'ich is contrairy to the notions o' the haincients, wot wos rediklous enough to suppose that the sun went round the world. And don't I know that the earth is like a orange, flattened at the poles? though I don't b'lieve there _is_ no poles, an' don't care a button if there was. That's enough o' jogrify for my money; w'en I wants more I'll ax for it." "But it ain't that sort o' lesson I mean, Billy," said Mr Jones, who was somewhat amused at the indignant tone in which all this was said. "The lesson I want you to learn is this: I want you to git off by heart what you and I are doin', an' going to do, so that if you should ever come to be questioned about it at different times by different people, you might always give 'em the same intelligent answer,--d'ye understand?" "Whew!" whistled the boy, opening his eyes and showing his teeth; "beaks an' maginstrates, eh?" "Just so. And remember, my boy, that you and I have been doin' one or two things together of late that makes it best for both of us to be very affectionate to, and careful about, each other. D'ye understand that?" Billy Towler pursed his little red lips as he nodded his small head and winked one of his large blue eyes. A slight deepening of the red on his cheeks told eloquently enough that he _did_ understand that. The tempter had gone a long way in his course by that time. So many of the folds of the thin net had been thrown over the little thoughtless victim, that, light-hearted and defiant though he was by nature, he had begun to experience a sense of restraint which was quite new to him. "Now, Billy," continued Jones, "let me tell you that our prospects are pretty bright just now. I have effected an insurance on my sloop and cargo for 300 pounds, which means that I've been to a certain great city that you and I know of, and paid into a company--we shall call it the Submarine Insurance Company--a small sum for a bit of paper, which they call a policy, by which they bind themselves to pay me 300 pounds if I should lose my ship and cargo. You see, my lad, the risks of the sea are very great, and there's no knowing what may happen between this and the coast of France, to which we are bound after touching at Ramsgate. D'ye understand?" Billy shook his head, and with an air of perplexity said that he "wasn't quite up to that dodge--didn't exactly see through it." "Supposin'," said he, "you does lose the sloop an' cargo, why, wot then?--the sloop an' cargo cost somethin', I dessay?" "Ah, Billy, you're a smart boy--a knowing young rascal," replied Mr Jones, nodding approval; "of course they cost something, but therein lies the advantage. The whole affair, sloop an' cargo, ain't worth more than a few pounds; so, if I throw it all away, it will be only losing a few pounds for the sake of gaining three hundred. What think you of that, lad?" "I think the Submarine Insurance Company must be oncommon green to be took in so easy," replied the youngster with a knowing smile. "They ain't exactly green either, boy, but they know that if they made much fuss and bother about insuring they would soon lose their customers, so they often run the risk of a knowin' fellow like me, and take the loss rather than scare people away. You know, if a grocer was in the habit of carefully weighing and testing with acid every sovereign he got before he would sell a trifle over the counter,--if he called every note in question, and sent up to the bank to see whether it wasn't a forgery, why, his honest customers wouldn't be able to stand it. They'd give him up. So he just gives the sovereign a ring and the note a glance an' takes his chance. So it is in some respects with insurance companies. They look at the man and the papers, see that all's right, as well as they can, and hope for the best. That's how it is." "Ha! they must be jolly companies to have to do with. I'd like to transact some business with them submarines," said the boy, gravely. "And so you shall, my lad, so you shall," cried Mr Jones with a laugh; "all in good time. Well, as I was saying, the cargo ain't worth much; it don't extend down to the keel, Billy, by no means; and as for the sloop--she's not worth a rope's-end. She's as rotten as an old coffin. It's all I've been able to do to make her old timbers hold together for this voyage." Billy Towler opened his eyes very wide at this, and felt slightly uncomfortable. "If she goes down in mid-channel," said he, "it strikes me that the submarines will get the best of it, 'cause it don't seem to me that you're able to swim eight or ten miles at a stretch." "We have a boat, Billy, we have a boat, my smart boy." Mr Jones accompanied this remark with a wink and a slight poke with his thumb in the smart boy's side, which, however, did not seem to have the effect of reassuring Billy, for he continued to raise various objections, such as the improbability of the sloop giving them time to get into a boat when she took it into her head to go down, and the likelihood of their reaching the land in the event of such a disaster occurring during a gale or even a stiff breeze. To all of which Mr Jones replied that he might make his mind easy, because he (Jones) knew well what he was about, and would manage the thing cleverly. "Now, Billy, here's the lesson that you've got to learn. Besides remembering everything that I have told you, and only answering questions in the way that I have partly explained, and will explain more fully at another time, you will take particular note that we left the Thames to-day all right with a full cargo--Jim Welton bein' master, and one passenger bein' aboard, whom we agreed to put ashore at Ramsgate. That you heard me say the vessel and cargo were insured for 300 pounds, but were worth more, and that I said I hoped to make a quick voyage over and back. Besides all this, Billy, boy, you'll keep a sharp look-out, and won't be surprised if I should teach you to steer, and get the others on board to go below. If you should observe me do anything while you are steering, or should hear any noises, you'll be so busy with the tiller and the compass that you'll forget all about _that_, and never be able to answer any questions about such things at all. Have I made all that quite plain to you?" "Yes, captain; hall right." Billy had taken to styling his new employer captain, and Mr Jones did not object. "Well, go for'ard and take a nap. I shall want you to-night perhaps; it may be not till to-morrow night." The small boy went forward, as he was bid, and, leaning over the bulwark of the Nora, watched for a long time the rippling foam that curled from her bows and slid quietly along her black hull, but Billy's thoughts were not, like his eyes, fixed upon the foam. For the first time in his life, perhaps, the foundling outcast began to feel that he was running in a dangerous road, and entertained some misgivings that he was an uncommonly wild, if not wicked, fellow. It is not to be supposed that his perceptions on this subject were very clear, or his meditations unusually profound, but it is certain that, during the short period of his residence in the school of which mention has been made, his conscience had been awakened and partially enlightened, so that his precociously quick intelligence enabled him to arrive at a more just apprehension of his condition than might have been expected,-- considering his years and early training. We do not say that Billy's heart smote him. That little organ was susceptible only of impressions of jollity and mischief. In other respects--never having been appealed to by love--it was as hard as a small millstone. But the poor boy's anxieties were aroused, and the new sensation appeared to add a dozen years to his life. Up to this time he had been accustomed to estimate his wickednesses by the number of days, weeks, or months of incarceration that they involved--"a wipe," he would say, "was so many weeks," a "silver sneezing-box," or a "gold ticker," in certain circumstances, so many more; while a "crack," i.e. a burglary (to which, by the way, he had only aspired as yet) might cost something like a trip over the sea at the Queen's expense; but it had never entered into the head of the small transgressor of the law to meditate such an awful deed as the sinking of a ship, involving as it did the possibility of murder and suicide, or hanging if he should escape the latter contingency. Moreover, he now began to realise more clearly the fact that he had cast in his lot with a desperate man, who would stick at nothing, and from whose clutches he felt assured that it would be no easy matter to escape. He resolved, however, to make the attempt the first favourable opportunity that should offer; and while the resolve was forming in his small brain his little brows frowned sternly at the foam on the Nora's cutwater. When the resolve was fairly formed, fixed, and disposed of, Billy's brow cleared, and his heart rose superior to its cares. He turned gaily round. Observing that the seaman, who with himself and Jim Welton composed the crew of the sloop, was sitting on the heel of the bowsprit half asleep, he knocked his cap off, dived down the fore-hatch with a merry laugh, flung himself into his berth, and instantly fell asleep, to dream of the dearest joys that had as yet crossed his earthly path--namely, his wayward wanderings, on long summer days, among the sunny fields and hedgerows of Hampstead, Kensington, Finchley, and other suburbs of London. CHAPTER NINE. MR. JONES TAKES STRONG MEASURES TO SECURE HIS ENDS, AND INTRODUCES BILLY AND HIS FRIENDS TO SOME NEW SCENES AND MOMENTS. Again we are in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands. It is evening. The sun has just gone down. The air and sea are perfectly still. The stars are coming out one by one, and the floating lights have already hoisted their never-failing signals. The Nora lies becalmed not far from the Goodwin buoy, with her sails hanging idly on the yards. Bill Towler stands at the helm with all the aspect and importance of a steersman, but without any other duty to perform than the tiller could have performed for itself. Morley Jones stands beside him with his hands in his coat pockets, and Stanley Hall sits on the cabin skylight gazing with interest at the innumerable lights of the shipping in the roadstead, and the more distant houses on shore. Jim Welton, having been told that he will have to keep watch all night, is down below taking a nap, and Grundy, having been ordered below to attend to some trifling duty in the fore part of the vessel, is also indulging in slumber. Long and earnestly and anxiously had Morley Jones watched for an opportunity to carry his plans into execution, but as yet without success. Either circumstances were against him, or his heart had failed him at the push. He walked up and down the deck with uncertain steps, sat down and rose up frequently, and growled a good deal--all of which symptoms were put down by Stanley to the fact that there was no wind. At last Morley stopped in front of his passenger and said to him-- "I really think you'd better go below and have a nap, Mr Hall. It's quite clear that we are not goin' to have a breeze till night, and it may be early morning when we call you to go ashore; so, if you want to be fit for much work to-morrow, you'd better sleep while you may." "Thank you, I don't require much sleep," replied Stanley; "in fact, I can easily do without rest at any time for a single night, and be quite able for work next day. Besides, I have no particular work to do to-morrow, and I delight to sit at this time of the night and watch the shipping. I'm not in your way, am I?" "Oh, not at all, not at all," replied the fish-merchant, as he resumed his irregular walk. This question was prompted by the urgency with which the advice to go below had been given. Seeing that nothing was to be made of his passenger in this way, Morley Jones cast about in his mind to hit upon another expedient to get rid of him, and reproached himself for having been tempted by a good fare to let him have a passage. Suddenly his eye was attracted by a dark object floating in the sea a considerable distance to the southward of them. "That's lucky," muttered Jones, after examining it carefully with the glass, while a gleam of satisfaction shot across his dark countenance; "could not have come in better time. Nothing could be better." Shutting up the glass with decision, he turned round, and the look of satisfaction gave place to one of impatience as his eye fell on Stanley Hall, who still sat with folded arms on the skylight, looking as composed and serene as if he had taken up his quarters there for the night. After one or two hasty turns on the deck, an idea appeared to hit Mr Jones, for he smiled in a grim fashion, and muttered, "I'll try that, if the breeze would only come." The breeze appeared to have been waiting for an invitation, for one or two "cat's-paws" ruffled the surface of the sea as he spoke. "Mind your helm, boy," said Mr Jones suddenly; "let her away a point; so, steady. Keep her as she goes; and, harkee" (he stooped down and whispered), "_when I open the skylight_ do you call down, `breeze freshenin', sir, and has shifted a point to the west'ard.'" "By the way, Mr Hall," said Jones, turning abruptly to his passenger, "you take so much interest in navigation that I should like to show you a new chart I've got of the channels on this part of the coast. Will you step below?" "With pleasure," replied Stanley, rising and following Jones, who immediately spread out on the cabin table one of his most intricate charts,--which, as he had expected, the young student began to examine with much interest,--at the same time plying the other with numerous questions. "Stay," said Jones, "I'll open the skylight--don't you find the cabin close?" No sooner was the skylight opened than the small voice of Billy Towler was heard shouting-- "Breeze freshenin', sir, and has shifted a pint to the west'ard." "All right," replied Jones;--"excuse me, sir, I'll take a look at the sheets and braces and see that all's fast--be back in a few minutes." He went on deck, leaving Stanley busy with the chart. "You're a smart boy, Billy. Now do as I tell 'ee, and keep your weather eye open. D'ye see that bit o' floating wreck a-head? Well, keep straight for that and _run right against it_. I'll trust to 'ee, boy, that ye don't miss it." Billy said that he would be careful, but resolved in his heart that he _would_ miss it! Jones then went aft to a locker near the stern, whence he returned with a mallet and chisel, and went below. Immediately thereafter Billy heard the regular though slight blows of the mallet, and pursed his red lips and screwed up his small visage into a complicated sign of intelligence. There was very little wind, and the sloop made slow progress towards the piece of wreck although it was very near, and Billy steered as far from it as he could without absolutely altering the course. Presently Jones returned on deck and replaced the mallet and chisel in the locker. He was very warm and wiped the perspiration frequently from his forehead. Observing that the sloop was not so near the wreck as he had expected, he suddenly seized the small steersman by the neck and shook him as a terrier dog shakes a rat. "Billy," said he, quickly, in a low but stern voice, "it's of no use. I see what you are up to. Your steerin' clear o' that won't prevent this sloop from bein' at the bottom in quarter of an hour, if not sooner! If you hit it you may save yourself and me a world of trouble. It's so much for your own interest, boy, to hit that bit of wreck, _that I'll trust you again_." So saying, Jones went down into the cabin, apologised for having kept Stanley waiting so long, said that he could not leave the boy at the helm alone for more than a few minutes at a time, and that he would have to return on deck immediately after he had made an entry on the log slate. Had any one watched Morley Jones while he was making that entry on the log slate, he would have perceived that the strong man's hand trembled excessively, that perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, and that the entry itself consisted of a number of unmeaning and wavering strokes. Meanwhile Billy Towler, left in sole possession of the sloop, felt himself in a most unenviable state of mind. He knew that the crisis had arrived, and the decisive tone of his tyrant's last remark convinced him that it would be expedient for himself to obey orders. On the other hand, he remembered that he had deliberately resolved to throw off his allegiance, and as he drew near the piece of wreck, he reflected that he was at that moment assisting in an act which might cost the lives of all on board. Driven to and fro between doubts and fears, the poor boy kept changing the course of the sloop in a way that would have soon rendered the hitting of the wreck an impossibility, when a sudden and rather sharp puff of wind caused the Nora to bend over, and the foam to curl on her bow as she slipped swiftly through the water. Billy decided at that moment to _miss_ the wreck when he was close upon it, and for that purpose deliberately and smartly put the helm hard a-starboard. Poor fellow, his seamanship was not equal to his courage! So badly did he steer, that the very act which was meant to carry him past the wreck, thrust him right upon it! The shock, although a comparatively slight one, was sufficiently severe to arouse the sleepers, to whom the unwonted sensation and sound carried the idea of sudden disaster. Jim and Grundy rushed on deck, where they found Morley Jones already on the bulwarks with a boat-hook, shouting for aid, while Stanley Hall assisted him with an oar to push the sloop off what appeared to be the topmast and cross-trees of a vessel, with which she was entangled. Jim and Grundy each seized an oar, and, exerting their strength, they were soon clear of the wreck. "Well," observed Jim, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, "it's lucky it was but a light topmast and a light breeze, it can't have done us any damage worth speaking of." "I don't know that," said Jones. "There are often iron bolts and sharp points about such wreckage that don't require much force to drive 'em through a ship's bottom. Take a look into the hold, Jim, and see that all's right." Jim descended into the hold, but immediately returned, exclaiming wildly-- "Why, the sloop's sinkin'! Lend a hand here if you don't want to go down with her," he cried, leaping towards the boat. Stanley Hall and Grundy at once lent a hand to get out the boat, while the fish-merchant, uttering a wild oath, jumped into the hold as if to convince himself of the truth of Jim's statement. He returned quickly, exclaiming-- "She must have started a plank. It's rushing in like a sluice. Look alive, lads; out with her!" The boat was shoved outside the bulwarks, and let go by the run; the oars were flung hastily in, and all jumped into her as quickly as possible, for the deck of the Nora was already nearly on a level with the water. They were not a minute too soon. They had not pulled fifty yards from their late home when she gave a sudden lurch to port and went down stern foremost. To say that the party looked aghast at this sudden catastrophe, would be to give but a feeble idea of the state of their minds. For some minutes they could do nothing but stare in silence at the few feet of the Nora's topmast which alone remained above water as a sort of tombstone to mark her ocean grave. When they did at length break silence, it was in short interjectional remarks, as they resumed the oars. Mr Jones, without making a remark of any kind, shipped the rudder; the other four pulled. "Shall we make for land?" asked Jim Welton, after a time. "Not wi' the tide running like this," answered Jones; "we'll make the Gull, and get 'em to take us aboard till morning. At slack tide we can go ashore." In perfect silence they rowed towards the floating light, which was not more than a mile distant from the scene of the disaster. As the ebb tide was running strong, Jim hailed before they were close alongside--"Gull, ahoy! heave us a rope, will you?" There was instant bustle on board the floating light, and as the boat came sweeping past a growl of surprise was heard to issue from the mate's throat as he shouted, "Look out!" A rope came whirling down on their heads, which was caught and held on to by Jim. "All right, father," he said, looking up. "All wrong, I think," replied the sire, looking down. "Why. Jim, you always turn up like a bad shilling, and in bad company too. Where ever have you come from this time?" "From the sea, father. Don't keep jawin' there, but help us aboard, and you'll hear all about it." By this time Jones had gained the deck, followed by Stanley Hall and Billy. These quickly gave a brief outline of the disaster, and were hospitably received on board, while Jim and Grundy made fast the tackles to their boat, and had it hoisted inboard. "You won't require to pull ashore to-morrow," said the elder Mr Welton, as he shook his son's hand. "The tender will come off to us in the morning, and no doubt the captain will take you all ashore." "So much the better," observed Stanley, "because it seems to me that our boat is worthy of the rotten sloop to which she belonged, and might fail to reach the shore after all!" "Her owner is rather fond of ships and boats that have got the rot," said Mr Welton, senior, looking with a somewhat stern expression at Morley Jones, who was in the act of stooping to wring the water out of the legs of his trousers. "If he is," said Jones, with an equally stern glance at the mate, "he is the only loser--at all events the chief one--by his fondness." "You're right," retorted Mr Welton sharply; "the loss of a kit may be replaced, but there are _some things_ which cannot be replaced when lost. However, you know your own affairs best. Come below, friends, and have something to eat and drink." After the wrecked party had been hospitably entertained in the cabin with biscuit and tea, they returned to the deck, and, breaking up into small parties, walked about or leaned over the bulwarks in earnest conversation. Jack Shales and Jerry MacGowl took possession of Jim Welton, and, hurrying him forward to the windlass, made him there undergo a severe examination and cross-questioning as to how the sloop Nora had met with her disaster. These were soon joined by Billy Towler, to whom the gay manner of Shales and the rich brogue of MacGowl were irresistibly attractive. Jim, however, proved to be much more reticent than his friends deemed either necessary or agreeable. After a prolonged process of pumping, to which he submitted with much good humour and an apparent readiness to be pumped quite dry, Jerry MacGowl exclaimed-- "Och, it ain't of no use trying to git no daiper. Sure we've sounded 'im to the bottom, an' found nothin' at all but mud." "Ay, he's about as incomprehensible as that famous poet you're for ever givin' us screeds of. What's 'is name--somebody's _son_?" "Tenny's son, av coorse," replied Jerry; "but he ain't incomprehensible, Jack; he's only too daip for a man of or'nary intellick. His thoughts is so awful profound sometimes that the longest deep-sea lead line as ever was spun can't reach the bottom of 'em. It's only such oncommon philosophers as Dick Moy there, or a boardin'-school miss (for extremes meet, you know, Jack), that can rightly make him out." "Wot's that you're sayin' about Dick Moy?" inquired that worthy, who had just joined the group at the windlass. "He said you was a philosopher," answered Shales. "You're another," growled Dick, bluntly, to MacGowl. "Faix, that's true," replied Jerry; "there's two philosophers aboord of this here light, an' the luminous power of our united intellicks is so strong that I've had it in my mind more than wance to suggest that if they wos to hoist you and me to the masthead together, the Gull would git on first-rate without any lantern at all." "Not a bad notion that," said Jack Shales. "I'll mention it to the superintendent to-morrow, when the tender comes alongside. P'raps he'll report you to the Trinity House as being willin' to serve in that way without pay, for the sake of economy." "No, not for economy, mate," objected Dick Moy. "We can't afford to do dooty as lights without increased pay. Just think of the intellektooal force required for to keep the lights agoin' night after night." "Ay, and the amount of the doctor's bill," broke in MacGowl, "for curin' the extra cowlds caught at the mast-head in thick weather." "But we wouldn't go up in thick weather, stoopid," said Moy,--"wot ud be the use? Ain't the gong enough at sich times?" "Och, to be sure. Didn't I misremember that? What a thing it is to be ready-witted, now! And since we are makin' sich radical changes in the floating-light system, what would ye say, boys, to advise the Boord to use the head of Jack Shales instead of a gong? It would sound splendiferous, for there ain't no more in it than an empty cask. The last gong they sint us down was cracked, you know, so I fancy that's considered the right sort; and if so, Jack's head is cracked enough in all conscience." "I suppose, Jerry," said Shales, "if my head was appointed gong, you'd like that your fist should git the situation of drumstick." "Stop your chaffin', boys, and let's catch some birds for to-morrow's dinner," said one of the men who had been listening to the conversation. "There's an uncommon lot of 'em about to-night, an' it seems to me if the fog increases we shall have more of 'em." "Ho-o-o! "`Sich a gittin' up stairs, and A playin' on the fiddle,'" Sang Jack Shales, as he sprang up the wire-rope ladder that led to the lantern, round which innumerable small birds were flitting, as if desirous of launching themselves bodily into the bright light. "What is that fellow about?" inquired Stanley Hall of the mate, as the two stood conversing near the binnacle. "He's catching small birds, sir. We often get a number in that way here. But they ain't so numerous about the Gull as I've seen them in some of the other lightships. You may find it difficult to believe, but I do assure you, sir, that I have caught as many as five hundred birds with my own hand in the course of two hours." "Indeed! what sort of birds?" "Larks and starlings chiefly, but there were other kinds amongst 'em. Why, sir, they flew about my head and round the lantern like clouds of snowflakes. I was sittin' on the lantern just as Shales is sittin' now, and the birds came so thick that I had to pull my sou'-wester down over my eyes, and hold up my hands sometimes before my face to protect myself, for they hit me all over. I snapped at 'em, and caught 'em as fast as I could use my hands--gave their heads a screw, and crammed 'em into my pockets. In a short time the pockets were all as full as they could hold--coat, vest, and trousers. I had to do it so fast that many of 'em wasn't properly killed, and some came alive agin, hopped out of my pockets, and flew away." At that moment there arose a laugh from the men as they watched their comrade, who happened to be performing a feat somewhat similar to that just described by the mate. Jack Shales had seated himself on the roof of the lantern. This roof being opaque, he and the mast, which rose above him, and its distinctive ball on the top, were enveloped in darkness. Jack appeared like a man of ebony pictured against the dark sky. His form and motions could therefore be distinctly seen, although his features were invisible. He appeared to be engaged in resisting an attack from a host of little birds which seemed to have made up their minds to unite their powers for his destruction; the fact being that the poor things, fascinated by the brilliant light, flew over, under, and round it, with eyes so dazzled that they did not observe the man until almost too late to sheer off and avoid him. Indeed, many of them failed in this attempt, and flew right against his head, or into his bosom. These he caught, killed, and pocketed, as fast as possible, until his pockets were full, when he descended to empty them. "Hallo! Jack, mind your eye," cried Dick Moy, as his friend set foot on the deck, "there's one of 'em agoin' off with that crooked sixpence you're so fond of." Jack caught a starling which was in the act of wriggling out of his coat pocket, and gave it a final twist. "Hold your hats, boys," he cried, hauling forth the game. "Talk of a Scotch moor--there's nothin' equal to the top of the Gull lantern for real sport!" "I say, Jack," cried Mr Welton, who, with Stanley and the others, had crowded round the successful sportsman, "there are some strange birds on the ball. Gulls or crows, or owls. If you look sharp and get inside, you may perhaps catch them by the legs." Billy Towler heard this remark, and, looking up, saw the two birds referred to, one seated on the ball at the mast-head, the other at that moment sailing round it. Now it must be told, and the reader will easily believe it, that during all this scene Billy had looked on not only with intense interest, but with a wildness of excitement peculiar to himself, while his eyes flashed, and his small hands tingled with a desire to have, not merely a finger, but, all his ten fingers, in the pie. Being only a visitor, however, and ignorant of everybody and everything connected with a floating light, he had modestly held his tongue and kept in the background. But he could no longer withstand the temptation to act. Without uttering a word, he leaped upon the rope-ladder of the lantern, and was half way up it before any one observed him, determined to forestall Jack Shales. Then there was a shouting of "Hallo! what is that scamp up to?" "Come down, you monkey!" "He'll break his neck!" "Serve him right!" "Hi! come down, will 'ee?" and similar urgent as well as complimentary expressions, to all of which Billy turned a deaf ear. Another minute and he stood on the roof of the lantern, looking up at the ball and grasping the mast, which rose--a bare pole--twelve or fifteen feet above him. "Och! av the spalpeen tries that," exclaimed Jerry MacGowl, "it'll be the ind of 'im intirely." Billy Towler did try it. Many a London lamp-post had he shinned up in his day. The difference did not seem to him very great. The ball, he observed, was made of light bands or lathes arranged somewhat in the form of lattice-work. It was full six feet in diameter, and had an opening in the under part by which a man could enter it. Through the lozenge-shaped openings he could see two enormous ravens perched on the top. Pausing merely for a second or two to note these facts and recover breath, he shinned up the bare pole like a monkey, and got inside the ball. The spectators on deck stood in breathless suspense and anxiety, unable apparently to move; but when they saw Billy clamber up the side of the ball like a mouse in a wire cage, put forth his hand, seize one of the ravens by a leg and drag it through the bars to him, a ringing cheer broke forth, which was mingled with shouts of uncontrollable laughter. The operation of drawing the ill-omened bird through the somewhat narrow opening against the feathers, had the double effect of ruffling it out to a round and ragged shape, very much beyond its ordinary size, and of rousing its spirit to ten times its wonted ferocity, insomuch that, when once fairly inside, it attacked its captor with claw, beak, and wing furiously. It had to do battle, however, with an infant Hercules. Billy held on tight to its leg, and managed to restrain its head and wings with one arm, while with the other he embraced the mast and slid down to the lantern; but not before the raven freed its head and one of its wings, and renewed its violent resistance. On the lantern he paused for a moment to make the captive more secure, and then let his legs drop over the edge of the lantern, intending to get on the rounds of the ladder, but his foot missed the first one. In his effort to regain it he slipped. At that instant the bird freed his head, and with a triumphant "caw!" gave Billy an awful peck on the nose. The result was that the poor boy fell back. He could not restrain a shriek as he did so, but he still kept hold of the raven, and made a wild grasp with his disengaged hand. Fortunately he caught the ladder, and remained swinging and making vain efforts to hook his leg round one of the ropes. "Let go the bird!" shouted the mate, rushing underneath the struggling youth, resolved at all hazards to be ready to break his fall if he should let go. "Howld on!" yelled Jerry MacGowl, springing up the ladder--as Jack Shales afterwards said--like a Chimpanzee maniac, and clutching Billy by the neck. "Ye may let go now, ye spalpeen," said Jerry, as he held the upper half of Billy's shirt, vest, and jacket in his powerful and capacious grasp, "I'll howld ye safe enough." At that moment the raven managed to free its dishevelled wings, the fierce flapping of which it added to its clamorous cries and struggles of indignation. Feeling himself safe, Billy let go his hold, and used the freed hand to seize the raven's other leg. Then the Irishman descended, and thus, amid the riotous wriggles and screams of the dishevelled bird, and the cheers, laughter, and congratulations of his friends, our little hero reached the deck in safety. But this was not the end of their bird-catching on that memorable occasion. It was, indeed, the grand incident of the night--the culminating point, as it were, of the battle--but there was a good deal of light skirmishing afterwards. Billy's spirit, having been fairly roused, was not easily allayed. After having had a piece of plaister stuck on the point of his nose, which soon swelled up to twice its ordinary dimensions, and became bulbous in appearance, he would fain have returned to the lantern to prosecute the war with renewed energy. This, however, Mr Welton senior would by no means permit, so the youngster was obliged to content himself with skirmishing on deck, in which he was also successful. One starling he found asleep in the fold of a tarpaulin. Another he discovered in a snug corner under the lee of one of the men's coats, and both were captured easily. Then Dick Moy showed him a plan whereby he caught half a dozen birds in as many minutes. He placed a small hand-lantern on the deck, and spread a white handkerchief in front of it. The birds immediately swarmed round this so vigorously, that they even overturned the lantern once or twice. Finally, settling down on the handkerchief, they went to sleep. It was evident that the poor things had not been flying about for mere pleasure. They had been undoubtedly fascinated by the ship's glaring light, and had kept flying round it until nearly exhausted, insomuch that they fell asleep almost immediately after settling down on the handkerchief, and were easily laid hold of. During the intervals of this warfare Mr George Welton related to Billy Towler and Stanley Hall numerous anecdotes of his experience in bird-catching on board the floating lights. Mr Welton had been long in the service, and had passed through all the grades; having commenced as a seaman, and risen to be a lamplighter and a mate--the position he then occupied. His office might, perhaps, be more correctly described as second master, because the two were _never_ on board at the same time, each relieving the other month about, and thus each being in a precisely similar position as to command, though not so in regard to pay. "There was one occasion," said the mate, "when I had a tough set-to with a bird, something like what you have had to-night, youngster. I was stationed at the time in the Newarp light-vessel, off the Norfolk coast. It happened not long after the light had gone up. I observed a very large bird settle on the roof of the lantern, so I went cautiously up, hopin' it would turn out a good one to eat, because you must know we don't go catchin' these birds for mere pastime. We're very glad to get 'em to eat; and I can assure you the larks make excellent pies. Well, I raised my head slowly above the lantern and pounced on it. Instantly its claws went deep into my hands. I seized its neck, and tried to choke it; but the harder I squeezed, the harder it nipped, until I was forced to sing out for help. Leavin' go the neck, in order to have one hand free, I descended the ladder with the bird hanging to the other hand by its claws. I found I had no occasion to hold tight to _it_, for it held tight to _me_! Before I got down, however, it had recovered a bit, let go, and flew away, but took refuge soon after in the lantern-house on deck. Here I caught it a second time, and once more received the same punishment from its claws. I killed it at last, and then found, to my disgust, that it was a monster sparrow-hawk, and not fit for food!" "Somethink floatin' alongside, sir," said Dick Moy, running aft at that moment and catching up a boat-hook, with which he made a dart at the object in question, and struck, but failed to secure it. "What is it, Moy?" asked Mr Welton. "On'y a bit o' wreck, I think. It looked like a corp at first." Soon after this most of the people on board the Gull went below and turned in, leaving the deck in charge of the regular watch, which, on that occasion, consisted of Dick and his friend Jack Shales. Jerry MacGowl kept them company for a time, being, as he observed, "sintimentally inclined" that night. Stanley Hall, attracted by the fineness of the night, also remained on deck a short time after the others were gone. "Do you often see dead bodies floating past?" he asked of Dick Moy. "Not wery often, sir, but occasionally we does. You see, we're so nigh the Goodwin sands, where wrecks take place in the winter months pritty constant, that poor fellers are sometimes washed past us; but they ain't always dead. One night we heard loud cries not far off from us, but it was blowin' a gale, and the night was so dark we could see nothin'. We could no more have launched our boat than we could 'ave gone over the falls o' Niagary without capsizin'. When next the relief comed off, we heard that it was three poor fellers gone past on a piece of wreck." "Were they lost?" inquired Stanley. "No, sir, they warn't all of 'em lost. A brig saw 'em at daylight, but just as they wos being picked up, one wos so exhausted he slipped off the wreck an wos drownded. 'Nother time," continued Moy, as he paced slowly to and fro, "we seed a corp float past, and tried to 'ook it with the boat-'ook, but missed it. It wos on its face, and we could see it 'ad on a belt and sheath-knife. There wos a bald spot on the 'ead, and the gulls wos peckin' at it, so we know'd it wos dead--wery likely a long time." "There's a tight little craft," remarked Shales, pointing to a vessel which floated at no great distance off. "W'ich d'ye mean?" asked Dick; for there were so many vessels, some at anchor and some floating past with the tide, like phantom ships, that it was not easy to make out which vessel was referred to; "the one wi' the shoulder-o'-mutton mains'l?" "No; that schooner with the raking masts an' topsail?" "Ah, that's a purty little thing from owld Ireland," returned Jerry MacGowl. "I'd know her anywhere by the cut of her jib. Av she would only spaik, she'd let ye hear the brogue." "Since ye know her so well, Paddy, p'raps you can tell us what's her cargo?" said Jack Shales. "Of coorse I can--it's fruit an' timber," replied Jerry. "Fruit and timber!" exclaimed Stanley with a laugh; "I was not aware that such articles were exported from Ireland." "Ah, sure they are, yer honour," replied Jerry. "No doubt the English, with that low spirit of jealousy that's pecooliar to 'em, would say it was brooms an' taties, but _we_ calls it fruit and timber!" "After that, Jerry, I think it is time for me to turn in, so I wish you both a good-night, lads." "Good-night, sir, good-night," replied the men, as Stanley descended to his berth, leaving the watch to spin yarns and perambulate the deck until the bright beams of the floating light should be rendered unnecessary by the brighter beams of the rising sun. CHAPTER TEN. TREATS OF TENDER SUBJECTS OF A PECULIAR KIND, AND SHOWS HOW BILLY TOWLER GOT INTO SCRAPES AND OUT OF THEM. The fact that we know not what a day may bring forth, receives frequent, and sometimes very striking, illustration in the experience of most people. That the day may begin with calm and sunshine, yet end in clouds and tempest--or _vice versa_--is a truism which need not be enforced. Nevertheless, it is a truism which men are none the worse of being reminded of now and then. Poor Billy Towler was very powerfully reminded of it on the day following his night-adventure with the ravens; and his master was taught that the best-laid plans of men, as well as mice, are apt to get disordered, as the sequel will show. Next morning the look-out on board the Gull lightship reported the Trinity steam-tender in sight, off the mouth of Ramsgate harbour, and the ensign was at once hoisted as an intimation that she had been observed. This arrangement, by the way, of hoisting a signal on board the floating lights when any of the Trinity yachts chance to heave in sight, is a clever device, whereby the vigilance of light-ship crews is secured, because the time of the appearing of these yachts is irregular, and, therefore, a matter of uncertainty. Every one knows the natural and almost irresistible tendency of the human mind to relax in vigilance when the demand on attention is continual--that the act, by becoming a mere matter of daily routine, loses much of its intensity. The crews of floating lights are, more than most men, required to be perpetually on the alert, because, besides the danger that would threaten innumerable ships should their vessels drift from their stations, or any part of their management be neglected, there is great danger to themselves of being run into during dark stormy nights or foggy days. Constant vigilance is partly secured, no doubt, by a sense of duty in the men; it is increased by the feeling of personal risk that would result from carelessness; and it is almost perfected by the order for the hoisting of a flag as above referred to. The superintendent of the district of which Ramsgate is head-quarters, goes out regularly once every month in the tender to effect what is styled "the relief,"--that is, to change the men, each of whom passes two months aboard and one month on shore, while the masters and mates alternately have a month on shore and a month on board. At the same time he puts on board of the four vessels of which he has charge-- namely, the _Goodwin_, the _Gull_, the _South-sandhead_, and the _Varne_ light-ships,--water, coal, provisions, and oil for the month, and such stores as may be required; returning with the men relieved and the empty casks and cans, etcetera, to Ramsgate harbour. Besides this, the tender is constantly obliged to go out at irregular intervals--it may be even several times in a week--for the purpose of replacing buoys that have been shifted by storms--marking, with small green buoys, the spot where a vessel may have gone down, and become a dangerous obstruction in the "fair way"--taking up old chains and sinkers, and placing new ones-- painting the buoys--and visiting the North and South Foreland lighthouses, which are also under the district superintendent's care. On all of these occasions the men on duty in the floating lights are bound to hoist their flag whenever the tender chances to pass them within sight, on pain of a severe reprimand if the duty be neglected, and something worse if such neglect be of frequent occurrence. In addition to this, some of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House make periodical visits of inspection to all the floating lights round the coasts of England; and this they do purposely at irregular times, in order, if possible, to catch the guardians of the coast napping; and woe betide "the watch" on duty if these inspecting Brethren should manage to get pretty close to any light-ship without having received the salute of recognition! Hence the men of the floating lights are kept ever on the alert, and the safety of the navigation, as far as human wisdom can do it, is secured. Hence also, at whatever time any of our floating lights should chance to be visited by strangers, they, like our lighthouses, will invariably be found in perfect working order, and as clean as new pins, except, of course, during periods of general cleaning up or painting. Begging pardon for this digression, we return to Billy Towler, whose delight with the novelty of his recent experiences was only equalled by his joyous anticipations of the stirring sea-life that yet lay before him. The satisfaction of Mr Jones, however, at the success of his late venture, was somewhat damped by the information that he would have to spend the whole day on board the tender. The district superintendent, whose arduous and multifarious duties required him to be so often afloat that he seemed to be more at home in the tender than in his own house ashore, was a man whose agreeable manners, and kind, hearty, yet firm disposition, had made him a favourite with every one in the service. Immediately on his boarding the Gull, he informed the uninvited and unfortunate guests of that floating light that he would be very glad to take them ashore, but that he could not do so until evening, as, besides effecting "the relief," he meant to take advantage of the calm weather to give a fresh coat of paint to one or two buoys, and renew their chains and sinkers, and expressed a hope that the delay would not put them to much inconvenience. Stanley Hall, between whom and the superintendent there sprang up an intimate and sympathetic friendship almost at first sight, assured him that so far from putting him to inconvenience it would afford him the greatest pleasure to spend the day on board. Billy Towler heard this arrangement come to with an amount of satisfaction which was by no means shared by his employer, who was anxious to report the loss of the Nora without delay, and to claim the insurance money as soon as possible. He judged it expedient, however, to keep his thoughts and anxieties to himself, and only vented his feelings in a few deep growls, which, breaking on the ears of Billy Towler, filled the heart of that youthful sinner with additional joy. "Wot a savage he is!" said Dick Moy, looking at Jones, and addressing himself to Billy. "Ah, ain't he just!" replied the urchin. "Has he not bin good to 'ee?" asked the big seaman, looking down with a kindly expression at the small boy. "Middlin'," was Billy's cautious reply. "I say, Neptune," he added, looking up into Dick's face, "wot's yer name?" "It ain't Neptune, anyhow," replied Dick. "That's wot we've called the big black Noofoundland dog you sees over there a-jumping about Jim Welton as if he had falled in love with him." "Why is it so fond of him?" asked Billy. Dick replied to this question by relating the incident of the dog's rescue by Jim. "Werry interestin'. Well, but wot _is_ your name?" said Billy, returning to the point. "Dick." "Of course I know that; I've heerd 'em all call ye that often enough, but I 'spose you've got another?" "Moy," said the big seaman. "Moy, eh?" cried Billy, with a grin, "that _is_ a funny name, but there ain't enough of it for my taste." The conversation was interrupted at this point by the superintendent, who, having been for many years in command of an East Indiaman, was styled "Captain." He ordered the mate and men whose turn it was to be "relieved" to get into the tender along with the strangers. Soon afterwards the vessel steamed away over the glassy water, and Billy, who had taken a fancy to the big lamplighter, went up to him and said-- "Well, Dick Moy, where are we agoin' to just now?" Dick pointed to a black speck on the water, a considerable distance ahead of them. "We're agoin' to that there buoy, to lift it and put down a noo un." "Oh, that's a boy, is it? and are them there boys too?" asked Billy, looking round at the curious oval and conical cask-like things, of gigantic proportions, which lumbered the deck and filled the hold of the tender. "Ay, they're all buoys." "None of 'em girls?" inquired the urchin gravely. "No, none of 'em," replied Dick with equal gravity, for to him the joke was a very stale one. "No? that's stoopid now; I'd 'ave 'ad some of 'em girls for variety's sake--wot's the use of 'em?" asked the imp, who pretended ignorance, in order to draw out his burly companion. "To mark the channels," replied Dick. "We puts a red buoy on one side and a checkered buoy on t'other, and if the vessels keeps atween 'em they goes all right--if not, they goes ashore." "H'm, that's just where it is now," said Billy. "If _I_ had had the markin' o' them there channels I'd 'ave put boys on one side an' girls on t'other all the way up to London--made a sort o' country dance of it, an' all the ships would 'ave gone up the middle an' down agin, d'ye see?" "Port, port a little," said the captain at that moment. "Port it is, sir," answered Mr Welton, senior, who stood at the wheel. The tender was now bearing down on one of the numerous buoys which mark off the channels around the Goodwin sands, and it required careful steering in order to avoid missing it on the one hand, or running into it on the other. A number of men stood on the bow of the vessel, with ropes and boat-hooks, in readiness to catch and make fast to it. These men, with the exception of two or three who formed the permanent crew of the tender, were either going off to "relieve" their comrades and take their turn on board the floating lights, or were on their way to land, having been "relieved"--such as George Welton the mate, Dick Moy, and Jerry MacGowl. Among them were several masters and mates belonging to the light-vessels of that district--sedate, grave, cheerful, and trustworthy men, all of them--who had spent the greater part of their lives in the service, and were by that time middle-aged or elderly, but still, with few exceptions, as strong and hardy as young men. Jerry, being an unusually active and powerful fellow, took a prominent part in all the duties that devolved on the men at that time. That these duties were not light might have been evident to the most superficial observer, for the buoys and their respective chains and sinkers were of the most ponderous and unwieldy description. Referring to this, Stanley Hall said, as he stood watching the progress of the work, "Why, captain, up to this day I have been in the habit of regarding buoys as trifling affairs, not much bigger or more valuable than huge barrels or washing-tubs, but now that I see them close at hand, and hear all you tell me about them, my respect increases wonderfully." "It will be increased still more, perhaps," replied the captain, "when I tell you the cost of some of them. Now, then, MacGowl, look out--are you ready?" "All ready, sir." "Port a little--steady." "Steady!" replied Mr Welton. "Arrah! howld on--och! stiddy--heave--hooray!" cried the anxious Irishman as he made a plunge at the buoy which was floating alongside like a huge iron balloon, bumping its big forehead gently, yet heavily, against the side of the tender, and, in that simple way conveying to the mind of Stanley an idea of the great difficulty that must attend the shifting of buoys in rough weather. The buoy having been secured, an iron hook and chain of great strength were then attached to the ring in its head. The chain communicated with a powerful crane rigged up on the foremast, and was wrought by a steam windlass on deck. "You see we require stronger tackle," said the captain to Stanley, while the buoy was being slowly raised. "That buoy weighs fully three-quarters of a ton, and cost not less, along with its chain and sinker, than 150 pounds, yet it is not one of our largest. We have what we call monster buoys, weighing considerably more than a ton, which cost about 300 pounds apiece, including a 60-fathom chain and a 30-hundred-weight sinker. Those medium-sized ones, made of wood and hooped like casks, cost from 80 pounds to 100 pounds apiece without appendages. Even that small green fellow lying there, with which I intend to mark the Nora, if necessary, is worth 25 pounds, and as there are many hundreds of such buoys all round the kingdom, you can easily believe that the guarding of our shores is somewhat costly." "Indeed it must be," answered Stanley; "and if such insignificant-looking things cost so much, what must be the expense of maintaining floating lights and lighthouses?" "I can give you some idea of that too," said the captain-- "Look out!" exclaimed the men at that moment. "Och! be aisy," cried Jerry, ducking as he spoke, and thus escaping a blow from the buoy, which would have cracked his head against the vessel's side like a walnut. "Heave away, lad!" The man at the windlass obeyed. The irresistible steam-winch caused the huge chain to grind and jerk in its iron pulley, and the enormous globular iron buoy came quietly over the side, black here and brown there, and red-rusted elsewhere; its green beard of sea-weed dripping with brine, and its sides grizzled with a six-months' growth of barnacles and other shell-fish. It must not be supposed that, although the engine did all the heavy lifting, the men had merely to stand by and look on. In the mere processes of capturing the buoy and making fast the chains and hooks, and fending off, etcetera, there was an amount of physical effort-- straining and energising--on the part of the men, that could scarcely be believed unless seen. Do not fancy, good reader, that we are attempting to make much of a trifle in this description. Our object is rather to show that what might very naturally be supposed to be trifling and easy work, is, in truth, very much the reverse. The buoy having been lifted, another of the same size and shape, but freshly painted, was attached to the chain, tumbled over the side, and left in its place. In this case the chain and sinker did not require renewing, but at the next [one] visited it was found that buoy, chain, and sinker had to be lifted and renewed. And here again, to a landsman like Stanley, there was much to interest and surprise. If a man, ignorant of such matters, were asked what he would do in the event of his having to go and shift one of those buoys, he might probably reply, "Well, I suppose I would first get hold of the buoy and hoist it on board, and then throw over another in its place;" but it is not probable that he would reflect that this process involved the violent upturning of a mass of wood or metal so heavy that all the strength of the dozen men who had to struggle with it was scarce sufficient to move gently even in the water; that, being upturned, an inch chain had to be unshackled--a process rendered troublesome, owing to the ponderosity of the links which had to be dealt with, and the constrained position of the man who wrought,--and that the chain and sinker had to be hauled out of the sand or mud into which they had sunk so much, that the donkey-engine had to strain until the massive chains seemed about to give way, and the men stood in peril of having their heads suddenly cut open. Not to be too prolix on this subject, it may be said, shortly, that when the chain and sinker of the next buoy were being hauled in, a three-inch rope snapped and grazed the finger of a man, fortunately taking no more than a little of the skin off, though it probably had force enough to have taken his hand off if it had struck him differently. Again they tried, but the sinker had got so far down into the mud that it would not let go. The engine went at last very slowly, for it was applying almost the greatest strain that the chains could bear, and the bow of the tender was hauled considerably down into the sea. The men drew back a little, but, after a few moments of suspense, the motion of the vessel gradually loosened the sinker and eased the strain. "There she goes, handsomely," cried the men, as the engine again resumed work at reasonable speed. "We sometimes lose chains and sinkers altogether in that way," remarked Dick Moy to Billy, who stood looking on with heightened colour and glowing eyes, and wishing with all the fervour of his small heart that the whole affair would give way, in order that he might enjoy the _tremendous_ crash which he thought would be sure to follow. "Would it be a great loss?" he asked. "It would, a wery great un," said Dick; "that there chain an' sinker is worth nigh fifty or sixty pound." While this work was being done, the captain was busy with his telescope, taking the exact bearings of the buoy, to ascertain whether or not it had shifted its position during the six months' conflict with tide and tempest that it had undergone since last being overhauled. Certain buildings on shore coming into line with other prominent buildings, such as steeples, chimneys, and windmills, were his infallible guides, and these declared that the buoy had not shifted more than a few feet. He therefore gave the order to have the fresh buoy, with its chain and sinker, ready to let go. The buoy in question,--a medium one about eight feet high, five feet in diameter, and conical in shape--stood at the edge of the vessel, like an extinguisher for the biggest candle that ever was conceived in the wildest brain at Rome. Its sinker, a square mass of cast-iron nearly a ton in weight, lay beside it, and its two-inch chain, every link whereof was eight or ten inches long, and made of the toughest malleable iron, was coiled carefully on the main-hatch, so that nothing should impede its running out. "All ready?" cried the captain, taking a final glance through the telescope. "All ready, sir," replied the men, several of whom stood beside the buoy, prepared to lay violent hands on it, while two stood with iron levers under the sinker, ready to heave. "Stand here, Billy, an' you'll see it better," said Dick Moy, with a sly look, for Dick had by this time learned to appreciate the mischievous spirit of the urchin. "Let go!" cried the captain. "Let go!" echoed the men. The levers were raised; the thrust was given. Away went the sinker; overboard went the buoy; out went the chain with a clanging roar and a furious rush, and up sprang a column of white spray, part of which fell in-board, and drenched Billy Towler to the skin! As well might Dick Moy have attempted to punish a pig by throwing it into the mud as to distress Billy by sousing him with water! It was to him all but a native element. In fact, he said that he believed himself to be a hamphiberous hanimal by nature, and was of the opinion that he should have been born a merman. "Hooray! shower-baths free, gratis, for nothink!" he yelled, as soon as he had re-caught his breath. "Any more o' that sort comin'?" he cried, as he pulled off his shirt and wrung it. "Plenty more wery like it," said Dick, chuckling, "and to be had wery much on the same terms." "Ah, if you'd only jine me--it would make it so much more pleasant," retorted the boy; "but it would take a deal more water to kiver yer huge carcase." "That boy will either make a first-rate man, or an out-and-out villain," observed the captain to Stanley, as they stood listening to his chaffing remarks. "He'll require a deal of taming," said Jim Welton, who was standing by; "but he's a smart, well-disposed little fellow as far as I know him." Morley Jones, who was seated on the starboard bulwarks not far off; confided his opinion to no one, but he was observed to indulge in a sardonic grin, and to heave his shoulders as if he were agitated with suppressed laughter when this last remark was made. The steamer meanwhile had been making towards another of the floating lights, alongside of which some time was spent in transferring the full water-casks, receiving the "empties," etcetera, and in changing the men. The same process was gone through with the other vessels, and then, in the afternoon, they returned towards Ramsgate harbour. On the way they stopped at one of the large buoys which required to be painted. The weather being suitable for that purpose, a boat was lowered, black and white paint-pots and brushes were put into her, and Jack Shales, Dick Moy, and Jerry MacGowl were told off to perform the duty. Stanley Hall also went for pastime, and Billy Towler slid into the boat like an eel, without leave, just as it pushed off. "Get out, ye small varmint!" shouted Jerry; but the boy did not obey; the boat was already a few feet off from the vessel, and as the captain either did not see or did not care, Billy was allowed to go. "You'll only be in the way, an' git tired of yer life before we're half done," said Dick Moy. "Never mind, he shall keep me company," said Stanley, laughing. "We will sit in judgment on the work as it proceeds--won't we, Billy?" "Well, sir," replied the boy, with intense gravity, "that depends on whether yer fine-hart edication has bin sufficiently attended to; but I've no objection to give you the benefit o' my adwice if you gits into difficulties." A loud laugh greeted this remark, and Billy, smiling with condescension, said he was gratified by their approval. A few minutes sufficed to bring them alongside the buoy, which was one of the largest size, shaped like a cone, and painted in alternate stripes of white and black. It rose high above the heads of the men when they stood up beside it in the boat. It was made of timber, had a wooden ring round it near the water, and bore evidence of having received many a rude buffet from ships passing in the dark. "A nice little buoy this," said Billy, looking at it with the eye and air of a connoisseur; "wot's its name?" "The North Goodwin; can't 'ee read? don't 'ee see its name up there on its side, in letters as long as yerself?" said Jack Shales, as he stirred up the paint in one of the pots. "Ah, to be sure; well, it might have bin named the Uncommon Good-win," said Billy, "for it seems to have seen rough service, and to have stood it well. Come, boys, look alive, mix yer colours an' go to work; England expecks every man, you know, for to do his dooty." "Wot a bag of impudence it is!" said Dick Moy, catching the ring-bolt on the top of the buoy with the boat-hook, and holding the boat as close to it as possible, while his mates dipped their brushes in the black and white paint respectively, and began to work with the energy of men who know that their opportunity may be cut short at any moment by a sudden squall or increasing swell. Indeed, calm though the water was, there was enough of undulation to render the process of painting one of some difficulty, for, besides the impossibility of keeping the boat steady, Dick Moy found that all his strength could not avail to prevent the artists being drawn suddenly away beyond reach of their object, and as suddenly thrown against it, so that their hands and faces came frequently into contact with the wet paint, and gave them a piebald appearance. For some time Billy contented himself with looking on and chaffing the men, diversifying the amusement by an occasional skirmish with Stanley, who had armed himself with a brush, and was busy helping. "It's raither heavy work, sir, to do all the judgment business by myself;" he said. "There's that feller Shales, as don't know how a straight line should be draw'd. Couldn't ye lend me your brush, Jack? or p'raps Dick Moy will lend me his beard, as he don't seem to be usin' it just now." "Here, Dick," cried Stanley, giving up his brush, "you've had enough of the holding-on business; come, I'll relieve you." "Ay, that's your sort," said Billy; "muscle to the boat-'ook, an' brains to the brush." "Hold on tight, sir," cried Shales, as the boat gave a heavy lurch away from the buoy, while the three painters stood leaning as far over the gunwale as was consistent with safety, and stretching their arms and brushes towards the object of their solicitude. Stanley exerted himself powerfully; a reactionary swell helped him too much, and next moment the three men went, heads, hands, and brushes, plunging against the buoy! "Och! morther!" cried Jerry, one of whose black hands had been forced against a white stripe, and left its imprint there. "Look at that, now!" "All right," cried Shales, dashing a streak of white over the spot. "There's no preventing it," said Stanley, apologetically, yet laughing in spite of himself. "I say, Jack, this is 'igh art, this is," observed Moy, as he drew back to take another dip, "but I'm free to confess that I'd raither go courtin' the girls than painting the buoys." "Oh! Dick, you borrowed that from me," cried Billy; "for shame, sir!" "Well, well," observed Jerry, "it's many a time I've held on to a painter, but I niver thought to become wan. What would ye call this now--a landscape or a portrait?" "I would call it a marine piece," said Stanley. "How much, sir?" asked Dick Moy, who had got upon the wooden ring of the buoy, and was standing thereon attempting, but not very successfully, to paint in that position. "A mareeny-piece, you noodle," cried Billy; "don't ye onderstand the genel'm'n wot's a sittin' on judgment on 'ee? A mareeny-piece is a piece o' mareeny or striped kaliko, w'ich is all the same, and wery poor stuff it is too. Come, I'll stand it no longer. I hold ye in sich contempt that I _must_ look down on 'ee." So saying, the active little fellow seized the boat-hook, and swung himself lightly on the buoy, the top of which he gained after a severe scramble, amid the indignant shouts of the men. "Well, since you have gone up there, we'll keep you there till we are done." "All right, my hearties," retorted Billy, in great delight and excitement, as the men went on with their work. Just then another heave of the swell drew the boat away, obliging the painters to lean far over the side as before, pointing towards their "pictur," as Jerry called it, but unable to touch it, though expecting every moment to swing within reach again. Suddenly Billy Towler--while engaged, no doubt, in some refined piece of mischief--slipped and fell backwards with a loud cry. His head struck the side of the boat in passing, as he plunged into the sea. "Ah, the poor craitur!" cried Jerry MacGowl, immediately plunging after him. Now, it happened that Jerry could not swim a stroke, but his liking for the boy, and the suddenness of the accident, combined with his reckless disposition, rendered him either forgetful of or oblivious to that fact. Instead of doing any good, therefore, to Billy, he rendered it necessary for the men to give their undivided attention to hauling his unwieldy carcase into the boat. The tide was running strong at the time. Billy rose to the surface, but showed no sign of life. He was sinking again, when Stanley Hall plunged into the water like an arrow, and caught him by the hair. Stanley was a powerful swimmer, but he could make no headway against the tide that was running to the southward at the time, and before the men had succeeded in dragging their enthusiastic but reckless comrade into the boat, Billy and his friend had been swept to a considerable distance. As soon as the oars were shipped, however, they were quickly overtaken and rescued. Stanley was none the worse for his ducking, but poor Billy was unconscious, and had a large cut in his head, which looked serious. When he was taken on board the tender, and restored to consciousness, he was incapable of talking coherently. In this state he was taken back to Ramsgate and conveyed to the hospital. There, in a small bed, the small boy lay for many weeks, with ample leisure to reflect upon the impropriety of coupling fun--which is right--with mischief--which is emphatically wrong, and generally leads to disaster. But Billy could not reflect, because he had received a slight injury to the brain, it was supposed, which confused him much, and induced him, as his attentive nurse said, to talk "nothing but nonsense." The poor boy's recently-made friends paid him all the attention they could, but most of them had duties to attend to which called them away, so that, ere long, with the exception of an occasional visit from Mr Welton of the Gull light, he was left entirely to the care of the nurses and house-surgeons, who were extremely kind to him. Mr Morley Jones, who might have been expected to take an interest in his _protege_, left him to his fate, after having ascertained that he was in a somewhat critical condition, and, in any case, not likely to be abroad again for many weeks. There was one person, however, who found out and took an apparently deep interest in the boy. This was a stout, hale gentleman, of middle age, with a bald head, a stern countenance, and keen grey eyes. He came to the hospital, apparently as a philanthropic visitor, inquired for the boy, introduced himself as Mr Larks, and, sitting down at his bedside, sought to ingratiate himself with the patient. At first he found the boy in a condition which induced him to indulge chiefly in talking nonsense, but Mr Larks appeared to be peculiarly interested in this nonsense, especially when it had reference, as it frequently had, to a man named Jones! After a time, when Billy became sane again, Mr Larks pressed him to converse more freely about this Mr Jones, but with returning health came Billy's sharp wit and caution. He began to be more circumspect in his replies to Mr Larks, and to put questions, in his turn, which soon induced that gentleman to discontinue his visits, so that Billy Towler again found himself in what might with propriety have been styled his normal condition--absolutely destitute of friends. But Billy was not so destitute as he supposed himself to be--as we shall see. Meanwhile Morley Jones went about his special business. He reported the loss of the sloop Nora; had it advertised in the _Gazette_; took the necessary steps to prove the fact; called at the office of the Submarine Insurance Company, and at the end of three weeks walked away, chuckling, with 300 pounds in his pocket! In the satisfaction which the success of this piece of business induced, he opened his heart and mind pretty freely to his daughter Nora, and revealed not only the fact of Billy Towler's illness, but the place where he then lay. Until the money had been secured he had kept this a secret from her, and had sent Jim Welton on special business to Gravesend in order that he might be out of the way for a time, but, the motive being past, he made no more secret of the matter. Nora, who had become deeply interested in the boy, resolved to have him brought up from Ramsgate to Yarmouth by means of love, not being possessed of money. The moment, therefore, that Jim Welton returned, she issued her commands that he should go straight off to Ramsgate, find the boy, and, by hook or crook, bring him to the "Garden of Eden," on pain of her utmost displeasure. "But the thing an't possible," said Jim, "I haven't got money enough to do it." "Then you must find money somehow, or make it," said Nora, firmly. "That dear boy _must_ be saved. When he was stopping here I wormed all his secrets out of his little heart, bless it--" "I don't wonder!" interrupted Jim, with a look of admiration. "And what do you think?" continued the girl, not noticing the interruption, "he confessed to me that he had been a regular London thief! Now I am quite sure that God will enable me to win him back, if I get him here--for I know that he is fond of me--and I am equally sure that he will be lost if he is again cast loose on the world." "God bless you, Nora; I'll do my best to fetch him to 'ee, even if I should have to walk to Ramsgate and carry him here on my shoulders; but don't you think it would be as well also to keep him--forgive me, dear Nora, I _must_ say it--to keep him out of your father's way? He might teach him to drink, you know, if he taught him no worse, and that's bad enough." Nora's face grew pale as she said-- "Oh, Jim, are you _sure_ there is nothing worse that he is likely to teach him? My father has a great deal of money just now, I--I hope that--" "Why, Nora, you need not think he stole it," said Jim hurriedly, and with a somewhat confused look; "he got it in the regular way from the Insurance Company, and I couldn't say that there's anything absolutely wrong in the business; but--" The young sailor stopped short and sighed deeply. Nora's countenance became still more pale, and she cast down her eyes, but spoke not a word for some moments. "You _must_ bring the boy to me, Jim," she resumed, with a sudden start. "He may be in danger here, but there is almost certain ruin before him if he is left to fall back into his old way of life." We need not trouble the reader with a detailed account of the means by which Jim Welton accomplished his object. Love prevailed--as it always did, always does, and always will--and ere many days had passed Billy Towler was once more a member of the drunkard's family, with the sweet presence of Nora ever near him, like an angel's wing overshadowing and protecting him from evil. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE ANCIENT CORPORATION OF TRINITY HOUSE OF DEPTFORD STROND. As landmarks--because of their affording variety, among other reasons-- are pleasant objects of contemplation to the weary traveller on a long and dusty road, so landmarks in a tale are useful as resting-places. We purpose, therefore, to relieve the reader, for a very brief period, from the strain of mingled fact and fiction in which we have hitherto indulged--turn into a siding, as it were--and, before getting on the main line again, devote a short chapter to pure and unmitigated fact. So much has been said in previous chapters, and so much has yet to be said, about the lights, and buoys, and beacons which guard the shores of Old England, that it would be unpardonable as well as ungracious were we to omit making special reference to the ancient CORPORATION OF TRINITY HOUSE OF DEPTFORD STROND, under the able management of which the whole of the important work has been devised and carried into operation, and is now most efficiently maintained. It cannot be too urgently pressed upon un-nautical--especially young-- readers, that the work which this Corporation does, and the duties which it performs, constitute what we may term _vital service_. It would be too much, perhaps, to say that the life of the nation depends on the faithful and wise conduct of that service, but assuredly our national prosperity is intimately bound up with it. The annual list of ships wrecked and lives lost on the shores of the kingdom is appalling enough already, as every observant reader of the newspapers must know, but if the work of the Trinity House--the labours of the Elder Brethren--were suspended for a single year--if the lights, fixed and floating, were extinguished, and the buoys and beacons removed, the writer could not express, nor could the reader conceive, the awful crash of ruin, and the terrific cry of anguish that would sweep over the land from end to end, like the besom of destruction. We leave to hard-headed politicians to say what, or whether, improvements of any kind might be made in connection with the Trinity Corporation. We do not pretend to be competent to judge whether or not that work might be _better_ done. All that we pretend to is a certain amount of competency to judge, and right to assert, that it is _well_ done, and one of the easiest ways to assure one's-self of that fact is, to go visit the lighthouses and light-vessels on the coast, and note their perfect management; the splendid adaptation of scientific discoveries to the ends they are designed to serve; the thoroughness, the cleanliness, the beauty of everything connected with the _materiel_ employed; the massive solidity and apparent indestructibility of the various structures erected and afloat; the method everywhere observable; the perfect organisation and the steady respectability of the light-keepers--observe and note all these things, we say, and it will be impossible to return from the investigation without a feeling that the management of this department of our coast service is in pre-eminently able hands. Nor is this to be wondered at, when we reflect that the Corporation of Trinity House is composed chiefly (the acting part of it entirely) of nautical men--men who have spent their youth and manhood on the sea, and have had constantly to watch and guard against those very rocks and shoals, and traverse those channels which it is now their duty to light and buoy. [See note 1.] It has been sagely remarked by some philosopher, we believe--at least it might have been if it has not--that everything must have a beginning. We agree with the proposition, and therefore conclude that the Corporation of Trinity House must have had a beginning, but that beginning would appear to be involved in those celebrated "mists of antiquity" which unhappily obscure so much that men would give their ears to know now-a-days. Fire--which has probably been the cause of more destruction and confusion than all of the other elements put together--was the cause of the difficulty that now exists in tracing this ancient Corporation to its origin, as will be seen from the following quotation from a little "Memoir, drawn up the present Deputy-Master, and printed for private distribution," which was kindly lent to us by the present secretary of the House, and from which most of our information has been derived. "The printed information hitherto extant [in regard to the Corporation of Trinity House] is limited to the charter of confirmation granted by James the Second (with the minor concession, by Charles the Second, of Thames Ballastage) and a compilation from the records of the Corporation down to 1746, by its then secretary, Mr Whormby, supplemented by a memoir drawn up, in 1822, by Captain Joseph Cotton, then Deputy-master. But the _data_ of these latter are necessarily imperfect, as the destruction by fire, in 1714, of the house in Water Lane had already involved a disastrous loss of documentary evidence, leaving much to be inferentially traced from collateral records of Admiralty and Navy Boards. These, however, sufficiently attest administrative powers and protective influence scarcely inferior to the scope of those departments." More than a hundred years before the date of its original charter (1514) the Corporation existed in the form of a voluntary association of the "shipmen and mariners of England," to which reference is made in the charter as being an influential body of long standing even at that time, which protected maritime interests, and relieved the aged and indigent among the seafaring community, for which latter purpose they had erected an almshouse at Deptford, in Kent, where also were their headquarters. This society had inspired confidence and acquired authority to establish regulations for the navigation of ships and the government of seamen, which, by general consent, had been adopted throughout the service. It was, therefore, of tested and approved capacity, which at length resulted in the granting to it of a charter by Henry VIII in 1514. From this date the history proper of the Corporation of Trinity House of Deptford Strond begins. In the charter referred to it is first so named, and is described as "The Guild or Fraternity of the most glorious and undividable Trinity of Saint Clement." The subsequent charter of James I, and all later charters, are granted to "The Master, Wardens, and Assistants of the Guild, Fraternity, or Brotherhood of the most glorious and undivided Trinity, and of Saint Clement, in the parish of Deptford, in the county of Kent." The grant of Arms to the Corporation is dated 1573, and includes the motto, _Trinitas in Unitate_. No reason can now be assigned for the application of its distinctive title. The mere fact that the constitution of the guild included provision for the maintenance of a chaplain, and for the conduct of divine service in the parish church, is not, we think, sufficient to account for it. In the house or hall at Deptford, adjoining the almshouses, the business of the Corporation was first conducted. Afterwards, for the sake of convenient intercourse with shipowners and others, in a house in Ratcliffe; next at Stepney, and then in Water Lane, Tower Street. The tenement there falling into decay--after having been twice burnt and restored--was forsaken, and an estate was purchased on Tower Hill, on which the present Trinity House was built, from designs by Wyatt, in 1798. A good idea of the _relative_ antiquity of the Corporation may be gathered from the fact that about the year 1520--six years after the date of the first charter--the formation of the Admiralty and Navy Boards was begun, and "on the consequent establishment of dockyards and arsenals, the Deptford building-yard was confided to the direction of the Trinity House, together with the superintendence of all navy stores and provisions. So closely, indeed, were the services related, that the first Master of the Corporation, under the charter, was Sir Thomas Spert, commander of the `Henry Grace-a-Dieu,' (our first man-of-war), and sometime Controller of the Navy. The Corporation thus became, as it were, the civil branch of the English Maritime Service, with a naval element which it preserves to this day." Government records show that the Trinity Brethren exercised considerable powers, at an early period, in manning and outfitting the navy; that they reported on ships to be purchased, regulated the dimensions of those to be built, and determined the proper complement of sailors for each, as well as the armament and stores. Besides performing its peaceful duties, the Corporation was bound to render service at sea if required, but, in consideration of such liability, the Brethren and their subordinates were exempted from land service of every kind. They have been frequently called upon to render service afloat, "and notably upon two occasions--during the mutiny at the Nore in 1797, when the Elder Brethren, almost in view of the mutinous fleet, removed or destroyed every beacon and buoy that could guide its passage out to sea; and again in 1803, when a French invasion was imminent, they undertook and carried out the defences of the entrance to the Thames by manning and personally officering a cordon of fully-armed ships, moored across the river below Gravesend, with an adequate force of trustworthy seamen, for destruction, if necessary, of all channel marks that might guide an approaching enemy." We cannot afford space to enter fully into the history of the Trinity Corporation. Suffice it to say that it has naturally been the object of a good deal of jealousy, and has undergone many searching investigations, from all of which it has emerged triumphantly. Its usefulness having steadily advanced with all its opportunities for extension, it received in 1836 "the culminating recognition of an Act of Parliament, empowering its executive to purchase of the Crown, and to redeem from private proprietors, their interests in all the coast-lights of England, thus bringing all within its own control. By Crown patents, granted from time to time, the Corporation was enabled to raise, through levy of tolls, the funds necessary for erection and maintenance of these national blessings; ... and all surplus of revenue over expenditure was applied to the relief of indigent and aged mariners, their wives, widows, and orphans." About 1853, the allowance to out-pensioners alone amounted to upwards of 30,000 pounds per annum, and nearly half as much more of income, derived from property held in trust for charitable purposes, was applied to the maintenance of the almshouses at Deptford and Mile-end, and to other charitable uses for the benefit of the maritime community. The court or governing body of the Corporation is now composed of thirty-one members, namely, the Master, four Wardens, eight Assistants, and eighteen Elder Brethren. The latter are elected out of those of the class of younger Brethren who volunteer, and are approved as candidates for the office. Eleven members of this court of thirty-one are men of distinction--members of the Royal Family, Ministers of State, naval officers of high rank, and the like. The remainder--called Acting Brethren--are chiefly officers of the mercantile marine, with a very few--usually three--officers of Her Majesty's navy. The younger Brethren--whose number is unlimited--are admissible at the pleasure of the court. They have no share in the management, but are entitled to vote in the election of Master and Wardens. The duties of the Corporation, as described in their charters generally, were to "treat and conclude upon all and singular articles anywise concerning the science or art of mariners." A pretty wide and somewhat indefinite range! At the present time these duties are, as follows:-- To maintain in perfect working order all the lighthouses, floating lights, and fog-signal stations on the coasts of England; and to lay down, maintain, renew, and modify all the buoys, beacons, and sea-signals; to regulate the supply of stores, the appointment of keepers, and constantly to inspect the stations--a service which entails unremitting attention upon the members, some of whom are always on duty, either afloat in the steam-vessels or on land journeys. To examine and license pilots for a large portion of our coasts; and to investigate generally into all matters relative to pilotage. To act as nautical advisers with the Judge of the High Court of Admiralty, a duty which frequently engages some of the Brethren for considerable periods of time on intricate causes of the greatest importance. To survey and inspect the channels of the Thames and the shoals of the North Sea, and other points of the coast at which shifting, scouring, growth or waste of sand may affect the navigation, and require to be watched and notified. To supply shipping in the Thames with ballast. The Elder Brethren have also to perform the duty of attending the Sovereign on sea-voyages. In addition to all this, it has to superintend the distribution of its extensive charities, founded on various munificent gifts and legacies, nearly all given or left for the benefit of "poor Jack" and his relatives; and to manage the almshouses; also the affairs of the House on Tower Hill, and the engineering department, with its superintendence of new works, plans, drawings, lanterns, optical apparatus, etcetera-- the whole involving, as will be obvious to men who are acquainted with "business," a mass of detail which must be almost as varied as it is enormous. The good influence of the operations of the Trinity louse might be shown by many interesting instances. Here is one specimen; it has reference to ballast-heaving:-- "Formerly the ballast, when laid in barge or lighter alongside the ship to be supplied, was heaved on board by men who were hired and paid by various waterside contractors, and subjected to great hardships, not only from the greed of their employers, but from a demoralising system of payment through publicans and local harpies. These evils were altogether removed by the establishment of a Heavers' Office under control of the Trinity House, where men could attend for employment, and where their wages could be paid with regularity, and free from extortionate deduction." Many more examples might be given, but were we to indulge in this strain our chapter would far exceed its proper limits. The light-vessels belonging to the Corporation are 43 in number: 38 in position and 5 in reserve to meet casualties. [See note 2.] Of lighthouses there are 76; sixty-one of which, built of brick, stone, or timber, are on shore; eleven, of granite, are on outlying rocks; and four, on iron piles, are on sandbanks. There are 452 buoys of all shapes and sizes on the coast, and half as many more in reserve, besides about 60 beacons of various kinds, and 21 storehouses in connection with them. Also 6 steam-vessels and 7 sailing tenders maintained for effecting the periodical relief of crews and keepers, shifting and laying buoys, etcetera. The working staff which keeps the whole complex machinery in order, consists of 7 district superintendents, 11 local agents, 8 buoy-keepers, 21 storekeepers, watchmen, etcetera; 177 lighthouse-keepers, 427 crews of floating lights, 143 crews of steam and sailing vessels, and 6 fog-signal attendants--a total of 800 men. Among the great and royal personages who have filled the office of Master of the Corporation of Trinity House, we find, besides a goodly list of dukes and earls--the names of (in 1837) the Duke of Wellington, (1852) H.R.H. Prince Albert, (1862) Viscount Palmerston, and (1866) H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh. The last still holds office, and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales heads the list of a long roll of titled and celebrated honorary Brethren of the Corporation. We make no apology for the interpolation of this chapter, because if the reader has skipped it no apology is due, and if he has not skipped it, we are confident that no apology will be required. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The service which the Corporation of Trinity House renders to the coasts of England, is rendered to those of Scotland by the Commissioners of Northern Lights, and to those of Ireland by the Commissioners of Irish Lights--both, to some extent, under the supervision of the Trinity House. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The floating lights of England are illuminated by means of lamps with metallic reflectors, on what is styled the catoptric system. The dioptric system, in which the rays of light are transmitted through glass, has been introduced into the floating lights of India by the Messrs. Stevenson, C.E., of Edinburgh. The first floating light on this system in India was shown on the Hoogly in 1865. Since then, several more dioptric lights have been sent to the same region, and also to Japan in 1869, and all reports agree in describing these lights as being eminently successful. CHAPTER TWELVE. STRANGE SIGHTS AND SCENES ON LAND AND SEA. The river Hoogly. Off Calcutta. Tropical vegetation on the shore. Glittering sunshine on the water. Blue sky and fleecy clouds overhead. Equally blue sky and fleecy clouds down below. A world of sky and water, with ships and boats, resting on their own inverted images, in the midst. Sweltering heat everywhere. Black men revelling in the sunshine. White men melting in the shade. The general impression such, that one might almost entertain the belief that the world has become white-hot, and the end of time is about to be ushered in with a general conflagration. Such is the scene, reader, to which we purpose to convey you. The day was yet young when a large vessel shook out her topsails, and made other nautical demonstrations of an intention to quit the solid land ere long, and escape if possible from the threatened conflagration. "I wonder when those brutes will be sent off," said the first mate of the ship to the surgeon, who stood on the poop beside him. "What brutes do you refer to?" asked the surgeon, who was no other than our young friend Stanley Hall. "Why, the wild beasts, to be sure. Have you not heard that we are to have as passengers on the voyage home two leopards, an elephant, and a rhinoceros?" "Pleasant company! I wonder what Neptune will say to that?" said Stanley, with a laugh, as he walked forward to ask the opinion of the owner of the said Neptune. "I say, Welton, we are to have an elephant, a rhinoceros, and two leopards, on this voyage." "Indeed?" "Yes, what will Neptune say to it?" "Oh, he won't mind, sir," replied Jim, patting the head of the large Newfoundland dog with grey paws which stood beside him. Jim and Stanley had taken a fancy to each other when on board the Nora. The former had carried out a plan of going to sea, in order to be out of the way if he should happen to be wanted as a witness at the trial of Morley Jones, which event he felt certain must take place soon. He had made application to Stanley, who spoke to Mr Durant about him,--the result being that Jim obtained a berth on board the ship Wellington, which stood A1 at Lloyds. Hence we find him in the Hoogly. "Neptune is a wise dog, sir," continued Jim; "he don't feel much put out by curious company, and is first-rate at taking care of himself. Besides, there is no jealousy in his nature. I suppose he feels that nobody can cut him out when he has once fairly established a friendship. I don't grudge the dive off the bulwarks of the old Gull, when I saved Neptune, I assure you." "He was worth saving," remarked Stanley, stooping to pat the meek head of the dog. "Yes, I heard last night of the expected passengers," pursued Jim, "and am now rigging up tackle to hoist 'em on board. I meant to have told you of 'em last night, but we got into that stiff argument about teetotalism, which put it completely out of my head." "Ah, Welton, you'll never convince me that teetotalism is right," said Stanley, with a good-humoured laugh. "Not that I care much about wine or spirits myself, but as long as a man uses them in moderation they can do him no harm." "So I thought once, sir," returned Jim, "but I have seen cause to change my mind. A healthy man can't use them in moderation, because _use_ is _abuse_. Stimulants are only fit for weaklings and sick folk. As well might a stout man use crutches to help him to walk, as beer or brandy to help him to work; yet there are some strong young men so helpless that they can't get on at all without their beer or grog!" "Come, I'll join issue with you on that point," said Stanley, eagerly, for he was very fond of an argument with Jim, who never lost his temper, and who always paid his opponent the compliment of listening attentively to what he had to say. "Not just now," replied Jim, pointing towards the shore; "for yonder comes a boat with some of the passengers we were talking of." "Is that tackle rigged, Welton?" shouted the mate. "It is, sir," replied Jim. "Then stand by, some of you, to hoist these leopards aboard." When the little boat or dinghy came alongside, it was observed that the animals were confined in a large wooden cage, through the bars of which they glared savagely at the half-dozen black fellows who conveyed them away from their native land. They seemed to be uncommonly irate. Perhaps the injustice done them in thus removing them against their will had something to do with it. Possibly the motion of the boat had deranged their systems. Whatever the cause, they glared and growled tremendously. "Are you sure that cage is strong enough?" asked the mate, casting a dubious look over the side. "Oh yes, massa--plenty strong. Hould a Bengal tiger," said one of the black fellows, looking up with a grin which displayed a splendid double row of glittering teeth. "Very well, get the slings on, Welton, and look sharp, bo's'n, for more company of the same kind is expected," said the mate. The bo's'n--a broad, short, burly man, as a boatswain always is and always ought to be, with, of course, a terrific bass voice, a body outrageously long, and legs ridiculously short--replied, "Ay, ay, sir," and gave some directions to his mates, who stood by the hoisting tackles. At the first hoist the appearance of the cage justified the mate's suspicions, for the slings bent it in so much that some of the bars dropped out. "Avast heaving," roared the boatswain. "Lower!" Down went the cage into the dinghy. The bars were promptly replaced, and the slings fastened in better position. "Try it again, bo's'n," said the mate. The order to hoist was repeated, and up went the cage a second time, but it bent as before, so that several bars again slipped out, leaving the leopards sufficient space to jump through if they chose. "Lower!" yelled the mate. The men obeyed promptly--rather too promptly! The cage went down by the run into the boat, and with a crash fell asunder. "Cut the rope!" cried the mate. Jim Welton jumped into the chains, cut the painter, and the boat was swept away by the tide, which was running strong past the ship. At the same moment the black fellows went over the sides into the water like six black eels radiating from a centre, and away went the dinghy with the leopards in possession, mounted on the debris of their prison, lashing their sides with their tails, and looking round in proud defiance of all mankind! The crew of the boat, each of whom could swim like a frog, were soon picked up. Meanwhile, all on board the Wellington who had telescopes applied them to their eyes, and watched the progress of the dinghy. It chanced that the current set with considerable force towards the opposite side of the river, where lay an island on which was a public garden. There ladies and gentlemen in gay costume, as well as many natives and children, were promenading the shady walks, chatting pleasantly, listening to the sweet strains of music, enjoying the fragrance of scented flowers, with the jungle and its inhabitants very far indeed from their thoughts--except, perchance, in the case of a group surrounding a young officer, who was, no doubt, recounting the manner in which he had potted a tiger on the occasion of his last day out with the Rajah of Bangalore, or some such dignitary! Straight to the shores of this Eden-like spot the dinghy drifted, and quietly did the leopards abide the result--so also did the deeply interested crew of the Wellington, who, of course, were quite unable to give any note of warning. The little boat was seen to touch the shore, and the leopards were observed to land leisurely without opposition from the enemy. Immediately after, something resembling a sensation was apparent in the garden. The distance was too great to permit of sound travelling to the observers, but it lent enchantment to the view to the extent of rendering the human beings there like moving flowers of varied hue. Presently there was a motion, as if a tornado had suddenly burst upon the flower-beds and scattered them right and left in dire confusion--not a few appearing to have been blown up into the trees! That same day the crack shots and sportsmen of Calcutta went down to the usually peaceful islet and engaged in all the wild work of a regular hunt, and at eve the two leopards were seen, by interested observers in the Wellington, being conveyed away in triumph on a litter. But, long before this happy consummation of the day's sport in the garden, the remainder of the expected company had arrived alongside the Wellington, and the undaunted bo's'n--who declared himself ready on the shortest notice to hoist any living creature on board, from a sperm whale to a megatherium--tackled the elephant. The ponderous brute allowed itself to be manipulated with the utmost good-humour, and when carefully lowered on the deck it alighted with as much softness as if it had been shod with India-rubber, and walked quietly forward, casting a leer out of its small eyes at the mate, as if it were aware of its powers, but magnanimously forbore to use them to the disadvantage of its human masters. In passing it knocked off the bo's'n's hat, but whether this was done by accident or design has never been ascertained. At all events the creature made no apology. If this passenger was easy-going and polite, the rhinoceros, which came next, was very much the reverse. That savage individual displayed a degree of perverse obstinacy and bad feeling which would have been deemed altogether inexcusable even in a small street-boy. In the whites of its very small grey eyes wickedness sat enthroned. The end of its horns--for it had two on its nose--appeared to be sharpened with malignity, its thick lips quivered with anger, and its ridiculously small tail wriggled with passionate emotion, as if that appendage felt its insignificance, yet sought to obtrude itself on public notice. To restrain this passenger was a matter of the utmost difficulty. To get him into the slings might have perplexed Hercules himself, but nothing could appal the bo's'n. The slings were affixed, the order to hoist was given by the mate, who had descended from the poop, and stood near the gangway. Up went the monster with a grunt, and a peculiar rigidity of body, which evidently betokened horror at his situation. Being fully five tons in weight, this passenger had to be received on board with caution. "Lower away," was given. "Hold on," was added. Both orders were obeyed, and the huge animal hung within three inches of the deck. "Stand clear there, lads." There was no occasion for that order. It had been anticipated. "Lower," was again given. The moment the feet of the creature touched the deck he dashed forward with ungovernable fury, broke the slings, overturned the bo's'n, who fortunately rolled into the port scuppers, and took possession of the ship, driving the men into the chains and up the rigging. "Jump up!" shouted Jim Welton to the bo's'n. "Here he comes aft!" yelled several of the men. There was no need to warn the boatswain. He heard the thunder of the monster's feet, and sprang into the main rigging with an amount of agility that could hardly have been excelled by a monkey. "Why, what are you all afraid of?" asked the captain of the ship, who had come on board with a number of passengers just before the occurrence of this incident. "Come down here, sir, and you'll see," replied the mate, who was in the main-chains. The captain declined with a smile, and advised the use of a lasso. Immediately every man of the ship's crew became for the nonce a Mexican wild-horse tamer! Running nooses were made, and Jack, albeit unused to taking wild cattle on the prairies of America, was, nevertheless, such an adept at casting a coil of rope that he succeeded beyond the most sanguine expectation. The bo's'n was the first to throw a loop over the creature's front horn--cast a hitch over its foremast as he styled it-- amid a deafening cheer. He was immediately pulled out of the rigging, and a second time lay wallowing in the port scuppers; but he cared nothing for that, being upheld by the glory of having succeeded in fixing the first noose. Soon after that Stanley Hall threw a noose over the creature's head, and Jim Welton fixed one on its second horn--or, as the bo's'n said, round his mizzen. In the course of half-an-hour the rhinoceros was so completely entangled in the twisted ropes that he seemed as though he were involved in a net. He was finally captured, and led to a ponderous stall that had been prepared for him between the fore and main masts. Soon afterwards the last of the human passengers came on board. There were many of them. Officers and their wives and children--some in health, some in sickness. Old warriors returning home to repose on their laurels. Young warriors returning home to recruit their health, or to die. Women who went out as wives returning as widows, and women who went out as widows returning as wives. Some returning with fortunes made, a few returning with fortunes broken; but all, old and young, healthy and sick, rich and poor, hopeful and hopeless, glad at the prospect of leaving the burning skies of India behind, and getting out among the fresh breezes of the open sea. Then the sails were set, and with a light evening breeze the Wellington began her voyage--homeward bound... Once again the scene changes. Blue skies are gone. Grey clouds preponderate. In the Atlantic, tossed by the angry billows, a large ship scuds before the wind as though she were fleeing from the pursuit of a relentless enemy. She has evidently seen rough and long service. Her decks have been swept by many a heavy sea; her spars have been broken and spliced. The foremast is sprung, the main-topgallant mast is gone, and the mizzen has been snapped off close by the deck. Her bulwarks are patched here and there, and her general appearance bears evidence of the tremendous power of Ocean. It would be difficult in that weatherworn hull to recognise the trim full-rigged ship that left the Hoogly many months before. It was not a recent gale that had caused all this damage. In the South Atlantic, several weeks before, she had encountered one of those terrific but short-lived squalls which so frequently send many of man's stoutest floating palaces to the bottom. Hence her half-wrecked condition. The passengers on board the Wellington did not, however, seem to be much depressed by their altered circumstances. The fact was, they had become so used to rough weather, and had weathered so many gales, and reached their damaged condition by such slow degrees, that they did not realise it as we do, turning thus abruptly from one page to another. Besides this, although still some weeks' sail from the white cliffs of old England, they already began to consider the voyage as good as over, and not a few of the impatient among them had begun to pack up so as to be ready for going ashore. And how carefully were those preparations for landing made! With what interest the sandal-wood fans, and inlaid ivory boxes and elaborately carved chess-men and curious Indian toys, and costly Indian shawls were re-examined and repacked in more secure and carefully-to-be-remembered corners, in order that they might be got at quickly when eager little hands "at home--" Well, well, it is of no use to dwell on what was meant to be, for not one of those love-tokens ever reached its destination. All were swallowed up by the insatiable sea. But let us not forestall. The elephant and rhinoceros were the only members of the community that had perished on the voyage. At first the elephant had been dreaded by many, but by degrees it won the confidence and affection of all. Houses innumerable had been built for it on deck, but the sagacious animal had a rooted antipathy to restraint. No sort of den, however strongly formed, could hold him long. The first structures were so ridiculously disproportioned to his strength as to be demolished at once. On being put into the first "house that Jack built," he looked at it demurely for at least five minutes, as if he were meditating on the probable intentions of the silly people who put him there, but neither by look nor otherwise did he reveal the conclusions to which he came. His intentions, however, were not long of being made known. He placed his great side against the den; there was a slow but steady rending of timbers, as if the good ship herself were breaking up, a burst of laughter from the men followed, and "Sambo" was free. When the succeeding houses were built so strong that his side availed not, he brought his wonderful patience and his remarkable trunk to bear on them, and picked them to pieces bit by bit. Then ropes were tried, but he snapped weak ropes and untied strong ones. At last he was permitted to roam the decks at perfect liberty, and it was a point of the greatest interest to observe the neat way in which he picked his steps over the lumbered decks, without treading upon anything--ay, even during nights when these decks in the tropical regions were covered with sleeping men! Everybody was fond of Sambo. Neptune doted on him, and the children-- who fed him to such an extent with biscuits that the bo's'n said he would be sartin' sure to die of appleplexy--absolutely adored him. Even the gruff, grumpy, unsociable rhinoceros amiably allowed him to stroke its head with his trunk. Sambo troubled no one except the cook, but that luxurious individual was so constantly surrounded by a halo, so to speak, of delicious and suggestive odours that the elephant could not resist the temptation to pay him frequent visits, especially when dinner was being prepared. One of his favourite proceedings at such times was to put his trunk into the galley, take the lid off the coppers, make a small coil of the end of his proboscis, and therewith at one sweep spoon out a supply of potatoes sufficient for half-a-dozen men! Of course the cook sought to counteract such tendencies, but he had to be very circumspect, for Sambo resented insults fiercely. One day the cook caught his enemy in the very act of clearing out the potato copper. Enraged beyond endurance, he stuck his "tormentors" into the animal's trunk. With a shriek of rage Sambo dashed the potatoes in the man's face, and made a rush at him. The cook fled to his sanctum and shut the door. There the elephant watched him for an hour or more. The united efforts, mental and physical, of the ship's crew failed to remove the indignant creature, so they advised the cook to remain where he was for some time. He hit on the plan, however, of re-winning the elephant's friendship. He opened his door a little and gave him a piece of biscuit. Sambo took it. What his feelings were no one could tell, but he remained at his post. Another piece of biscuit was handed out. Then the end of the injured proboscis was smoothed and patted by the cook. Another large piece of biscuit was administered, and by degrees the cure was affected. Thus successfully was applied that grand principle which has accomplished so much in this wicked world, even among higher animals than elephants--the overcoming of evil with good! Eventually Sambo sickened. Either the cold of the north told too severely on a frame which had been delicately nurtured in sunny climes, or Sambo had surreptitiously helped himself during the hours of night to something deleterious out of the paint or pitch pots. At all events he died, to the sincere regret of all on board--cook not excepted--and was launched overboard to glut the sharks with an unwonted meal, and astonish them with a new sensation. Very dissimilar was the end of the rhinoceros. That bumptious animal retained its unamiable spirit to the last. Fortunately it did not possess the powers or sagacity of the elephant. It could not untie knots or pick its cage to pieces, so that it was effectually restrained during the greater part of the voyage; but there came a tempest at last, which assisted him in becoming free--free, not only from durance vile, but from the restraints of this life altogether. On the occasion referred to, the rudder was damaged, and for a time rendered useless, so that the good ship Wellington rolled to an extent that almost tore the masts out of her. Everything not firmly secured about the decks was washed overboard. Among other things, the rhinoceros was knocked so heavily against the bars of his crib that they began to give way. At last the vessel gave a plunge and roll which seemed to many of those on board as though it must certainly be her last. The rhinoceros was sent crashing through the dislocated bars; the ropes that held his legs were snapped like the cords wherewith Samson was bound in days of old, and away he went with the lurch of a tipsy man against the long-boat, which he stove in. "Hold on!" roared the bo's'n. Whether this was advice to the luckless animal, or a general adjuration to everybody and everything to be prepared for the worst, we know not; but instead of holding on, every one let go what he or she chanced to be holding on to at the moment, and made for a place of safety with reckless haste. The rhinoceros alone obeyed the order. It held on for a second or two in a most remarkable manner to the mainmast, but another lurch of the vessel cast it loose again; a huge billow rolled under the stern; down went the bow, and the brute slid on its haunches, with its fore legs rigid in front, at an incredible pace towards the galley. Just as a smash became imminent, the bow rose, the stern dropt, and away he went back again with equal speed, but in a more sidling attitude, towards the quarter-deck. Before that point was reached, a roll diverted him out of course and he was brought up by the main hatch, from which he rebounded like a billiard ball towards the starboard gangway. At this point he lost his balance, and went rolling to leeward like an empty cask. There was something particularly awful and impressive in the sight of this unwieldy monster being thus knocked about like a pea in a rattle, and sometimes getting into attitudes that would have been worthy of a dancer on the tightrope, but the consummation of the event was not far off. An unusually violent roll of the ship sent him scrambling to starboard; a still more vicious roll checked and reversed the rush and dashed him against the cabin skylight. He carried away part of this, continued his career, went tail-foremost through the port bulwarks like a cannon-shot into the sea. He rose once, but, as if to make sure of her victory, the ship relentlessly fell on him with a weight that must have split his skull, and sent him finally to the bottom. Strange to say, the dog Neptune was the only one on board that appeared to mourn the loss of this passenger. He howled a good deal that night in an unusually sad tone, and appeared to court sympathy and caresses more than was his wont from Jim Welton and the young people who were specially attached to him, but he soon became reconciled, alas! to the loss of his crusty friend. The storms ceased as they neared the shores of England. The carpenter and crew were so energetic in repairing damages that the battered vessel began to wear once more something of her former trim aspect, and the groups of passengers assembled each evening on the poop, began to talk with ever-deepening interest of home, while the children played beside them, or asked innumerable questions about brothers, sisters, and cousins, whose names were as familiar as household words, though their voices and forms were still unknown. The weather was fine, the sky was clear; warm summer breezes filled the sails, and all nature seemed to have sunk into a condition so peaceful as to suggest the idea that storms were past and gone for ever, when the homeward-bound ship neared the land. One evening the captain remarked to the passengers, that if the wind would hold as it was a little longer, they should soon pass through the Downs, and say good-bye to the sea breezes and the roll of the ocean wave. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BOB QUEEKER COMES OUT VERY STRONG INDEED. It is both curious and interesting to observe the multitude of unlikely ways in which the ends of justice are ofttimes temporarily defeated. Who would have imagined that an old pump would be the cause of extending Morley Jones's term of villainy, of disarranging the deep-laid plans of Mr Larks, of effecting the deliverance of Billy Towler, and of at once agonising the body and ecstatifying the soul of Robert Queeker? Yet so it was. If the old pump had not existed--if its fabricator had never been born--there is every probability that Mr Jones's career would have been cut short at an earlier period. That he would, in his then state of mind, have implicated Billy, who would have been transported along with him and almost certainly ruined; that Mr Queeker would--but hold. Let us present the matter in order. Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope were men of the law, and Mr Robert Queeker was a man of their office--in other words, a clerk--not a "confidential" one, but a clerk, nevertheless, in whose simple-minded integrity they had much confidence. Bob, as his fellow-clerks styled him, was sent on a secret mission to Ramsgate. The reader will observe how fortunate it was that his mission was _secret_, because it frees us from the necessity of setting down here an elaborate and tedious explanation as to how, when, and where the various threads of his mission became interwoven with the fabric of our tale. Suffice it to say that the only part of his mission with which we are acquainted is that which had reference to two men--one of whom was named Mr Larks, the other Morley Jones. Now, it so happened that Queeker's acquaintance, Mr Durant, had an intimate friend who dwelt near a beautiful village in Kent. When Queeker mentioned the circumstance of the secret mission which called him to Ramsgate, he discovered that the old gentleman was on the point of starting for this village, in company with his daughter and her cousin Fanny. "You'll travel with us, I hope, Queeker; our roads lie in the same direction, at least a part of the way, you know," said the hearty little old gentleman, with good-nature beaming in every wrinkle, from the crown of his bald head to the last fold of his treble chin; "it will be such a comfort to have you to help me take care of the girls. And if you can spare time to turn aside for a day or two, I promise you a hearty welcome from my friend--whose residence, named Jenkinsjoy, is an antique paradise, and his hospitality unbounded. He has splendid horses, too, and will give you a gallop over as fine a country as exists between this and the British Channel. You ride, of course?" Queeker admitted that he could ride a little. "At least," he added, after a pause, "I used frequently to get rides on a cart-horse when I was a very little boy." So it was arranged that Queeker should travel with them. Moreover, he succeeded in obtaining from his employers permission to delay for three days the prosecution of the mission--which, although secret, was not immediately pressing--in order that he might visit Jenkinsjoy. It was fortunate that, when he went to ask this brief holiday, he found Mr Merryheart in the office. Had it been his mischance to fall upon Dashope, he would have received a blunt refusal and prompt dismissal--so thoroughly were the joys of that gentleman identified with the woes of other people. But, great though Queeker's delight undoubtedly was on this occasion, it was tempered by a soul-harassing care, which drew forth whole quires of poetical effusions to the moon and other celestial bodies. This secret sorrow was caused by the dreadful and astonishing fact, that, do what he would to the contrary, the weather-cock of his affections was veering slowly but steadily away from Katie, and pointing more and more decidedly towards Fanny Hennings! It is but simple justice to the poor youth to state that he loathed and abhorred himself in consequence. "There am I," he soliloquised, on the evening before the journey began, "a monster, a brute, a lower animal almost, who have sought with all my strength to gain--perchance _have_ gained--the innocent, trusting heart of Katie Durant, and yet, without really meaning it, but, somehow, without being able to help it, I am--_not_ falling in love; oh! no, perish the thought! but, but--falling into something strangely, mysteriously, incomprehensibly, similar to--Oh! base ingrate that I am, is there no way; no back-door by which--?" Starting up, and seizing a pen, at this point of irrepressible inspiration, he wrote, reading aloud as he set down the burning thoughts-- Oh for a postern in the rear, Where wretched man might disappear; And never more should seek her! Fly, fly to earth's extremest bounds,-- Bounds, mounds, lounds, founds, kounds, downds, rounds, pounds, zounds!--hounds--ha! hounds--I have it-- "Fly, fly to earth's extremest bounds, With huntsmen, horses, horns, and hounds And die!--dejected Queeker. "I wonder," thought Queeker, as he sat biting the end of his quill--his usual method of courting inspiration, "I wonder if there is anything prophetic in these lines! Durant said that his friend has splendid horses. They may, perhaps, be hunters! Ha! my early ambition, perchance, youth's fond dream, may yet be realised! But let me not hope. Hope always tells a false as well as flattering tale _to me_. She has ever been, in my experience" (he was bitter at this point) "an incorrigible li--ahem! story-teller." Striking his clenched fist heavily on the table, Queeker rose, put on his hat, and went round to Mr Durant's merely to inquire whether he could be of any service--not that he could venture to offer assistance in the way of packing, but there _might_ be something such as roping trunks, or writing and affixing addresses, in regard to which he might perhaps render himself useful. "Why, Miss Durant," he said, on entering, "you are _always_ busy." "Am I?" said Katie, with a smile, as she rose and shook hands. "Yes, I--I--assure you, Miss Durant," said Queeker, bowing to Fanny, on whose fat pretty face there was a scarlet flush, the result either of the suddenness of Queeker's entry, or of the suppression of her inveterate desire to laugh, "I assure you that it quite rouses my admiration to observe the ease with which you can turn your hand to anything. You can write out accounts better than any fellow in our office. Then you play and sing with so much ease, and I often find you making clothes for poor people, with pounds of tea and sugar in your pockets, besides many other things, and now, here you are painting like--like--one of the old masters!" This was quite an unusual burst on the part of Queeker, who felt as though he were making some amends for his unfaithfulness in thus recalling and emphatically asserting the unquestionably good qualities of his lady-love. He felt as if he were honestly attempting to win himself back to his allegiance. "You are very complimentary," said Katie, with a glance at her cousin, which threw that young lady into silent convulsions. "Not at all," cried Queeker, forcing his enthusiasm up to white heat, and seizing a drawing, which he held up before him, in the vain attempt to shut Fanny out of his sight. "Now, I call this most beautiful," he said, in tones of genuine admiration. "I _never_ saw anything so sweet before." "Indeed!" said Katie, who observed that the youth was gazing over the top of the drawing at her cousin. "I am _so_ glad you like it, for, to say truth, I have felt disappointed with it myself, and papa says it is only so-so. Do point out to me its faults, Mr Queeker, and the parts you like best." She rose and looked over Queeker's shoulder with much interest, and took hold of the drawing to keep it firmly in its position. There was an excessively merry twinkle in Katie's eyes as she watched the expression of Queeker's face when he exclaimed-- "Faults, Miss Durant, there are no--eh! why, what--" "Oh you wicked, deceptive man, you've got it upside down!" said Katie, shaking her finger at the unhappy youth, who stammered, tried to explain--to apologise--failed, broke down, and talked unutterable nonsense, to the infinite delight of his fair tormentor. As for Fanny, that Hebe bent her head suddenly over her work-basket, and thrust her face into it as if searching with microscopic intensity for something that positively refused to be found. All that we can safely affirm in regard to her is, that if her face bore any resemblance to the scarlet of her neck, the fact that her workbox did not take fire is little short of a miracle! Fortunately for all parties Queeker inadvertently trod on the cat's tail, which resulted in a spurt so violent as to justify a total change of subject. Before the storm thus raised had calmed down, Mr Durant entered the room. At Jenkinsjoy Queeker certainly did meet with a reception even more hearty than he had been led to expect. Mr Durant's friend, Stoutheart, his amiable wife and daughters and strapping sons, received the youthful limb of the law with that frank hospitality which we are taught to attribute "to Merrie England in the olden time." The mansion was old-fashioned and low-roofed, trellis-worked and creeper-loved; addicted to oak panelling, balustrades, and tapestried walls, and highly suitable to ghosts of a humorous and agreeable tendency. Indeed it was said that one of the rooms actually _was_ haunted at that very time; but Queeker did not see any ghosts, although he afterwards freely confessed to having seen all the rooms in the house more or less haunted by fairy spirits of the fair sex, and masculine ghosts in buckskins and top-boots! The whole air and aspect of the neighbourhood was such that Queeker half expected to find a May-pole in the neighbouring village, sweet shepherdesses in straw hats, pink ribbons, and short kirtles in the fields, and gentle shepherds with long crooks, playing antique flageolets on green banks, with innocent-looking dogs beside them, and humble-minded sheep reposing in Arcadian felicity at their feet. "Where does the meet take place to-day, Tom?" asked Mr Stoutheart senior of Mr Stoutheart junior, while seated at breakfast the first morning after their arrival at Jenkinsjoy. "At Curmersfield," replied young Stoutheart. "Ah, not a bad piece of country to cross. You remember when you and I went over it together, Amy?" "We have gone over it so often together, papa," replied Amy, "that I really don't know to which occasion you refer." "Why, that time when we met the hounds unexpectedly; when you were mounted on your favourite Wildfire, and appeared to have imbibed some of his spirit, for you went off at a tangent, crying out, `Come along, papa!' and cleared the hedge at the roadside, crossed Slapperton's farm, galloped up the lane leading to Curmersfield, took the ditch, with the low fence beyond at Cumitstrong's turnip-field, in a flying leap-- obliging me to go quarter of a mile round by the gate--and overtook the hounds just as they broke away on a false scent in the direction of the Neckornothing ditch." "Oh yes, I remember," replied Amy with a gentle smile; "it was a charming gallop. I wished to continue it, but you thought the ground would be too much for me, though I have gone over it twice since then in perfect safety. You are far too timid, papa." Queeker gazed and listened in open-mouthed amazement, for the young girl who acknowledged in an offhand way that she had performed such tremendous feats of horsemanship was modest, pretty, unaffected, and feminine. "I wonder," thought Queeker, "if Fan--ah, I mean Katie--could do that sort of thing?" He looked loyally at Katie, but thought, disloyally, of her cousin, accused himself of base unfaithfulness, and, seizing a hot roll, began to eat violently. "Would you like to see the meet, Mr Queeker?" said Mr Stoutheart senior; "I can give you a good mount. My own horse, Slapover, is neither so elegant nor so high-spirited as Wildfire, but he can go over anything, and is quite safe." A sensitive spring had been touched in the bosom of Queeker, which opened a floodgate that set loose an astonishing and unprecedented flow of enthusiastic eloquence. "I shall like it of all things," he cried, with sparkling eyes and heightened colour. "It has been my ambition ever since I was a little boy to mount a thoroughbred and follow the hounds. I assure you the idea of `crossing country,' as it is called, I believe, and taking hedges, ditches, five-barred gates and everything as we go, has a charm for me which is absolutely inexpressible--" Queeker stopped abruptly, because he observed a slight flush on Fanny's cheeks and a pursed expression on Fanny's lips, and felt uncertain as to whether or not she was laughing at him internally. "Well said, Queeker," cried Mr Stoutheart enthusiastically; "it's a pity you are a town-bred man. Such spirit as yours can find vent only in the free air of the country!" "Amy, dear," said Katie, with an extremely innocent look at her friend, "do huntsmen in this part of England usually take `everything as they go?' I think Mr Queeker used that expression." "N-not exactly," replied Amy, with a smile and glance of uncertainty, as if she did not quite see the drift of the question. "Ah! I thought not," returned Katie with much gravity. "I had always been under the impression that huntsmen were in the habit of going _round_ stackyards, and houses, and such things--not _over_ them." Queeker was stabbed--stabbed to the heart! It availed not that the company laughed lightly at the joke, and that Mr Stoutheart said that he (Queeker) should realise his young dream, and reiterated the assurance that his horse would carry him over _anything_ if he only held tightly on and let him go. He had been stabbed by Katie--the gentle Katie--the girl whom he had adored so long--ha! there was comfort in the word _had_; it belonged to the past; it referred to things gone by; it rhymed with sad, bad, mad; it suggested a period of remote antiquity, and pointed to a hazy future. As the latter thought rushed through his heated brain, he turned his eyes on Fanny, with that bold look of dreadful determination that marks the traitor when, having fully made up his mind, he turns his back on his queen and flag for ever! But poor Queeker found little comfort in the new prospect, for Fanny had been gently touched on the elbow by Katie when she committed her savage attack; and when Queeker looked at the fair, fat cousin, she was involved in the agonies of a suppressed but tremendous giggle. After breakfast two horses were brought to the door. Wildfire, a sleek, powerful roan of large size, was a fit steed for the stalwart Tom, who, in neatly-fitting costume and Hessian boots, got into the saddle like a man accustomed to it. The other horse, Slapover, was a large, strong-boned, somewhat heavy steed, suitable for a man who weighed sixteen stone, and stood six feet in his socks. "Now then, jump up, Queeker," said Mr Stoutheart, holding the stirrup. If Queeker had been advised to vault upon the ridge-pole of the house, he could not have looked more perplexed than he did as he stood looking up at the towering mass of horse-flesh, to the summit of which he was expected to climb. However, being extremely light, and Mr Stoutheart senior very strong, he was got into the saddle somehow. "Where _are_ the stirrups?" said Queeker, with a perplexed air, trying to look over the side of his steed. "Why, they've forgot to shorten 'em," said Mr Stoutheart with a laugh, observing that the irons were dangling six inches below the rider's toes. This was soon rectified. Queeker's glazed leather leggings--which were too large for him, and had a tendency to turn round--were put straight; the reins were gathered up, and the huntsman rode away. "All you've to do is to hold on," shouted Mr Stoutheart, as they rode through the gate. "He is usually a little skittish at the start, but quiet as a lamb afterwards." Queeker made no reply. His mind was brooding on his wrongs and sorrows; for Katie had quietly whispered him to take care and not fall off, and Fanny had giggled again. "I _must_ cure him of his foolish fancy," thought Katie as she re-entered the house, "for Fanny's sake, if for nothing else; though I cannot conceive what she can see to like in him. There is no accounting for taste!" "I can at all events _die_;"--thought Queeker, as he rode along, shaking the reins and pressing his little legs against the horse as if with the savage intention of squeezing the animal's ribs together. "There _was_ prophetic inspiration in the lines!--yes," he continued, repeating them-- "Fly, fly, to earth's extremest bounds, With huntsmen, horses, horn, and hounds, And die--dejected Queeker! "I'll change that--it shall be rejected Queeker _now_." For some time Tom Stoutheart and Queeker rode over "hill and dale"--that is to say, they traversed four miles of beautiful undulating and diversified country at a leisurely pace, having started in good time. "Your father," observed Queeker, as they rode side by side down a green lane, "said, I think, when we started, that this horse was apt to be skittish at the start. Is he difficult to hold in?" "Oh no," replied Tom, with a reassuring smile. "He is as quiet and manageable as any man could wish. He does indeed bounce about a little when we burst away at first, and is apt then to get the bit in his teeth; but you've only to keep a tight rein and he'll go all right. His only fault is a habit of tossing his head, which is a little awkward until you get used to it." "Yes, I have discovered that fault already," replied Queeker, as the horse gave a practical illustration of it by tossing his enormous head back until it reached to within an inch of the point of his rider's nose. "Twice he has just touched my forehead. Had I been bending a little forward I suppose he would have given me an unpleasant blow." "Rather," said Stoutheart junior. "I knew one poor fellow who was struck in that way by his horse and knocked off insensible. I think he was killed, but don't feel quite sure as to that." "He has no other faults, I hope?" asked Queeker. "None. As for refusing his leaps--he refuses nothing. He carries my father over anything he chooses to run him at, so it's not likely that he'll stick with a light-weight." This was so self-evident that Queeker felt a reply to be unnecessary; he rode on, therefore, in silence for a few minutes, comforting himself with the thought that, at all events, he could die! "I don't intend," said Queeker, after a few minutes' consideration, "to attempt to leap everything. I think that would be foolhardy. I must tell you, Mr Stoutheart, before we get to the place of meeting, that I can only ride a very little, and have never attempted to leap a fence of any kind. Indeed I never bestrode a real hunter before. I shall therefore content myself with following the hounds as far as it is safe to do so, and will then give it up." Young Stoutheart was a little surprised at the modest and prudent tone of this speech, but he good-naturedly replied-- "Very well, I'll guide you through the gates and gaps. You just follow me, and you shall be all right, and when you've had enough of it, let me know." Queeker and his friend were first in the field, but they had not been there many minutes when one and another and another red-coat came cantering over the country, and ere long a large cavalcade assembled in front of a mansion, the lawn of which formed the rendezvous. There were men of all sorts and sizes, on steeds of all kinds and shapes--little men on big horses, and big men on little horses; men who looked like "bloated aristocrats" before the bloating process had begun, and men in whom the bloating process was pretty far advanced, but who had no touch of aristocracy to soften it. Men who looked healthy and happy, others who looked reckless and depraved. Some wore red-coats, cords, and tops--others, to the surprise and no small comfort of Queeker, who fancied that _all_ huntsmen wore red coats, were habited in modest tweeds of brown and grey. Many of the horses were sleek, glossy, and fine-limbed, like racers; others were strong-boned and rough. Some few were of gigantic size and rugged aspect, to suit the massive men who bestrode them. One of these in particular, a hearty, jovial farmer--and a relative of Tom's--appeared to the admiring Queeker to be big and powerful enough to have charged a whole troop of light dragoons single-handed with some hope of a successful issue. Ladies were there to witness the start, and two of the fair sex appeared ready to join the hunt and follow the hounds, while here and there little boys might be seen bent on trying their metal on the backs of Shetland ponies. It was a stirring scene of meeting, and chatting, and laughing, and rearing, and curvetting, and fresh air, and sunshine. Presently the master of the hounds came up with the pack at his heels. A footman of the mansion supplied all who desired it with a tumbler of beer. "Have some beer?" said young Stoutheart, pointing to the footman referred to. "No, thank you," said Queeker. "Will you?" "No. I have quite enough of spirit within me. Don't require artificial stimulant," said the youth with a laugh. "Come now--we're off." Queeker's heart gave a bound as he observed the master of the hounds ride off at a brisk pace followed by the whole field. "I won't die yet. It's too soon," he thought, as he shook the reins and chirped to his steed. Slapover did not require chirping. He shook his head, executed a mild pirouette on his left hind leg, and made a plunge which threatened first to leave his rider behind, and then to shoot him over his head. Queeker had been taken unawares, but he pressed his knees together, knitted his brows, and resolved not to be so taken again. Whew! what a rush there was as the two or three hundred excited steeds and enthusiastic riders crossed the lawn, galloped through an open gate, and made towards a piece of rough ground covered with low bushes and bracken, through which the hounds were seen actively running as if in search of something. The bodies of the hounds were almost hidden, and Queeker, whose chief attention was devoted to his horse, had only time to receive the vague impression, as he galloped up, that the place was alive with white and pointed tails. That first rush scattered Queeker's depression to the winds. What cared he for love, either successful or unrequited, now? Katie was forgotten. Fanny was to him little better than a mere abstraction. He was on a hunter! He was following the hounds! He had heard, or imagined he had heard, something like a horn. He was surprised a little that no one cried out "Tally-ho!" and in the wild excitement of his feelings thought of venturing on it himself, but the necessity of holding in Slapover with all the power of his arms, fortunately induced him to restrain his ardour. Soon after he heard a shout of some sort, which he tried to believe was "Tally-ho!" and the scattered huntsmen, who had been galloping about in all directions, converged into a stream. Following, he knew not and cared not what or whom, he swept round the margin of a little pond, and dashed over a neighbouring field. From that point Queeker's recollection of events became a train of general confusion, with lucid points at intervals, where incidents of unusual interest or force arrested his attention. The first of these lucid points was when, at the end of a heavy burst over a ploughed field, he came to what may be styled his first leap. His hat by that time had threatened so frequently to come off, that he had thrust it desperately down on his head, until the rim behind rested on the back of his neck. Trotting through a gap in a hedge into a road, young Stoutheart sought about for a place by which they might clamber up into the next field without going round by the gate towards which most of the field had headed. "D'you think you could manage that?" said Tom, pointing with the handle of his whip to a gap in the hedge, where there was a mound and a hollow with a _chevaux-de-frise_ of cut stumps around, and a mass of thorn branches sufficiently thin to be broken through. Queeker never looked at it, but gazing steadily in the face of his friend, said-- "I'll follow!" Stoutheart at once pushed his horse at it. It could not be called a leap. It was a mere scramble, done at the slowest possible pace. Wildfire gave one or two little bounds, and appeared to walk up perpendicularly on his hind legs, while Tom looked as if he were plastered against him with some adhesive substance; then he appeared to drop perpendicularly down on the other side, his tail alone being visible. "All right, come along," shouted Tom. Queeker rode up to the gap, shut his eyes, gave a chirp, and committed himself to fate and Slapover. He felt a succession of shocks, and then a pause. Venturing to open his eyes, he saw young Stoutheart, still on the other side of the fence, laughing at him. "You shouldn't hold so tight by the reins," he cried; "you've pulled him back into the road. Try it again." Queeker once more shut his eyes, slacked the reins, and, seizing the pommel of the saddle, gave another chirp. Again there was a shock, which appeared to drive his body up against his head; another which seemed to have all but snapped him off at the waist; then a sensation about his hat, as if a few wild-cats were attempting to tear it off, followed by a drop and a plunge, which threw him forward on his charger's neck. "Dear me!" he exclaimed, panting, as he opened his eyes, "I had no idea the shock would have been so--so--shocking!" Tom laughed; cried "Well done!" and galloped on. Queeker followed, his cheeks on fire, and perspiration streaming from his brow. "Now, then, here is an easy fence," cried Stoutheart, looking back and pointing to a part of the field where most of the huntsmen were popping over a low hedge, "will you try it?" Queeker's spirit was fairly up. "I'll try it!" he said, sternly. "Come on then." Stoutheart led the way gallantly, at full speed, and went over like an india-rubber ball. Queeker brought the handle of his riding-whip whack down on the flank of his astonished horse, and flew at the fence. Slapover took it with a magnificent bound. Queeker was all but left behind! He tottered, as it were, in the saddle; rose entirely out of it; came down with a crash that almost sent him over the horse's head, and gave him the probable sensations of a telescope on being forcibly shut up; but he held on bravely, and galloped up alongside of his companion, with a tendency to cheer despite his increased surprise at the extreme violence of the shocks to which his unaccustomed frame was being exposed. After this our enthusiastic Nimrod went at everything, and feared nothing! Well was it for him that he had arranged to follow Tom Stoutheart, else assuredly he would have run Slapover at fences which would have taxed the temerity even of that quadruped, and insured his destruction. Tom, seeing his condition, considerately kept him out of danger, and yet, being thoroughly acquainted with the country, managed to keep him well up with the hounds. Towards the afternoon Queeker's fire began to abate. His aspect had become dishevelled. His hat had got so severely thrust down on his head, that the brim in front reposed on the bridge of his nose, as did the brim behind on the nape of his neck. His trousers were collected in folds chiefly about his knees, and the glazed leggings had turned completely round, presenting the calves to the front. But these were matters of small moment compared with the desperate desire he had to bring his legs together, if even for a moment of time! Sensations in various parts of his frame, which in the earlier part of the day had merely served to remind him that he was mortal, had now culminated into unquestionable aches and pains, and his desire to get off the back of Slapover became so intense, that he would certainly have given way to it had he not felt that in the event of his doing so there would be no possibility of his getting on again! "Where are they all away to?" he asked in surprise, as the whole field went suddenly off helter-skelter in a new direction. "I think they've seen the fox," replied Stoutheart. "Seen the fox! why, I forgot all about the fox! But--but haven't we seen it before? haven't we been after it _all day_?" "No, we've only got scent of if once or twice." "Well, well," exclaimed Queeker, turning up his eyes, "I declare we have had as good fun as if we had been after the fox in full sight all the time!" "Here is a somewhat peculiar leap," said Stoutheart, reining up as they approached a fence, on the other side of which was a high-road, "I'll go first, to show you the way." The peculiarity of the leap lay in the fact that it was a drop of about four feet into the road, which was lower, to that extent, than the field, and that the side of the road into which the riders had to drop was covered with scrubby bushes. To men accustomed to it this was a trifle. Most of the field had already taken it, though a few cautious riders had gone round by a gate. When Queeker came to try it he felt uneasy--sitting as he did so high, and looking down such a precipice as it seemed to him. However, he shut his eyes, and courageously gave the accustomed chirp, and Slapover plunged down. Queeker held tight to the saddle, and although much shaken, would have come out of the ordeal all right, had not Slapover taken it into his head to make a second spring over a low bush which stood in front of him. On the other side of this bush there was an old pump. Queeker lost his balance, threw out his arms, fell off, was hurled violently against the old pump, and his right leg was broken! A cart was quickly procured, and on trusses of straw the poor huntsman was driven sadly and slowly, back to Jenkinsjoy, where he was tenderly put to bed and carefully nursed for several weeks by his hospitable and sympathising friends. Queeker bore his misfortune like a Stoic, chiefly because it developed the great fact that Fanny Hennings wept a whole night and a day after its occurrence, insomuch that her fair face became so swollen as to have lost much of its identity and all its beauty--a fact which filled Queeker with hopes so high that his recovery was greatly hastened by the contented, almost joyous, manner in which he submitted to his fate. Of course Queeker's secret mission was, for the _time_ being, at an end;--and thus it came to pass that an old pump, as we said at the beginning of this chapter, was the cause of the failure of several deep-laid plans, and of much bodily anguish and mental felicity to the youthful Nimrod. Queeker's last observation before falling into a feverish slumber on the first night after his accident, was to the effect that fox-hunting was splendid sport--magnificent sport,--but that it appeared to him there was no occasion whatever for a fox. And ever after that he was wont to boast that his first and last day of fox-hunting, which was an unusually exciting one, had been got though charmingly without any fox at all. It is even said that Queeker, descending from poetry,--his proper sphere,-- to prose, wrote an elaborate and interesting paper on that subject, which was refused by all the sporting papers and journals to which he sent it;--but, this not being certified, we do not record it as a fact. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE LAMPLIGHTER AT HOME, AND THREATENING APPEARANCES. We turn now to a very different scene--the pier and harbour of Ramsgate. The storm-fiend is abroad. Thick clouds of a dark leaden hue drive athwart a sky of dingy grey, ever varying their edges, and rolling out limbs and branches in random fashion, as if they were fleeing before the wind in abject terror. The wind, however, is chiefly in the sky as yet. Down below there are only fitful puffs now and then, telling of something else in store. The sea is black, with sufficient swell on it to cause a few crested waves here and there to gleam intensely white by contrast. It is early in the day, nevertheless there is a peculiar darkness in the atmosphere which suggests the approach of night. Numerous vessels in the offing are making with all speed for Ramsgate harbour, which is truly and deservedly named a "harbour of refuge," for already some two dozen ships of considerable size, and a large fleet of small craft, have sought and found shelter on a coast which in certain conditions of the wind is fraught with danger. About the stores near the piers, Trinity men are busy with buoys, anchors, and cables; elsewhere labourers are toiling, idlers are loafing, and lifeboat--men are lounging about, leaning on the parapets, looking wistfully out to sea, with and without telescopes, from the sheer force of habit, and commenting on the weather. The broad, bronzed, storm-battered coxswain of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, who seems to possess the power of feeding and growing strong on hardship and exposure, is walking about at the end of the east pier, contemplating the horizon in the direction of the Goodwin Sands with the serious air of a man who expects ere long to be called into action. The harbour-master--who is, and certainly had need be, a man of brain as well as muscle and energy, to keep the conflicting elements around him in order--moves about actively, making preparation for the expected gale. Early on the morning of the day referred to, Nora Jones threaded her way among the stalls of the marketplace under the town-hall, as if she were in search of some one. Not succeeding in her search, she walked briskly along one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and diverged into a narrow street, which appeared to have retired modestly into a corner in order to escape observation. At the farther end of this little street, she knocked at the door of a house, the cleanly appearance of which attested the fact that its owner was well-doing and orderly. Nora knocked gently; she did everything gently! "Is Mrs Moy at home?" she asked, as a very bright little girl's head appeared. No sooner was Nora's voice heard than the door was flung wide open, and the little girl exclaimed, "Yes, she's at 'ome, and daddy too." She followed up this assurance with a laugh of glee, and, seizing the visitor's hand, dragged her into the house by main force. "Hallo, Nora, 'ow are 'ee, gal?" cried a deep bass voice from the neighbourhood of the floor, where its owner appeared to be smothered with children, for he was not to be seen. Nora looked down and beheld the legs and boots of a big man, but his body and head were invisible, being completely covered and held down by four daughters and five sons, one of the former being a baby, and one of the latter an infant. Dick Moy, who was enjoying his month on shore, rose as a man might rise from a long dive, flung out his great right arm, scattered the children like flecks of foam, and sat up with a beaming countenance, holding the infant tenderly in his left arm. The baby had been cast under the table, where it lay, helpless apparently, and howling. It had passed the most tender period of life, and had entered on that stage when knocks, cuts, yells, and bruises are the order of the day. "Glad to see you, Nora," said the man of the floating light, extending his huge hand, which the girl grasped and shook warmly. "You'll excuse me not bein' more purlite. I'm oppressed with child'n, as you see. It seems to me as if I'd gone an' got spliced to that there 'ooman in the story-book wot lived in the shoe, an' had so many child'n she didn't know wot to do. If so, she knows wot to do now. She's only got to hand 'em over to poor Dick Moy, an' leave him to suffer the consickences.-- Ah, 'ere she comes." Dick rose as he spoke, and handed a chair to Nora at the moment that his better, but lesser, half entered. It must not be supposed that Dick said all this without interruption. On the contrary, he bawled it out in the voice of a bo's'n's mate, while the four daughters and five sons, including the baby and the infant, crawled up his legs and clung to his pockets, and enacted Babel on a small scale. Mrs Moy was a very pretty, tidy, cheerful little woman, of the fat, fair, and forty description, save that she was nearer thirty-five than forty. It was clear at a glance that she and Dick had been made for each other, and that, had either married anybody else, each would have done irreparable damage to the other. "Sit down, Nora. I'm so glad to see you. Come to breakfast, I hope? we're just going to have it." Mrs Moy said this as if she really meant it, and would be terribly disappointed if she met with a refusal. Nora tried to speak, but Babel was too much for her. "Silence!" burst from Dick, as if a small cannon had gone off in the room. Babel was hushed. "Mum's the word for _three minutes_," said Dick, pointing to a huge Yankee clock which stood on the chimney-piece, with a model frigate in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on one side of it, and a model light-vessel in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on the other. There was profound wisdom in this arrangement. If Dick had ordered silence for an indefinite space of time, there would have been discontent, approximating to despair, in Babel's bosom, and, therefore, strong temptation to rebellion. But three minutes embraced a fixed and known period of time. The result was a desperate effort at restraint, mingled with gleeful anticipation. The elder children who could read the clock stared eagerly at the Yankee time-piece; the younger ones who couldn't read the clock, but who knew that the others could, stared intently at their seniors, and awaited the signal. With the exception of hard breathing, the silence was complete; the baby being spell-bound by example, and the feeble remarks of the infant--which had been transferred to the arms of the eldest girl--making no impression worth speaking of. "You are very kind," said Nora, "I'll stay for breakfast with pleasure. Grandmother won't be up for an hour yet, and father's not at home just now." "Werry good," said Dick, taking a short black pipe out of his coat-pocket, "that's all right. And 'ow do 'ee like Ramsgate, Nora, now you've had a fair trial of it?" "I think I like it better than Yarmouth; but perhaps that is because we live in a more airy and cheerful street. I would not have troubled you so early, Mr Moy"--("'Tain't no trouble at all, Nora; werry much the reverse")--"but that I am anxious to hear how you got on with poor Billy--" At this point Babel burst forth with redoubled fury. Dick was attacked and carried by storm; the short black pipe was seized, and an old hat was clapped on his head and thrust down over his eyes! He gave in at once, and submitted with resignation. He struck his colours, so to speak, without firing a shot, and for full five minutes breasted the billows of a sea of children manfully, while smart Mrs Moy spread the breakfast-table as quietly as if nothing were going on, and Nora sat and smiled at them. Suddenly Dick rose for the second time from his dive, flung off the foam, tossed aside the baby, rescued the infant from impending destruction, and thundered "Silence! mum's the word for three minutes more." "That's six, daddy!" cried the eldest boy, whose spirit of opposition was growing so strong that he could not help indulging it, even against his own interests. "No," said Dick sternly. "It was three minutes last time," urged the boy; "an' you said three minutes _more_ this time; three minutes more than three minutes is six minutes, ain't it?" "Three minutes," repeated Dick, holding up a warning finger. Babel ceased; the nine pair of eyes (excepting those of the infant) became fixed, and Nora proceeded-- "I wanted to hear how you got on with Billy. Did they take him in at once? and what sort of place is the Grotto? You see I am naturally anxious to know, because it was a terrible thing to send a poor boy away from his only friend among strangers at such an age, and just after recovering from a bad illness; but you know I could not do otherwise. It would have been his ruin to have--" She paused. "To have stopped where he was, I s'pose you would say?" observed Dick. "Well, I ain't sure o' that, Nora. It's quite true that the bad company he'd 'ave seen would 'ave bin against 'im; but to 'ave you for his guardian hangel might 'ave counteracted that. It would 'ave bin like the soda to the hacid, a fizz at first and all square arterwards. Hows'ever, that don't signify now, cos he's all right. I tuk him to the Grotto, the werry first thing arter I'd bin to the Trinity 'Ouse, and seed him cast anchor there all right, and--" Again Babel burst forth, and riot reigned supreme for five minutes more. At the end of that time silence was proclaimed as before. "Now then," said Dick, "breakfast bein' ready, place the chairs." The three elder children obeyed this order. Each member of this peculiar household had been "told off," as Dick expressed it, to a special duty, which was performed with all the precision of discipline characteristic of a man-of-war. "That's all right; now go in and win," said Dick. There was no occasion to appeal to the Yankee clock now. Tongues and throats as well as teeth and jaws were too fully occupied. Babel succumbed for full quarter of an hour, during which period Dick Moy related to Nora the circumstances connected with a recent visit to London, whither he had been summoned as a witness in a criminal trial, and to which, at Nora's earnest entreaty, and with the boy's unwilling consent, he had conveyed Billy Towler. We say unwilling, because Billy, during his long period of convalescence, had been so won by the kindness of Nora, that the last thing in the world he would have consented to bear was separation from her; but, on thinking over it, he was met by this insurmountable difficulty--that the last thing in the world he would consent to do was to disobey her! Between these two influences he went unwillingly to London--for the sake of his education, as Nora said to him--for the sake of being freed from the evil influence of her father's example, as poor Nora was compelled to admit to herself. "The Grotto," said Dick, speaking as well as he could through an immense mouthful of bacon and bread, "is an institootion which I 'ave reason for to believe desarves well of its country. It is an institootion sitooate in Paddington Street, Marylebone, where homeless child'n, as would otherwise come to the gallows, is took in an' saved--saved not only from sin an' misery themselves, but saved from inflictin' the same on society. I do assure _you_," said Dick, striking the table with his fist in his enthusiasm, so that the crockery jumped, and some of the children almost choked by reason of their food going down what they styled their "wrong throats"--"I do assure _you_, that it would 'ave done yer 'art good to 'ave seed 'm, as I did the day I went there, so clean and comf'r'able and 'appy--no mistake about that. Their 'appiness was genoo_ine_. Wot made it come 'ome to me was, that I seed there a little boy as I 'appened to know was one o' the dirtiest, wickedest, sharpest little willains in London--a mere spider to look at, but with mischief enough to fill a six-fut man to bu'stin'--an' there 'ee was, clean an' jolly, larnin' his lessons like a good un--an' no sham neither, cos 'e'd got a good spice o' the mischief left, as was pretty clear from the way 'ee gave a sly pinch or pull o' the hair now an' again to the boys next him, an' drawed monkey-faces on his slate. But that spider, I wos told, could do figurin' like one o'clock, an' could spell like Johnson's Dictionairy. "Well," continued Dick, after a few moments' devotion to a bowl of coffee, "I 'anded Billy Towler over to the superintendent, tellin' 'im 'ee wos a 'omeless boy as 'adn't got no parients nor relations, an wos werry much in need o' bein' looked arter. So 'ee took 'im in, an' I bade him good-bye." Dick Moy then went on to tell how that the superintendent of the Grotto showed him all over the place, and told him numerous anecdotes regarding the boys who had been trained there; that one had gone into the army and become a sergeant, and had written many long interesting letters to the institution, which he still loved as being his early and only "home;" that another had become an artilleryman; another a man-of-war's man; and another a city missionary, who commended the blessed gospel of Jesus Christ to those very outcasts from among whom he had himself been plucked. The superintendent also explained to his rugged but much interested and intelligent visitor that they had a flourishing Ragged School in connection with the institution; also a Sunday-school and a "Band of Hope"--which latter had been thought particularly necessary, because they found that many of the neglected young creatures that came to them had already been tempted and taught by their parents and by publicans to drink, so that the foundation of that dreadful craving disease had been laid, and those desires had begun to grow which, if not checked, would certainly end in swift and awful destruction. One blessed result of this was that the children had not only themselves joined, but had in some instances induced their drunken parents to attend the weekly addresses. All this, and a great deal more, was related by Dick Moy with the wonted enthusiasm and energy of his big nature, and with much gesticulation of his tremendous fist--to the evident anxiety of Nora, who, like an economical housewife as she was, had a feeling of tenderness for the crockery, even although it was not her own. Dick wound up by saying that if _he_ was a rich man, "'ee'd give some of 'is superfloous cash to that there Grotto, he would." "Perhaps you wouldn't," said Nora. "I've heard one rich man say that the applications made to him for money were so numerous that he was quite annoyed, and felt as if he was goin' to become bankrupt!" "Nora," said Dick, smiting the table emphatically, "I'm not a rich man myself, an' wot's more, I never 'xpect to be, so I can't be said to 'ave no personal notions at all, d'ye see, about wot they feels; but I've also heerd a rich man give 'is opinion on that pint, and I've no manner of doubt that _my_ rich man is as good as your'n--better for the matter of that; anyway he knowed wot was wot. Well, says 'ee to me, w'en I went an' begged parding for axin' 'im for a subscription to this 'ere werry Grotto--which, by the way, is supported by woluntary contribootions--'ee says, `Dick Moy,' says 'ee, `you've no occasion for to ax my parding,' says 'ee. `'Ere's 'ow it is. I've got _so_ much cash to spare out of my hincome. Werry good; I goes an' writes down a list of all the charities. First of all comes the church--which ain't a charity, by the way, but a debt owin' to the Lord--an' the missionary societies, an the Lifeboat Institootion, an' the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, and such like, which are the great _National_ institootions of the country that _every_ Christian ought to give a helpin' 'and to. Then there's the poor among one's own relations and friends; then the hospitals an' various charities o' the city or town in which one dwells, and the poor of the same. Well, arter that's all down,' says 'ee, `I consider w'ich o' them ere desarves an' _needs_ most support from me; an' so I claps down somethin' to each, an' adds it all up, an' wot is left over I holds ready for chance applicants. If their causes are good I give to 'em heartily; if not, I bow 'em politely out o' the 'ouse. That's w'ere it is,' says 'ee. `An' do you know, Dick Moy,' says 'ee, `the first time I tried that plan, and put down wot I thought a fair liberal sum to each, I wos amazed--I wos stunned for to find that the total wos so small and left so werry much of my spare cash yet to be disposed of, so I went over it all again, and had to double and treble the amount to be given to each. Ah, Dick,' says _my_ rich man, `if people who don't keep cashbooks would only mark down wot they _think_ they can afford to give away in a year, an' wot they _do_ give away, they would be surprised. It's not always unwillingness to give that's the evil. Often it's ignorance o' what is actooally given--no account bein' kep'.' "`Wot d'ye think, Dick,' _my_ rich man goes on to say, `there are some churches in this country which are dependent on the people for support, an' the contents o' the plates at the doors o' these churches on Sundays is used partly for cleanin' and lightin' of 'em; partly for payin' their precentors, and partly for repairs to the buildins, and partly for helpin' out the small incomes of their ministers; an' wot d'ye think most o' the people--not many but _most_ of 'em--gives a week, Dick, for such important purposes?' "`I don' know, sir,' says I. "`One penny, Dick,' says 'ee, `which comes exactly to four shillins and fourpence a year,' says 'ee. `An' they ain't paupers; Dick! If they wos paupers, it wouldn't be a big sum for 'em to give out o' any pocket-money they might chance to git from their pauper friends, but they're well-dressed people, Dick, and they seems to be well off! Four an' fourpence a year! think o' that--not to mention the deduction w'en they goes for a month or two to the country each summer. Four an' fourpence a year, Dick! Some of 'em even goes so low as a halfpenny, which makes two an' twopence a year--7 pounds, 11 shillings, 8 pence in a seventy-year _lifetime_, Dick, supposin' their liberality began to flow the day they wos born!' "At this _my_ rich man fell to laughing till I thought 'ee'd a busted hisself; but he pulled up sudden, an' axed me all about the Grotto, and said it was a first-rate institootion, an' gave me a ten-pun' note on the spot. Now, Nora, _my_ rich man is a friend o' yours--Mr Durant, of Yarmouth, who came to Ramsgate a short time ago for to spend the autumn, an' I got introdooced to him through knowin' Jim Welton, who got aboord of one of his ships through knowin' young Mr Stanley Hall, d'ye see? That's where it is." After this somewhat lengthened speech, Dick Moy swallowed a slop-bowlful of coffee at a draught--he always used a slop-bowl--and applied himself with renewed zest to a Norfolk dumpling, in the making of which delicacy his wife had no equal. "I believe that Mr Durant is a kind good man," said Nora, feeding the infant with a crust dipped in milk, "and I am quite sure that he has got the sweetest daughter that ever a man was blessed with--Miss Katie; you know her, I suppose?" "'Aven't seed 'er yet," was Dick's curt reply. "She's a dear creature," continued Nora--still doing her best to choke the infant--"she found out where I lived while she was in search of a sick boy in Yarmouth, who, she said, was the brother of a poor ragged boy named Billy Towler, she had once met with. Of course I had to tell her that Billy had been deceiving her and had no brother. Oh! you should have seen her kind face, Dick, when I told her this. I do think that up to that time she had lived under the belief that a young boy with a good-looking face and an honest look could not be a deceiver." "Poor thing," said Dick, with a sad shake of the head, as if pitying her ignorance. "Yes," continued Nora--still attempting to choke the infant--"she could not say a word at that time, but went away with her eyes full of tears. I saw her often afterwards, and tried to convince her there might be some good in Billy after all, but she was not easily encouraged, for her belief in appearances had got a shake that she seemed to find it difficult to get over. That was when Billy was lying ill in hospital. I have not seen much of her since then, she and her father having been away in London." "H'm, I'm raither inclined to jine her in thinkin' that no good'll come o' that young scamp. He's too sharp by half," said Dick with a frown. "Depend upon it, Nora, w'en a boy 'as gone a great length in wickedness there's no chance o' reclaimin' him." "Dick," exclaimed Nora, with sudden energy, "depend upon it that _that's_ not true, for it does not correspond with the Bible, which says that our Lord came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to repentance." "There's truth in _that_, anyhow," replied Dick, gazing thoughtfully into Nora's countenance, as if the truth had come home to him for the first time. What his further observations on the point might have been we know not, as at that moment the door opened and one of his mates entered, saying that he had come to go down with him to the buoy-store, as the superintendent had given orders that he and Moy should overhaul the old North Goodwin buoy, and give her a fresh coat of paint. Dick therefore rose, wiped his mouth, kissed the entire family, beginning with the infant and ending with "the missis," after which he shook hands with Nora and went out. The storm which had for some time past been brewing, had fairly brewed itself up at last, and the wild sea was covered with foam. Although only an early autumn storm, it was, like many a thing out of season, not the less violent on that account. It was one of the few autumn storms that might have been transferred to winter with perfect propriety. It performed its work of devastation as effectively as though it had come forth at its proper season. On land chimney stacks and trees were levelled. At sea vessels great and small were dismasted and destroyed, and the east coast of the kingdom was strewn with wreckage and dead bodies. Full many a noble ship went down that night! Wealth that might have supported all the charities in London for a twelvemonth was sent to the bottom of the sea that night and lost for ever. Lives that had scarce begun and lives that were all but done, were cut abruptly short, leaving broken hearts and darkened lives in many a home, not only on the sea-coast but inland, where the sound of the great sea's roar is never heard. Deeds of daring were done that night,--by men of the lifeboat service and the coast-guard,--which seemed almost beyond the might of human skill and courage--resulting in lives saved from that same great sea--lives young and lives old--the salvation of which caused many a heart in the land, from that night forward, to bless God and sing for joy. But of all the wide-spread and far-reaching turmoil; the wreck and rescue, the rending and relieving of hearts, the desperate daring, and dread disasters of that night we shall say nothing at all, save in regard to that which occurred on and in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A NIGHT OF WRECK AND DISASTER--THE GULL "COMES TO GRIEF." When the storm began to brew that night, George Welton, the mate of the floating light, walked the deck of his boiled-lobster-like vessel, and examined the sky and sea with that critical expression peculiar to seafaring men, which conveys to landsmen the reassuring impression that they know exactly what is coming, precisely what ought to be done, and certainly what will be the result of whatever happens! After some minutes spent in profound meditation, during which Mr Welton frowned inquiringly at the dark driving clouds above him, he said, "It'll be pretty stiff." This remark was made to himself, or to the clouds, but, happening to be overheard by Jerry MacGowl, who was at his elbow, it was answered by that excellent man. "True for ye; it'll blow great guns before midnight. The sands is showin' their teeth already." The latter part of this remark had reference to brilliant white lines and dots on the seaward horizon, which indicated breakers on the Goodwin sands. "Luk at that now," said Jerry, pointing to one of those huge clumsy vessels that are so frequently met with at sea, even in the present day, as to lead one to imagine that some of the shipbuilders in the time of Noah must have come alive again and gone to work at their old trade on the old plans and drawings. "Luk at that, now. Did iver ye see sitch a tub--straight up and down the side, and as big at the bow as the stern." "She's not clipper built," answered the mate; "they make that sort o' ship by the mile and sell her by the fathom,--cuttin' off from the piece just what is required. It don't take long to plaster up the ends and stick a mast or two into 'em." "It's in luck she is to git into the Downs before the gale breaks, and it's to be hoped she has good ground-tackle," said Jerry. The mate hoped so too in a careless way, and, remarking that he would go and see that all was made snug, went forward. At that moment there came up the fore-hatch a yell, as if from the throat of a North American savage. It terminated in the couplet, tunefully sung-- "Oh my! oh my! O mammy, don't you let the baby cry!" Jack Shales, following his voice, immediately after came on deck. "Have 'ee got that work-box done?" asked Jerry as his mate joined him. "Not quite done yet, boy, but I'll get it finished after the lights are up. Duty first, pleasure afterwards, you know." "Come now, Jack, confess that you're makin' it for a pretty girl." "Well, so I am, but it ain't for my own pretty girl. It's for that sweet little Nora Jones, who came lately to live in Ramsgate. You see I know she's goin' to be spliced to Jim Welton, and as Jim is a good sort of fellow, I want to make this little gift to his future bride." The gift referred to was a well-made work-box, such as the men of the floating light were at that time, and doubtless still are, in the habit of constructing in leisure hours. It was beautifully inlaid with wood of various kinds and colours, and possessed a mark peculiarly characteristic of floating-light boxes and desks, namely, two flags inlaid on the lid--one of these being the Union Jack. Most of the men on board displayed much skill and taste in the making of those boxes and desks, although they were all self-taught, and wrought with very simple tools in a not very commodious workshop. "A great change from yesterday in the look o' things, Jerry," observed Shales, surveying the Downs, where, despite the stiff and ever increasing breeze amounting almost to a gale, numerous little pilot-boats were seen dancing on the waves, showing a mere shred of canvas, and looking out for a job. "Yesterday was all sunshine and calm, with pleasure-boats round us, and visitors heaving noospapers aboard. To-day it's all gloom, with gales brewin' and pilots bobbin' about like Mother Cary's chickens." "That's true, Jack," replied Jerry, whose poetic soul was fired by the thought:-- "`Timpest an' turmoil to-day, With lots a' salt-wather an' sorrow. Blue little waves on the say, An' sunny contintment to-morrow.' "That's how it is, Jack, me boy, all the world over--even in owld Ireland hersilf; an' sure if there's pace to be found on earth it's there it's to be diskivered." "Right, Jerry, peace is _to be_ discovered there, but I'm afraid it's in a very distant future as yet," said Jack with a laugh. "All in good time," retorted Jerry. "Up lights!" called the mate down the hatchway. "Ay, ay, sir," came in chorus from below. Desks and boxes were thrust aside, the winch was manned, and the weighty lantern mounted slowly to its nocturnal watch-tower. Its red eye flashed upon a dark scene. The gloom of approaching night was deepened by the inky clouds that obscured the sky. Thick fog banks came sweeping past at intervals; a cold north-easterly gale conveyed a wintry feeling to the air. Small thick rain fell in abundance, and everything attested the appropriateness of Jerry MacGowl's observation, that it was "dirty weather intirely." The floating light was made snug--in other words, prepared for action-- by having a good many more fathoms of her chain veered out, in order that she might strain less and swing more freely. Loose articles were secured or stowed away. Hatches were battened down, and many other little nautical arrangements made which it would require a seaman to understand as well as to describe in detail. As the evening advanced the gale increased in violence tenfold, and darkness settled down like an impenetrable pall over land and sea. The roar of breakers on the Goodwin Sands became so loud that it was sometimes heard on board the Gull-light above the howling of the tempest. The sea rose so much and ran so violently among the conflicting currents caused by wind, tide, and sand-banks, that the Gull plunged, swooped, and tore at her cable so that the holding of it might have appeared to a landsman little short of miraculous. Hissing and seething at the opposition she offered, the larger waves burst over her bows, and swept the deck from stem to stern; but her ample scuppers discharged it quickly, and up she rose again, dripping from the flood, to face and fight and foil each succeeding billow. High on the mast, swaying wildly to and fro, yet always hanging perpendicular by reason of a simple mechanism, the lantern threw out its bright beams, involving the vessel and the foam-clad boiling sea in a circle of light which ended in darkness profound, forming, as it were, a bright but ghostly chamber shut in with walls of ebony, and revealing, in all its appalling reality, the fury of the sea. What horrors lay concealed in the darkness beyond no one could certainly know; but the watch on board the Gull could form from past experience a pretty good conception of them, as they cowered under the lee of the bulwarks and looked anxiously out to windward. Anxiously! Ay, there was cause for anxiety that night. The risk of parting from their cable was something, though not very great; but the risk of being run down by passing or driving ships during intervals of fog was much greater, and the necessity of looking out for signals of distress was urgent. It was a night of warfare, and the battle had begun early. Mr Welton's record of the earlier part of that day in the log ran thus:-- "At 4 a.m. calm, with misty rain; at 8, wind south-east, light breeze. At noon, west-south-west, fresh breeze and rain. At 4 p.m., wind south-west, fresh gale and heavy rain. A large fleet anchored in the Downs. A schooner was seen to anchor in a bad place about this time. At 7, wind still increasing. The watch observed several vessels part from their 7 anchors and proceed to Margate Roads. At 7:30 the wind flew into the nor'-nor'-west, and blew a hurricane." These were the first mutterings of the fight that had begun. It was now about a quarter to eight p.m. Jerry and his friend Shales were cowering behind the bulwark on the starboard bow, gazing to windward, but scarce able to keep their eyes open owing to wind and spray. Suddenly a large object was seen looming into the circle of light. "Stand by!" roared Jerry and Jack, with startling vigour, as the one leaped towards the tiller, the other to the companion-hatch; "a vessel bearing down on our hawse!" The mate and men rushed on deck in time to see a large ship pass close to the bow of the Gull. Jack had cast loose the tiller, because, although in ordinary circumstances the helm of a light-vessel is of no use, this was one of the few occasions in which it could be of service. The rush of the tide past a ship at anchor confers upon it at all times, except during "slack water" (i.e., when the tide is on the turn), the power of steering, so that she can be made to sheer swiftly to port or starboard, as may be required. But for this power, floating lights would undoubtedly be run into more frequently than they are. The danger being over, the helm was again made fast amidships, but as several vessels were soon after seen sweeping past--two or three of them burning tar-barrels and "flare-lights" for assistance, it became evident that there would be little or no rest for any one on board that night. The mate put on his oiled coat, trousers, boots, and sou'wester, and remained on deck. Between eight and nine o'clock a schooner was seen approaching. She came out of surrounding darkness like a dim phantom, and was apparently making the attempt to go to windward of the floating light. She failed, and in a moment was bearing down with terrible speed right upon them. "Starboard your helm!" shouted the mate, at the same moment springing to the tiller of his own vessel. The steersman of the driving vessel fortunately heard and obeyed the order, and she passed--but shaved the bow of the Gull so closely that one of the men declared he could easily have jumped aboard of her. Again, at nine o'clock, there was a stir on board the floating light, for another vessel was seen driving towards her. This one was a brig. The foremast was gone, and the remains of a tar-barrel were still burning on her deck, but as none of the crew could be seen, it was conjectured that some other ship must have run foul of her, and they had escaped on board of it. All hands were again called, the tiller was cast loose, a wide sheer given to the Gull, and the brig went past them at about the distance of a ship-length. She went slowly by, owing, it was afterwards ascertained, to the fact that she had ninety fathoms of cable trailing from her bows. She was laden with coal, and when the Deal boatmen picked her up next day, they found the leg of a man on her deck, terribly mutilated, as if it had got jambed somehow, and been wrenched off! But no one ever appeared to tell the fate of that vessel's crew. Shortly before ten, two tar-barrels were observed burning in a north-easterly direction. These proved to be the signals of distress from a ship and a barque, which were dragging their anchors. They gradually drove down on the north part of the sands; the barque struck on a part named the Goodwin Knoll, the ship went on the North sandhead. Now the time for action had come. The Goodwin light-vessel, being nearest to the wrecks, fired a signal-gun and sent up a rocket. "There goes the _Goodwin_!" cried the mate; "load the starboard gun, Jack." He ran down himself for a rocket as he spoke, and Jerry ran to the cabin for the red-hot poker, which had been heating for some time past in readiness for such an event. "A gun and a flare to the south-east'ard, sir, close to us," shouted Shales, who had just finished loading, as the mate returned with the rocket and fixed it in position. "Where away, Jack?" asked the mate hastily, for it now became his duty to send the rocket in the direction of the new signals, so as to point out the position of the wreck to the lifeboat-men on shore. "Due south-east, sir; there they go again," said Jack, "not so close as I thought. South sandhead vessel signalling now, sir." There was no further need for questions. The flash of the gun was distinctly seen, though the sound was not heard, owing to the howling of the hurricane, and the bright flare of a second tar-barrel told its own tale, while a gun and rocket from the floating light at the South sandhead showed that the vessel in distress had been observed by her. "Fire!" cried the mate. Jerry applied the poker to the gun, and the scene which we have described in a former chapter was re-enacted;--the blinding flash, the roar, and the curved line of light across the black sky; but there was no occasion that night to repeat the signals. Everywhere along the coast the salvors of life and property were on the alert--many of them already in action, out battling in midnight darkness with the raging sea. The signal was at once replied to from Ramsgate. Truly it was a dreadful night; one of those tremendous hurricanes which visit our shores three or four times it may be in a century, seeming to shake the world to its foundations, and to proclaim with unwonted significance the dread power of Him who created and curbs the forces of nature. But the human beings who were involved in the perils of that night had scant leisure, and little inclination, perchance, to contemplate its sublimity. The crew of the Gull light were surrounded by signals of disaster and distress. In whichever direction they turned their eyes burning tar-barrels and other flaring lights were seen, telling their dismal tale of human beings in urgent need of assistance or in dire extremity. Little more than an hour before midnight another craft was observed driving down on the hawse of the Gull. There was greater danger now, because it happened to be near the turn of the tide, or "slack water," so that the rudder could not be used to advantage. All hands were once more turned out, and as the vessel drew near Mr Welton hailed her, but got no reply. "Let go the rudder-pendants!" cried the mate as he shipped the tiller. The order was promptly obeyed, and the helm shoved hard a-port, but there was no responsive sheer. The sea was at the time currentless. Another moment and the vessel, which was a large deserted brig, struck the floating light on the port-bow, and her fore shrouds caught the fluke of the spare anchor which projected from the side. "An axe, Jerry; look alive!" Jerry required no spur; he bounded forward, caught up an axe, and leaped with it into the chains of the vessel, which had already smashed part of the Gull's bulwarks and wrenched the iron band off the cat-head. "Cut away everything," cried the mate, who observed that the decks of the brig were full of water, and feared that she might be in a sinking condition. The other men of the Gull were busy with boat-hooks, oars, and fenders, straining every nerve to get clear of this unwelcome visitor, while Jerry dealt the shrouds a few telling blows which quickly cut them through, but, in sweeping past, the main-topsail yard-arm of the brig went crashing into the lantern. Instantly the lamps were extinguished, and the bright beams of the floating light were gone! The brig then dropt astern and was soon lost to view. This was a disaster of the most serious nature--involving as it did the absence of a light, on the faithful glow of which the fate of hundreds of vessels might depend. Fortunately, however, the extreme fury of the gale had begun to abate; it was therefore probable that all the vessels which had not already been wrecked had found ports of shelter, or would now be able to hold on to their anchors and weather the storm. But floating-lights are not left without resource in a catastrophe such as this. In the book of Regulations for the Service it is ordered that, in circumstances of this kind, two red lights are to be shown, one at the end of the davit forward, the other on a stanchion beside the ensign staff aft, and likewise a red flare light is to be shown every quarter of an hour. Accordingly, while some of the men lit and fixed up the red lanterns, Jerry MacGowl was told off to the duty of showing the red flares, or, as he himself expressed it, "settin' off a succession o' fireworks, which wos mightily purty, no doubt, an' would have bin highly entertainin' if it had been foin weather, and a time of rejoycin'!" Meanwhile the lantern was lowered, and it was found that the only damage done had been the shattering of one of its large panes of glass. The lamps, although blown out, had not been injured. The men therefore set vigorously to work to put in a spare pane, and get the light once more into working order. Leaving them, then, at this important piece of work, let us turn aside awhile and follow the fortunes of the good ship Wellington on that terrible night of storm and disaster. When the storm was brewing she was not far from the Downs, but the baffling winds retarded her progress, and it was pitch dark when she reached the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands. Nevertheless those on board of her did not feel much uneasiness, because a good pilot had been secured in the channel. The Wellington came bowling along under close-reefed topsails. Stanley Hall and Jim Welton stood leaning over the taffrail, looking down into the black foam-streaked water. Both were silent, save that now and then Jim put down his hand to pat a black muzzle that was raised lovingly to meet it, and whispered, "We shall be home to-morrow, Neptune,--cheer up, old boy!" But Jim's words did not express all his thoughts. If he had revealed them fully he would have described a bright fireside in a small and humble but very comfortable room, with a smiling face that rendered sunshine unnecessary, and a pair of eyes that made gaslight a paltry flame as well as an absolute extravagance. That the name of this cheap, yet dear, luminary began with an _N_ and ended with an _a_, is a piece of information with which we think it unnecessary to trouble the reader. Stanley Hall's thoughts were somewhat on the same line of rail, if we may be allowed the expression; the chief difference being that _his_ luminary beamed in a drawing-room, and sang and played and painted beautifully--which accomplishments, however, Stanley thought, would have been sorry trifles in themselves had they not been coupled with a taste for housekeeping and domestic economy, and relieving as well as visiting the poor, and Sabbath-school teaching; in short, every sort of "good work," besides an unaccountable as well as admirable _penchant_ for pitching into the Board of Trade, and for keeping sundry account-books in such a neat and methodical way that there remains a lasting blot on that Board in the fact of their not having been bound in cloth of gold! Ever since his first visit to Yarmouth, Stanley had felt an increasing admiration for Katie Durant's sprightly character and sterling qualities, and also increasing pity for poor Bob Queeker, who, he thought, without being guilty of very egregious vanity, had no chance whatever of winning such a prize. The reader now knows that the pity thus bestowed upon that pitiful fox-hunting turncoat was utterly thrown away. "I don't like these fogs in such dangerous neighbourhood," observed Jim Welton, as a fresh squall burst upon the ship and laid it over so much that many of the passengers thought she was going to capsize. "We should be getting near the floating lights of the Goodwin sands by this time." "Don't these lights sometimes break adrift?" asked Stanley, "and thus become the cause of ships going headlong to destruction?" "Not often," replied Jim. "Considering the constancy of their exposure to all sorts of weather, and the number of light-vessels afloat, it is amazin' how few accidents take place. There has been nothing of the kind as long as I can remember anything about the service, but my father has told me of a case where one of the light-vessels that marked a channel at the mouth of the Thames once broke adrift in a heavy gale. She managed to bring up again with her spare anchor, but did not dare to show her light, being out of her proper place, and therefore, a false guide. The consequence was that eight vessels, which were making for the channel, and counted on seeing her, went on the sands and were lost with nearly all hands." "If that be so it were better to have lighthouses, I think, than lightships," said Stanley. "No doubt it would, where it is possible to build 'em," replied Jim, "but in some places it is supposed to be impossible to place a lighthouse, so we must be content with a vessel. But even lighthouses are are not perfectly secure. I know of one, built on piles on a sand-bank, that was run into by a schooner and carried bodily away. Accidents will happen, you know, in the best regulated families; but it seems to me that we don't hear of a floating-light breakin' adrift once in half a century--while, on the other hand, the good that is done by them is beyond all calculation." The young men relapsed into silence, for at that moment another fierce gust of wind threw the ship over almost on her beam-ends. Several of the male passengers came rushing on deck in alarm, but the captain quieted them, and induced them to return to the cabin to reassure the ladies, who, with the children, were up and dressed, being too anxious to think of seeking repose. It takes courts of inquiry,--formed of competent men, who examine competent witnesses and have the counsel of competent seamen,--many days of anxious investigation to arrive at the precise knowledge of the when, how, and wherefore of a wreck. We do not, therefore, pretend to be able to say whether it was the fault of the captain, the pilot, the man at the lead, the steersman, the look-out, or the weather, that the good ship Wellington met her doom. All that we know for certain is, that she sighted the southern light-vessel some time before midnight during the great gale, that she steered what was supposed to be her true course, and that, shortly after, she struck on the tail of the sands. Instantly the foremast went by the board, and the furious sea swept over the hull in blinding cataracts, creating terrible dismay and confusion amongst nearly all on board. The captain and first mate, however, retained their coolness and self-possession. Stanley and Jim also, with several of the officers on board, were cool and self-possessed, and able to render good service. While Stanley loaded a small carronade, young Welton got up blue lights and an empty tar-barrel. These were quickly fired. The South sandhead vessels immediately replied, the Gull, as we have seen, was not slow to answer, and thus the alarm was transmitted to the shore while the breakers that rushed over the Goodwins like great walls of snow, lifted the huge vessel like a cork and sent it crashing down, again and again, upon the fatal sands. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. GETTING READY FOR ACTION. Let us turn back a little at this point, and see how the watchers on Ramsgate pier behaved themselves on that night of storm and turmoil. At the end of the east pier of Ramsgate harbour there stands a very small house, a sort of big sentry-box in fact, of solid stone, which is part and parcel of the pier itself--built not only _on_ it but _into_ it, and partially sheltered from the full fury of wind and sea by the low parapet-wall of the pier. This is the east pier watch-house; the marine residence, if we may so express it, of the coxswain of the lifeboat and his men. It is their place of shelter and their watch-tower; their nightly resort, where they smoke the pipe of peace and good fellowship, and spin yarns, or take such repose as the nature of their calling will admit of. This little stone house had need be strong, like its inmates, for, like them, it is frequently called upon to brave the utmost fury of the elements--receiving the blast fresh and unbroken from the North Sea, as well as the towering billows from the same. This nocturnal watch-tower for muscular men and stout hearts, small though it be, is divided into two parts, the outer portion being the sleeping-place of the lifeboat men. It is a curious little box, full of oilskin coats and sou'wester caps and sea-boots, and bears the general aspect of a house which had been originally intended for pigmies, but had got inhabited by giants, somehow, by mistake. Its very diminutive stove stands near to its extremely small door, which is in close proximity to its unusually little window. A little library with a scanty supply of books hangs near the stove-pipe, as if the owners thereof thought the contents had become somewhat stale, and required warming up to make them more palatable. A locker runs along two sides of the apartment, on the coverings of which stand several lanterns, an oil-can, and a stone jar, besides sundry articles with an extremely seafaring aspect, among which are several pairs of the gigantic boots before referred to--the property of the coxswain and his mates. The cork lifebelt, or jacket of the coxswain, hangs near the door. The belts for use by the other men are kept in an outhouse down among the recesses of the pier near the spot to which the lifeboat is usually brought to embark her crew. Only five of the lifeboat men, called harbour boatmen, keep watch in and around the little stone house at nights. The rest are taken from among the hardy coast boatmen of the place, and the rule is--"first come first served"--when the boat is called out. There is never any lack of able and willing hands to man the Ramsgate lifeboat. Near the low ceiling of the watch-house several hammocks are slung, obliging men to stoop a little as they move about. It is altogether a snug and cozy place, but cannot boast much of the state of its atmosphere when the fire is going, the door shut, and the men smoking! On the night of the storm that has already been described in our last chapter, the coxswain entered the watch-house, clad in his black oilskin garments, and glittering with salt-water from top to toe. "There will be more work for us before long, Pike," he said, flinging off his coat and sou'-wester, and taking up a pipe, which he began to fill; "it looks blacker than ever in the nor'-east." Pike, the bowman of the boat, who was a quiet man, vigorous in action, but of few words, admitted that there was much probability of their services being again in demand, and then, rising, put on his cap and coat, and went out to take a look at the night. Two other men sat smoking by the little stove, and talking in lazy tones over the events of the day, which, to judge from their words, had been already stirring enough. Late the night before--one of them said, for the information of the other, who appeared to have just arrived, and was getting the news--the steam-tug and lifeboat had gone out on observing signals from the Gull, and had been told there was a wreck on the sands; that they had gone round the back of the sands, carefully examining them, as far as the east buoy, encountering a heavy ground swell, with much broken sea, but saw nothing; that they had then gone closer in, to about seven fathoms of water, when the lifeboat was suddenly towed over a log--as he styled it, a baulk--of timber, but fortunately got no damage, and that they were obliged to return to harbour, having failed to discover the wreck, which probably had gone to pieces before they got out to the sands; so they had all their trouble for nothing. The man--appealing by look to the coxswain, who smoked in silence, and gazed sternly and fixedly at the fire, as if his mind were wandering far away--went on to say, further, that early that morning they had been again called out, and were fortunate enough to save the crew of a small schooner, and that they had been looking out for and expecting another call the whole day. For the truth of all which the man appealed again by look to the coxswain, who merely replied with a slight nod, while he continued to smoke in silence, leaning his elbows on his knees, with his strong hands clasped before him, sailor fashion, and gazing gravely at the fire. It seemed as if he were resting his huge frame after the recent fatigues to which it had been exposed, and in anticipation of those which might be yet in store. Just then the little door opened quickly, and Pike's dripping head appeared. "I think the Gull is signalling," he said, and vanished. The coxswain's sou'wester and coat were on as if by magic, and he stood beside his mate at the end of the pier, partly sheltered by the parapet wall. They both clung to the wall, and gazed intently out to sea, where there was just light enough to show the black waves heaving wildly up against the dark sky, and the foam gleaming in lurid patches everywhere. The seas breaking in heavy masses on the pier-head drenched the two men as they bent their heads to resist the roaring blast. If it had been high water, they could not have stood there for a moment. They had not been there long before their constant friend, the master of the steam-tug, joined them. Straining their eyes intently in the direction of the floating-light, which appeared like a little star tossed on the far-off horizon, they observed a slight flash, and then a thin curved line of red fire was seen to leap into the chaos of dark clouds. "There she goes!" cried the coxswain. "An' no mistake," said Pike, as they all ran to get ready for action. Few and to the point were the words spoken. Each man knew exactly what was to be done. There was no occasion to rouse the lifeboat men on such a night. The harbour-master had seen the signal, and, clad in oilskins like the men, was out among them superintending. The steam-tug, which lies at that pier with her fires lighted and banked up, and her water hot, all the year round, sounded her shrill whistle and cast loose. Her master and mate were old hands at the perilous work, and lost no time, for wreck, like fire, is fatally rapid. There was no confusion, but there was great haste. The lifeboat was quickly manned. Those who were most active got on the cork lifebelts and leaped in; those who were less active, or at a greater distance when the signal sounded, had to remain behind. Eleven stalwart men, with frames inured to fatigue and cold, clad in oiled suits, and with lifebelts on, sat on the thwarts of the lifeboat, and the coxswain stood on a raised platform in her stern, with the tiller-ropes in his hands. The masts were up, and the sails ready to hoist. Pike made fast the huge hawser that was passed to them over the stern of the steam-tug, and away they went, rushing out right in the teeth of the gale. No cheer was given,--they had no breath to spare for sentimental service just then. There was no one, save the harbour-master and his assistant with a few men on duty, to see them start, for few could have ventured to brave the fury of the elements that night on the spray-lashed pier. In darkness they left; into darkness most appalling they plunged, with nothing save a stern sense of duty and the strong hope of saving human life to cheer them on their way. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE BATTLE. At first the men of the lifeboat had nothing to do but hold on to the thwarts, with the exception, of course, of the coxswain, whose energies were taxed from the commencement in the matter of steering the boat, which was dragged through the waves at such a rate by the powerful tug that merely to hold on was a work of some difficulty. Their course might much more truly be said to have been under than over the waves, so constantly did these break into and fill the boat. But no sooner was she full than the discharging tubes freed her, and she rose again and again, buoyant as a cork. Those who have not seen this desperate work can form but a faint conception of its true character. Written or spoken words may conjure up a pretty vivid picture of the scene, the blackness of the night, and the heaving and lashing of the waves, but words cannot adequately describe the shriek of the blast, the hiss and roar of breakers, and they cannot convey the feeling of the weight of tons of falling water, which cause the stoutest crafts of human build to reel and quiver to their centres. The steam-tug had not to contend with the ordinary straightforward rush of a North Sea storm. She was surrounded and beset by great boiling whirlpools and spouting cross-seas. They struck her on the bow, on the side, on the quarter, on the stern. They opened as if to engulf her. They rushed at as if to overwhelm her. They met under her, thrusting her up, and they leaped into her, crushing her down. But she was a sturdy vessel; a steady hand was at the wheel, and her weather-beaten master stood calm and collected on the bridge. It is probable that few persons who read the accounts of lifeboat service on the Goodwin sands are aware of the importance of the duties performed and the desperate risks run by the steam-tug. Without her powerful engines to tow it to windward of the wrecks the lifeboat would be much, very much, less useful than it is. In performing this service the tug has again and again to run into shallow water, and steer, in the blackest nights, amid narrow intricate channels, where a slight error of judgment on the part of her master--a few fathoms more to the right or left--would send her on the sands, and cause herself to become a wreck and an object of solicitude to the lifeboat crew. "Honour to whom honour is due" is a principle easy to state, but not always easy to carry into practice. Every time the steam-tug goes out she runs her full share of the imminent risk;--sometimes, and in some respects, as great as that of the lifeboat herself, for, whereas, a touch upon the sand, to which it is her duty to approach _as near as possible_, would be the death-warrant of the tug, it is, on the other hand, the glorious prerogative of the lifeboat to be almost incapable of destruction, and her peculiar privilege frequently to go "slap on and right over" the sands with slight damage, though with great danger. That the death-warrant just referred to has not been signed, over and over again, is owing almost entirely to the courage and skill of her master and mate, who possess a thorough and accurate knowledge of the intricate channels, soundings, and tides of those dangerous shoals, and have spent many years in risking their lives among them. Full credit is usually given to the lifeboat, though _not too much_ by any means, but there is not, we think, a sufficient appreciation of the services of the steam-tug. She may be seen in the harbour any day, modestly doing the dirty work of hauling out the dredge-boats, while the gay lifeboat floats idly on the water to be pointed out and admired by summer visitors--thus unfairly, though unavoidably, are public favours often distributed! Observe, reader, we are far from holding up these two as rivals. They are a loving brother and sister. Comparatively little could be done in the grand work of saving human life without the mighty strength of the "big brother;" and, on the other hand, nothing at all could be done without the buoyant activity and courage of the "little sister." Observe, also, that although the lifeboat floats in idleness, like a saucy little duck, in time of peace, her men, like their mates in the "big brother," are hard at work like other honest folk about the harbour. It is only when the sands "show their teeth," and the floating lights send up their signals, and the storm-blast calls to action, that the tug and boat unite, and the men, flinging down the implements of labour, rise to the dignity of heroic work with all the pith and power and promptitude of heroes. As they ploughed through the foam together, the tug was frequently obliged to ease-steam and give herself time to recover from the shock of those heavy cross seas. Suddenly a bright flaring light was observed in the vicinity of a shoal called the _Break_, which lies between the Goodwins and the shore. It went out in a few seconds, but not before the master of the tug had taken its bearings and altered his course. At the same time signal-guns and rockets were observed, both from the North sandhead light-vessel and the Gull, and several flaring lights were also seen burning on or near the Goodwin sands. On nearing the _Middle Break_, which was easily distinguishable from the surrounding turmoil by the intensity of its roar as the seas rolled over it, the coxswain of the lifeboat ordered the sail to be hoisted and the tow-rope slipped. Pike, who was a thoroughly intelligent and sympathetic bowman, had all in readiness; he obeyed the order instantly, and the boat, as if endued with sudden life, sprang away on its own account into the broken water. Broken water! who but a lifeboat-man can conceive what that means?-- except, indeed, those few who have been saved from wreck. A chaos of white water, rendered ghostly and grey by darkness. No green or liquid water visible anywhere; all froth and fury, with force tremendous everywhere. Rushing rivers met by opposing cataracts; bursting against each other; leaping high in air from the shock; falling back and whirling away in wild eddies,--seeking rest, but finding none! Vain indeed must be our attempt to describe the awful aspect, the mad music, the fearful violence of "broken water" on the Break! In such a sea the boat was tossed as if she were a chip; but the gale gave her speed, and speed gave her quick steering power. She leaped over the foam, or dashed through it, or staggered under it, but always rose again, the men, meanwhile, holding on for life. Pike was ready in the bow, with an arm tightly embracing the bollard, or strong post, round which the cable runs. The coxswain's figure, towering high in the stern, with the steering tackles in his hands, leaned forward against a strong strap or band fixed across the boat to keep him in position. They made straight for the spot where the flare light had been seen. At first darkness and thick spray combined prevented them from seeing anything, but in a few minutes a dark object was seen looming faintly against the sky, and the coxswain observed with anxious concern that it lay not to leeward, but to windward of him. "Out oars! down with the sail!" he shouted. His voice was very powerful, but it was swept away, and was only heard by those nearest to him. The order was instantly obeyed, however; but the gale was so heavy and the boat so large that headway could not be made. They could see that the wreck was a small vessel on her beam-ends. Being to leeward, they could hear despairing cries distinctly, and four or five human beings were seen clinging to the side. The lifeboat-men strained till their sinews well-nigh cracked; it seemed doubtful whether they had advanced or not, when suddenly an unusually large wave fell in thunder on the Break; it rushed over the shallows with a foaming head, caught the boat on its crest and carried it far away to leeward. Sail was again made. A box near the coxswain a feet was opened, and a blue-light taken out. There was no difficulty in firing this. A sharp stroke on its butt lighted the percussion powder within, and in a moment the scene was illumined by a ghastly glare, which brought out the blue and white boat distinctly, and gave corpse-like colour to the faces of the men. At the same time it summoned the attendant steamer. In a few minutes the tug ran down to her; the tow-rope was taken on board, and away went the brother and sister once more to windward of the wreck; but now no wreck was to be seen! They searched round the shoal in all directions without success, and finally were compelled to come to the conclusion that the same sea which had carried the boat to leeward had swept the wreck away. With sad hearts they now turned towards the Goodwins, but the melancholy incident they had just witnessed was soon banished from their minds by the urgent signals for aid still seen flaring in all directions. For the nearest of these they made at full speed. On their way, a dark object was seen to sweep past them across their stern as if on the wings of the wind. It was the Broadstairs lifeboat, which had already done good service that night, and was bent on doing more. Similarly occupied were the lifeboats of Deal, Walmer, and other places along the coast. A Deal lugger was also seen. The hardy beachmen of Kent fear no storm. They run out in all weathers to succour ships in distress, and much good service do they accomplish, but their powers are limited. Like the steam-tugs, they can hover around the sands in heavy gales, and venture gingerly near to them; but thus far, and no farther, may they go. They cannot, like the noble lifeboats, dash right into the caldron of surf, and dare the sands and seas to do their worst! The lifeboat men felt cheered, no doubt, to know that so many able hands were fighting around them in the same battle, but they had little time to think on such things; the work in hand claimed their exclusive attention--as it must now claim ours. One vessel was seen burning three very large flare lights. Towards this the steamer hastened, and when as near as prudence would permit her to approach the Goodwin sands--something less than quarter of a mile--the hawser was again slipped, sail was made on the lifeboat, and she once more entered the broken water alone. Here, of course, being more exposed, it was still more tremendous than on the Break. It was a little after midnight when they reached the sands, and made the discovery that they were on the wrong hide of them. The tide was making, however, and in a short time there was sufficient water to enable the boat to run right over; she struck many times, but, being tough, received no serious damage. Soon they drew near the wreck, and could see that she had sunk completely, and that the crew were clinging to the jibboom. When about fifty yards to windward, the anchor was let go, the lifeboat veered down towards the wreck, and with much difficulty they succeeded in taking off the whole crew of seven men. Signalising the tug with another blue-light, they ran to leeward into deep water, and were again taken in tow; the saved men being with some difficulty put on board the tug. They were Dutchmen; and the poor master of the lost vessel could find no words sufficiently forcible to express his gratitude to the coxswain of the lifeboat. When he afterwards met him on shore, he wrung his hand warmly, and, with tears in his eyes, promised never to forget him. "Me never tinks of you," said he (meaning the reverse), "so long's I live; me tell the King of Holland!" It is but just to add that the poor fellow faithfully redeemed his ill-expressed promise, and that the coxswain of the lifeboat now possesses a medal presented to him by the King of Holland in acknowledgment of his services on that occasion. But the great work of that night still remained to be done. Not far from the light-vessel a flare-light was seen burning brightly. It seemed to be well tended, and was often renewed. Towards this the tug now steered with the little sister in tow. They soon came near enough to observe that she was a large ship, going to pieces on the sands. Slipping the cable once more, the lifeboat gallantly dashed into the thickest of the fight, and soon got within hail of the wreck. Then it was that, for the first time, a ray of hope entered the hearts of the passengers of the luckless Wellington, and then it was that Jim Welton and Stanley Hall, with several young officers, who had kept the tar-barrels burning so briskly for so many hours, despite the drenching seas, sent up a loud thrilling cheer, and announced to the terror-stricken women and children that _the lifeboat was in sight_! What a cry for those who had been for three hours dashing on the sands, expecting every moment that the ship would break up! The horrors of their situation were enhanced by the novelty of their sensations! All of us can realise to some extent, from hearsay and from paintings, what is meant by billows bursting high over ships' mast-heads and washing everything off the decks, but who that has not experienced it can imagine what it is to see gigantic yards being whipped to and fro as a light cane might be switched by a strong man, to see top-masts snapping like pipe-stems, to hear stout ropes cracking like pliant whipcord, and great sails flapping with thunder-claps or bursting into shreds? Above all, who can realise the sensation caused by one's abode being lifted violently with every surge and dropped again with the crashing weight of two thousand tons, or being rolled from side to side so that the floor on which one stands alternates between the horizontal and perpendicular, while one's frame each time receives a shock that is only too much in dread harmony with the desperate condition of the mind? "The lifeboat in sight!" Who at such a time would not pray God's best blessing on the lifeboat, on the stalwart men who man it, and on the noble Society which supports it? Certain it is that many a prayer of this kind was ejaculated on board the Wellington that night, while the passengers re-echoed the good news, and hurriedly went on deck. But what an awful scene of dreary desolation presented itself when they got there! The flares gave forth just enough light to make darkness visible--ropes, masts, yards, sails, everything in indescribable confusion, and the sea breaking over all with a violence that rendered it extremely difficult to maintain a footing even in the most sheltered position. Fortunately by this time the vessel had been beaten sufficiently high on the shoal to prevent the terrible rolling to which she had been at first subjected; and as the officers and seamen vied with each other in attentions to the women and children, these latter were soon placed in comparative security, and awaited with breathless anxiety the arrival of the boat. In order to keep the flare-lights burning all kinds of materials had been sacrificed. Deluged as they were continually by heavy seas, nothing but the most inflammable substances would burn. Hence, when their tar-barrels were exhausted, Stanley Hall and his assistants got hold of sheets, table-cloths, bedding, and garments, and saturated these with paraffine oil, of which, fortunately, there happened to be a large quantity on board. They now applied themselves with redoubled diligence to the construction and keeping alight of these flares, knowing well that the work which remained to be done before all should be rescued, was of a nature requiring time as well as care and courage. On rushed the lifeboat through the broken water. When almost within hail, the coxswain heard the roar of an unusually heavy sea rushing behind him. "Let go the fore-sheet," he shouted, "and hold on for your lives." The wave--a billow broken to atoms, yet still retaining all its weight and motive force--overwhelmed the boat and passed on. Before she had quite recovered, another sea of equal size engulfed her, and as she had been turned broadside on by the first, the second caught her in its embrace and carried her like the wind bodily to leeward. Her immense breadth of beam prevented an upset, and she was finally launched into shallower water, where the sand had only a few feet of sea above it. She had been swept away full quarter of a mile in little more than a minute! Here the surf was like a boiling caldron, but there was not depth enough to admit of heavy seas. The same sea that swept away the boat carried the fore and main masts of the Wellington by the board, and extinguished all her lights. The boat drove quite two miles to leeward before the tug got hold of her again. To have returned to the wreck against wind and tide alone, we need scarcely repeat, would have been impossible, but with the aid of the tug she was soon towed to her old position and again cast loose. Once more she rushed into the fight and succeeded in dropping anchor a considerable distance to windward of the wreck, from which point she veered down under her lee, but so great was the mass of broken masts, spars, and wreckage--nothing being now left but parts of the mizzen and bowsprit--that the coxswain was obliged to pay out 117 fathoms of cable to keep clear of it all. The difficulty and danger of getting the boat alongside now became apparent to the people on the wreck, many of whom had never dreamed of such impediments before, and their hopes sank unreasonably low, just as, before, they had been raised unduly high. With great difficulty the boat got near to the port quarter of the ship, and Pike stood up ready in the bow with a line, to which was attached a loaded cane, something like a large life-preserver. "Heave!" shouted the coxswain. The bowman made a deliberate and splendid cast; the weighted cane fell on the deck of the ship, and was caught by Jim Welton, who attached a hawser to it. This was drawn into the boat, and in a few seconds she was alongside. But she was now in great danger! The wild waters that heaved, surged, and leaped under the vessel's lee threatened to dash the boat in pieces against her every moment, and it was only by the unremitting and strenuous exertions of the men with boat-hooks, oars, and fenders that this was prevented. Now the boat surged up into the chains as if about to leap on board the ship; anon it sank into a gulf of spray, or sheered wildly to leeward, but by means of the hawser and cable, and a "spring" attached to the latter, she was so handled that one and another of the crew of the wreck were taken into her. The first saved was a little child. It was too small and delicate to be swung over the side by a rope, so the captain asked Jim Welton, as being the most agile man in the ship and possessed of superabundant animal courage, to take it in his arms and leap on board. Jim agreed at once, handed over the care of his flare-lights to one of the men, and prepared for action. The poor child, which was about a year old, clung to its mother's neck with terror, and the distracted woman--a soldier's widow-- could scarce be prevailed on to let the little one out of her arms. "Oh, let me go with him," she pleaded most earnestly, "he is all that is left to me." "You shall follow immediately; delay may be death," said the captain, kindly, as he drew the child gently but firmly from her grasp. It was securely bound to Jim's broad bosom by means of a shawl. Watching his opportunity when the boat came surging up on the crest of a billow almost to his feet, and was about to drop far down into the trough of the sea, the young sailor sprang from the side and was caught in the outstretched arms of the lifeboat men. It had occurred to Stanley Hall, just before this happened, that there was every probability of some of the passengers falling overboard during the process of being transferred to the boat. Stanley was of a somewhat eccentric turn of mind, and seldom allowed his thoughts to dissipate without taking action of some kind. He therefore got into the mizzen chains and quietly fastened a rope round his waist, the other end of which he tied to a stanchion. "You'll get crushed by the boat there," cried the captain, who observed him. "Perhaps not," was the reply. He stood there and watched Jim Welton as he leaped. The mother of the child, unable to restrain herself, climbed on the bulwarks of the vessel. Just as she did so the boat surged up again,--so close that it required but a short step to get into her. Some of the passengers availed themselves of the chance--the poor widow among them. She sprang with a cry of joy, for she saw her child's face at the moment as they unbound him from Jim's breast, but she sprang short. Little wonder that a woman should neglect to make due allowance for the quick swooping of the boat! Next moment she was in the boiling foam. A moment later and she was in Stanley Hall's grasp, and both were swept violently to leeward, but the rope brought them up. Despite darkness and turmoil the quick-eyed coxswain and his mate had noted the incident. Pike payed out the hawser, the coxswain eased off the spring; away went the boat, and next moment Pike had Stanley by the hair. Short was the time required for their strong arms to pull him and his burden in-board; and, oh! it was a touching sight to witness the expressions of the anxious faces that were turned eagerly towards the boat, and glared pale and ghastly in the flaring light, as her sturdy crew hauled slowly up, hand over hand, and got once more under the vessel's lee. No sooner were they within reach than another impatient passenger leaped overboard. This was Jim's faithful dog Neptune! Watching his time with the intelligence of a human being, he sprang, with much greater precision and vigour than any human being could have done, and, alighting on Pike's shoulders, almost drove that stout boatman into the bottom of the boat. Soon the boat was as full as it could hold. All the women and children had been got into her, and many of the male passengers, so that there was no room to move; still there remained from twenty to thirty people to be rescued. Seeing this, Jim seized Neptune by the neck and flung him back into the wreck. Catching a rope that hung over the side, he also swung himself on board, saying,--"You and I must sink or swim together, Nep! Shove off, lads, and come back as soon as you can." The hawser was slipped as he spoke; the lifeboat was hauled slowly but steadily to windward up to her anchor. Tons of water poured over her every moment, but ran through her discharging tubes, and, deeply loaded though she was, she rose buoyant from each immersion like an invincible sea-monster. When the anchor was reached, a small portion of the foresail was set, and then, cutting the cable with one blow of a hatchet, away they went like the scudding foam right over the boiling shallows on the spit of sand. "Hand out a blue-light there," cried the coxswain. A sharp blow caused the blue-fire to flare up and shed a light that fell strong as that of the full moon on the mingled grave, pale, stern, and terrified faces in the lifeboat. "Safe!" muttered one of the crew. "Safe?" was echoed in surprise, no doubt, from several fluttering hearts. As well might that have been said to the hapless canoe-man rushing over the Falls of Niagara as to the inexperienced ones there, while they gazed, horror-struck, on the tumult of mad waters in that sudden blaze of unearthly light. Their faith in a trustworthy and intelligent boatman was not equal to their faith in their own eyes, backed by ignorance! But who will blame them for lack of faith in the circumstances? Nevertheless, they _were_ safe. The watchful master of the tug,--laying-to off the deadly banks, now noting the compass, now casting the lead, anon peering into the wild storm,--saw the light, ran down to it, took the rescued ones on board, and, having received from the coxswain the information that there were "more coming," sent them down into his little cabin, there to be refreshed and comforted, while the lifeboat sheered off again, and once more sprang into the "broken water." So might some mighty warrior spur from the battle-field charged with despatches of the highest import bearing on the fight, and, having delivered his message, turn on his heel and rush back into the whirling tide of war to complete the victory which had been so well begun! Once more they made for the wreck, which was by that time fast breaking up. Running right before the wind in such an awful gale, it was necessary to make the men crowd aft in order to keep the boat's head well out of the water. On this occasion one or two of the seamen of the Wellington, who had been allowed inadvertently to remain in the boat, became alarmed, for the seas were rolling high over the gunwale on each side, and rushing into her with such force as to make it a difficult matter to avoid being washed out. It was a new sensation to these men to rush thus madly between two walls of foam eight or ten feet high! They glanced backward, where another wall of foaming water seemed to be curling over the stern, as if about to drop inboard. The coxswain observed their looks, and knew their feelings. He knew there was no lack of courage in them, and that a little experience would change their minds on this point. "Never look behind, lads," he cried; "look ahead; always look right ahead." "Ay, Geordy," remarked one of the men,--a Scotchman,--to his mate, "it's rum sailin' this is. I thocht we was a' gaun to the bottom; but nae doot the cox'n kens best. It's a wonderfu' boat!" Having so said, the sedate Scot dismissed his anxieties, and thereafter appeared to regard the surrounding chaos of water with no other feelings than philosophic interest and curiosity. On nearing the wreck the second time, it was found that the tide had fallen so low that they could scarcely get alongside. Three times they struck on the shoal; on the third occasion the mizzen-mast and sail were blown out of the boat. They managed to drop anchor, however, and to veer down under the port bow of the Wellington, whence the anxious survivors threw ropes to them, and, one after another, leaped or swung themselves into the boat. But they were so long about it that before all had been got out the coxswain was obliged to drop to leeward to prevent being left aground. In spite of this, the boat got fast, and now they could neither advance to the wreck for the nine men who still remained in her, nor push off to rejoin the tug. The space between the boat and vessel was crossed by such a continuous rush of broken water that for a time it was impossible to attempt anything, but as the tide fell the coxswain consulted with his bowman, and both agreed to venture to wade to the wreck, those on board having become so exhausted as to be unable or unwilling to make further effort to save themselves. Acting on this resolve they with one of their men sprang into the raging surf and staggered to the wreck, where they induced two of the crew to leap overboard and brought them safely to the boat. Others of the lifeboat crew then joined them and four more were rescued. [See note 1.] The tide had been at its lowest when this desperate work was begun,-- before it was finished it had turned. This, coupled with the fact that they had all been nearly swept away during the last effort; and that there was a fresh burst of violence in the gale, induced them to wait until the tide should rise. When it did so sufficiently, they hauled and shoved the boat alongside, and the captain, who was one of the three remaining men, made a desperate spring, but missed the boat and was whirled away. Pike made a grasp at him but missed. The coxswain seized a life-buoy and hurled it towards him. It fell within his reach, and it was supposed that he had caught it, but they could not be certain. The boat was now afloat and bumping violently. If they had cut the cable in order to rescue the captain, which they could by no means make sure of doing, the improbability of being able to return in time to save the two remaining men would have been very great. It seemed to be life or death in either case, so they stuck by the wreck. It was grey dawn now, and the wreckage was knocking against and around them to such an extent that the coxswain began to fear for the safety of his boat. Yet he was loath to leave the men to perish. "Jump now, lads!" he cried, sheering up alongside, "it's your last chance. It's death to all of us if we stop longer here!" The men sprang together. One gained the side of the boat and was saved, the other was swept away. He made frantic efforts to gain the boat, but before his companion had been got inboard he was out of sight, and although the cable was promptly cut and the sail set he could not be found. The boat was then run down along the sands in search of the captain. The coxswain knew well from experience that he must certainly have been swept by the current in the same direction as the wreckage. He therefore followed this, and in a short time had the inexpressible satisfaction and good fortune to find the captain. He had caught the life-buoy, and having managed to get it under his arms had floated about for the greater part of an hour. Though nearly dead he was still sensible, and, after being well chafed and refreshed with a little rum from the coxswain's case-bottle--provided for occasions of this sort--he recovered. The great work of the lifeboat had now been accomplished, but they could not feel that it had been thoroughly completed without one more effort being made to save the lost man. They therefore ran still farther down the sand in the direction where he had been last seen. They followed the drift of wreckage as before. Presently the bowman uttered a thrilling shout, for, through the turmoil of dashing spray, he saw the man clinging to a spar! So unexpected was this happy event that the whole crew involuntarily gave vent to a ringing cheer, although, in the circumstances, and considering the nature of their exhausting work and the time they had been exposed to it, one might have supposed them incapable of such a burst of enthusiasm. In a few moments he was rescued, and now, with light hearts, they ran for the tug, which was clearly visible in the rapidly increasing daylight. They did not put off time in transferring the saved men to the steamer. The big hawser,--their familiar bond of attachment,--was made fast to them, and away went that noble big brother and splendid little sister straight for Ramsgate harbour. [See note 2.] But the work of that wild night was not yet finished. On their way home they fell in with a schooner, the foretopmast and bowsprit of which were gone. As she was drifting towards the sands they hailed her. No reply being made, the lifeboat was towed alongside, and, on being boarded, it was found that she was a derelict. Probably she had got upon the sands during the night, been forsaken by her crew in their own boat--in which event there was small chance of any being saved--and had drifted off again at the change of the tide. Be that as it might, six lifeboat men were put on board. Finding no water in her, they slipt her two cables, which were hanging from the bow, a rope was made fast to the steamer, and she was taken in tow. It was drawing towards noon when they neared the harbour. Very different indeed was the aspect of things there then from what it had been when they went out on their errand of mercy thirteen hours before. Although the gale was still blowing fresh it had moderated greatly. The black clouds no longer held possession of the sky, but were pierced, scattered, and gilded, as they were rolled away, by the victorious sun. The sea still raged and showed its white "teeth" fiercely, as if its spirit had been too much roused to be easily appeased; but blue sky appeared in patches everywhere; the rain had ceased, and the people of the town and visitors swarmed out to enjoy the returning sunshine, inhale the fresh sea-breeze, and await, anxiously, the return of the lifeboat--for, of course, every one in the town was aware by that time that she had been out all night. When, at length, the smoke of the "big brother" was observed drawing near, the people flocked in hundreds to the piers and cliffs.--Wherever a point of vantage was to be had, dozens of spectators crowned it. Wherever a point of danger was to be gained, daring spirits--chiefly in the shape of small boys--took it by storm, in absolute contempt of the police. "Jacob's Ladder"--the cliff staircase--was crowded from top to bottom. The west pier was rendered invisible to its outer extremity by human beings. The east pier, as far as it was dry, was covered by the fashion and beauty--as well as by the fishy and tarry--of the town. Beyond the point of dryness it was more or less besieged by those who were reckless, riotous, and ridiculously fond of salt-water spray. The yards and shrouds of the crowded and much damaged shipping in the harbour were manned, and the windows of the town that commanded the sea were filled with human faces. An absolute battery of telescopes, like small artillery, was levelled at the approaching tug. Everywhere were to be seen and heard evidences of excitement, anxiety, and expectation. It was not long before it was announced that flags were seen flying at the mast-heads of the tug and lifeboat--a sure evidence that a rescue had been successfully accomplished. This caused many a burst of cheering from the crowds, as the fact and its import became gradually known. But these were as nothing compared with the cheers that arose when the steamer, with the lifeboat and the schooner in tow, drew near, and it could be seen that there were many people on board--among them women and children. When they finally surged past the pier-head on the crest of a tremendous billow, and swept into the harbour under a vast shower of spray that burst over the pier and rose above the mast-heads of the shipping within--as if to pour a libation on the gallant crews-- then a succession of cheers, that cannot be described, welcomed the victors and re-echoed from the chalk-cliffs, to be caught up and sent out again and again in thrilling cadence on the mad sea, which had thus been plundered of its booty and disappointed of its prey! Scarfs and hats and kerchiefs and hands were waved in wild enthusiasm, strangely mingled with tender pity, when the exhausted women and children and the worn-out and battered lifeboat-men were landed. Many cheered, no doubt, to think of the strong hearts and invincible courage that dwelt in the breasts of Britain's sons; while others,--tracing things at once to their true source,--cheered in broken tones, or were incompetent to cheer at all, when they thought with thankfulness of Britain's faith in the Word of God, which, directly or indirectly, had given that courage its inspiration, and filled those hearts with fire. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The coxswain--Mr Isaac Jarman--who has rendered heroic service in the Ramsgate Lifeboat during the last ten years, has been personally instrumental in saving between four and five hundred lives. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 2. If the reader should desire to know something more of the history of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, which, owing to its position, opportunities, and advantages, has had the most stirring career of all the lifeboat fleet, we advise the perusal of a work (at present in the press, if it be not already published) named _Storm Warriors, or the Ramsgate Lifeboat and the Goodwin Sands_, by the Reverend John Gilmore, whose able and thrilling articles on the lifeboat-service in _Macmillan's Magazine_ are well known. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. SHOWS THAT THERE ARE NO EFFECTS WITHOUT ADEQUATE CAUSES. There were not a few surprising and unexpected meetings that day on Ramsgate pier. Foremost among the hundreds who pressed forward to shake the lifeboat-men by the hand, and to sympathise with and congratulate the wrecked and rescued people, was Mr George Durant. It mattered nothing to that stout enthusiast that his hat had been swept away into hopeless destruction during his frantic efforts to get to the front, leaving his polished head exposed to the still considerable fury of the blast and the intermittent violence of the sun; and it mattered, if possible, still less that the wreck turned out to be one of his own vessels; but it was a matter of the greatest interest and amazement to him to find that the first man he should meet in the crowd and seize in a hearty embrace, was his young friend, Stanley Hall. "What, Stanney!" he exclaimed in unmitigated surprise; "is it--can it be? Prodigious sight!" The old gentleman could say no more, but continued for a few seconds to wring the hands of his young friend, gaze in his face, and vent himself in gusts of surprise and bursts of tearful laughter, to the great interest and amusement of the bystanders. Mr Durant's inconsistent conduct may be partly accounted for and excused by the fact that Stanley had stepped on the pier with no other garments on than a pair of trousers and a shirt, the former having a large rent on the right knee, and the latter being torn open at the breast, in consequence of the violent removal of all the buttons when its owner was dragged into the lifeboat. As, in addition to this, the young man's dishevelled hair did duty for a cap, and his face and hands were smeared with oil and tar from the flare-lights which he had assisted to keep up so energetically, it is not surprising that the first sight of him had a powerful effect on Mr Durant. "Why, Stanney," he said at length, "you look as if you were some strange sea-monster just broke loose from Neptune's menagerie!" Perhaps this idea had been suggested by the rope round Stanley's waist, the cut end of which still dangled at his side, for Mr Durant took hold of it inquiringly. "Ay, sir," put in the coxswain, who chanced to be near him, "that bit of rope is a scarf of honour. He saved the life of a soldier's widow with it." There was a tendency to cheer on the part of the bystanders who heard this. "God bless you, Stanney, my boy! Come and get dressed," said the old gentleman, suddenly seizing his friend's arm and pushing his way through the crowd, "come along; oh, don't talk to me of the ship. I know that it's lost; no matter--you are saved. And do _you_ come along with us Wel--Wel--what's the name of --? Ah! Welton--come; my daughter is here somewhere. I left her near the parapet. Never mind, she knows her way home." Katie certainly was there, and when, over the heads of the people--for she had mounted with characteristic energy on the parapet, assisted by Queeker and accompanied by Fanny Hennings--she beheld Stanley Hall in such a plight, she felt a disposition to laugh and cry and faint all at once. She resisted the tendency, however, although the expression of her face and her rapid change of colour induced Queeker with anxious haste to throw out his arms to catch her. "Ha!" exclaimed Queeker, "_I knew it_!" What Queeker knew he never explained. It may have had reference to certain suspicions entertained in regard to the impression made by the young student on Katie the night of their first meeting; we cannot tell, but we know that he followed up the exclamation with the muttered remark, "It was fortunate that I pulled up in time." Herein Queeker exhibited the innate tendency of the human heart to deceive itself. That furious little poetical fox-hunter had, by his own confession, felt the pangs of a guilty conscience in turning, just because he could not help it, from Katie to Fanny, yet here he was now basely and coolly taking credit to himself for having "pulled up in time!" "Oh, look at the _dear_ little children!" exclaimed Fanny, pointing towards a part of the crowd where several seamen were carrying the rescued and still terrified little ones in their strong arms, while others assisted the women along, and wrapped dry shawls round them. "How dreadful to think," said Katie, making a hard struggle to suppress her agitation, "that all these would have been lost but for the lifeboat; and how wonderful to think that some of our own friends should be among them!" "Ay, there be many more besides these saved last night, miss," remarked a sturdy old boatman who chanced to be standing beside her. "All along the east coast the lifeboats has bin out, miss, you may be sure; and they don't often shove off without bringin' somethin' back to show for their pains, though they don't all 'ave steamers for to tug 'em out. There's the Broadstairs boat, now; I've jist heerd she was out all night an' saved fifteen lives; an' the Walmer and Deal boats has fetched in a lot, I believe, though we han't got particklers yet." Besides those whom we have mentioned as gazing with the crowd at the arrival of the lifeboat, Morley Jones, and Nora, and Billy Towler were there. Jones and Billy had returned from London together the night before the storm, and, like nearly every one else in the town, had turned out to witness the arrival of the lifeboat. Dick Moy also was there, and that huge lump of good-nature spent the time in making sagacious remarks and wise comments on wind and weather, wrecks and rescues, in a manner that commanded the intense admiration of a knot of visitors who happened to be near him, and who regarded him as a choice specimen--a sort of type--of the British son of Neptune. "This is wot _I_ says," observed Dick, while the people were landing "so long as there's 'ope, 'old on. Never say die, and never give in; them's my sentiments. 'Cause why? no one never knows wot may turn up. If your ship goes down; w'y, wot then? Strike out, to be sure. P'r'aps you may be picked up afore long. If sharks is near, p'r'aps you may be picked down. You can never tell. If you gets on a shoal, wot then? w'y, stick to the ship till a lifeboat comes off to 'ee. Don't never go for to take to your own boats. If you do--capsize, an' Davy Jones's locker is the word. If the lifeboat can't git alongside; w'y, wait till it can. If it can't; w'y, it can only be said that it couldn't. No use cryin' over spilt milk, you know. Not that I cares for milk. It don't keep at sea, d'ye see; an's only fit for babbys. If the lifeboat capsizes; w'y, then, owin' to her parfection o' build, she rights again, an' you, 'avin' on cork jackets, p'r'aps, gits into 'er by the lifelines, all handy. If you 'aven't got no cork jackets on, w'y, them that has'll pick 'ee up. If not, it's like enough you'll go down. But no matter, you've did yer best, an' man, woman, or child can do no more. You can only die once, d'ye see?" Whether the admiring audience did or did not see the full force of these remarks, they undoubtedly saw enough in the gigantic tar to esteem him a marvel of philosophic wisdom. Judging by their looks that he was highly appreciated, it is just possible that Dick Moy might have been tempted to extend his discourse, had not a move in the crowd showed a general tendency towards dispersion, the rescued people having been removed, some to the Sailor's Home, others to the residences of hospitable people in the town. Now, it must not be imagined that all these characters in our tale have been thus brought together, merely at our pleasure, without rhyme or reason, and in utter disregard of the law of probabilities. By no means. Mr Robert Queeker had started for Ramsgate, as the reader knows, on a secret mission, which, as is also well known, was somewhat violently interrupted by the sporting tendencies of that poetical law-clerk; but no sooner did Queeker recover from his wounds than--with the irresistible ardour of a Wellington, or a Blucher, or a bull-dog, or a boarding-school belle--he returned to the charge, made out his intended visit, set his traps, baited his lines, fastened his snares, and whatever else appertained to his secret mission, so entirely to the satisfaction of Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope, that these estimable men resolved, some time afterwards, to send him back again to the scene of his labours, to push still further the dark workings of his mission. Elate with success the earnest Queeker prepared to go. Oh, what joy if _she_ would only go with him! "And why not?" cried Queeker, starting up when this thought struck him, as if it had struck him too hard and he were about to retaliate,--"Why not? _That_ is the question." He emphasised _that_ as if all other questions, Hamlet's included, sank into insignificance by contrast. "Only last night," continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt upright in a frenzy of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too--"only last night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go to spend the autumn this year. Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate? "Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand, And rides, and walks, and weather, Its windows, which a view command Of everything together. "Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops, To fascinate the belles, Its foaming waves, like washing-slops, To captivate the swells. "Its boats and boatmen, brave and true, Who lounge upon the jetty, And smile upon the girls too-- At least when they are pretty. "Oh! Ramsgate, where in all the earth, Beside the lovely sea, Can any town of note or worth Be found to equal thee? "Nowhere!" said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses--verses, however, which cost him two hours and a profuse perspiration to produce. It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this "Nowhere!" was uttered, and it was precisely a quarter past nine p.m. that day week when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress Hotel in Ramsgate, and ordered beds and tea,--so powerful was the influence of a great mind when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent father was absolute! Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler. We have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked ends of his own, Morley Jones had changed his abode to Ramsgate--his country abode, that is. His headquarters and town department continued as before to flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor alone was aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the premises a few weeks before! It will thus be seen that Mr Jones's assurance, in the matter of dealing with insurance, was considerable. Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced such a close investigation as to the sudden disappearance of his ally Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling but helpless Nora not only what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation. Having accomplished this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical suit with brass buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course presented himself at the door of the Grotto, where he requested permission to see the boy Towler. The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon after let in upon him. "Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?" he exclaimed in great surprise, on observing that Billy's face was clean, in which condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore unragged garments. Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently lost none of his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle. "What game may _you_ be up to?" he said, at the end of the musical prelude. "You are greatly improved, Billy," said Jones, holding out his hand. "I'm not aweer," replied the boy, drawing back, "as I've got to thank _you_ for it." "Come, Billy, this ain't friendly, is it, after all I've done for you?" said Jones, remonstratively; "I only want you to come out an' 'ave a talk with me about things, an' I'll give 'ee a swig o' beer or whatever you take a fancy to. You ain't goin' to show the white feather and become a milksop, are you?" "Now, look here, Mister Jones," said the boy, with an air of decision that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; "I don't want for to have nothin' more to do with _you_. I've see'd much more than enough of 'ee. You knows me pretty well, an' you knows that wotiver else I may be, I ain't a hippercrite. I knows enough o' your doin's to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my own, wot you've got nothink to do with, I don't mean to peach. All I ax is, that you goes your way an' let me alone. That's where it is. The people here seem to 'ave got a notion that I've got a soul as well as a body, and that it ain't 'xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never thought of, and throw'd away like an old shoe. They may be wrong, and they may be right, but I'm inclined to agree with 'em. Let me tell 'ee that _you_ 'ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked ways, so you needn't stand there grinnin' like a rackishoot wi' the toothache. I've jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don't want none o' your beer nor nothin' else, an' if you offers to lay hands on me, I'll yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an' bring in the guv'nor, wot's fit to wollop six o' you any day with his left hand." This last part of Billy's speech was made with additional fire, in consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger. "Well, boy," he said, sternly, "hypocrite or not, you've learned yer lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please. It's little that a chip like you could do to get me convicted on anything you've seen or heard as yet, an' if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a lift on the way to the gallows. But it wasn't to trouble myself about you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal assumed an air and tone of indifference at this point); if you had only waited to hear what I'd got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved your breath. The fact is that my Nora is very ill--so ill that I fear she stands a poor chance o' gittin' better. I'm goin' to send her away on a long sea voyage. P'r'aps that may do her good; if not, it's all up with her. She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her-- particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow. If I'd known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of comin'. However, I'll bid you good-day now." "Jones," said the boy earnestly, "that's a lie." "Very good," retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, "I'll take back that message with your compliments--eh?" "No; but," said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, "is Nora _really_ ill?" "I don't wish you to come if you don't want to," replied Jones; "you can stop here till doomsday for me. But do you suppose I'd come here for the mere amusement of hearing you give me the lie?" "I'll go!" said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously expressed on declining to go. The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto. Mr Jones was so plausible, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is no disparagement to the penetration of the superintendent of that day to say that he was deceived. The result was, as we have shown, that Billy ere long found his way to Ramsgate. When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a prolonged and hearty fit of laughter. Nora gazed at Billy with a look of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled expression of countenance, for he at once saw through the deception that had been practised on him, and fully appreciated the difficulty of his position--his powers of explanation being hampered by a warning, given him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he let Nora into the full knowledge of her father's wickedness. CHAPTER NINETEEN. CONFIDENCES AND CROSS PURPOSES. Katie Durant, sitting with a happy smile on her fair face, and good-will in her sweet heart to all mankind--womankind included, which says a good deal for her--was busy with a beautiful sketch of a picturesque watermill, meditating on the stirring scene she had so recently witnessed, when a visitor was announced. "Who can it be?" inquired Katie; "papa is out, you know, and no one can want me." The lodging-house keeper, Mrs Cackles, smiled at the idea of no one wanting Katie, knowing, as she did, that there were at least twenty people who would have given all they were worth in the world to possess her, either in the form of wife, sister, daughter, friend governess, or companion. "Well, miss, she do wants you, and says as no one else will do." "Oh, a lady, please show her in, Mrs Cackles." "Well, she ain't a lady, either, though I've seen many a lady as would give their weight in gold to be like her." So saying the landlady departed, and in a few seconds introduced Nora. "Miss Jones!" cried Katie, rising with a pleased smile and holding out her hand; "this is a very unexpected pleasure." "Thank you, Miss Durant. I felt sure you would remember me," said Nora, taking a seat, "and I also feel sure that you will assist me with your advice in a matter of some difficulty, especially as it relates to the boy about whose sick brother you came to me at Yarmouth some time ago-- you remember?" "Oh! Billy Towler," exclaimed Katie, with animation; "yes, I remember; you are right in expecting me to be interested in him. Let me hear all about it." Hereupon Nora gave Katie an insight into much of Billy Towler's history, especially dwelling on that part of it which related to his being sent to the Grotto, in the hope of saving him from the evil influences that were brought to bear upon him in his intercourse with her father. "Not," she said, somewhat anxiously, "that I mean you to suppose my dear father teaches him anything that is wicked; but his business leads him much among bad men--and--they drink and smoke, you know, which is very bad for a young boy to see; and many of them are awful swearers. Now, poor Billy has been induced to leave the Grotto and to come down here, for what purpose I don't know; but I am _so_ disappointed, because I had hoped he would not have got tired of it so soon; and what distresses me most is, that he does not speak all his mind to me; I can see that, for he is very fond of me, and did not use to conceal things from me--at least I fancied not. The strange thing about it too is, that he says he is willing to return to the Grotto immediately, if I wish it." "I am very _very_ sorry to hear all this," said Katie, with a troubled air; "but what do you propose to do, and how can I assist you?--only tell me, and I shall be so happy to do it, if it be in my power." "I really don't know how to put it to you, dear Miss Durant, and I could not have ventured if you had not been so very kind when I met you in Yarmouth; but--but your father owns several vessels, I believe, and-- and--you will excuse me referring to it, I know--he was so good as to get a situation on board of the Wellington--which has so unfortunately been wrecked--for a young--a--a young--man; one of those who was saved--" "Yes, yes," said Katie, quickly, thinking of Stanley Hall, and blushing scarlet; "I know the young gentleman to whom you refer; well, go on." "Well," continued Nora, thinking of Jim Welton, and blushing scarlet too, "that young man said to me that he felt sure if I were to make application to Mr Durant through you, he would give Billy a situation in one of his ships, and so get him out of harm's way." "He was right," said Katie, with a somewhat puzzled expression; "and you may rely on my doing what I can for the poor boy with papa, who is always happy to help in such cases; but I was not aware that Mr Hall knew either you or Billy." "Mr Hall!" exclaimed Nora, in surprise. "Did you not refer to him just now?" "No, miss; I meant James Welton." "Oh!" exclaimed Katie, prolonging that monosyllable in a sliding scale, ranging from low to high and back to low again, which was peculiarly suggestive; "I beg your pardon, I quite misunderstood you; well, you may tell Mr Welton that I will befriend Billy to the utmost of my power." The door opened as she spoke, and cousin Fanny entered. "Katie, I've come to tell you that Mr Queek--" She stopped short on observing Nora, who rose hastily, thanked Katie earnestly for the kind interest she had expressed in her little friend, and took her leave. "This is a very interesting little incident, Fan," said Katie with delight when they were alone; "quite a romancelet of real life. Let me see; here is a poor boy--the boy who deceived us, you remember--whom bad companions are trying to decoy into the wicked meshes of their dreadful net, and a sweet young girl, a sort of guardian angel as it were, comes to me and asks my aid to save the boy, and have him sent to sea. Isn't it delightful? Quite the ground-work of a tale--and might be so nicely illustrated," added Katie, glancing at her drawings. "But forgive me, Fan; I interrupted you. What were you going to tell me?" "Only that Mr Queeker cannot come to tea tonight, as he has business to attend to connected with his secret mission," replied Fanny. "How interesting it would be," said Katie, musing, "if we could only manage to mix up this mission of Mr Queeker's in the plot of our romance; wouldn't it? Come, I will put away my drawing for to-day, and finish the copy of papa's quarterly cash-account for those dreadful Board of Trade people; then we shall go to the pier and have a walk, and on our way we will call on that poor old bedridden woman whom papa has ferreted out, and give her some tea and sugar. Isn't it strange that papa should have discovered one so soon? I suppose you are aware of his _penchant_ for old women, Fan?" "No, I was not aware of it," said Fan, smiling. Whatever Fan said, she accompanied with a smile. Indeed a smile was the necessary result of the opening of her little mouth for whatever purpose--not an affected smile, but a merry one--which always had the effect, her face being plump, of half shutting her eyes. "Yes," continued Katie, with animation, "papa is _so_ fond of old women, particularly if they are _very_ old, and _very_ little, and thin; they _must_ be thin, though. I don't think he cares much for them if they are fat. He says that fat people are so jolly that they don't need to be cared for, but he dotes upon the little thin ones." Fanny smiled, and observed that that was curious. "So it is," observed Katie; "now _my_ taste lies in the direction of old men. I like to visit poor old men much better than poor old women, and the older and more helpless they are the more I like them." Fanny smiled again, and observed that that was curious too. "So it is," said Katie, "very odd that papa should like the old women and I should like the old men; but so it is. Now, Fan, we'll get ready and--oh how provoking! That must be another visitor! People find papa out so soon wherever we go, and then they give him no rest." "A boy wishes to see you, miss," said Mrs Cackles. "Me?" exclaimed Katie in surprise. "Yes, miss, and he says he wants to see you alone on important business." Katie looked at Fanny and smiled. Fanny returned the smile, and immediately left the room. "Show him in, Mrs Cackles." The landlady withdrew, and ushered in no less a personage than Billy Towler himself, who stopped at the door, and stood with his hat in his hand, and an unusually confused expression in his looks. "Please, miss," said Billy, "you knows me, I think?" Katie admitted that she knew him, and, knowing in her heart that she meant to befriend him, it suddenly occurred to her that it would be well to begin with a little salutary severity by way of punishment for his former misdeeds. "Last time I saw you, miss, I _did_ you," said Billy with a slight grin. "You did," replied Katie with a slight frown, "and I hope you have come to apologise for your naughty conduct." "Well, I can't 'xactly say as I have come to do that, but I dessay I may as well begin that way. I'm very sorry, miss, for havin' _did_ you, an' I've called now to see if I can't _do_ you again." Katie could not restrain a laugh at the impudence of this remark, but she immediately regretted it, because Billy took encouragement and laughed too; she therefore frowned with intense severity, and, still remembering that she meant ultimately to befriend the boy, resolved to make him in the meantime feel the consequences of his former misdeeds. "Come, boy," she said sharply, "don't add impertinence to your wickedness, but let me know at once what you want with me." Billy was evidently taken aback by this rebuff. He looked surprised, and did not seem to know how to proceed. At length he put strong constraint upon himself, and said, in rather a gruff tone-- "Well, miss, I--a--the fact is--you know a gal named Nora Jones, don't you? Anyhow, she knows you, an' has said to me so often that you was a parfect angel, that--that--" "That you came to see," interrupted Katie, glancing at her shoulders, "whether I really had wings, or not, eh?" Katie said this with a still darker frown; for she thought that the urchin was jesting. Nothing was further from his intention. Knowing this, and, not finding the angelic looks and tones which he had been led to expect, Billy felt still more puzzled and inclined to be cross. "Seems to me that there's a screw loose somewheres," said Billy, scratching the point of his nose in his vexation. "Hows'ever, I came here to ax your advice, and although you cer'nly don't 'ave wings nor the style o' looks wot's usual in 'eavenly wisiters, I'll make a clean breast of it--so here goes." Hereupon the poor boy related how he had been decoyed from the Grotto-- of which establishment he gave a graphic and glowing account--and said that he was resolved to have nothing more to do with Morley Jones, but meant to return to the Grotto without delay--that evening if possible. He had a difficulty, however, which was, that he could not speak freely to Nora about her father, for fear of hurting her feelings or enlightening her too much as to his true character, in regard to which she did not yet know the worst. One evil result of this was that she had begun to suspect there was something wrong as to his own affection for herself--which was altogether a mistake. Billy made the last remark with a flush of earnest indignation and a blow of his small hand on his diminutive knee! He then said that another evil result was that he could not see his way to explain to Nora why he wished to be off in such a hurry, and, worst of all, he had not a sixpence in the world wherewith to pay his fare to London, and had no means of getting one. "And so," said Katie, still keeping up her fictitious indignation, "you come to beg money from me?" "Not to beg, Miss--to borrer." "Ah! and thus to _do_ me a second time," said Katie. It must not be supposed that Katie's sympathetic heart had suddenly become adamantine. On the contrary, she had listened with deep interest to all that her youthful visitor had to say, and rejoiced in the thought that she had given to her such a splendid opportunity of doing good and frustrating evil; but the little spice of mischief in her character induced her still to keep up the fiction of being suspicious, in order to give Billy a salutary lesson. In addition to this, she had not quite got over the supposed insult of being mistaken for an angel! She therefore declined, in the meantime, to advance the required sum-- ten-and-sixpence--although the boy earnestly promised to repay her with his first earnings. "No," she said, with a gravity which she found it difficult to maintain, "I cannot give you such a sum until I have seen and consulted with my father on the subject; but I may tell you that I respect your sentiments regarding Nora and your intention to forsake your evil ways. If you will call here again in the evening I will see what can be done for you." Saying this, and meditating in her heart that she would not only give Billy the ten-and-sixpence to enable him to return to the Grotto, but would induce her father to give him permanent employment in one of his ships, she showed Billy to the door, and bade him be a good boy and take care of himself. Thereafter she recalled Fanny, and, for her benefit, re-enacted the whole scene between herself and Billy Towler, in a manner so graphic and enthusiastic, as to throw that amiable creature into convulsions of laughter, which bade fair to terminate her career in a premature fit of juvenile apoplexy. CHAPTER TWENTY. MYSTERIOUS DOINGS. Disappointed, displeased, and sorely puzzled, Billy Towler took his way towards the harbour, with his hands thrust desperately into his pockets, and an unwonted expression of discontent on his countenance. So deeply did he take the matter to heart, that he suffered one small boy to inquire pathetically, "if 'e'd bin long in that state o' grumps?" and another to suggest that, "if 'e couldn't be 'appier than that, 'e'd better go an' drown hisself," without vouchsafing a retort, or even a glance of recognition. Passing the harbour, he went down to the beach, and there unexpectedly met with Mr Morley Jones. "Hallo! my young bantam," exclaimed Morley, with a look of surprise. "Well, old Cochin-china, wot's up?" replied Billy, in a gruff tone. "Drunk as usual, I see." Being somewhat desperate, the boy did not see, or did not mind the savage glance with which Mr Jones favoured him. The glance was, however, exchanged quickly for an idiotic smile, as he retorted-- "Well, I ain't so drunk but I can see to steer my course, lad. Come, I've got a noo boat, what d'ye say to go an' have a sail? The fact is, Billy, I was just on my way up to the house to ax you to go with me, so it's good luck that I didn't miss you. Will 'ee go, lad?" At any other time the boy would have refused; but his recent disappointment in regard to the angelic nature of Katie still rankled so powerfully in his breast, that he swung round and said--"Get along, then--I'm your man--it's all up now--never say die--in for a penny in for a pound," and a variety of similar expressions, all of which tended to convince Mr Jones that Billy Towler happened to be in a humour that was extremely suitable to his purposes. He therefore led him towards his boat, which, he said, was lying on the beach at Broadstairs all ready to shove off. The distance to Broadstairs was about two miles, and the walk thither was enlivened by a drunken commentary on the fallacy of human hopes in general on the part of Mr Jones, and a brisk fire of caustic repartee on the part of Master Towler. A close observer might have noticed that, while these two were passing along the beach, at the base of the high cliffs of chalk running between Ramsgate and Broadstairs, two heads were thrust cautiously out of one of the small caverns or recesses which have been made in these cliffs by the action of the waves. The one head bore a striking resemblance to that of Robert Queeker, Esquire, and the other to that of Mr Larks. How these two came to be together, and to be there, it is not our business to say. Authors are fortunately not bound to account for everything they relate. All that we know is, that Mr Queeker was there in the furtherance, probably, of his secret mission, and that Mr Larks' missions appeared to be always more or less secret. At all events, there they were together; fellow-students, apparently, of the geology or conchology of that region, if one might judge from the earnest manner in which they stooped and gazed at the sands, and picked up bits of flint or small shells, over which they held frequent, and, no doubt, learned discussions of an intensely engrossing nature. It might have been also noticed by a close observer, that these stoopings to pick up specimens, and these stoppages to discuss, invariably occurred when Mr Jones and Master Billy chanced to pause or to look behind them. At last the boat was reached. It lay on the beach not far from the small harbour of Broadstairs, already surrounded by the rising tide. About the same time the geological and conchological studies of Messrs. Queeker and Larks coming to an end, these scientific men betook themselves suddenly to the shelter of a small cave, whence they sat watching, with intense interest, the movements of the man and boy, thus proving themselves gifted with a truly Baconian spirit of general inquiry into simple facts, with a view to future inductions. "Jump in, Billy," said Jones, "and don't wet your feet; I can easily shove her off alone." Billy obeyed. "Hallo! wot have 'ee got here?" he cried, touching a large tarpaulin bag with his foot. "Only some grub," answered Jones, putting his shoulder to the bow of the boat. "And a compass too!" cried Billy, looking round in surprise. "Ay, it may come on thick, you know," said Jones, as the boat's keel grated over the sand. "I say, stop!" cried Billy; "you're up to some mischief; come, let me ashore." Mr Jones made no reply, but continued to push off the boat. Seeing this, the boy leaped overboard, but Jones caught him. For one instant there was a struggle; then poor Billy was lifted in the strong man's arms, and hurled back into the boat. Next moment it was afloat, and Jones leaped inboard. Billy was not to be overcome so easily, however. He sprang up, and again made a leap over the gunwale, but Jones caught him by the collar, and, after a severe struggle, dragged him into the boat, and gave him a blow on the head with his clenched fist, which stunned him. Then, seizing the oars, he pulled off. After getting well away from the beach he hoisted a small lug-sail, and stood out to sea. All this was witnessed by the scientific men in the cave through a couple of small pocket-telescopes, which brought the expression of Jones's and Billy's countenances clearly into view. At first Mr Queeker, with poetic fervour, started up, intent on rushing to the rescue of the oppressed; but Mr Larks, with prosaic hardness of heart, held him forcibly back, and told him to make his mind easy, adding that Mr Jones had no intention of doing the boy any further harm. Whereupon Queeker submitted with a sigh. The two friends then issued from the cave, shook hands, and bade each other goodbye with a laugh--the man with the keen grey eyes following the path that led to Broadstairs, while the lawyer's clerk returned to Ramsgate by the beach. Meanwhile the sun went down, and the lanterns of the _Goodwin_, the _Gull_, and the _South sandhead_ floating lights went up. The shades of evening fell, and the stars came out--one by one at first; then by twos and threes; at last by bursts of constellations, until the whole heavens glowed with a galaxy of distant worlds. During all this time Mr Jones sat at the helm of his little boat, and held steadily out to sea. The wind being light, he made small progress, but that circumstance did not seem to trouble him much. "You'd better have a bit supper, lad," said Jones in a careless way. "Of course you're welcome to starve yourself if 'ee choose, but by so doin' you'll only make yourself uncomfortable for nothing. You're in for it now, an' can't help yourself." Billy was seated on one of the thwarts, looking very savage, with his right eye nearly closed by the blow which had caused him to succumb. "P'r'aps I mayn't be able to help myself," he replied, "but I can peach upon _you_, anyhow." "So you can, my lad, if you want to spend eight or ten years in limbo," retorted Jones, spitting out his quid of tobacco, and supplying its place with a new one. "You and I are in the same boat, Billy, whether ashore or afloat; we sink or swim together." No more was said for some time. Jones knew that the boy was in his power, and resolved to bide his time. Billy felt that he had at least the chance of being revenged if he chose to sacrifice himself, so he "nursed his wrath to keep it warm." About an hour afterwards a squall struck the boat, and nearly capsized it; but Jones, who was quite sobered by that time, threw her head quickly into the wind, and Billy, forgetting everything else, leaped up with his wonted activity, loosened the sail, and reefed it. The squall soon passed away, and left them almost becalmed, as before. "That was well done, Billy," said Jones, in a cheerful tone; "you'd make a smart sailor, my lad." Billy made no reply; and, despite his efforts to the contrary, felt highly flattered. He also felt the pangs of hunger, and, after resisting them for some time, resolved to eat, as it were, under protest. With a reckless, wilful air, therefore, he opened the tarpaulin bag, and helped himself to a large "hunk" of bread and a piece of cheese. Whereupon Mr Jones smiled grimly, and remarked that there was nothing like grub for giving a man heart--except grog, he added, producing a case-bottle from his pocket and applying it to his mouth. "Have a pull, lad? No! well, please yourself. I ain't goin' to join the temperance move myself yet," said Jones, replacing the bottle in his pocket. The short squall having carried the boat nearer to the Gull lightship than was desirable, Mr Jones tried to keep as far off from her as possible, while the tide should sweep them past; but the wind having almost died away, he did not succeed in this; however, he knew that darkness would prevent recognition, so he thought it best not to take to the oars, but to hold on, intending to slip quietly by, not supposing that Billy would think it of any use to hail the vessel; but Billy happened to think otherwise. "Gull ahoy! hoy!" he shouted at the top of his shrill voice. "Boat ahoy!" responded Jack Shales, who happened to be on duty; but no response was given to Jack, for the good reason that Jones had instantly clapped his hand on Billy's mouth, and half-choked him. "That's odd," remarked Jack, after repeating his cry twice. "I could swear it was the voice of that sharp little rascal Billy Towler." "If it wasn't it was his ghost," replied Jerry MacGowl, who chanced to be on deck at the time. "Sure enough it's very ghost-like," said Shales, as the boat glided silently and slowly out of the circle of the lantern's light, and faded from their vision. Mr Jones did not follow up his act with further violence. He merely assured Billy that he was a foolish fellow, and that it was of no use to struggle against his fate. As time wore on, poor Billy felt dreadfully sleepy, and would have given a good deal for some of the grog in his companion's case-bottle, but, resolving to stand upon his dignity, would not condescend to ask for it. At length he lay down and slept, and Jones covered him with a pilot-coat. No soft spot in the scoundrel's heart induced him to perform this act of apparent kindness. He knew the poor boy's temperament, and resolved to attack him on his weakest point. When Billy awoke the day was just breaking. He stretched himself, yawned, sat up, and looked about him with the confused air of one not quite awake. "Hallo!" he cried gaily, "where on earth am I?" "You ain't on earth, lad; you're afloat," replied Jones, who still sat at the helm. At once the boy remembered everything, and shrank within himself. As he did so, he observed the pilot-coat which covered him, and knew that it must have been placed where it was by Jones. His resolution to hold out was shaken; still he did not give in. Mr Jones now began to comment in a quiet good-natured way upon the weather and the prospects of the voyage (which excited Billy's curiosity very much), and suggested that breakfast would not be a bad thing, and that a drop o' rum might be agreeable, but took care never to make his remarks so pointed as to call for an answer. Just as the sun was rising he got up slowly, cast loose the stays and halyards of mast and sail, lifted the mast out of its place, and deliberately hove the whole affair overboard, remarking in a quiet tone that, having served his purpose, he didn't want mast or sail any longer. In the same deliberate way he unshipped the rudder and cast it away. He followed this up by throwing overboard one of the oars, and then taking the only remaining oar, he sculled and steered the boat therewith gently. Billy, who thought his companion must be either drunk or mad, could contain himself no longer. "I say, old fellow," he remarked, "you're comin' it pretty strong! Wot on earth _are_ you up to, and where in all the world are 'ee goin' to?" "Oh come, you know," answered Jones in a remonstrative tone, "I _may_ be an easy-goin' chap, but I can't be expected to tell all my secrets except to friends." "Well, well," said Billy, with a sigh, "it's no use tryin' to hold out. I'll be as friendly as I can; only. I tells you candid, I'll mizzle whenever I gits ashore. I'm not agoin' to tell no end o' lies to please you any longer, so I give 'ee fair warning," said Billy stoutly. "All right, my lad," said the wily Jones, who felt that having subdued the boy thus far, he would have little difficulty in subduing him still further, in course of time, and by dint of judicious treatment; "I don't want 'ee to tell lies on my account, an' I'll let you go free as soon as ever we get ashore. So now, let's shake hands over it, and have a glass o' grog and a bit o' breakfast." Billy shook hands, and took a sip out of the case-bottle, by way of clenching the reconciliation. The two then had breakfast together, and, while this meal was in progress, Jones informed his little friend of the nature of the "game" he was engaged in playing out. "You must know, my lad," said Mr Jones, "that you and I have been wrecked. We are the only survivors of the brig Skylark, which was run down in a fog by a large three-masted screw steamer on the night of the thirteenth--that's three nights ago, Billy. The Skylark sank immediately, and every soul on board was lost except you and me, because the steamer, as is too often the case in such accidents, passed on and left us to our fate. You and I was saved by consequence of bein' smart and gettin' into this here small boat--which is one o' the Skylark's boats--only just in time to save ourselves; but she had only one oar in her, and no mast, or sail, or rudder, as you see, Billy; nevertheless we managed to keep her goin' with the one oar up to this time, and no doubt," said Mr Jones with a grin, "we'll manage to keep her goin' till we're picked up and carried safe into port." Billy's eyes had opened very wide and very round as Mr Jones's description proceeded; gradually, as his surprise increased, his mouth also opened and elongated, but he said never a word, though he breathed hard. "Now, Billy, my boy," pursued Mr Jones, "I tell 'ee all this, of course, in strict confidence. The Skylark, you must know, was loaded with a valuable cargo of fine herrings, worth about 200 pounds. There was 780 barrels of 'em, and 800 boxes. The brig was worth 100 pounds, so the whole affair was valued at 300 pounds sterling." "You don't mean to tell me," said Billy, catching his breath, "that there warn't never no such a wessel as the Skylark?" "Never that I know of," replied Jones with a smile, "except in my brain, and on the books o' several insurance companies." Billy's eyes and mouth grew visibly rounder, but he said nothing more, and Mr Jones, renewing his quid, went on-- "Well, my lad, before this here Skylark left the port of London for Cherbourg, I insured her in no fewer than five insurance Companies. You'll understand that that ain't regular, my boy, but at each office I said that the vessel was not insured in any other, and they believed me. You must know that a good deal of business is done by these Companies in good faith, which gives a chance to smart fellows like me and you to turn an honest penny, d'ye see? They are pretty soft, luckily." Mr Jones happened to be mistaken in this opinion, as the sequel will show, but Billy believed him at the time, and wondered that they were "so green." "Yes," continued Jones, counting on his fingers, "I'm in for 300 pounds with the _Advance_ Company, and 300 pounds with the _Tied Harbours_ Company, and 225 pounds with the _Home and Abroad_ Company, and 200 pounds with the _Submarine_ Company, and 300 pounds with the _Friend-in-need_ Company--the whole makin' a snug little sum of 1325 pounds. `In for a penny, in for a pound,' is my motto, you see; so, lad, you and I shall make our fortunes, if all goes well, and you only continue game and clever." This last remark was a feeler, and Mr Jones paused to observe its effect, but he could scarce refrain from laughter for Billy's eyes and mouth now resembled three extremely round O's with his nose like a fat mark of admiration in the midst. A gusty sigh was all the response he gave, however, so Mr Jones continued-- "We've been out about thirty hours, starvin' in this here little boat, you and I, so now it's about time we wos picked up; and as I see a vessel on our larboard-beam that looks like a foreigner, we'll throw the grub overboard, have another pull at the grog, bottle, and hoist a signal of distress." In pursuance of these intentions Jones applied the case-bottle to his lips, and took a long pull, after which he offered it to Billy, who however declined. He then threw the bread-bag into the sea, and tying his handkerchief to the oar after the manner of a flag, set it up on end and awaited the result. The vessel alluded to was presently observed to alter its course and bear down on the boat, and now Billy felt that the deciding time had come. He sat gazing at the approaching vessel in silence. Was he to give in to his fate and agree to tell lies through thick and thin in order to further the designs of Mr Jones, or was he to reveal all the moment he should get on board the vessel, and take the consequences? He thought of Katie, and resolved to give up the struggle against evil. Then Nora rose up in his mind's eye, and he determined to do the right. Then he thought of transportation for a prolonged term of years, with which Jones threatened him, and he felt inclined to turn again into the wrong road to escape from that; presently he remembered the Grotto, and the lessons of truth to God and man that he had learned there, and he made up his mind to fight in the cause of truth to the last gasp. Mr Jones watched his face keenly, and came to the conclusion that he had quelled the boy, and should now find him a willing and useful tool, but in order to make still more sure, he employed the few minutes that remained to him in commenting on the great discomfort of a convict's life, and the great satisfaction that accrued from making one's fortune at a single stroke. This talk was not without its effect. Billy wavered. Before he could make up his mind they were alongside the strange vessel, and next moment on her deck. Mr Jones quickly explained the circumstances of the loss of the Skylark to the sympathetic captain. Billy listened in silence, and, by silence, had assented to the falsehood. It was too late now to mend matters, so he gave way to despair, which in him frequently, if not usually, assumed the form of reckless joviality. While this spirit was strong upon him he swore to anything. He not only admitted the truth of all that his tempter advanced, but entertained the seamen with a lively and graphic account of the running down of the Skylark, and entered into minute particulars--chiefly of a comical nature--with such recklessness that the cause of Mr Jones bade fair to resemble many a roast which is totally ruined by being overdone. Jones gave him a salutary check, however, on being landed next day at a certain town on the Kentish coast, so that when Billy was taken before the authorities, his statements were brought somewhat more into accord with those of his tempter. The wily Mr Jones went at once with Billy to the chief officer of the coast-guard on that station, and reported the loss of his vessel with much minuteness of detail--to the effect that she had sailed from London at noon of a certain date, at the quarter ebb tide, the sky being cloudy and wind sou'-west; that the casualty occurred at five p.m. on the day following near the North Foreland Light, at half flood tide, the sky being cloudy and wind west-sou'-west; that the vessel had sunk, and all the crew had perished excepting himself and the boy. This report, with full particulars, was sent to the Board of Trade. Mr Jones then went to the agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society and related his pitiful tale to him. That gentleman happening to be an astute man, observed some discrepancies in the accounts given respectively by Billy and his master. He therefore put a variety of puzzling questions, and took down a good many notes. Mr Jones, however, had laid his plans so well, and gave such a satisfactory and plausible account of himself, that the agent felt constrained to extend to him the aid of the noble Society which he represented, and by which so much good is done to sailors directly, and indirectly to the community at large. He paid their passage to London, but resolved to make some further inquiries with a view either to confirming or allaying his suspicions. These little matters settled, and the loss having been duly advertised in the newspapers, Mr Jones set out for London with the intention of presenting his claims to the Insurance Companies. In the train Billy had time to reflect on the wickedness of which he had been guilty, and his heart was torn with conflicting emotions, among which repentance was perhaps the most powerful. But what, he thought, was the use of repentance now? The thing was done and could not be undone. Could it not? Was it too late to mend? At the Grotto he had been taught that it was "never too late to mend"--but that it was sinful as well as dangerous to delay on the strength of that fact; that "_now_ was the accepted time, _now_ the day of salvation." When Billy thought of these things, and then looked at the stern inexorable face of the man by whom he had been enslaved, he began to give way to despair. When he thought of his good angel Nora, he felt inclined to leap out of the carriage window and escape or die! He restrained himself, however, and did nothing until the train arrived in London. Then he suddenly burst away from his captor, dived between the legs of a magnificent railway guard, whose dignity and person were overthrown by the shock, eluded the ticket-collector and several policemen, and used his active little legs so well that in a few minutes his pursuers lost him in a labyrinth of low streets not far distant from the station. From this point he proceeded at a rapid though less furious pace direct to the Grotto, where he presented himself to the superintendent with the remark that he had "come back to make a clean breast of it." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. ON THE SCENT. Let us change the scene and put back the clock. Ah, how many hearts would rejoice if it were as easy to return on the track of Time in real life as it is to do so in a tale! It was the evening of the day in which Jones and Billy went to sea in the little boat. Ramsgate, Mr Durant's supper-table, with Stanley Hall and Robert Queeker as guests. They were all very happy and merry, for Stanley was recounting with graphic power some of the incidents of his recent voyage. Mr Durant was rich enough to take the loss of his vessel with great equanimity-- all the more so that it had been fully insured. Mr Queeker was in a state of bliss in consequence of having been received graciously by Fanny, whose soul was aflame with sentiment so powerful that she could not express it except through the medium of a giggle. Only once had Fanny been enabled to do full justice to herself, and that was when, alone with Katie in the mysterious gloom of a midnight confabulation, she suddenly observed that size and looks in men were absolutely nothing--less than nothing--and that in her estimation heart and intellect were everything! In the midst of his mirth Mr Durant suddenly turned to Queeker and said-- "By the way, what made you so late of coming to-night, Queeker? I thought you had promised to come to tea." "Well, yes, but--a--that is," stammered Queeker in confusion, "in fact I was obliged to keep an appointment in connection with the--the particular business--" "The secret mission, in short," observed Katie, with a peculiar smile. "Well, secret mission if you choose," laughed Queeker; "at all events it was that which prevented my getting here sooner. In truth, I did not expect to have managed to come so soon, but we came to the boat--" Queeker stopped short and blushed violently, feeling that he had slightly, though unintentionally, committed himself. Fanny looked at him, blushed in sympathy, and giggled. "Oh, there's a _boat_ in the secret mission, is there?" cried Stanley; "come, let us make a game of it. Was it an iron boat?" "No," replied Queeker, laughing, for he felt that at all events he was safe in answering that question. "Was it a wooden one?" asked Katie. "Well--ye--" "Was it a big one?" demanded Mr Durant, entering into the spirit of the game. "No, it was a little one," said Queeker, still feeling safe, although anxious to evade reply. "Was there a man in it?" said Katie. Queeker hesitated. "And a boy?" cried Stanley. The question was put unwittingly, but being so put Queeker stammered, and again blushed. Katie on the contrary turned pale, for her previously expressed hope that there might be some connection between Queeker's mission and Billy Towler's troubles flashed into her mind. "But _was_ there a boy in it?" she said, with a sudden earnestness that induced every one to look at her in surprise. "Really, I pray--I must beg," said Queeker, "that you won't make this a matter of even jocular inquiry. Of course I know that no one here would make improper use of any information that I might give, but I have been pledged to secrecy by my employers." "But," continued Katie in the same anxious way as before, "it will not surely be a breach of confidence merely to tell me if the boy was a small, active, good-looking little fellow, with bright eyes and curly hair." "I am bound to admit," said Queeker, "that your description is correct." To the amazement, not to say consternation, of every one, Katie covered her face with her hands and burst into tears, exclaiming in an agony of distress that she knew it; she had feared it after sending him away; that she had ruined him, and that it was too late now to do anything. "No, not too late, perhaps," she repeated, suddenly raising her large beautiful eyes, which swam in tears; "oh papa, come with me up-stairs, I must speak with you alone at once." She seized her astonished father by the hand and led him unresisting from the room. Having hurriedly related all she knew about Billy Towler, Morley Jones, and Nora, she looked up in his face and demanded to know what _was_ to be done. "Done, my dear child," he replied, looking perplexed, "we must go at once and see how much can be undone. You tell me you have Nora's address. Well, we'll go there at once." "But--but," said Katie, "Nora does not know the full extent of her father's wickedness, and we want to keep it from her if possible." "A very proper desire to spare her pain, Katie, but in the circumstances we cannot help ourselves; we must do what we can to frustrate this man's designs and save the boy." So saying Mr Durant descended to the dining-room. He explained that some suspicious facts had come to his daughter's knowledge which necessitated instant action; said that he was sorry Mr Queeker felt it incumbent on him to maintain secrecy in regard to his mission, but that he could not think of pressing him to act in opposition to his convictions, and, dismissing his guests with many apologies, went out with Katie in search of the abode of Nora Jones. Stanley Hall, whose curiosity was aroused by all that had passed, went down to take a walk on the pier by way of wearing it off in a philosophical manner. He succeeded easily in getting rid of this feeling, but he could not so easily get rid of the image of Katie Durant. He had suspected himself in love with her before he sailed for India; his suspicions were increased on his return to England, and when he saw the burst of deep feeling to which she had so recently given way, and heard the genuine expressions of remorse, and beheld her sweet face bedewed with tears of regret and pity, suspicion was swallowed up in certainty. He resolved then and there to win her, if he could, and marry her! Here a touch of perplexity assailed him, but he fought it off nobly. He was young, no doubt, and had no money, but what then?--he was strong, had good abilities, a father in a lucrative practice, with the prospect of assisting and ultimately succeeding him. That was enough, surely. The lodging which he had taken for a few days was retaken that night for an indefinite period, and he resolved to lay siege to her heart in due form. But that uncertainty which is proverbial in human affairs stepped within the circle of his life and overturned his plans. On returning to his rooms he found a telegram on the table. His father, it informed him, was dangerously ill. By the next train he started for home, and arrived to find that his father was dead. A true narrative of any portion of this world's doings must of necessity be as varied as the world itself, and equally abrupt in its transitions. From the lively supper-table Stanley Hall passed to the deathbed of his father. In like manner we must ask the reader to turn with us from the contemplation of Stanley's deep sorrow to the observation of Queeker's poetic despair. Maddened between the desire to tell all he knew regarding the secret mission to Mr Durant, and the command laid on him by his employers to be silent, the miserable youth rushed frantically to his lodgings, without any definite intentions, but more than half inclined to sink on his knees before his desk, and look up to the moon, or stars, or; failing these, to the floating light for inspiration, and pen the direful dirge of something dreadful and desperate! He had even got the length of the first line, and had burst like a thunderbolt into his room muttering-- "Great blazing wonder of illimitable spheres," when he became suddenly aware of the fact that his chair was occupied by the conchological friend with whom he had spent the earlier part of that day, who was no other than the man with the keen grey eyes. "What! still in the poetic vein?" he said, with a grave smile. "Why--I--thought you were off to London!" exclaimed Queeker, with a very red face. "I have seen cause to change my plan," said Mr Larks quietly. "I'm _very_ glad of it," replied Queeker, running his fingers through his hair and sitting down opposite his friend with a deep sigh, "because I'm in the most horrible state of perplexity. It is quite evident to me that the boy is known to Miss Durant, for she went off into _such_ a state when I mentioned him and described him exactly." "Indeed," said Mr Larks; "h'm! I know the boy too." "Do you? Why didn't you tell me that?" "There was no occasion to," said the imperturbable Mr Larks, whose visage never by any chance conveyed any expression whatever, except when he pleased, and then it conveyed only and exactly the expression that he intended. "But come," he continued, "let's hear all about it, and don't quote any poetry till you have done with the facts." Thus exhorted Queeker described the scene at the supper-table with faithful minuteness, and, on concluding, demanded what was to be done. "H'm!" grunted Mr Larks. "They've gone to visit Nora Jones, so you and I shall go and keep them company. Come along." He put on his hat and went out, followed by his little friend. In a lowly ill-furnished room in one of the poorest streets of the town, where rats and dogs and cats seemed to divide the district with poverty-stricken human beings, they found Nora sitting by the bedside of her grandmother, who appeared to be dying. A large Family Bible, from which she had been reading, was open on her knee. Mr Larks had opened the door and entered without knocking. He and Queeker stood in the passage and saw the bed, the invalid, and the watcher through an inner door which stood ajar. They could hear the murmurings of the old woman's voice. She appeared to wander in her mind, for sometimes her words were coherent, at other times she merely babbled. "O Morley, Morley, give it up," she said, during one of her lucid intervals; "it has been the curse of our family. Your grandfather died of it; your father--ah! he _was_ a man, tall and straight, and _so_ kind, till he took to it; oh me! how it changed him! But the Lord saved his soul, though he let the body fall to the dust. Blessed be His holy name for that. Give it up, Morley, my darling boy; give it up, give it up--oh, for God's sake give it up!" She raised her voice at each entreaty until it almost reached a shriek, and then her whole frame seemed to sink down into the bed from exhaustion. "Why don't 'ee speak to me, Morley?" she resumed after a short time, endeavouring to turn her head round. "Dearest granny," said Nora, gently stroking one of her withered hands, which lay on the counterpane, "father is away just now. No doubt he will be back ere long." "Ay, ay, he's always away; always away," she murmured in a querulous tone; "always coming back too, but he never comes. Oh, if he would give it up--give it up--" She repeated this several times, and gradually dwindled off into unintelligible mutterings. By this time Mr Larks had become aware of whispering voices in a part of the room which he could not see. Pushing the door a little farther open he entered softly, and in a darkened corner of the apartment beheld Mr Durant and Katie in close conversation with James Welton. They all rose, and Nora, seeing that the old woman had fallen into a slumber, also rose and advanced towards the strangers. Mr Durant at once explained to her who Queeker was, and Queeker introduced Mr Larks as a friend who had come to see them on important business. "I think we know pretty well what the business is about," said Jim Welton, advancing and addressing himself to Mr Larks, "but you see," he added, glancing towards the bed, "that this is neither the time nor place to prosecute your inquiries, sir." Mr Larks, who was by no means an unfeeling man, though very stern, said that he had no intention of intruding; he had not been aware that any one was ill in the house, and he would take it as a favour if Mr Welton would go outside and allow him the pleasure of a few words with him. Of course Jim agreed, but before going took Nora aside. "I'll not be back to-night, dearest," he said in a low whisper. "To-morrow, early, I'll return." "You will leave no stone unturned?" said Nora. "Not one. I'll do my best to save him." "And you have told me the worst--told me _all_?" asked Nora, with a look of intense grief mingled with anxiety on her pale face. "I have," said Jim, in a tone and with a look so earnest and truthful that Nora required no further assurance. She gave him a kindly but inexpressibly sad smile, and returned to her stool beside the bed. Her lover and Mr Larks went out, followed by Queeker. "We won't intrude on you longer to-night," said Katie, going up to Nora and laying her hand quietly on her shoulder. "Your visit is no intrusion," said Nora, looking up with a quiet smile. "It was love that brought you here, I know. May our dear Lord bless you and your father for wishing to comfort the heart of one who needs it so much--oh, so much." She put her hands before her face and was silent. Katie tried in vain to speak. The tears coursed freely down her cheeks, but never a word could she utter. She put her arm round the neck of the poor girl and kissed her. This was a language which Nora understood;-- many words could not have expressed so much; no words could have expressed more. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. MR. JONES IS OUTWITTED, AND NORA IS LEFT DESOLATE. When Morley Jones found himself suddenly deserted by his ally Billy Towler, he retired to the privacy of a box in a low public-house in Thames Street, and there, under the stimulus of a stiff glass of grog, consulted with himself as to the best mode of procedure under the trying circumstances in which he found himself placed. He thought it probable, after half an hour of severe meditation, that Billy would return to the Grotto, but that, for his own sake, he would give a false account of his absence, and say nothing about the loss of the Skylark. Feeling somewhat relieved in mind by his conclusions on this head, he drank off his grog, called for another glass, and then set himself to the consideration of how far the disappearance of the boy would interfere with his obtaining payment of the various sums due by the Insurance Offices. This point was either more knotty and difficult to unravel than the previous one, or the grog began to render his intellect less capable of grappling with it. At all events it cost him an hour to determine his course of action, and required another glass of grog to enable him to put the whole matter fairly before his mental vision in one comprehensive view. This, however, accomplished, he called for a fourth glass of grog "for luck," and reeled out of the house to carry out his deep-laid plans. His first act was to proceed to Greenwich, where a branch of his fish-curing business existed, or was supposed to exist. Here he met a friend who offered to treat him. Unfortunately for the success of his schemes he accepted this offer, and, in the course of a debauch, revealed so much of his private affairs that the friend, after seeing him safely to his lodging, and bidding him an affectionate farewell, went up to London by the first boat on the following morning, and presented himself to the managers of various Insurance Companies, to whom he made revelations which were variously received by these gentlemen; some of them opening their eyes in amazement, while others opened their mouths in amusement, and gave him to understand that he was very much in the position of a man who should carry coals to Newcastle-- they being then in possession of all the information given, and a great deal more besides. The manager of the Submarine Insurance Company was the most facetious among these gentlemen on hearing the revelations of Mr Jones's "friend." "Can you tell me," said that gentleman, when he had pumped the "friend" dry, "which of us is likely to receive the distinguished honour of the first visit from Mr Jones?" "He said summat about your own office, sir," replied the informer; "leastwise I think he did, but I ain't quite sartin." "H'm! not unlikely," observed the manager; "we have had the pleasure of paying him something before to-day. Come here, I will introduce you to an acquaintance of Mr Jones, who takes a deep interest in him. He has just arrived from Ramsgate." Opening a door, the manager ushered the informer into a small room where a stout man with peculiarly keen grey eyes was warming himself at the fire. "Allow me to introduce you, Mr Larks, to a friend of Mr Jones, who may be of some use. I will leave you together for a little," said the manager, with a laugh, as he retired and shut the door. It is not necessary that we should enter into details as to how Mr Jones went about the business of drawing his nets ashore--so to speak,-- and how those who took a special interest in Mr Jones carefully assisted him, and, up to a certain point, furthered all his proceedings. It is sufficient to say that, about a fortnight after his arrival in London--all the preliminary steps having been taken--he presented himself one fine forenoon at the office of the Submarine Insurance Company. He was received very graciously, and, much to his satisfaction, was told that the claim could now be settled without further delay. Former experience had taught him that such a piece of business was not unusually difficult of settlement, but he was quite charmed by the unwonted facilities which seemed to be thrown in his way in regard to the present affair. He congratulated himself internally, and the manager congratulated him externally, so to speak, by referring to his good fortune in having insured the vessel and cargo to the full amount. Even the clerks of the establishment appeared to manifest unwonted interest in the case, which gratified while it somewhat surprised Mr Jones. Indeed, the interest deepened to such an extent, and was so obtrusive, that it became almost alarming, so that feelings of considerable relief were experienced by the adventurous man when he at length received a cheque for 300 pounds and left the office with it in his pocket. In the outer lobby he felt a touch on his arm, and, looking round, met the gaze of a gentleman with peculiarly keen grey eyes. This gentleman made some quiet remarks with reference to Mr Jones being "wanted," and when Mr Jones, not relishing the tone or looks of this gentleman, made a rush at the outer glass door of the office, an official stepped promptly in front of it, put one hand on the handle, and held up the other with the air of one who should say, "Excuse me, there is no thoroughfare this way." Turning abruptly to the left, Mr Jones found himself confronted by another grave gentleman of powerful frame and resolute aspect, who, by a species of magic or sleight of hand known only to the initiated, slipped a pair of steel bracelets on Mr Jones's wrists, and finally, almost before he knew where he was, Mr Jones found himself seated in a cab with the strong gentleman by his side, and the keen grey-eyed gentleman in front of him. Soon afterwards he found himself standing alone in the midst of an apartment, the chief characteristics of which were, that the furniture was scanty, the size inconveniently little, and the window unusually high up, besides being heavily barred, and ridiculously small. Here let us leave him to his meditations. One fine forenoon--many weeks after the capture of Morley Jones--Dick Moy, Jack Shales, and Jerry MacGowl were engaged in painting and repairing buoys in the Trinity store on the pier at Ramsgate. The two former were enjoying their month of service on shore, the latter was on sick-leave, but convalescent. Jack was painting squares of alternate black and white on a buoy of a conical shape. Dick was vigorously scraping sea-weed and barnacles off a buoy of a round form. The store, or big shed, was full of buoys of all shapes; some new and fresh, others old and rugged; all of them would have appeared surprisingly gigantic to any one accustomed to see buoys only in their native element. The invalid sat on the shank of a mushroom anchor, and smoked his pipe while he affected to superintend the work. "Sure I pity the poor craturs as is always sick. The mouth o' man can niver tell the blessedness of bein' well, as the pote says," observed Jerry, with a sigh, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe and proceeded to refill it. "Come now, Jack Shales," he added, after a short pause, "ye don't call that square, do 'ee?" "I'll paint yer nose black if you don't shut up," said Jack, drawing the edge of a black square with intense caution, in order to avoid invading the domain of a white one. "Ah! you reminds me of the owld proverb that says somethin' about asses gittin impudent an' becomin' free with their heels when lions grow sick." "Well, Jerry," retorted Jack, with a smile, as he leaned back and regarded his work with his head very much on one side, and his eyes partially closed, after the manner of knights of the brush, "I'm not offended, because I'm just as much of an ass as you are of a lion." "I say, mates," remarked Dick Moy, pausing in his work, and wiping his brow, "are 'ee aweer that the cap'n has ordered us to be ready to start wi' the first o' the tide at half after five to-morrow?" "I knows it," replied Jack Shales, laying down the black brush and taking up the white one. "I knows it too," said Jerry MacGowl, "but it don't make no manner of odds to me, 'cause I means to stop ashore and enjoy meself. I mean to amoose meself with the trial o' that black thief Morley Jones." Dick Moy resumed his work with a grunt, and said that Jerry was a lucky fellow to be so long on sick-leave, and Jack said he wished he had been called up as a witness in Jones's case, for he would have cut a better figure than Jim Welton did. "Ay, boy," said Dick Moy, "but there wos a reason for that. You know the poor feller is in love wi' Jones's daughter, an' he didn't like for to help to convict his own father-in-law _to be_, d'ye see? That's where it is. The boy Billy Towler was a'most as bad. He's got a weakness for the gal too, an' no wonder, for she's bin as good as a mother to 'im. They say that Billy nigh broke the hearts o' the lawyers, he wos so stoopid at sometimes, an' so oncommon cute at others. But it warn't o' no use. Jim's father was strong in his evidence agin him, an' that Mr Larks, as comed aboard of the Gull, you remember, he had been watching an' ferreting about the matter to that extent that he turned Jones's former life inside out. It seems he's bin up to dodges o' that kind for a long time past." "No! has he?" said Jack Shales. "Arrah, didn't ye read of it?" exclaimed Jerry MacGowl. "No," replied Jack drily; "not bein' on the sick-list I han't got time to read the papers, d'ye see?" "Well," resumed Dick Moy, "it seems he has more than once set fire to his premises in Gravesend, and got the insurance money. Hows'ever, he has got fourteen years' transportation now, an' that'll take the shine pretty well out of him before he comes back." "How did the poor gal take it?" asked Jack. Dick replied that she was very bad at first, but that she got somewhat comforted by the way her father behaved to her and listened to her readin' o' the Bible after he was condemned. It might be that the death of his old mother had softened him a bit, for she died with his name on her lips, her last words being, "Oh Morley, give it up, my darling boy, give it up; it's your only chance to give it up, for you inherit it, my poor boy; the passion and the poison are in your blood; oh, give it up, Morley, give it up!" "They do say," continued Dick, "that Jones broke down altogether w'en he heard that, an' fell on his gal's neck an' cried like a babby. But for my part I don't much believe in them deathbed repentances--for it's much the same thing wi' Jones now, he bein' as good as dead. It's not wot a man _says_, but how a man _lives_, as'll weigh for or against him in the end." "An' what more did he say?" asked Jerry MacGowl, stopping down the tobacco in his pipe with one of his fire-proof fingers; "you see, havin' bin on the sick-list so long, I haven't got up all the details o' this business." "He didn't say much more," replied Dick, scraping away at the sea-weed and barnacles with renewed vigour, "only he made his darter promise that she'd marry Jim Welton as soon after he was gone as possible. She did nothing but cry, poor thing, and wouldn't hear of it at first, but he was so strong about it, saying that the thought of her being so well married was the only thing as would comfort him w'en he was gone, that she gave in at last." "Sure then she'll have to make up her mind," said Jerry, "to live on air, which is too light food intirely for any wan excep' hummin'-birds and potes." "She'll do better than that, mate," returned Dick, "for Jim 'as got appointed to be assistant-keeper to a light'ouse, through that fust-rate gen'leman Mr Durant, who is 'and an' glove, I'm told, wi' the Elder Brethren up at the Trinity 'Ouse. It's said that they are to be spliced in a week or two, but, owin' to the circumstances, the weddin' is to be kep' quite priwate." "Good luck to em!" cried Jerry. "Talkin' of the Durants, I s'pose ye've heard that there's goin' to be a weddin' in that family soon?" "Oh, yes, I've heard on it," cried Dick; "Miss Durant--Katie, they calls her--she's agoin' to be spliced to the young doctor that was wrecked in the Wellington. A smart man that. They say 'ee has stepped into 'is father's shoes, an' is so much liked that 'ee's had to git an assistant to help him to get through the work o' curin' people--or killin' of 'em. I never feel rightly sure in my own mind which it is that the doctors does for us." "Och, don't ye know?" said Jerry, removing his pipe for a moment, "they keeps curin' of us as long as we've got any tin, an' when that's done they kills us off quietly. If it warn't for the doctors we'd all live to the age of Methoosamel, excep', of coorse, w'en we was cut off by accident or drink." "Well, I don't know as to that," said Jack Shales, in a hearty manner; "but I'm right glad to hear that Miss Durant is gettin' a good husband, for she's the sweetest gal in England, I think, always exceptin' one whom I don't mean for to name just now. Hasn't she been a perfect angel to the poor--especially to poor old men--since she come to Ramsgate? and didn't she, before goin' back to Yarmouth, where she b'longs to, make a beautiful paintin' o' the lifeboat, and present it in a gold frame, with tears in her sweet eyes, to the coxswain o' the boat, an' took his big fist in her two soft little hands, an' shook an' squeezed it, an' begged him to keep the pictur' as a very slight mark of the gratitude an' esteem of Dr Hall an' herself--that was after they was engaged, you know? Ah! there ain't many gals like _her_," said Jack, with a sigh, "always exceptin' _one_." "Humph!" said Dick Moy, "I wouldn't give my old 'ooman for six dozen of 'er." "Just so," observed Jerry, with a grin, "an' I've no manner of doubt that Dr Hall wouldn't give _her_ for sixty dozen o' your old 'ooman. It's human natur', lad,--that's where it is, mates. But what has come o' Billy Towler? Has he gone back to the what's-'is-name--the Cavern, eh?" "The Grotto, you mean," said Jack Shales. "Well, the Grotto--'tan't much differ." "He's gone back for a time," said Dick; "but Mr Durant has prowided for _him_ too. He has given him a berth aboord one of his East-Indiamen; so if Billy behaves hisself his fortin's as good as made. Leastwise he has got his futt on the first round, an' the ladder's all clear before him." "By the way, what's that I've heard," said Jack Shales, "about Mr Durant findin' out that he'd know'd Billy Towler some years ago?" "I don't rightly know," replied Dick. "I've 'eerd it said that the old gentleman recognised him as a beggar boy 'e'd tuck a fancy to an' putt to school long ago; but Billy didn't like the school, it seems, an' runn'd away--w'ich I don't regard as wery surprisin'--an' Mr Durant could never find out where 'e'd run to. That's how I 'eerd the story, but wot's true of it I dun know." "There goes the dinner-bell!" exclaimed Jack Shales, rising with alacrity on hearing a neighbouring clock strike noon. Jerry rose with a sigh, and remarked, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe, and put it into his waistcoat pocket, that his appetite had quite left him; that he didn't believe he was fit for more than two chickens at one meal, whereas he had seen the day when he would have thought nothing of a whole leg of mutton to his own cheek. "Ah," remarked Dick Moy, "Irish mutton, I s'pose. Well, I don't know 'ow you feels, but I feels so hungry that I could snap at a ring-bolt; and I know of a lot o' child'n, big an' small, as won't look sweet on their daddy if he keeps 'em waitin' for dinner, so come along, mates." Saying this, Dick and his friends left the buoy-store, and walked smartly off to their several places of abode in the town. In a darkened apartment of that same town sat Nora Jones, the very personification of despair, on a low stool, with her head resting on the side of a poor bed. She was alone, and perfectly silent; for some sorrows, like some thoughts, are too deep for utterance. Everything around her suggested absolute desolation. The bed was that in which not long ago she had been wont to smooth the pillow and soothe the heart of her old grandmother. It was empty now. The fire in the rusty grate had been allowed to die out, and its cold grey ashes strewed the hearth. Among them lay the fragments of a black bottle. It would be difficult to say what it was in the peculiar aspect of these fragments that rendered them so suggestive, but there was that about them which conveyed irresistibly the idea that the bottle had been dashed down there with the vehemence of uncontrollable passion. The little table which used to stand at the patient's bedside was covered with a few crumbs and fragments of a meal that must, to judge from their state and appearance, have been eaten a considerable time ago; and the confusion of the furniture, as well as the dust that covered everything, was strangely out of keeping with the character of the poor girl, who reclined by the side of the bed, so pale and still that, but for the slight twitching movement of her clasped hands, one might have supposed she had already passed from the scene of her woe. Even the old-fashioned timepiece that hung upon a nail in the wall seemed to be smitten with the pervading spell, for its pendulum was motionless, and its feeble pulse had ceased to tick. A soft tap at the door broke the deathlike silence. Nora looked up but did not answer, as it slowly opened, and a man entered. On seeing who it was, she uttered a low wail, and buried her face in the bed-clothes. Without speaking, or moving from her position, she held out her hand to Jim Welton, who advanced with a quick but quiet step, and, going down on his knees beside her, took the little hand in both of his. The attitude and the silence were suggestive. Without having intended it the young sailor began to pray, and in a few short broken sentences poured out his soul before God. A flood of tears came to Nora's relief. After a few minutes she looked up. "Oh! thank you, thank you, Jim. I believe that in the selfishness of my grief I had forgotten God; but oh! I feel as if my heart was crushed beyond the power of recovery. _She_ is gone" (glancing at the empty bed), "and _he_ is gone--gone--_for ever_." Jim wished to comfort her, and tried to speak, but his voice was choked. He could only draw her to him, and laying her head on his breast, smooth her fair soft hair with his hard but gentle hand. "Not gone for ever, dearest," he said at length with a great effort. "It is indeed along long time, but--" He could not go further, for it seemed to him like mockery to suggest by way of comfort that fourteen years would come to an end. For some minutes the silence was broken only by an occasional sob from poor Nora. "Oh! he was so different _once_," she said, raising herself and looking at her lover with tearful, earnest eyes; "you have seen him at his worst, Jim. There was a time,--before he took to--" She stopped abruptly, as if unable to find words, and pointed, with a fierce expression, that seemed strange and awful on her gentle face, to the fragments of the broken bottle on the hearth. Jim nodded. She saw that he understood, and went on in her own calm voice:-- "There was a time when he was kind and gentle and loving; when he had no drunken companions, and no mysterious goings to sea; when he was the joy as well as the support of his mother, and _so_ fond of me--but he was always that; even after he had--" Again Nora paused, and, drooping her head, uttered the low wail of desolation that went like cold steel to the young sailor's heart. "Nora," he said earnestly, "he will get no drink where he is going. At all events he will be cured of _that_ before he returns home." "Oh, I bless the Lord for that," said Nora, with fervour. "I have thought of that before now, and I have thought, too, that there are men of God where he is going, who think of, and pray for, and strive to recover, the souls of those who--that is; but oh, Jim, Jim, it is a long, long, weary time. I feel that I shall never see my father more in this world--never, never more!" "We cannot tell, Nora," said Jim, with a desperate effort to appear hopeful. "I know well enough that it may seem foolish to try to comfort you with the hope of seein' him again in this life; and yet even this may come to pass. He may escape, or he may be forgiven, and let off before the end of his time. But come, cheer up, my darling. You remember what his last request was?" "How can you talk of such a thing at such a time?" exclaimed Nora, drawing away from him and rising. "Be not angry, Nora," said Jim, also rising. "I did but remind you of it for the purpose of sayin' that as you agreed to what he wished, you have given me a sort of right or privilege, dear Nora, at least to help and look after you in your distress. Your own unselfish heart has never thought of telling me that you have neither money nor home; this poor place being yours only till term-day, which is to-morrow; but I know all this without requiring to be told, and I have come to say that there is an old woman--a sort of relation of mine--who lives in this town, and will give you board and lodging gladly till I can get arrangements made at the lighthouse for our--that is to say--till you choose, in your own good time, to let me be your rightful protector and supporter, as well as your comforter." "Thank you, Jim. It is like yourself to be so thoughtful. Forgive me; I judged you hastily. It is true I am poor--I have nothing in the world, but, thanks be to God, I have health. I can work; and there are some kind friends," she added, with a sad smile, "who will throw work in my way, I know." "Well, we will talk about these things afterwards, Nora, but you won't refuse to take advantage of my old friend's offer--at least for a night or two?" "No, I won't refuse that, Jim; see, I am prepared to go," she said, pointing to a wooden sea-chest which stood in the middle of the room; "my box is packed. Everything I own is in it. The furniture, clock, and bedding belong to the landlord." "Come then, my own poor lamb," said the young sailor tenderly, "let us go." Nora rose and glanced slowly round the room. Few rooms in Ramsgate could have looked more poverty-stricken and cheerless, nevertheless, being associated in her mind with those whom she had lost, she was loath to leave it. Falling suddenly on her knees beside the bed, she kissed the old counterpane that had covered the dead form she had loved so well, and then went hastily out and leaned her head against the wall of the narrow court before the door. Jim lifted the chest, placed it on his broad shoulders and followed her. Locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket, he gave his disengaged arm to Nora, and led her slowly a way. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. TELLS OF AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN, AND DESCRIBES A GREAT FEAST. If, as we have elsewhere observed in this narrative, time and tide wait for no man, it is not less true that time and tide work wonderful changes in man and his affairs and fortunes. Some of those changes we will now glance at, premising that seven years have passed away since the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter. On the evening of a somewhat gloomy day in the month of sunny showers, four men of rough aspect, and clad in coarse but not disreputable garments, stopped in front of a public-house in one of the lowest localities of London, and looked about them. There was something quite peculiar in their aspect. They seemed to be filled with mingled curiosity and surprise, and looked somewhat scared, as a bird does when suddenly set free from its cage. Two of the men were of an extremely low type of humanity--low-browed and scowling--and their language betokened that their minds were in keeping with their faces. The other two were better-looking and better-spoken, one of them having evidently been a handsome man in his day. His hair was blanched as white as snow although it still retained the curls of youth. His figure was much bent, and he appeared like one who had been smitten with premature old age. "Well, uncommon queer changes bin goin' on here," said one of the men, gazing round him. One of the others admitted that there certainly had been wonderful changes, and expressed a fear that if the change in himself was as great, his old pals wouldn't know him. "Hows'ever," observed he who had spoken first, "they won't see such a difference as they would have seen if we'd got the whole fourteen. Good luck to the ticket-of-leave system, say I." The others laughed at this, and one of them suggested that they should enter the public-house and have a glass of grog in memory of old times. Three of the men at once agreed to this proposal, and said that as it would not be long before they were in the stone jug again it behoved them to make the most of their freedom while it lasted. The man with white hair, however, objected, and it was not until his companions had chaffed and rallied him a good deal that he consented to enter the house, observing, as he followed them slowly, that he had not tasted a drop for seven years. "Well, well," replied one of the others, "it don't matter; you'll relish it all the more now, old feller. It'll go down like oil, an' call up the memory of old times--" "The memory of old times!" cried the white-haired man, stopping short, with a sudden blaze of ferocity which amazed his companions. He stood glaring at them for a few moments, with his hands tightly clenched; then, without uttering another word, he turned round and rushed from the house. "Mad!" exclaimed one of the other three, looking at his companions when they had recovered from their surprise, "mad as a March hare. Hows'ever, that don't consarn us. Come along, my hearties.--Hallo! landlord, fetch drink here--your best, and plenty of it. Now, boys, fill up and I'll give 'ee a toast." Saying this the man filled his glass, the others followed his example-- the toast was given and drunk--more toasts were given and drunk--the three men returned to their drink and their old ways, and haunts and comrades, as the sow returns to her wallowing in the mire. Meanwhile the white-haired man wandered away as if he had no settled purpose. Day after day he moved on through towns and villages and fields, offering to work, but seldom being employed, begging his bread from door to door, but carefully avoiding the taverns; sleeping where he could, or where he was permitted--sometimes in the barn of a kindly farmer, sometimes under a hay-stack, not unfrequently under a hedge-- until at last he found himself in the town of Ramsgate. Here he made inquiries of various people, and immediately set forth again on his travels through the land until he reached a remote part of the coast of England, where he found his further progress checked by the sea, but, by dint of begging a free passage from fishermen here and there, he managed at last to reach one of our outlying reefs, where, on a small islet, a magnificent lighthouse reared its white and stately column, and looked abroad upon the ocean, with its glowing eye. There was a small village on the islet, in which dwelt a few families of fishermen. They were a hard-working community, and appeared to be contented and happy. The lighthouse occupied an elevated plateau above the cliffs at the sea-ward extremity of the isle, about quarter of a mile distant from the fishing village. Thither the old man wended his way. The tower, rising high above shrubs and intervening rocks, rendered a guide unnecessary. It was a calm evening. The path, which was narrow and rugged, wound its serpentine course amid grey rocks, luxuriant brambles, grasses, and flowering shrubs. There were no trees. The want of shelter on that exposed spot rendered their growth impossible. The few that had been planted had been cut down by the nor'-west wind as with a scythe. As he drew near to the lighthouse, the old man observed a woman sitting on a stool in front of the door, busily engaged with her needle, while three children--two girls and a boy--were romping on the grass plat beside her. The boy was just old enough to walk with the steadiness of an exceedingly drunk man, and betrayed a wonderful tendency to sit down suddenly and gaze--astonished! The girls, apparently though not really twins, were just wild enough to enjoy their brother's tumbles, and helped him to accomplish more of them than would have resulted from his own incapacity to walk. A magnificent black Newfoundland dog, with grey paws and a benignant countenance, couched beside the woman and watched the children at play. He frequently betrayed a desire to join them in their gambols, but either laziness or a sense of his own dignity induced him to sit still. "Nora," called the mother, who was a young and exceedingly beautiful mother, "Nora, come here; go tell your father that I see a stranger coming up the path. Quick, darling." Little Nora bounded away like a small fairy, with her fair curls streaming in the wind which her own speed created. "Katie," said the mother, turning to her second daughter, "don't rumple him up quite so violently. You must remember that he is a tiny fellow yet, and can't stand such rough treatment." "But he likes it, ma," objected Katie, with a look of glee, although she obeyed the order at once. "Don't you, Morley?" Little Morley stopped in the middle of an ecstatic laugh, scrambled upon his fat legs and staggered towards his mother, with his fists doubled, as if to take summary vengeance on her for having stopped the fun. "Oh, baby boy; my little Morley, what a wild fellow you are!" cried the mother, catching up her child and tossing him in the air. The old man had approached near enough to overhear the words and recognise the face. Tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks, as he fell forward on the path with his face in the dust. At the same moment the lighthouse-keeper issued from the door of the building. Running towards the old man, he and his wife quickly raised him and loosened his neckcloth. His face had been slightly cut by the fall. Blood and dust besmeared it and soiled his white locks. "Poor old man!" said the keeper, as his mate, the assistant light-keeper, joined him. "Lend a hand, Billy, to carry him in. He ain't very heavy." The assistant--a strapping young fellow, with a powerful, well-made frame, sparkling eyes and a handsome face, on which at that moment there was a look of intense pity--assisted his comrade to raise the old man. They carried him with tender care into the lighthouse and laid him on a couch which at that time, owing to lack of room in the building, happened to be little Nora's bed. For a few moments he lay apparently in a state of insensibility, while the mother of the family brought a basin of water and began carefully to remove the blood and dust which rendered his face unrecognisable. The first touch of the cold sponge caused him to open his eyes and gaze earnestly in the woman's face--so earnestly that she was constrained to pause and return the gaze inquiringly. "You seem to know me," she said. The old man made no reply, but, slowly clasping his hands and closing his eyes, exclaimed "Thank God!" fervently. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Let us glance, now, at a few more of the changes which had been wrought in the condition and circumstances of several of the actors in this tale by the wonder-working hand of time. On another evening of another month in this same year, Mr Robert Queeker--having just completed an ode to a star which had been recently discovered by the Astronomer-Royal--walked from the door of the Fortress Hotel, Ramsgate, and, wending his way leisurely along Harbour Street, directed his steps towards Saint James's Hall. Seven years had wrought a great change for the better in Mr Robert Queeker. His once smooth face was decorated with a superb pair of light-brown whiskers of the stamp now styled Dundreary. His clothes fitted him well, and displayed to advantage a figure which, although short, was well made and athletic. It was evident that time had not caused his shadow to grow less. There was a jaunty, confident air about him, too, which might have been thought quite in keeping with a red coat and top-boots by his friends in Jenkinsjoy, and would have induced hospitable Mr Stoutheart to let him once more try his fortune on the back of Slapover without much anxiety as to the result; ay, even although the sweet but reckless Amy were to be his leader in the field! Nevertheless there was nothing of the coxcomb about Queeker--no self-assertion; nothing but amiableness, self-satisfaction, and enthusiasm. Queeker smiled and hummed a tune to himself as he walked along drawing on his gloves, which were lavender kid and exceedingly tight. "It will be a great night," he murmured; "a grand, a glorious night." As there was nothing peculiarly grand in the aspect of the weather, it is to be presumed that he referred to something else, but he said nothing more at the time, although he smiled a good deal and hummed a good many snatches of popular airs as he walked along, still struggling with the refractory fingers of the lavender kid gloves. Arrived at Saint James's Hall, he took up a position outside the door, and remained there as if waiting for some one. It was evident that Mr Queeker's brief remark had reference to the proceedings that were going on at the hall, because everything in and around it, on that occasion, gave unquestionable evidence that there was to be a "great night" there. The lobby blazed with light, and resounded with voices and bustle, as people streamed in continuously. The interior of the hall itself glowed like a red-hot chamber of gold, and was tastefully decorated with flowers and flags and evergreens; while the floor of the room was covered with long tables, which groaned under the glittering accessories of an approaching feast. Fair ladies were among the assembling company, and busy gentlemen, who acted the part of stewards, hurried to and fro, giving directions and keeping order. A large portion of the company consisted of men whose hard hands, powerful frames, and bronzed faces, proclaimed them the sons of toil, and whose manly tones and holiday garments smacked of gales and salt water. "What be goin' on here, measter?" inquired a country fellow, nudging Mr Queeker with his elbow. Queeker looked at his questioner in surprise, and told him that it was a supper which was about to be given to the lifeboat-men by the people of the town. "An' who be the lifeboat-men, measter?" "`Shades of the mighty dead;' not to mention the glorious living!" exclaimed Queeker, aghast; "have you never heard of the noble fellows who man the lifeboats all round the coasts of this great country, and save hundreds of lives every year? Have you not read of their daring exploits in the newspapers? Have you never heard of the famous Ramsgate lifeboat?" "Well, now 'ee mention it, I doos remember summat about loifboats," replied the country fellow, after pondering a moment or two; "but, bless 'ee, I never read nothin' about 'em, not bein' able to read; an' as I've lived all my loif fur inland, an' on'y comed here to-day, it ain't to be thow't as I knows much about yer Ramsgate loifboats. Be there mony loifboat men in Ramsgate, measter?" "My good fellow," said Queeker, taking the man by the sleeve, and gazing at him with a look of earnest pity, "there are dozens of 'em. Splendid fellows, who have saved hundreds of men, women, and children from the raging deep; and they are all to be assembled in this hall to-night, to the number of nearly a hundred--for there are to be present not only the men who now constitute the crew of the Ramsgate boat, but all the men who have formed part of her crew in time past. Every man among them is a hero," continued Queeker, warming as he went on, and shaking the country fellow's arm in his earnestness, "and every man to-night will--" He stopped short abruptly, for at that moment a carriage drove up to the door, and a gentleman jumping out assisted a lady to alight. Without a word of explanation to the astonished country fellow, Queeker thrust him aside, dashed forward, presented himself before the lady, and, holding out his hand, exclaimed-- "How _do_ you do, Miss Hennings? I'm _so_ glad to have been fortunate enough to meet you." "Mr Quee--Queeker," exclaimed Fanny, blushing scarlet; "I--I was not aware--so very unexpected--I thought--dear me!--but, pardon me--allow me to introduce my uncle, Mr Hemmings. Mr Queeker, uncle, whom you have often heard mamma speak about." Mr Hennings, a six-feet-two man, stooped to shake Queeker by the hand. An impatient cabman shouted, "Move on." Fanny seized her uncle's arm, and was led away. Queeker followed close, and all three were wedged together in the crowd, and swept towards the banquet-hall. "Are you one of the stewards?" asked Fanny, during a momentary pause. How exquisite she looks! thought Queeker, as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He felt inclined to call her an angel, or something of that sort, but restrained himself, and replied that he was not a steward, but a guest--an honoured guest--and that he would have no objection to be a dishonoured guest, if only, by being expelled from the festive board, he could manage to find an excuse to sit beside her in the ladies' gallery. "But that may not be," he said, with a sigh. "I shall not be able to see you from my allotted position. Alas! we separate here--though-- though--lost to sight, to memory dear!" The latter part of this remark was said hurriedly and in desperation, in consequence of a sudden rush of the crowd, rendering abrupt separation unavoidable. But, although parted from his lady-love, and unable to gaze upon her, Queeker kept her steadily in his mind's eye all that evening, made all his speeches to her, sang all his songs to her, and finally--but hold! we must not anticipate. As we have said--or, rather, as we have recorded that Queeker said--all the lifeboat men of the town of Ramsgate sat down to that supper, to the number of nearly one hundred men. All sturdy men of tried courage. Some were old, with none of the fire that had nerved them to rescue lives in days gone by, save that which still gleamed in their eyes; some were young, with the glow of irrepressible enthusiasm on their smooth faces, and the intense wish to have a chance to dare and do swelling their bold hearts; others were middle-aged, iron-moulded; as able and as bold to the full as the younger men, with the coolness and self-restraint of the old ones; but all, old, middle-aged, and young, looking proud and pleased, and so gentle in their demeanour (owing, no doubt, to the presence of the fair sex), that it seemed as if a small breeze of wind would have made them all turn tail and run away,-- especially if the breeze were raised by the women! That the reception of these lion-like men (converted into lambs that night) was hearty, was evinced by the thunders of applause which greeted every reference to their brave deeds. That their reception was intensely earnest, was made plain by the scroll, emblazoned on a huge banner that spanned the upper end of the room, bearing the words. "God bless the Lifeboat Crews." We need not refer to the viands set forth on that great occasion. Of course they were of the best. We may just mention that they included "baccy and grog!" We merely record the fact. Whether buns and tea would have been equally effective is a question not now under consideration. We refrain from expressing an opinion on that point here. Of course the first toast was the Queen, and as Jack always does everything heartily, it need scarcely be said that this toast was utterly divested of its usual formality of character. The chairman's appropriate reference to her Majesty's well-known sympathy with the distressed, especially with those who had suffered from shipwreck, intensified the enthusiasm of the loyal lifeboat-men. A band of amateur Christy Minstrels (the "genuine original" amateur band, of course) enlivened the evening with appropriate songs, to the immense delight of all present, especially of Mr Robert Queeker, whose passionate love for music, ever since his attendance at the singing-class, long long ago, had strengthened with time to such an extent that language fails to convey any idea of it. It mattered not to Queeker whether the music were good or bad. Sufficient for him that it carried him back, with a _gush_, to that dear temple of music in Yarmouth where the learners were perpetually checked at critical points, and told by their callous teacher (tormentor, we had almost written) to "try it again!" and where he first beheld the perplexing and beautiful Fanny. When the toast of the evening was given--"Success to the Ramsgate Lifeboat,"--it was, as a matter of course, received with deafening cheers and enthusiastic waving of handkerchiefs from the gallery in which the fair sex were accommodated, among which handkerchiefs Queeker, by turning his head very much round, tried to see, and believed that he saw, the precious bit of cambric wherewith Fanny Hennings was accustomed to salute her transcendental nose. The chairman spoke with enthusiasm of the noble deeds accomplished by the Ramsgate lifeboat in time past, and referred with pride, and with a touch of feeling, to the brave old coxswain, then present (loud cheers), who had been compelled, by increasing years, to resign a service which, they all knew better than he did, taxed the energies, courage, and endurance of the stoutest and youngest man among them to the uttermost. He expressed a firm belief in the courage and prowess of the coxswain who had succeeded him (renewed cheers), and felt assured that the success of the boat in time to come would at the least fully equal its successes in time past. He then referred to some of the more prominent achievements of the boat, especially to a night which all of them must remember, seven years ago, when the Ramsgate boat, with the aid of the steam-tug, was the means of saving so many lives--not to mention property--and among others the life of their brave townsman, James Welton (cheers), and a young doctor, the friend, and now the son-in-law, of one whose genial spirit and extensive charities were well known and highly appreciated--he referred to Mr George Durant (renewed cheers), whose niece at that moment graced the gallery with her presence. At this there was a burst of loud and prolonged applause which terminated in a roar of laughter, owing to the fact that Mr Queeker, cheering and waving his hands in a state of wild enthusiasm, knocked the neck off a bottle of wine and flooded the table in his immediate vicinity! Covered with confusion, Queeker sat down amid continued laughter and rapturous applause. The chairman then went on to say that the event to which he had referred--the rescue of the crew and passengers of the Wellington on the night of the great storm--had been eclipsed by some of the more recent doings of the same boat; and, after touching upon some of these, said that, although they had met there to do honour to the crews of their own lifeboat, they must not forget other and neighbouring lifeboats, which did their work nobly--the brave crews of which were represented by the coxswains of the Margate and Broadstairs lifeboats, who sat at that board that night as honoured guests (loud cheers, during which several of the men nearest to them shook hands with the coxswains referred to). He could not--the chairman went on to say--sit down without making special reference to the steam-tug, without which, and the courage as well as knowledge of her master, mate, and crew (renewed cheers), the lifeboat could not overtake a tenth part of the noble work which she annually accomplished. He concluded by praying that a kind Providence would continue to watch over and bless the Ramsgate lifeboat and her crew. We need scarcely add that this toast was drunk with enthusiastic applause, and that it was followed up by the amateur minstrels with admirable effect. Many songs were sung, and many toasts were proposed that night, and warm was the expression of feeling towards the men who were ever so ready to imperil their lives in the hope of saving those of their fellow-creatures, and who had already, oftentimes, given such ample proof that they were thoroughly able to do, as well as to dare, almost anything. Several singers with good, and one or two with splendid, voices, gave a variety of songs which greatly enhanced the brilliancy of the evening, and were highly appreciated in the gallery; and a few bad singers with miserable voices (who volunteered their songs) did really good service by impressing upon the audience very forcibly the immense differences between good and bad music, and thus kindly acted as shadows to the vocal lights of the evening--as useful touches of discord in the general harmony which by contrast rendered the latter all the sweeter. But of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a national melody sung by our friend Jerry MacGowl, in a voice that rang out like the voices of three first-class bo's'ns rolled into one. That worthy son of the Emerald Isle, and Dick Moy, and Jack Shales, happened to be enjoying their month on shore when the supper to the lifeboat-men was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their residence in Ramsgate. Jerry's song was, as we have said, highly appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of Saint James's Hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, Jerry modestly said that he "would prefer to give them a duet--perhaps it was a trayo--av his mates Jack Shales and Dick Moy would only strike in wid bass and tenor." The men of the floating light then sang "The Minute-Gun at Sea" magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his fancy at the moment, and Jerry varying from tenor to bass and bass to treble according to taste. "Now, Mister Chairman," said the bold Jerry MacGowl, when the cheers had subsided, "it's my turn to call for a song, so I ax Mr Queeker to favour the company wid--" Thunders of applause drowned the remainder of the sentence. Poor Queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that he could not sing, even in private--much less in public. "Oh yes, you can, sir. Try it, sir, no fear of 'ee. Sure it's yourself as can do it, an' no mistake," were the remarks with which his explanation was interrupted. "I assure you honestly," cried Queeker, "that I cannot sing, _but_" (here breathless silence ensued) "if the chairman will kindly permit me, I will give you a toast." Loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman greeted this announcement. "Mr Chairman and Friends," said Queeker, "the ladies have--" A perfect storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes. "Yes," resumed Queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, "I repeat-- the ladies--" "That's the girls, blissin's on the swate darlints," murmured Jerry in a tone which set the whole table again in a roar. "I echo the sentiment; blessings on them," said Queeker, with a good-humoured glance at Jerry. "Yes, as I was going to say, I propose the Ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man's life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his--in his--crown, and the bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny (vociferous cheering). Yes," continued Queeker, waxing more and more energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned his neighbour's glass of grog, "yes, I re-assert it--the ladies are all that, and _much more_! (Hear, hear.) I propose their health--and, after all, I may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth as a libation to them! (Laughter and applause.) What, I ask," continued Queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and setting his hair straight upon end, "what, I ask, would man be _without_ the ladies?" ("What indeed?" said a voice near the foot of the table, which called forth another burst of laughter.) "Just try to think, my friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if there were no girls! Oh woman! softener of man's rugged nature! What-- in the words of the poet." He carefully refrained from saying what poet! "What were earth and all its joys; what were wealth with all its toys; what the life of men and boys But for lovely woman? "What if mothers were no more; If wives and sisters fled our shore, And left no sweethearts to the fore-- No sign of darling woman? "What dreary darkness would ensue-- what moral wastes devoid of dew-- If no strong hearts of men like you Beat for charming woman? "Who would rise at duty's call; Who would fight to win or fall; Who would care to live at all, Were it not for woman?" Prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of which the enthusiastic Jerry MacGowl sprang to his feet, waved his glass above his head--spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald skipper who sat next to him--and cheered lustily. "Men of the Ramsgate lifeboat," shouted Queeker, "I call on you to pledge the ladies--with all the honours!" It is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of enthusiasm that threatened, as Dick Moy said to Jack Shales, "to smash all the glasses an' blow the roof off." In the midst of the noise and confusion Queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat himself down beside Fanny Hennings, with an air of intense decision. "Oh, Mr Queeker!" exclaimed Fanny. "Listen, Fanny," said the tall uncle at that moment, "they are giving one of the most important toasts of the evening--The Royal National Lifeboat Institution." Fanny tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her hand suddenly seized and held fast. Turning her head quickly, she beheld the face of Queeker turned to bright scarlet. What more she heard or saw after that it would be extremely difficult to tell. Perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of it is to lay before the reader the short epistle which Fanny penned that same night to her old friend Katie Hall. It ran thus:-- "RAMSGATE. "OH, KATIE! DARLING KATIE!--He has done it _at last_! Dear fellow! And so like himself too--so romantically, so poetically! They were toasting the Lifeboat Institution at the time. He seized my hand. `Fanny,' he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the most brilliant speech of the evening, `Fanny, my love--my life--my _lifeboat_--will you have me? will you _save_ me?' There was a dreadful noise at the time--a very storm of cheering. The whole room seemed in a whirl. My head was in a whirl too; and oh! _how_ my heart beat! I don't know what I said. I fear I burst into a fit of laughter, and then cried, and dear uncle carried me out--but it's all over now. That _darling_ Lifeboat Institution, I shall never forget it; for they were sounding its praises at the very moment when my Queeker and I got into the same boat--for life!--Your happy FANNY." To this the next post brought the following reply:-- "YARMOUTH." "MY DEAREST FANNY,--Is it necessary for me to say that your last short letter has filled my heart with joy? It has cleared up a mystery too! On Tuesday last, in the forenoon, Mr Queeker came by appointment to take lunch with us, and Stanley happened to mention that a supper was to be given to the Ramsgate lifeboat-men, and that he had heard _you_ were to be there. During lunch, Mr Queeker was very absent and restless, and appeared to be unhappy. At last he started up, made some hurried apology about the train for the south, and having urgent business to transact, looked at his watch, and rushed out of the house! We could not understand it at the time, but I knew that he had only a few minutes left to catch the train for the south, and I _now_ know that he caught it--and why! Ah, Fanny, did I not always assure you that he would do it in desperation at last! My earnest prayer is, that your wedded life may be as happy as mine has hitherto been. "When your honeymoon is over, you must promise to pay us a visit. You know that our villa is sufficiently far out of town to warrant your regarding us in the light of country friends; and Stanley bids me say that he will take no denial. Papa--who is at present romping round the room with my eldest boy on his shoulders, so that I scarce know what I write--bids me tell you, with his kind love and hearty congratulations, that he thinks you are `not throwing yourself away, for that Queeker is a first-rate little fellow, and a rising man!' Observe, please, that I quote papa's own words. "I _must_ stop abruptly, because a tiny cry from the nursery informs me that King Baby is awake, and demands instant attention!--With kindest love and congratulations, your ever affectionate, KATIE HALL." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. CONCLUSION. Once again, and for the last time, we visit the floating light. It was a calm sunny evening, about the end of autumn, when the Trinity tender, having effected "the relief" of the old Gull, left her in order to perform the same service for her sister light-vessels. "Good-bye, Welton, good-bye, lads," cried the superintendent, waving his hand as the tender's boat pushed off and left them, for another period of duty, in their floating home. "Good-bye, sir," replied the mate and men, touching their caps. "Now, sir," said Dick Moy to the mate, shortly after, when they were all, except the watch, assembled below round the galley stove, "are you goin' to let us 'ave a bit o' that there letter, accordin' to promise?" "What letter?" inquired Jack Shales, who having only accomplished half of his period of service on board--one month--had not come off with his comrades, and knew little or nothing of what had occurred on shore. "A letter from the lighthouse from Jim," said the mate, lighting his pipe, "received it this forenoon just as we were gettin' ready to come off." "All well and hearty, I hope?" asked Jerry MacGowl, seating himself on a bench, and rolling some tobacco between his palms, preparatory to filling his pipe. "All well," replied the mate, pulling out the letter in question, and regarding the address with much interest; "an' strange news in it." "Well, then, let's 'ear wot it's all about," said Dick Moy; "there's time to read it afore sunset, an it ain't fair to keep fellers in all the hagonies of hexpectation." "That's true enough," said Jerry with a grin. "Arrah! it's bustin I am already wid kooriosity. Heave ahead, sir, an' be marciful." Thus entreated, Mr Welton glanced at his watch, sat down, and, opening his letter, read as follows:-- "DEAR FATHER,--Here we are, thank God, comfortably settled in the new lighthouse, and Nora and I both agree that although it is more outlandish, it is much more cheerful in every way than our last abode, although it _is_ very wild-like, and far from the mainland. Billy Towler, my assistant,--who has become such a strapping fellow that you'd scarce know him,--is also much pleased with it. The children, too, give a decided opinion in favour of the place, and even the baby, little Morley, seems to know that he has made a change for the better! "Baby's name brings me to the news that I've got to tell you. Morley Jones has come back! You'll be surprised to hear that, I daresay, but it's a fact. He got a ticket-of-leave, and never rested till he found out where Nora was. He came to us one evening some time ago, and fell down in a sort of fit close to the lighthouse-door, while Nora was sitting in front of it, and the children were romping with Neptune beside her. Poor fellow! he was so changed, so old, and so white-haired and worn, that we did not know him at first; but after we had washed the blood off his face--for he had cut himself when he fell--I recognised the old features. "But he is changed in other respects too, in a way that has filled my dear wife's heart with joy. Of course you are aware that he got no drink during the seven years of his imprisonment. Now that he is free he refuses to let a drop of anything stronger than water pass his lips. He thinks it is his only chance, and I believe he is right. He says that nothing but the thought of Nora, and the hope of one day being permitted to return to ask her forgiveness on his knees, enabled him to endure his long captivity with resignation. I do assure you, father, that it almost brings tears to my eyes to see the way in which that man humbles himself before his daughter. Nora's joy is far too deep for words, but it is written plainly in her face. She spent all her spare time with him at first, reading the Bible to him, and trying to convince him that it was not the thought of _her_, but God's mercy and love that had put it into his heart to repent, and desire to reform. He does not seem quite inclined to take that view of it, but he will come to it, sooner or later, for we have the sure promise that the Lord will finish the good work He has begun. We have hired a room for him in a little village within half a mile of us. It is small, but comfortable enough, and he seems to be quite content with it--as well he may be, with Nora and the children going constantly about him! "I tell you what, father, the longer I live with Nora, the more I feel that I have got the truest-hearted and most loveable wife in all the wide world! The people of the village would go any length to serve her; and as to their children, I believe they worship the ground she walks on, as Jerry MacGowl used to say." "Och, the idolatrous haythens!" growled Jerry. "And the way she manages our dear youngsters," continued the mate, reading on, without noticing Jerry's interruption, "would do your heart good to see. It reminds me of Dick Moy's wife, who is about the best mother I ever met with--next to Nora, of course!" "Humph!" said Dick, with a grim smile; "wery complimentary. I wonder wot my old ooman will say to that?" "She'll say, no doubt, that she'll expect you to take example by Jim Welton when speaking of your wife," observed Jack Shales. "I wonder, Dick, what ever could have induced Mrs Moy to marry such a fellow as you?" "I s'pose," retorted Dick, lighting his pipe, "that it was to escape the chance o' bein' tempted, in a moment of weakness, to marry the likes o' _you_." "Hear, hear," cried MacGowl, "that's not unlikely, Dick. An', sure, she might have gone farther an' fared worse. You're a good lump of a man, anyhow; though you haven't much to boast of in the way of looks. Howsever, it seems to me that looks don't go far wid sensible girls. Faix, the uglier a man is, it's the better chance he has o' gittin' a purty wife. I have a brother, myself, who's a dale uglier than the figurhead of an owld Dutch galliot, an' he's married the purtiest little girl in Ireland, he has." "If ye want to hear the end of Jim's letter, boys, you'd better shut up your potato-traps," interposed Mr Welton. "That's true--fire away," said Shales. The mate continued to read. "You'll be glad to hear that the old dog Neptune is well and hearty. He is a great favourite here, especially with the children. Billy Towler has taught him a number of tricks--among other things he can dive like a seal, and has no objection whatever to let little Morley choke him or half punch out his eyes. Tell mother not to be uneasy on that point, for though Neptune has the heart of a lion he has the temper of a lamb. "There is an excellent preacher, belonging to the Wesleyan body, who comes here occasionally on Sundays, and has worship in the village. He is not much of a preacher, but he's an earnest, God-fearing man, and has made the name of Jesus dear to some of the people here, who, not long ago, were quite careless about their souls. Careless about their souls! Oh, father, how often I think of that, now. How strange it seems that we should ever be thus careless! What should we say of the jeweller who would devote all his time and care to the case that held his largest diamond, and neglect the gem itself? Nora has got up a Sunday school at the village, and Billy helps her with it. The Grotto did wonders for him--so he says himself. "I must close this letter sooner than I intended, for I hear Nora's voice, like sweet music in the distance, singing out that dinner is ready; and if I keep the youngsters waiting long, they'll sing out in a sharper strain of melody! "So now, father, good-bye for the present. We all unite in sending our warmest love to dear mother and yourself. Kindest remembrances also to my friends in the floating light. As much of my heart as Nora and the children can spare is on board of the old Gull. May God bless you all.--Your affectionate son, JAMES WELTON." "The sun will be down in a few minutes, sir," said the watch, looking down the hatchway, while the men were engaged in commenting on Jim's letter. "I know that," replied the mate, glancing at his timepiece, as he went on deck. The upper edge of the sun was just visible above the horizon, gleaming through the haze like a speck of ruddy fire. The shipping in the Downs rested on a sea so calm that each rope and mast and yard was faithfully reflected. Ramsgate--with the exception of its highest spires--was overshadowed by the wing of approaching night. The Goodwin Sands were partially uncovered; looking calm and harmless enough, with only a snowy ripple on their northern extremity, where they were gently kissed by the swell of the North Sea, and with nothing, save a riven stump or a half-buried stem-post, to tell of the storms and wrecks with which their name is so sadly associated. All around breathed of peace and tranquillity when the mate, having cast a searching glance round the horizon, leaned over the hatchway and shouted--"Lights up!" The customary "Ay, ay, sir," was followed by the prompt appearance of the crew. The winch was manned, the signal given, and, just as the sun went down, the floating light went up, to scatter its guiding and warning beams far and wide across the darkening waste of water. May our little volume prove a truthful reflector to catch up a few of those beams, and, diverting them from their legitimate direction, turn them in upon the shore to enlighten the mind and tickle the fancy of those who dwell upon the land--and thus, perchance, add another thread to the bond of sympathy already existing between them and those whose lot it is to battle with the winds, and live upon the sea. 
21746	----	THE LIGHTHOUSE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. THE ROCK. Early on a summer morning, about the beginning of the nineteenth century, two fishermen of Forfarshire wended their way to the shore, launched their boat, and put off to sea. One of the men was tall and ill-favoured, the other, short and well-favoured. Both were square-built, powerful fellows, like most men of the class to which they belonged. It was about that calm hour of the morning which precedes sunrise, when most living creatures are still asleep, and inanimate nature wears, more than at other times, the semblance of repose. The sea was like a sheet of undulating glass. A breeze had been expected, but, in defiance of expectation, it had not come, so the boatmen were obliged to use their oars. They used them well, however, insomuch that the land ere long appeared like a blue line on the horizon, then became tremulous and indistinct, and finally vanished in the mists of morning. The men pulled "with a will,"--as seamen pithily express it,--and in silence. Only once during the first hour did the big, ill-favoured man venture a remark. Referring to the absence of wind, he said, that "it would be a' the better for landin' on the rock." This was said in the broadest vernacular dialect, as, indeed, was everything that dropped from the fishermen's lips. We take the liberty of modifying it a little, believing that strict fidelity here would entail inevitable loss of sense to many of our readers. The remark, such as it was, called forth a rejoinder from the short comrade, who stated his belief that "they would be likely to find somethin' there that day." They then relapsed into silence. Under the regular stroke of the oars the boat advanced steadily, straight out to sea. At first the mirror over which they skimmed was grey, and the foam at the cutwater leaden-coloured. By degrees they rowed, as it were, into a brighter region. The sea ahead lightened up, became pale yellow, then warmed into saffron, and, when the sun rose, blazed into liquid gold. The words spoken by the boatmen, though few, were significant. The "rock" alluded to was the celebrated and much dreaded Inch Cape--more familiarly known as the Bell Rock--which being at that time unmarked by lighthouse or beacon of any kind, was the terror of mariners who were making for the firths of Forth and Tay. The "something" that was expected to be found there may be guessed at when we say that one of the fiercest storms that ever swept our eastern shores had just exhausted itself after strewing the coast with wrecks. The breast of ocean, though calm on the surface, as has been said, was still heaving with a mighty swell, from the effects of the recent elemental conflict. "D'ye see the breakers noo, Davy?" enquired the ill-favoured man, who pulled the aft oar. "Ay, and hear them, too," said Davy Spink, ceasing to row, and looking over his shoulder towards the seaward horizon. "Yer een and lugs are better than mine, then," returned the ill-favoured comrade, who answered, when among his friends, to the name of Big Swankie, otherwise, and more correctly, Jock Swankie. "Od! I believe ye're right," he added, shading his heavy red brows with his heavier and redder hand, "that _is_ the rock, but a man wad need the een o' an eagle to see onything in the face o' sik a bleezin' sun. Pull awa', Davy, we'll hae time to catch a bit cod or a haddy afore the rock's bare." Influenced by these encouraging hopes, the stout pair urged their boat in the direction of a thin line of snow-white foam that lay apparently many miles away, but which was in reality not very far distant. By degrees the white line expanded in size and became massive, as though a huge breaker were rolling towards them; ever and anon jets of foam flew high into the air from various parts of the mass, like smoke from a cannon's mouth. Presently, a low continuous roar became audible above the noise of the oars; as the boat advanced, the swells from the south-east could be seen towering upwards as they neared the foaming spot, gradually changing their broad-backed form, and coming on in majestic walls of green water, which fell with indescribable grandeur into the seething caldron. No rocks were visible, there was no apparent cause for this wild confusion in the midst of the otherwise calm sea. But the fishermen knew that the Bell Rock was underneath the foam, and that in less than an hour its jagged peaks would be left uncovered by the falling tide. As the swell of the sea came in from the eastward, there was a belt of smooth water on the west side of the rock. Here the fishermen cast anchor, and, baiting their hand-lines, began to fish. At first they were unsuccessful, but before half an hour had elapsed, the cod began to nibble, and Big Swankie ere long hauled up a fish of goodly size. Davy Spink followed suit, and in a few minutes a dozen fish lay spluttering in the bottom of the boat. "Time's up noo," said Swankie, coiling away his line. "Stop, stop, here's a wallupper," cried Davy, who was an excitable man; "we better fish a while langer--bring the cleek, Swankie, he's ower big to--noo, lad, cleek him! that's it!--Oh-o-o-o!" The prolonged groan with which Davy brought his speech to a sudden termination was in consequence of the line breaking and the fish escaping, just as Swankie was about to strike the iron hook into its side. "Hech! lad, that was a guid ane," said the disappointed man with a sigh; "but he's awa'." "Ay," observed Swankie, "and we must awa' too, so up anchor, lad. The rock's lookin' oot o' the sea, and time's precious." The anchor was speedily pulled up, and they rowed towards the rock, the ragged edges of which were now visible at intervals in the midst of the foam which they created. At low tide an irregular portion of the Bell Rock, less than a hundred yards in length, and fifty yards in breadth, is uncovered and left exposed for two or three hours. It does not appear in the form of a single mass or islet, but in a succession of serrated ledges of various heights, between and amongst which the sea flows until the tide has fallen pretty low. At full ebb the rock appears like a dark islet, covered with seaweed, and studded with deep pools of water, most of which are connected with the sea by narrow channels running between the ledges. The highest part of the rock does not rise more than seven feet above the level of the sea at the lowest tide. To enter one of the pools by means of the channels above referred to is generally a matter of difficulty, and often of extreme danger, as the swell of the sea, even in calm weather, bursts over these ledges with such violence as to render the channels at times impassable. The utmost caution, therefore, is necessary. Our fishermen, however, were accustomed to land there occasionally in search of the remains of wrecks, and knew their work well. They approached the rock on the lee-side, which was, as has been said, to the westward. To a spectator viewing them from any point but from the boat itself, it would have appeared that the reckless men were sailing into the jaws of certain death, for the breakers burst around them so confusedly in all directions that their instant destruction seemed inevitable. But Davy Spink, looking over his shoulder as he sat at the bow-oar, saw a narrow lead of comparatively still water in the midst of the foam, along which he guided the boat with consummate skill, giving only a word or two of direction to Swankie, who instantly acted in accordance therewith. "Pull, pull, lad," said Davy. Swankie pulled, and the boat swept round with its bow to the east just in time to meet a billow, which, towering high above its fellows, burst completely over the rocks, and appeared to be about to sweep away all before it. For a moment the boat was as if embedded in snow, then it sank once more into the lead among the floating tangle, and the men pulled with might and main in order to escape the next wave. They were just in time. It burst over the same rocks with greater violence than its predecessor, but the boat had gained the shelter of the next ledge, and lay floating securely in the deep, quiet pool within, while the men rested on their oars, and watched the chaos of the water rush harmlessly by. In another moment they had landed and secured the boat to a projecting rock. Few words of conversation passed between these practical men. They had gone there on particular business. Time and tide proverbially wait for no man, but at the Bell Rock they wait a much briefer period than elsewhere. Between low water and the time when it would be impossible to quit the rock without being capsized, there was only a space of two or three hours--sometimes more, frequently less--so it behoved the men to economise time. Rocks covered with wet seaweed and rugged in form are not easy to walk over; a fact which was soon proved by Swankie staggering violently once or twice, and by Spink falling flat on his back. Neither paid attention to his comrade's misfortunes in this way. Each scrambled about actively, searching with care among the crevices of the rocks, and from time to time picking up articles which they thrust into their pockets or laid on their shoulders, according as weight and dimensions required. In a short time they returned to their boat pretty well laden. "Weel, lad, what luck?" enquired Spink, as Swankie and he met--the former with a grappling iron on his shoulder, the latter staggering under the weight of a mass of metal. "Not much," replied Swankie; "nothin' but heavy metal this mornin', only a bit of a cookin' stove an' a cannon shot--that's all." "Never mind, try again. There must ha' bin two or three wrecks on the rock this gale," said Davy, as he and his friend threw their burdens into the boat, and hastened to resume the search. At first Spink was the more successful of the two. He returned to the boat with various articles more than once, while his comrade continued his rambles unsuccessfully. At last, however, Big Swankie came to a gully or inlet where a large mass of the _debris_ of a wreck was piled up in indescribable confusion, in the midst of which lay the dead body of an old man. Swankie's first impulse was to shout to his companion, but he checked himself, and proceeded to examine the pockets of the dead man. Raising the corpse with some difficulty he placed it on the ledge of rock. Observing a ring on the little finger of the right hand, he removed it and put it hastily in his pocket. Then he drew a red morocco case from an inner breast pocket in the dead man's coat. To his surprise and delight he found that it contained a gold watch and several gold rings and brooches, in some of which were beautiful stones. Swankie was no judge of jewellery, but he could not avoid the conviction that these things must needs be valuable. He laid the case down on the rock beside him, and eagerly searched the other pockets. In one he found a large clasp-knife and a pencil-case; in another a leather purse, which felt heavy as he drew it out. His eyes sparkled at the first glance he got of the contents, for they were sovereigns! Just as he made this discovery, Davy Spink climbed over the ledge at his back, and Swankie hastily thrust the purse underneath the body of the dead man. "Hallo! lad, what have ye there? Hey! watches and rings--come, we're in luck this mornin'." "_We_!" exclaimed Swankie, somewhat sternly, "_you_ didn't find that case." "Na, lad, but we've aye divided, an' I dinna see what for we should change our plan noo." "We've nae paction to that effec'--the case o' kickshaws is mine," retorted Swankie. "Half o't," suggested Spink. "Weel, weel," cried the other with affected carelessness, "I'd scorn to be sae graspin'. For the matter o' that ye may hae it all to yersel', but I'll hae the next thing we git that's worth muckle a' to _mysel'_." So saying Swankie stooped to continue his search of the body, and in a moment or two drew out the purse with an exclamation of surprise. "See, I'm in luck, Davy! Virtue's aye rewarded, they say. This is mine, and I doot not there'll be some siller intilt." "Goold!" cried Davy, with dilated eyes, as his comrade emptied the contents into his large hand, and counted over thirty sovereigns. "Ay, lad, ye can keep the what-d'ye-ca'-ums, and I'll keep the siller." "I've seen that face before," observed Spink, looking intently at the body. "Like enough," said Swankie, with an air of indifference, as he put the gold into his pocket. "I think I've seed it mysel'. It looks like auld Jamie Brand, but I didna ken him weel." "It's just him," said Spink, with a touch of sadness. "Ay, ay, that'll fa' heavy on the auld woman. But, come, it'll no' do to stand haverin' this way. Let's see what else is on him." They found nothing more of any value; but a piece of paper was discovered, wrapped up in oilskin, and carefully fastened with red tape, in the vest pocket of the dead man. It contained writing, and had been so securely wrapped up, that it was only a little damped. Davy Spink, who found it, tried in vain to read the writing; Davy's education had been neglected, so he was fain to confess that he could not make it out. "Let _me_ see't," said Swankie. "What hae we here? `The sloop is hard an--an--'" "`Fast,' maybe," suggested Spink. "Ay, so 'tis. I canna make out the next word, but here's something about the jewel-case." The man paused and gazed earnestly at the paper for a few minutes, with a look of perplexity on his rugged visage. "Weel, man, what is't?" enquired Davy. "Hoot! I canna mak' it oot," said the other, testily, as if annoyed at being unable to read it. He refolded the paper and thrust it into his bosom, saying, "Come, we're wastin' time. Let's get on wi' our wark." "Toss for the jewels and the siller," said Spink, suggestively. "Very weel," replied the other, producing a copper. "Heeds, you win the siller; tails, I win the box;--heeds it is, so the kickshaws is mine. Weel, I'm content," he added, as he handed the bag of gold to his comrade, and received the jewel-case in exchange. In another hour the sea began to encroach on the rock, and the fishermen, having collected as much as time would permit of the wrecked materials, returned to their boat. They had secured altogether above two hundredweight of old metal,-- namely, a large piece of a ship's caboose, a hinge, a lock of a door, a ship's marking-iron, a soldier's bayonet, a cannon ball, a shoebuckle, and a small anchor, besides part of the cordage of the wreck, and the money and jewels before mentioned. Placing the heavier of these things in the bottom of the boat, they pushed off. "We better take the corp ashore," said Spink, suddenly. "What for? They may ask what was in the pockets," objected Swankie. "Let them ask," rejoined the other, with a grin. Swankie made no reply, but gave a stroke with his oar which sent the boat close up to the rocks. They both relanded in silence, and, lifting the dead body of the old man, laid it in the stern-sheets of the boat. Once more they pushed off. Too much delay had been already made. The surf was breaking over the ledges in all directions, and it was with the utmost difficulty that they succeeded in getting clear out into deep water. A breeze which had sprung up from the east, tended to raise the sea a little, but when they finally got away from the dangerous reef, the breeze befriended them. Hoisting the foresail, they quickly left the Bell Rock far behind them, and, in the course of a couple of hours, sailed into the harbour of Arbroath. CHAPTER TWO. THE LOVERS AND THE PRESS-GANG. About a mile to the eastward of the ancient town of Arbroath the shore abruptly changes its character, from a flat beach to a range of, perhaps, the wildest and most picturesque cliffs on the east coast of Scotland. Inland the country is rather flat, but elevated several hundred feet above the level of the sea, towards which it slopes gently until it reaches the shore, where it terminates in abrupt, perpendicular precipices, varying from a hundred to two hundred feet in height. In many places the cliffs overhang the water, and all along the coast they have been perforated and torn up by the waves, so as to present singularly bold and picturesque outlines, with caverns, inlets, and sequestered "coves" of every form and size. To the top of these cliffs, in the afternoon of the day on which our tale opens, a young girl wended her way,--slowly, as if she had no other object in view than a stroll, and sadly, as if her mind were more engaged with the thoughts within than with the magnificent prospect of land and sea without. The girl was: "Fair, fair, with golden hair," and apparently about twenty years of age. She sought out a quiet nook among the rocks at the top of the cliffs; near to a circular chasm, with the name of which (at that time) we are not acquainted, but which was destined ere long to acquire a new name and celebrity from an incident which shall be related in another part of this story. Curiously enough, just about the same hour, a young man was seen to wend his way to the same cliffs, and, from no reason whatever with which we happened to be acquainted, sought out the same nook! We say "he was seen," advisedly, for the maid with the golden hair saw him. Any ordinary observer would have said that she had scarcely raised her eyes from the ground since sitting down on a niece of flower-studded turf near the edge of the cliff, and that she certainly had not turned her head in the direction of the town. Yet she saw him,--however absurd the statement may appear, we affirm it confidently,--and knew that he was coming. Other eyes there were that also saw youth--eyes that would have caused him some degree of annoyance had he known they were upon him-- eyes that he would have rejoiced to tinge with the colours black and blue! There were thirteen pair of them, belonging to twelve men and a lieutenant of the navy. In those days the barbarous custom of impressment into the Royal Navy was in full operation. England was at war with France. Men were wanted to fight our battles, and when there was any difficulty in getting men, press-gangs were sent out to force them into the service. The youth whom we now introduce to the reader was a sailor, a strapping, handsome one, too; not, indeed, remarkable for height, being only a little above the average--five feet, ten inches or thereabouts--but noted for great depth of chest, breadth of shoulder, and development of muscle; conspicuous also for the quantity of close, clustering, light-brown curls down his head, and for the laughing glance of his dark-blue eye. Not a hero of romance, by any means. No, he was very matter of fact, and rather given to meditation than mischief. The officer in charge of the press-gang had set his heart on this youth (so had another individual, of whom more anon!) but the youth, whose name was Ruby Brand, happened to have an old mother who was at that time in very bad health, and she had also set her heart, poor body, on the youth, and entreated him to stay at home just for one half-year. Ruby willingly consented, and from that time forward led the life of a dog in consequence of the press-gang. Now, as we have said, he had been seen leaving the town by the lieutenant, who summoned his men and went after him--cautiously, however, in order to take him by surprise for Ruby, besides being strong and active as a lion, was slippery as an eel. Going straight as an arrow to the spot where she of the golden hair was seated, the youth presented himself suddenly to her, sat down beside her, and exclaiming "Minnie", put his arm round her waist. "Oh, Ruby, don't," said Minnie, blushing. Now, reader, the "don't" and the blush had no reference to the arm round the waist, but to the relative position of their noses, mouths, and chins, a position which would have been highly improper and altogether unjustifiable but for the fact that Ruby was Minnie's accepted lover. "Don't, darling, why not?" said Ruby in surprise. "You're _so_ rough," said Minnie, turning her head away. "True, dear, I forgot to shave this morning." "I don't mean that," interrupted the girl quickly, "I mean rude and-- and--is that a sea-gull?" "No, sweetest of your sex, it's a butterfly; but it's all the same, as my metaphysical Uncle Ogilvy would undertake to prove to you, thus, a butterfly is white and a gull is white,--therefore, a gull is a butterfly." "Don't talk nonsense, Ruby." "No more I will, darling, if you will listen to me while I talk sense." "What is it?" said the girl, looking earnestly and somewhat anxiously into her lover's face, for she knew at once by his expression that he had some unpleasant communication to make. "You're not going away?" "Well, no--not exactly; you know I promised to stay with mother; but the fact is that I'm so pestered and hunted down by that rascally press-gang, that I don't know what to do. They're sure to nab me at last, too, and then I shall have to go away whether I will or no, so I've made up my mind as a last resource, to--" Ruby paused. "Well?" said Minnie. "Well, in fact to do what will take me away for a short time, but--" Ruby stopped short, and, turning his head on one side, while a look of fierce anger overspread his face, seemed to listen intently. Minnie did not observe this action for a few seconds, but, wondering why he paused, she looked up, and in surprise exclaimed--"Ruby! what do you--" "Hush! Minnie, and don't look round," said he in a low tone of intense anxiety, yet remaining immovably in the position which he had assumed on first sitting down by the girl's side, although the swelled veins of his neck and his flushed forehead told of a fierce conflict of feeling within. "It's the press-gang after me again. I got a glance of one o' them out of the tail of my eye, creeping round the rocks. They think I haven't seen them. Darling Minnie--one kiss. Take care of mother if I don't turn up soon." "But how will you escape?" "Hush, dearest girl! I want to have as much of you as I can before I go. Don't be afraid. They're honest British tars after all, and won't hurt _you_, Minnie." Still seated at the girl's side, as if perfectly at his ease, yet speaking in quick earnest tones, and drawing her closely to him, Ruby waited until he heard a stealthy tread behind him. Then he sprang up with the speed of thought, uttered a laugh of defiance as the sailors rushed towards him, and leaping wildly off the cliff, fell a height of about fifty feet into the sea. Minnie uttered a scream of horror, and fell fainting into the arms of the bewildered lieutenant. "Down the cliffs--quick! he can't escape if you look alive. Stay, one of you, and look after this girl. She'll roll over the edge on recovering, perhaps." It was easy to order the men down the cliffs, but not so easy for them to obey, for the rocks were almost perpendicular at the place, and descended sheer into the water. "Surround the spot," shouted the lieutenant. "Scatter yourselves--away! there's no beach here." The lieutenant was right. The men extended themselves along the top of the cliffs so as to prevent Ruby's escape, in the event of his trying to ascend them, and two sailors stationed themselves in ambush in the narrow pass at the spot where the cliffs terminate in the direction of the town. The leap taken by Ruby was a bold one. Few men could have ventured it; indeed, the youth himself would have hesitated had he not been driven almost to desperation. But he was a practised swimmer and diver, and knew well the risk he ran. He struck the water with tremendous force and sent up a great mass of foam, but he had entered it perpendicularly, feet foremost, and in a few seconds returned to the surface so close to the cliffs that they overhung him, and thus effectually concealed him from his pursuers. Swimming cautiously along for a short distance close to the rocks, he came to the entrance of a cavern which was filled by the sea. The inner end of this cave opened into a small hollow or hole among the cliffs, up the sides of which Ruby knew that he could climb, and thus reach the top unperceived, but, after gaining the summit, there still lay before him the difficulty of eluding those who watched there. He felt, however, that nothing could be gained by delay, so he struck at once into the cave, swam to the inner end, and landed. Wringing the water out of his clothes, he threw off his jacket and vest in order to be as unencumbered as possible, and then began to climb cautiously. Just above the spot where Ruby ascended there chanced to be stationed a seaman named Dalls. This man had lain down flat on his breast, with his head close to the edge of the cliff, so as to observe narrowly all that went on below, but, being a stout, lethargic man, he soon fell fast asleep! It was just at the spot where this man lay that Ruby reached the summit. The ascent was very difficult. At each step the hunted youth had to reach his hand as high above his head as possible, and grasp the edge of a rock or a mass of turf with great care before venturing on another step. Had one of these points of rock, or one of these tufts of grass, given way, he would infallibly have fallen down the precipice and been killed. Accustomed to this style of climbing from infancy, however, he advanced without a sensation of fear. On reaching the top he peeped over, and, seeing that no one was near, prepared for a rush. There was a mass of brown turf on the bank above him. He grasped it with all his force, and swung himself over the edge of the cliff. In doing so he nearly scalped poor Dalls, whose hair was the "turf" which he had seized, and who, uttering a hideous yell, leaped upon Ruby and tried to overthrow him. But Dalls had met his match. He received a blow on the nose that all but felled him, and instantly after a blow on each eye, that raised a very constellation of stars in his brain, and laid him prone upon the grass. His yell, however, and the noise of the scuffle, were heard by those of the press-gang who were nearest to the scene of conflict. They rushed to the rescue, and reached the spot just as Ruby leaped over his prostrate foe and fled towards Arbroath. They followed with a cheer, which warned the two men in ambush to be ready. Ruby was lithe as a greyhound. He left his pursuers far behind him, and dashed down the gorge leading from the cliffs to the low ground beyond. Here he was met by the two sailors, and by the lieutenant, who had joined them. Minnie was also there, having been conducted thither by the said lieutenant, who gallantly undertook to see her safe into the town, in order to prevent any risk of her being insulted by his men. On hearing the shout of those who pursued Ruby, Minnie hurried away, intending to get free from the gang, not feeling that the lieutenant's protection was either desirable or necessary. When Ruby reached the middle of the gorge, which we have dignified with the name of "pass", and saw three men ready to dispute his passage, he increased his speed. When he was almost up to them he turned aside and sprang nimbly up the almost perpendicular wall of earth on his right. This act disconcerted the men, who had prepared to receive his charge and seize him, but Ruby jumped down on the shoulders of the one nearest, and crushed him to the ground with his weight. His clenched fist caught the lieutenant between the eyes and stretched him on his back--the third man wisely drew aside to let this human thunderbolt pass by! He did pass, and, as the impetuous and quite irresistible locomotive is brought to a sudden pause when the appropriate brakes are applied, so was he brought to a sudden halt by Minnie a hundred yards or so farther on. "Oh! don't stop," she cried eagerly, and hastily thrusting him away. "They'll catch you!" Panting though he was, vehemently, Ruby could not restrain a laugh. "Catch me! no, darling; but don't be afraid of them. They won't hurt you, Minnie, and they can't hurt me--except in the way of cutting short our interview. Ha! here they come. Goodbye, dearest; I'll see you soon again." At that moment five or six of the men came rushing down the pass with a wild cheer. Ruby made no haste to run. He stood in an easy attitude beside Minnie; leisurely kissed her little hand, and gently smoothed down her golden hair. Just as the foremost pursuer came within fifteen yards or so of them, he said, "Farewell, my lassie, I leave you in good hands"; and then, waving his cap in the air, with a cheer of more than half-jocular defiance, he turned and fled towards Arbroath as if one of the nor'-east gales, in its wildest fury, were sweeping him over the land. CHAPTER THREE. OUR HERO OBLIGED TO GO TO SEA. When Ruby Brand reached the outskirts of Arbroath, he checked his speed and walked into his native town whistling gently, and with his hands in his pockets, as though he had just returned from an evening walk. He directed his steps to one of the streets near the harbour, in which his mother's cottage was situated. Mrs Brand was a delicate, little old woman--so little and so old that people sometimes wondered how it was possible that she could be the mother of such a stalwart son. She was one of those kind, gentle, uncomplaining, and unselfish beings, who do not secure much popularity or admiration in this world, but who secure obedient children, also steadfast and loving friends. Her favourite book was the Bible; her favourite hope in regard to earthly matters, that men should give up fighting and drinking, and live in peace; her favourite theory that the study of _truth_ was the object for which man was created, and her favourite meal--tea. Ruby was her only child. Minnie was the daughter of a distant relation, and, having been left an orphan, she was adopted by her. Mrs Brand's husband was a sailor. He commanded a small coasting sloop, of which Ruby had been the mate for several years. As we have said, Ruby had been prevailed on to remain at home for some months in order to please his mother, whose delicacy of health was such that his refusal would have injured her seriously; at least the doctor said so, therefore Ruby agreed to stay. The sloop _Penguin_, commanded by Ruby's father, was on a voyage to Newcastle at that time, and was expected in Arbroath every day. But it was fated never more to cast anchor in that port. The great storm, to which reference has been made in a previous chapter, caused many wrecks on the shores of Britain. The _Penguin_, was one of the many. In those days telegraphs, railroads, and penny papers did not exist. Murders were committed then, as now, but little was said, and less was known about them. Wrecks occurred then, as now, but few, except the persons immediately concerned, heard of them. "Destructive fires", "terrible accidents", and the familiar round of "appalling catastrophes" occurred then, as now, but their influence was limited, and their occurrence soon forgotten. We would not be understood to mean that "now" (as compared with "then"), all is right and well; that telegraphs and railways and daily papers are all-potent and perfect. By no means. We have still much to learn and to do in these improved times; and, especially, there is wanting to a large extent among us a sympathetic telegraphy, so to speak, between the interior of our land and the sea-coast, which, if it existed in full and vigorous play, would go far to improve our condition, and raise us in the esteem of Christian nations. Nevertheless, as compared with now, the state of things then was lamentably imperfect. The great storm came and went, having swept thousands of souls into eternity, and hundreds of thousands of pounds into nonentity. Lifeboats had not been invented. Harbours of refuge were almost unknown, and although our coasts bristled with dangerous reefs and headlands, lighthouses were few and far between. The consequence was, that wrecks were numerous; and so also were wreckers,--a class of men, who, in the absence of an efficient coastguard, subsisted to a large extent on what they picked up from the wrecks that were cast in their way, and who did not scruple, sometimes, to _cause_ wrecks, by showing false lights in order to decoy vessels to destruction. We do not say that all wreckers were guilty of such crimes, but many of them were so, and their style of life, at the best, had naturally a demoralising influence upon all of them. The famous Bell Rock, lying twelve miles off the coast of Forfarshire, was a prolific source of destruction to shipping. Not only did numbers of vessels get upon it, but many others ran upon the neighbouring coasts in attempting to avoid it. Ruby's father knew the navigation well, but, in the confusion and darkness of the furious storm, he miscalculated his position and ran upon the rock, where, as we have seen, his body was afterwards found by the two fishermen. It was conveyed by them to the cottage of Mrs Brand, and when Ruby entered he found his mother on her knees by the bedside, pressing the cold hand of his father to her breast, and gazing with wild, tearless eyes into the dead face. We will not dwell upon the sad scenes that followed. Ruby was now under the necessity of leaving home, because his mother being deprived of her husband's support naturally turned in distress to her son. But Ruby had no employment, and work could not be easily obtained at that time in the town, so there was no other resource left him but to go to sea. This he did in a small coasting sloop belonging to an old friend, who gave him part of his wages in advance to enable him to leave his mother a small provision, at least for a short time. This, however, was not all that the widow had to depend on. Minnie Gray was expert with her needle, and for some years past had contributed not a little to the comforts of the household into which she had been adopted. She now set herself to work with redoubled zeal and energy. Besides this, Mrs Brand had a brother, a retired skipper, who obtained the complimentary title of Captain from his friends. He was a poor man, it is true, as regarded money, having barely sufficient for his own subsistence, but he was rich in kindliness and sympathy, so that he managed to make his small income perform wonders. On hearing of his brother-in-law's death, Captain Ogilvy hastened to afford all the consolation in his power to his sorrowing sister. The captain was an eccentric old man, of rugged aspect. He thought that there was not a worse comforter on the face of the earth than himself, because, when he saw others in distress, his heart invariably got into his throat, and absolutely prevented him from saying a single word. He tried to speak to his sister, but all he could do was to take her hand and _weep_. This did the poor widow more good than any words could have done, no matter how eloquently or fitly spoken. It unlocked the fountain of her own heart, and the two wept together. When Captain Ogilvy accompanied Ruby on board the sloop to see him off, and shook hands as he was about to return to the shore, he said--"Cheer up, Ruby; never say die so long as there's a shot in the looker. That's the advice of an old salt, an' you'll find it sound, the more you ponder of it. W'en a young feller sails away on the sea of life, let him always go by chart and compass, not forgettin' to take soundin's w'en cruisin' off a bad coast. Keep a sharp lookout to wind'ard, an' mind yer helm--that's _my_ advice to you lad, as ye go:-- "`A-sailin' down life's troubled stream, All as if it wor a dream.'" The captain had a somewhat poetic fancy (at least he was impressed with the belief that he had), and was in the habit of enforcing his arguments by quotations from memory. When memory failed he supplemented with original composition. "Goodbye, lad, an' Providence go wi' ye." "Goodbye, uncle. I need not remind you to look after mother when I'm away." "No, nephy, you needn't; I'll do it whether or not." "And Minnie, poor thing, she'll need a word of advice and comfort now and then, uncle." "And she shall have it, lad," replied the captain with a tremendous wink, which was unfortunately lost on the nephew, in consequence of its being night and unusually dark, "advice and comfort on demand, gratis; for:-- "`Woman, in her hours of ease, Is most uncommon hard to please;' "But she _must_ be looked arter, ye know, and made of, d'ye see? so Ruby, boy, farewell." Half-an-hour before midnight was the time chosen for the sailing of the sloop _Termagant_, in order that she might get away quietly and escape the press-gang. Ruby and his uncle had taken the precaution to go down to the harbour just a few minutes before sailing, and they kept as closely as possible to the darkest and least-frequented streets while passing through the town. Captain Ogilvy returned by much the same route to his sister's cottage, but did not attempt to conceal his movements. On the contrary, knowing that the sloop must have got clear of the harbour by that time, he went along the streets whistling cheerfully. He had been a noted, not to say noisy, whistler when a boy, and the habit had not forsaken him in his old age. On turning sharp round a corner, he ran against two men, one of whom swore at him, but the other cried-- "Hallo! messmate, yer musical the night. Hey, Captain Ogilvy, surely I seed you an' Ruby slinkin' down the dark side o' the market-gate half an 'oor ago?" "Mayhap ye did, an' mayhap ye didn't," retorted the captain, as he walked on; "but as it's none o' your business to know, I'll not tell ye." "Ay, ay? O but ye're a cross auld chap. Pleasant dreams t'ye." This kindly remark, which was expressed by our friend Davy Spink, was lost on the captain, in consequence of his having resumed his musical recreation with redoubled energy, as he went rolling back to the cottage to console Mrs Brand, and to afford "advice and comfort gratis" to Minnie Gray. CHAPTER FOUR. THE BURGLARY. On the night in question, Big Swankie and a likeminded companion, who went among his comrades by the name of the Badger, had planned to commit a burglary in the town, and it chanced that the former was about that business when Captain Ogilvy unexpectedly ran against him and Davy Spink. Spink, although a smuggler, and by no means a particularly respectable man, had not yet sunk so low in the scale of life as to be willing to commit burglary. Swankie and the Badger suspected this, and, although they required his assistance much, they were afraid to ask him to join, lest he should not only refuse, but turn against them. In order to get over the difficulty, Swankie had arranged to suggest to him the robbery of a store containing gin, which belonged to a smuggler, and, if he agreed to that, to proceed further and suggest the more important matter in hand. But he found Spink proof against the first attack. "I tell 'ee, I'll hae naething to do wi't," said he, when the proposal was made. "But," urged Swankie, "he's a smuggler, and a cross-grained hound besides. It's no' like robbin' an honest man." "An' what are _we_ but smugglers?" retorted Spink; "an' as to bein' cross-grained, you've naethin' to boast o' in that way. Na, na, Swankie, ye may do't yersel, I'll hae nae hand in't. I'll no objec' to tak a bit keg o' Auchmithie water [smuggled spirits] noo and then, or to pick up what comes to me by the wund and sea, but I'll steal frae nae man." "Ay, man, but ye've turned awfu' honest all of a suddent," said the other with a sneer. "I wonder the thretty sovereigns I gied ye the other day, when we tossed for them and the case o' kickshaws, havena' brunt yer pooches." Davy Spink looked a little confused. "Aweel," said he, "it's o' nae use greetin' ower spilt milk, the thing's done and past noo, and I canna help it. Sae guidnight to 'ee." Swankie, seeing that it was useless to attempt to gain over his comrade, and knowing that the Badger was waiting impatiently for him near the appointed house, hurried away without another word, and Davy Spink strolled towards his home, which was an extremely dirty little hut, near the harbour. At the time of which we write, the town of Arbroath was neither so well lighted nor so well guarded as it now is. The two burglars found nothing to interfere with their deeds of darkness, except a few bolts and bars, which did not stand long before their expert hands. Nevertheless, they met with a check from an unexpected quarter. The house they had resolved to break into was inhabited by a widow lady, who was said to be wealthy, and who was known to possess a considerable quantity of plate and jewels. She lived alone, having only one old servant and a little girl to attend upon her. The house stood on a piece of ground not far from the ruins of the stately abbey which originated and gave celebrity to the ancient town of Aberbrothoc. Mrs Stewart's house was full of Eastern curiosities, some of them of great value, which had been sent to her by her son, then a major in the East India Company's service. Now, it chanced that Major Stewart had arrived from India that very day, on leave of absence, all unknown to the burglars, who, had they been aware of the fact, would undoubtedly have postponed their visit to a more convenient season. As it was, supposing they had to deal only with the old lady and her two servants, they began their work between twelve and one that night, with considerable confidence, and in great hopes of a rich booty. A small garden surrounded the old house. It was guarded by a wall about eight feet high, the top of which bristled with bottle-glass. The old lady and her domestics regarded this terrible-looking defence with much satisfaction, believing in their innocence that no human creature could succeed in getting over it. Boys, however, were their only dread, and fruit their only care, when they looked complacently at the bottle-glass on the wall, and, so far, they were right in their feeling of security, for boys found the labour, risk, and danger to be greater than the worth of the apples and pears. But it was otherwise with men. Swankie and the Badger threw a piece of thick matting on the wall; the former bent down, the latter stepped upon his back, and thence upon the mat; then he hauled his comrade up, and both leaped into the garden. Advancing stealthily to the door, they tried it and found it locked. The windows were all carefully bolted, and the shutters barred. This they expected, but thought it as well to try each possible point of entrance, in the hope of finding an unguarded spot before having recourse to their tools. Such a point was soon found, in the shape of a small window, opening into a sort of scullery at the back of the house. It had been left open by accident. An entrance was easily effected by the Badger, who was a small man, and who went through the house with the silence of a cat, towards the front door. There were two lobbies, an inner and an outer, separated from each other by a glass door. Cautiously opening both doors, the Badger admitted his comrade, and then they set to work. A lantern, which could be uncovered or concealed in a moment, enabled them to see their way. "That's the dinin'-room door," whispered the Badger. "Hist! haud yer jaw," muttered Swankie; "I ken that as weel as you." Opening the door, they entered and found the plate-chest under the sideboard. It was open, and a grin of triumph crossed the sweet countenances of the friends as they exchanged glances, and began to put silver forks and spoons by the dozen into a bag which they had brought for the purpose. When they had emptied the plate-chest, they carried the bag into the garden, and, climbing over the wall, deposited it outside. Then they returned for more. Now, old Mrs Stewart was an invalid, and was in the habit of taking a little weak wine and water before retiring to rest at night. It chanced that the bottle containing the port wine had been left on the sideboard, a fact which was soon discovered by Swankie, who put the bottle to his mouth, and took a long pull. "What is't?" enquired the Badger, in a low tone. "Prime!" replied Swankie, handing over the bottle, and wiping his mouth with the cuff of his coat. The Badger put the bottle to his mouth, but unfortunately for him, part of the liquid went down the "wrong throat". The result was that the poor man coughed, once, rather loudly. Swankie, frowning fiercely, and shaking his fist, looked at him in horror; and well he might, for the Badger became first red and then purple in the face, and seemed as if he were about to burst with his efforts to keep down the cough. It came, however, three times, in spite of him,--not violently, but with sufficient noise to alarm them, and cause them to listen for five minutes intently ere they ventured to go on with their work, in the belief that no one had been disturbed. But Major Stewart had been awakened by the first cough. He was a soldier who had seen much service, and who slept lightly. He raised himself in his bed, and listened intently on hearing the first cough. The second cough caused him to spring up and pull on his trousers; the third cough found him halfway downstairs, with a boot-jack in his hand, and when the burglars resumed work he was peeping at them through the half-open door. Both men were stooping over the plate-chest, the Badger with his back to the door, Swankie with his head towards it. The major raised the boot-jack and took aim. At the same moment the door squeaked, Big Swankie looked up hastily, and, in technical phraseology, "doused the glim." All was dark in an instant, but the boot-jack sped on its way notwithstanding. The burglars were accustomed to fighting, however, and dipped their heads. The boot-jack whizzed past, and smashed the pier-glass on the mantelpiece to a thousand atoms. Major Stewart being expert in all the devices of warfare, knew what to expect, and drew aside. He was not a moment too soon, for the dark lantern flew through the doorway, hit the opposite wall, and fell with a loud clatter on the stone floor of the lobby. The Badger followed at once, and received a random blow from the major that hurled him head over heels after the lantern. There was no mistaking the heavy tread and rush of Big Swankie as he made for the door. Major Stewart put out his foot, and the burglar naturally tripped over it; before he could rise the major had him by the throat. There was a long, fierce struggle, both being powerful men; at last Swankie was hurled completely through the glass door. In the fall he disengaged himself from the major, and, leaping up, made for the garden wall, over which he succeeded in clambering before the latter could seize him. Thus both burglars escaped, and Major Stewart returned to the house half-naked,--his shirt having been torn off his back,--and bleeding freely from cuts caused by the glass door. Just as he re-entered the house, the old cook, under the impression that the cat had got into the pantry, and was smashing the crockery, entered the lobby in her nightdress, shrieked "Mercy on us!" on beholding the major, and fainted dead away. Major Stewart was too much annoyed at having failed to capture the burglars to take any notice of her. He relocked the door, and assuring his mother that it was only robbers, and that they had been beaten off, retired to his room, washed and dressed his wounds, and went to bed. Meanwhile Big Swankie and the Badger, laden with silver, made for the shore, where they hid their treasure in a hole. "I'll tell 'ee a dodge," said the Badger. "What may that be?" enquired Swankie. "You said ye saw Ruby Brand slinking down the market-gate, and that's he's off to sea?" "Ay, and twa or three more folk saw him as weel as me." "Weel, let's tak' up a siller spoon, or somethin', an' put it in the auld wife's garden, an' they'll think it was him that did it." "No' that bad!" said Swankie, with a chuckle. A silver fork and a pair of sugar-tongs bearing old Mrs Stewart's initials were accordingly selected for this purpose, and placed in the little garden in the front of Widow Brand's cottage. Here they were found in the morning by Captain Ogilvy, who examined them for at least half-an-hour in a state of the utmost perplexity. While he was thus engaged one of the detectives of the town happened to pass, apparently in some haste. "Hallo! shipmate," shouted the captain. "Well?" responded the detective. "Did ye ever see silver forks an' sugar-tongs growin' in a garden before?" "Eh?" exclaimed the other, entering the garden hastily; "let me see. Oho! this may throw some light on the matter. Did you find them here?" "Ay, on this very spot." "Hum. Ruby went away last night, I believe?" "He did." "Some time after midnight?" enquired the detective. "Likely enough," said the captain, "but my chronometer ain't quite so reg'lar since we left the sea; it might ha' bin more,--mayhap less." "Just so. You saw him off?" "Ay; but you seem more than or'nar inquisitive to-day--" "Did he carry a bundle?" interrupted the detective. "Ay, no doubt." "A large one?" "Ay, a goodish big 'un." "Do you know what was in it?" enquired the detective, with a knowing look. "I do, for I packed it," replied the captain; "his kit was in it." "Nothing more?" "Nothin' as I knows of." "Well, I'll take these with me just now," said the officer, placing the fork and sugar-tongs in his pocket. "I'm afraid, old man, that your nephew has been up to mischief before he went away. A burglary was committed in the town last night, and this is some of the plate. You'll hear more about it before long, I dare say. Good day to ye." So saying, the detective walked quickly away, and left the captain in the centre of the garden staring vacantly before him in speechless amazement. CHAPTER FIVE. THE BELL ROCK INVADED. A year passed away. Nothing more was heard of Ruby Brand, and the burglary was believed to be one of those mysteries which are destined never to be solved. About this time great attention was being given by Government to the subject of lighthouses. The terrible number of wrecks that had taken place had made a deep impression on the public mind. The position and dangerous character of the Bell Rock, in particular, had been for a long time the subject of much discussion, and various unsuccessful attempts had been made to erect a beacon of some sort thereon. There is a legend that in days of old one of the abbots of the neighbouring monastery of Aberbrothoc erected a bell on the Inchcape Rock, which was tolled in rough weather by the action of the waves on a float attached to the tongue, and thus mariners were warned at night and in foggy weather of their approach to the rock, the great danger of which consists in its being a sunken reef, lying twelve miles from the nearest land, and exactly in the course of vessels making for the firths of Forth and Tay. The legend further tells how that a Danish pirate, named Ralph the Rover, in a mischievous mood, cut the bell away, and that, years afterwards, he obtained his appropriate reward by being wrecked on the Bell Rock, when returning from a long cruise laden with booty. Whether this be true or not is an open question, but certain it is that no beacon of any kind was erected on this rock until the beginning of the nineteenth century, after a great storm in 1799 had stirred the public mind, and set springs in motion, which from that time forward have never ceased to operate. Many and disastrous were the shipwrecks that occurred during the storm referred to, which continued, with little intermission, for three days. Great numbers of ships were driven from their moorings in the Downs and Yarmouth Roads; and these, together with all vessels navigating the German Ocean at that time, were drifted upon the east coast of Scotland. It may not, perhaps, be generally known that there are only three great inlets or estuaries to which the mariner steers when overtaken by easterly storms in the North Sea--namely, the Humber, and the firths of Forth and Moray. The mouth of the Thames is too much encumbered by sand-banks to be approached at night or during bad weather. The Humber is also considerably obstructed in this way, so that the Roads of Leith, in the Firth of Forth, and those of Cromarty, in the Moray Firth, are the chief places of resort in easterly gales. But both of these had their special risks. On the one hand, there was the danger of mistaking the Dornoch Firth for the Moray, as it lies only a short way to the north of the latter; and, in the case of the Firth of Forth, there was the terrible Bell Rock. Now, during the storm of which we write, the fear of those two dangers was so strong upon seamen that many vessels were lost in trying to avoid them, and much hardship was sustained by mariners who preferred to seek shelter in higher latitudes. It was estimated that no fewer than seventy vessels were either stranded or lost during that single gale, and many of the crews perished. At one wild part of the coast, near Peterhead, called the Bullers of Buchan, after the first night of the storm, the wrecks of seven vessels were found in one cove, without a single survivor of the crews to give an account of the disaster. The "dangers of the deep" are nothing compared with the _dangers of the shore_. If the hard rocks of our island could tell the tale of their experience, and if we landsmen could properly appreciate it, we should understand more clearly why it is that sailors love blue (in other words, deep) water during stormy weather. In order to render the Forth more accessible by removing the danger of the Bell Rock, it was resolved by the Commissioners of Northern Lights to build a lighthouse upon it. This resolve was a much bolder one than most people suppose, for the rock on which the lighthouse was to be erected was a sunken reef, visible only at low tide during two or three hours, and quite inaccessible in bad weather. It was the nearest approach to building a house _in_ the sea that had yet been attempted! The famous Eddystone stands on a rock which is _never quite_ under water, although nearly so, for its crest rises a very little above the highest tides, while the Bell Rock is eight or ten feet under water at high tides. It must be clear, therefore, to everyone, that difficulties, unusual in magnitude and peculiar in kind, must have stood in the way of the daring engineer who should undertake the erection of a tower on a rock twelve miles out on the stormy sea, and the foundation of which was covered with ten or twelve feet of water every tide; a tower which would have to be built _perfectly_, yet _hastily_; a tower which should form a comfortable home, fit for human beings to dwell in, and yet strong enough to withstand the utmost fury of the waves, not merely whirling round it, as might be the case on some exposed promontory, but rushing at it, straight and fierce from the wild ocean, in great blue solid billows that should burst in thunder on its sides, and rush up in scarcely less solid spray to its lantern, a hundred feet or more above its foundation. An engineer able and willing to undertake this great work was found in the person of the late Robert Stevenson of Edinburgh, whose perseverance and talent shall be commemorated by the grandest and most useful monument ever raised by man, as long as the Bell Rock lighthouse shall tower above the sea. It is not our purpose to go into the details of all that was done in the construction of this lighthouse. Our peculiar task shall be to relate those incidents connected with this work which have relation to the actors in our tale. We will not, therefore, detain the reader by telling him of all the preliminary difficulties that were encountered and overcome in this "Robinson Crusoe" sort of work; how that a temporary floating lightship, named the _Pharos_, was prepared and anchored in the vicinity of the rock in order to be a sort of depot and rendezvous and guide to the three smaller vessels employed in the work, as well as a light to shipping generally, and a building-yard was established at Arbroath, where every single stone of the lighthouse was cut and nicely fitted before being conveyed to the rock. Neither shall we tell of the difficulties that arose in the matter of getting blocks of granite large enough for such masonry, and lime of a nature strong enough to withstand the action of the salt sea. All this, and a great deal more of a deeply interesting nature, must remain untold, and be left entirely to the reader's imagination. [See note 1.] Suffice it to say that the work was fairly begun in the month of August, 1807; that a strong beacon of timber was built, which was so well constructed that it stood out all the storms that beat against it during the whole time of the building operations; that close to this beacon the pit or foundation of the lighthouse was cut down deep into the solid rock; that the men employed could work only between two and three hours at a time, and had to pump the water out of this pit each tide before they could resume operations; that the work could only be done in the summer months, and when engaged in it the men dwelt either in the _Pharos_ floating light, or in one of the attending vessels, and were not allowed to go ashore--that is, to the mainland, about twelve miles distant; that the work was hard, but so novel and exciting that the artificers at last became quite enamoured of it, and that ere long operations were going busily forward, and the work was in a prosperous and satisfactory state of advancement. Things were in this condition at the Bell Rock, when, one fine summer evening, our friend and hero, Ruby Brand, returned, after a long absence, to his native town. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It may be found, however, in minute detail, in the large and interesting work entitled _Stevenson's Bell Rock Lighthouse_. CHAPTER SIX. THE CAPTAIN CHANGES HIS QUARTERS. It was fortunate for Ruby that the skipper of the vessel ordered him to remain in charge while he went ashore, because he would certainly have been recognised by numerous friends, and his arrival would speedily have reached the ears of the officers of justice, who seem to be a class of men specially gifted with the faculty of never forgetting. It was not until darkness had begun to settle down on the town that the skipper returned on board, and gave him leave to go ashore. Ruby did not return in the little coaster in which he had left his native place. That vessel had been wrecked not long after he joined her, but the crew were saved, and Ruby succeeded in obtaining a berth as second mate of a large ship trading between Hull and the Baltic. Returning from one of his voyages with a pretty good sum of money in his pocket, he resolved to visit his mother and give it to her. He therefore went aboard an Arbroath schooner, and offered to work his passage as an extra hand. Remembering his former troubles in connexion with the press-gang, he resolved to conceal his name from the captain and crew, who chanced to be all strangers to him. It must not be supposed that Mrs Brand had not heard of Ruby since he left her. On the contrary, both she and Minnie Gray got letters as frequently as the postal arrangements of those days would admit of; and from time to time they received remittances of money, which enabled them to live in comparative comfort. It happened, however, that the last of these remittances had been lost, so that Mrs Brand had to depend for subsistence on Minnie's exertions, and on her brother's liberality. The brother's power was limited, however, and Minnie had been ailing for some time past, in consequence of her close application to work, so that she could not earn as much as usual. Hence it fell out that at this particular time the widow found herself in greater pecuniary difficulties than she had ever been in before. Ruby was somewhat of an original. It is probable that every hero is. He resolved to surprise his mother by pouring the money he had brought into her lap, and for this purpose had, while in Hull, converted all his savings into copper, silver, and gold. Those precious metals he stowed separately into the pockets of his huge pea-jacket, and, thus heavily laden, went ashore about dark, as soon as the skipper returned. At this precise hour it happened that Mrs Brand, Minnie Gray, and Captain Ogilvy were seated at their supper in the kitchen of the cottage. Two days previously the captain had called, and said to Mrs Brand-- "I tell 'ee what it is, sister, I'm tired of livin' a solitary bachelor life, all by myself, so I'm goin' to make a change, lass." Mrs Brand was for some moments speechless, and Minnie, who was sewing near the window, dropped her hands and work on her lap, and looked up with inexpressible amazement in her sweet blue eyes. "Brother," said Mrs Brand earnestly, "you don't mean to tell me that you're going to marry at _your_ time of life?" "Eh! what? Marry?" The captain looked, if possible, more amazed than his sister for a second or two, then his red face relaxed into a broad grin, and he sat down on a chair and chuckled, wiping the perspiration (he seemed always more or less in a state of perspiration) from his bald head the while. "Why, no, sister, I'm not going to marry; did I speak of marryin'?" "No; but you spoke of being tired of a bachelor life, and wishing to change." "Ah! you women," said the captain, shaking his head--"always suspecting that we poor men are wantin' to marry you. Well, pr'aps you ain't far wrong neither; but I'm not goin' to be spliced yet-a-while, lass. Marry, indeed! "`Shall I, wastin' in despair, Die, 'cause why? a woman's rare?'" "Oh! Captain Ogilvy, that's not rightly quoted," cried Minnie, with a merry laugh. "Ain't it?" said the captain, somewhat put out; for he did not like to have his powers of memory doubted. "No; surely women are not _rare_," said Minnie. "Good ones are," said the captain stoutly. "Well; but that's not the right word." "What _is_ the right word, then?" asked the captain with affected sternness, for, although by nature disinclined to admit that he could be wrong, he had no objection to be put right by Minnie. "Die because a woman's f---," said Minnie, prompting him. "F---, `funny?'" guessed the captain. "No; it's not `funny,'" cried Minnie, laughing heartily. "Of course not," assented the captain, "it could not be `funny' nohow, because `funny' don't rhyme with `despair;' besides, lots o' women ain't funny a bit, an' if they was, that's no reason why a man should die for 'em; what _is_ the word, lass?" "What am _I_?" asked Minnie, with an arch smile, as she passed her fingers through the clustering masses of her beautiful hair. "An angel, beyond all doubt," said the gallant captain, with a burst of sincerity which caused Minnie to blush and then to laugh. "You're incorrigible, captain, and you are so stupid that it's of no use trying to teach you." Mrs Brand--who listened to this conversation with an expression of deep anxiety on her meek face, for she could not get rid of her first idea that her brother was going to marry--here broke in with the question-- "When is it to be, brother?" "When is what to be, sister?" "The--the marriage." "I tell you I _ain't_ a-goin' to marry," repeated the captain; "though why a stout young feller like me, just turned sixty-four, _shouldn't_ marry, is more than I can see. You know the old proverbs, lass--`It's never too late to marry;' `Never ventur', never give in;' `John Anderson my jo John, when we was first--first--'" "Married," suggested Minnie. "Just so," responded the captain, "and everybody knows that _he_ was an old man. But no, I'm not goin' to marry; I'm only goin' to give up my house, sell off the furniture, and come and live with _you_." "Live with me!" ejaculated Mrs Brand. "Ay, an' why not? What's the use o' goin' to the expense of two houses when one'll do, an' when we're both raither scrimp o' the ready? You'll just let me have the parlour. It never was a comf'rable room to sit in, so it don't matter much your givin' it up; it's a good enough sleepin' and smokin' cabin, an' we'll all live together in the kitchen. I'll throw the whole of my treemendous income into the general purse, always exceptin' a few odd coppers, which I'll retain to keep me a-goin' in baccy. We'll sail under the same flag, an' sit round the same fire, an' sup at the same table, and sleep in the same--no, not exactly that, but under the same roof-tree, which'll be a more hoconomical way o' doin' business, you know; an' so, old girl, as the song says-- "`Come an' let us be happy together, For where there's a will there's a way, An' we won't care a rap for the weather So long as there's nothin' to pay.'" "Would it not be better to say, `so long as there's _something_ to pay?'" suggested Minnie. "No, lass, it _wouldn't_," retorted the captain. "You're too fond of improvin' things. I'm a stanch old Tory, I am. I'll stick to the old flag till all's blue. None o' your changes or improvements for me." This was a rather bold statement for a man to make who improved upon almost every line he ever quoted; but the reader is no doubt acquainted with parallel instances of inconsistency in good men even in the present day. "Now, sister," continued Captain Ogilvy, "what d'ye think of my plan?" "I like it well, brother," replied Mrs Brand with a gentle smile. "Will you come soon?" "To-morrow, about eight bells," answered the captain promptly. This was all that was said on the subject. The thing was, as the captain said, settled off-hand, and accordingly next morning he conveyed such of his worldly goods as he meant to retain possession of to his sister's cottage--"the new ship", as he styled it. He carried his traps on his own broad shoulders, and the conveyance of them cost him three distinct trips. They consisted of a huge sea-chest, an old telescope more than a yard long, and cased in leather; a quadrant, a hammock, with the bedding rolled up in it, a tobacco-box, the enormous old Family Bible in which the names of his father, mother, brothers, and sisters were recorded; and a brown teapot with half a lid. This latter had belonged to the captain's mother, and, being fond of it, as it reminded him of the "old ooman", he was wont to mix his grog in it, and drink the same out of a teacup, the handle of which was gone, and the saucer of which was among the things of the past. Notwithstanding his avowed adherence to Tory principles, Captain Ogilvy proceeded to make manifold radical changes and surprising improvements in the little parlour, insomuch that when he had completed the task, and led his sister carefully (for she was very feeble) to look at what he had done, she became quite incapable of expressing herself in ordinary language; positively refused to believe her eyes, and never again entered that room, but always spoke of what she had seen as a curious dream! No one was ever able to discover whether there was not a slight tinge of underlying jocularity in this remark of Mrs Brand, for she was a strange and incomprehensible mixture of shrewdness and innocence; but no one took much trouble to find out, for she was so lovable that people accepted her just as she was, contented to let any small amount of mystery that seemed to be in her to remain unquestioned. "The parlour" was one of those well-known rooms which are occasionally met with in country cottages, the inmates of which are not wealthy. It was reserved exclusively for the purpose of receiving visitors. The furniture, though old, threadbare, and dilapidated, was kept scrupulously clean, and arranged symmetrically. There were a few books on the table, which were always placed with mathematical exactitude, and a set of chairs, so placed as to give one mysteriously the impression that they were not meant to be sat upon. There was also a grate, which never had a fire in it, and was never without a paper ornament in it, the pink and white aspect of which caused one involuntarily to shudder. But the great point, which was meant to afford the highest gratification to the beholder, was the chimney-piece. This spot was crowded to excess in every square inch of its area with ornaments, chiefly of earthenware, miscalled china, and shells. There were great white shells with pink interiors, and small brown shells with spotted backs. Then there were china cups and saucers, and china shepherds and shepherdesses, represented in the act of contemplating the heavens serenely, with their arms round each other's waists. There were also china dogs and cats, and a huge china cockatoo as a centre-piece; but there was not a single spot the size of a sixpence on which the captain could place his pipe or his tobacco-box! "We'll get these things cleared away," said Minnie, with a laugh, on observing the perplexed look with which the captain surveyed the chimney-piece, while the changes above referred to were being made in the parlour; "we have no place ready to receive them just now, but I'll have them all put away to-morrow." "Thank'ee, lass," said the captain, as he set down the sea-chest and seated himself thereon; "they're pretty enough to look at, d'ye see, but they're raither in the way just now, as my second mate once said of the rocks when we were cruising off the coast of Norway in search of a pilot." The ornaments were, however, removed sooner than anyone had anticipated. The next trip that the captain made was for his hammock (he always slept in one), which was a long unwieldy bundle, like a gigantic bolster. He carried it into the parlour on his shoulder, and Minnie followed him. "Where shall I sling it, lass?" "Here, perhaps," said Minnie. The captain wheeled round as she spoke, and the end of the hammock swept the mantelpiece of all its ornaments, as completely as if the besom of destruction had passed over it. "Shiver my timbers!" gasped the captain, awestruck by the hideous crash that followed. "You've shivered the ornaments at any rate," said Minnie, half-laughing and half-crying. "So I have, but no matter. Never say die so long's there a shot in the locker. There's as good fish in the sea as ever come out of it; so bear a hand, my girl, and help me to sling up the hammock." The hammock was slung, the pipe of peace was smoked, and thus Captain Ogilvy was fairly installed in his sister's cottage. It may, perhaps, be necessary to remind the reader that all this is a long digression; that the events just narrated occurred a few days before the return of Ruby, and that they have been recorded here in order to explain clearly the reason of the captain's appearance at the supper table of his sister, and the position which he occupied in the family. When Ruby reached the gate of the small garden, Minnie had gone to the captain's room to see that it was properly prepared for his reception, and the captain himself was smoking his pipe close to the chimney, so that the smoke should ascend it. The first glance through the window assured the youth that his mother was, as letters had represented her, much better in health than she used to be. She looked so quiet and peaceful, and so fragile withal, that Ruby did not dare to "surprise her" by a sudden entrance, as he had originally intended, so he tapped gently at the window, and drew back. The captain laid down his pipe and went to the door. "What, Ruby!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. "Hush, uncle! How is Minnie; where is she?" "I think, lad," replied the captain in a tone of reproof, "that you might have enquired for your mother first." "No need," said Ruby, pointing to the window; "I _see_ that she is there and well, thanks be to God for that:--but Minnie?" "She's well, too, boy, and in the house. But come, get inside. I'll explain, after." This promise to "explain" was given in consequence of the great anxiety he, the captain, displayed to drag Ruby into the cottage. The youth did not require much pressing, however. He no sooner heard that Minnie was well, than he sprang in, and was quickly at his mother's feet. Almost as quickly a fair vision appeared in the doorway of the inner room, and was clasped in the young sailor's arms with the most thorough disregard of appearances, not to mention propriety. While this scene was enacting, the worthy captain was engaged in active proceedings, which at once amused and astonished his nephew, and the nature and cause of which shall be revealed in the next chapter. CHAPTER SEVEN. RUBY IN DIFFICULTIES. Having thrust his nephew into the cottage, Captain Ogilvy's first proceeding was to close the outer shutter of the window and fasten it securely on the inside. Then he locked, bolted, barred, and chained the outer door, after which he shut the kitchen door, and, in default of any other mode of securing it, placed against it a heavy table as a barricade. Having thus secured the premises in front, he proceeded to fortify the rear, and, when this was accomplished to his satisfaction, he returned to the kitchen, sat down opposite the widow, and wiped his shining pate. "Why, uncle, are we going to stand out a siege that you take so much pains to lock up?" Ruby sat down on the floor at his mother's feet as he spoke, and Minnie sat down on a low stool beside him. "Maybe we are, lad," replied the captain; "anyhow, it's always well to be ready-- "`Ready, boys, ready, We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.'" "Come uncle, explain yourself." "Explain myself, nephy? I can neither explain myself nor anybody else. D'ye know, Ruby, that you're a burglar?" "Am I, uncle? Well, I confess that that's news." "Ay, but it's true though, at least the law in Arbroath says so, and if it catches you, it'll hang you as sure as a gun." Here Captain Ogilvy explained to his nephew the nature of the crime that was committed on the night of his departure, the evidence of his guilt in the finding part of the plate in the garden, coupled with his sudden disappearance, and wound up by saying that he regarded him, Ruby, as being in a "reg'lar fix." "But surely," said Ruby, whose face became gradually graver as the case was unfolded to him, "surely it must be easy to prove to the satisfaction of everyone that I had nothing whatever to do with this affair?" "Easy to prove it!" said the captain in an excited tone; "wasn't you seen, just about the hour of the robbery, going stealthily down the street, by Big Swankie and Davy Spink, both of whom will swear to it." "Yes, but _you_ were with me, uncle." "So I was, and hard enough work I had to convince them that I had nothin' to do with it myself, but they saw that I couldn't jump a stone wall eight foot high to save my life, much less break into a house, and they got no further evidence to convict me, so they let me off; but it'll go hard with you, nephy, for Major Stewart described the men, and one o' them was a big strong feller, the description bein' as like you as two peas, only their faces was blackened, and the lantern threw the light all one way, so he didn't see them well. Then, the things found in our garden,--and the villains will haul me up as a witness against you, for, didn't I find them myself?" "Very perplexing; what shall I do?" said Ruby. "Clear out," cried the captain emphatically. "What! fly like a real criminal, just as I have returned home? Never. What say _you_, Minnie?" "Stand your trial, Ruby. They cannot--they dare not--condemn the innocent." "And you, mother?" "I'm sure I don't know what to say," replied Mrs Brand, with a look of deep anxiety, as she passed her fingers through her son's hair, and kissed his brow. "I have seen the innocent condemned and the guilty go free more than once in my life." "Nevertheless, mother, I will give myself up, and take my chance. To fly would be to give them reason to believe me guilty." "Give yourself up!" exclaimed the captain, "you'll do nothing of the sort. Come, lad, remember I'm an old man, and an uncle. I've got a plan in my head, which I think will keep you out of harm's way for a time. You see my old chronometer is but a poor one,--the worse of the wear, like its master,--and I've never been able to make out the exact time that we went aboard the _Termagant_ the night you went away. Now, can you tell me what o'clock it was?" "I can." "'Xactly?" "Yes, exactly, for it happened that I was a little later than I promised, and the skipper pointed to his watch, as I came up the side, and jocularly shook his head at me. It was exactly eleven p.m." "Sure and sartin o' that?" enquired the captain, earnestly. "Quite, and his watch must have been right, for the town-clock rung the hour at the same time." "Is that skipper alive?" "Yes." "Would he swear to that?" "I think he would." "D'ye know where he is?" "I do. He's on a voyage to the West Indies, and won't be home for two months, I believe." "Humph!" said the captain, with a disappointed look. "However, it can't be helped; but I see my way _now_ to get you out o' this fix. You know, I suppose, that they're buildin' a lighthouse on the Bell Rock just now; well, the workmen go off to it for a month at a time, I believe, if not longer, and don't come ashore, and it's such a dangerous place, and troublesome to get to, that nobody almost ever goes out to it from this place, except those who have to do with it. Now, lad, you'll go down to the workyard the first thing in the mornin', before daylight, and engage to go off to work at the Bell Rock. You'll keep all snug and quiet, and nobody'll be a bit the wiser. You'll be earnin' good wages, and in the meantime I'll set about gettin' things in trim to put you all square." "But I see many difficulties ahead," objected Ruby. "Of course ye do," retorted the captain. "Did ye ever hear or see anything on this earth that hadn't rocks ahead o' some sort? It's our business to steer past 'em, lad, not to 'bout ship and steer away. But state yer difficulties." "Well, in the first place, I'm not a stonemason or a carpenter, and I suppose masons and carpenters are the men most wanted there." "Not at all, blacksmiths are wanted there," said the captain, "and I know that you were trained to that work as a boy." "True, I can do somewhat with the hammer, but mayhap they won't engage me." "But they _will_ engage you, lad, for they are hard up for an assistant blacksmith just now, and I happen to be hand-and-glove with some o' the chief men of the yard, who'll be happy to take anyone recommended by me." "Well, uncle, but suppose I do go off to the rock, what chance have you of making things appear better than they are at present?" "I'll explain that, lad. In the first place, Major Stewart is a gentleman, out-and-out, and will listen to the truth. He swears that the robbery took place at one o'clock in the mornin', for he looked at his watch and at the clock of the house, and heard it ring in the town, just as the thieves cleared off over the wall. Now, if I can get your old skipper to take a run here on his return from the West Indies, he'll swear that you was sailin' out to the North Sea _before twelve_, and that'll prove that you _couldn't_ have had nothin' to do with it, d'ye see?" "It sounds well," said Ruby dubiously, "but do you think the lawyers will see things in the light you do?" "Hang the lawyers! d'ye think they will shut their eyes to _the truth_?" "Perhaps they may, in which case they will hang _me_, and so prevent my taking your advice to hang _them_," said Ruby. "Well, well, but you agree to my plan?" asked the captain. "Shall I agree, Minnie? it will separate me from you again for some time." "Yet it is necessary," answered Minnie, sadly; "yes, I think you should agree to go." "Very well, then, that's settled," said Ruby, "and now let us drop the subject, because I have other things to speak of; and if I must start before daylight my time with you will be short--" "Come here a bit, nephy, I want to have a private word with 'ee in my cabin," said the captain, interrupting him, and going into his own room. Ruby rose and followed. "You haven't any--" The captain stopped, stroked his bald head, and looked perplexed. "Well, uncle?" "Well, nephy, you haven't--in short, have ye got any money about you, lad?" "Money? yes, a _little_; but why do you ask?" "Well, the fact is, that your poor mother is hard up just now," said the captain earnestly, "an' I've given her the last penny I have o' my own; but she's quite--" Ruby interrupted his uncle at this point with a boisterous laugh. At the same time he flung open the door and dragged the old man with gentle violence back to the kitchen. "Come here, uncle." "But, avast! nephy, I haven't told ye all yet." "Oh! don't bother me with such trifles just now," cried Ruby, thrusting his uncle into a chair and resuming his own seat at his mother's side; "we'll speak of that at some other time; meanwhile let me talk to mother." "Minnie, dear," he continued, "who keeps the cash here; you or mother?" "Well, we keep it between us," said Minnie, smiling; "your mother keeps it in her drawer and gives me the key when I want any, and I keep an account of it." "Ah! well, mother, I have a favour to ask of you before I go." "Well, _Ruby_?" "It is that you will take care of my cash for me. I have got a goodish lot of it, and find it rather heavy to carry in my pockets--so, hold your apron steady and I'll give it to you." Saying this he began to empty handful after handful of coppers into the old woman's apron; then, remarking that "that was all the browns", he began to place handful after handful of shillings and sixpences on the top of the pile until the copper was hid by silver. The old lady, as usual when surprised, became speechless; the captain smiled and Minnie laughed, but when Ruby put his hand into another pocket and began to draw forth golden sovereigns, and pour them into his mother's lap, the captain became supremely amazed, the old woman laughed, and,--so strangely contradictory and unaccountable is human nature,--Minnie began to cry. Poor girl! the tax upon her strength had been heavier than anyone knew, heavier than she could bear, and the sorrow of knowing, as she had come to know, that it was all in vain, and that her utmost efforts had failed to "keep the wolf from the door", had almost broken her down. Little wonder, then, that the sight of sudden and ample relief upset her altogether. But her tears, being tears of joy, were soon and easily dried--all the more easily that it was Ruby who undertook to dry them. Mrs Brand sat up late that night, for there was much to tell and much to hear. After she had retired to rest the other three continued to hold converse together until grey dawn began to appear through the chinks in the window-shutters. Then the two men rose and went out, while Minnie laid her pretty little head on the pillow beside Mrs Brand, and sought, and found, repose. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SCENE CHANGES--RUBY IS VULCANISED. As Captain Ogilvy had predicted, Ruby was at once engaged as an assistant blacksmith on the Bell Rock. In fact, they were only too glad to get such a powerful, active young fellow into their service; and he was shipped off with all speed in the sloop _Smeaton_, with a few others who were going to replace some men who had become ill and were obliged to leave. A light westerly breeze was blowing when they cast off the moorings of the sloop. "Goodbye, Ruby," said the captain, as he was about to step on the pier. "Remember your promise, lad, to keep quiet, and don't try to get ashore, or to hold communication with anyone till you hear from me." "All right, uncle, I won't forget, and I'll make my mind easy, for I know that my case is left in good hands." Three hours elapsed ere the _Smeaton_ drew near to the Bell Rock. During this time, Ruby kept aloof from his fellow-workmen, feeling disposed to indulge the sad thoughts which filled his mind. He sat down on the bulwarks, close to the main shrouds, and gazed back at the town as it became gradually less and less visible in the faint light of morning. Then he began to ponder his unfortunate circumstances, and tried to imagine how his uncle would set about clearing up his character and establishing his innocence; but, do what he would, Ruby could not keep his mind fixed for any length of time on any subject or line of thought, because of a vision of sweetness which it is useless to attempt to describe, and which was always accompanied by, and surrounded with, a golden halo. At last the youth gave up the attempt to fix his thoughts, and allowed them to wander as they chose, seeing that they were resolved to do so whether he would or no. The moment these thoughts had the reins flung on their necks, and were allowed to go where they pleased, they refused, owing to some unaccountable species of perversity, to wander at all, but at once settled themselves comfortably down beside the vision with golden hair, and remained there. This agreeable state of things was rudely broken in upon by the hoarse voice of the mate shouting-- "Stand by to let go the anchor." Then Ruby sprang on the deck and shook himself like a great mastiff, and resolved to devote himself, heart and soul, from that moment, to the work in which he was about to engage. The scene that presented itself to our hero when he woke up from his dreams would have interested and excited a much less enthusiastic temperament than his. The breeze had died away altogether, just as if, having wafted the _Smeaton_ to her anchorage, there were no further occasion for its services. The sea was therefore quite calm, and as there had only been light westerly winds for some time past, there was little or none of the swell that usually undulates the sea. One result of this was, that, being high water when the _Smeaton_ arrived, there was no sign whatever of the presence of the famous Bell Rock. It lay sleeping nearly two fathoms below the sea, like a grim giant in repose, and not a ripple was there to tell of the presence of the mariner's enemy. The sun was rising, and its slanting beams fell on the hulls of the vessels engaged in the service, which lay at anchor at a short distance from each other. These vessels, as we have said, were four in number, including the _Smeaton_. The others were the _Sir Joseph Banks_, a small schooner-rigged vessel; the _Patriot_, a little sloop; and the _Pharos_ lightship, a large clumsy-looking Dutch-built ship, fitted with three masts, at the top of which were the lanterns. It was intended that this vessel should do duty as a lightship until the lighthouse should be completed. Besides these there were two large boats, used for landing stones and building materials on the rock. These vessels lay floating almost motionless on the calm sea, and at first there was scarcely any noise aboard of them to indicate that they were tenanted by human beings, but when the sound of the _Smeaton's_ cable was heard there was a bustle aboard of each, and soon faces were seen looking inquisitively over the sides of the ships. The _Smeaton's_ boat was lowered after the anchor was let go, and the new hands were transferred to the _Pharos_, which was destined to be their home for some time to come. Just as they reached her the bell rang for breakfast, and when Ruby stepped upon the deck he found himself involved in all the bustle that ensues when men break off from work and make preparation for the morning meal. There were upwards of thirty artificers on board the lightship at this time. Some of these, as they hurried to and fro, gave the new arrivals a hearty greeting, and asked, "What news from the shore?" Others were apparently too much taken up with their own affairs to take notice of them. While Ruby was observing the busy scene with absorbing interest, and utterly forgetful of the fact that he was in any way connected with it, an elderly gentleman, whose kind countenance and hearty manner gave indication of a genial spirit within, came up and accosted him: "You are our assistant blacksmith, I believe?" "Yes, sir, I am," replied Ruby, doffing his cap, as if he felt instinctively that he was in the presence of someone of note. "You have had considerable practice, I suppose, in your trade?" "A good deal, sir, but not much latterly, for I have been at sea for some time." "At sea? Well, that won't be against you here," returned the gentleman, with a meaning smile. "It would be well if some of my men were a little more accustomed to the sea, for they suffer much from sea-sickness. You can go below, my man, and get breakfast. You'll find your future messmate busy at his, I doubt not. Here, steward," (turning to one of the men who chanced to pass at the moment,) "take Ruby Brand--that is your name, I think?" "It is, sir." "Take Brand below, and introduce him to James Dove as his assistant." The steward escorted Ruby down the ladder that conducted to those dark and littered depths of the ship's hull that were assigned to the artificers as their place of abode. But amidst a good deal of unavoidable confusion, Ruby's practised eye discerned order and arrangement everywhere. "This is your messmate, Jamie Dove," said the steward, pointing to a massive dark man, whose outward appearance was in keeping with his position as the Vulcan of such an undertaking as he was then engaged in. "You'll find him not a bad feller if you only don't cross him." He added, with a wink, "His only fault is that he's given to spoilin' good victuals, being raither floored by sea-sickness if it comes on to blow ever so little." "Hold your clapper, lad," said the smith, who was at the moment busily engaged with a mess of salt pork, and potatoes to match. "Who's your friend?" "No friend of mine, though I hope he'll be one soon," answered the steward. "Mr Stevenson told me to introduce him to you as your assistant." The smith looked up quickly, and scanned our hero with some interest; then, extending his great hard hand across the table, he said, "Welcome, messmate; sit down, I've only just begun." Ruby grasped the hand with his own, which, if not so large, was quite as powerful, and shook the smith's right arm in a way that called forth from that rough-looking individual a smile of approbation. "You've not had breakfast, lad?" "No, not yet," said Ruby, sitting down opposite his comrade. "An' the smell here don't upset your stummick, I hope?" The smith said this rather anxiously. "Not in the least," said Ruby with a laugh, and beginning to eat in a way that proved the truth of his words; "for the matter o' that, there's little smell and no motion just now." "Well, there isn't much," replied the smith, "but, woe's me! you'll get enough of it before long. All the new landsmen like you suffer horribly from sea-sickness when they first come off." "But I'm not a landsman," said Ruby. "Not a landsman!" echoed the other. "You're a blacksmith, aren't you?" "Ay, but not a landsman. I learned the trade as a boy and lad; but I've been at sea for some time past." "Then you won't get sick when it blows?" "Certainly not; will _you_?" The smith groaned and shook his head, by which answer he evidently meant to assure his friend that he would, most emphatically. "But come, it's of no use groanin' over what can't be helped. I get as sick as a dog every time the wind rises, and the worst of it is I don't never seem to improve. Howsever, I'm all right when I get on the rock, and that's the main thing." Ruby and his friend now entered upon a long and earnest conversation as to their peculiar duties at the Bell Rock, with which we will not trouble the reader. After breakfast they went on deck, and here Ruby had sufficient to occupy his attention and to amuse him for some hours. As the tide that day did not fall low enough to admit of landing on the rock till noon, the men were allowed to spend the time as they pleased. Some therefore took to fishing, others to reading, while a few employed themselves in drying their clothes, which had got wet the previous day, and one or two entertained themselves and their comrades with the music of the violin and flute. All were busy with one thing or another, until the rock began to show its black crest above the smooth sea. Then a bell was rung to summon the artificers to land. This being the signal for Ruby to commence work, he joined his friend Dove, and assisted him to lower the bellows of the forge into the boat. The men were soon in their places, with their various tools, and the boats pushed off--Mr Stevenson, the engineer of the building, steering one boat, and the master of the _Pharos_, who was also appointed to the post of landing-master, steering the other. They landed with ease on this occasion on the western side of the rock, and then each man addressed himself to his special duty with energy. The time during which they could work being short, they had to make the most of it. "Now, lad," said the smith, "bring along the bellows and follow me. Mind yer footin', for it's slippery walkin' on them tangle-covered rocks. I've seen some ugly falls here already." "Have any bones been broken yet?" enquired Ruby, as he shouldered the large pair of bellows, and followed the smith cautiously over the rocks. "Not yet; but there's been an awful lot o' pipes smashed. If it goes on as it has been, we'll have to take to metal ones. Here we are, Ruby, this is the forge, and I'll be bound you never worked at such a queer one before. Hallo! Bremner!" he shouted to one of the men. "That's me," answered Bremner. "Bring your irons as soon as you like! I'm about ready for you." "Ay, ay, here they are," said the man, advancing with an armful of picks, chisels, and other tools, which required sharpening. He slipped and fell as he spoke, sending all the tools into the bottom of a pool of water; but, being used to such mishaps, he arose, joined in the laugh raised against him, and soon fished up the tools. "What's wrong!" asked Ruby, pausing in the work of fixing the bellows, on observing that the smith's face grew pale, and his general expression became one of horror. "Not sea-sick, I hope?" "Sea-sick," gasped the smith, slapping all his pockets hurriedly, "it's worse than that; I've forgot the matches!" Ruby looked perplexed, but had no consolation to offer. "That's like you," cried Bremner, who, being one of the principal masons, had to attend chiefly to the digging out of the foundation-pit of the building, and knew that his tools could not be sharpened unless the forge fire could be lighted. "Suppose you hammer a nail red-hot," suggested one of the men, who was disposed to make game of the smith. "I'll hammer your nose red-hot," replied Dove, with a most undovelike scowl, "I could swear that I put them matches in my pocket before I started." "No, you didn't," said George Forsyth, one of the carpenters--a tall loose-jointed man, who was chiefly noted for his dislike to getting into and out of boats, and climbing up the sides of ships, because of his lengthy and unwieldy figure--"No, you didn't, you turtle-dove, you forgot to take them; but I remembered to do it for you; so there, get up your fire, and confess yourself indebted to me for life." "I'm indebted to 'ee for fire," said the smith, grasping the matches eagerly. "Thank'ee, lad, you're a true Briton." "A tall 'un, rather," suggested Bremner. "Wot never, never, never will be a slave," sang another of the men. "Come, laddies, git up the fire. Time an' tide waits for naebody," said John Watt, one of the quarriers. "We'll want thae tools before lang." The men were proceeding with their work actively while those remarks were passing, and ere long the smoke of the forge fire arose in the still air, and the clang of the anvil was added to the other noises with which the busy spot resounded. The foundation of the Bell Rock Lighthouse had been carefully selected by Mr Stevenson; the exact spot being chosen not only with a view to elevation, but to the serrated ridges of rock, that might afford some protection to the building, by breaking the force of the easterly seas before they should reach it; but as the space available for the purpose of building was scarcely fifty yards in diameter, there was not much choice in the matter. The foundation-pit was forty-two feet in diameter, and sunk five feet into the solid rock. At the time when Ruby landed, it was being hewn out by a large party of the men. Others were boring holes in the rock near to it, for the purpose of fixing the great beams of a beacon, while others were cutting away the seaweed from the rock, and making preparations for the laying down of temporary rails to facilitate the conveying of the heavy stones from the boats to their ultimate destination. All were busy as bees. Each man appeared to work as if for a wager, or to find out how much he could do within a given space of time. To the men on the rock itself the aspect of the spot was sufficiently striking and peculiar, but to those who viewed it from a boat at a short distance off it was singularly interesting, for the whole scene of operations appeared like a small black spot, scarcely above the level of the waves, on which a crowd of living creatures were moving about with great and incessant activity, while all around and beyond lay the mighty sea, sleeping in the grand tranquillity of a calm summer day, with nothing to bound it but the blue sky, save to the northward, where the distant cliffs of Forfar rested like a faint cloud on the horizon. The sounds, too, which on the rock itself were harsh and loud and varied, came over the water to the distant observer in a united tone, which sounded almost as sweet as soft music. The smith's forge stood on a ledge of rock close to the foundation-pit, a little to the north of it. Here Vulcan Dove had fixed a strong iron framework, which formed the hearth. The four legs which supported it were let into holes bored from six to twelve inches into the rock, according to the inequalities of the site. These were wedged first with wood and then with iron, for as this part of the forge and the anvil was doomed to be drowned every tide, or twice every day, besides being exposed to the fury of all the storms that might chance to blow, it behoved them to fix things down with unusual firmness. The block of timber for supporting the anvil was fixed in the same manner, but the anvil itself was left to depend on its own weight and the small stud fitted into the bottom of it. The bellows, however, were too delicate to be left exposed to such forces as the stormy winds and waves, they were therefore shipped and unshipped every tide, and conveyed to and from the rock in the boats with the men. Dove and Ruby wrought together like heroes. They were both so powerful that the heavy implements they wielded seemed to possess no weight when in their strong hands, and their bodies were so lithe and active as to give the impression of men rejoicing, revelling, in the enjoyment of their work. "That's your sort; hit him hard, he's got no friends," said Dove, turning a mass of red-hot metal from side to side, while Ruby pounded it with a mighty hammer, as if it were a piece of putty. "Fire and steel for ever," observed Ruby, as he made the sparks fly right and left. "Hallo! the tide's rising." "Ho! so it is," cried the smith, finishing off the piece of work with a small hammer, while Ruby rested on the one he had used and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "It always serves me in this way, lad," continued the smith, without pausing for a moment in his work. "Blow away, Ruby, the sea is my greatest enemy. Every day, a'most, it washes me away from my work. In calm weather, it creeps up my legs, and the legs o' the forge too, till it gradually puts out the fire, and in rough weather it sends up a wave sometimes that sweeps the whole concern black out at one shot." "It will _creep_ you out to-day, evidently," said Ruby, as the water began to come about his toes. "Never mind, lad, we'll have time to finish them picks this tide, if we work fast." Thus they toiled and moiled, with their heads and shoulders in smoke and fire, and their feet in water. Gradually the tide rose. "Pump away, Ruby! Keep the pot bilin', my boy," said the smith. "The wind blowin', you mean. I say, Dove, do the other men like the work here?" "Like it, ay, they like it well. At fist we were somewhat afraid o' the landin' in rough weather, but we've got used to that now. The only bad thing about it is in the rolling o' that horrible _Pharos_. She's so bad in a gale that I sometimes think she'll roll right over like a cask. Most of us get sick then, but I don't think any of 'em are as bad as me. They seem to be gettin' used to that too. I wish I could. Another blow, Ruby." "Time's up," shouted one of the men. "Hold on just for a minute or two," pleaded the smith, who, with his assistant, was by this time standing nearly knee-deep in water. The sea had filled the pit some time before, and driven the men out of it. These busied themselves in collecting the tools and seeing that nothing was left lying about, while the men who were engaged on those parts of the rocks that were a few inches higher, continued their labours until the water crept up to them. Then they collected their tools, and went to the boats, which lay awaiting them at the western landing-place. "Now, Dove," cried the landing-master, "come along; the crabs will be attacking your toes if you don't." "It's a shame to gi'e Ruby the chance o' a sair throat the very first day," cried John Watt. "Just half a minute more," said the smith, examining a pickaxe, which he was getting up to that delicate point of heat which is requisite to give it proper temper. While he gazed earnestly into the glowing coals a gentle hissing sound was heard below the frame of the forge, then a gurgle, and the fire became suddenly dark and went out! "I knowed it! always the way!" cried Dove, with a look of disappointment. "Come, lad, up with the bellows now, and don't forget the tongs." In a few minutes more the boats pushed off and returned to the _Pharos_, three and a half hours of good work having been accomplished before the tide drove them away. Soon afterwards the sea overflowed the whole of the rock, and obliterated the scene of those busy operations as completely as though it had never been! CHAPTER NINE. STORMS AND TROUBLES. A week of fine weather caused Ruby Brand to fall as deeply in love with the work at the Bell Rock as his comrades had done. There was an amount of vigour and excitement about it, with a dash of romance, which quite harmonised with his character. At first he had imagined it would be monotonous and dull, but in experience he found it to be quite the reverse. Although there was uniformity in the general character of the work, there was constant variety in many of the details; and the spot on which it was carried on was so circumscribed, and so utterly cut off from all the world, that the minds of those employed became concentrated on it in a way that aroused strong interest in every trifling object. There was not a ledge or a point of rock that rose ever so little above the general level, that was not named after, and intimately associated with, some event or individual. Every mass of seaweed became a familiar object. The various little pools and inlets, many of them not larger than a dining-room table, received high-sounding and dignified names-- such as _Port Stevenson, Port Erskine, Taylor's Track, Neill's Pool_, etcetera. Of course the fish that frequented the pools, and the shell-fish that covered the rock, became subjects of much attention, and, in some cases, of earnest study. Robinson Crusoe himself did not pry into the secrets of his island-home with half the amount of assiduity that was displayed at this time by many of the men who built the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The very fact that their time was limited acted as a spur, so that on landing each tide they rushed hastily to the work, and the amateur studies in natural history to which we have referred were prosecuted hurriedly during brief intervals of rest. Afterwards, when the beacon house was erected, and the men dwelt upon the rock, these studies (if we may not call them amusements) were continued more leisurely, but with unabated ardour, and furnished no small amount of comparatively thrilling incident at times. One fine morning, just after the men had landed, and before they had commenced work, "Long Forsyth", as his comrades styled him, went to a pool to gather a little dulse, of which there was a great deal on the rock, and which was found to be exceedingly grateful to the palates of those who were afflicted with sea-sickness. He stooped over the pool to pluck a morsel, but paused on observing a beautiful fish, about a foot long, swimming in the clear water, as quietly as if it knew the man to be a friend, and were not in the least degree afraid of him. Forsyth was an excitable man, and also studious in his character. He at once became agitated and desirous of possessing that fish, for it was extremely brilliant and variegated in colour. He looked round for something to throw at it, but there was nothing within reach. He sighed for a hook and line, but as sighs never yet produced hooks or lines he did not get one. Just then the fish swam slowly to the side of the pool on which the man kneeled, as if it actually desired more intimate acquaintance. Forsyth lay flat down and reached out his hand toward it; but it appeared to think this rather too familiar, for it swam slowly beyond his reach, and the man drew back. Again it came to the side, much nearer. Once more Forsyth lay down, reaching over the pool as far as he could, and insinuating his hand into the water. But the fish moved off a little. Thus they coquetted with each other for some time, until the man's comrades began to observe that he was "after something." "Wot's he a-doin' of?" said one. "Reachin' over the pool, I think," replied another. "Ye don't mean he's sick?" cried a third. The smile with which this was received was changed into a roar of laughter as poor Forsyth's long legs were seen to tip up into the air, and the whole man to disappear beneath the water. He had overbalanced himself in his frantic efforts to reach the fish, and was now making its acquaintance in its native element! The pool, although small in extent, was so deep that Forsyth, long though he was, did not find bottom. Moreover, he could not swim, so that when he reached the surface he came up with his hands first and his ten fingers spread out helplessly; next appeared his shaggy head, with the eyes wide open, and the mouth tight shut. The moment the latter was uncovered, however, he uttered a tremendous yell, which was choked in the bud with a gurgle as he sank again. The men rushed to the rescue at once, and the next time Forsyth rose he was seized by the hair of the head and dragged out of the pool. It has not been recorded what became of the fish that caused such an alarming accident, but we may reasonably conclude that it sought refuge in the ocean cavelets at the bottom of that miniature sea, for Long Forsyth was so very large, and created such a terrible disturbance therein, that no fish exposed to the full violence of the storm could have survived it! "Wot a hobject!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, a short, thickset, little Englishman, who, having been born and partly bred in London, was rather addicted to what is styled chaffing. "Was you arter a mermaid, shipmate?" "Av coorse he was," observed Ned O'Connor, an Irishman, who was afflicted with the belief that he was rather a witty fellow, "av coorse he was, an' a merry-maid she must have bin to see a human spider like him kickin' up such a dust in the say." "He's like a drooned rotten," observed John Watt; "tak' aff yer claes, man, an' wring them dry." "Let the poor fellow be, and get along with you," cried Peter Logan, the foreman of the works, who came up at that moment. With a few parting remarks and cautions, such as,--"You'd better bring a dry suit to the rock next time, lad," "Take care the crabs don't make off with you, boy," "and don't be gettin' too fond o' the girls in the sea," etcetera, the men scattered themselves over the rock and began their work in earnest, while Forsyth, who took the chaffing in good part, stripped himself and wrung the water out of his garments. Episodes of this kind were not unfrequent, and they usually furnished food for conversation at the time, and for frequent allusion afterwards. But it was not all sunshine and play, by any means. Not long after Ruby joined, the fine weather broke up, and a succession of stiff breezes, with occasional storms, more or lees violent, set in. Landing on the rock became a matter of extreme difficulty, and the short period of work was often curtailed to little more than an hour each tide. The rolling of the _Pharos_ lightship, too, became so great that sea-sickness prevailed to a large extent among the landsmen. One good arose out of this evil, however. Landing on the Bell Rock invariably cured the sickness for a time, and the sea-sick men had such an intense longing to eat of the dulse that grew there, that they were always ready and anxious to get into the boats when there was the slightest possibility of landing. Getting into the boats, by the way, in a heavy sea, when the lightship was rolling violently, was no easy matter. When the fine weather first broke up, it happened about midnight, and the change commenced with a stiff breeze from the eastward. The sea rose at once, and, long before daybreak, the _Pharos_ was rolling heavily in the swell, and straining violently at the strong cable which held her to her moorings. About dawn Mr Stevenson came on deck. He could not sleep, because he felt that on his shoulders rested not only the responsibility of carrying this gigantic work to a satisfactory conclusion, but also, to a large extent, the responsibility of watching over and guarding the lives of the people employed in the service. "Shall we be able to land to-day, Mr Wilson?" he said, accosting the master of the _Pharos_, who has been already introduced as the landing-master. "I think so; the barometer has not fallen much; and even although the wind should increase a little, we can effect a landing by the Fair Way, at Hope's Wharf." "Very well, I leave it entirely in your hands; you understand the weather better than I do, but remember that I do not wish my men to run unnecessary or foolish risk." It may be as well to mention here that a small but exceedingly strong tramway of iron-grating had been fixed to the Bell Rock at an elevation varying from two to four feet above it, and encircling the site of the building. This tramway or railroad was narrow, not quite three feet in width; and small trucks were fitted to it, so that the heavy stones of the building might be easily run to the exact spot they were to occupy. From this circular rail several branch lines extended to the different creeks where the boats deposited the stones. These lines, although only a few yards in length, were dignified with names--as, _Kennedy's Reach, Logan's Reach, Watt's Reach_, and _Slight's Reach_. The ends of them, where they dipped into the sea, were named _Hope's Wharf, Duff's Wharf, Rae's Wharf_, etcetera; and these wharves had been fixed on different sides of the rock, so that, whatever wind should blow, there would always be one of them on the lee-side available for the carrying on of the work. _Hope's Wharf_ was connected with _Port Erskine_, a pool about twenty yards long by three or four wide, and communicated with the side of the lighthouse by _Watt's Reach_, a distance of about thirty yards. About eight o'clock that morning the bell rang for breakfast. Such of the men as were not already up began to get out of their berths and hammocks. To Ruby the scene that followed was very amusing. Hitherto all had been calm and sunshine. The work, although severe while they were engaged, had been of short duration, and the greater part of each day had been afterwards spent in light work, or in amusement. The summons to meals had always been a joyful one, and the appetites of the men were keenly set. Now, all this was changed. The ruddy faces of the men were become green, blue, yellow, and purple, according to temperament, but few were flesh-coloured or red. When the bell rang there was a universal groan below, and half a dozen ghostlike individuals raised themselves on their elbows and looked up with expressions of the deepest woe at the dim skylight. Most of them speedily fell back again, however, partly owing to a heavy lurch of the vessel, and partly owing to indescribable sensations within. "Blowin'!" groaned one, as if that single word comprehended the essence of all the miseries that seafaring man is heir to. "O dear!" sighed another, "why did I ever come here?" "Och! murder, I'm dyin', send for the praist an' me mother!" cried O'Connor, as he fell flat down on his back and pressed both hands tightly over his mouth. The poor blacksmith lost control over himself at this point and--found partial relief! The act tended to relieve others. Most of the men were much too miserable to make any remark at all, a few of them had not heart even to groan; but five or six sat up on the edge of their beds, with a weak intention of turning out. They sat there swaying about with the motions of the ship in helpless indecision, until a tremendous roll sent them flying, with unexpected violence, against the starboard bulkheads. "Come, lads," cried Ruby, leaping out of his hammock, "there's nothing like a vigorous jump to put sea-sickness to flight." "Humbug!" ejaculated Bremner, who owned a little black dog, which lay at that time on the pillow gazing into his master's green face, with wondering sympathy. "Ah, Ruby," groaned the smith, "it's all very well for a sea-dog like you that's used to it, but--" James Dove stopped short abruptly. It is not necessary to explain the cause of his abrupt silence. Suffice it to say that he did not thereafter attempt to finish that sentence. "Steward!" roared Joe Dumsby. "Ay, ay, shipmate, what's up?" cried the steward, who chanced to pass the door of the men's sleeping-place, with a large dish of boiled salt pork, at the moment. "Wot's up?" echoed Dumsby. "Everythink that ever went into me since I was a hinfant must be `up' by this time. I say, is there any chance of gettin' on the rock to-day?" "O yes. I heard the cap'n say it would be quite easy, and they seem to be makin' ready now, so if any of 'ee want breakfast you'd better turn out." This speech acted like a shock of electricity on the wretched men. In a moment every bed was empty, and the place was in a bustle of confusion as they hurriedly threw on their clothes. Some of them even began to think of the possibility of venturing on a hard biscuit and a cup of tea, but a gust of wind sent the fumes of the salt pork into the cabin at the moment, and the mere idea of food filled them with unutterable loathing. Presently the bell rang again. This was the signal for the men to muster, the boats being ready alongside. The whole crew at once rushed on deck, some of them thrusting biscuits into their pockets as they passed the steward's quarters. Not a man was absent on the roll being called. Even the smith crawled on deck, and had spirit enough left to advise Ruby not to forget the bellows; to which Ruby replied by recommending his comrade not to forget the matches. Then the operation of embarking began. The sea at the time was running pretty high, with little white flecks of foam tipping the crests of the deep blue waves. The eastern sky was dark and threatening. The black ridges of the Bell Rock were visible only at times in the midst of the sea of foam that surrounded them. Anyone ignorant of their nature would have deemed a landing absolutely impossible. The _Pharos_, as we have said, was rolling violently from side to side, insomuch that those who were in the boats had the greatest difficulty in preventing them from being stove in; and getting into these boats had much the appearance of an exceedingly difficult and dangerous feat, which active and reckless men might undertake for a wager. But custom reconciles one to almost anything. Most of the men had had sufficient experience by that time to embark with comparative ease. Nevertheless, there were a few whose physical conformation was such that they could do nothing neatly. Poor Forsyth was one of these. Each man had to stand on the edge of the lightship, outside the bulwarks, holding on to a rope, ready to let go and drop into the boat when it rose up and met the vessel's roll. In order to facilitate the operation a boat went to either side of the ship, so that two men were always in the act of watching for an opportunity to spring. The active men usually got in at the first or second attempt, but others missed frequently, and were of course "chaffed" by their more fortunate comrades. The embarking of "Long Forsyth" was always a scene in rough weather, and many a narrow escape had he of a ducking. On the present occasion, being very sick, he was more awkward than usual. "Now, Longlegs," cried the men who held the boat on the starboard side, as Forsyth got over the side and stood ready to spring, "let's see how good you'll be to-day." He was observed by Joe Dumsby, who had just succeeded in getting into the boat on the port side of the ship, and who always took a lively interest in his tall comrade's proceedings. "Hallo! is that the spider?" he cried, as the ship rolled towards him, and the said spider appeared towering high on the opposite bulwark, sharply depicted against the grey sky. It was unfortunate for Joe that he chanced to be on the opposite side from his friend, for at each roll the vessel necessarily intervened and hid him for a few seconds from view. Next roll, Forsyth did not dare to leap, although the gunwale of the boat came within a foot of him. He hesitated, the moment was lost, the boat sank into the hollow of the sea, and the man was swung high into the air, where he was again caught sight of by Dumsby. "What! are you there yet?" he cried. "You must be fond of a swing--" Before he could say more the ship rolled over to the other side, and Forsyth was hid from view. "Now, lad, now! now!" shouted the boat's crew, as the unhappy man once more neared the gunwale. Forsyth hesitated. Suddenly he became desperate and sprang, but the hesitation gave him a much higher fall than he would otherwise have had; it caused him also to leap wildly in a sprawling manner, so that he came down on the shoulders of his comrades "all of a lump". Fortunately they were prepared for something of the sort, so that no damage was done. When the boats were at last filled they pushed off and rowed towards the rock. On approaching it the men were cautioned to pull steadily by Mr Stevenson, who steered the leading boat. It was a standing order in the landing department that every man should use his greatest exertions in giving to the boats sufficient velocity to preserve their steerage way in entering the respective creeks at the rock, that the contending seas might not overpower them at places where the free use of the oars could not be had on account of the surrounding rocks or the masses of seaweed with which the water was everywhere encumbered at low tide. This order had been thoroughly impressed upon the men, as carelessness or inattention to it might have proved fatal to all on board. As the leading boat entered the fairway, its steersman saw that more than ordinary caution would be necessary; for the great green billows that thundered to windward of the rock came sweeping down on either side of it, and met on the lee-side, where they swept onward with considerable, though much abated force. "Mind your oars, lads; pull steady," said Mr Stevenson, as they began to get amongst the seaweed. The caution was unnecessary as far as the old hands were concerned; but two of the men happened to be new hands, who had come off with Ruby, and did not fully appreciate the necessity of strict obedience. One of these, sitting at the bow-oar, looked over his shoulder, and saw a heavy sea rolling towards the boat, and inadvertently expressed some fear. The other man, on hearing this, glanced round, and in doing so missed a stroke of his oar. Such a preponderance was thus given to the rowers on the opposite side, that when the wave struck the boat, it caught her on the side instead of the bow, and hurled her upon a ledge of shelving rocks, where the water left her. Having been _canted_ to seaward, the next billow completely filled her, and, of course, drenched the crew. Instantly Ruby Brand and one or two of the most active men leaped out, and, putting forth all their strength, turned the boat round so as to meet the succeeding sea with its bow first. Then, after making considerable efforts, they pushed her off into deep water, and finally made the landing-place. The other boat could render no assistance; but, indeed, the whole thing was the work of a few minutes. As the boats could not conveniently leave the rock till flood-tide, all hands set to work with unwonted energy in order to keep themselves warm, not, however, before they ate heartily of their favourite dulse--the blacksmith being conspicuous for the voracious manner in which he devoured it. Soon the bellows were set up; the fire was kindled, and the ring of the anvil heard; but poor Dove and Ruby had little pleasure in their work that day; for the wind blew the smoke and sparks about their faces, and occasionally a higher wave than ordinary sent the spray flying round them, to the detriment of their fire. Nevertheless they plied the hammer and bellows unceasingly. The other men went about their work with similar disregard of the fury of the elements and the wet condition of their garments. CHAPTER TEN. THE RISING OF THE TIDE--A NARROW ESCAPE. The portion of the work that Mr Stevenson was now most anxious to get advanced was the beacon. The necessity of having an erection of this kind was very obvious, for, in the event of anything happening to the boats, there would be no refuge for the men to fly to; and the tide would probably sweep them all away before their danger could be known, or assistance sent from the attendant vessels. Every man felt that his personal safety might depend on the beacon during some period of the work. The energies of all, therefore, were turned to the preliminary arrangements for its erection. As the beacon would require to withstand the utmost fury of the elements during all seasons of the year, it was necessary that it should be possessed of immense strength. In order to do this, six cuttings were made in the rock for the reception of the ends of the six great beams of the beacon. Each beam was to be fixed to the solid rock by two strong and massive bats, or stanchions, of iron. These bats, for the fixing of the principal and diagonal beams and bracing-chains, required fifty-four holes, each measuring a foot and a half deep, and two inches wide. The operation of boring such holes into the solid rock, was not an easy or a quick one, but by admirable arrangements on the part of the engineer, and steady perseverance on the part of the men, they progressed faster than had been anticipated. Three men were attached to each jumper, or boring chisel; one placed himself in a sitting posture, to guide the instrument, and give it a turn at each blow of the hammer; he also sponged and cleaned out the hole, and supplied it occasionally with a little water, while the other two, with hammers of sixteen pounds weight, struck the jumper alternately, generally bringing the hammer with a swing round the shoulder, after the manner of blacksmith work. Ruby, we may remark in passing, occupied himself at this work as often as he could get away from his duties at the forge, being particularly fond of it, as it enabled him to get rid of some of his superabundant energy, and afforded him a suitable exercise for his gigantic strength. It also tended to relieve his feelings when he happened to think of Minnie being so near, and he so utterly and hopelessly cut off from all communication with her. But to return to the bat-holes. The three men relieved each other in the operations of wielding the hammers and guiding the jumpers, so that the work never flagged for a moment, and it was found that when the tools were of a very good temper, these holes could be sunk at the rate of one inch per minute, including stoppages. But the tools were not always of good temper; and severely was poor Dove's temper tried by the frequency of the scolds which he received from the men, some of whom were clumsy enough, Dove said, to spoil the best tempered tool in the world. But the most tedious part of the operation did not lie in the boring of these holes. In order that they should be of the required shape, two holes had to be bored a few inches apart from each other, and the rock cut away from between them. It was this latter part of the work that took up most time. Those of the men who were not employed about the beacon were working at the foundation-pit. While the party were thus busily occupied on the Bell Rock, an event occurred which rendered the importance of the beacon, if possible, more obvious than ever, and which well-nigh put an end to the career of all those who were engaged on the rock at that time. The _Pharos_ floating light lay at a distance of above two miles from the Bell Rock; but one of the smaller vessels, the sloop _Smeaton_, lay much closer to it, and some of the artificers were berthed aboard of her, instead of the floating light. Some time after the landing of the two boats from the _Pharos_, the _Smeaton's_ boat put off and landed eight men on the rock; soon after which the crew of the boat pushed off and returned to the _Smeaton_ to examine her riding-ropes, and see that they were in good order, for the wind was beginning to increase, and the sea to rise. The boat had no sooner reached the vessel than the latter began to drift, carrying the boat along with her. Instantly those on board endeavoured to hoist the mainsail of the _Smeaton_, with the view of working her up to the buoy from which she had parted; but it blew so hard, that by the time she was got round to make a tack towards the rock, she had drifted at least three miles to leeward. The circumstance of the _Smeaton_ and her boat having drifted was observed first by Mr Stevenson, who prudently refrained from drawing attention to the fact, and walked slowly to the farther point of the rock to watch her. He was quickly followed by the landing-master, who touched him on the shoulder, and in perfect silence, but with a look of intense anxiety, pointed to the vessel. "I see it, Wilson. God help us if she fails to make the rock within a very short time," said Mr Stevenson. "She will _never_ reach us in time," said Wilson, in a tone that convinced his companion he entertained no hope. "Perhaps she may," he said hurriedly; "she is a good sailer." "Good sailing," replied the other, "cannot avail against wind and tide together. No human power can bring that vessel to our aid until long after the tide has covered the Bell Rock." Both remained silent for some time, watching with intense anxiety the ineffectual efforts of the little vessel to beat up to windward. In a few minutes the engineer turned to his companion and said, "They cannot save us, Wilson. The two boats that are left--can they hold us all?" The landing-master shook his head. "The two boats," said he, "will be completely filled by their own crews. For ordinary rough weather they would be quite full enough. In a sea like that," he said, pointing to the angry waves that were being gradually lashed into foam by the increasing wind, "they will be overloaded." "Come, I don't know that, Wilson; we may devise something," said Mr Stevenson, with a forced air of confidence, as he moved slowly towards the place where the men were still working, busy as bees and all unconscious of the perilous circumstances in which they were placed. As the engineer pondered the prospect of deliverance, his thoughts led him rather to despair than to hope. There were thirty-two persons in all upon the rock that day, with only two boats, which, even in good weather, could not unitedly accommodate more than twenty-four sitters. But to row to the floating light with so much wind and in so heavy a sea, a complement of eight men for each boat was as much as could with propriety be attempted, so that about half of their number was thus unprovided for. Under these circumstances he felt that to despatch one of the boats in expectation of either working the _Smeaton_ sooner up to the rock, or in hopes of getting her boat brought to their assistance would, besides being useless, at once alarm the workmen, each of whom would probably insist upon taking to his own boat, and leaving the eight men of the _Smeaton_ to their chance. A scuffle might ensue, and he knew well that when men are contending for life the results may be very disastrous. For a considerable time the men remained in ignorance of the terrible conflict that was going on in their commander's breast. As they wrought chiefly in sitting or kneeling postures, excavating the rock or boring with jumpers, their attention was naturally diverted from everything else around them. The dense volumes of smoke, too, that rose from the forge fire, so enveloped them as to render distant objects dim or altogether invisible. While this lasted,--while the numerous hammers were going and the anvil continued to sound, the situation of things did not appear so awful to the only two who were aware of what had occurred. But ere long the tide began to rise upon those who were at work on the lower parts of the beacon and lighthouse. From the run of the sea upon the rock, the forge fire was extinguished sooner than usual; the volumes of smoke cleared away, and objects became visible in every direction. After having had about three hours' work, the men began pretty generally to make towards their respective boats for their jackets and socks. Then it was that they made the discovery that one boat was absent. Only a few exclamations were uttered. A glance at the two boats and a hurried gaze to seaward were sufficient to acquaint them with their awful position. Not a word was spoken by anyone. All appeared to be silently calculating their numbers, and looking at each other with evident marks of perplexity depicted in their countenances. The landing-master, conceiving that blame might attach to him for having allowed the boat to leave the rock, kept a little apart from the men. All eyes were turned, as if by instinct, to Mr Stevenson. The men seemed to feel that the issue lay with him. The engineer was standing on an elevated part of the rock named Smith's Ledge, gazing in deep anxiety at the distant _Smeaton_, in the hope that he might observe some effort being made, at least, to pull the boat to their rescue. Slowly but surely the tide rose, overwhelming the lower parts of the rock; sending each successive wave nearer and nearer to the feet of those who were now crowded on the last ledge that could afford them standing-room. The deep silence that prevailed was awful! It proved that each mind saw clearly the impossibility of anything being devised, and that a deadly struggle for precedence was inevitable. Mr Stevenson had all along been rapidly turning over in his mind various schemes which might be put in practice for the general safety, provided the men could be kept under command. He accordingly turned to address them on the perilous nature of their circumstances; intending to propose that all hands should strip off their upper clothing when the higher parts of the rock should be laid under water; that the seamen should remove every unnecessary weight and encumbrance from the boats; that a specified number of men should go into each boat; and that the remainder should hang by the gunwales, while the boats were to be rowed gently towards the _Smeaton_, as the course to the floating light lay rather to windward of the rock. But when he attempted to give utterance to his thoughts the words refused to come. So powerful an effect had the awful nature of their position upon him, that his parched tongue could not articulate. He learned, from terrible experience, that saliva is as necessary to speech as the tongue itself. Stooping hastily, he dipped his hand into a pool of salt water and moistened his mouth. This produced immediate relief and he was about to speak, when Ruby Brand, who had stood at his elbow all the time with compressed lips and a stern frown on his brow, suddenly took off his cap, and waving it above his head, shouted "A boat! a boat!" with all the power of his lungs. All eyes were at once turned in the direction to which he pointed, and there, sure enough, a large boat was seen through the haze, making towards the rock. Doubtless many a heart there swelled with gratitude to God, who had thus opportunely and most unexpectedly sent them relief at the eleventh hour; but the only sound that escaped them was a cheer, such as men seldom give or hear save in cases of deliverance in times of dire extremity. The boat belonged to James Spink, the Bell Rock pilot, who chanced to have come off express from Arbroath that day with letters. We have said that Spink came off _by chance_; but, when we consider all the circumstances of the case, and the fact that boats seldom visited the Bell Rock at any time, and _never_ during bad weather, we are constrained to feel that God does in His mercy interfere sometimes in a peculiar and special manner in human affairs, and that there was something more and higher than mere chance in the deliverance of Stevenson and his men upon this occasion. The pilot-boat, having taken on board as many as it could hold, set sail for the floating light; the other boats then put off from the rock with the rest of the men, but they did not reach the _Pharos_ until after a long and weary pull of three hours, during which the waves broke over the boats so frequently as to necessitate constant baling. When the floating light was at last reached, a new difficulty met them, for the vessel rolled so much, and the men were so exhausted, that it proved to be a work of no little toil and danger to get them all on board. Long Forsyth, in particular, cost them all an infinite amount of labour, for he was so sick, poor fellow, that he could scarcely move. Indeed, he did at one time beg them earnestly to drop him into the sea and be done with him altogether, a request with which they of course refused to comply. However, he was got up somehow, and the whole of them were comforted by a glass of rum and thereafter a cup of hot coffee. Ruby had the good fortune to obtain the additional comfort of a letter from Minnie, which, although it did not throw much light on the proceedings of Captain Ogilvy (for that sapient seaman's proceedings were usually involved in a species of obscurity which light could not penetrate), nevertheless assured him that something was being done in his behalf, and that, if he only kept quiet for a time, all would be well. The letter also assured him of the unalterable affection of the writer, an assurance which caused him to rejoice to such an extent that he became for a time perfectly regardless of all other sublunary things, and even came to look upon the Bell Rock as a species of paradise, watched over by the eye of an angel with golden hair, in which he could indulge his pleasant dreams to the utmost. That he had to indulge those dreams in the midst of storm and rain and smoke, surrounded by sea and seaweed, workmen and hammers, and forges and picks, and jumpers and seals, while his strong muscles and endurance were frequently tried to the uttermost, was a matter of no moment to Ruby Brand. All experience goes to prove that great joy will utterly overbear the adverse influence of physical troubles, especially if those troubles are without, and do not touch the seats of life within. Minnie's love, expressed as it was in her own innocent, truthful, and straightforward way, rendered his body, big though it was, almost incapable of containing his soul. He pulled the oar, hammered the jumper, battered the anvil, tore at the bellows, and hewed the solid Bell Rock with a vehemence that aroused the admiration of his comrades, and induced Jamie Dove to pronounce him to be the best fellow the world ever produced. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A STORM AND A DISMAL STATE OF THINGS ON BOARD THE PHAROS. From what has been said at the close of the last chapter, it will not surprise the reader to be told that the storm which blew during that night had no further effect on Ruby Brand than to toss his hair about, and cause a ruddier glow than usual to deepen the tone of his bronzed countenance. It was otherwise with many of his hapless comrades, a few of whom had also received letters that day, but whose pleasure was marred to some extent by the qualms within. Being Saturday, a glass of rum was served out in the evening, according to custom, and the men proceeded to hold what is known by the name of "Saturday night at sea." This being a night that was usually much enjoyed on board, owing to the home memories that were recalled, and the familiar songs that were sung; owing, also, to the limited supply of grog, which might indeed cheer, but could not by any possibility inebriate, the men endeavoured to shake off their fatigue, and to forget, if possible, the rolling of the vessel. The first effort was not difficult, but the second was not easy. At first, however, the gale was not severe, so they fought against circumstances bravely for a time. "Come, lads," cried the smith, in a species of serio-comic desperation, when they had all assembled below, "let's drink to sweethearts and wives." "Hear, hear! Bless their hearts! Sweethearts and wives!" responded the men. "Hip, hip!" The cheer that followed was a genuine one. "Now for a song, boys," cried one of the men, "and I think the last arrivals are bound to sing first." "Hear, hear! Ruby, lad, you're in for it," said the smith, who sat near his assistant. "What shall I sing?" enquired Ruby. "Oh! let me see," said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who endeavoured to recall something. "Could you come Beet'oven's symphony on B flat?" "Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe," cried O'Connor, "sure the young man can only sing on the sharp kays; ain't he always sharpin' the tools, not to speak of his appetite?" "You've a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend," said Dumsby, in a tone of reproof. "Hallo! stop your jokes," cried the smith; "if you treat us to any more o' that sort o' thing we'll have ye dipped over the side, and hung up to dry at the end o' the mainyard. Fire away, Ruby, my tulip!" "Ay, that's hit," said John Watt. "Gie us the girl ye left behind ye." Ruby flushed suddenly, and turned towards the speaker with a look of surprise. "What's wrang, freend? Hae ye never heard o' that sang?" enquired Watt. "O yes, I forgot," said Ruby, recovering himself in some confusion. "I know the song--I--I was thinking of something--of--" "The girl ye left behind ye, av coorse," put in O'Connor, with a wink. "Come, strike up!" cried the men. Ruby at once obeyed, and sang the desired song with a sweet, full voice, that had the effect of moistening some of the eyes present. The song was received enthusiastically. "Your health and song, lads" said Robert Selkirk, the principal builder, who came down the ladder and joined them at that moment. "Thank you, now it's my call," said Ruby. "I call upon Ned O'Connor for a song." "Or a speech," cried Forsyth. "A spaitch is it?" said O'Connor, with a look of deep modesty. "Sure, I never made a spaitch in me life, except when I axed Mrs O'Connor to marry me, an' I never finished that spaitch, for I only got the length of `Och! darlint,' when she cut me short in the middle with `Sure, you may have me, Ned, and welcome!'" "Shame, shame!" said Dove, "to say that of your wife." "Shame to yersilf," cried O'Connor indignantly. "Ain't I payin' the good woman a compliment, when I say that she had pity on me bashfulness, and came to me help when I was in difficulty?" "Quite right, O'Connor; but let's have a song if you won't speak." "Would ye thank a cracked tay-kittle for a song?" said Ned. "Certainly not," replied Peter Logan, who was apt to take things too literally. "Then don't ax _me_ for wan," said the Irishman, "but I'll do this for ye, messmates: I'll read ye the last letter I got from the mistress, just to show ye that her price is beyond all calkerlation." A round of applause followed this offer, as Ned drew forth a much-soiled letter from the breast pocket of his coat, and carefully unfolding it, spread it on his knee. "It begins," said O'Connor, in a slightly hesitating tone, "with some expressions of a--a--raither endearin' charackter, that perhaps I may as well pass." "No, no," shouted the men, "let's have them all. Out with them, Paddy!" "Well, well, av ye _will_ have them, here they be. "`GALWAY. "`My own purty darlin' as has bin my most luved sin' the day we wos marrit, you'll be grieved to larn that the pig's gone to its long home.'" Here O'Connor paused to make some parenthetical remarks with which, indeed, he interlarded the whole letter. "The pig, you must know, lads, was an old sow as belonged to me wife's gran'-mother, an' besides bein' a sort o' pet o' the family, was an uncommon profitable crature. But to purceed. She goes on to say,--`We waked her' (that's the pig, boys) `yisterday, and buried her this mornin'. Big Rory, the baist, was for aitin' her, but I wouldn't hear of it; so she's at rest, an' so is old Molly Mallone. She wint away just two minutes be the clock before the pig, and wos buried the day afther. There's no more news as I knows of in the parish, except that your old flame Mary got married to Teddy O'Rook, an' they've been fightin' tooth an' nail ever since, as I towld ye they would long ago. No man could live wid that woman. But the schoolmaster, good man, has let me off the cow. Ye see, darlin', I towld him ye wos buildin' a palace in the say, to put ships in afther they wos wrecked on the coast of Ameriky, so ye couldn't be expected to send home much money at prisint. An' he just said, "Well, well, Kathleen, you may just kaip the cow, and pay me whin ye can." So put that off yer mind, my swait Ned. "`I'm sorry to hear the Faries rowls so bad, though what the Faries mains is more nor I can tell.' (I spelled the word quite krect, lads, but my poor mistress hain't got the best of eyesight.) `Let me know in yer nixt, an' be sure to tell me if Long Forsyth has got the bitter o' say-sickness. I'm koorius about this, bekaise I've got a receipt for that same that's infallerable, as his Riverence says. Tell him, with my luv, to mix a spoonful o' pepper, an' two o' salt, an' wan o' mustard, an' a glass o' whisky in a taycup, with a sprinklin' o' ginger; fill it up with goat's milk, or ass's, av ye can't git goat's; bait it in a pan, an' drink it as hot as he can--hotter, if possible. I niver tried it meself, but they say it's a suverin' remidy; and if it don't do no good, it's not likely to do much harm, bein' but a waik mixture. Me own belaif is, that the milk's a mistake, but I suppose the doctors know best. "`Now, swaitest of men, I must stop, for Neddy's just come in howlin' like a born Turk for his tay; so no more at present from, yours till deth, Kathleen O'Connor.'" "Has she any sisters?" enquired Joe Dumsby eagerly, as Ned folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket. "Six of 'em," replied Ned; "every one purtier and better nor another." "Is it a long way to Galway?" continued Joe. "Not long; but it's a coorious thing that Englishmen never come back from them parts whin they wance ventur' into them." Joe was about to retort when the men called for another song. "Come, Jamie Dove, let's have `Rule, Britannia.'" Dove was by this time quite yellow in the face, and felt more inclined to go to bed than to sing; but he braced himself up, resolved to struggle manfully against the demon that oppressed him. It was in vain! Poor Dove had just reached that point in the chorus where Britons stoutly affirm that they "never, never, never shall be slaves," when a tremendous roll of the vessel caused him to spring from the locker, on which he sat, and rush to his berth. There were several of the others whose self-restraint was demolished by this example; these likewise fled, amid the laughter of their companions, who broke up the meeting and went on deck. The prospect of things there proved, beyond all doubt, that Britons never did, and never will, rule the waves. The storm, which had been brewing for some time past, was gathering fresh strength every moment, and it became abundantly evident that the floating light would have her anchors and cables tested pretty severely before the gale was over. About eight o'clock in the evening the wind shifted to east-south-east; and at ten it became what seamen term a _hard gale_, rendering it necessary to veer out about fifty additional fathoms of the hempen cable. The gale still increasing, the ship rolled and laboured excessively, and at midnight eighty fathoms more were veered out, while the sea continued to strike the vessel with a degree of force that no one had before experienced. That night there was little rest on board the _Pharos_. Everyone who has been "at sea" knows what it is to lie in one's berth on a stormy night, with the planks of the deck only a few inches from one's nose, and the water swashing past the little port that _always_ leaks; the seas striking against the ship; the heavy sprays falling on the decks; and the constant rattle and row of blocks, spars, and cordage overhead. But all this was as nothing compared with the state of things on board the floating light, for that vessel could not rise to the seas with the comparatively free motions of a ship, sailing either with or against the gale. She tugged and strained at her cable, as if with the fixed determination of breaking it, and she offered all the opposition of a fixed body to the seas. Daylight, though ardently longed for, brought no relief. The gale continued with unabated violence. The sea struck so hard upon the vessel's bows that it rose in great quantities, or, as Ruby expressed it, in "green seas", which completely swept the deck as far aft as the quarterdeck, and not unfrequently went completely over the stern of the ship. Those "green seas" fell at last so heavily on the skylights that all the glass was driven in, and the water poured down into the cabins, producing dire consternation in the minds of those below, who thought that the vessel was sinking. "I'm drowned intirely," roared poor Ned O'Connor, as the first of those seas burst in and poured straight down on his hammock, which happened to be just beneath the skylight. Ned sprang out on the deck, missed his footing, and was hurled with the next roll of the ship into the arms of the steward, who was passing through the place at the time. Before any comments could be made the dead-lights were put on, and the cabins were involved in almost absolute darkness. "Och! let me in beside ye," pleaded Ned with the occupant of the nearest berth. "Awa' wi' ye! Na, na," cried John Watt, pushing the unfortunate man away. "Cheinge yer wat claes first, an' I'll maybe let ye in, if ye can find me again i' the dark." While the Irishman was groping about in search of his chest, one of the officers of the ship passed him on his way to the companion ladder, intending to go on deck. Ruby Brand, feeling uncomfortable below, leaped out of his hammock and followed him. They had both got about halfway up the ladder when a tremendous sea struck the ship, causing it to tremble from stem to stern. At the same moment someone above opened the hatch, and putting his head down, shouted for the officer, who happened to be just ascending. "Ay, ay," replied the individual in question. Just as he spoke, another heavy sea fell on the deck, and, rushing aft like a river that has burst its banks, hurled the seaman into the arms of the officer, who fell back upon Ruby, and all three came down with tons of water into the cabin. The scene that followed would have been ludicrous, had it not been serious. The still rising sea caused the vessel to roll with excessive violence, and the large quantity of water that had burst in swept the men, who had jumped out of their beds, and all movable things, from side to side in indescribable confusion. As the water dashed up into the lower tier of beds, it was found necessary to lift one of the scuttles in the floor, and let it flow into the limbers of the ship. Fortunately no one was hurt, and Ruby succeeded in gaining the deck before the hatch was reclosed and fastened down upon the scene of discomfort and misery below. This state of things continued the whole day. The seas followed in rapid succession, and each, as it struck the vessel, caused her to shake all over. At each blow from a wave the rolling and pitching ceased for a few seconds, giving the impression that the ship had broken adrift, and was running with the wind; or in the act of sinking; but when another sea came, she ranged up against it with great force. This latter effect at last became the regular intimation to the anxious men below that they were still riding safely at anchor. No fires could be lighted, therefore nothing could be cooked, so that the men were fain to eat hard biscuits--those of them at least who were able to eat at all--and lie in their wet blankets all day. At ten in the morning the wind had shifted to north-east, and blew, if possible, harder than before, accompanied by a much heavier swell of the sea; it was therefore judged advisable to pay out more cable, in order to lessen the danger of its giving way. During the course of the gale nearly the whole length of the hempen cable, of 120 fathoms, was veered out, besides the chain-moorings, and, for its preservation, the cable was carefully "served", or wattled, with pieces of canvas round the windlass, and with leather well greased in the hawse-hole, where the chafing was most violent. As may readily be imagined, the gentleman on whom rested nearly all the responsibility connected with the work at the Bell Rock, passed an anxious and sleepless time in his darkened berth. During the morning he had made an attempt to reach the deck, but had been checked by the same sea that produced the disasters above described. About two o'clock in the afternoon great alarm was felt in consequence of a heavy sea that struck the ship, almost filling the waist, and pouring down into the berths below, through every chink and crevice of the hatches and skylights. From the motion being suddenly checked or deadened, and from the flowing in of the water above, every individual on board thought that the ship was foundering--at least all the landsmen were fully impressed with that idea. Mr Stevenson could not remain below any longer. As soon as the ship again began to range up to the sea, he made another effort to get on deck. Before going, however, he went through the various apartments, in order to ascertain the state of things below. Groping his way in darkness from his own cabin he came to that of the officers of the ship. Here all was quiet, as well as dark. He next entered the galley and other compartments occupied by the artificers; here also all was dark, but not quiet, for several of the men were engaged in prayer, or repeating psalms in a full tone of voice, while others were protesting that if they should be fortunate enough to get once more ashore, no one should ever see them afloat again; but so loud was the creaking of the bulkheads, the dashing of water, and the whistling noise of the wind, that it was hardly possible to distinguish words or voices. The master of the vessel accompanied Mr Stevenson, and, in one or two instances, anxious and repeated enquiries were made by the workmen as to the state of things on deck, to all of which he returned one characteristic answer--"It can't blow long in this way, lads; we _must_ have better weather soon." The next compartment in succession, moving forward, was that allotted to the seamen of the ship. Here there was a characteristic difference in the scene. Having reached the middle of the darksome berth without the inmates being aware of the intrusion, the anxious engineer was somewhat reassured and comforted to find that, although they talked of bad weather and cross accidents of the sea, yet the conversation was carried on in that tone and manner which bespoke ease and composure of mind. "Well, lads," said Mr Stevenson, accosting the men, "what think you of this state of things? Will the good ship weather it?" "Nae fear o' her, sir," replied one confidently, "she's light and new; it'll tak' a heavy sea to sink her." "Ay," observed another, "and she's got little hold o' the water, good ground-tackle, and no top-hamper; she'll weather anything, sir." Having satisfied himself that all was right below, Mr Stevenson returned aft and went on deck, where a sublime and awful sight awaited him. The waves appeared to be what we hear sometimes termed "mountains high." In reality they were perhaps about thirty feet of unbroken water in height, their foaming crests being swept and torn by the furious gale. All beyond the immediate neighbourhood of the ship was black and chaotic. Upon deck everything movable was out of sight, having either been stowed away below previous to the gale, or washed overboard. Some parts of the quarter bulwarks were damaged by the breach of the sea, and one of the boats was broken, and half-full of water. There was only one solitary individual on deck, placed there to watch and give the alarm if the cable should give way, and this man was Ruby Brand, who, having become tired of having nothing to do, had gone on deck, as we have seen, and volunteered his services as watchman. Ruby had no greatcoat on, no overall of any kind, but was simply dressed in his ordinary jacket and trousers. He had thrust his cap into his pocket in order to prevent it being blown away, and his brown locks were streaming in the wind. He stood just aft the foremast, to which he had lashed himself with a gasket or small rope round his waist, to prevent his falling on the deck or being washed overboard. He was as thoroughly wet as if he had been drawn through the sea, and this was one reason why he was so lightly clad, that he might wet as few clothes as possible, and have a dry change when he went below. There appeared to be a smile on his lips as he faced the angry gale and gazed steadily out upon the wild ocean. He seemed to be enjoying the sight of the grand elemental strife that was going on around him. Perchance he was thinking of someone not very far away--with golden hair! Mr Stevenson, coupling this smile on Ruby's face with the remarks of the other seamen, felt that things were not so bad as they appeared to unaccustomed eyes, nevertheless he deemed it right to advise with the master and officers as to the probable result, in the event of the ship drifting from her moorings. "It is my opinion," said the master, on his being questioned as to this, "that we have every chance of riding out the gale, which cannot continue many hours longer with the same fury; and even if she should part from her anchor, the storm-sails have been laid ready to hand, and can be bent in a very short time. The direction of the wind being nor'-east, we could sail up the Forth to Leith Roads; but if this should appear doubtful, after passing the May we can steer for Tyningham Sands, on the western side of Dunbar, and there run the ship ashore. From the flatness of her bottom and the strength of her build, I should think there would be no danger in beaching her even in a very heavy sea." This was so far satisfactory, and for some time things continued in pretty much the state we have just described, but soon after there was a sudden cessation of the straining motion of the ship which surprised everyone. In another moment Ruby shouted "All hands a-hoy! ship's adrift!" The consternation that followed may be conceived but not described. The windlass was instantly manned, and the men soon gave out that there was no strain on the cable. The mizzen-sail, which was occasionally bent for the purpose of making the ship ride easily, was at once set; the other sails were hoisted as quickly as possible, and they bore away about a mile to the south-westward, where, at a spot that was deemed suitable, the best-bower anchor was let go in twenty fathoms water. Happily the storm had begun to abate before this accident happened. Had it occurred during the height of the gale, the result might have been most disastrous to the undertaking at the Bell Rock. Having made all fast, an attempt was made to kindle the galley fire and cook some food. "Wot are we to 'ave, steward?" enquired Joe Dumsby, in a feeble voice. "Plumduff, my boy, so cheer up," replied the steward, who was busy with the charming ingredients of a suet pudding, which was the only dish to be attempted, owing to the ease with which it could be both cooked and served up. Accordingly, the suet pudding was made; the men began to eat; the gale began to "take off", as seaman express it; and, although things were still very far removed from a state of comfort, they began to be more endurable; health began to return to the sick, and hope to those who had previously given way to despair. CHAPTER TWELVE. BELL ROCK BILLOWS--AN UNEXPECTED VISIT--A DISASTER AND A RESCUE. It is pleasant, it is profoundly enjoyable, to sit on the margin of the sea during the dead calm that not unfrequently succeeds a wild storm, and watch the gentle undulations of the glass-like surface, which the very gulls seem to be disinclined to ruffle with their wings as they descend to hover above their own reflected images. It is pleasant to watch this from the shore, where the waves fall in low murmuring ripples, or from the ship's deck, far out upon the sea, where there is no sound of water save the laving of the vessel's bow as she rises and sinks in the broad-backed swell; but there is something more than pleasant, there is, something deeply and peculiarly interesting, in the same scene when viewed from such a position as the Bell Rock; for there, owing to the position of the rock and the depth of water around it, the observer beholds, at the same moment, the presence, as it were, of storm and calm. The largest waves there are seen immediately after a storm has passed away, not during its continuance, no matter how furious the gale may have been, for the rushing wind has a tendency to blow down the waves, so to speak, and prevent their rising to their utmost height. It is when the storm is over that the swell rises; but as this swell appears only like large undulations, it does not impress the beholder with its magnitude until it draws near to the rock and begins to feel the checking influence of the bottom of the sea. The upper part of the swell, having then greater velocity than the lower parts assumes more and more the form of a billow. As it comes on it towers up like a great green wall of glittering glass, moving with a grand, solemn motion, which does not at first give the idea of much force or impetus. As it nears the rock, however, its height (probably fifteen or twenty feet) becomes apparent; its velocity increases; the top, with what may be termed gentle rapidity, rushes in advance of the base; its dark green side becomes concave; the upper edge lips over, then curls majestically downwards, as if bowing to a superior power, and a gleam of light flashes for a moment on the curling top. As yet there is no sound; all has occurred in the profound silence of the calm, but another instant and there is a mighty crash--a deafening roar; the great wall of water has fallen, and a very sea of churning foam comes leaping, bursting, spouting over rocks and ledges, carrying all before it with a tremendous sweep that seems to be absolutely irresistible until it meets the higher ledges of rock, when it is hurled back, and retires with a watery hiss that suggests the idea of baffled rage. But it is not conquered. With the calm majesty of unalterable determination, wave after wave comes on, in slow, regular succession, like the inexhaustible battalions of an unconquerable foe, to meet with a similar repulse again and again. There is, however, this peculiar difference between the waves on the ordinary seashore and the billows on the Bell Rock, that the latter, unlike the former, are not always defeated. The spectator on shore plants his foot confidently at the very edge of the mighty sea, knowing that "thus far it may come, but no farther." On the Bell Rock the rising tide makes the conflict, for a time, more equal. Now, the rock stands proudly above the sea: anon the sea sweeps furiously over the rock with a roar of "Victory!" Thus the war goes on, and thus the tide of battle daily and nightly ebbs and flows all the year round. But when the cunning hand of man began to interfere, the aspect of things was changed, the sea was forced to succumb, and the rock, once a dreaded enemy, became a servant of the human race. True, the former rages in rebellion still, and the latter, although compelled to uphold the light that warns against itself, continues its perpetual warfare with the sea; but both are effectually conquered by means of the wonderful intelligence that God has given to man, and the sea for more than half a century has vainly beat against the massive tower whose foundation is on the Bell Rock. But all this savours somewhat of anticipation. Let us return to Ruby Brand, in whose interest we have gone into this long digression; for he it was who gazed intently at the mingled scene of storm and calm which we have attempted to describe, and it was he who thought out most of the ideas which we have endeavoured to convey. Ruby had lent a hand to work the pump at the foundation-pit that morning. After a good spell at it he took his turn of rest, and, in order to enjoy it fully, went as far out as he could upon the seaward ledges, and sat down on a piece of rock to watch the waves. While seated there, Robert Selkirk came and sat down beside him. Selkirk was the principal builder, and ultimately laid every stone of the lighthouse with his own hand. He was a sedate, quiet man, but full of energy and perseverance. When the stones were landed faster than they could be built into their places, he and Bremner, as well as some of the other builders, used to work on until the rising tide reached their waists. "It's a grand sight, Ruby," said Selkirk, as a larger wave than usual fell, and came rushing in torrents of foam up to their feet, sending a little of the spray over their heads. "It is indeed a glorious sight," said Ruby. "If I had nothing to do, I believe I could sit here all day just looking at the waves and thinking." "Thinkin'?" repeated Selkirk, in a musing tone of voice. "Can ye tell, lad, what ye think about when you're lookin' at the waves?" Ruby smiled at the oddness of the question. "Well," said he, "I don't think I ever thought of that before." "Ah, but _I_ have!" said the other, "an' I've come to the conclusion that for the most part we don't think, properly speakin', at all; that our thoughts, so to speak, think for us; that they just take the bit in their teeth and go rumblin' and tumblin' about anyhow or nohow!" Ruby knitted his brows and pondered. He was one of those men who, when they don't understand a thing, hold their tongues and think. "And," continued Selkirk, "it's curious to observe what a lot o' nonsense one thinks too when one is lookin' at the waves. Many a time I have pulled myself up, thinkin' the most astonishin' stuff ye could imagine." "I would hardly have expected this of such a grave kind o' man as you," said Ruby. "Mayhap not. It is not always the gravest looking that have the gravest thoughts." "But you don't mean to say that you never think sense," continued Ruby, "when you sit looking at the waves?" "By no means," returned his companion; "I'm only talking of the way in which one's thoughts will wander. Sometimes I think seriously enough. Sometimes I think it strange that men can look at such a scene as that, and scarcely bestow a thought upon Him who made it." "Speak for yourself, friend," said Ruby, somewhat quickly; "how know you that other men don't think about their Creator when they look at His works?" "Because," returned Selkirk, "I find that I so seldom do so myself, even although I wish to and often try to; and I hold that every man, no matter what he is or feels, is one of a class who think and feel as he does; also, because many people, especially Christians, have told me that they have had the same experience to a large extent; also, and chiefly, because, as far as unbelieving man is concerned, the Bible tells me that `God is not in all his thoughts.' But, Ruby, I did not make the remark as a slur upon men in general, I merely spoke of a fact,--an unfortunate fact,--that it is not natural to us, and not easy, to rise from nature to nature's God, and I thought you would agree with me." "I believe you are right," said Ruby, half-ashamed of the petulance of his reply; "at any rate, I confess you are right as far as I am concerned." As Selkirk and Ruby were both fond of discussion, they continued this subject some time longer, and there is no saying how far they would have gone down into the abstruse depths of theology, had not their converse been interrupted by the appearance of a boat rowing towards the rock. "Is yonder craft a fishing boat, think you?" said Ruby, rising and pointing to it. "Like enough, lad. Mayhap it's the pilot's, only it's too soon for him to be off again with letters. Maybe it's visitors to the rock, for I see something like a woman's bonnet." As there was only one woman in the world at that time as far as Ruby was concerned (of course putting his mother out of the question!), it will not surprise the reader to be told that the youth started, that his cheek reddened a little, and his heart beat somewhat faster than usual. He immediately smiled, however, at the absurdity of supposing it possible that the woman in the boat could be Minnie, and as the blacksmith shouted to him at that moment, he turned on his heel and leaped from ledge to ledge of rock until he gained his wonted place at the forge. Soon he was busy wielding the fore-hammer, causing the sparks to fly about himself and his comrade in showers, while the anvil rang out its merry peal. Meanwhile the boat drew near. It turned out to be a party of visitors, who had come off from Arbroath to see the operations at the Bell Rock. They had been brought off by Spink, the pilot, and numbered only three-- namely, a tall soldier-like man, a stout sailor-like man, and a young woman with--yes,--with golden hair. Poor Ruby almost leaped over the forge when he raised his eyes from his work and caught sight of Minnie's sweet face. Minnie had recognised her lover before the boat reached the rock, for he stood on an elevated ledge, and the work in which he was engaged, swinging the large hammer round his shoulder, rendered him very conspicuous. She had studiously concealed her face from him until quite close, when, looking him straight in the eyes without the least sign of recognition, she turned away. We have said that the first glance Ruby obtained caused him to leap nearly over the forge; the second created such a revulsion of feeling that he let the fore-hammer fall. "Hallo! Got a spark in yer eye?" enquired Dove, looking up anxiously. It flashed across Ruby at that instant that the look given him by Minnie was meant to warn him not to take any notice of her, so he answered the smith's query with "No, no; I've only let the hammer fall, don't you see? Get on, old boy, an don't let the metal cool." The smith continued his work without further remark, and Ruby assisted, resolving in his own mind to be a little more guarded as to the expression of his feelings. Meanwhile Mr Stevenson received the visitors, and showed them over the works, pointing out the peculiarities thereof, and the difficulties that stood in the way. Presently he came towards the forge, and said, "Brand, the stout gentleman there wishes to speak to you. He says he knew you in Arbroath. You can spare him for a few minutes, I suppose, Mr Dove?" "Well, yes, but not for long," replied the smith. "The tide will soon be up, and I've enough to do to get through with all these." Ruby flung down his hammer at the first word, and hastened to the ledge of rock where the visitors were standing, as far apart from the workmen as the space of the rock would admit of. The stout gentleman was no other than his uncle, Captain Ogilvy, who put his finger to his lips as his nephew approached, and gave him a look of mystery that was quite sufficient to put the latter on his guard. He therefore went forward, pulled off his cap, and bowed respectfully to Minnie, who replied with a stiff curtsy, a slight smile, and a decided blush. Although Ruby now felt convinced that they were all acting a part, he could scarcely bear this cold reception. His impulse was to seize Minnie in his arms; but he did not even get the comfort of a cold shake of the hand. "Nephy," said the captain in a hoarse whisper, putting his face close to that of Ruby, "mum's the word! Silence, mystery, an' all that sort o' thing. Don't appear to be an old friend, lad; and as to Minnie here-- "`O no, we never mention her, Her name it's never heard.' "Allow me to introduce you to Major Stewart, whose house you broke into, you know, Ruby, when:-- "`All in the Downs the fleet was moored,' "At least when the _Termagant_ was waitin' for you to go aboard." Here the captain winked and gave Ruby a facetious poke in the ribs, which was not quite in harmony with the ignorance of each other he was endeavouring to inculcate. "Young man," said the major quietly, "we have come off to tell you that everything is in a prosperous state as regards the investigation into your innocence--the private investigation I mean, for the authorities happily know nothing of your being here. Captain Ogilvy has made me his confidant in this matter, and from what he tells me I am convinced that you had nothing to do with this robbery. Excuse me if I now add that the sight of your face deepens this conviction." Ruby bowed to the compliment. "We were anxious to write at once to the captain of the vessel in which you sailed," continued the major, "but you omitted to leave his full name and address when you left. We were afraid to write to you, lest your name on the letter might attract attention, and induce a premature arrest. Hence our visit to the rock to-day. Please to write the address in this pocket-book." The major handed Ruby a small green pocket-book as he spoke, in which the latter wrote the full name and address of his late skipper. "Now, nephy," said the captain, "we must, I'm sorry to say, bid ye good day, and ask you to return to your work, for it won't do to rouse suspicion, lad. Only keep quiet here, and do yer dooty--`England expects _every_ man to do his dooty'--and as sure as your name's Ruby all will be shipshape in a few weeks." "I thank you sincerely," said Ruby, addressing the major, but looking at Minnie. Captain Ogilvy, observing this, and fearing some display of feeling that would be recognised by the workmen, who were becoming surprised at the length of the interview, placed himself between Minnie and her lover. "No, no, Ruby," said he, solemnly. "I'm sorry for ye, lad, but it won't do. Patience is a virtue, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." "My mother?" said Ruby, wishing to prolong the interview. "Is well," said the captain. "Now, goodbye, lad, and be off." "Goodbye, Minnie," cried Ruby, stepping forward suddenly and seizing the girl's hand; then, wheeling quickly round, he sprang over the rocks, and returned to his post. "Ha! it's time," cried the smith. "I thought you would never be done makin' love to that there girl. Come, blaze away!" Ruby felt so nettled by the necessity that was laid upon him of taking no notice of Minnie, that he seized the handle of the bellows passionately, and at the first puff blew nearly all the fire away. "Hallo! messmate," cried the smith, clearing the dust from his eyes; "what on airth ails ye? You've blowed the whole consarn out!" Ruby made no reply, but, scraping together the embers, heaped them up and blew more gently. In a short time the visitors re-entered their boat, and rowed out of the creek in which it had been lying. Ruby became so exasperated at not being able even to watch the boat going away, that he showered terrific blows on the mass of metal the smith was turning rapidly on the anvil. "Not so fast, lad; not so fast," cried Dove hurriedly. Ruby's chafing spirit blew up just at that point; he hit the iron a crack that knocked it as flat as a pancake, and then threw down the hammer and deliberately gazed in the direction of the boat. The sight that met his eyes appalled him. The boat had been lying in the inlet named Port Stevenson. It had to pass out to the open sea through _Wilson's Track_, and past a small outlying rock named _Gray's Rock_--known more familiarly among the men as _Johnny Gray_. The boat was nearing this point, when the sea, which had been rising for some time, burst completely over the seaward ledges, and swept the boat high against the rocks on the left. The men had scarcely got her again into the track when another tremendous billow, such as we have already described, swept over the rocks again and swamped the boat, which, being heavily ballasted, sank at once to the bottom of the pool. It was this sight that met the horrified eyes of Ruby when he looked up. He vaulted over the bellows like an antelope, and, rushing over _Smith's Ledge_ and _Trinity Ledge_, sprang across _Port Boyle_, and dived head foremost into _Neill's Pool_ before any of the other men, who made a general rush, could reach the spot. A few powerful strokes brought Ruby to the place where the major and the captain, neither of whom could swim, were struggling in the water. He dived at once below these unfortunates, and almost in a second, reappeared with Minnie in his arms. A few seconds sufficed to bring him to _Smith's Ledge_, where several of his comrades hauled him and his burden beyond the reach of the next wave, and where, a moment or two later, the major and captain with the crew of the boat were landed in safety. To bear the light form of Minnie in his strong arms to the highest and driest part of the rock were the work of a few moments to Ruby. Brief though those moments were, however, they were precious to the youth beyond all human powers of calculation, for Minnie recovered partial consciousness, and fancying, doubtless, that she was still in danger, flung her arms round his neck, and grasped him convulsively. Reader, we tell you in confidence that if Ruby had at that moment been laid on the rack and torn limb from limb, he would have cheered out his life triumphantly. It was not only that he knew she loved him--_that_ he knew before,--but he had saved the life of the girl he loved, and a higher terrestrial happiness can scarcely be attained by man. Laying her down as gently as a mother would her first-born, Ruby placed a coat under her head, and bade his comrades stand back and give her air. It was fortunate for him that one of the foremen, who understood what to do, came up at this moment, and ordered him to leave off chafing the girl's hand with his wet fists, and go get some water boiled at the forge if he wanted to do her good. Second words were not needed. The bellows were soon blowing, and the fire glowed in a way that it had not done since the works at the Bell Rock began. Before the water quite boiled some tea was put in, and, with a degree of speed that would have roused the jealousy of any living waiter, a cup of tea was presented to Minnie, who had recovered almost at the moment Ruby left her. She drank a little, and then closing her eyes, moved her lips silently for a few seconds. Captain Ogilvy, who had attended her with the utmost assiduity and tenderness as soon as he had wrung the water out of his own garments, here took an opportunity of hastily pouring something into the cup out of a small flask. When Minnie looked up again and smiled, he presented her with the cup. She thanked him, and drank a mouthful or two before perceiving that it had been tampered with. "There's something in it," she said hurriedly. "So there is, my pet," said the captain, with a benignant smile, "a little nectar, that will do you more good than all the tea. Come now, don't shake your head, but down with it all, like a good child." But Minnie was proof against persuasion, and refused to taste any more. "Who was it that saved me, uncle?" (She had got into the way of calling the captain "uncle.") "Ruby Brand did it, my darlin'," said the old man with a look of pride. "Ah! you're better now; stay, don't attempt to rise." "Yes, yes, uncle," she said, getting up and looking round, "it is time that we should go now; we have a long way to go, you know. Where is the boat?" "The boat, my precious, is at the bottom of the sea." As he said this, he pointed to the mast, half of which was seen rising out of the pool where the boat had gone down. "But you don't need to mind," continued the captain, "for they're goin' to send us in one o' their own boats aboord the floatin' lightship, where we'll get a change o' clothes an' somethin' to eat." As he spoke, one of the sailors came forward and announced that the boat was ready, so the captain and the major assisted Minnie into the boat, which soon pushed off with part of the workmen from the rock. It was to be sent back for the remainder of the crew, by which time the tide would render it necessary that all should leave. Ruby purposely kept away from the group while they were embarking, and after they were gone proceeded to resume work. "You took a smart dive that time, lad," observed Joe Dumsby as they went along. "Not more than anyone would do for a girl," said Ruby. "An' such a purty wan, too," said O'Connor. "Ah! av she's not Irish, she should ha' bin." "Ye're a lucky chap to hae sic a chance," observed John Watt. "Make up to her, lad," said Forsyth; "I think she couldn't refuse ye after doin' her such service." "Time enough to chaff after work is over," cried Ruby with a laugh, as he turned up his sleeves, and, seizing the hammer, began, as his friend Dove said, "to work himself dry." In a few minutes, work was resumed, and for another hour all continued busy as bees, cutting and pounding at the flinty surface of the Bell Rock. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A SLEEPLESS BUT A PLEASANT NIGHT. The evening which followed the day that has just been described was bright, calm, and beautiful, with the starry host unclouded and distinctly visible to the profoundest depths of space. As it was intended to send the _Smeaton_ to Arbroath next morning for a cargo of stones from the building-yard, the wrecked party were prevailed on to remain all night on board the _Pharos_, instead of going ashore in one of the ship's boats, which could not well be spared at the time. This arrangement, we need hardly say, gave inexpressible pleasure to Ruby, and was not altogether distasteful to Minnie, although she felt anxious about Mrs Brand, who would naturally be much alarmed at the prolonged absence of herself and the captain. However, "there was no help for it"; and it was wonderful the resignation which she displayed in the circumstances. It was not Ruby's duty to watch on deck that night, yet, strange to say, Ruby kept watch the whole night long! There was no occasion whatever for Minnie to go on deck after it was dark, yet, strange to say, Minnie kept coming on deck at intervals _nearly_ the whole night long! Sometimes to "look at the stars", sometimes to "get a mouthful of fresh air", frequently to find out what "that strange noise could be that had alarmed her", and at last-- especially towards the early hours of morning--for no reason whatever, except that "she could not sleep below." It was very natural that when Minnie paced the quarterdeck between the stern and the mainmast, and Ruby paced the forepart of the deck between the bows and the mainmast, the two should occasionally meet at the mainmast. It was also very natural that when they did meet, the girl who had been rescued should stop and address a few words of gratitude to the man who had saved her. But it was by no means natural--nay, it was altogether unnatural and unaccountable, that, when it became dark, the said man and the said girl should get into a close and confidential conversation, which lasted for hours, to the amusement of Captain Ogilvy and the major, who quite understood it, and to the amazement of many of the ship's crew, who couldn't understand it at all. At last Minnie bade Ruby a final good night and went below, and Ruby, who could not persuade himself that it was final, continued to walk the deck until his eyes began to shut and open involuntarily like those of a sick owl. Then he also went below, and, before he fell quite asleep (according to his own impression), was awakened by the bell that called the men to land on the rock and commence work. It was not only Ruby who found it difficult to rouse himself that morning. The landing-bell was rung at four o'clock, as the tide suited at that early hour, but the men were so fatigued that they would gladly have slept some hours longer. This, however, the nature of the service would not admit of. The building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse was a peculiar service. It may be said to have resembled duty in the trenches in military warfare. At times the work was light enough, but for the most part it was severe and irregular, as the men had to work in all kinds of weather, as long as possible, in the face of unusual difficulties and dangers, and were liable to be called out at all unseasonable hours. But they knew and expected this, and faced the work like men. After a growl or two, and a few heavy sighs, they all tumbled out of their berths, and, in a very short time, were mustered on deck, where a glass of rum and a biscuit were served to each, being the regular allowance when they had to begin work before breakfast. Then they got into the boats and rowed away. Ruby's troubles were peculiar on this occasion. He could not bear the thought of leaving the _Pharos_ without saying goodbye to Minnie; but as Minnie knew nothing of such early rising, there was no reasonable hope that she would be awake. Then he wished to put a few questions to his uncle which he had forgotten the day before, but his uncle was at that moment buried in profound repose, with his mouth wide open, and a trombone solo proceeding from his nose, which sadly troubled the unfortunates who lay near him. As there was no way of escape from these difficulties, Ruby, like a wise man, made up his mind to cast them aside, so, after swallowing his allowance, he shouldered his big bellows, heaved a deep sigh, and took his place in one of the boats alongside. The lassitude which strong men feel when obliged to rise before they have had enough of rest soon wears off. The two boats had not left the _Pharos_ twenty yards astern, when Joe Dumsby cried, "Ho! boys, let's have a race." "Hooray!" shouted O'Connor, whose elastic spirits were always equal to anything, "an' sure Ruby will sing us `The girl we've left behind us.' Och! an' there she is, av I'm not draymin'." At that moment a little hand was waved from one of the ports of the floating light. Ruby at once waved his in reply, but as the attention of the men had been directed to the vessel by Ned's remark, each saw the salutation, and, claiming it as a compliment to himself, uttered a loud cheer, which terminated in a burst of laughter, caused by the sight of Ruby's half-angry, half-ashamed expression of face. As the other boat had shot ahead, however, at the first mention of the word "race", the men forgot this incident in their anxiety to overtake their comrades. In a few seconds both boats were going at full speed, and they kept it up all the way to the rock. While this was going on, the _Smeaton's_ boat was getting ready to take the strangers on board the sloop, and just as the workmen landed on the rock, the _Smeaton_ cast loose her sails, and proceeded to Arbroath. There were a few seals basking on the Bell Rock this morning when the men landed. These at once made off, and were not again seen during the day. At first, seals were numerous on the rock. Frequently from fifty to sixty of them were counted at one time, and they seemed for a good while unwilling to forsake their old quarters, but when the forge was set up they could stand it no longer. Some of the boldest ventured to sun themselves there occasionally, but when the clatter of the anvil and the wreaths of smoke became matters of daily occurrence, they forsook the rock finally, and sought the peace and quiet which man denied them there in other regions of the deep. The building of the lighthouse was attended with difficulties at every step. As a short notice of some of these, and an account of the mode in which the great work was carried on, cannot fail to be interesting to all who admire those engineering works which exhibit prominently the triumph of mind over matter, we shall turn aside for a brief space to consider this subject. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. SOMEWHAT STATISTICAL. It has been already said that the Bell Rock rises only a few feet out of the sea at low tide. The foundation of the tower, sunk into the solid rock, was just three feet three inches above low water of the lowest spring-tides, so that the lighthouse may be said with propriety to be founded beneath the waves. One great point that had to be determined at the commencement of the operations was the best method of landing the stones of the building, this being a delicate and difficult process, in consequence of the weight of the stones and their brittle nature, especially in those parts which were worked to a delicate edge or formed into angular points. As the loss of a single stone, too, would stop the progress of the work until another should be prepared at the workyard in Arbroath and sent off to the rock, it may easily be imagined that this matter of the landing was of the utmost importance, and that much consultation was held in regard to it. It would seem that engineers, as well as doctors, are apt to differ. Some suggested that each particular stone should be floated to the rock, with a cork buoy attached to it; while others proposed an air-tank, instead of the cork buoy. Others, again, proposed to sail over the rock at high water in a flat-bottomed vessel, and drop the stones one after another when over the spot they were intended to occupy. A few, still more eccentric and daring in their views, suggested that a huge cofferdam or vessel should be built on shore, and as much of the lighthouse built in this as would suffice to raise the building above the level of the highest tides; that then it should be floated off to its station on the rock, which should be previously prepared for its reception; that the cofferdam should be scuttled, and the ponderous mass of masonry, weighing perhaps 1000 tons, allowed to sink at once into its place! All these plans, however, were rejected by Mr Stevenson, who resolved to carry the stones to the rock in boats constructed for the purpose. These were named praam boats. The stones were therefore cut in conformity with exactly measured moulds in the workyard at Arbroath, and conveyed thence in the sloops already mentioned to the rock, where the vessels were anchored at a distance sufficient to enable them to clear it in case of drifting. The cargoes were then unloaded at the moorings, and laid on the decks of the praam boats, which conveyed them to the rock, where they were laid on small trucks, run along the temporary rails, to their positions, and built in at once. Each stone of this building was treated with as much care and solicitude as if it were a living creature. After being carefully cut and curiously formed, and conveyed to the neighbourhood of the rock, it was hoisted out of the hold and laid on the vessel's deck, when it was handed over to the landing-master, whose duty it became to transfer it, by means of a combination of ropes and blocks, to the deck of the praam boat, and then deliver it at the rock. As the sea was seldom calm during the building operations, and frequently in a state of great agitation, lowering the stones on the decks of the praam boats was a difficult matter. In the act of working the apparatus, one man was placed at each of the guy-tackles. This man assisted also at the purchase-tackles for raising the stones; and one of the ablest and most active of the crew was appointed to hold on the end of the fall-tackle, which often required all his strength and his utmost agility in letting go, for the purpose of lowering the stone at the instant the word "lower" was given. In a rolling sea, much depended on the promptitude with which this part of the operation was performed. For the purpose of securing this, the man who held the tackle placed himself before the mast in a sitting, more frequently in a lying posture, with his feet stretched under the winch and abutting against the mast, as by this means he was enabled to exert his greatest strength. The signal being given in the hold that the tackle was hooked to the stone and all ready, every man took his post, the stone was carefully, we might almost say tenderly, raised, and gradually got into position over the praam boat; the right moment was intently watched, and the word "lower" given sternly and sharply. The order was obeyed with exact promptitude, and the stone rested on the deck of the praam boat. Six blocks of granite having been thus placed on the boat's deck, she was rowed to a buoy, and moored near the rock until the proper time of the tide for taking her into one of the landing creeks. We are thus particular in describing the details of this part of the work, in order that the reader may be enabled to form a correct estimate of what may be termed the minor difficulties of the undertaking. The same care was bestowed upon the landing of every stone of the building; and it is worthy of record, that notwithstanding the difficulty of this process in such peculiar circumstances, not a single stone was lost, or even seriously damaged, during the whole course of the erection of the tower, which occupied four years in building, or rather, we should say, four _seasons_, for no work was or could be done during winter. A description of the first entire course of the lower part of the tower, which was built solid, will be sufficient to give an idea of the general nature of the whole work. This course or layer consisted of 123 blocks of stone, those in the interior being sandstone, while the outer casing was of granite. Each stone was fastened to its neighbour above, below, and around by means of dovetails, joggles, oaken trenails, and mortar. Each course was thus built from its centre to its circumference, and as all the courses from the foundation to a height of thirty feet were built in this way, the tower, up to that height, became a mass of solid stone, as strong and immovable as the Bell Rock itself. Above this, or thirty feet from the foundation, the entrance-door was placed, and the hollow part of the tower began. Thus much, then, as to the tower itself, the upper part of which will be found described in a future chapter. In regard to the subsidiary works, the erection of the beacon house was in itself a work of considerable difficulty, requiring no common effort of engineering skill. The principal beams of this having been towed to the rock by the _Smeaton_, all the stanchions and other material for setting them up were landed, and the workmen set about erecting them as quickly as possible, for if a single day of bad weather should occur before the necessary fixtures could be made, the whole apparatus would be infallibly swept away. The operation being, perhaps, the most important of the season, and one requiring to be done with the utmost expedition, all hands were, on the day in which its erection was begun, gathered on the rock, besides ten additional men engaged for the purpose, and as many of the seamen from the _Pharos_ and other vessels as could be spared. They amounted altogether to fifty-two in number. About half-past eight o'clock in the morning a derrick, or mast, thirty feet high, was erected, and properly supported with guy-ropes for suspending the block for raising the first principal beam of the beacon, and a winch-machine was bolted down to the rock for working the purchase-tackle. The necessary blocks and tackle were likewise laid to hand and properly arranged. The men were severally allotted in squads to different stations; some were to bring the principal beams to hand, others were to work the tackles, while a third set had the charge of the iron stanchions, bolts, and wedges, so that the whole operation of raising the beams and fixing them to the rock might go forward in such a mariner that some provision might be made, in any stage of the work, for securing what had been accomplished, in case of an adverse change of weather. The raising of the derrick was the signal for three hearty cheers, for this was a new era in the operations. Even that single spar, could it be preserved, would have been sufficient to have saved the workmen on that day when the _Smeaton_ broke adrift and left them in such peril. This was all, however, that could be accomplished that tide. Next day, the great beams, each fifty feet long, and about sixteen inches square, were towed to the rock about seven in the morning, and the work immediately commenced, although they had gone there so much too early in the tide that the men had to work a considerable time up to their middle in water. Each beam was raised by the tackle affixed to the derrick, until the end of it could be placed or "stepped" into the hole which had been previously prepared for its reception; then two of the great iron stanchions or supports were set into their respective holes on each side of the beam, and a rope passed round them to keep it from slipping, until it could be more permanently fixed. This having been accomplished, the first beam became the means of raising the second, and when the first and second were fastened at the top, they formed a pair of shears by which the rest were more easily raised to their places. The heads of the beams were then fitted together and secured with ropes in a temporary manner, until the falling of the tide would permit the operations to be resumed. Thus the work went on, each man labouring with all his might, until this important erection was completed. The raising of the first beams took place on a Sunday. Indeed, during the progress of the works at the Bell Rock, the men were accustomed to work regularly on Sundays when possible; but it is right to say that it was not done in defiance of, or disregard to, God's command to cease from labour on the Sabbath day, but because of the urgent need of a lighthouse on a rock which, unlighted, would be certain to wreck numerous vessels and destroy many lives in time to come, as it had done in time past. Delay in this matter might cause death and disaster, therefore it was deemed right to carry on the work on Sundays. [See note 1.] An accident happened during the raising of the last large beam of the beacon, which, although alarming, fortunately caused no damage. Considering the nature of the work, it is amazing, and greatly to the credit of all engaged, that so few accidents occurred during the building of the lighthouse. When they were in the act of hoisting the sixth and last log, and just about to cant it into its place, the iron hook of the principal purchase-block gave way, and the great beam, measuring fifty feet in length, fell upon the rock with a terrible crash; but although there were fifty-two men around the beacon at the time, not one was touched, and the beam itself received no damage worth mentioning. Soon after the beacon had been set up, and partially secured to the rock, a severe gale sprang up, as if Ocean were impatient to test the handiwork of human engineers. Gales set in from the eastward, compelling the attending sloops to slip from their moorings, and run for the shelter of Arbroath and Saint Andrews, and raising a sea on the Bell Rock which was described as terrific, the spray rising more than thirty feet in the air above it. In the midst of all this turmoil the beacon stood securely, and after the weather moderated, permitting the workmen once more to land, it was found that no damage had been done by the tremendous breaches of the sea over the rock. That the power of the waves had indeed been very great, was evident from the effects observed on the rock itself, and on materials left there. Masses of rock upwards of a ton in weight had been cast up by the sea, and then, in their passage over the Bell Rock, had made deep and indelible ruts. An anchor of a ton weight, which had been lost on one side of the rock, was found to have been washed up and _over_ it to the other side. Several large blocks of granite that had been landed and left on a ledge, were found to have been swept away like pebbles, and hurled into a hole at some distance; and the heavy hearth of the smith's forge, with the ponderous anvil, had been washed from their places of supposed security. From the time of the setting up of the beacon a new era in the work began. Some of the men were now enabled to remain on the rock all day, working at the lighthouse when the tide was low, and betaking themselves to the beacon when it rose, and leaving it at night; for there was much to do before this beacon could be made the habitable abode which it finally became; but it required the strictest attention to the state of the weather, in case of their being overtaken with a gale, which might prevent the possibility of their being taken off the rock. At last the beacon was so far advanced and secured that it was deemed capable of withstanding any gale that might blow. As yet it was a great ungainly pile of logs, iron stanchions, and bracing-chains, without anything that could afford shelter to man from winds or waves, but with a platform laid from its cross-beams at a considerable height above high-water mark. The works on the rock were in this state, when two memorable circumstances occurred in the Bell Rock annals, to which we shall devote a separate chapter. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It was always arranged, however, to have public worship on Sundays when practicable. And this arrangement was held to during the continuance of the work. Indeed, the manner in which Mr Stevenson writes in regard to the conclusion of the day's work at the beacon, which we have described, shows clearly that he felt himself to be acting in this matter in accordance with the spirit of our Saviour, who wrought many of His works of mercy on the Sabbath day. Mr Stevenson writes thus:-- "All hands having returned to their respective ships, they got a shift of dry clothes, and some refreshment. Being Sunday, they were afterwards convened by signal on board of the lighthouse yacht, when prayers were read, for every heart upon this occasion felt gladness, and every mind was disposed to be thankful for the happy and successful termination of the operations of this day." It is right to add that the men, although requested, were not constrained to work on Sundays. They were at liberty to decline if they chose. A few conscientiously refused at first, but were afterwards convinced of the necessity of working on all opportunities that offered, and agreed to do so. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. RUBY HAS A RISE IN LIFE, AND A FALL. James Dove, the blacksmith, had, for some time past, been watching the advancing of the beacon-works with some interest, and a good deal of impatience. He was tired of working so constantly up to the knees in water, and aspired to a drier and more elevated workshop. One morning he was told by the foreman that orders had been given for him to remove his forge to the beacon, and this removal, this "flitting", as he called it, was the first of the memorable events referred to in the last chapter. "Hallo! Ruby, my boy," cried the elated son of Vulcan, as he descended the companion ladder, "we're goin' to flit, lad. We're about to rise in the world, so get up your bellows. It's the last time we shall have to be bothered with them in the boat, I hope." "That's well," said Ruby, shouldering the unwieldy bellows; "they have worn my shoulders threadbare, and tried my patience almost beyond endurance." "Well, it's all over now, lad," rejoined the smith. "In future you shall have to blow up in the beacon yonder; so come along." "Come, Ruby, that ought to comfort the cockles o' yer heart," said O'Connor, who passed up the ladder as he spoke; "the smith won't need to blow you up any more, av you're to blow yourself up in the beacon in futur'. Arrah! there's the bell again. Sorrow wan o' me iver gits to slape, but I'm turned up immadiately to go an' poke away at that rock-- faix, it's well named the Bell Rock, for it makes me like to _bell_ow me lungs out wid vexation." "That pun is _bel_ow contempt," said Joe Dumsby, who came up at the moment. "That's yer sort, laddies; ye're guid at ringing the changes on that head onyway," cried Watt. "I say, we're gittin' a _bell_y-full of it," observed Forsyth, with a rueful look. "I hope nobody's goin' to give us another!" "It'll create a re_bell_ion," said Bremner, "if ye go on like that." "It'll bring my _bell_ows down on the head o' the next man that speaks!" cried Ruby, with indignation. "Don't you hear the bell, there?" cried the foreman down the hatchway. There was a burst of laughter at this unconscious continuation of the joke, and the men sprang up the ladder,--down the side, and into the boats, which were soon racing towards the rock. The day, though not sunny, was calm and agreeable, nevertheless the landing at the rock was not easily accomplished, owing to the swell caused by a recent gale. After one or two narrow escapes of a ducking, however, the crews landed, and the bellows, instead of being conveyed to their usual place at the forge, were laid at the foot of the beacon. The carriage of these bellows to and fro almost daily had been a subject of great annoyance to the men, owing to their being so much in the way, and so unmanageably bulky, yet so essential to the progress of the works, that they did not dare to leave them on the rock, lest they should be washed away, and they had to handle them tenderly, lest they should get damaged. "Now, boys, lend a hand with the forge," cried the smith, hurrying towards his anvil. Those who were not busy eating dulse responded to the call, and in a short time the ponderous _materiel_ of the smithy was conveyed to the beacon, where, in process of time, it was hoisted by means of tackle to its place on the platform to which reference has already been made. When it was safely set up and the bellows placed in position, Ruby went to the edge of the platform, and, looking down on his comrades below, took off his cap and shouted in the tone of a Stentor, "Now, lads, three cheers for the Dovecot!" This was received with a roar of laughter and three tremendous cheers. "Howld on, boys," cried O'Connor, stretching out his hand as if to command silence; "you'll scare the dove from his cot altogether av ye roar like that!" "Surely they're sendin' us a fire to warm us," observed one of the men, pointing to a boat which had put off from the _Smeaton_, and was approaching the rock by way of _Macurich's Track_. "What can'd be, I wonder?" said Watt; "I think I can smell somethin'." "I halways thought you 'ad somethink of an old dog in you," said Dumsby. "Ay, man!" said the Scot with a leer, "I ken o' war beasts than auld dowgs." "Do you? come let's 'ear wat they are," said the Englishman. "Young puppies," answered the other. "Hurrah! dinner, as I'm a Dutchman," cried Forsyth. This was indeed the case. Dinner had been cooked on board the _Smeaton_ and sent hot to the men; and this,--the first dinner ever eaten on the Bell Rock,--was the second of the memorable events before referred to. The boat soon ran into the creek and landed the baskets containing the food on _Hope's Wharf_. The men at once made a rush at the viands, and bore them off exultingly to the flattest part of the rock they could find. "A regular picnic," cried Dumsby in high glee, for unusual events, of even a trifling kind, had the effect of elating those men more than one might have expected. "Here's the murphies," cried O'Connor, staggering over the slippery weed with a large smoking tin dish. "Mind you don't let 'em fall," cried one. "Have a care," shouted the smith; "if you drop them I'll beat you red-hot, and hammer ye so flat that the biggest flatterer as ever walked won't be able to spread ye out another half-inch." "Mutton! oh!" exclaimed Forsyth, who had been some time trying to wrench the cover off the basket containing a roast leg, and at last succeeded. "Here, spread them all out on this rock. You han't forgot the grog, I hope, steward?" "No fear of him: he's a good feller, is the steward, when he's asleep partiklerly. The grog's here all right." "Dinna let Dumsby git haud o't, then," cried Watt. "What! hae ye begood a'ready? Patience, man, patience. Is there ony saut?" "Lots of it, darlin', in the say. Sure this shape must have lost his tail somehow. Och, murther! if there isn't Bobby Selkirk gone an' tumbled into Port Hamilton wid the cabbage, av it's not the carrots!" "There now, don't talk so much, boys," cried Peter Logan. "Let's drink success to the Bell Rock Lighthouse." It need scarcely be said that this toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and that it was followed up with "three times three." "Now for a song. Come, Joe Dumsby, strike up," cried one of the men. O'Connor, who was one of the most reckless of men in regard to duty and propriety, here shook his head gravely, and took upon himself to read his comrade a lesson. "Ye shouldn't talk o' sitch things in workin' hours," said he. "Av we wos all foolish, waake-hidded cratures like _you_, how d'ye think we'd iver git the lighthouse sot up! Ate yer dinner, lad, and howld yer tongue." "O Ned, I didn't think your jealousy would show out so strong," retorted his comrade. "Now, then, Dumsby, fire away, if it was only to aggravate him." Thus pressed, Joe Dumsby took a deep draught of the small-beer with which the men were supplied, and began a song of his own composition. When the song was finished the meal was also concluded, and the men returned to their labours on the rock; some to continue their work with the picks at the hard stone of the foundation-pit, others to perform miscellaneous jobs about the rock, such as mixing the mortar and removing _debris_, while James Dove and his fast friend Ruby Brand mounted to their airy "cot" on the beacon, from which in a short time began to proceed the volumes of smoke and the clanging sounds that had formerly arisen from "Smith's Ledge." While they were all thus busily engaged, Ruby observed a boat advancing towards the rock from the floating light. He was blowing the bellows at the time, after a spell at the fore-hammer. "We seem to be favoured with unusual events to-day, Jamie," said he, wiping his forehead with the corner of his apron with one hand, while he worked the handle of the bellows with the other, "yonder comes another boat; what can it be, think you?" "Surely it can't be tea!" said the smith with a smile, as he turned the end of a pickaxe in the fire, "it's too soon after dinner for that." "It looks like the boat of our friends the fishermen, Big Swankie and Davy Spink," said Ruby, shading his eyes with his hand, and gazing earnestly at the boat as it advanced towards them. "Friends!" repeated the smith, "rascally smugglers, both of them; they're no friends of mine." "Well, I didn't mean bosom friends," replied Ruby, "but after all, Davy Spink is not such a bad fellow, though I can't say that I'm fond of his comrade." The two men resumed their hammers at this point in the conversation, and became silent as long as the anvil sounded. The boat had reached the rock when they ceased, and its occupants were seen to be in earnest conversation with Peter Logan. There were only two men in the boat besides its owners, Swankie and Spink. "What can they want?" said Dove, looking down on them as he turned to thrust the iron on which he was engaged into the fire. As he spoke the foreman looked up. "Ho! Ruby Brand," he shouted, "come down here; you're wanted." "Hallo! Ruby," exclaimed the smith, "_more_ friends o' yours! Your acquaintance is extensive, lad, but there's no girl in the case this time." Ruby made no reply, for an indefinable feeling of anxiety filled his breast as he threw down the fore-hammer and prepared to descend. On reaching the rock he advanced towards the strangers, both of whom were stout, thickset men, with grave, stern countenances. One of them stepped forward and said, "Your name is--" "Ruby Brand," said the youth promptly, at the same time somewhat proudly, for he knew that he was in the hands of the Philistines. The man who first spoke hereupon drew a small instrument from his pocket, and tapping Ruby on the shoulder, said-- "I arrest you, Ruby Brand, in the name of the King." The other man immediately stepped forward and produced a pair of handcuffs. At sight of these Ruby sprang backward, and the blood rushed violently to his forehead, while his blue eyes glared with the ferocity of those of a tiger. "Come, lad, it's of no use, you know," said the man, pausing; "if you won't come quietly we must find ways and means to compel you." "Compel me!" cried Ruby, drawing himself up with a look of defiance and a laugh of contempt, that caused the two men to shrink back in spite of themselves. "Ruby," said the foreman, gently, stepping forward and laying his hand on the youth's shoulder, "you had better go quietly, for there's no chance of escape from these fellows. I have no doubt it's a mistake, and that you'll come off with flyin' colours, but it's best to go quietly whatever turns up." While Logan was speaking, Ruby dropped his head on his breast, the officer with the handcuffs advanced, and the youth held out his hands, while the flush of anger deepened into the crimson blush of shame. It was at this point that Jamie Dove, wondering at the prolonged absence of his friend and assistant, looked down from the platform of the beacon, and beheld what was taking place. The stentorian roar of amazement and rage that suddenly burst from him, attracted the attention of all the men on the rock, who dropped their tools and looked up in consternation, expecting, no doubt, to behold something terrible. Their eyes at once followed those of the smith, and no sooner did they see Ruby being led in irons to the boat, which lay in _Port Hamilton_, close to _Sir Ralph the Rover's Ledge_, than they uttered a yell of execration, and rushed with one accord to the rescue. The officers, who were just about to make their prisoner step into the boat, turned to face the foe,--one, who seemed to be the more courageous of the two, a little in advance of the other. Ned O'Connor, with that enthusiasm which seems to be inherent in Irish blood, rushed with such irresistible force against this man that he drove him violently back against his comrade, and sent them both head over heels into Port Hamilton. Nay, with such momentum was this act performed, that Ned could not help but follow them, falling on them both as they came to the surface and sinking them a second time, amid screams and yells of laughter. O'Connor was at once pulled out by his friends. The officers also were quickly landed. "I ax yer parding, gintlemen," said the former, with an expression of deep regret on his face, "but the say-weed _is_ so slippy on them rocks we're almost for iver doin' that sort o' thing be the merest accident. But av yer as fond o' cowld wather as meself ye won't objec' to it, although it do come raither onexpected." The officers made no reply, but, collaring Ruby, pushed him into the boat. Again the men made a rush, but Peter Logan stood between them and the boat. "Lads," said he, holding up his hand, "it's of no use resistin' the law. These are King's officers, and they are only doin' their duty. Sure am I that Ruby Brand is guilty of no crime, so they've only to enquire into it and set him free." The men hesitated, but did not seem quite disposed to submit without another struggle. "It's a shame to let them take him," cried the smith. "So it is. I vote for a rescue," cried Joe Dumsby. "Hooray! so does I," cried O'Connor, stripping off his waist-coat, and for once in his life agreeing with Joe. "Na, na, lads," cried John Watt, rolling up his sleeves, and baring his brawny arms as if about to engage in a fight, "it'll niver do to interfere wi' the law; but what d'ye say to gie them anither dook?" Seeing that the men were about to act upon Watt's suggestion, Ruby started up in the boat, and turning to his comrade, said: "Boys, it's very kind of you to be so anxious to save me but you can't--" "Faix, but we can, darlin'," interrupted O'Connor. "No, you can't," repeated Ruby firmly, "because I won't let you. I don't think I need say to you that I am innocent," he added, with a look in which truth evidently shone forth like a sunbeam, "but now that they have put these irons on me I will not consent that they shall be taken off except by the law which put them on." While he was speaking the boat had been pushed off, and in a few seconds it was beyond the reach of the men. "Depend upon it, comrades," cried Ruby, as they pulled away, "that I shall be back again to help you to finish the work on the Bell Rock." "So you will, lad, so you will," cried the foreman. "My blessin' on ye," shouted O'Connor. "Ach! ye dirty villains, ye low-minded spalpeens," he added, shaking his fist at the officers of justice. "Don't be long away, Ruby," cried one. "Never say die," shouted another, earnestly. "Three cheers for Ruby Brand!" exclaimed Forsyth, "hip! hip! hip!--" The cheer was given with the most vociferous energy, and then the men stood in melancholy silence on _Ralph the Rover's Ledge_, watching the boat that bore their comrade to the shore. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. NEW ARRANGEMENTS--THE CAPTAIN'S PHILOSOPHY IN REGARD TO PIPEOLOGY. That night our hero was lodged in the common jail of Arbroath. Soon after, he was tried, and, as Captain Ogilvy had prophesied, was acquitted. Thereafter he went to reside for the winter with his mother, occupying the same room as his worthy uncle, as there was not another spare one in the cottage, and sleeping in a hammock, slung parallel with and close to that of the captain. On the night following his release from prison, Ruby lay on his back in his hammock meditating intently on the future, and gazing at the ceiling, or rather at the place where he knew the ceiling to be, for it was a dark night, and there was no light in the room, the candle having just been extinguished. We are not strictly correct, however, in saying that there was _no_ light in the room, for there was a deep red glowing spot of fire near to Captain Ogilvy's head, which flashed and grew dim at each alternate second of time. It was, in fact, the captain's pipe, a luxury in which that worthy man indulged morning, noon, and night. He usually rested the bowl of the pipe on and a little over the edge of his hammock, and, lying on his back, passed the mouthpiece over the blankets into the corner of his mouth, where four of his teeth seemed to have agreed to form an exactly round hole suited to receive it. At each draw the fire in the bowl glowed so that the captain's nose was faintly illuminated; in the intervals the nose disappeared. The breaking or letting fall of this pipe was a common incident in the captain's nocturnal history, but he had got used to it, from long habit, and regarded the event each time it occurred with the philosophic composure of one who sees and makes up his mind to endure an inevitable and unavoidable evil. "Ruby," said the captain, after the candle was extinguished. "Well, uncle?" "I've bin thinkin', lad,--" Here the captain drew a few whiffs to prevent the pipe from going out, in which operation he evidently forgot himself and went on thinking, for he said nothing more. "Well, uncle, what have you been thinking?" "Eh! ah, yes, I've bin thinkin', lad (pull), that you'll have to (puff)--there's somethin' wrong with the pipe to-night, it don't draw well (puff)--you'll have to do somethin' or other in the town, for it won't do to leave the old woman, lad, in her delicate state o' health. Had she turned in when you left the kitchen?" "Oh yes, an hour or more." "An' Blue Eyes,-- "`The tender bit flower that waves in the breeze, And scatters its fragrance all over the seas.' "Has she turned in too?" "She was just going to when I left," replied Ruby; "but what has that to do with the question?" "I didn't say as it had anything to do with it, lad. Moreover, there ain't no question between us as I knows on (puff); but what have you to say to stoppin' here all winter?" "Impossible," said Ruby, with a sigh. "No so, lad; what's to hinder?--Ah! there she goes." The pipe fell with a crash to the floor, and burst with a bright shower of sparks, like a little bombshell. "That's the third, Ruby, since I turned in," said the captain, getting slowly over the side of his hammock, and alighting on the floor heavily. "I won't git up again if it goes another time." After knocking off the chimney-piece five or six articles which appeared to be made of tin from the noise they made in falling, the captain succeeded in getting hold of another pipe and the tinder-box, for in those days flint and steel were the implements generally used in procuring a light. With much trouble he re-lit the pipe. "Now, Ruby, lad, hold it till I tumble in." "But I can't see the stem, uncle." "What a speech for a seaman to make! Don't you see the fire in the bowl?" "Yes, of course." "Well, just make a grab two inches astarn of the bowl and you'll hook the stem." The captain was looking earnestly into the bowl while he spoke, stuffing down the burning tobacco with the end of his little finger. Ruby, acting in rather too prompt obedience to the instructions, made a "grab" as directed, and caught his uncle by the nose. A yell and an apology followed of course, in the midst of which the fourth pipe was demolished. "Oh! uncle, what a pity!" "Ah! Ruby, that comes o' inconsiderate youth, which philosophers tell us is the nat'ral consequence of unavoidable necessity, for you can't put a young head on old shoulders, d'ye see?" From the tone in which this was said Ruby knew that the captain was shaking his head gravely, and from the noise of articles being kicked about and falling, he became aware that the unconquerable man was filling a fifth pipe. This one was more successfully managed, and the captain once more got into his hammock, and began to enjoy himself. "Well, Ruby, where was I? O ay; what's to hinder you goin' and gettin' employed in the Bell Rock workyard? There's plenty to do, and good wages there." It may be as well to inform the reader here, that although the operations at the Bell Rock had come to an end for the season about the beginning of October, the work of hewing the stones for the lighthouse was carried on briskly during the winter at the workyard on shore; and as the tools, etcetera, required constant sharpening and mending, a blacksmith could not be dispensed with. "Do you think I can get in again?" enquired Ruby. "No doubt of it, lad. But the question is, are ye willin' to go if they'll take you?" "Quite willing, uncle." "Good: then that's all square, an' I knows how to lay my course--up anchor to-morrow mornin', crowd all sail, bear down on the workyard, bring-to off the countin'-room, and open fire on the superintendent." The captain paused at this point, and opened fire with his pipe for some minutes. "Now," he continued, "there's another thing I want to ax you. I'm goin' to-morrow afternoon to take a cruise along the cliffs to the east'ard in the preventive boat, just to keep up my sea legs. They've got scent o' some smugglin' business that's goin' on, an' my friend Leftenant Lindsay has asked me to go. Now, Ruby, if you want a short cruise of an hour or so you may come with me." Ruby smiled at the manner in which this offer was made, and replied: "With pleasure, uncle." "So, then, that's settled too. Good night, nephy." The captain turned on his side, and dropped the pipe on the floor, where it was shivered to atoms. It must not be supposed that this was accidental. It was done on purpose. Captain Ogilvy had found from experience that it was not possible to stretch out his arm to its full extent and lay the pipe on the chimney-piece, without waking himself up just at that critical moment when sleep was consenting to be wooed. He also found that on the average he broke one in every four pipes that he thus attempted to deposit. Being a philosophical and practical man, he came to the conclusion that it would be worth while to pay something for the comfort of being undisturbed at the minute of time that lay between the conclusion of smoking and the commencement of repose. He therefore got a sheet of foolscap and a pencil, and spent a whole forenoon in abstruse calculations. He ascertained the exact value of three hundred and sixty-five clay pipes. From this he deducted a fourth for breakage that would have certainly occurred in the old system of laying the pipes down every night, and which, therefore, he felt, in a confused sort of way, ought not to be charged in the estimates of a new system. Then he added a small sum to the result for probable extra breakages, such as had occurred that night, and found that the total was not too high a price for a man in his circumstances to pay for the blessing he wished to obtain. From that night forward he deliberately dropped his pipe every night over the side of his hammock before going to sleep. The captain, in commenting on this subject, was wont to observe that everything in life, no matter how small, afforded matter of thought to philosophical men. He had himself found a pleasing subject of study each morning in the fact that some of the pipes survived the fall of the previous night. This led him to consider the nature of clay pipes in general, and to test them in various ways. It is true he did not say that anything of importance resulted from his peculiar studies, but he argued that a true philosopher looks for facts, and leaves results alone. One discovery he undoubtedly did make, which was, that the pipes obtained from a certain maker in the town _invariably_ broke, while those obtained from another maker broke only occasionally. Hence he came to the conclusion that one maker was an honest man, the other a doubtful character, and wisely bestowed his custom in accordance with that opinion. About one minute after the falling of the pipe Ruby Brand fell asleep, and about two minutes after that Captain Ogilvy began to snore, both of which conditions were maintained respectively and uninterruptedly until the birds began to whistle and the sun began to shine. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. A MEETING WITH OLD FRIENDS, AND AN EXCURSION. Next morning the captain and his nephew "bore down", as the former expressed it, on the workyard, and Ruby was readily accepted, his good qualities having already been well tested at the Bell Rock. "Now, boy, we'll go and see about the little preventive craft," said the captain on quitting the office. "But first," said Ruby, "let me go and tell my old comrade Dove that I am to be with him again." There was no need to enquire the way to the forge, the sound of the anvil being distinctly heard above all the other sounds of that busy spot. The workyard at Arbroath, where the stones for the lighthouse were collected and hewn into shape before being sent off to the rock, was an enclosed piece of ground, extending to about three-quarters of an acre, conveniently situated on the northern side of the Lady Lane, or Street, leading from the western side of the harbour. Here were built a row of barracks for the workmen, and several apartments connected with the engineer's office, mould-makers' department, stores, workshops for smiths and joiners, stables, etcetera, extending 150 feet along the north side of the yard. All of these were fully occupied, there being upwards of forty men employed permanently. Sheds of timber were also constructed to protect the workmen in wet weather; and a kiln was built for burning lime. In the centre of the yard stood a circular platform of masonry on which the stones were placed when dressed, so that each stone was tested and marked, and each "course" or layer of the lighthouse fitted up and tried, before being shipped to the rock. The platform measured 44 feet in diameter. It was founded with large broad stones at a depth of about 2 feet 6 inches, and built to within 10 inches of the surface with rubble work, on which a course of neatly dressed and well-jointed masonry was laid, of the red sandstone from the quarries to the eastward of Arbroath, which brought the platform on a level with the surface of the ground. Here the dressed part of the first entire course, or layer, of the lighthouse was lying, and the platform was so substantially built as to be capable of supporting any number of courses which it might be found convenient to lay upon it in the further progress of the work. Passing this platform, the captain and Ruby threaded their way through a mass of workyard _debris_ until they came to the building from which the sounds of the anvil proceeded. For a few minutes they stood looking at our old friend Jamie Dove, who, with bared arms, was causing the sparks to fly, and the glowing metal to yield, as vigorously as of old. Presently he ceased hammering, and turning to the fire thrust the metal into it. Then he wiped his brow, and glanced towards the door. "What! eh! Ruby Brand?" he shouted in surprise. "Och! or his ghost!" cried Ned O'Connor, who had been appointed to Ruby's vacant situation. "A pretty solid ghost you'll find me," said Ruby with a laugh, as he stepped forward and seized the smith by the hand. "Musha! but it's thrue," cried O'Connor, quitting the bellows, and seizing Ruby's disengaged hand, which he shook almost as vehemently as the smith did the other. "Now, then, don't dislocate him altogether," cried the captain, who was much delighted with this warm reception; "he's goin' to jine you, boys, so have mercy on his old timbers." "Jine us!" cried the smith. "Ay, been appointed to the old berth," said Ruby, "so I'll have to unship _you_, Ned." "The sooner the better; faix, I niver had much notion o' this fiery style o' life; it's only fit for sallymanders and bottle-imps. But when d'ye begin work, lad?" "To-morrow, I believe. At least, I was told to call at the office to-morrow. To-day I have an engagement." "Ay, an' it's time we was under weigh," said Captain Ogilvy, taking his nephew by the arm. "Come along, lad, an' don't keep them waiting." So saying they bade the smith goodbye, and, leaving the forge, walked smartly towards that part of the harbour where the boats lay. "Ruby," said the captain, as they went along, "it's lucky it's such a fine day, for Minnie is going with us." Ruby said nothing, but the deep flush of pleasure that overspread his countenance proved that he was not indifferent to the news. "You see she's bin out of sorts," continued the captain, "for some time back; and no wonder, poor thing, seein' that your mother has been so anxious about you, and required more than usual care, so I've prevailed on the leftenant to let her go. She'll get good by our afternoon's sail, and we won't be the worse of her company. What say ye to that, nephy?" Ruby said that he was glad to hear it, but he thought a great deal more than he said, and among other things he thought that the lieutenant might perhaps be rather in the way; but as his presence was unavoidable he made up his mind to try to believe that he, the lieutenant, would in all probability be an engaged man already. As to the possibility of his seeing Minnie and being indifferent to her (in the event of his being a free man), he felt that such an idea was preposterous! Suddenly a thought flashed across him and induced a question-- "Is the lieutenant married, uncle?" "Not as I know of, lad; why d'ye ask?" "Because--because--married men are so much pleasanter than--" Ruby stopped short, for he just then remembered that his uncle was a bachelor. "'Pon my word, youngster! go on, why d'ye stop in your purlite remark?" "Because," said Ruby, laughing, "I meant to say that _young_ married men were so much more agreeable than _young_ bachelors." "Humph!" ejaculated the captain, who did not see much force in the observation, "and how d'ye know the leftenant's a _young_ man? I didn't say he was young; mayhap he's old. But here he is, so you'll judge for yourself." At the moment a tall, deeply-bronzed man of about thirty years of age walked up and greeted Captain Ogilvy familiarly as his "buck", enquiring, at the same time, how his "old timbers" were, and where the "bit of baggage" was. "She's to be at the end o' the pier in five minutes," said the captain, drawing out and consulting a watch that was large enough to have been mistaken for a small eight-day clock. "This is my nephy, Ruby. Ruby Brand--Leftenant Lindsay. True blues, both of ye-- "`When shall we three meet again? Where the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow, And the thunder, lightenin', and the rain, Riots up above, and also down below, below, below.' "Ah! here comes the pretty little craft." Minnie appeared as he spoke, and walked towards them with a modest, yet decided air that was positively bewitching. She was dressed in homely garments, but that served to enhance the beauty of her figure, and she had on the plainest of little bonnets, but that only tended to make her face more lovely. Ruby thought it was perfection. He glanced at Lieutenant Lindsay, and perceiving that he thought so too (as how could he think otherwise?) a pang of jealousy shot into his breast. But it passed away when the lieutenant, after politely assisting Minnie into the boat, sat down beside the captain and began to talk earnestly to him, leaving Minnie entirely to her lover. We may remark here, that the title of "leftenant", bestowed on Lindsay by the captain was entirely complimentary. The crew of the boat rowed out of the harbour, and the lieutenant steered eastward, towards the cliffs that have been mentioned in an earlier part of our tale. The day turned out to be one of those magnificent and exceptional days which appear to have been cut out of summer and interpolated into autumn. It was bright, warm, and calm, so calm that the boat's sail was useless, and the crew had to row; but this was, in Minnie's estimation, no disadvantage, for it gave her time to see the caves and picturesque inlets which abound all along that rocky coast. It also gave her time to--but no matter. "O how very much I should like to have a little boat," said Minnie, with enthusiasm, "and spend a long day rowing in and out among these wild rocks, and exploring the caves! Wouldn't it be delightful, Ruby?" Ruby admitted that it would, and added, "You shall have such a day, Minnie, if we live long." "Have you ever been in the _Forbidden Cave_?" enquired Minnie. "I'll warrant you he has," cried the captain, who overheard the question; "you may be sure that wherever Ruby is forbidden to go, there he'll be sure to go!" "Ay, is he so self-willed?" asked the lieutenant, with a smile, and a glance at Minnie. "A mule; a positive mule," said the captain. "Come, uncle, you know that I don't deserve such a character, and it's too bad to give it to me to-day. Did I not agree to come on this excursion at once, when you asked me?" "Ay, but you wouldn't if I had _ordered_ you," returned the captain. "I rather think he would," observed the lieutenant, with another smile, and another glance at Minnie. Both smiles and glances were observed and noticed by Ruby, whose heart felt another pang shoot through it; but this, like the former, subsided when the lieutenant again addressed the captain, and devoted himself to him so exclusively, that Ruby began to feel a touch of indignation at his want of appreciation of _such_ a girl as Minnie. "He's a stupid ass," thought Ruby to himself, and then, turning to Minnie, directed her attention to a curious natural arch on the cliffs, and sought to forget all the rest of the world. In this effort he was successful, and had gradually worked himself into the firm belief that the world was paradise, and that he and Minnie were its sole occupants--a second edition, as it were, of Adam and Eve--when the lieutenant rudely dispelled the sweet dream by saying sharply to the man at the bow-oar-- "Is that the boat, Baker? You ought to know it pretty well." "I think it is, sir," answered the man, resting on his oar a moment, and glancing over his shoulder; "but I can't be sure at this distance." "Well, pull easy," said the lieutenant; "you see, it won't do to scare them, Captain Ogilvy, and they'll think we're a pleasure party when they see a woman in the boat." Ruby thought they would not be far wrong in supposing them a pleasure party. He objected, mentally, however, to Minnie being styled a "woman"--not that he would have had her called a man, but he thought that _girl_ would have been more suitable--angel, perhaps, the most appropriate term of all. "Come, captain, I think I will join you in a pipe," said the lieutenant, pulling out a tin case, in which he kept the blackest of little cutty pipes. "In days of old our ancestors loved to fight--now we degenerate souls love to smoke the pipe of peace." "I did not know that your ancestors were enemies," said Minnie to the captain. "Enemies, lass! ay, that they were. What! have ye never heard tell o' the great fight between the Ogilvys and Lindsays?" "Never," said Minnie. "Then, my girl, your education has been neglected, but I'll do what I can to remedy that defect." Here the captain rekindled his pipe (which was in the habit of going out, and requiring to be relighted), and, clearing his throat with the emphasis of one who is about to communicate something of importance, held forth as follows. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE BATTLE OF ARBROATH, AND OTHER WARLIKE MATTERS. "It was in the year 1445--that's not far short o' four hundred years ago--ah! _tempus fugit_, which is a Latin quotation, my girl, from Horace Walpole, I believe, an' signifies time and tide waits for no man; that's what they calls a free translation, you must know; well, it was in the winter o' 1445 that a certain Alexander Ogilvy of Inverquharity, was chosen to act as Chief Justiciar in these parts--I suppose that means a kind of upper bailiff, a sort o' bo's'n's mate, to compare great things with small. He was set up in place of one o' the Lindsay family, who, it seems, was rather extravagant, though whether his extravagance lay in wearin' a beard (for he was called Earl Beardie), or in spendin' too much cash, I can't take upon me for to say. Anyhow, Beardie refused to haul down his colours, so the Ogilvys mustered their men and friends, and the Lindsays did the same, and they went at it, hammer and tongs, and fowt what ye may call the Battle of Arbroath, for it was close to the old town where they fell to. "It was a most bloody affair. The two families were connected with many o' the richest and greatest people in the land, and these went to lend a hand when they beat to quarters, and there was no end o' barbed horses, as they call them--which means critters with steel spikes in their noses, I'm told--and lots of embroidered banners and flags, though I never heard that anyone hoisted the Union Jack; but, however that may be, they fowt like bluejackets, for five hundred men were left dead on the field, an' among them a lot o' the great folk. "But I'm sorry to say that the Ogilvys were licked, though I say it that shouldn't," continued the captain, with a sigh, as he relighted his pipe. "Howsever,-- "`Never ventur', never win, Blaze away an' don't give in,' "As Milton remarks in his preface to the _Pilgrim's Progress_." "True, captain," said the lieutenant, "and you know that he who fights and runs away, shall live to fight another day." "Leftenant," said the captain gravely, "your quotation, besides bein' a kind o' desecration, is not applicable; 'cause the Ogilvys did _not_ run away. They fowt on that occasion like born imps, an' they would ha' certainly won the day, if they hadn't been, every man jack of 'em, cut to pieces before the battle was finished." "Well said, uncle," exclaimed Ruby, with a laugh. "No doubt the Ogilvys would lick the Lindsays _now_ if they had a chance." "I believe they would," said the lieutenant, "for they have become a race of heroes since the great day of the Battle of Arbroath. No doubt, Miss Gray," continued the lieutenant, turning to Minnie with an arch smile, "no doubt you have heard of that more recent event, the threatened attack on Arbroath by the French fire-eater, Captain Fall, and the heroic part played on that occasion by an Ogilvy--an uncle, I am told, of my good friend here?" "I have heard of Captain Fall, of course," replied Minnie, "for it was not many years before I was born that his visit took place, and Mrs Brand has often told me of the consternation into which the town was thrown by his doings; but I never heard of the deeds of the Ogilvy to whom you refer." "No? Now, that _is_ surprising! How comes it, captain, that you have kept so silent on this subject?" "'Cause it ain't true," replied the captain stoutly, yet with a peculiar curl about the corners of his mouth, that implied something in the mind beyond what he expressed with the lips. "Ah! I see--modesty," said Lindsay. "Your uncle is innately modest, Miss Gray, and never speaks of anything that bears the slightest resemblance to boasting. See, the grave solemnity with which he smokes while I say this proves the truth of my assertion. Well, since he has never told you, I will tell yell myself. You have no objection, captain?" The captain sent a volume of smoke from his lips, and followed it up with--"Fire away, shipmet." The lieutenant, having drawn a few whiffs in order to ensure the continued combustion of his pipe, related the following anecdote, which is now matter of history, as anyone may find by consulting the archives of Arbroath. "In the year 1781, on a fine evening of the month of May, the seamen of Arbroath who chanced to be loitering about the harbour observed a strange vessel manoeuvring in the offing. They watched and commented on the motions of the stranger with considerable interest, for the wary skill displayed by her commander proved that he was unacquainted with the navigation of the coast, and from the cut of her jib they knew that the craft was a foreigner. After a time she took up a position, and cast anchor in the bay, directly opposite the town. "At that time we were, as we still are, and as it really appears likely to me we ever shall be, at war with France; but as the scene of the war was far removed from Arbroath, it never occurred to the good people that the smell of powder could reach their peaceful town. That idea was somewhat rudely forced upon them when the French flag was run up to the mizzentop, and a white puff of smoke burst from the vessel, which was followed by a shot, that went hissing over their heads, and plumped right into the middle of the town! "That shot knocked over fifteen chimney-pots and two weathercocks in Market-gate, went slap through a house in the suburbs, and finally stuck in the carcass of an old horse belonging to the Provost of the town, which didn't survive the shock--the horse, I mean, not the Provost. "It is said that there was an old gentleman lying in bed in a room of the house that the shot went through. He was a sort of `hipped' character, and believed that he could not walk, if he were to try ever so much. He was looking quietly at the face of a great Dutch clock when the shot entered and knocked the clock inside out, sending its contents in a shower over the old gentleman, who jumped up and rushed out of the house like a maniac! He was cured completely from that hour. At least, so it's said, but I don't vouch for the truth of the story. "However, certain it is that the shot was fired, and was followed up by two or three more; after which the Frenchman ceased firing, and a boat was seen to quit the side of the craft, bearing a flag of truce. "The consternation into which the town was thrown is said to have been tremendous." "That's false," interrupted the captain, removing his pipe while he spoke. "The word ain't appropriate. The men of Arbroath doesn't know nothin' about no such word as `consternation.' They was _surprised_, if ye choose, an' powerfully enraged mayhap, but they wasn't consternated by no means." "Well, I don't insist on the point," said the lieutenant, "but chroniclers write so-- "Chroniclers write lies sometimes," interrupted the captain curtly. "Perhaps they do; but you will admit, I dare say, that the women and children were thrown into a great state of alarm." "I'm not so sure of that," interposed Ruby. "In a town where the men were so bold, the women and children would be apt to feel very much at their ease. At all events, I am acquainted with _some_ women who are not easily frightened." "Really, I think it is not fair to interrupt the story in this way," said Minnie, with a laugh. "Right, lass, right," said the captain. "Come, leftenant, spin away at yer yarn, and don't ventur' too much commentary thereon, 'cause it's apt to lead to error, an' ye know, as the poet says-- "`Errors in the heart breed errors in the brain, An' these are apt to twist ye wrong again.' "I'm not 'xactly sure o' the precise words in this case, but that's the sentiment, and everybody knows that sentiment is everything in poetry, whether ye understand it or not. Fire away, leftenant, an' don't be long-winded if ye can help it." "Well, to return to the point," resumed Lindsay. "The town was certainly thrown into a tremendous state of _some_ sort, for the people had no arms of any kind wherewith to defend themselves. There were no regular soldiers, no militia, and no volunteers. Everybody ran wildly about in every direction, not knowing what to do. There was no leader, and, in short, the town was very like a shoal of small fish in a pool when a boy wades in and makes a dash amongst them. "At last a little order was restored by the Provost, who was a sensible old man, and an old soldier to boot, but too infirm to take as active a part in such an emergency as he would have done had he been a dozen years younger. He, with several of the principal men of the town, went down to the beach to receive the bearers of the flag of truce. "The boat was manned by a crew of five or six seamen, armed with cutlasses and arquebusses. As soon as its keel grated on the sand a smart little officer leaped ashore, and presented to the Provost a letter from Captain Fall, which ran somewhat in this fashion:-- "`At Sea, _May twenty-third_. "`Gentlemen,--I send these two words to inform you, that I will have you to bring-to the French colour in less than a quarter of an hour, or I set the town on fire directly. Such is the order of my master, the King of France, I am sent by. Send directly the Mair and chiefs of the town to make some agreement with me, or I'll make my duty. It is the will of yours,--G. FALL. "`To Monsieur Mair of the town called Arbrought, or in his absence to the chief man after him in Scotland.' "On reading this the Provost bowed respectfully to the officer, and begged of him to wait a few minutes while he should consult with his chief men. This was agreed to, and the Provost said to his friends, as he walked to a neighbouring house-- "`Ye see, freens, this whipper-snapper o' a tade-eater has gotten the whup hand o' us; but we'll be upsides wi' him. The main thing is to get delay, so cut away, Tam Cargill, and tak' horse to Montrose for the sodgers. Spare na the spur, lad, an' gar them to understan' that the case is urgent.' "While Tam Cargill started away on his mission, the Provost, whose chief aim was to gain time and cause delay, penned an epistle to the Frenchman, in which he stated that he had neglected to name the terms on which he would consent to spare the town, and that he would consider it extremely obliging if he would, as speedily as possible, return an answer, stating them, in order that they might be laid before the chief men of the place." "When the Provost, who was a grave, dignified old man, with a strong dash of humour in him, handed this note to the French officer, he did so with a humble obeisance that appeared to afford much gratification to the little man. As the latter jumped into the boat and ordered the men to push off, the Provost turned slowly to his brother magistrates with a wink and a quiet smile that convulsed them with suppressed laughter, and did more to encourage any of the wavering or timid inhabitants than if he had harangued them heroically for an hour. "Some time after the boat returned with a reply, which ran thus:-- "`At Sea, _eight o'clock in the Afternoon_.' "`Gentlemen,--I received just now your answer, by which you say I ask no terms. I thought it was useless, since I asked you to come aboard for agreement. But here are my terms:--I will have 30,000 pounds sterling at least, and six of the chiefs men of the town for otage. Be speedy, or I shot your town away directly, and I set fire to it. I am, gentlemen, your servant,--G. FALL. "`I sent some of my crew to you, but if some harm happens to them, you'll be sure we'll hang up the mainyard all the prisoners we have aboard. "`To Monsieurs the chiefs men of Arbrought in Scotland.' "I'm not quite certain," continued the lieutenant, "what were the exact words of the Provost's reply to this letter, but they conveyed a distinct and contemptuous refusal to accede to any terms, and, I believe, invited Fall to come ashore, where, if he did not get precisely what he had asked, he would be certain to receive a great deal more than he wanted. "The enraged and disappointed Frenchman at once began a heavy fire upon the town, and continued it for a long time, but fortunately it did little or no harm, as the town lay in a somewhat low position, and Fall's guns being too much elevated, the shot passed over it. "Next day another letter was sent to the Provost by some fishermen, who were captured while fishing off the Bell Rock. This letter was as tremendous as the two former. I can give it to you, word for word, from memory. "`At Sea, _May_ 24th.' "`Gentlemen,--See whether you will come to some terms with me, or I come in presently with my cutter into the arbour, and I will cast down the town all over. Make haste, because I have no time to spare. I give you a quarter of an hour to your decision, and after I'll make my duty. I think it would be better for you, gentlemen, to come some of you aboard presently, to settle the affairs of your town. You'll sure no to be hurt. I give you my parole of honour. I am your, G. FALL.' "When the Provost received this he looked round and said, `Now, gentlemen all, we'll hae to fight. Send me Ogilvy.' "`Here I am, Provost,' cried a stout, active young fellow; something like what the captain must have been when he was young, I should think!" "Ahem!" coughed the captain. "Well," continued Lindsay, "the Provost said, `Now, Ogilvy, you're a smart cheel, an' ken aboot war and strategy and the like: I charge ye to organise the men o' the toon without delay, and tak' what steps ye think adveesable. Meanwhile, I'll away and ripe oot a' the airms and guns I can find. Haste ye, lad, an' mak' as muckle noise aboot it as ye can.' "`Trust me,' said Ogilvy, who appeared to have been one of those men who regard a fight as a piece of good fun. "Turning to the multitude, who had heard the commission given, and were ready for anything, he shouted, `Now, boys, ye heard the Provost. I need not ask if you are all ready to fight--' "A deafening cheer interrupted the speaker, who, when it ceased, proceeded-- "`Well, then, I've but one piece of advice to give ye: _Obey orders at once_. When I tell ye to halt, stop dead like lampposts; when I say, "Charge!" go at them like wild cats, and drive the Frenchmen into the sea!' `Hurrah!' yelled the crowd, for they were wild with excitement and rage, and only wanted a leader to organise them and make them formidable. When the cheer ceased, Ogilvy cried, `Now, then, every man who knows how to beat a kettledrum and blow a trumpet come here.' "About twenty men answered to the summons, and to these Ogilvy said aloud, in order that all might hear, `Go, get you all the trumpets, drums, horns, bugles, and trombones in the town; beat the drums till they split, and blow the bugles till they burst, and don't give in till ye can't go on. The rest of you,' he added, turning to the crowd, `go, get arms, guns, swords, pistols, scythes, pitchforks, pokers--any thing, everything--and meet me at the head of Market-gate--away!' "No king of necromancers ever dispersed his legions more rapidly than did Ogilvy on that occasion. They gave one final cheer, and scattered like chaff before the wind, leaving their commander alone, with a select few, whom he kept by him as a sort of staff to consult with and despatch with orders. "The noise that instantly ensued in the town was something pandemoniacal. Only three drums were found, but tin kettles and pans were not wanting, and these, superintended by Hugh Barr, the town drummer, did great execution. Three key-bugles, an old French horn, and a tin trumpet of a mail-coach guard, were sounded at intervals in every quarter of the town, while the men were marshalled, and made to march hither and thither in detached bodies, as if all were busily engaged in making preparations for a formidable defence. "In one somewhat elevated position a number of men were set to work with spades, picks, and shovels, to throw up an earthwork. When it had assumed sufficiently large dimensions to attract the attention of the French, a body of men, with blue jackets, and caps with bits of red flannel hanging down the sides, were marched up behind it at the double, and posted there. "Meanwhile Ogilvy had prepared a dummy field piece, by dismounting a cart from its wheels and fixing on the axle a great old wooden pump, not unlike a big gun in shape; another cart was attached to this to represent a limber; four horses were harnessed to the affair; two men mounted these, and, amid a tremendous flourish of trumpets and beating of drums, the artillery went crashing along the streets and up the eminence crowned by the earthwork, where they wheeled the gun into position. "The artillerymen sprang at the old pump like true Britons, and began to sponge it out as if they had been bred to gunnery from childhood, while the limber was detached and galloped to the rear. In this operation the cart was smashed to pieces, and the two hindmost horses were thrown; but this mattered little, as they had got round a corner, and the French did not see it. "Fall and his brave men seem to have been upset altogether by these warlike demonstrations, for the moment the big gun made its appearance the sails were shaken loose, and the French privateer sheered off; capturing as he left the bay, however, several small vessels, which he carried off as prizes to France. And so," concluded the lieutenant, "Captain Fall sailed away, and never was heard of more." "Well told; well told, leftenant," cried the captain, whose eyes sparkled at the concluding account of the defensive operations, "and true every word of it." "That's good testimony to my truthfulness, then," said Lindsay, laughing, "for you were there yourself!" "There yourself, uncle?" repeated Minnie, with a glance of surprise that quickly changed into a look of intelligence, as she exclaimed, with a merry laugh, "Ah! I see. It was _you_, uncle, who did it all; who commanded on that occasion--" "My child," said the captain, resuming his pipe with an expression of mild reproof on his countenance, "don't go for to pry too deep into things o' the past. I _may_ have been a fire-eater once--I _may_ have been a gay young feller as could--; but no matter. Avast musin'! As Lord Bacon says-- "`The light of other days is faded, An' all their glory's past; My boots no longer look as they did, But, like my coat, are goin' fast.' "But I say, leftenant, how long do you mean to keep pullin' about here, without an enemy, or, as far as I can see, an object in view? Don't you think we might land, and let Minnie see some of the caves?" "With all my heart, captain, and here is a convenient bay to run the boat ashore." As he spoke the boat shot past one of those bold promontories of red sandstone which project along that coast in wild picturesque forms, terminating in some instances in detached headlands, elsewhere in natural arches. The cliffs were so close to the boat that they could have been touched by the oars, while the rocks, rising to a considerable height, almost overhung them. Just beyond this a beautiful bay opened up to view, with a narrow strip of yellow shingle round the base of the cliffs, which here lost for a short distance their rugged character, though not their height, and were covered with herbage. A zigzag path led to the top, and the whole neighbourhood was full of ocean-worn coves and gullies, some of them dry, and many filled with water, while others were filled at high tide, and left empty when the tides fell. "O how beautiful! and what a place for smugglers!" was Minnie's enthusiastic exclamation on first catching sight of the bay. "The smugglers and you would appear to be of one mind," said Ruby, "for they are particularly fond of this place." "So fond of it," said the lieutenant, "that I mean to wait for them here in anticipation of a moonlight visit this night, if my fair passenger will consent to wander in such wild places at such late hours, guarded from the night air by my boat-cloak, and assured of the protection of my stout boatmen in case of any danger, although there is little prospect of our meeting with any greater danger than a breeze or a shower of rain." Minnie said that she would like nothing better; that she did not mind the night air; and, as to danger from men, she felt that she should be well cared for in present circumstances. As she uttered the last words she naturally glanced at Ruby, for Minnie was of a dependent and trusting nature; but as Ruby happened to be regarding her intently, though quite accidentally, at the moment, she dropped her eyes and blushed. It is wonderful the power of a little glance at times. The glance referred to made Ruby perfectly happy. It conveyed to him the assurance that Minnie regarded the protection of the entire boat's crew, including the lieutenant, as quite unnecessary, and that she deemed his single arm all that she required or wanted. The sun was just dipping behind the tall cliffs, and his parting rays were kissing the top of Minnie's head as if they positively could not help it, and had recklessly made up their mind to do it, come what might! Ruby looked at the golden light kissing the golden hair, and he felt-- Oh! you know, reader; if you have ever been in similar circumstances, you _understand_ what he felt; if you have not, no words from me, or from any other man, can ever convey to you the most distant idea of _what_ Ruby felt on that occasion! On reaching the shore they all went up to the green banks at the foot of the cliffs, and turned round to watch the men as they pulled the boat to a convenient point for re-embarking at a moment's notice. "You see," said the lieutenant, pursuing a conversation which he had been holding with the captain, "I have been told that Big Swankie, and his mate Davy Spink (who, it seems, is not over-friendly with him just now), mean to visit one of the luggers which is expected to come in to-night, before the moon rises, and bring off some kegs of Auchmithie water, which, no doubt, they will try to hide in Dickmont's Den. I shall lie snugly here on the watch, and hope to nab them before they reach that celebrated old smuggler's abode." "Well, I'll stay about here," said the captain, "and show Minnie the caves. I would like to have taken her to see the Gaylet Pot, which is one o' the queerest hereabouts; but I'm too old for such rough work now." "But _I_ am not too old for it," interposed Ruby, "so if Minnie would like to go--" "But I won't desert _you_, uncle," said Minnie hastily. "Nay, lass, call it not desertion. I can smoke my pipe here, an' contemplate. I'm fond of contemplation-- "`By the starry light of the summer night, On the banks of the blue Moselle,' "Though, for the matter o' that, moonlight'll do, if there's no stars. I think it's good for the mind, Minnie, and keeps all taut. Contemplation is just like takin' an extra pull on the lee braces. So you may go with Ruby, lass." Thus advised, and being further urged by Ruby himself, and being moreover exceedingly anxious to see this cave, Minnie consented; so the two set off together, and, climbing to the summit of the cliffs, followed the narrow footpath that runs close to their giddy edge all along the coast. In less than half an hour they reached the Giel or Gaylet Pot. CHAPTER NINETEEN. AN ADVENTURE--SECRETS REVEALED, AND A PRIZE. The Giel or Gaylet Pot, down into which Ruby, with great care and circumspection, led Minnie, is one of the most curious of Nature's freaks among the cliffs of Arbroath. In some places there is a small scrap of pebbly beach at the base of those perpendicular cliffs; in most places there is none--the cliffs presenting to the sea almost a dead wall, where neither ship nor boat could find refuge from the storm. The country, inland, however, does not partake of the rugged nature of the cliffs. It slopes gradually towards them--so gradually that it may be termed flat, and if a stranger were to walk towards the sea over the fields in a dark night, the first intimation he would receive of his dangerous position would be when his foot descended into the terrible abyss that would receive his shattered frame a hundred feet below. In one of the fields there is a hole about a hundred yards across, and as deep as the cliffs in that part are high. It is about fifty or eighty yards from the edge of the cliffs, and resembles an old quarry; but it is cut so sharply out of the flat field that it shows no sign of its existence until the traveller is close upon it. The rocky sides, too, are so steep, that at first sight it seems as if no man could descend into it. But the most peculiar point about this hole is, that at the foot of it there is the opening of a cavern, through which the sea rolls into the hole, and breaks in wavelets on a miniature shore. The sea has forced its way inland and underground until it has burst into the bottom of this hole, which is not inaptly compared to a pot with water boiling at the bottom of it. When a spectator looks into the cave, standing at the bottom of the "Pot", he sees the seaward opening at the other end--a bright spot of light in the dark interior. "You won't get nervous, Minnie?" said Ruby, pausing when about halfway down the steep declivity, where the track, or rather the place of descent, became still more steep and difficult; "a slip here would be dangerous." "I have no fear, Ruby, as long as you keep by me." In a few minutes they reached the bottom, and, looking up, the sky appeared above them like a blue circular ceiling, with the edges of the Gaylet Pot sharply defined against it. Proceeding over a mass of fallen rock, they reached the pebbly strand at the cave's inner mouth. "I can see the interior now, as my eyes become accustomed to the dim light," said Minnie, gazing up wistfully into the vaulted roof, where the edges of projecting rocks seemed to peer out of darkness. "Surely this must be a place for smugglers to come to!" "They don't often come here. The place is not so suitable as many of the other caves are." From the low, subdued tones in which they both spoke, it was evident that the place inspired them with feelings of awe. "Come, Minnie," said Ruby, at length, in a more cheerful tone, "let us go into this cave and explore it." "But the water may be deep," objected Minnie; "besides, I do not like to wade, even though it be shallow." "Nay, sweet one; do you think I would ask you to wet your pretty feet? There is very little wading required. See, I have only to raise you in my arms and take two steps into the water, and a third step to the left round that projecting rock, where I can set you down on another beach inside the cave. Your eyes will soon get used to the subdued light, and then you will see things much more clearly than you would think it possible viewed from this point." Minnie did not require much pressing. She had perfect confidence in her lover, and was naturally fearless in disposition, so she was soon placed on the subterranean beach of the Gaylet Cave, and for some time wandered about in the dimly-lighted place, leaning on Ruby's arm. Gradually their eyes became accustomed to the place, and then its mysterious beauty and wildness began to have full effect on their minds, inducing them to remain for a long time, silent, as they sat side by side on a piece of fallen rock. They sat looking in the direction of the seaward entrance to the cavern, where the light glowed brightly on the rocks, gradually losing its brilliancy as it penetrated the cave, until it became quite dim in the centre. No part of the main cave was quite dark, but the offshoot, in which the lovers sat, was almost dark. To anyone viewing it from the outer cave it would have appeared completely so. "Is that a sea-gull at the outlet?" enquired Minnie, after a long pause. Ruby looked intently for a moment in the direction indicated. "Minnie," he said quickly, and in a tone of surprise, "that is a large gull, if it be one at all, and uses oars instead of wings. Who can it be? Smugglers never come here that I am aware of, and Lindsay is not a likely man to waste his time in pulling about when he has other work to do." "Perhaps it may be some fishermen from Auchmithie," suggested Minnie, "who are fond of exploring, like you and me." "Mayhap it is, but we shall soon see, for here they come. We must keep out of sight, my girl." Ruby rose and led Minnie into the recesses of the cavern, where they were speedily shrouded in profound darkness, and could not be seen by anyone, although they themselves could observe all that occurred in the space in front of them. The boat, which had entered the cavern by its seaward mouth, was a small one, manned by two fishermen, who were silent as they rowed under the arched roof; but it was evident that their silence did not proceed from caution, for they made no effort to prevent or check the noise of the oars. In a few seconds the keel grated on the pebbles, and one of the men leaped out. "Noo, Davy," he said, in a voice that sounded deep and hollow under that vaulted roof, "oot wi' the kegs. Haste ye, man." "'Tis Big Swankie," whispered Ruby. "There's nae hurry," objected the other fisherman, who, we need scarcely inform the reader, was our friend, Davy Spink. "Nae hurry!" repeated his comrade angrily. "That's aye yer cry. Half o' oor ventures hae failed because ye object to hurry." "Hoot, man! that's enough o't," said Spink, in the nettled tone of a man who has been a good deal worried. Indeed, the tones of both showed that these few sentences were but the continuation of a quarrel which had begun elsewhere. "It's plain to me that we must pairt, freen'," said Swankie in a dogged manner, as he lifted a keg out of the boat and placed it on the ground. "Ay," exclaimed Spink, with something of a sneer, "an' d'ye think I'll pairt without a diveesion o' the siller tea-pots and things that ye daurna sell for fear o' bein' fund out?" "I wonder ye dinna claim half o' the jewels and things as weel," retorted Swankie; "ye hae mair right to _them_, seein' ye had a hand in findin' them." "_Me_ a hand in findin' them," exclaimed Spink, with sudden indignation. "Was it _me_ that fand the deed body o' the auld man on the Bell Rock? Na, na, freend. I hae naething to do wi' deed men's jewels." "Have ye no?" retorted the other. "It's strange, then, that ye should entertain such sma' objections to deed men's siller." "Weel-a-weel, Swankie, the less we say on thae matters the better. Here, tak' haud o' the tither keg." The conversation ceased at this stage abruptly. Evidently each had touched on the other's weak point, so both tacitly agreed to drop the subject. Presently Big Swankie took out a flint and steel, and proceeded to strike a light. It was some some time before the tinder would catch. At each stroke of the steel a shower of brilliant sparks lit up his countenance for an instant, and this momentary glance showed that its expression was not prepossessing by any means. Ruby drew Minnie farther into the recess which concealed them, and awaited the result with some anxiety, for he felt that the amount of knowledge with which he had become possessed thus unintentionally, small though it was, was sufficient to justify the smugglers in regarding him as a dangerous enemy. He had scarcely drawn himself quite within the shadow of the recess, when Swankie succeeded in kindling a torch, which filled the cavern with a lurid light, and revealed its various forms, rendering it, if possible, more mysterious and unearthly than ever. "Here, Spink," cried Swankie, who was gradually getting into better humour, "haud the light, and gie me the spade." "Ye better put them behind the rock, far in," suggested Spink. The other seemed to entertain this idea for a moment, for he raised the torch above his head, and, advancing into the cave, carefully examined the rocks at the inner end. Step by step he drew near to the place where Ruby and Minnie were concealed, muttering to himself, as he looked at each spot that might possibly suit his purpose, "Na, na, the waves wad wash the kegs oot o' that if it cam' on to blaw." He made another step forward, and the light fell almost on the head of Ruby, who felt Minnie's arm tremble. He clenched his hands with that feeling of resolve that comes over a man when he has made up his mind to fight. Just then an exclamation of surprise escaped from his comrade. "Losh! man, what have we here?" he cried, picking up a small object that glittered in the light. Minnie's heart sank, for she could see that the thing was a small brooch which she was in the habit of wearing in her neckerchief, and which must have been detached when Ruby carried her into the cave. She felt assured that this would lead to their discovery; but it had quite the opposite effect, for it caused Swankie to turn round and examine the trinket with much curiosity. A long discussion as to how it could have come there immediately ensued between the smugglers, in the midst of which a wavelet washed against Swankie's feet, reminding him that the tide was rising, and that he had no time to lose. "There's nae place behint the rocks," said he quickly, putting the brooch in his pocket, "so we'll just hide the kegs amang the stanes. Lucky for us that we got the rest o' the cargo run ashore at Auchmithie. This'll lie snugly here, and we'll pull past the leftenant, who thinks we havena seen him, with oor heeds up and oor tongues in oor cheeks." They both chuckled heartily at the idea of disappointing the preventive officer, and while one held the torch the other dug a hole in the beach deep enough to contain the two kegs. "In ye go, my beauties," said Swankie, covering them up. "Mony's the time I've buried ye." "Ay, an' mony's the time ye've helped at their resurrection," added Spink, with a laugh. "Noo, we'll away an' have a look at the kegs in the Forbidden Cave," said Swankie, "see that they're a' richt, an' then have our game wi' the land-sharks." Next moment the torch was dashed against the stones and extinguished, and the two men, leaping into their boat, rowed away. As they passed through the outer cavern, Ruby heard them arrange to go back to Auchmithie. Their voices were too indistinct to enable him to ascertain their object in doing so, but he knew enough of the smugglers to enable him to guess that it was for the purpose of warning some of their friends of the presence of the preventive boat, which their words proved that they had seen. "Now, Minnie," said he, starting up as soon as the boat had disappeared, "this is what I call good luck, for not only shall we be able to return with something to the boat, but we shall be able to intercept big Swankie and his comrade, and offer them a glass of their own gin!" "Yes, and I shall be able to boast of having had quite a little adventure," said Minnie, who, now that her anxiety was ever, began to feel elated. They did not waste time in conversation, however, for the digging up of two kegs from a gravelly beach with fingers instead of a spade was not a quick or easy thing to do; so Ruby found as he went down on his knees in that dark place and began the work. "Can I help you?" asked his fair companion after a time. "Help me! What? Chafe and tear your little hands with work that all but skins mine? Nay, truly. But here comes one, and the other will soon follow. Yo, heave, _Ho_!" With the well-known nautical shout Ruby put forth an herculean effort, and tore the kegs out of the earth. After a short pause he carried Minnie out of the cavern, and led her to the field above by the same path by which they had descended. Then he returned for the kegs of gin. They were very heavy, but not too heavy for the strength of the young giant, who was soon hastening with rapid strides towards the bay, where they had left their friends. He bore a keg under each arm, and Minnie tripped lightly by his side,--and laughingly, too, for she enjoyed the thought of the discomfiture that was in store for the smugglers. CHAPTER TWENTY. THE SMUGGLERS ARE "TREATED" TO GIN AND ASTONISHMENT. They found the lieutenant and Captain Ogilvy stretched on the grass, smoking their pipes together. The daylight had almost deepened into night, and a few stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky. "Hey! what have we here--smugglers?" cried the captain, springing up rather quickly, as Ruby came unexpectedly on them. "Just so, uncle," said Minnie, with a laugh. "We have here some gin, smuggled all the way from Holland, and have come to ask your opinion of it." "Why, Ruby, how came you by this?" enquired Lindsay in amazement, as he examined the kegs with critical care. "Suppose I should say that I have been taken into confidence by the smugglers and then betrayed them." "I should reply that the one idea was improbable, and the other impossible," returned the lieutenant. "Well, I have at all events found out their secrets, and now I reveal them." In a few words Ruby acquainted his friends with all that has just been narrated. The moment he had finished, the lieutenant ordered his men to launch the boat. The kegs were put into the stern-sheets, the party embarked, and, pushing off, they rowed gently out of the bay, and crept slowly along the shore, under the deep shadow of the cliffs. "How dark it is getting!" said Minnie, after they had rowed for some time in silence. "The moon will soon be up," said the lieutenant. "Meanwhile I'll cast a little light on the subject by having a pipe. Will you join me, captain?" This was a temptation which the captain never resisted; indeed, he did not regard it as a temptation at all, and would have smiled at the idea of resistance. "Minnie, lass," said he, as he complacently filled the blackened bowl, and calmly stuffed down the glowing tobacco with the end of that marvellously callous little fingers, "it's a wonderful thing that baccy. I don't know what man would do without it." "Quite as well as woman does, I should think," replied Minnie. "I'm not so sure of that, lass. It's more nat'ral for man to smoke than for woman. Ye see, woman, lovely woman, should be `all my fancy painted her, both lovely and divine.' It would never do to have baccy perfumes hangin' about her rosy lips." "But, uncle, why should man have the disagreeable perfumes you speak of hanging about _his_ lips?" "I don't know, lass. It's all a matter o' feeling. `'Twere vain to tell thee all I feel, how much my heart would wish to say;' but of this I'm certain sure, that I'd never git along without my pipe. It's like compass, helm, and ballast all in one. Is that the moon, leftenant?" The captain pointed to a faint gleam of light on the horizon, which he knew well enough to be the moon; but he wished to change the subject. "Ay is it, and there comes a boat. Steady, men! lay on your oars a bit." This was said earnestly. In one instant all were silent, and the boat lay as motionless as the shadows of the cliffs among which it was involved. Presently the sound of oars was heard. Almost at the same moment, the upper edge of the moon rose above the horizon, and covered the sea with rippling silver. Ere long a boat shot into this stream of light, and rowed swiftly in the direction of Arbroath. "There are only two men in it," whispered the lieutenant. "Ay, these are my good friends Swankie and Spink, who know a deal more about other improper callings besides smuggling, if I did not greatly mistake their words," cried Ruby. "Give way, lads!" cried the lieutenant. The boat sprang at the word from her position under the cliffs, and was soon out upon the sea in full chase of the smugglers, who bent to their oars more lustily, evidently intending to trust to their speed. "Strange," said the lieutenant, as the distance between the two began sensibly to decrease, "if these be smugglers, with an empty boat, as you lead me to suppose they are, they would only be too glad to stop and let us see that they had nothing aboard that we could touch. It leads me to think that you are mistaken, Ruby Brand, and that these are not your friends." "Nay, the same fact convinces me that they are the very men we seek; for they said they meant to have some game with you, and what more amusing than to give you a long, hard chase for nothing?" "True; you are right. Well, we will turn the tables on them. Take the helm for a minute, while I tap one of the kegs." The tapping was soon accomplished, and a quantity of the spirit was drawn off into the captain's pocket-flask. "Taste it, captain, and let's have your opinion." Captain Ogilvy complied. He put the flask to his lips, and, on removing it, smacked them, and looked at the party with that extremely grave, almost solemn expression, which is usually assumed by a man when strong liquid is being put to the delicate test of his palate. "Oh!" exclaimed the captain, opening his eyes very wide indeed. What "oh" meant, was rather doubtful at first; but when the captain put the flask again to his lips, and took another pull, a good deal longer than the first, much, if not all of the doubt was removed. "Prime! nectar!" he murmured, in a species of subdued ecstasy, at the end of the second draught. "Evidently the right stuff," said Lindsay, laughing. "Liquid streams--celestial nectar, Darted through the ambient sky,--" Said the captain; "liquid, ay, liquid is the word." He was about to test the liquid again:-- "Stop! stop! fair play, captain; it's my turn now," cried the lieutenant, snatching the flask from his friend's grasp, and applying it to his own lips. Both the lieutenant and Ruby pronounced the gin perfect, and as Minnie positively refused either to taste or to pronounce judgment, the flask was returned to its owner's pocket. They were now close on the smugglers, whom they hailed, and commanded to lay on their oars. The order was at once obeyed, and the boats were speedily rubbing sides together. "I should like to examine your boat, friends," said the lieutenant as he stepped across the gunwales. "Oh! sir, I'm thankfu' to find you're not smugglers," said Swankie, with an assumed air of mingled respect and alarm. "If we'd only know'd ye was preventives we'd ha' backed oars at once. There's nothin' here; ye may seek as long's ye please." The hypocritical rascal winked slyly to his comrade as he said this. Meanwhile Lindsay and one of the men examined the contents of the boat, and, finding nothing contraband, the former said-- "So, you're honest men, I find. Fishermen, doubtless?" "Ay, some o' yer crew ken us brawly," said Davy Spink with a grin. "Well, I won't detain you," rejoined the lieutenant; "it's quite a pleasure to chase honest men on the high seas in these times of war and smuggling. But it's too bad to have given you such a fright, lads, for nothing. What say you to a glass of gin?" Big Swankie and his comrade glanced at each other in surprise. They evidently thought this an unaccountably polite Government officer, and were puzzled. However, they could do no less than accept such a generous offer. "Thank'ee, sir," said Big Swankie, spitting out his quid and significantly wiping his mouth. "I hae nae objection. Doubtless it'll be the best that the like o' you carries in yer bottle." "The best, certainly," said the lieutenant, as he poured out a bumper, and handed it to the smuggler. "It was smuggled, of course, and you see His Majesty is kind enough to give his servants a little of what they rescue from the rascals, to drink his health." "Weel, I drink to the King," said Swankie, "an' confusion to all his enemies, 'specially to smugglers." He tossed off the gin with infinite gusto, and handed back the cup with a smack of the lips and a look that plainly said, "More, if you please!" But the hint was not taken. Another bumper was filled and handed to Davy Spink, who had been eyeing the crew of the boat with great suspicion. He accepted the cup, nodded curtly, and said-- "Here's t'ye, gentlemen, no forgettin' the fair leddy in the stern-sheets." While he was drinking the gin the lieutenant turned to his men-- "Get out the keg, lads, from which that came, and refill the flask. Hold it well up in the moonlight, and see that ye don't spill a single drop, as you value your lives. Hey! my man, what ails you? Does the gin disagree with your stomach, or have you never seen a smuggled keg of spirits before, that you stare at it as if it were a keg of ghosts!" The latter part of this speech was addressed to Swankie, who no sooner beheld the keg than his eyes opened up until they resembled two great oysters. His mouth slowly followed suit. Davy Spink's attention having been attracted, he became subject to similar alterations of visage. "Hallo!" cried the captain, while the whole crew burst into a laugh, "you must have given them poison. Have you a stomach-pump, doctor?" he said, turning hastily to Ruby. "No, nothing but a penknife and a tobacco-stopper. If they're of any use to you--" He was interrupted by a loud laugh from Big Swankie, who quickly recovered his presence of mind, and declared that he had never tasted such capital stuff in his life. "Have ye much o't, sir?" "O yes, a good deal. I have _two_ kegs of it" (the lieutenant grinned very hard at this point), "and we expect to get a little more to-night." "Ha!" exclaimed Davy Spink, "there's no doot plenty o't in the coves hereaway, for they're an awfu' smugglin' set. Whan did ye find the twa kegs, noo, if I may ask?" "Oh, certainly. I got them not more than an hour ago." The smugglers glanced at each other and were struck dumb; but they were now too much on their guard to let any further evidence of surprise escape them. "Weel, I wush ye success, sirs," said Swankie, sitting down to his oar. "It's likely ye'll come across mair if ye try Dickmont's Den. There's usually somethin' hidden thereaboots." "Thank you, friend, for the hint," said the lieutenant, as he took his place at the tiller-ropes, "but I shall have a look at the Gaylet Cove, I think, this evening." "What! the Gaylet Cove?" cried Spink. "Ye might as weel look for kegs at the bottom o' the deep sea." "Perhaps so; nevertheless, I have taken a fancy to go there. If I find nothing, I will take a look into the _Forbidden Cave_." "The Forbidden Cave!" almost howled Swankie. "Wha iver heard o' smugglers hidin' onything there? The air in't wad pushen a rotten." "Perhaps it would, yet I mean to try." "Weel-a-weel, ye may try, but ye might as weel seek for kegs o' gin on the Bell Rock." "Ha! it's not the first time that strange things have been found on the Bell Rock," said Ruby suddenly. "I have heard of _jewels_, even, being discovered there." "Give way, men; shove off," cried the lieutenant. "A pleasant pull to you, lads. Good night." The two boats parted, and while the lieutenant and his friends made for the shore, the smugglers rowed towards Arbroath in a state of mingled amazement and despair at what they had heard and seen. "It was Ruby Brand that spoke last, Davy." "Ay; he was i' the shadow o' Captain Ogilvy and I couldna see his face, but I thought it like his voice when he first spoke." "Hoo _can_ he hae come to ken aboot the jewels?" "That's mair than I can tell." "I'll bury them," said Swankie, "an' then it'll puzzle onybody to tell whaur they are." "Ye'll please yoursell," said Spink. Swankie was too angry to make any reply, or to enter into further conversation with his comrade about the kegs of gin, so they continued their way in silence. Meanwhile, as Lieutenant Lindsay and his men had a night of work before them, the captain suggested that Minnie, Ruby, and himself should be landed within a mile of the town, and left to find their way thither on foot. This was agreed to; and while the one party walked home by the romantic pathway at the top of the cliffs, the other rowed away to explore the dark recesses of the Forbidden Cave. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE BELL ROCK AGAIN--A DREARY NIGHT IN A STRANGE HABITATION. During that winter Ruby Brand wrought diligently in the workyard at the lighthouse materials, and, by living economically, began to save a small sum of money, which he laid carefully by with a view to his marriage with Minnie Gray. Being an impulsive man, Ruby would have married Minnie, then and there, without looking too earnestly to the future. But his mother had advised him to wait till he should have laid by a little for a "rainy day." The captain had recommended patience, tobacco, and philosophy, and had enforced his recommendations with sundry apt quotations from dead and living novelists, dramatists, and poets. Minnie herself, poor girl, felt that she ought not to run counter to the wishes of her best and dearest friends, so she too advised delay for a "little time"; and Ruby was fain to content himself with bewailing his hard lot internally, and knocking Jamie Dove's bellows, anvils, and sledge-hammers about in a way that induced that son of Vulcan to believe his assistant had gone mad! As for big Swankie, he hid his ill-gotten gains under the floor of his tumble-down cottage, and went about his evil courses as usual in company with his comrade Davy Spink, who continued to fight and make it up with him as of yore. It must not be supposed that Ruby forgot the conversation he had overheard in the Gaylet Cove. He and Minnie and his uncle had frequent discussions in regard to it, but to little purpose; for although Swankie and Spink had discovered old Mr Brand's body on the Bell Rock, it did not follow that any jewels or money they had found there were necessarily his. Still Ruby could not divest his mind of the feeling that there was some connexion between the two, and he was convinced, from what had fallen from Davy Spink about "silver teapots and things", that Swankie was the man of whose bad deeds he himself had been suspected. As there seemed no possibility of bringing the matter home to him, however, he resolved to dismiss the whole affair from his mind in the meantime. Things were very much in this state when, in the spring, the operations at the Bell Rock were resumed. Jamie Dove, Ruby, Robert Selkirk, and several of the principal workmen, accompanied the engineers on their first visit to the rock, and they sailed towards the scene of their former labours with deep and peculiar interest, such as one might feel on renewing acquaintance with an old friend who had passed through many hard and trying struggles since the last time of meeting. The storms of winter had raged round the Bell Rock as usual--as they had done, in fact, since the world began; but that winter the handiwork of man had also been exposed to the fury of the elements there. It was known that the beacon had survived the storms, for it could be seen by telescope from the shore in clear weather--like a little speck on the seaward horizon. Now they were about to revisit the old haunt, and have a close inspection of the damage that it was supposed must certainly have been done. To the credit of the able engineer who planned and carried out the whole works, the beacon was found to have resisted winds and waves successfully. It was on a bitterly cold morning about the end of March that the first visit of the season was paid to the Bell Rock. Mr Stevenson and his party of engineers and artificers sailed in the lighthouse yacht; and, on coming within a proper distance of the rock, two boats were lowered and pushed off. The sea ran with such force upon the rock that it seemed doubtful whether a landing could be effected. About half-past eight, when the rock was fairly above water, several attempts were made to land, but the breach of the sea was still so great that they were driven back. On the eastern side the sea separated into two distinct waves, which came with a sweep round the western side, where they met, and rose in a burst of spray to a considerable height. Watching, however, for what the sailors termed a _smooth_, and catching a favourable opportunity, they rowed between the two seas dexterously, and made a successful landing at the western creek. The sturdy beacon was then closely examined. It had been painted white at the end of the previous season, but the lower parts of the posts were found to have become green--the sea having clothed them with a soft garment of weed. The sea-birds had evidently imagined that it was put up expressly for their benefit; for a number of cormorants and large herring-gulls had taken up their quarters on it--finding it, no doubt, conveniently near to their fishing-grounds. A critical inspection of all its parts showed that everything about it was in a most satisfactory state. There was not the slightest indication of working or shifting in the great iron stanchions with which the beams were fixed, nor of any of the joints or places of connexion; and, excepting some of the bracing-chains which had been loosened, everything wars found in the same entire state in which it had been left the previous season. Only those who know what that beacon had been subjected to can form a correct estimate of the importance of this discovery, and the amount of satisfaction it afforded to those most interested in the works at the Bell Rock. To say that the party congratulated themselves would be far short of the reality. They hailed the event with cheers, and their looks seemed to indicate that some piece of immense and unexpected good fortune had befallen each individual. From that moment Mr Stevenson saw the practicability and propriety of fitting up the beacon, not only as a place of refuge in case of accidents to the boats in landing, but as a residence for the men during the working months. From that moment, too, poor Jamie Dove began to see the dawn of happier days; for when the beacon should be fitted up as a residence he would bid farewell to the hated floating light, and take up his abode, as he expressed it, "on land." "On land!" It is probable that this Jamie Dove was the first man, since the world began, who had entertained the till then absurdly preposterous notion that the fatal Bell Rock was "land," or that it could be made a place of even temporary residence. A hundred years ago men would have laughed at the bare idea. Fifty years ago that idea was realised; for more than half a century that sunken reef has been, and still is, the safe and comfortable home of man! Forgive, reader, our tendency to anticipate. Let us proceed with our inspection. Having ascertained that the foundations of the beacon were all right, the engineers next ascended to the upper parts, where they found the cross-beams and their fixtures in an equally satisfactory condition. On the top a strong chest had been fixed the preceding season, in which had been placed a quantity of sea-biscuits and several bottles of water, in case of accident to the boats, or in the event of shipwreck occurring on the rock. The biscuit, having been carefully placed in tin canisters, was found in good condition, but several of the water-bottles had burst, in consequence, it was supposed, of frost during the winter. Twelve of the bottles, however, remained entire, so that the Bell Rock may be said to have been transformed, even at that date, from a point of destruction into a place of comparative safety. While the party were thus employed, the landing-master reminded them that the sea was running high, and that it would be necessary to set off while the rock afforded anything like shelter to the boats, which by that time had been made fast to the beacon and rode with much agitation, each requiring two men with boat-hooks to keep them from striking each other, or ranging up against the beacon. But under these circumstances the greatest confidence was felt by everyone, from the security afforded by that temporary erection; for, supposing that the wind had suddenly increased to a gale, and that it had been found inadvisable to go into the boats; or supposing they had drifted or sprung a leak from striking upon the rocks, in any of these possible, and not at all improbable, cases, they had now something to lay hold of, and, though occupying the dreary habitation of the gull and the cormorant, affording only bread and water, yet _life_ would be preserved, and, under the circumstances, they would have been supported by the hope of being ultimately relieved. Soon after this the works at the Bell Rock were resumed, with, if possible, greater vigour than before, and ere long the "house" was fixed to the top of the beacon, and the engineer and his men took up their abode there. Think of this, reader. Six great wooden beams were fastened to a rock, over which the waves roared twice every day, and on the top of these a pleasant little marine residence was nailed, as one might nail a dovecot on the top of a pole! This residence was ultimately fitted up in such a way as to become a comparatively comfortable and commodious abode. It contained four storeys. The first was the mortar-gallery, where the mortar for the lighthouse was mixed as required; it also supported the forge. The second was the cook-room. The third the apartment of the engineer and his assistants; and the fourth was the artificers' barrack-room. This house was of course built of wood, but it was firmly put together, for it had to pass through many a terrific ordeal. In order to give some idea of the interior, we shall describe the cabin of Mr Stevenson. It measured four feet three inches in breadth on the floor, and though, from the oblique direction of the beams of the beacon, it widened towards the top, yet it did not admit of the full extension of the occupant's arms when he stood on the floor. Its length was little more than sufficient to admit of a cot-bed being suspended during the night. This cot was arranged so as to be triced up to the roof during the day, thus leaving free room for occasional visitors, and for comparatively free motion. A folding table was attached with hinges immediately under the small window of the apartment. The remainder of the space was fitted up with books, barometer, thermometer, portmanteau, and two or three camp-stools. The walls were covered with green cloth, formed into panels with red tape, a substance which, by the way, might have had an _accidental_ connexion with the Bell Rock Lighthouse, but which could not, by any possibility, have influenced it as a _principle_, otherwise that building would probably never have been built, or, if built, would certainly not have stood until the present day! The bed was festooned with yellow cotton stuff, and the diet being plain, the paraphernalia of the table was proportionally simple. It would have been interesting to know the individual books required and used by the celebrated engineer in his singular abode, but his record leaves no detailed account of these. It does, however, contain a sentence in regard to one volume which we deem it just to his character to quote. He writes thus:-- "If, in speculating upon the abstract wants of man in such a state of exclusion, one were reduced to a single book, the Sacred Volume, whether considered for the striking diversity of its story, the morality of its doctrine, or the important truths of its gospel, would have proved by far the greatest treasure." It may be easily imagined that in a place where the accommodation of the principal engineer was so limited, that of the men was not extensive. Accordingly, we find that the barrack-room contained beds for twenty-one men. But the completion of the beacon house, as we have described it, was not accomplished in one season. At first it was only used as a smith's workshop, and then as a temporary residence in fine weather. One of the first men who remained all night upon it was our friend Bremner. He became so tired of the floating light that he earnestly solicited, and obtained, permission to remain on the beacon. At the time it was only in a partially sheltered state. The joiners had just completed the covering of the roof with a quantity of tarpaulin, which the seamen had laid over with successive coats of hot tar, and the sides of the erection had been painted with three coats of white lead. Between the timber framing of the habitable part, the interstices were stuffed with moss, but the green baize cloth with which it was afterwards lined had not been put on when Bremner took possession. It was a splendid summer evening when the bold man made his request, and obtained permission to remain. None of the others would join him. When the boats pushed off and left him the solitary occupant of the rock, he felt a sensation of uneasiness, but, having formed his resolution, he stuck by it, and bade his comrades good night cheerfully. "Good night, and good_bye_," cried Forsyth, as he took his seat at the oar. "Farewell, dear," cried O'Connor, wiping his eyes with a _very_ ragged pocket handkerchief. "You won't forget me?" retorted Bremner. "Never," replied Dumsby, with fervour. "Av the beacon should be carried away, darlin'," cried O'Connor, "howld tight to the provision-chest, p'raps ye'll be washed ashore." "I'll drink your health in water, Paddy," replied Bremner. "Faix, I hope it won't be salt wather," retorted Ned. They continued to shout good wishes, warnings, and advice to their comrade until out of hearing, and then waved adieu to him until he was lost to view. We have said that Bremner was alone, yet he was not entirely so; he had a comrade with him, in the shape of his little black dog, to which reference has already been made. This creature was of that very thin and tight-skinned description of dog, that trembles at all times as if afflicted with chronic cold, summer and winter. Its thin tail was always between its extremely thin legs, as though it lived in a perpetual condition of wrong-doing, and were in constant dread of deserved punishment. Yet no dog ever belied its looks more than did this one, for it was a good dog, and a warm-hearted dog, and never did a wicked thing, and never was punished, so that its excessive humility and apparent fear and trembling were quite unaccountable. Like all dogs of its class it was passionately affectionate, and intensely grateful for the smallest favour. In fact, it seemed to be rather thankful than otherwise for a kick when it chanced to receive one, and a pat on the head, or a kind word made it all but jump out of its black skin for very joy. Bremner called it "Pup." It had no other name, and didn't seem to wish for one. On the present occasion it was evidently much perplexed, and very unhappy, for it looked at the boat, and then wistfully into its master's face, as if to say, "This is awful; have you resolved that we shall perish together?" "Now, Pup," said Bremner, when the boat disappeared in the shades of evening, "you and I are left alone on the Bell Rock!" There was a touch of sad uncertainty in the wag of the tail with which Pup received this remark. "But cheer up, Pup," cried Bremner with a sudden burst of animation that induced the creature to wriggle and dance on its hind legs for at least a minute, "you and I shall have a jolly night together on the beacon; so come along." Like many a night that begins well, that particular night ended ill. Even while the man spoke, a swell began to rise, and, as the tide had by that time risen a few feet, an occasional billow swept over the rocks and almost washed the feet of Bremner as he made his way over the ledges. In five minutes the sea was rolling all round the foot of the beacon, and Bremner and his friend were safely ensconced on the mortar-gallery. There was no storm that night, nevertheless there was one of those heavy ground swells that are of common occurrence in the German Ocean. It is supposed that this swell is caused by distant westerly gales in the Atlantic, which force an undue quantity of water into the North Sea, and thus produce the apparent paradox of great rolling breakers in calm weather. On this night there was no wind at all, but there was a higher swell than usual, so that each great billow passed over the rock with a roar that was rendered more than usually terrible, in consequence of the utter absence of all other sounds. At first Bremner watched the rising tide, and as he sat up there in the dark he felt himself dreadfully forsaken and desolate, and began to comment on things in general to his dog, by way of inducing a more sociable and cheery state of mind. "Pup, this is a lugubrious state o' things. Wot d'ye think o't?" Pup did not say, but he expressed such violent joy at being noticed, that he nearly fell off the platform of the mortar-gallery in one of his extravagant gyrations. "That won't do, Pup," said Bremner, shaking his head at the creature, whose countenance expressed deep contrition. "Don't go on like that, else you'll fall into the sea and be drownded, and then I shall be left alone. What a dark night it is, to be sure! I doubt if it was wise of me to stop here. Suppose the beacon were to be washed away?" Bremner paused, and Pup wagged his tail interrogatively, as though to say, "What then?" "Ah! it's of no use supposin'," continued the man slowly. "The beacon has stood it out all winter, and it ain't likely it's goin' to be washed away to-night. But suppose I was to be took bad?" Again the dog seemed to demand, "What then?" "Well, that's not very likely either, for I never was took bad in my life since I took the measles, and that's more than twenty years ago. Come, Pup, don't let us look at the black side o' things, let us try to be cheerful, my dog. Hallo!" The exclamation was caused by the appearance of a green billow, which in the uncertain light seemed to advance in a threatening attitude towards the beacon as if to overwhelm it, but it fell at some distance, and only rolled in a churning sea of milky foam among the posts, and sprang up and licked the beams, as a serpent might do before swallowing them. "Come, it was the light deceived me. If I go for to start at every wave like that I'll have a poor night of it, for the tide has a long way to rise yet. Let's go and have a bit supper, lad." Bremner rose from the anvil, on which he had seated himself, and went up the ladder into the cook-house above. Here all was pitch dark, owing to the place being enclosed all round, which the mortar-gallery was not, but a light was soon struck, a lamp trimmed, and the fire in the stove kindled. Bremner now busied himself in silently preparing a cup of tea, which, with a quantity of sea-biscuit, a little cold salt pork, and a hunk of stale bread, constituted his supper. Pup watched his every movement with an expression of earnest solicitude, combined with goodwill, in his sharp intelligent eyes. When supper was ready Pup had his share, then, feeling that the duties of the day were now satisfactorily accomplished, he coiled himself up at his master's feet, and went to sleep. His master rolled himself up in a rug, and lying down before the fire, also tried to sleep, but without success for a long time. As he lay there counting the number of seconds of awful silence that elapsed between the fall of each successive billow, and listening to the crash and the roar as wave after wave rushed underneath him, and caused his habitation to tremble, he could not avoid feeling alarmed in some degree. Do what he would, the thought of the wrecks that had taken place there, the shrieks that must have often rung above these rocks, and the dead and mangled bodies that must have lain among them, _would_ obtrude upon him and banish sleep from his eyes. At last he became somewhat accustomed to the rush of waters and the tremulous motion of the beacon. His frame, too, exhausted by a day of hard toil, refused to support itself, and he sank into slumber. But it was not unbroken. A falling cinder from the sinking fire would awaken him with a start; a larger wave than usual would cause him to spring up and look round in alarm; or a shrieking sea-bird, as it swooped past, would induce a dream, in which the cries of drowning men arose, causing him to awake with a cry that set Pup barking furiously. Frequently during that night, after some such dream, Bremner would get up and descend to the mortar-gallery to see that all was right there. He found the waves always hissing below, but the starry sky was calm and peaceful above, so he returned to his couch comforted a little, and fell again into a troubled sleep, to be again awakened by frightful dreams of dreadful sights, and scenes of death and danger on the sea. Thus the hours wore slowly away. As the tide fell the noise of waves retired a little from the beacon, and the wearied man and dog sank gradually at last into deep, untroubled slumber. So deep was it, that they did not hear the increasing noise of the gulls as they wheeled round the beacon after having breakfasted near it; so deep, that they did not feel the sun as it streamed through an opening in the woodwork and glared on their respective faces; so deep, that they were ignorant of the arrival of the boats with the workmen, and were dead to the shouts of their companions, until one of them, Jamie Dove, put his head up the hatchway and uttered one of his loudest roars, close to their ears. Then indeed Bremner rose up and looked bewildered, and Pup, starting up, barked as furiously as if its own little black body had miraculously become the concentrated essence of all the other noisy dogs in the wide world rolled into one! CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. LIFE IN THE BEACON--STORY OF THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE. Some time after this a number of the men took up their permanent abode in the beacon house, and the work was carried on by night as well as by day, when the state of the tide and the weather permitted. Immense numbers of fish called poddlies were discovered to be swimming about at high water. So numerous were they, that the rock was sometimes hidden by the shoals of them. Fishing for these thenceforth became a pastime among the men, who not only supplied their own table with fresh fish, but at times sent presents of them to their friends in the vessels. All the men who dwelt on the beacon were volunteers, for Mr Stevenson felt that it would be cruel to compel men to live at such a post of danger. Those who chose, therefore, remained in the lightship or the tender, and those who preferred it went to the beacon. It is scarcely necessary to add, that among the latter were found all the "sea-sick men!" These bold artificers were not long of having their courage tested. Soon after their removal to the beacon they experienced some very rough weather, which shook the posts violently, and caused them to twist in a most unpleasant way. But it was not until some time after that a storm arose, which caused the stoutest-hearted of them all to quail more than once. It began on the night of as fine a day as they had had the whole season. In order that the reader may form a just conception of what we are about to describe, it may not be amiss to note the state of things at the rock, and the employment of the men at the time. A second forge had been put up on the higher platform of the beacon, but the night before that of which we write, the lower platform had been burst up by a wave, and the mortar and forge thereon, with all the implements, were cast down. The damaged forge was therefore set up for the time on its old site, near the foundation-pit of the lighthouse, while the carpenters were busy repairing the mortar-gallery. The smiths were as usual busy sharpening picks and irons, and making bats and stanchions, and other iron work connected with the building operations. The landing-master's crew were occupied in assisting the millwrights to lay the railways to hand, and joiners were kept almost constantly employed in fitting picks to their handles, which latter were very frequently broken. Nearly all the miscellaneous work was done by seamen. There was no such character on the Bell Rock as the common labourer. The sailors cheerfully undertook the work usually performed by such men, and they did it admirably. In consequence of the men being able to remain on the beacon, the work went on literally "by double tides"; and at night the rock was often ablaze with torches, while the artificers wrought until the waves drove them away. On the night in question there was a low spring-tide, so that a night-tide's work of five hours was secured. This was one of the longest spells they had had since the beginning of the operations. The stars shone brightly in a very dark sky. Not a breath of air was felt. Even the smoke of the forge fire rose perpendicularly a short way, until an imperceptible zephyr wafted it gently to the west. Yet there was a heavy swell rolling in from the eastward, which caused enormous waves to thunder on Ralph the Rover's Ledge, as if they would drive down the solid rock. Mingled with this solemn, intermittent roar of the sea was the continuous clink of picks, chisels, and hammers, and the loud clang of the two forges; that on the beacon being distinctly different from the other, owing to the wooden erection on which it stood rendering it deep and thunderous. Torches and forge fires cast a glare over all, rendering the foam pale green and the rocks deep red. Some of the active figures at work stood out black and sharp against the light, while others shone in its blaze like red-hot fiends. Above all sounded an occasional cry from the sea-gulls, as they swooped down into the magic circle of light, and then soared away shrieking into darkness. "Hard work's not easy," observed James Dove, pausing in the midst of his labours to wipe his brow. "True for ye; but as we've got to arn our brid be the sweat of our brows, we're in the fair way to fortin," said Ned O'Connor, blowing away energetically with the big bellows. Ned had been reappointed to this duty since the erection of the second forge, which was in Ruby's charge. It was our hero's hammer that created such a din up in the beacon, while Dove wrought down on the rock. "We'll have a gale to-night," said the smith; "I know that by the feelin' of the air." "Well, I can't boast o' much knowledge o' feelin'," said O'Connor; "but I believe you're right, for the fish towld me the news this mornin'." This remark of Ned had reference to a well-ascertained fact, that, when a storm was coming, the fish invariably left the neighbourhood of the rock; doubtless in order to seek the security of depths which are not affected by winds or waves. While Dove and his comrade commented on this subject, two of the other men had retired to the south-eastern end of the rock to take a look at the weather. These were Peter Logan, the foreman, whose position required him to have a care for the safety of the men as well as for the progress of the work, and our friend Bremner, who had just descended from the cooking-room, where he had been superintending the preparation of supper. "It will be a stiff breeze, I fear, to-night," said Logan. "D'ye think so I" said Bremner; "it seems to me so calm that I would think a storm a'most impossible. But the fish never tell lies." "True. You got no fish to-day, I believe?" said Logan. "Not a nibble," replied the other. As he spoke, he was obliged to rise from a rock on which he had seated himself, because of a large wave, which, breaking on the outer reefs, sent the foam a little closer to his toes than was agreeable. "That was a big one, but yonder is a bigger," cried Logan. The wave to which he referred was indeed a majestic wall of water. It came on with such an awful appearance of power, that some of the men who perceived it could not repress a cry of astonishment. In another moment it fell, and, bursting over the rocks with a terrific roar, extinguished the forge fire, and compelled the men to take refuge in the beacon. Jamie Dove saved his bellows with difficulty. The other men, catching up their things as they best might, crowded up the ladder in a more or less draggled condition. The beacon house was gained by means of one of the main beams, which had been converted into a stair, by the simple process of nailing small battens thereon, about a foot apart from each other. The men could only go up one at a time, but as they were active and accustomed to the work, were all speedily within their place of refuge. Soon afterwards the sea covered the rock, and the place where they had been at work was a mass of seething foam. Still there was no wind; but dark clouds had begun to rise on the seaward horizon. The sudden change in the appearance of the rock after the last torches were extinguished was very striking. For a few seconds there seemed to be no light at all. The darkness of a coal mine appeared to have settled down on the scene. But this soon passed away, as the men's eyes became accustomed to the change, and then the dark loom of the advancing billows, the pale light of the flashing foam, and occasional gleams of phosphorescence, and glimpses of black rocks in the midst of all, took the place of the warm, busy scene which the spot had presented a few minutes before. "Supper, boys!" shouted Bremner. Peter Bremner, we may remark in passing, was a particularly useful member of society. Besides being small and corpulent, he was a capital cook. He had acted during his busy life both as a groom and a house-servant; he had been a soldier, a sutler, a writer's clerk, and an apothecary--in which latter profession he had acquired the art of writing and suggesting recipes, and a taste for making collections in natural history. He was very partial to the use of the lancet, and quite a terrible adept at tooth-drawing. In short, Peter was the _factotum_ of the beacon house, where, in addition to his other offices, he filled those of barber and steward to the admiration of all. But Bremner came out in quite a new and valuable light after he went to reside in the beacon--namely, as a storyteller. During the long periods of inaction that ensued, when the men were imprisoned there by storms, he lightened many an hour that would have otherwise hung heavily on their hands, and he cheered the more timid among them by speaking lightly of the danger of their position. On the signal for supper being given, there was a general rush down the ladders into the kitchen, where as comfortable a meal as one could wish for was smoking in pot and pan and platter. As there were twenty-three to partake, it was impossible, of course, for all to sit down to table. They were obliged to stow themselves away on such articles of furniture as came most readily to hand, and eat as they best could. Hungry men find no difficulty in doing this. For some time the conversation was restricted to a word or two. Soon, however, as appetite began to be appeased, tongues began to loosen. The silence was first broken by a groan. "Ochone!" exclaimed O'Connor, as well as a mouthful of pork and potatoes would allow him; "was it _you_ that groaned like a dyin' pig?" The question was put to Forsyth, who was holding his head between his hands, and swaying his body to and fro in agony. "Hae ye the colic, freen'?" enquired John Watt, in a tone of sympathy. "No-n-o," groaned Forsyth, "it's a--a--too-tooth!" "Och! is that all?" "Have it out, man, at once." "Ram a red-hot skewer into it." "No, no; let it alone, and it'll go away." Such was the advice tendered, and much more of a similar nature, to the suffering man. "There's nothink like 'ot water an' cold," said Joe Dumsby in the tones of an oracle. "Just fill your mouth with bilin' 'ot Water, an' dip your face in a basin o' cold, and it's sartain to cure." "Or kill," suggested Jamie Dove. "It's better now," said Forsyth, with a sigh of relief. "I scrunched a bit o' bone into it; that was all." "There's nothing like the string and the red-hot poker," suggested Ruby Brand. "Tie the one end o' the string to a post and t'other end to the tooth, an' stick a red-hot poker to your nose. Away it comes at once." "Hoot! nonsense," said Watt. "Ye might as weel tie a string to his lug an' dip him into the sea. Tak' my word for't, there's naethin' like pooin'." "D'you mean pooh pooin'?" enquired Dumsby. Watt's reply was interrupted by a loud gust of wind, which burst upon the beacon house at that moment and shook it violently. Everyone started up, and all clustered round the door and windows to observe the appearance of things without. Every object was shrouded in thick darkness, but a flash of lightning revealed the approach of the storm which had been predicted, and which had already commenced to blow. All tendency to jest instantly vanished, and for a time some of the men stood watching the scene outside, while others sat smoking their pipes by the fire in silence. "What think ye of things?" enquired one of the men, as Ruby came up from the mortar-gallery, to which he had descended at the first gust of the storm. "I don't know what to think," said he gravely. "It's clear enough that we shall have a stiffish gale. I think little of that with a tight craft below me and plenty of sea-room; but I don't know what to think of a _beacon_ in a gale." As he spoke another furious burst of wind shook the place, and a flash of vivid lightning was speedily followed by a crash of thunder, that caused some hearts there to beat faster and harder than usual. "Pooh!" cried Bremner, as he proceeded coolly to wash up his dishes, "that's nothing, boys. Has not this old timber house weathered all the gales o' last winter, and d'ye think it's goin' to come down before a summer breeze? Why, there's a lighthouse in France, called the Tour de Cordouan, which rises light out o' the sea, an' I'm told it had some fearful gales to try its metal when it was buildin'. So don't go an' git narvous." "Who's gittin' narvous?" exclaimed George Forsyth, at whom Bremner had looked when he made the last remark. "Sure ye misjudge him," cried O'Connor. "It's only another twist o' the toothick. But it's all very well in you to spake lightly o' gales in that fashion. Wasn't the Eddystone Lighthouse cleared away one stormy night, with the engineer and all the men, an' was niver more heard on?" "That's true," said Ruby. "Come, Bremner, I have heard you say that you had read all about that business. Let's hear the story; it will help to while away the time, for there's no chance of anyone gettin' to sleep with such a row outside." "I wish it may be no worse than a row outside," said Forsyth in a doleful tone, as he shook his head and looked round on the party anxiously. "Wot! another fit o' the toothick?" enquired O'Connor ironically. "Don't try to put us in the dismals," said Jamie Dove, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling that solace of his leisure hours. "Let us hear about the Eddystone, Bremner; it'll cheer up our spirits a bit." "Will it though?" said Bremner, with a look that John Watt described as "awesome", "Well, we shall see." "You must know, boys--" "'Ere, light your pipe, my 'earty," said Dumsby. "Hold yer tongue, an' don't interrupt him," cried one of the men, flattening Dumsby's cap over his eyes. "And don't drop yer _h_aitches," observed another, "'cause if ye do they'll fall into the sea an' be drownded, an' then ye'll have none left to put into their wrong places when ye wants 'em." "Come, Bremner, go on." "Well, then, boys," began Bremner, "you must know that it is more than a hundred years since the Eddystone Lighthouse was begun--in the year 1696, if I remember rightly--that would be just a hundred and thirteen years to this date. Up to that time these rocks were as great a terror to sailors as the Bell Rock is now, or, rather, as it was last year, for now that this here comfortable beacon has been put up, it's no longer a terror to nobody--" "Except Geordie Forsyth," interposed O'Connor. "Silence," cried the men. "Well," resumed Bremner, "as you all know, the Eddystone Rocks lie in the British Channel, fourteen miles from Plymouth and ten from the Ram Head, an' open to a most tremendious sea from the Bay o' Biscay and the Atlantic, as I knows well, for I've passed the place in a gale, close enough a'most to throw a biscuit on the rocks. "They are named the Eddystone Rocks because of the whirls and eddies that the tides make among them; but for the matter of that, the Bell Rock might be so named on the same ground. Howsever, it's six o' one an' half a dozen o' t'other. Only there's this difference, that the highest point o' the Eddystone is barely covered at high water, while here the rock is twelve or fifteen feet below water at high tide. "Well, it was settled by the Trinity Board in 1696, that a lighthouse should be put up, and a Mr Winstanley was engaged to do it. He was an uncommon clever an' ingenious man. He used to exhibit wonderful waterworks in London; and in his house, down in Essex, he used to astonish his friends, and frighten them sometimes, with his queer contrivances. He had invented an easy chair which laid hold of anyone that sat down in it, and held him prisoner until Mr Winstanley set him free. He made a slipper also, and laid it on his bedroom floor, and when anyone put his foot into it he touched a spring that caused a ghost to rise from the hearth. He made a summer house, too, at the foot of his garden, on the edge of a canal, and if anyone entered into it and sat down, he very soon found himself adrift on the canal. "Such a man was thought to be the best for such a difficult work as the building of a lighthouse on the Eddystone, so he was asked to undertake it, and agreed, and began it well. He finished it, too, in four years, his chief difficulty being the distance of the rock from land, and the danger of goin' backwards and forwards. The light was first shown on the 14th November, 1698. Before this the engineer had resolved to pass a night in the building, which he did with a party of men; but he was compelled to pass more than a night, for it came on to blow furiously, and they were kept prisoners for eleven days, drenched with spray all the time, and hard up for provisions. "It was said the sprays rose a hundred feet above the lantern of this first Eddystone Lighthouse. Well, it stood till the year 1703, when repairs became necessary, and Mr Winstanley went down to Plymouth to superintend. It had been prophesied that this lighthouse would certainly be carried away. But dismal prophecies are always made about unusual things. If men were to mind prophecies there would be precious little done in this world. Howsever, the prophecies unfortunately came true. Winstanley's friends advised him not to go to stay in it, but he was so confident of the strength of his work that he said he only wished to have the chance o' bein' there in the greatest storm that ever blew, that he might see what effect it would have on the buildin'. Poor man! he had his wish. On the night of the 26th November a terrible storm arose, the worst that had been for many years, and swept the lighthouse entirely away. Not a vestige of it or the people on it was ever seen afterwards. Only a few bits of the iron fastenings were left fixed in the rocks." "That was terrible," said Forsyth, whose uneasiness was evidently increasing with the rising storm. "Ay, but the worst of it was," continued Bremner, "that, owing to the absence of the light, a large East Indiaman went on the rocks immediately after, and became a total wreck. This, however, set the Trinity House on putting up another, which was begun in 1706, and the light shown in 1708. This tower was ninety-two feet high, built partly of wood and partly of stone. It was a strong building, and stood for forty-nine years. Mayhap it would have been standin' to this day but for an accident, which you shall hear of before I have done. While this lighthouse was building, a French privateer carried off all the workmen prisoners to France, but they were set at liberty by the King, because their work was of such great use to all nations. "The lighthouse, when finished, was put in charge of two keepers, with instructions to hoist a flag when anything was wanted from the shore. One of these men became suddenly ill, and died. Of course his comrade hoisted the signal, but the weather was so bad that it was found impossible to send a boat off for four weeks. The poor keeper was so afraid that people might suppose he had murdered his companion that he kept the corpse beside him all that time. What his feelin's could have been I don't know, but they must have been awful; for, besides the horror of such a position in such a lonesome place, the body decayed to an extent--" "That'll do, lad; don't be too partickler," said Jamie Dove. The others gave a sigh of relief at the interruption, and Bremner continued-- "There were always _three_ keepers in the Eddystone after that. Well, it was in the year 1755, on the 2nd December, that one o' the keepers went to snuff the candles, for they only burned candles in the lighthouses at that time, and before that time great open grates with coal fires were the most common; but there were not many lights either of one kind or another in those days. On gettin' up to the lantern he found it was on fire. All the efforts they made failed to put it out, and it was soon burned down. Boats put off to them, but they only succeeded in saving the keepers; and of them, one went mad on reaching the shore, and ran off, and never was heard of again; and another, an old man, died from the effects of melted lead which had run down his throat from the roof of the burning lighthouse. They did not believe him when he said he had swallowed lead, but after he died it was found to be a fact. "The tower became red-hot, and burned for five days before it was utterly destroyed. This was the end o' the second Eddystone. Its builder was a Mr John Rudyerd, a silk mercer of London. "The third Eddystone, which has now stood for half a century as firm as the rock itself, and which bids fair to stand till the end of time, was begun in 1756 and completed in 1759. It was lighted by means of twenty-four candles. Of Mr Smeaton, the engineer who built it, those who knew him best said that `he had never undertaken anything without completing it to the satisfaction of his employers.' "D'ye know, lads," continued Bremner in a half-musing tone, "I've sometimes been led to couple this character of Smeaton with the text that he put round the top of the first room of the lighthouse--`Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it;' and also the words, `Praise God,' which he cut in Latin on the last stone, the lintel of the lantern door. I think these words had somethin' to do with the success of the last Eddystone Lighthouse." "I agree with you," said Robert Selkirk, with a nod of hearty approval; "and, moreover, I think the Bell Rock Lighthouse stands a good chance of equal success, for whether he means to carve texts on the stones or not I don't know, but I feel assured that _our_ engineer is animated by the same spirit." When Bremner's account of the Eddystone came to a close, most of the men had finished their third or fourth pipes, yet no one proposed going to rest. The storm without raged so furiously that they felt a strong disinclination to separate. At last, however, Peter Logan rose, and said he would turn in for a little. Two or three of the others also rose, and were about to ascend to their barrack, when a heavy sea struck the building, causing it to quiver to its foundation. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE STORM. "'Tis a fearful night," said Logan, pausing with his foot on the first step of the ladder. "Perhaps we had better sit up." "What's the use?" said O'Connor, who was by nature reckless. "Av the beacon howlds on, we may as well slape as not; an' if it don't howld on, why, we'll be none the worse o' slapin' anyhow." "_I_ mean to sit up," said Forsyth, whose alarm was aggravated by another fit of violent toothache. "So do I," exclaimed several of the men, as another wave dashed against the beacon, and a quantity of spray came pouring down from the rooms above. This latter incident put an end to further conversation. While some sprang up the ladder to see where the leak had occurred, Ruby opened the door, which was on the lee-side of the building, and descended to the mortar-gallery to look after his tools, which lay there. Here he was exposed to the full violence of the gale, for, as we have said, this first floor of the beacon was not protected by sides. There was sufficient light to enable him to see all round for a considerable distance. The sight was not calculated to comfort him. The wind was whistling with what may be termed a vicious sound among the beams, to one of which Ruby was obliged to cling to prevent his being carried away. The sea was bursting, leaping, and curling wildly over the rocks, which were now quite covered, and as he looked down through the chinks in the boards of the floor, he could see the foam whirling round the beams of his trembling abode, and leaping up as if to seize him. As the tide rose higher and higher, the waves roared straight through below the floor, their curling backs rising terribly near to where he stood, and the sprays drenching him and the whole edifice completely. As he gazed into the dark distance, where the turmoil of waters seemed to glimmer with ghostly light against a sky of the deepest black, he missed the light of the _Smeaton_, which, up to that time, had been moored as near to the lee of the rock as was consistent with safety. He fancied she must have gone down, and it was not till next day that the people on the beacon knew that she had parted her cables, and had been obliged to make for the Firth of Forth for shelter from the storm. While he stood looking anxiously in the direction of the tender, a wave came so near to the platform that he almost involuntarily leaped up the ladder for safety. It broke before reaching the beacon, and the spray dashed right over it, carrying away several of the smith's tools. "Ho, boys! lend a hand here, some of you," shouted Ruby, as he leaped down on the mortar-gallery again. Jamie Dove, Bremner, O'Connor, and several others were at his side in a moment, and, in the midst of tremendous sprays, they toiled to secure the movable articles that lay there. These were passed up to the sheltered parts of the house; but not without great danger to all who stood on the exposed gallery below. Presently two of the planks were torn up by a sea, and several bags of coal, a barrel of small-beer, and a few casks containing lime and sand, were all swept away. The men would certainly have shared the fate of these, had they not clung to the beams until the sea had passed. As nothing remained after that which could be removed to the room above, they left the mortar-gallery to its fate, and returned to the kitchen, where they were met by the anxious glances and questions of their comrades. The fire, meanwhile, could scarcely be got to burn, and the whole place was full of smoke, besides being wet with the sprays that burst over the roof, and found out all the crevices that had not been sufficiently stopped up. Attending to these leaks occupied most of the men at intervals during the night. Ruby and his friend the smith spent much of the time in the doorway, contemplating the gradual destruction of their workshop. For some time the gale remained steady, and the anxiety of the men began to subside a little, as they became accustomed to the ugly twisting of the great beams, and found that no evil consequences followed. In the midst of this confusion, poor Forsyth's anxiety of mind became as nothing compared with the agony of his toothache! Bremner had already made several attempts to persuade the miserable man to have it drawn, but without success. "I could do it quite easy," said he, "only let me get a hold of it, an' before you could wink I'd have it out." "Well, you may try," cried Forsyth in desperation, with a face of ashy paleness. It was an awful situation truly. In danger of his life; suffering the agonies of toothache, and with the prospect of torments unbearable from an inexpert hand; for Forsyth did not believe in Bremner's boasted powers. "What'll you do it with?" he enquired meekly. "Jamie Dove's small pincers. Here they are," said Bremner, moving about actively in his preparations, as if he enjoyed such work uncommonly. By this time the men had assembled round the pair, and almost forgot the storm in the interest of the moment. "Hold him, two of you," said Bremner, when his victim was seated submissively on a cask. "You don't need to hold me," said Forsyth, in a gentle tone. "Don't we!" said Bremner. "Here, Dove, Ned, grip his arms, and some of you stand by to catch his legs; but you needn't touch them unless he kicks. Ruby, you're a strong fellow; hold his head." The men obeyed. At that moment Forsyth would have parted with his dearest hopes in life to have escaped, and the toothache, strange to say, left him entirely; but he was a plucky fellow at bottom; having agreed to have it done, he would not draw back. Bremner introduced the pincers slowly, being anxious to get a good hold of the tooth. Forsyth uttered a groan in anticipation! Alarmed lest he should struggle too soon, Bremner made a sudden grasp and caught the tooth. A wrench followed; a yell was the result, and the pincers slipped! This was fortunate, for he had caught the wrong tooth. "Now be aisy, boy," said Ned O'Connor, whose sympathies were easily roused. "Once more," said Bremner, as the unhappy man opened his mouth. "Be still, and it will be all the sooner over." Again Bremner inserted the instrument, and fortunately caught the right tooth. He gave a terrible tug, that produced its corresponding howl; but the tooth held on. Again! again! again! and the beacon house resounded with the deadly yells of the unhappy man, who struggled violently, despite the strength of those who held him. "Och! poor sowl!" ejaculated O'Connor. Bremner threw all his strength into a final wrench, which tore away the pincers and left the tooth as firm as ever! Forsyth leaped up and dashed his comrades right and left. "That'll do," he roared, and darted up the ladder into the apartment above, through which he ascended to the barrack-room, and flung himself on his bed. At the same time a wave burst on the beacon with such force that every man there, except Forsyth, thought it would be carried away. The wave not only sprang up against the house, but the spray, scarcely less solid than the wave, went quite over it, and sent down showers of water on the men below. Little cared Forsyth for that. He lay almost stunned on his couch, quite regardless of the storm. To his surprise, however, the toothache did not return. Nay, to make a long story short, it never again returned to that tooth till the end of his days! The storm now blew its fiercest, and the men sat in silence in the kitchen listening to the turmoil, and to the thundering blows given by the sea to their wooden house. Suddenly the beacon received a shock so awful, and so thoroughly different from any that it had previously received, that the men sprang to their feet in consternation. Ruby and the smith were looking out at the doorway at the time, and both instinctively grasped the woodwork near them, expecting every instant that the whole structure would be carried away; but it stood fast. They speculated a good deal on the force of the blow they had received, but no one hit on the true cause; and it was not until some days later that they discovered that a huge rock of fully a ton weight had been washed against the beams that night. While they were gazing at the wild storm, a wave broke up the mortar-gallery altogether, and sent its remaining contents into the sea. All disappeared in a moment; nothing was left save the powerful beams to which the platform had been nailed. There was a small boat attached to the beacon. It hung from two davits, on a level with the kitchen, about thirty feet above the rock. This had got filled by the sprays, and the weight of water proving too much for the tackling, it gave way at the bow shortly after the destruction of the mortar-gallery, and the boat hung suspended by the stern-tackle. Here it swung for a few minutes, and then was carried away by a sea. The same sea sent an eddy of foam round towards the door and drenched the kitchen, so that the door had to be shut, and as the fire had gone out, the men had to sit and await their fate by the light of a little oil-lamp. They sat in silence, for the noise was now so great that it was difficult to hear voices, unless when they were raised to a high pitch. Thus passed that terrible night; and the looks of the men, the solemn glances, the closed eyes, the silently moving lips, showed that their thoughts were busy reviewing bygone days and deeds; perchance in making good resolutions for the future--"if spared!" Morning brought a change. The rush of the sea was indeed still tremendous, but the force of the gale was broken and the danger was past. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS. Time rolled on, and the lighthouse at length began to grow. It did not rise slowly, as does an ordinary building. The courses of masonry having been formed and fitted on shore during the winter, had only to be removed from the workyard at Arbroath to the rock, where they were laid, mortared, wedged, and trenailed, as fast as they could be landed. Thus, foot by foot it grew, and soon began to tower above its foundation. From the foundation upwards for thirty feet it was built solid. From this point rose the spiral staircase leading to the rooms above. We cannot afford space to trace its erection step by step, neither is it desirable that we should do so. But it is proper to mention, that there were, as might be supposed, leading points in the process--eras, as it were, in the building operations. The first of these, of course, was the laying of the foundation stone, which was done ceremoniously, with all the honours. The next point was the occasion when the tower showed itself for the first time above water at full tide. This was a great event. It was proof positive that the sea had been conquered; for many a time before that event happened had the sea done its best to level the whole erection with the rock. Three cheers announced and celebrated the fact, and a "glass" all round stamped it on the memories of the men. Another noteworthy point was the connexion--the marriage, if the simile may be allowed--of the tower and the beacon. This occurred when the former rose to a few feet above high-water mark, and was effected by means of a rope-bridge, which was dignified by the sailors with the name of "Jacob's ladder." Heretofore the beacon and lighthouse had stood in close relation to each other. They were thenceforward united by a stronger tie; and it is worthy of record that their attachment lasted until the destruction of the beacon after the work was done. Jacob's ladder was fastened a little below the doorway of the beacon. Its other end rested on, and rose with, the wall of the tower. At first it sloped downward from beacon to tower; gradually it became horizontal; then it sloped upward. When this happened it was removed, and replaced by a regular wooden bridge, which extended from the doorway of the one structure to that of the other. Along this way the men could pass to and fro at all tides, and during any time of the day or night. This was a matter of great importance, as the men were no longer so dependent on tides as they had been, and could often work as long as their strength held out. Although the work was regular, and, as some might imagine, rather monotonous, there were not wanting accidents and incidents to enliven the routine of daily duty. The landing of the boats in rough weather with stones, etcetera, was a never-failing source of anxiety, alarm, and occasionally amusement. Strangers sometimes visited the rock, too, but these visits were few and far between. Accidents were much less frequent, however, than might have been expected in a work of the kind. It was quite an event, something to talk about for days afterwards, when poor John Bonnyman, one of the masons, lost a finger. The balance crane was the cause of this accident. We may remark, in passing, that this balance crane was a very peculiar and clever contrivance, which deserves a little notice. It may not have occurred to readers who are unacquainted with mechanics that the raising of ponderous stones to a great height is not an easy matter. As long as the lighthouse was low, cranes were easily raised on the rock, but when it became too high for the cranes to reach their heads up to the top of the tower, what was to be done? Block-tackles could not be fastened to the skies! Scaffolding in such a situation would not have survived a moderate gale. In these circumstances Mr Stevenson constructed a _balance_ crane, which was fixed in the centre of the tower, and so arranged that it could be raised along with the rising works. This crane resembled a cross in form. At one arm was hung a movable weight, which could be run out to its extremity, or fixed at any part of it. The other arm was the one by means of which the stones were hoisted. When a stone had to be raised, its weight was ascertained, and the movable weight was so fixed as _exactly_ to counterbalance it. By this simple contrivance all the cumbrous and troublesome machinery of long guys and bracing-chains extending from the crane to the rock below were avoided. Well, Bonnyman was attending to the working of the crane, and directing the lowering of a stone into its place, when he inadvertently laid his left hand on a part of the machinery where it was brought into contact with the chain, which passed over his forefinger, and cut it so nearly off that it was left hanging by a mere shred of skin. The poor man was at once sent off in a fast rowing boat to Arbroath, where the finger was removed and properly dressed. [See note 1.] A much more serious accident occurred at another time, however, which resulted in the death of one of the seamen belonging to the _Smeaton_. It happened thus. The _Smeaton_ had been sent from Arbroath with a cargo of stones one morning, and reached the rock about half-past six o'clock a.m. The mate and one of the men, James Scott, a youth of eighteen years of age, got into the sloop's boat to make fast the hawser to the floating buoy of her moorings. The tides at the time were very strong, and the mooring-chain when sweeping the ground had caught hold of a rock or piece of wreck, by which the chain was so shortened, that when the tide flowed the buoy got almost under water, and little more than the ring appeared at the surface. When the mate and Scott were in the act of making the hawser fast to the ring, the chain got suddenly disentangled at the bottom, and the large buoy, measuring about seven feet in length by three in diameter in the middle, vaulted upwards with such force that it upset the boat, which instantly filled with water. The mate with great difficulty succeeded in getting hold of the gunwale, but Scott seemed to have been stunned by the buoy, for he lay motionless for a few minutes on the water, apparently unable to make any exertion to save himself, for he did not attempt to lay hold of the oars or thwarts which floated near him. A boat was at once sent to the rescue, and the mate was picked up, but Scott sank before it reached the spot. This poor lad was a great favourite in the service, and for a time his melancholy end cast a gloom over the little community at the Bell Rock. The circumstances of the case were also peculiarly distressing in reference to the boy's mother, for her husband had been for three years past confined in a French prison, and her son had been the chief support of the family. In order in some measure to make up to the poor woman for the loss of the monthly aliment regularly allowed her by her lost son, it was suggested that a younger brother of the deceased might be taken into the service. This appeared to be a rather delicate proposition, but it was left to the landing-master to arrange according to circumstances. Such was the resignation, and at the same time the spirit of the poor woman, that she readily accepted the proposal, and in a few days the younger Scott was actually afloat in the place of his brother. On this distressing case being represented to the Board, the Commissioners granted an annuity of 5 pounds to the lad's mother. The painter who represents only the sunny side of nature portrays a one-sided, and therefore a false view of things, for, as everyone knows, nature is not all sunshine. So, if an author makes his pen-and-ink pictures represent only the amusing and picturesque view of things, he does injustice to his subject. We have no pleasure, good reader, in saddening you by accounts of "fatal accidents", but we have sought to convey to you a correct impression of things, and scenes, and incidents at the building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, as they actually were, and looked, and occurred. Although there was much, _very_ much, of risk, exposure, danger, and trial connected with the erection of that building, there was, in the good providence of God, _very_ little of severe accident or death. Yet that little must be told,--at least touched upon,--else will our picture remain incomplete as well as untrue. Now, do not imagine, with a shudder, that these remarks are the prelude to something that will harrow up your feelings. Not so. They are merely the apology, if apology be needed, for the introduction of another "accident." Well, then. One morning the artificers landed on the rock at a quarter-past six, and as all hands were required for a piece of special work that day, they breakfasted on the beacon, instead of returning to the tender, and spent the day on the rock. The special work referred to was the raising of the crane from the eighth to the ninth course--an operation which required all the strength that could be mustered for working the guy-tackles. This, be it remarked, was before the balance crane, already described, had been set up; and as the top of the crane stood at the time about thirty-five feet above the rock, it became much more unmanageable than heretofore. At the proper hour all hands were called, and detailed to their several posts on the tower, and about the rock. In order to give additional purchase or power in tightening the tackle, one of the blocks of stone was suspended at the end of the movable beam of the crane, which, by adding greatly to the weight, tended to slacken the guys or supporting-ropes in the direction to which the beam with the stone was pointed, and thereby enabled the men more easily to brace them one after another. While the beam was thus loaded, and in the act of swinging round from one guy to another, a great strain was suddenly brought upon the opposite tackle, with the end of which the men had very improperly neglected to take a turn round some stationary object, which would have given them the complete command of the tackle. Owing to this simple omission, the crane, with the large stone at the end of the beam, got a preponderancy to one side, and, the tackle alluded to having rent, it fell upon the building with a terrible crash. The men fled right and left to get out of its way; but one of them, Michael Wishart, a mason, stumbled over an uncut trenail and rolled on his back, and the ponderous crane fell upon him. Fortunately it fell so that his body lay between the great shaft and the movable beam, and thus he escaped with his life, but his feet were entangled with the wheel-work, and severely injured. Wishart was a robust and spirited young fellow, and bore his sufferings with wonderful firmness while he was being removed. He was laid upon one of the narrow frame-beds of the beacon, and despatched in a boat to the tender. On seeing the boat approach with the poor man stretched on a bed covered with blankets, and his face overspread with that deadly pallor which is the usual consequence of excessive bleeding, the seamen's looks betrayed the presence of those well-known but indescribable sensations which one experiences when brought suddenly into contact with something horrible. Relief was at once experienced, however, when Wishart's voice was heard feebly accosting those who first stepped into the boat. He was immediately sent on shore, where the best surgical advice was obtained, and he began to recover steadily, though slowly. Meanwhile, having been one of the principal masons, Robert Selkirk was appointed to his vacant post. And now let us wind up this chapter of accidents with an account of the manner in which a party of strangers, to use a slang but expressive phrase, came to grief during a visit to the Bell Rock. One morning, a trim little vessel was seen by the workmen making for the rock at low tide. From its build and size, Ruby at once judged it to be a pleasure yacht. Perchance some delicate shades in the seamanship, displayed in managing the little vessel, had influenced the sailor in forming his opinion. Be this as it may, the vessel brought up under the lee of the rock and cast anchor. It turned out to be a party of gentlemen from Leith, who had run down the firth to see the works. The weather was fine, and the sea calm, but these yachters had yet to learn that fine weather and a calm sea do not necessarily imply easy or safe landing at the Bell Rock! They did not know that the _swell_ which had succeeded a recent gale was heavier than it appeared to be at a distance; and, worst of all, they did not know, or they did not care to remember, that "there is a time for all things," and that the time for landing at the Bell Rock is limited. Seeing that the place was covered with workmen, the strangers lowered their little boat and rowed towards them. "They're mad," said Logan, who, with a group of the men, watched the motions of their would-be visitors. "No," observed Joe Dumsby; "they are brave, but hignorant." "_Faix_, they won't be ignorant long!" cried Ned O'Connor, as the little boat approached the rock, propelled by two active young rowers in Guernsey shirts, white trousers, and straw hats. "You're stout, lads, both of ye, an' purty good hands at the oar, _for gintlemen_; but av ye wos as strong as Samson it would puzzle ye to stem these breakers, so ye better go back." The yachters did not hear the advice, and they would not have taken it if they had heard it. They rowed straight up towards the landing-place, and, so far, showed themselves expert selectors of the right channel; but they soon came within the influence of the seas, which burst on the rock and sent up jets of spray to leeward. These jets had seemed very pretty and harmless when viewed from the deck of the yacht, but they were found on a nearer approach to be quite able, and, we might almost add, not unwilling, to toss up the boat like a ball, and throw it and its occupants head over heels into the air. But the rowers, like most men of their class, were not easily cowed. They watched their opportunity--allowed the waves to meet and rush on, and then pulled into the midst of the foam, in the hope of crossing to the shelter of the rock before the approach of the next wave. Heedless of a warning cry from Ned O'Connor, whose anxiety began to make him very uneasy, the amateur sailors strained every nerve to pull through, while their companion who sat at the helm in the stern of the boat seemed to urge them on to redoubled exertions. Of course their efforts were in vain. The next billow caught the boat on its foaming crest, and raised it high in the air. For one moment the wave rose between the boat and the men on the rock, and hid her from view, causing Ned to exclaim, with a genuine groan, "Arrah! they's gone!" But they were not; the boat's head had been carefully kept to the sea, and, although she had been swept back a considerable way, and nearly half-filled with water, she was still afloat. The chief engineer now hailed the gentlemen, and advised them to return and remain on board their vessel until the state of the tide would permit him to send a proper boat for them. In the meantime, however, a large boat from the floating light, pretty deeply laden with lime, cement, and sand, approached, when the strangers, with a view to avoid giving trouble, took their passage in her to the rock. The accession of three passengers to a boat, already in a lumbered state, put her completely out of trim, and, as it unluckily happened, the man who steered her on this occasion was not in the habit of attending the rock, and was not sufficiently aware of the run of the sea at the entrance of the eastern creek. Instead, therefore, of keeping close to the small rock called _Johnny Gray_, he gave it, as Ruby expressed it, "a wide berth." A heavy sea struck the boat, drove her to leeward, and, the oars getting entangled among the rocks and seaweed, she became unmanageable. The next sea threw her on a ledge, and, instantly leaving her, she canted seaward upon her gunwale, throwing her crew and part of her cargo into the water. All this was the work of a few seconds. The men had scarce time to realise their danger ere they found themselves down under the water; and when they rose gasping to the surface, it was to behold the next wave towering over them, ready to fall on their heads. When it fell it scattered crew, cargo, and boat in all directions. Some clung to the gunwale of the boat, others to the seaweed, and some to the thwarts and oars which floated about, and which quickly carried them out of the creek to a considerable distance from the spot where the accident happened. The instant the boat was overturned, Ruby darted towards one of the rock boats which lay near to the spot where the party of workmen who manned it had landed that morning. Wilson, the landing-master, was at his side in a moment. "Shove off, lad, and jump in!" cried Wilson. There was no need to shout for the crew of the boat. The men were already springing into her as she floated off. In a few minutes all the men in the water were rescued, with the exception of one of the strangers, named Strachan. This gentleman had been swept out to a small insulated rock, where he clung to the seaweed with great resolution, although each returning sea laid him completely under water, and hid him for a second or two from the spectators on the rock. In this situation he remained for ten or twelve minutes; and those who know anything of the force of large waves will understand how severely his strength and courage must have been tried during that time. When the boat reached the rock the most difficult part was still to perform, as it required the greatest nicety of management to guide her in a rolling sea, so as to prevent her from being carried forcibly against the man whom they sought to save. "Take the steering-oar, Ruby; you are the best hand at this," said Wilson. Ruby seized the oar, and, notwithstanding the breach of the seas and the narrowness of the passage, steered the boat close to the rock at the proper moment. "Starboard, noo, stiddy!" shouted John Watt, who leant suddenly over the bow of the boat and seized poor Strachan by the hair. In another moment he was pulled inboard with the aid of Selkirk's stout arms, and the boat was backed out of danger. "Now, a cheer, boys!" cried Ruby. The men did not require urging to this. It burst from them with tremendous energy, and was echoed back by their comrades on the rock, in the midst of whose wild hurrah, Ned O'Connor's voice was distinctly heard to swell from a cheer into a yell of triumph! The little rock on which this incident occurred was called _Strachan's Ledge_, and it is known by that name at the present day. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It is right to state that this man afterwards obtained a light-keeper's situation from the Board of Commissioners of Northern Lights, who seem to have taken a kindly interest in all their servants, especially those of them who had suffered in the service. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE BELL ROCK IN A FOG--NARROW ESCAPE OF THE SMEATON. Change of scene is necessary to the healthful working of the human mind; at least, so it is said. Acting upon the assumption that the saying is true, we will do our best in this chapter for the human minds that condescend to peruse these pages, by leaping over a space of time, and by changing at least the character of the scene, if not the locality. We present the Bell Rock under a new aspect, that of a dense fog and a dead calm. This is by no means an unusual aspect of things at the Bell Rock, but as we have hitherto dwelt chiefly on storms it may be regarded as new to the reader. It was a June morning. There had been few breezes and no storms for some weeks past, so that the usual swell of the ocean had gone down, and there were actually no breakers on the rock at low water, and no ruffling of the surface at all at high tide. The tide had, about two hours before, overflowed the rock and driven the men into the beacon house, where, having breakfasted, they were at the time enjoying themselves with pipes and small talk. The lighthouse had grown considerably by this time. Its unfinished top was more than eighty feet above the foundation; but the fog was so dense that only the lower part of the column could be seen from the beacon, the summit being lost, as it were, in the clouds. Nevertheless that summit, high though it was, did not yet project beyond the reach of the sea. A proof of this had been given in a very striking manner, some weeks before the period about which we now write, to our friend George Forsyth. George was a studious man, and fond of reading the Bible critically. He was proof against laughter and ridicule, and was wont sometimes to urge the men into discussions. One of his favourite arguments was somewhat as follows-- "Boys," he was wont to say, "you laugh at me for readin' the Bible carefully. You would not laugh at a schoolboy for reading his books carefully, would you? Yet the learnin' of the way of salvation is of far more consequence to me than book learnin' is to a schoolboy. An astronomer is never laughed at for readin' his books o' geometry an' suchlike day an' night--even to the injury of his health--but what is an astronomer's business to _him_ compared with the concerns of my soul to _me_? Ministers tell me there are certain things I must know and believe if I would be saved--such as the death and resurrection of our Saviour Jesus Christ; and they also point out that the Bible speaks of certain Christians, who did well in refusin' to receive the Gospel at the hands of the apostles, without first enquirin' into these things, to see if they were true. Now, lads, _if_ these things that so many millions believe in, and that _you_ all profess to believe in, are lies, then you may well laugh at me for enquirin' into them; but if they be true, why, I think the devils themselves must be laughing at _you_ for _not_ enquirin' into them!" Of course, Forsyth found among such a number of intelligent men, some who could argue with him, as well as some who could laugh at him. He also found one or two who sympathised openly, while there were a few who agreed in their hearts, although they did not speak. Well, it was this tendency to study on the part of Forsyth, that led him to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near one of the windows of the lowest room. Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that. The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a ton of water coming down through storey after storey, carrying lime, mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along with it. To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror, which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them to the door, just in time to see their comrade's long legs carry him across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the bridge. But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the beacon in the fog, and the calm of that still morning in June. Some of the men inside were playing draughts, others were finishing their breakfast; one was playing "Auld Lang Syne", with many extempore flourishes and trills, on a flute, which was very much out of tune. A few were smoking, of course (where exists the band of Britons who can get on without that!) and several were sitting astride on the cross-beams below, bobbing--not exactly for whales, but for any monster of the deep that chose to turn up. The men fishing, and the beacon itself, loomed large and mysterious in the half-luminous fog. Perhaps this was the reason that the sea-gulls flew so near them, and gave forth an occasional and very melancholy cry, as if of complaint at the changed appearance of things. "There's naethin' to be got the day," said John Watt, rather peevishly, as he pulled up his line and found the bait gone. Baits are _always_ found gone when lines are pulled up! This would seem to be an angling law of nature. At all events, it would seem to have been a very aggravating law of nature on the present occasion, for John Watt frowned and growled to himself as he put on another bait. "There's a bite!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, with a look of doubt, at the same time feeling his line. "Poo'd in then," said Watt ironically. "No, 'e's hoff," observed Joe. "Hm! he never was on," muttered Watt. "What are you two growling at?" said Ruby, who sat on one of the beams at the other side. "At our luck, Ruby," said Joe. "Ha! was that a nibble?" ("Naethin' o' the kind," from Watt.) "It was! as I live it's large; an 'addock, I think." "A naddock!" sneered Watt; "mair like a bit o' tangle than--eh! losh me! it _is_ a fish--" "Well done, Joe!" cried Bremner, from the doorway above, as a large rock-cod was drawn to the surface of the water. "Stay, it's too large to pull up with the line. I'll run down and gaff it," cried Ruby, fastening his own line to the beam, and descending to the water by the usual ladder, on one of the main beams. "Now, draw him this way--gently, not too roughly--take time. Ah! that was a miss--he's off; no! Again; now then--" Another moment, and a goodly cod of about ten pounds weight was wriggling on the iron hook which Ruby handed up to Dumsby, who mounted with his prize in triumph to the kitchen. From that moment the fish began to "take." While the men were thus busily engaged, a boat was rowing about in the fog, vainly endeavouring to find the rock. It was the boat of two fast friends, Jock Swankie and Davy Spink. These worthies were in a rather exhausted condition, having been rowing almost incessantly from daybreak. "I tell 'ee what it is," said Swankie; "I'll be hanged if I poo another stroke." He threw his oar into the boat, and looked sulky. "It's my belief," said his companion, "that we ought to be near aboot Denmark be this time." "Denmark or Rooshia, it's a' ane to me," rejoined Swankie; "I'll hae a smoke." So saying, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco-box, and began to cut the tobacco. Davy did the same. Suddenly both men paused, for they heard a sound. Each looked enquiringly at the other, and then both gazed into the thick fog. "Is that a ship?" said Davy Spink. They seized their oars hastily. "The beacon, as I'm a leevin' sinner!" exclaimed Swankie. If Spink had not backed his oar at that moment, there is some probability that Swankie would have been a dead, instead of a living, sinner in a few minutes, for they had almost run upon the north-east end of the Bell Rock, and distinctly heard the sound of voices on the beacon. A shout settled the question at once, for it was replied to by a loud holloa from Ruby. In a short time the boat was close to the beacon, and the water was so very calm that day, that they were able to venture to hand the packet of letters with which they had come off into the beacon, even although the tide was full. "Letters," said Swankie, as he reached out his hand with the packet. "Hurrah!" cried the men, who were all assembled on the mortar-gallery, looking down at the fishermen, excepting Ruby, Watt, and Dumsby, who were still on the cross-beams below. "Mind the boat; keep her aff," said Swankie, stretching out his hand with the packet to the utmost, while Dumsby descended the ladder and held out _his_ hand to receive it. "Take care," cried the men in chorus, for news from shore was always a very exciting episode in their career, and the idea of the packet being lost filled them with sudden alarm. The shout and the anxiety together caused the very result that was dreaded. The packet fell into the sea and sank, amid a volley of yells. It went down slowly. Before it had descended a fathom, Ruby's head cleft the water, and in a moment he returned to the surface with the packet in his hand amid a wild cheer of joy; but this was turned into a cry of alarm, as Ruby was carried away by the tide, despite his utmost efforts to regain the beacon. The boat was at once pushed off but so strong was the current there, that Ruby was carried past the rock, and a hundred yards away to sea, before the boat overtook him. The moment he was pulled into her he shook himself, and then tore off the outer covering of the packet in order to save the letters from being wetted. He had the great satisfaction of finding them almost uninjured. He had the greater satisfaction, thereafter, of feeling that he had done a deed which induced every man in the beacon that night to thank him half a dozen times over; and he had the greatest possible satisfaction in finding that among the rest he had saved two letters addressed to himself, one from Minnie Gray, and the other from his uncle. The scene in the beacon when the contents of the packet were delivered was interesting. Those who had letters devoured them, and in many cases read them (unwittingly) half-aloud. Those who had none read the newspapers, and those who had neither papers nor letters listened. Ruby's letter ran as follows (we say his _letter_, because the other letter was regarded, comparatively, as nothing):-- "ARBROATH, etcetera. "DARLING RUBY,--I have just time to tell you that we have made a discovery which will surprise you. Let me detail it to you circumstantially. Uncle Ogilvy and I were walking on the pier a few days ago, when we overheard a conversation between two sailors, who did not see that we were approaching. We would not have stopped to listen, but the words we heard arrested our attention, so--O what a pity! there, Big Swankie has come for our letters. Is it not strange that _he_ should be the man to take them off? I meant to have given you _such_ an account of it, especially a description of the case. They won't wait. Come ashore as soon as you can, dearest Ruby." The letter broke off here abruptly. It was evident that the writer had been obliged to close it abruptly, for she had forgotten to sign her name. "`A description of the case;' _what_ case?" muttered Ruby in vexation. "O Minnie, Minnie, in your anxiety to go into details you have omitted to give me the barest outline. Well, well, darling, I'll just take the will for the deed, but I _wish_ you had--" Here Ruby ceased to mutter, for Captain Ogilvy's letter suddenly occurred to his mind. Opening it hastily, he read as follows:-- "DEAR NEFFY,--I never was much of a hand at spellin', an' I'm not rightly sure o' that word, howsever, it reads all square, so ittle do. If I had been the inventer o' writin' I'd have had signs for a lot o' words. Just think how much better it would ha' bin to have put a regular D like that instead o' writin' s-q-u-a-r-e. Then _round_ would have bin far better O, like that. An' crooked thus," (draws a squiggly line); "see how significant an' suggestive, if I may say so; no humbug--all fair an' above-board, as the pirate said, when he ran up the black flag to the peak. "But avast speckillatin' (shiver my timbers! but that last was a pen-splitter), that's not what I sat down to write about. My object in takin' up the pen, neffy, is two-fold, "`Double, double, toil an' trouble,' "as Macbeath said,--if it wasn't Hamlet. "We want you to come home for a day or two, if you can git leave, lad, about this strange affair. Minnie said she was goin' to give you a full, true, and partikler account of it, so it's of no use my goin' over the same course. There's that blackguard Swankie come for the letters. Ha! it makes me chuckle. No time for more--" This letter also concluded abruptly, and without a signature. "There's a pretty kettle o' fish!" exclaimed Ruby aloud. "So 'tis, lad; so 'tis," said Bremner, who at that moment had placed a superb pot of codlings on the fire; "though why ye should say it so positively when nobody's denyin' it, is more nor I can tell." Ruby laughed, and retired to the mortar-gallery to work at the forge and ponder. He always found that he pondered best while employed in hammering, especially if his feelings were ruffled. Seizing a mass of metal, he laid it on the anvil, and gave it five or six heavy blows to straighten it a little, before thrusting it into the fire. Strange to say, these few blows of the hammer were the means, in all probability, of saving the sloop _Smeaton_ from being wrecked on the Bell Rock! That vessel had been away with Mr Stevenson at Leith, and was returning, when she was overtaken by the calm and the fog. At the moment that Ruby began to hammer, the _Smeaton_ was within a stone's cast of the beacon, running gently before a light air which had sprung up. No one on board had the least idea that the tide had swept them so near the rock, and the ringing of the anvil was the first warning they got of their danger. The lookout on board instantly sang out, "Starboard har-r-r-d-! beacon ahead!" and Ruby looked up in surprise, just as the _Smeaton_ emerged like a phantom-ship out of the fog. Her sails fluttered as she came up to the wind, and the crew were seen hurrying to and fro in much alarm. Mr Stevenson himself stood on the quarterdeck of the little vessel, and waved his hand to assure those on the beacon that they had sheered off in time, and were safe. This incident tended to strengthen the engineer in his opinion that the two large bells which were being cast for the lighthouse, to be rung by the machinery of the revolving light, would be of great utility in foggy weather. While the _Smeaton_ was turning away, as if with a graceful bow to the men on the rock, Ruby shouted: "There are letters here for you, sir." The mate of the vessel called out at once, "Send them off in the shore-boat; we'll lay-to." No time was to be lost, for if the _Smeaton_ should get involved in the fog it might be very difficult to find her; so Ruby at once ran for the letters, and, hailing the shore-boat which lay quite close at hand, jumped into it and pushed off. They boarded the _Smeaton_ without difficulty and delivered the letters. Instead of returning to the beacon, however, Ruby was ordered to hold himself in readiness to go to Arbroath in the shore-boat with a letter from Mr Stevenson to the superintendent of the workyard. "You can go up and see your friends in the town, if you choose," said the engineer, "but be sure to return by tomorrow's forenoon tide. We cannot dispense with your services longer than a few hours, my lad, so I shall expect you to make no unnecessary delay." "You may depend upon me, sir," said Ruby, touching his cap, as he turned away and leaped into the boat. A light breeze was now blowing, so that the sails could be used. In less than a quarter of an hour sloop and beacon were lost in the fog, and Ruby steered for the harbour of Arbroath, overjoyed at this unexpected and happy turn of events, which gave him an opportunity of solving the mystery of the letters, and of once more seeing the sweet face of Minnie Gray. But an incident occurred which delayed these desirable ends, and utterly changed the current of Ruby's fortunes for a time. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. A SUDDEN AND TREMENDOUS CHANGE IN RUBY'S FORTUNES. What a variety of appropriate aphorisms there are to express the great truths of human experience! "There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip" is one of them. Undoubtedly there is. So is there "many a miss of a sweet little kiss." "The course of true love," also, "never did run smooth." Certainly not. Why should it? If it did we should doubt whether the love were true. Our own private belief is that the course of true love is always uncommonly rough, but collective human wisdom has seen fit to put the idea in the negative form. So let it stand. Ruby had occasion to reflect on these things that day, but the reflection afforded him no comfort whatever. The cause of his inconsolable state of mind is easily explained. The boat had proceeded about halfway to Arbroath when they heard the sound of oars, and in a few seconds a ship's gig rowed out of the fog towards them. Instead of passing them the gig was steered straight for the boat, and Ruby saw that it was full of men-of-war's men. He sprang up at once and seized an oar. "Out oars!" he cried. "Boys, if ever you pulled hard in your lives, do so now. It's the press-gang!" Before those few words were uttered the two men had seized the oars, for they knew well what the press-gang meant, and all three pulled with such vigour that the boat shot over the smooth sea with double speed. But they had no chance in a heavy fishing boat against the picked crew of the light gig. If the wind had been a little stronger they might have escaped, but the wind had decreased, and the small boat overhauled them yard by yard. Seeing that they had no chance, Ruby said, between his set teeth: "Will ye fight, boys?" "_I_ will," cried Davy Spink sternly, for Davy had a wife and little daughter on shore, who depended entirely on his exertions for their livelihood, so he had a strong objection to go and fight in the wars of his country. "What's the use?" muttered Big Swankie, with a savage scowl. He, too, had a strong disinclination to serve in the Royal Navy, being a lazy man, and not overburdened with courage. "They've got eight men of a crew, wi' pistols an' cutlashes." "Well, it's all up with us," cried Ruby, in a tone of sulky anger, as he tossed his oar overboard, and, folding his arms on his breast, sat sternly eyeing the gig as it approached. Suddenly a beam of hope shot into his heart. A few words will explain the cause thereof. About the time the works at the Bell Rock were in progress, the war with France and the Northern Powers was at its height, and the demand for men was so great that orders were issued for the establishment of an impress service at Dundee, Arbroath, and Aberdeen. It became therefore necessary to have some protection for the men engaged in the works. As the impress officers were extremely rigid in the execution of their duty, it was resolved to have the seamen carefully identified, and, therefore, besides being described in the usual manner in the protection-bills granted by the Admiralty, each man had a ticket given to him descriptive of his person, to which was attached a silver medal emblematical of the lighthouse service. That very week Ruby had received one of the protection-medals and tickets of the Bell Rock, a circumstance which he had forgotten at the moment. It was now in his pocket, and might perhaps save him. When the boat ranged up alongside, Ruby recognised in the officer at the helm the youth who had already given him so much annoyance. The officer also recognised Ruby, and, with a glance of surprise and pleasure, exclaimed: "What! have I bagged you at last, my slippery young lion?" Ruby smiled as he replied, "Not _quite_ yet, my persevering young jackall." (He was sorely tempted to transpose the word into jackass, but he wisely restrained himself.) "I'm not so easily caught as you think." "Eh! how? what mean you?" exclaimed the officer, with an expression of surprise, for he knew that Ruby was now in his power. "I have you safe, my lad, unless you have provided yourself with a pair of wings. Of course, I shall leave one of you to take your boat into harbour, but you may be sure that I'll not devolve that pleasant duty upon _you_." "I have not provided myself with wings exactly," returned Ruby, pulling out his medal and ticket; "but here is something that will do quite as well." The officer's countenance fell, for he knew at once what it was. He inspected it, however, closely. "Let me see," said he, reading the description on the ticket, which ran thus:-- "Bell Rock Workyard, Arbroath, "20th June, 1810. "_Ruby Brand, seaman and blacksmith, in the service of the Honourable the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, aged_ 25 _years_, 5 _feet_ 10 _inches high, very powerfully made, fair complexion, straight nose, dark-blue eyes, and curling auburn hair_." This description was signed by the engineer of the works; and on the obverse was written, "_The bearer, Ruby Brand, is serving as a blacksmith in the erection of the Bell Rock Lighthouse_." "This is all very well, my fine fellow," said the officer, "but I have been deceived more than once with these medals and tickets. How am I to know that you have not stolen it from someone?" "By seeing whether the description agrees," replied Ruby. "Of course, I know that as well as you, and I don't find the description quite perfect. I would say that your hair is light-brown, now, not auburn, and your nose is a little Roman, if anything; and there's no mention of whiskers, or that delicate moustache. Why, look here," he added, turning abruptly to Big Swankie, "this might be the description of your comrade as well as, if not better than, yours. What's your name?" "Swankie, sir," said that individual ruefully, yet with a gleam of hope that the advantages of the Bell Rock medal might possibly, in some unaccountable way, accrue to himself, for he was sharp enough to see that the officer would be only too glad to find any excuse for securing Ruby. "Well, Swankie, stand up, and let's have a look at you," said the officer, glancing from the paper to the person of the fisherman, and commenting thereon. "Here we have `very powerfully made'--no mistake about that--strong as Samson; `fair complexion'--that's it exactly; `auburn hair'--so it is. Auburn is a very undecided colour; there's a great deal of red in it, and no one can deny that Swankie has a good deal of red in _his_ hair." There was indeed no denying this, for it was altogether red, of an intense carroty hue. "You see, friend," continued the officer, turning to Ruby, "that the description suits Swankie very well." "True, as far as you have gone," said Ruby, with a quiet smile; "but Swankie is six feet two in his stockings, and his nose is turned up, and his hair don't curl, and his eyes are light-green, and his complexion is sallow, if I may not say yellow--" "Fair, lad; fair," said the officer, laughing in spite of himself. "Ah! Ruby Brand, you are jealous of him! Well, I see that I'm fated not to capture you, so I'll bid you good day. Meanwhile your companions will be so good as to step into my gig." The two men rose to obey. Big Swankie stepped over the gunwale, with the fling of a sulky, reckless man, who curses his fate and submits to it. Davy Spink had a very crestfallen, subdued look. He was about to follow, when a thought seemed to strike him. He turned hastily round, and Ruby was surprised to see that his eyes were suffused with tears, and that his features worked with the convulsive twitching of one who struggles powerfully to restrain his feelings. "Ruby Brand," said he, in a deep husky voice, which trembled at first, but became strong as he went on; "Ruby Brand, I deserve nae good at your hands, yet I'll ask a favour o' ye. Ye've seen the wife and the bairn, the wee ane wi' the fair curly pow. Ye ken the auld hoose. It'll be mony a lang day afore I see them again, if iver I come back ava. There's naebody left to care for them. They'll be starvin' soon, lad. Wull ye--wull ye look-doon?" Poor Davy Spink stopped here, and covered his face with his big sunburnt hands. A sudden gush of sympathy filled Ruby's heart. He started forward, and drawing from his pocket the letter with which he was charged, thrust it into Spink's hand, and said hurriedly-- "Don't fail to deliver it the first thing you do on landing. And hark'ee, Spink, go to Mrs Brand's cottage, and tell them there _why_ I went away. Be sure you see them _all_, and explain _why it was_. Tell Minnie Gray that I will be _certain_ to return, if God spares me." Without waiting for a reply he sprang into the gig, and gave the other boat a shove, that sent it several yards off. "Give way, lads," cried the officer, who was delighted at this unexpected change in affairs, though he had only heard enough of the conversation to confuse him as to the cause of it. "Stop! stop!" shouted Spink, tossing up his arms. "I'd rather not," returned the officer. Davy seized the oars, and, turning his boat in the direction of the gig, endeavoured to overtake it. As well might the turkey-buzzard attempt to catch the swallow. He was left far behind, and when last seen faintly through the fog, he was standing up in the stern of the boat wringing his hands. Ruby had seated himself in the bow of the gig, with his face turned steadily towards the sea, so that no one could see it. This position he maintained in silence until the boat ranged up to what appeared like the side of a great mountain, looming through the mist. Then he turned round, and, whatever might have been the struggle within his breast, all traces of it had left his countenance, which presented its wonted appearance of good-humoured frankness. We need scarcely say that the mountain turned out to be a British man-of-war. Ruby was quickly introduced to his future messmates, and warmly received by them. Then he was left to his own free will during the remainder of that day, for the commander of the vessel was a kind man, and did not like to add to the grief of the impressed men by setting them to work at once. Thus did our hero enter the Royal Navy; and many a long and weary day and month passed by before he again set foot in his native town. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. OTHER THINGS BESIDES MURDER "WILL OUT." Meanwhile Davy Spink, with his heart full, returned slowly to the shore. He was long of reaching it, the boat being very heavy for one man to pull. On landing he hurried up to his poor little cottage, which was in a very low part of the town, and in a rather out-of-the-way corner of that part. "Janet," said he, flinging himself into a rickety old armchair that stood by the fireplace, "the press-gang has catched us at last, and they've took Big Swankie away, and, worse than that--" "Oh!" cried Janet, unable to wait for more, "that's the best news I've heard for mony a day. Ye're sure they have him safe?" "Ay, sure enough," said Spink dryly; "but ye needna be sae glad aboot it, for. Swankie was aye good to _you_." "Ay, Davy," cried Janet, putting her arm round her husband's neck, and kissing him, "but he wasna good to _you_. He led ye into evil ways mony a time when ye would rather hae keepit oot o' them. Na, na, Davy, ye needna shake yer heed; I ken'd fine." "Weel, weel, hae'd yer ain way, lass, but Swankie's awa' to the wars, and so's Ruby Brand, for they've gotten him as weel." "Ruby Brand!" exclaimed the woman. "Ay, Ruby Brand; and this is the way they did it." Here Spink detailed to his helpmate, who sat with folded hands and staring eyes opposite to her husband, all that had happened. When he had concluded, they discussed the subject together. Presently the little girl came bouncing into the room, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, a dirty face, and fair ringlets very much dishevelled, and with a pitcher of hot soup in her hands. Davy caught her up, and kissing her, said abruptly, "Maggie, Big Swankie's awa' to the wars." The child looked enquiringly in her father's face, and he had to repeat his words twice before she quite realised the import of them. "Are ye jokin', daddy?" "No, Maggie; it's true. The press-gang got him and took him awa', an' I doot we'll never see him again." The little girl's expression changed while he spoke, then her lip trembled, and she burst into tears. "See there, Janet," said Spink, pointing to Maggie, and looking earnestly at his wife. "Weel-a-weel," replied Janet, somewhat softened, yet with much firmness, "I'll no deny that the man was fond o' the bairn, and it liked him weel enough; but, my certes! he wad hae made a bad man o' you if he could. But I'm real sorry for Ruby Brand; and what'll the puir lassie Gray do? Ye'll hae to gang up an' gie them the message." "So I will; but that's like somethin' to eat, I think?" Spink pointed to the soup. "Ay, it's a' we've got, so let's fa' to; and haste ye, lad. It's a sair heart she'll hae this night--wae's me!" While Spink and his wife were thus employed, Widow Brand, Minnie Gray, and Captain Ogilvy were seated at tea, round the little table in the snug kitchen of the widow's cottage. It might have been observed that there were two teapots on the table, a large one and a small, and that the captain helped himself out of the small one, and did not take either milk or sugar. But the captain's teapot did not necessarily imply tea. In fact, since the death of the captain's mother, that small teapot had been accustomed to strong drink only. It never tasted tea. "I wonder if Ruby will get leave of absence," said the captain, throwing himself back in his armchair, in order to be able to admire, with greater ease, the smoke, as it curled towards the ceiling from his mouth and pipe. "I do hope so," said Mrs Brand, looking up from her knitting, with a little sigh. Mrs Brand usually followed up all her remarks with a little sigh. Sometimes the sigh was _very_ little. It depended a good deal on the nature of her remark whether the sigh was of the little, less, or least description; but it never failed, in one or other degree, to close her every observation. "I _think_ he will," said Minnie, as she poured a second cup of tea for the widow. "Ay, that's right, lass," observed the captain; "there's nothin' like hope-- "`The pleasures of hope told a flatterin' tale Regardin' the fleet when Lord Nelson set sail.' "Fill me out another cup of tea, Hebe." It was a pleasant little fiction with the captain to call his beverage "tea". Minnie filled out a small cupful of the contents of the little teapot, which did, indeed, resemble tea, but which smelt marvellously like hot rum and water. "Enough, enough. Come on, Macduff! Ah! Minnie, this is prime Jamaica; it's got such a--but I forgot; you don't understand nothin' about nectar of this sort." The captain smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then said, with a sudden chuckle-- "Wasn't it odd, sister, that we should have found it all out in such an easy sort o' way? If criminals would always tell on themselves as plainly as Big Swankie did, there would be no use for lawyers." "Swankie would not have spoken so freely," said Minnie, with a laugh, "if he had known that we were listening." "That's true, girl," said the captain, with sudden gravity; "and I don't feel quite easy in my mind about that same eavesdropping. It's a dirty thing to do--especially for an old sailor, who likes everything to be fair and above-board; but then, you see, the natur' o' the words we couldn't help hearin' justified us in waitin' to hear more. Yes, it was quite right, as it turned out. A little more tea, Minnie. Thank'ee, lass. Now go, get the case, and let us look over it again." The girl rose, and, going to a drawer, quickly returned with a small red leather case in her hand. It was the identical jewel-case that Swankie had found on the dead body at the Bell Rock! "Ah! that's it; now, let us see; let us see." He laid aside his pipe, and for some time felt all his pockets, and looked round the room, as if in search of something. "What are you looking for, uncle?" "The specs, lass; these specs'll be the death o' me." Minnie laughed. "They're on your brow, uncle!" "So they are! Well, well--" The captain smiled deprecatingly, and, drawing his chair close to the table, began to examine the box. Its contents were a strange mixture, and it was evident that the case had not been made to hold them. There was a lady's gold watch, of very small size, and beautifully formed; a set of ornaments, consisting of necklace, bracelets, ring, and ear-rings of turquoise and pearls set in gold, of the most delicate and exquisite chasing; also, an antique diamond cross of great beauty, besides a number of rings and bracelets of considerable value. As the captain took these out one by one, and commented on them, he made use of Minnie's pretty hand and arm to try the effect of each, and truly the ornaments could not have found a more appropriate resting-place among the fairest ladies of the land. Minnie submitted to be made use of in this way with a pleased and amused expression; for, while she greatly admired the costly gems, she could not help smiling at the awkwardness of the captain in putting them on. "Read the paper again," said Minnie, after the contents of the box had been examined. The captain took up a small parcel covered with oiled cloth, which contained a letter. Opening it, he began to read, but was interrupted by Mrs Brand, who had paid little attention to the jewels. "Read it out loud, brother," said she, "I don't hear you well. Read it out; I love to hear of my darling's gallant deeds." The captain cleared his throat, raised his voice, and read slowly:-- "`Lisbon, 10th March, 1808. "`Dear Captain Brand,--I am about to quit this place for the East in a few days, and shall probably never see you again. Pray accept the accompanying case of jewels as a small token of the love and esteem in which you are held by a heart-broken father. I feel assured that if it had been in the power of man to have saved my drowning child your gallant efforts would have been successful. It was ordained otherwise; and I now pray that I may be enabled to say "God's will be done." But I cannot bear the sight of these ornaments. I have no relatives--none at least who deserve them half so well as yourself. Do not pain me by refusing them. They may be of use to you if you are ever in want of money, being worth, I believe, between three and four hundred pounds. Of course, you cannot misunderstand my motive in mentioning this. No amount of money could in any measure represent the gratitude I owe to the man who risked his life to save my child. May God bless you, sir.'" The letter ended thus, without signature; and the captain ceased to read aloud. But there was an addition to the letter written in pencil, in the hand of the late Captain Brand, which neither he nor Minnie had yet found courage to read to the poor widow. It ran thus:-- "Our doom is sealed. My schooner is on the Bell Rock. It is blowing a gale from the North East, and she is going to pieces fast. We are all standing under the lee of a ledge of rock--six of us. In half an hour the tide will be roaring over the spot. God in Christ help us! It is an awful end. If this letter and box is ever found, I ask the finder to send it, with my blessing, to Mrs Brand, my beloved wife, in Arbroath." The writing was tremulous, and the paper bore the marks of having been soiled with seaweed. It was unsigned. The writer had evidently been obliged to close it hastily. After reading this in silence the captain refolded the letter. "No wonder, Minnie, that Swankie did not dare to offer such things for sale. He would certainly have been found out. Wasn't it lucky that we heard him tell Spink the spot under his floor where he had hidden them?" At that moment there came a low knock to the door. Minnie opened it, and admitted Davy Spink, who stood in the middle of the room twitching his cap nervously, and glancing uneasily from one to another of the party. "Hallo, Spink!" cried the captain, pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazing at the fisherman in surprise, "you don't seem to be quite easy in your mind. Hope your fortunes have not sprung a leak!" "Weel, Captain Ogilvy, they just have; gone to the bottom, I might a'most say. I've come to tell ye--that--the fact is, that the press-gang have catched us at last, and ta'en awa' my mate, Jock Swankie, better kenn'd as Big Swankie." "Hem--well, my lad, in so far as that does damage to you, I'm sorry for it; but as regards society at large, I rather think that Swankie havin' tripped his anchor is a decided advantage. If you lose by this in one way, you gain much in another; for your mate's companionship did ye no good. Birds of a feather should flock together. You're better apart, for I believe you to be an honest man, Spink." Davy looked at the captain in unfeigned astonishment. "Weel, ye're the first man that iver said that, an' I thank 'ee, sir, but you're wrang, though I wush ye was right. But that's no' what I cam' to tell ye." Here the fisherman's indecision of manner returned. "Come, make a clean breast of it, lad. There are none here but friends." "Weel, sir, Ruby Brand--" He paused, and Minnie turned deadly pale, for she jumped at once to the right conclusion. The widow, on the other hand, listened for more with deep anxiety, but did not guess the truth. "The fact is, Ruby's catched too, an' he's awa' to the wars, and he sent me to--ech, sirs! the auld wuman's fentit." Poor Widow Brand had indeed fallen back in her chair in a state bordering on insensibility. Minnie was able to restrain her feelings so as to attend to her. She and the captain raised her gently, and led her into her own room, from whence the captain returned, and shut the door behind him. "Now, Spink," said he, "tell me all about it, an' be partic'lar." Davy at once complied, and related all that the reader already knows, in a deep, serious tone of voice, for he felt that in the captain he had a sympathetic listener. When he had concluded, Captain Ogilvy heaved a sigh so deep that it might have been almost considered a groan, then he sat down on his armchair, and, pointing to the chair from which the widow had recently risen, said, "Sit down, lad." As he advanced to comply, Spink's eyes for the first time fell on the case of jewels. He started, paused, and looked with a troubled air at the captain. "Ha!" exclaimed the latter with a grin; "you seem to know these things; old acquaintances, eh?" "It wasna' me that stole them," said Spink hastily. "I did not say that anyone stole them." "Weel, I mean that--that--" He stopped abruptly, for he felt that in whatever way he might attempt to clear himself, he would unavoidably criminate, by implication, his absent mate. "I know what you mean, my lad; sit down." Spink sat down on the edge of the chair, and looked at the other uneasily. "Have a cup of tea?" said the captain abruptly, seizing the small pot and pouring out a cupful. "Thank 'ee--I--I niver tak' tea." "Take it to-night, then. It will do you good." Spink put the cup to his lips, and a look of deep surprise overspread his rugged countenance as he sipped the contents. The captain nodded. Spink's look of surprise changed into a confidential smile; he also nodded, winked, and drained the cup to the bottom. "Yes," resumed the captain; "you mean that you did not take the case of jewels from old Brand's pocket on that day when you found his body on the Bell Rock, though you were present, and saw your comrade pocket the booty. You see I know all about it, Davy, an' your only fault lay in concealing the matter, and in keepin' company with that scoundrel." The gaze of surprise with which Spink listened to the first part of this speech changed to a look of sadness towards the end of it. "Captain Ogilvy," said he, in a tone of solemnity that was a strong contrast to his usual easy, careless manner of speaking, "you ca'd me an honest man, an' ye think I'm clear o' guilt in this matter, but ye're mista'en. Hoo ye cam' to find oot a' this I canna divine, but I can tell ye somethin' mair than ye ken. D'ye see that bag?" He pulled a small leather purse out of his coat pocket, and laid it with a little bang on the table. The captain nodded. "Weel, sir, that was _my_ share o' the plunder, thretty goolden sovereigns. We tossed which o' us was to hae them, an' the siller fell to me. But I've niver spent a boddle o't. Mony a time have I been tempit, an' mony a time wad I hae gi'en in to the temptation, but for a certain lass ca'd Janet, that's been an angel, it's my belief, sent doon frae heeven to keep me frae gawin to the deevil a'thegither. But be that as it may, I've brought the siller to them that owns it by right, an' so my conscience is clear o't at lang last." The sigh of relief with which Davy Spink pushed the bag of gold towards his companion, showed that the poor man's mind was in truth released from a heavy load that had crushed it for years. The captain, who had lit his pipe, stared at the fisherman through the smoke for some time in silence; then he began to untie the purse, and said slowly, "Spink, I said you were an honest man, an' I see no cause to alter my opinion." He counted out the thirty gold pieces, put them back into the bag, and the bag into his pocket. Then he continued, "Spink, if this gold was mine I would--but no matter, it's not mine, it belongs to Widow Brand, to whom I shall deliver it up. Meantime, I'll bid you good night. All these things require reflection. Call back here to-morrow, my fine fellow, and I'll have something to say to you. Another cup of tea?" "Weel, I'll no objec'." Davy Spink rose, swallowed the beverage, and left the cottage. The captain returned, and stood for some time irresolute with his hand on the handle of the door of his sister's room. As he listened, he heard a sob, and the tones of Minnie's voice as if in prayer. Changing his mind, he walked softly across the kitchen into his own room, where, having trimmed the candle, refilled and lit his pipe, he sat down at the table, and, resting his arms thereon, began to meditate. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE LIGHTHOUSE COMPLETED--RUBY'S ESCAPE FROM TROUBLE BY A DESPERATE VENTURE. There came a time at last when the great work of building the Bell Rock Lighthouse drew to a close. Four years after its commencement it was completed, and on the night of the 1st of February, 1811, its bright beams were shed for the first time far and wide over the sea. It must not be supposed, however, that this lighthouse required four years to build it. On the contrary, the seasons in which work could be done were very short. During the whole of the first season of 1807, the aggregate time of low-water work, caught by snatches of an hour or two at a tide, did not amount to fourteen days of ten hours! while in 1808 it fell short of four weeks. A great event is worthy of very special notice. We should fail in our duty to our readers if we were to make only passing reference to this important event in the history of our country. That 1st of February, 1811, was the birthday of a new era, for the influence of the Bell Rock Light on the shipping interests of the kingdom (not merely of Scotland, by any means), was far greater than people generally suppose. Here is a _fact_ that may well be weighed with attention; that might be not inappropriately inscribed in diamond letters over the lintel of the lighthouse door. Up to the period of the building of the lighthouse, the known history of the Bell Rock was a black record of wreck, ruin, and death. Its unknown history, in remote ages, who shall conceive, much less tell? _Up_ to that period, seamen dreaded the rock and shunned it--ay, so earnestly as to meet destruction too often in their anxious efforts to avoid it. _From_ that period the Bell Rock has been a friendly point, a guiding star--hailed as such by storm-tossed mariners--marked as such on the charts of all nations. _From_ that date not a single night for more than half a century has passed, without its wakeful eye beaming on the waters, or its fog-bells sounding on the air; and, best of all, _not a single wreck has occurred on that rock from that period down to the present day_! Say not, good reader, that much the same may be said of all lighthouses. In the first place, the history of many lighthouses is by no means so happy as that of this one. In the second place, all lighthouses are not of equal importance. Few stand on an equal footing with the Bell Rock, either in regard to its national importance or its actual pedestal. In the last place, it is our subject of consideration at present, and we object to odious comparisons while we sing its praises! Whatever may be said of the other lights that guard our shores, special gratitude is due to the Bell Rock--to those who projected it--to the engineer who planned and built it--to God, who inspired the will to dare, and bestowed the skill to accomplish, a work so difficult, so noble, so prolific of good to man! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The nature of our story requires that we should occasionally annihilate time and space. Let us then leap over both, and return to our hero, Ruby Brand. His period of service in the Navy was comparatively brief, much more so than either he or his friends anticipated. Nevertheless, he spent a considerable time in his new profession, and, having been sent to foreign stations, he saw a good deal of what is called "service", in which he distinguished himself, as might have been expected, for coolness and courage. But we must omit all mention of his warlike deeds, and resume the record of his history at that point which bears more immediately on the subject of our tale. It was a wild, stormy night in November. Ruby's ship had captured a French privateer in the German Ocean, and, a prize crew having been put aboard, she was sent away to the nearest port, which happened to be the harbour of Leith, in the Firth of Forth. Ruby had not been appointed one of the prize crew; but he resolved not to miss the chance of again seeing his native town, if it should only be a distant view through a telescope. Being a favourite with his commander, his plea was received favourably, and he was sent on board the Frenchman. Those who know what it is to meet with an unexpected piece of great good fortune, can imagine the delight with which Ruby stood at the helm on the night in question, and steered for _home_! He was known by all on board to be the man who understood best the navigation of the Forth, so that implicit trust was placed in him by the young officer who had charge of the prize. The man-of-war happened to be short-handed at the time the privateer was captured, owing to her boats having been sent in chase of a suspicious craft during a calm. Some of the French crew were therefore left on board to assist in navigating the vessel. This was unfortunate, for the officer sent in charge turned out to be a careless man, and treated the Frenchmen with contempt. He did not keep strict watch over them, and the result was, that, shortly after the storm began, they took the English crew by surprise, and overpowered them. Ruby was the first to fall. As he stood at the wheel, indulging in pleasant dreams, a Frenchman stole up behind him, and felled him with a handspike. When he recovered he found that he was firmly bound, along with his comrades, and that the vessel was lying-to. One of the Frenchmen came forward at that moment, and addressed the prisoners in broken English. "Now, me boys," said he, "you was see we have konker you again. You behold the sea?" pointing over the side; "well, that bees your bed to-night if you no behave. Now, I wants to know, who is best man of you as onderstand die cost? Speak de trut', else you die." The English lieutenant at once turned to Ruby. "Well, cast him loose; de rest of you go b'low--good day, ver' moch indeed." Here the Frenchman made a low bow to the English, who were led below, with the exception of Ruby. "Now, my goot mans, you onderstand dis cost?" "Yes. I know it well." "It is dangereoux?" "It is--very; but not so much so as it used to be before the Bell Rock Light was shown." "Have you see dat light?" "No; never. It was first lighted when I was at sea; but I have seen a description of it in the newspapers, and should know it well." "Ver goot; you will try to come to dat light an' den you will steer out from dis place to de open sea. Afterwards we will show you to France. If you try mischief--voila!" The Frenchman pointed to two of his comrades who stood, one on each side of the wheel, with pistols in their hands, ready to keep Ruby in order. "Now, cut him free. Go, sare; do your dooty." Ruby stepped to the wheel at once, and, glancing at the compass, directed the vessel's head in the direction of the Bell Rock. The gale was rapidly increasing, and the management of the helm required his undivided attention; nevertheless his mind was busy with anxious thoughts and plans of escape. He thought with horror of a French prison, for there were old shipmates of his who had been captured years before, and who were pining in exile still. The bare idea of being separated indefinitely, perhaps for ever, from Minnie, was so terrible, that for a moment he meditated an attack, single-handed, on the crew; but the muzzle of a pistol on each side of him induced him to pause and reflect! Reflection, however, only brought him again to the verge of despair. Then he thought of running up to Leith, and so take the Frenchmen prisoners; but this idea was at once discarded, for it was impossible to pass up to Leith Roads without seeing the Bell Rock light, and the Frenchmen kept a sharp lookout. Then he resolved to run the vessel ashore and wreck her, but the thought of his comrades down below induced him to give that plan up. Under the influence of these thoughts he became inattentive, and steered rather wildly once or twice. "Stiddy. Ha! you tink of how you escape?" "Yes, I do," said Ruby, doggedly. "Good, and have you see how?" "No," replied Ruby, "I tell you candidly that I can see no way of escape." "Ver good, sare; mind your helm." At that moment a bright star of the first magnitude rose on the horizon, right ahead of them. "Ha! dat is a star," said the Frenchman, after a few moments' observation of it. "Stars don't go out," replied Ruby, as the light in question disappeared. "It is de light'ouse den?" "I don't know," said Ruby, "but we shall soon see." Just then a thought flashed into Ruby's mind. His heart beat quick, his eye dilated, and his lip was tightly compressed as it came and went. Almost at the same moment another star rose right ahead of them. It was of a deep red colour; and Ruby's heart beat high again, for he was now certain that it was the revolving light of the Bell Rock, which shows a white and red light alternately every two minutes. "_Voila_! that must be him now," exclaimed the Frenchman, pointing to the light, and looking enquiringly at Ruby. "I have told you," said the latter, "that I never saw the light before. I believe it to be the Bell Rock Light; but it would be as well to run close and see. I think I could tell the very stones of the tower, even in a dark night. Anyhow, I know the rock itself too well to mistake it." "Be there plenty watter?" "Ay; on the east side, close to the rock, there is enough water to float the biggest ship in your navy." "Good; we shall go close." There was a slight lull in the gale at this time, and the clouds broke a little, allowing occasional glimpses of moonlight to break through and tinge the foaming crests of the waves. At last the light, that had at first looked like a bright star, soon increased, and appeared like a glorious sun in the stormy sky. For a few seconds it shone intensely white and strong, then it slowly died away and disappeared; but almost before one could have time to wonder what had become of it, it returned in the form of a brilliant red sun, which also shone for a few seconds, steadily, and then, like the former, slowly died out. Thus, alternating, the red and white suns went round. In a few minutes the tall and graceful column itself became visible, looking pale and spectral against the black sky. At the same time the roar of the surf broke familiarly on Ruby's ears. He steered close past the north end of the rock, so close that he could see the rocks, and knew that it was low water. A gleam of moonlight broke out at the time, as if to encourage him. "Now," said Ruby, "you had better go about, for if we carry on at this rate, in the course we are going, in about an hour you will either be a dead man on the rocks of Forfar, or enjoying yourself in a Scotch prison!" "Ha! ha!" laughed the Frenchman, who immediately gave the order to put the vessel about; "good, ver good; bot I was not wish to see the Scottish prison, though I am told the mountains be ver superb." While he was speaking, the little vessel lay over on her new course, and Ruby steered again past the north side of the rock. He shaved it so close that the Frenchman shouted, "_Prenez garde_," and put a pistol to Ruby's ear. "Do you think I wish to die?" asked Ruby, with a quiet smile. "Now, captain, I want to point out the course, so as to make you sure of it. Bid one of your men take the wheel, and step up on the bulwarks with me, and I will show you." This was such a natural remark in the circumstances, and moreover so naturally expressed, that the Frenchman at once agreed. He ordered a seaman to take the wheel, and then stepped with Ruby upon the bulwarks at the stern of the vessel. "Now, you see the position of the lighthouse," said Ruby, "well, you must keep your course due east after passing it. If you steer to the nor'ard o' that, you'll run on the Scotch coast; if you bear away to the south'ard of it, you'll run a chance, in this state o' the tide, of getting wrecked among the Farne Islands; so keep her head _due east_." Ruby said this very impressively; so much so, that the Frenchman looked at him in surprise. "Why you so particulare?" he enquired, with a look of suspicion. "Because I am going to leave you," said Ruby, pointing to the Bell Rock, which at that moment was not much more than a hundred yards to leeward. Indeed, it was scarcely so much, for the outlying rock at the northern end named _Johnny Gray_, lay close under their lee as the vessel passed. Just then a great wave burst upon it, and, roaring in wild foam over the ledges, poured into the channels and pools on the other side. For one instant Ruby's courage wavered, as he gazed at the flood of boiling foam. "What you say?" exclaimed the Frenchman, laying his hand on the collar of Ruby's jacket. The young sailor started, struck the Frenchman a backhanded blow on the chest, which hurled him violently against the man at the wheel, and, bending down, sprang with a wild shout into the sea. So close had he steered to the rock, in order to lessen the danger of his reckless venture, that the privateer just weathered it. There was not, of course, the smallest chance of recapturing Ruby. No ordinary boat could have lived in the sea that was running at the time, even in open water, much less among the breakers of the Bell Rock. Indeed, the crew felt certain that the English sailor had allowed despair to overcome his judgment, and that he must infallibly be dashed to pieces on the rocks, so they did not check their onward course, being too glad to escape from the immediate neighbourhood of such a dangerous spot. Meanwhile Ruby buffeted the billows manfully. He was fully alive to the extreme danger of the attempt, but he knew exactly what he meant to do. He trusted to his intimate knowledge of every ledge and channel and current, and had calculated his motions to a nicety. He knew that at the particular state of the tide at the time, and with the wind blowing as it then did, there was a slight eddy at the point of _Cunningham's Ledge_. His life, he felt, depended on his gaining that eddy. If he should miss it, he would be dashed against _Johnny Gray's_ rock, or be carried beyond it and cast upon _Strachan's Ledge_ or _Scoreby's Point_, and no man, however powerful he might be, could have survived the shock of being launched on any of these rocks. On the other hand, if, in order to avoid these dangers, he should swim too much to windward, there was danger of his being carried on the crest of a billow and hurled upon the weather-side of _Cunningham's Ledge_, instead of getting into the eddy under its lee. All this Ruby had seen and calculated when he passed the north end of the rock the first time, and he had fixed the exact spot where he should take the plunge on repassing it. He acted so promptly that a few minutes sufficed to carry him towards the eddy, the tide being in his favour. But when he was about to swim into it, a wave burst completely over the ledge, and, pouring down on his head, thrust him back. He was almost stunned by the shock, but retained sufficient presence of mind to struggle on. For a few seconds he managed to bear up against wind and tide, for he put forth his giant strength with the energy of a desperate man, but gradually he was carried away from the rock, and for the first time his heart sank within him. Just then one of those rushes or swirls of water, which are common among rocks in such a position, swept him again forward, right into the eddy which he had struggled in vain to reach, and thrust him violently against the rock. This back current was the precursor of a tremendous billow, which came towering on like a black moving wall. Ruby saw it, and, twining his arm amongst the seaweed, held his breath. The billow fell! Only those who have seen the Bell Rock in a storm can properly estimate the roar that followed. None but Ruby himself could tell what it was to feel that world of water rushing overhead. Had it fallen directly upon him, it would have torn him from his grasp and killed him, but its full force had been previously spent on _Cunningham's Ledge_. In another moment it passed, and Ruby, quitting his hold, struck out wildly through the foam. A few strokes carried him through _Sinclair's_ and _Wilson's_ tracks into the little pool formerly mentioned as _Port Stevenson_. [The author has himself bathed in Port Stevenson, so that the reader may rely on the fidelity of this description of it and the surrounding ledges.] Here he was in comparative safety. True, the sprays burst over the ledge called _The Last Hope_ in heavy masses, but these could do him no serious harm, and it would take a quarter of an hour at least for the tide to sweep into the pool. Ruby therefore swam quietly to _Trinity Ledge_, where he landed, and, stepping over it, sat down to rest, with a thankful heart, on _Smith's Ledge_, the old familiar spot where he and Jamie Dove had wrought so often and so hard at the forge in former days. He was now under the shadow of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, which towered high above his head; and the impression of immovable solidity which its cold, grey, stately column conveyed to his mind, contrasted powerfully with the howling wind and the raging sea around. It seemed to him, as he sat there within three yards of its granite base, like the impersonation of repose in the midst of turmoil; of peace surrounded by war; of calm and solid self-possession in the midst of fretful and raging instability. No one was there to welcome Ruby. The lightkeepers, high up in the apartments in their wild home, knew nothing and heard nothing of all that had passed so near them. The darkness of the night and the roaring of the storm was all they saw or heard of the world without, as they sat in their watch tower reading or trimming their lamps. But Ruby was not sorry for this; he felt glad to be alone with God, to thank Him for his recent deliverance. Exhausting though the struggle had been, its duration was short, so that he soon recovered his wonted strength. Then, rising, he got upon the iron railway, or "rails", as the men used to call it, and a few steps brought him to the foot of the metal ladder conducting to the entrance-door. Climbing up, he stood at last in a place of safety, and disappeared within the doorway of the lighthouse. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE WRECK. Meantime the French privateer sped onward to her doom. The force with which the French commander fell when Ruby cast him off, had stunned him so severely that it was a considerable time before he recovered. The rest of the crew were therefore in absolute ignorance of how to steer. In this dilemma they lay-to for a short time, after getting away to a sufficient distance from the dangerous rock, and consulted what was to be done. Some advised one course, and some another, but it was finally suggested that one of the English prisoners should be brought up and commanded to steer out to sea. This advice was acted on, and the sailor who was brought up chanced to be one who had a partial knowledge of the surrounding coasts. One of the Frenchmen who could speak a few words of English, did his best to convey his wishes to the sailor, and wound up by producing a pistol, which he cocked significantly. "All right," said the sailor, "I knows the coast, and can run ye straight out to sea. That's the Bell Rock Light on the weather-bow, I s'pose." "Oui, dat is de Bell Roke." "Wery good; our course is due nor'west." So saying, the man took the wheel and laid the ship's course accordingly. Now, he knew quite well that this course would carry the vessel towards the harbour of Arbroath, into which he resolved to run at all hazards, trusting to the harbour-lights to guide him when he should draw near. He knew that he ran the strongest possible risk of getting himself shot when the Frenchmen should find out his faithlessness, but he hoped to prevail on them to believe the harbour-lights were only another lighthouse, which they should have to pass on their way out to sea, and then it would be too late to put the vessel about and attempt to escape. But all his calculations were useless, as it turned out, for in half an hour the men at the bow shouted that there were breakers ahead, and before the helm could be put down, they struck with such force that the topmasts went overboard at once, and the sails, bursting their sheets and tackling, were blown to ribbons. Just then a gleam of moonlight struggled through the wrack of clouds, and revealed the dark cliffs of the Forfar coast, towering high above them. The vessel had struck on the rocks at the entrance to one of those rugged bays with which that coast is everywhere indented. At the first glance, the steersman knew that the doom of all on board was fixed, for the bay was one of those which are surrounded by almost perpendicular cliffs; and although, during calm weather, there was a small space between the cliffs and the sea, which might be termed a beach, yet during a storm the waves lashed with terrific fury against the rocks, so that no human being might land there. It chanced at the time that Captain Ogilvy, who took great delight in visiting the cliffs in stormy weather, had gone out there for a midnight walk with a young friend, and when the privateer struck, he was standing on the top of the cliffs. He knew at once that the fate of the unfortunate people on board was almost certain, but, with his wonted energy, he did his best to prevent the catastrophe. "Run, lad, and fetch men, and ropes, and ladders. Alarm the whole town, and use your legs well. Lives depend on your speed," said the captain, in great excitement. The lad required no second bidding. He turned and fled like a greyhound. The lieges of Arbroath were not slow to answer the summons. There were neither lifeboats nor mortar-apparatus in those days, but there were the same willing hearts and stout arms then as now, and in a marvellously short space of time, hundreds of the able-bodied men of the town, gentle and semple, were assembled on these wild cliffs, with torches, rope, etcetera; in short, with all the appliances for saving life that the philanthropy of the times had invented or discovered. But, alas! these appliances were of no avail. The vessel went to pieces on the outer point of rocks, and part of the wreck, with the crew clinging to it, drifted into the bay. The horrified people on the cliffs looked down into that dreadful abyss of churning water and foam, into which no one could descend. Ropes were thrown again and again, but without avail. Either it was too dark to see, or the wrecked men were paralysed. An occasional shriek was heard above the roar of the tempest, as, one after another, the exhausted men fell into the water, or were wrenched from their hold of the piece of wreck. At last one man succeeded in catching hold of a rope, and was carefully hauled up to the top of the cliff. It was found that this was one of the English sailors. He had taken the precaution to tie the rope under his arms, poor fellow, having no strength left to hold on to it; but he was so badly bruised as to be in a dying state when laid on the grass. "Keep back and give him air," said Captain Ogilvy, who had taken a prominent part in the futile efforts to save the crew, and who now kneeled at the sailor's side, and moistened his lips with a little brandy. The poor man gave a confused and rambling account of the circumstances of the wreck, but it was sufficiently intelligible to make the captain acquainted with the leading particulars. "Were there many of your comrades aboard?" he enquired. The dying man looked up with a vacant expression. It was evident that he did not quite understand the question, but he began again to mutter in a partly incoherent manner. "They're all gone," said he, "every man of 'em but me! All tied together in the hold. They cast us loose, though, after she struck. All gone! all gone!" After a moment he seemed to try to recollect something. "No," said he, "we weren't all together. They took Ruby on deck, and I never saw _him_ again. I wonder what they did--" Here he paused. "Who, did you say?" enquired the captain with deep anxiety. "Ruby--Ruby Brand," replied the man. "What became of him, said you?" "Don't know." "Was _he_ drowned?" "Don't know," repeated the man. The captain could get no other answer from him, so he was compelled to rest content, for the poor man appeared to be sinking. A sort of couch had been prepared for him, on which he was carried into the town, but before he reached it he was dead. Nothing more could be done that night, but next day, when the tide was out, men were lowered down the precipitous sides of the fatal bay, and the bodies of the unfortunate seamen were sent up to the top of the cliffs by means of ropes. These ropes cut deep grooves in the turf, as the bodies were hauled up one by one and laid upon the grass, after which they were conveyed to the town, and decently interred. The spot where this melancholy wreck occurred is now pointed out to the visitor as "The Seamen's Grave", and the young folk of the town have, from the time of the wreck, annually recut the grooves in the turf, above referred to, in commemoration of the event, so that these grooves may be seen there at the present day. It may easily be imagined that poor Captain Ogilvy returned to Arbroath that night with dark forebodings in his breast. He could not, however, imagine how Ruby came to be among the men on board of the French prize; and tried to comfort himself with the thought that the dying sailor had perhaps been a comrade of Ruby's at some time or other, and was, in his wandering state of mind, mixing him up with the recent wreck. As, however, he could come to no certain conclusion on this point, he resolved not to tell what he had heard either to his sister or Minnie, but to confine his anxieties, at least for the present, to his own breast. CHAPTER THIRTY. OLD FRIENDS IN NEW CIRCUMSTANCES. Let us now return to Ruby Brand; and in order that the reader may perfectly understand the proceedings of that bold youth, let us take a glance at the Bell Rock Lighthouse in its completed condition. We have already said that the lower part, from the foundation to the height of thirty feet, was built of solid masonry, and that at the top of this solid part stood the entrance-door of the building--facing towards the south. The position of the door was fixed after the solid part had been exposed to a winter's storms. The effect on the building was such that the most sheltered or lee-side was clearly indicated; the weather-side being thickly covered with limpets, barnacles, and short green seaweed, while the lee-side was comparatively free from such incrustations. The walls at the entrance-door are nearly seven feet thick, and the short passage that pierces them leads to the foot of a spiral staircase, which conducts to the lowest apartment in the tower, where the walls decrease in thickness to three feet. This room is the provision store. Here are kept water-tanks and provisions of all kinds, including fresh vegetables which, with fresh water, are supplied once a fortnight to the rock all the year round. The provision store is the smallest apartment, for, as the walls of the tower decrease in thickness as they rise, the several apartments necessarily increase as they ascend. The second floor is reached by a wooden staircase or ladder, leading up through a "manhole" in the ceiling. Here is the lightroom store, which contains large tanks of polished metal for the oil consumed by the lights. A whole year's stock of oil, or about 1100 gallons, is stored in these tanks. Here also is a small carpenter's bench and tool-box, besides an endless variety of odds and ends,--such as paint-pots, brushes, flags, waste for cleaning the reflectors, etcetera, etcetera. Another stair, similar to the first, leads to the third floor, which is the kitchen of the building. It stands about sixty-six feet above the foundation. We shall have occasion to describe it and the rooms above presently. Meanwhile, let it suffice to say, that the fourth floor contains the men's sleeping-berths, of which there are six, although three men is the usual complement on the rock. The fifth floor is the library, and above that is the lantern; the whole building, from base to summit, being 115 feet high. At the time when Ruby entered the door of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, as already described, there were three keepers in the building, one of whom was on his watch in the lantern, while the other two were in the kitchen. These men were all old friends. The man in the lantern was George Forsyth, who had been appointed one of the light-keepers in consideration of his good services and steadiness. He was seated reading at a small desk. Close above him was the blazing series of lights, which revolved slowly and steadily by means of machinery, moved by a heavy weight. A small bell was struck slowly but regularly by the same machinery, in token that all was going on well. If that bell had ceased to sound, Forsyth would at once have leaped up to ascertain what was wrong with the lights. So long as it continued to ring he knew that all was well, and that he might continue his studies peacefully--not quietly, however, for, besides the rush of wind against the thick plate-glass of the lantern, there was the never-ceasing roar of the ventilator, in which the heated air from within and the cold air from without met and kept up a terrific war. Keepers get used to that sound, however, and do not mind it. Each keeper's duty was to watch for three successive hours in the lantern. Not less familiar were the faces of the occupants of the kitchen. To this apartment Ruby ascended without anyone hearing him approach, for one of the windows was open, and the roar of the storm effectually drowned his light footfall. On reaching the floor immediately below the kitchen he heard the tones of a violin, and when his head emerged through the manhole of the kitchen floor, he paused and listened with deep interest, for the air was familiar. Peeping round the corner of the oaken partition that separated the manhole from the apartment, he beheld a sight which filled his heart with gladness, for there, seated on a camp-stool, with his back leaning against the dresser, his face lighted up by the blaze of a splendid fire, which burned in a most comfortable-looking kitchen range, and his hands drawing forth most pathetic music from a violin, sat his old friend Joe Dumsby, while opposite to him on a similar camp-stool, with his arm resting on a small table, and a familiar black pipe in his mouth, sat that worthy son of Vulcan, Jamie Dove. The little apartment glowed with ruddy light, and to Ruby, who had just escaped from a scene of such drear and dismal aspect, it appeared, what it really was, a place of the most luxurious comfort. Dove was keeping time to the music with little puffs of smoke, and Joe was in the middle of a prolonged shake, when Ruby passed through the doorway and stood before them. Dove's eyes opened to their widest, and his jaw dropt, so did his pipe, and the music ceased abruptly, while the face of both men grew pale. "I'm not a ghost, boys," said Ruby, with a laugh, which afforded immense relief to his old comrades. "Come, have ye not a welcome for an old messmate who swims off to visit you on such a night as this?" Dove was the first to recover. He gasped, and, holding out both arms, exclaimed, "Ruby Brand!" "And no mistake!" cried Ruby, advancing and grasping his friend warmly by the hands. For at least half a minute the two men shook each other's hands lustily and in silence. Then they burst into a loud laugh, while Joe, suddenly recovering, went crashing into a Scotch reel with energy so great that time and tune were both sacrificed. As if by mutual impulse, Ruby and Dove began to dance! But this was merely a spurt of feeling, more than half-involuntary. In the middle of a bar Joe flung down the fiddle, and, springing up, seized Ruby round the neck and hugged him, an act which made him aware of the fact that he was dripping wet. "Did ye _swim_ hoff to the rock?" he enquired, stepping back, and gazing at his friend with a look of surprise, mingled with awe. "Indeed I did." "But how? why? what mystery are ye rolled up in?" exclaimed the smith. "Sit down, sit down, and quiet yourselves," said Ruby, drawing a stool near to the fire, and seating himself. "I'll explain, if you'll only hold your tongues, and not look so scared like." "No, Ruby; no, lad, you must change yer clothes first," said the smith, in a tone of authority; "why, the fire makes you steam like a washin' biler. Come along with me, an' I'll rig you out." "Ay, go hup with 'im, Ruby. Bless me, this is the most amazin' hincident as ever 'appened to me. Never saw nothink like it." As Dove and Ruby ascended to the room above, Joe went about the kitchen talking to himself, poking the fire violently, overturning the camp-stools, knocking about the crockery on the dresser, and otherwise conducting himself like a lunatic. Of course Ruby told Dove parts of his story by fits and starts as he was changing his garments; of course he had to be taken up to the lightroom and go through the same scene there with Forsyth that had occurred in the kitchen; and, of course, it was not until all the men, himself included, had quite exhausted themselves, that he was able to sit down at the kitchen fire and give a full and connected account of himself, and of his recent doings. After he had concluded his narrative, which was interrupted by frequent question and comment, and after he had refreshed himself with a cup of tea, he rose and said-- "Now, boys, it's not fair to be spending all the night with you here, while my old comrade Forsyth sits up yonder all alone. I'll go up and see him for a little." "We'll go hup with 'ee, lad," said Dumsby. "No ye won't," replied Ruby; "I want him all to myself for a while; fair play and no favour, you know, used to be our watchword on the rock in old times. Besides, his watch will be out in a little, so ye can come up and fetch him down." "Well, go along with you," said the smith. "Hallo! that must have been a big 'un." This last remark had reference to a distinct tremor in the building, caused by the falling of a great wave upon it. "Does it often get raps like that?" enquired Ruby, with a look of surprise. "Not often," said Dove, "once or twice durin' a gale, mayhap, when a bigger one than usual chances to fall on us at the right angle. But the lighthouse shakes worst just the gales begin to take off and when the swell rolls in heavy from the east'ard." "Ay, that's the time," quoth Joe. "W'y, I've 'eard all the cups and saucers on the dresser rattle with the blows o' them heavy seas, but the gale is gittin' to be too strong to-night to shake us much." "Too strong!" exclaimed Ruby. "Ay. You see w'en it blows very hard, the breakers have not time to come down on us with a 'eavy tellin' blow, they goes tumblin' and swashin' round us and over us, hammerin' away wildly everyhow, or nohow, or anyhow, just like a hexcited man fightin' in a hurry. The after-swell, _that's_ wot does it. _That's_ wot comes on slow, and big, and easy but powerful, like a great prize-fighter as knows what he can do, and means to do it." "A most uncomfortable sort of residence," said Ruby, as he turned to quit the room. "Not a bit, when ye git used to it," said the smith. "At first we was rather skeered, but we don't mind now. Come, Joe, give us `Rule, Britannia'--`pity she don't rule the waves straighter,' as somebody writes somewhere." So saying, Dove resumed his pipe, and Dumsby his fiddle, while Ruby proceeded to the staircase that led to the rooms above. Just as he was about to ascend, a furious gust of wind swept past, accompanied by a wild roar of the sea; at the same moment a mass of spray dashed against the small window at his side. He knew that this window was at least sixty feet above the rock, and he was suddenly filled with a strong desire to have a nearer view of the waves that had force to mount so high. Instead, therefore, of ascending to the lantern, he descended to the doorway, which was open, for, as the storm blew from the eastward, the door was on the lee-side. There were two doors--one of metal, with thick plate-glass panels at the inner end of the passage; the other, at the outer end of it, was made of thick solid wood bound with metal, and hung so as to open outwards. When the two leaves of this heavy door were shut they were flush with the tower, so that nothing was presented for the waves to act upon. But this door was never closed except in cases of storm from the southward. The scene which presented itself to our hero when he stood in the entrance passage was such as neither pen nor pencil can adequately depict. The tide was full, or nearly so, and had the night been calm the water would have stood about twelve or fourteen feet on the sides of the tower, leaving a space of about the same height between its surface and the spot at the top of the copper ladder where Ruby stood; but such was the wild commotion of the sea that this space was at one moment reduced to a few feet, as the waves sprang up towards the doorway, or nearly doubled, as they sank hissing down to the very rock. Acres of white, leaping, seething foam covered the spot where the terrible Bell Rock lay. Never for a moment did that boiling cauldron get time to show one spot of dark-coloured water. Billow after billow came careering on from the open sea in quick succession, breaking with indescribable force and fury just a few yards to windward of the foundations of the lighthouse, where the outer ledges of the rock, although at the time deep down in the water, were sufficiently near the surface to break their first full force, and save the tower from destruction, though not from many a tremendous blow and overwhelming deluge of water. When the waves hit the rock they were so near that the lighthouse appeared to receive the shock. Rushing round it on either side, the cleft billows met again to leeward, just opposite the door, where they burst upwards in a magnificent cloud of spray to a height of full thirty feet. At one time, while Ruby held on by the man-ropes at the door and looked over the edge, he could see a dark abyss with the foam shimmering pale far below; another instant, and the solid building perceptibly trembled, as a green sea hit it fair on the weather-side. A continuous roar and hiss followed as the billow swept round, filled up the dark abyss, and sent the white water gleaming up almost into the doorway. At the same moment the sprays flew by on either side of the column, so high that a few drops were thrown on the lantern. To Ruby's eye these sprays appeared to be clouds driving across the sky, so high were they above his head. A feeling of awe crept over him as his mind gradually began to realise the world of water which, as it were, overwhelmed him--water and foam roaring and flying everywhere--the heavy seas thundering on the column at his back--the sprays from behind arching almost over the lighthouse, and meeting those that burst up in front, while an eddy of wind sent a cloud swirling in at the doorway, and drenched him to the skin! It was an exhibition of the might of God in the storm such as he had never seen before, and a brief sudden exclamation of thanksgiving burst from the youth's lips, as he thought of how hopeless his case would have been had the French vessel passed the lighthouse an hour later than it did. The contrast between the scene outside and that inside the Bell Rock Lighthouse at that time was indeed striking. Outside there was madly raging conflict; inside there were peace, comfort, security: Ruby, with his arms folded, standing calmly in the doorway; Jamie Dove and Joe Dumsby smoking and fiddling in the snug kitchen; George Forsyth reading (the _Pilgrim's Progress_ mayhap, or _Robinson Crusoe_, for both works were in the Bell Rock library) by the bright blaze of the crimson and white lamps, high up in the crystal lantern. If a magician had divided the tower in two from top to bottom while some ship was staggering past before the gale, he would have presented to the amazed mariners the most astonishing picture of "war without and peace within" that the world ever saw! CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. MIDNIGHT CHAT IN A LANTERN. "I'll have to borrow another shirt and pair of trousers from you, Dove," said Ruby with a laugh, as he returned to the kitchen. "What! been having another swim?" exclaimed the smith. "Not exactly, but you see I'm fond o' water. Come along, lad." In a few minutes the clothes were changed, and Ruby was seated beside Forsyth, asking him earnestly about his friends on shore. "Ah! Ruby," said Forsyth, "I thought it would have killed your old mother when she was told of your bein' caught by them sea-sharks, and taken off to the wars. You must know I came to see a good deal of your friends, through--through--hoot! what's the name? the fair-haired lass that lives with--" "Minnie?" suggested Ruby, who could not but wonder that any man living should forget _her_ name for a moment. "Ay, Minnie it is. She used to come to see my wife about some work they wanted her to do, and I was now and again sent up with a message to the cottage, and Captain Ogilvy always invited me in to take a glass out of his old teapot. Your mother used to ask me ever so many questions about you, an' what you used to say and do on the rock when this lighthouse was buildin'. She looked so sad and pale, poor thing; I really thought it would be all up with her, an' I believe it would, but for Minnie. It was quite wonderful the way that girl cheered your mother up, by readin' bits o' the Bible to her, an' tellin' her that God would certainly send you back again. She looked and spoke always so brightly too." "Did she do that?" exclaimed Ruby, with emotion. Forsyth looked for a moment earnestly at his friend. "I mean," continued Ruby, in some confusion, "did she look bright when she spoke of my bein' away?" "No lad, it was when she spoke of you comin' back; but I could see that her good spirits was partly put on to keep up the old woman." For a moment or two the friends remained silent. Suddenly Forsyth laid his hand on the other's shoulder, and said impressively: "Ruby Brand, it's my belief that that girl is rather fond of you." Ruby looked up with a bright smile, and said, "D'you think so? Well, d'ye know, I believe she is." "Upon my word, youngster," exclaimed the other, with a look of evident disgust, "your conceit is considerable. I had thought to be somewhat confidential with you in regard to this idea of mine, but you seem to swallow it so easy, and to look upon it as so natural a thing, that-- that--Do you suppose you've nothin' to do but ask the girl to marry you and she'll say `Yes' at once?" "I do," said Ruby quietly; "nay, I am sure of it." Forsyth's eyes opened very wide indeed at this. "Young man," said he, "the sea must have washed all the modesty you once had out of you--" "I hope not," interrupted the other, "but the fact is that I put the question you have supposed to Minnie long ago, and she _did_ say `Yes' to it then, so it's not likely she's goin' to draw back now." "Whew! that alters the case," cried Forsyth, seizing his friend's hand, and wringing it heartily. "Hallo! you two seem to be on good terms, anyhow," observed Jamie Dove, whose head appeared at that moment through the hole in the floor by which the lantern communicated with the room below. "I came to see if anything had gone wrong, for your time of watch is up." "So it is," exclaimed Forsyth, rising and crossing to the other side of the apartment, where he applied his lips to a small tube in the wall. "What are you doing?" enquired Ruby. "Whistling up Joe," said Forsyth. "This pipe runs down to the sleepin' berths, where there's a whistle close to Joe's ear. He must be asleep. I'll try again." He blew down the tube a second time and listened for a reply, which came up a moment or two after in a sharp whistle through a similar tube reversed; that is, with the mouthpiece below and the whistle above. Soon after, Joe Dumsby made his appearance at the trap-door, looking very sleepy. "I feels as 'eavy as a lump o' lead," said he. "Wot an 'orrible thing it is to be woke out o' a comf'r'able sleep." Just as he spoke the lighthouse received a blow so tremendous that all the men started and looked at each other for a moment in surprise. "I say, is it warranted to stand _anything_?" enquired Ruby seriously. "I hope it is," replied the smith, "else it'll be a blue lookout for _us_. But we don't often get such a rap as that. D'ye mind the first we ever felt o' that sort, Forsyth? It happened last month. I was on watch at the time, Forsyth was smokin' his pipe in the kitchen, and Dumsby was in bed, when a sea struck us with such force that I thought we was done for. In a moment Forsyth and Joe came tumblin' up the ladder--Joe in his shirt. `It must have been a ship sailed right against us,' says Forsyth, and with that we all jumped on the rail that runs round the lantern there and looked out, but no ship could be seen, though it was a moonlight night. You see there's plenty o' water at high tide to let a ship of two hundred tons, drawin' twelve feet, run slap into us, and we've sometimes feared this in foggy weather; but it was just a blow of the sea. We've had two or three like it since, and are gettin' used to it now." "Well, we can't get used to do without sleep," said Forsyth, stepping down through the trap-door, "so I'll bid ye all good night." "'Old on! Tell Ruby about Junk before ye go," cried Dumsby. "Ah! well, I'll tell 'im myself. You must know, Ruby, that we've got what they calls an hoccasional light-keeper ashore, who larns the work out 'ere in case any of us reg'lar keepers are took ill, so as 'e can supply our place on short notice. Well, 'e was out 'ere larnin' the dooties one tremendous stormy night, an' the poor fellow was in a mortial fright for fear the lantern would be blowed right hoff the top o' the stone column, and 'imself along with it. You see, the door that covers the manhole there is usually shut when we're on watch, but Junk (we called 'im Junk 'cause 'e wos so like a lump o' fat pork), 'e kep the door open all the time an' sat close beside it, so as to be ready for a dive. Well, it was my turn to watch, so I went up, an' just as I puts my fut on the first step o' the lantern-ladder there comes a sea like wot we had a minit ago; the wind at the same time roared in the wentilators like a thousand fiends, and the spray dashed agin the glass. Junk gave a yell, and dived. He thought it wos all over with 'im, and wos in sich a funk that he came down 'ead foremost, and would sartinly 'ave broke 'is neck if 'e 'adn't come slap into my buzzum! I tell 'e it was no joke, for 'e wos fourteen stone if 'e wos an ounce, an'--" "Come along, Ruby," said Dove, interrupting; "the sooner we dive too the better, for there's no end to that story when Dumsby get off in full swing. Good night!" "Good night, lads, an' better manners t'ye!" said Joe, as he sat down beside the little desk where the lightkeepers were wont during the lonely watch-hours of the night to read, or write, or meditate. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. EVERYDAY LIFE ON THE BELL ROCK, AND OLD MEMORIES RECALLED. The sun shone brightly over the sea next morning; so brightly and powerfully that it seemed to break up and disperse by force the great storm-clouds which hung about the sky, like the fragments of an army of black bullies who had done their worst and been baffled. The storm was over; at least, the wind had moderated down to a fresh, invigorating breeze. The white crests of the billows were few and far between, and the wild turmoil of waters had given place to a grand procession of giant waves, that thundered on the Bell Rock Lighthouse, at once with more dignity and more force than the raging seas of the previous night. It was the sun that awoke Ruby, by shining in at one of the small windows of the library, in which he slept. Of course it did not shine in his face, because of the relative positions of the library and the sun, the first being just below the lantern, and the second just above the horizon, so that the rays struck upwards, and shone with dazzling brilliancy on the dome-shaped ceiling. This was the second time of wakening for Ruby that night, since he lay down to rest. The first wakening was occasioned by the winding up of the machinery which kept the lights in motion, and the chain of which, with a ponderous weight attached to it, passed through a wooden pilaster close to his ear, causing such a sudden and hideous din that the sleeper, not having been warned of it, sprang like a Jack-in-the-box out of bed into the middle of the room, where he first stared vacantly around him like an unusually surprised owl, and then, guessing the cause of the noise, smiled pitifully, as though to say, "Poor fellow, you're easily frightened," and tumbled back into bed, where he fell asleep again instantly. On the second time of wakening Ruby rose to a sitting posture, yawned, looked about him, yawned again, wondered what o'clock it was, and then listened. No sound could be heard save the intermittent roar of the magnificent breakers that beat on the Bell Rock. His couch was too low to permit of his seeing anything but sky out of his windows, three of which, about two feet square, lighted the room. He therefore jumped up, and, while pulling on his garments, looked towards the east, where the sun greeted and almost blinded him. Turning to the north window, a bright smile lit up his countenance, and "A blessing rest on you" escaped audibly from his lips, as he kissed his hand towards the cliffs of Forfarshire, which were seen like a faint blue line on the far-off horizon, with the town of Arbroath just rising above the morning mists. He gazed out at this north window, and thought over all the scenes that had passed between him and Minnie from the time they first met, down to the day when they last parted. One of the sweetest of the mental pictures that he painted that morning with unwonted facility, was that of Minnie sitting at his mother's feet, comforting her with the words of the Bible. At length he turned with a sigh to resume his toilette. Looking out at the southern window, he observed that the rocks were beginning to be uncovered, and that the "rails", or iron pathway that led to the foot of the entrance-door ladder, were high enough out of the water to be walked upon. He therefore hastened to descend. We know not what appearance the library presented at the time when Ruby Brand slept in it; but we can tell, from personal experience, that, at the present day, it is a most comfortable and elegant apartment. The other rooms of the lighthouse, although thoroughly substantial in their furniture and fittings, are quite plain and devoid of ornament, but the library, or "stranger's room", as it is sometimes called, being the guest-chamber, is fitted up in a style worthy of a lady's boudoir, with a Turkey carpet, handsome chairs, and an elaborately carved oak table, supported appropriately by a centre stem of three twining dolphins. The dome of the ceiling is painted to represent stucco panelling, and the partition which cuts off the small segment of this circular room that is devoted to passage and staircase, is of panelled oak. The thickness of this partition is just sufficient to contain the bookcase; also a cleverly contrived bedstead, which can be folded up during the day out of sight. There is also a small cupboard of oak, which serves the double purpose of affording shelf accommodation and concealing the iron smoke-pipe which rises from the kitchen, and, passing through the several storeys, projects a few feet above the lantern. The centre window is ornamented with marble sides and top, and above it stands a marble bust of Robert Stevenson, the engineer of the building, with a marble slab below bearing testimony to the skill and energy with which he had planned and executed the work. If not precisely what we have described it to be at the present time, the library must have been somewhat similar on that morning when our hero issued from it and descended to the rock. The first stair landed him at the entrance to the sleeping-berths. He looked into one, and observed Forsyth's head and arms lying in the bed, in that peculiarly negligent style that betokens deep and sweet repose. Dumsby's rest was equally sound in the next berth. This fact did not require proof by ocular demonstration; his nose announced it sonorously over the whole building. Passing to the kitchen, immediately below, Ruby found his old messmate, Jamie Dove, busy in the preparation of breakfast. "Ha! Ruby, good mornin'; you keep up your early habits, I see. Can't shake yer paw, lad, 'cause I'm up to the elbows in grease, not to speak o' sutt an' ashes." "When did you learn to cook, Jamie?" said Ruby, laughing. "When I came here. You see we've all got to take it turn and turn about, and it's wonderful how soon a feller gets used to it. I'm rather fond of it, d'ye know? We haven't overmuch to work on in the way o' variety, to be sure, but what we have there's lots of it, an' it gives us occasion to exercise our wits to invent somethin' new. It's wonderful what can be done with fresh beef, cabbage, carrots, potatoes, flour, tea, bread, mustard, sugar, pepper, an' the like, if ye've got a talent that way." "You've got it all off by heart, I see," said Ruby. "True, boy, but it's not so easy to get it all off yer stomach sometimes. What with confinement and want of exercise we was troubled with indigestion at first, but we're used to it now, and I have acquired quite a fancy for cooking. No doubt you'll hear Forsyth and Joe say that I've half-pisoned them four or five times, but that's all envy; besides, a feller can't learn a trade without doin' a little damage to somebody or something at first. Did you ever taste blackbird pie?" "No," replied Ruby, "never." "Then you shall taste one to-day, for we caught fifty birds last week." "Caught fifty birds?" "Ay, but I'll tell ye about it some other time. Be off just now, and get as much exercise out o' the rock as ye can before breakfast." The smith resumed his work as he said this, and Ruby descended. He found the sea still roaring over the rock, but the rails were so far uncovered that he could venture on them, yet he had to keep a sharp lookout, for, whenever a larger breaker than usual struck the rock, the gush of foaming water that flew over it was so great that a spurt or two would sometimes break up between the iron bars, and any one of these spurts would have sufficed to give him a thorough wetting. In a short time, however, the sea went back and left the rails free. Soon after that Ruby was joined by Forsyth and Dumsby, who had come down for their morning promenade. They had to walk in single file while taking exercise, as the tramway was not wide enough for two, and the rock, even when fully uncovered, did not afford sufficient level space for comfortable walking, although at low water (as the reader already knows) it afforded fully a hundred yards of scrambling ground, if not more. They had not walked more than a few minutes when they were joined by Jamie Dove, who announced breakfast, and proceeded to take two or three turns by way of cooling himself. Thereafter the party returned to the kitchen, where they sat down to as good a meal as any reasonable man could desire. There was cold boiled beef--the remains of yesterday's dinner--and a bit of broiled cod, a native of the Bell Rock, caught from the doorway at high water the day before. There was tea also, and toast--buttered toast, hot out of the oven. Dove was peculiarly good at what may be styled toast-cooking. Indeed, all the lightkeepers were equally good. The bread was cut an inch thick, and butter was laid on as plasterers spread plaster with a trowel. There was no scraping off a bit here to put it on there; no digging out pieces from little caverns in the bread with the point of the knife; no repetition of the work to spread it thinner, and, above all, no omitting of corners and edges;--no, the smallest conceivable fly could not have found the minutest atom of dry footing on a Bell Rock slice of toast, from its centre to its circumference. Dove had a liberal heart, and he laid on the butter with a liberal hand. Fair play and no favour was his motto, quarter-inch thick was his gauge, railway speed his practice. The consequence was that the toast floated, as it were, down the throats of the men, and compensated to some extent for the want of milk in the tea. "Now, boys, sit in," cried Dove, seizing the teapot. "We have not much variety," observed Dumsby to Ruby, in an apologetic tone. "Variety!" exclaimed Forsyth, "what d'ye call that?" pointing to the fish. "Well, that _is_ a hextra morsel, I admit," returned Joe; "but we don't get that every day; 'owsever, wot there is is good, an' there's plenty of it, so let's fall to." Forsyth said grace, and then they all "fell to", with appetites peculiar to that isolated and breezy spot, where the wind blows so fresh from the open sea that the nostrils inhale culinary odours, and the palates seize culinary products, with unusual relish. There was something singularly unfeminine in the manner in which the duties of the table were performed by these stalwart guardians of the Rock. We are accustomed to see such duties performed by the tender hands of woman, or, it may be, by the expert fingers of trained landsmen; but in places where woman may not or can not act with propriety,--as on shipboard, or in sea-girt towers,--men go through such feminine work in a way that does credit to their versatility,--also to the strength of culinary materials and implements. The way in which Jamie Dove and his comrades knocked about the pans, teapots, cups and saucers, etcetera, without smashing them, would have astonished, as well as gratified, the hearts of the fraternity of tinsmiths and earthenware manufacturers. We have said that everything in the lighthouse was substantial and very strong. All the woodwork was oak, the floors and walls of solid stone,--hence, when Dove, who had no nerves or physical feelings, proceeded with his cooking, the noise he caused was tremendous. A man used to woman's gentle ways would, on seeing him poke the fire, have expected that the poker would certainly penetrate not only the coals, but the back of the grate also, and perchance make its appearance at the outside of the building itself, through stones, joggles, dovetails, trenails, pozzolano mortar, and all the strong materials that have withstood the fury of winds and waves for the last half-century! Dove treated the other furniture in like manner; not that he treated it ill,--we would not have the reader imagine this for a moment. He was not reckless of the household goods. He was merely indifferent as to the row he made in using them. But it was when the cooking was over, and the table had to be spread, that the thing culminated. Under the impulse of lightheartedness, caused by the feeling that his labours for the time were nearly ended, and that his reward was about to be reaped, he went about with irresistible energy, like the proverbial bull in a china shop, without reaching that creature's destructive point. It was then that a beaming smile overspread his countenance, and he raged about the kitchen with Vulcan-like joviality. He pulled out the table from the wall to the centre of the apartment, with a swing that produced a prolonged crash. Up went its two leaves with two minor crashes. Down went the four plates and the cups and saucers, with such violence and rapidity that they all seemed to be dancing on the board together. The beef all but went over the side of its dish by reason of the shock of its sudden stoppage on touching the table, and the pile of toast was only saved from scatteration by the strength of the material, so to speak, with which its successive layers were cemented. When the knives, forks, and spoons came to be laid down, the storm seemed to lull, because these were comparatively light implements, so that this period--which in shore-going life is usually found to be the exasperating one--was actually a season of relief. But it was always followed by a terrible squall of scraping wooden legs and clanking human feet when the camp-stools were set, and the men came in and sat down to the meal. The pouring out of the tea, however, was the point that would have called forth the admiration of the world--had the world seen it. What a contrast between the miserable, sickly, slow-dribbling silver and other teapots of the land, and this great teapot of the sea! The Bell Rock teapot had no sham, no humbug about it. It was a big, bold-looking one, of true Britannia metal, with vast internal capacity and a gaping mouth. Dove seized it in his strong hand as he would have grasped his biggest fore-hammer. Before you could wink, a sluice seemed to burst open; a torrent of rich brown tea spouted at your cup, and it was full--the saucer too, perhaps--in a moment. But why dwell on these luxurious scenes? Reader, you can never know them from experience unless you go to visit the Bell Rock; we will therefore cease to tantalise you. During breakfast it was discussed whether or not the signal-ball should be hoisted. The signal-ball was fixed to a short staff on the summit of the lighthouse, and the rule was that it should be hoisted at a fixed hour every morning _when all was well_, and kept up until an answering signal should be made from a signal-tower in Arbroath where the keepers' families dwelt, and where each keeper in succession spent a fortnight with his family, after a spell of six weeks on the rock. It was the duty of the keeper on shore to watch for the hoisting of the ball (the "All's well" signal) each morning on the lighthouse, and to reply to it with a similar ball on the signal-tower. If, on any occasion, the hour for signalling should pass without the ball on the lighthouse being shown, then it was understood that something was wrong, and the attending boat of the establishment was sent off at once to ascertain the cause, and afford relief if necessary. The keeping down of the ball was, however, an event of rare occurrence, so that when it did take place the poor wives of the men on the rock were usually thrown into a state of much perturbation and anxiety, each naturally supposing that her husband must be seriously ill, or have met with a bad accident. It was therefore natural that there should be some hesitation about keeping down the ball merely for the purpose of getting a boat off to send Ruby ashore. "You see," said Forsyth, "the day after to-morrow the `relief boat' is due, and it may be as well just to wait for that, Ruby, and then you can go ashore with your friend Jamie Dove, for it's his turn this time." "Ay, lad, just make up your mind to stay another day," said the smith; "as they don't know you're here they can't be wearyin' for you, and I'll take ye an' introduce you to my little wife, that I fell in with on the cliffs of Arbroath not long after ye was kidnapped. Besides, Ruby, it'll do ye good to feed like a fighting cock out here another day. Have another cup o' tea?" "An' a junk o' beef?" said Forsyth. "An' a slice o' toast?" said Dumsby. Ruby accepted all these offers, and soon afterwards the four friends descended to the rock, to take as much exercise as they could on its limited surface, during the brief period of low water that still remained to them. It may easily be imagined that this ramble was an interesting one, and was prolonged until the tide drove them into their tower of refuge. Every rock, every hollow, called up endless reminiscences of the busy building seasons. Ruby went over it all step by step with somewhat of the feelings that influence a man when he revisits the scene of his childhood. There was the spot where the forge had stood. "D'ye mind it, lad?" said Dove. "There are the holes where the hearth was fixed, and there's the rock where you vaulted over the bellows when ye took that splendid dive after the fair-haired lassie into the pool yonder." "Mind it? Ay, I should think so!" Then there were the holes where the great beams of the beacon had been fixed, and the iron bats, most of which latter were still left in the rock, and some of which may be seen there at the present day. There was also the pool into which poor Selkirk had tumbled with the vegetables on the day of the first dinner on the rock, and that other pool into which Forsyth had plunged after the mermaids; and, not least interesting among the spots of note, there was the ledge, now named the "Last Hope", on which Mr Stevenson and his men had stood on the day when the boat had been carried away, and they had expected, but were mercifully preserved from, a terrible tragedy. After they had talked much on all these things, and long before they were tired of it, the sea drove them to the rails; gradually, as it rose higher, it drove them into the lighthouse, and then each man went to his work--Jamie Dove to his kitchen, in order to clean up and prepare dinner, and the other two to the lantern, to scour and polish the reflectors, refill and trim the lamps, and, generally, to put everything in order for the coming night. Ruby divided his time between the kitchen and lantern, lending a hand in each, but, we fear, interrupting the work more than he advanced it. That day it fell calm, and the sun shone brightly. "We'll have fog to-night," observed Dumsby to Brand, pausing in the operation of polishing a reflector, in which his fat face was mirrored with the most indescribable and dreadful distortions. "D'ye think so?" "I'm sure of it." "You're right," remarked Forsyth, looking from his elevated position to the seaward horizon, "I can see it coming now." "I say, what smell is that?" exclaimed Ruby, sniffing. "Somethink burnin'," said Dumsby, also sniffing. "Why, what can it be?" murmured Forsyth, looking round and likewise sniffing. "Hallo! Joe, look out; you're on fire!" Joe started, clapped his hand behind him, and grasped his inexpressibles, which were smouldering warmly. Ruby assisted, and the fire was soon put out, amidst much laughter. "'Ang them reflectors!" said Joe, seating himself, and breathing hard after his alarm and exertions; "it's the third time they've set me ablaze." "The reflectors, Joe?" said Ruby. "Ay, don't ye see? They've nat'rally got a focus, an' w'en I 'appen to be standin' on a sunny day in front of 'em, contemplatin' the face o' natur', as it wor, through the lantern panes, if I gits into the focus by haccident, d'ye see, it just acts like a burnin'-glass." Ruby could scarcely believe this, but after testing the truth of the statement by actual experiment he could no longer doubt it. Presently a light breeze sprang up, rolling the fog before it, and then dying away, leaving the lighthouse enshrouded. During fog there is more danger to shipping than at any other time. In the daytime, in ordinary weather, rocks and lighthouses can be seen. At night, lights can be seen, but during fog nothing can be seen until danger may be too near to be avoided. The two great fog-bells of the lighthouse were therefore set a-going, and they rang out their slow deep-toned peal all that day and all that night, as the bell of the Abbot of Aberbrothoc is said to have done in days of yore. That night Ruby was astonished, and then he was stunned! First, as to his astonishment. While he was seated by the kitchen fire chatting with his friend the smith, sometime between nine o'clock and midnight, Dumsby summoned him to the lantern to "help in catching to-morrow's dinner!" Dove laughed at the summons, and they all went up. The first thing that caught Ruby's eye at one of the window panes was the round visage of an owl, staring in with its two large eyes as if it had gone mad with amazement, and holding on to the iron frame with its claws. Presently its claws lost hold, and it fell off into outer darkness. "What think ye o' that for a beauty?" said Forsyth. Ruby's eyes, being set free from the fascination of the owl's stare, now made him aware of the fact that hundreds of birds of all kinds--crows, magpies, sparrows, tomtits, owls, larks, mavises, blackbirds, etcetera, etcetera--were fluttering round the lantern outside, apparently bent on ascertaining the nature of the wonderful light within. "Ah! poor things," said Forsyth, in answer to Ruby's look of wonder, "they often visit us in foggy weather. I suppose they get out to sea in the fog and can't find their way back to land, and then some of them chance to cross our light and take refuge on it." "Now I'll go out and get to-morrow's dinner," said Dumsby. He went out accordingly, and, walking round the balcony that encircled the base of the lantern, was seen to put his hand up and quietly take down and wring the necks of such birds as he deemed suitable for his purpose. It seemed a cruel act to Ruby, but when he came to think of it he felt that, as they were to be stewed at any rate, the more quickly they were killed the better! He observed that the birds kept fluttering about, alighting for a few moments and flying off again, all the time that Dumsby was at work, yet Dumsby never failed to seize his prey. Presently the man came in with a small basket full of _game_. "Now, Ruby," said he, "I'll bet a sixpence that you don't catch a bird within five minutes." "I don't bet such large sums usually, but I'll try," said Ruby, going out. He tried and failed. Just as the five minutes were expiring, however, the owl happened to alight before his nose, so he "nabbed" it, and carried it in triumphantly. "_That_ ain't a bird," said Dumsby. "It's not a fish," retorted Ruby; "but how is it that you caught them so easily, and I found it so difficult?" "Because, lad, you must do it at the right time. You watch w'en the focus of a revolvin' light is comin' full in a bird's face. The moment it does so 'e's dazzled, and you grab 'im. If you grab too soon or too late, 'e's away. That's 'ow it is, and they're capital heatin', as you'll _find_." Thus much for Ruby's astonishment. Now for his being stunned. Late that night the fog cleared away, and the bells were stopped. After a long chat with his friends, Ruby mounted to the library and went to bed. Later still the fog returned, and the bells were again set a-going. Both of them being within a few feet of Ruby's head, they awakened him with a bang that caused him to feel as if the room in which he lay were a bell and his own head the tongue thereof. At first the sound was solemnising, then it was saddening. After a time it became exasperating, and then maddening. He tried to sleep, but he only tossed. He tried to meditate, but he only wandered--not "in dreams", however. He tried to laugh, but the laugh degenerated into a growl. Then he sighed, and the sigh ended in a groan. Finally, he got up and walked up and down the floor till his legs were cold, when he turned into bed again, very tired, and fell asleep, but not to rest--to dream. He dreamt that he was at the forge again, and that he and Dove were trying to smash their anvils with the sledge-hammers--bang and bang about. But the anvil would not break. At last he grew desperate, hit the horn off, and then, with another terrific blow, smashed the whole affair to atoms! This startled him a little, and he awoke sufficiently to become aware of the fog-bells. Again he dreamed. Minnie was his theme now, but, strange to say, he felt little or no tenderness towards her. She was beset by a hundred ruffians in pea-jackets and sou'westers. Something stirred him to madness. He rushed at the foe, and began to hit out at them right and left. The hitting was slow, but sure--regular as clock-work. First the right, then the left, and at each blow a seaman's nose was driven into his head, and a seaman's body lay flat on the ground. At length they were all floored but one--the last and the biggest. Ruby threw all his remaining strength into one crashing blow, drove his fist right through his antagonist's body, and awoke with a start to find his knuckles bleeding. "Hang these bells!" he exclaimed, starting up and gazing round him in despair. Then he fell back on his pillow in despair, and went to sleep in despair. Once more he dreamed. He was going to church now, dressed in a suit of the finest broadcloth, with Minnie on his arm, clothed in pure white, emblematic, it struck him, of her pure gentle spirit. Friends were with him, all gaily attired, and very happy, but unaccountably silent. Perhaps it was the noise of the wedding-bells that rendered their voices inaudible. He was struck by the solemnity as well as the pertinacity of these wedding-bells as he entered the church. He was puzzled too, being a Presbyterian, why he was to be married in church, but being a man of liberal mind, he made no objection to it. They all assembled in front of the pulpit, into which the clergyman, a very reverend but determined man, mounted with a prayer book in his hand. Ruby was puzzled again. He had not supposed that the pulpit was the proper place, but modestly attributed this to his ignorance. "Stop those bells!" said the clergyman, with stern solemnity; but they went on. "Stop them, I say!" he roared in a voice of thunder. The sexton, pulling the ropes in the middle of the church, paid no attention. Exasperated beyond endurance, the clergyman hurled the prayer book at the sexton's head, and felled him! Still the bells went on of their own accord. "Stop! sto-o-o-op! I say," he yelled fiercely, and, hitting the pulpit with his fist, he split it from top to bottom. Minnie cried "Shame!" at this, and from that moment the bells ceased. Whether it was that the fog-bells ceased at that time, or that Minnie's voice charmed Ruby's thoughts away, we cannot tell, but certain it is that the severely tried youth became entirely oblivious of everything. The marriage-party vanished with the bells; Minnie, alas, faded away also; finally, the roar of the sea round the Bell Rock, the rock itself, its lighthouse and its inmates, and all connected with it, faded from the sleeper's mind, and:-- "Like the baseless fabric of a vision Left not a wrack behind." CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. CONCLUSION. Facts are facts; there is no denying that. They cannot be controverted; nothing can overturn them, or modify them, or set them aside. There they stand in naked simplicity; mildly contemptuous alike of sophists and theorists. Immortal facts! Bacon founded on you; Newton found you out; Dugald Stewart and all his fraternity reasoned on you, and followed in your wake. What _would_ this world be without facts? Rest assured, reader, that those who ignore facts and prefer fancies are fools. We say it respectfully. We have no intention of being personal, whoever you may be. On the morning after Ruby was cast on the Bell Rock, our old friend Ned O'Connor (having been appointed one of the lighthouse-keepers, and having gone for his fortnight ashore in the order of his course) sat on the top of the signal-tower at Arbroath with a telescope at his eye directed towards the lighthouse, and became aware of a fact,--a fact which seemed to be contradicted by those who ought to have known better. Ned soliloquised that morning. His soliloquy will explain the circumstances to which we refer; we therefore record it here. "What's that? Sure there's something wrong wid me eye intirely this mornin'. Howld on," (he wiped it here, and applying it again to the telescope, proceeded); "wan, tshoo, three, _four_! No mistake about it. Try agin. Wan, tshoo, three, FOUR! An' yet the ball's up there as cool as a cookumber, tellin' a big lie; ye know ye are," continued Ned, apostrophising the ball, and readjusting the glass. "There ye are, as bold as brass--av ye're not copper--tellin' me that everythin's goin' on as usual, whin I can see with me two eyes (one after the other) that there's _four_ men on the rock, whin there should be only _three_! Well, well," continued Ned, after a pause, and a careful examination of the Bell Rock, which being twelve miles out at sea could not be seen very distinctly in its lower parts, even through a good glass, "the day afther to-morrow'll settle the question, Misther Ball, for then the Relief goes off, and faix, if I don't guv' ye the lie direct I'm not an Irishman." With this consolatory remark, Ned O'Connor descended to the rooms below, and told his wife, who immediately told all the other wives and the neighbours, so that ere long the whole town of Arbroath became aware that there was a mysterious stranger, a _fourth_ party, on the Bell Rock! Thus it came to pass that, when the relieving boat went off, numbers of fishermen and sailors and others watched it depart in the morning, and increased numbers of people of all sorts, among whom were many of the old hands who had wrought at the building of the lighthouse, crowded the pier to watch its return in the afternoon. As soon as the boat left the rock, those who had "glasses" announced that there was an "extra man in her." Speculation remained on tiptoe for nearly three hours, at the end of which time the boat drew near. "It's a man, anyhow," observed Captain Ogilvy, who was one of those near the outer end of the pier. "I say," observed his friend the "leftenant", who was looking through a telescope, "if--that's--not--Ruby--Brand--I'll eat my hat without sauce!" "You don't mean--let me see," cried the captain, snatching the glass out of his friend's hand, and applying it to his eye. "I do believe!--yes! it is Ruby, or his ghost!" By this time the boat was near enough for many of his old friends to recognise him, and Ruby, seeing that some of the faces were familiar to him, rose in the stern of the boat, took off his hat and waved it. This was the signal for a tremendous cheer from those who knew our hero; and those who did not know him, but knew that there was something peculiar and romantic in his case, and in the manner of his arrival, began to cheer from sheer sympathy; while the little boys, who were numerous, and who love to cheer for cheering's sake alone, yelled at the full pitch of their lungs, and waved their ragged caps as joyfully as if the King of England were about to land upon their shores! The boat soon swept into the harbour, and Ruby's friends, headed by Captain Ogilvy, pressed forward to receive and greet him. The captain embraced him, the friends surrounded him, and almost pulled him to pieces; finally, they lifted him on their shoulders, and bore him in triumphal procession to his mother's cottage. And where was Minnie all this time? She had indeed heard the rumour that something had occurred at the Bell Rock; but, satisfied from what she heard that it would be nothing very serious, she was content to remain at home and wait for the news. To say truth, she was too much taken up with her own sorrows and anxieties to care as much for public matters as she had been wont to do. When the uproarious procession drew near, she was sitting at Widow Brand's feet, "comforting her" in her usual way. Before the procession turned the corner of the street leading to his mother's cottage, Ruby made a desperate effort to address the crowd, and succeeded in arresting their attention. "Friends, friends!" he cried, "it's very good of you, very kind; but my mother is old and feeble; she might be hurt if we were to come on her in this fashion. We must go in quietly." "True, true," said those who bore him, letting him down, "so, good day, lad; good day. A shake o' your flipper; give us your hand; glad you're back, Ruby; good luck to 'ee, boy!" Such were the words, followed by three cheers, with which his friends parted from him, and left him alone with the captain. "We must break it to her, nephy," said the captain, as they moved towards the cottage. "`Still so gently o'er me stealin', Memory will bring back the feelin'.' "It won't do to go slap into her, as a British frigate does into a French line-o'-battle ship. I'll go in an' do the breakin' business, and send out Minnie to you." Ruby was quite satisfied with the captain's arrangement, so, when the latter went in to perform his part of this delicate business, the former remained at the door-post, expectant. "Minnie, lass, I want to speak to my sister," said the captain, "leave us a bit--and there's somebody wants to see _you_ outside." "Me, uncle!" "Ay, _you_; look alive now." Minnie went out in some surprise, and had barely crossed the threshold when she found herself pinioned in a strong man's arms! A cry escaped her as she struggled, for one instant, to free herself; but a glance was sufficient to tell who it was that held her. Dropping her head on Ruby's breast, the load of sorrow fell from her heart. Ruby pressed his lips upon her forehead, and they both _rested_ there. It was one of those pre-eminently sweet resting-places which are vouchsafed to some, though not to all, of the pilgrims of earth, in their toilsome journey through the wilderness towards that eternal rest, in the blessedness of which all minor resting-places shall be forgotten, whether missed or enjoyed by the way. Their rest, however, was not of long duration, for in a few minutes the captain rushed out, and exclaiming "she's swounded, lad," grasped Ruby by the coat and dragged him into the cottage, where he found his mother lying in a state of insensibility on the floor. Seating himself by her side on the floor, he raised her gently, and placing her in a half-sitting, half-reclining position in his lap, laid her head tenderly on his breast. While in this position Minnie administered restoratives, and the widow, ere long opened her eyes and looked up. She did not speak at first, but, twining her arms round Ruby's neck, gazed steadfastly into his face; then, drawing him closer to her heart, she fervently exclaimed "Thank God!" and laid her head down again with a deep sigh. She too had found a resting-place by the way on that day of her pilgrimage. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Now, reader, we feel bound to tell you in confidence that there are few things more difficult than drawing a story to a close! Our tale is done, for Ruby is married to Minnie, and the Bell Rock Lighthouse is finished, and most of those who built it are scattered beyond the possibility of reunion. Yet we are loath to shake hands with them and to bid _you_ farewell. Nevertheless, so it must be, for if we were to continue the narrative of the after-careers of our friends of the Bell Rock, the books that should be written would certainly suffice to build a new lighthouse. But we cannot make our bow without a parting word or two. Ruby and Minnie, as we have said, were married. They lived in the cottage with their mother, and managed to make it sufficiently large to hold them all by banishing the captain into the scullery. Do not suppose that this was done heartlessly, and without the captain's consent. By no means. That worthy son of Neptune assisted at his own banishment. In fact, he was himself the chief cause of it, for when a consultation was held after the honeymoon, as to "what was to be done now," he waved his hand, commanded silence, and delivered himself as follows:-- "Now, shipmates all, give ear to me, an' don't ventur' to interrupt. It's nat'ral an' proper, Ruby, that you an' Minnie and your mother should wish to live together; as the old song says, `Birds of a feather flock together,' an' the old song's right; and as the thing ought to be, an' you all want it to be, so it _shall_ be. There's only one little difficulty in the way, which is, that the ship's too small to hold us, by reason of the after-cabin bein' occupied by an old seaman of the name of Ogilvy. Now, then, not bein' pigs, the question is, what's to be done? I will answer that question: the seaman of the name of Ogilvy shall change his quarters." Observing at this point that both Ruby and his bride opened their mouths to speak, the captain held up a threatening finger, and sternly said, "Silence!" Then he proceeded-- "I speak authoritatively on this point, havin' conversed with the seaman Ogilvy, and diskivered his sentiments. That seaman intends to resign the cabin to the young couple, and to hoist his flag for the futur' in the fogs'l." He pointed, in explanation, to the scullery; a small, dirty-looking apartment off the kitchen, which was full of pots and pans and miscellaneous articles of household, chiefly kitchen, furniture. Ruby and Minnie laughed at this, and the widow looked perplexed, but perfectly happy and at her ease, for she knew that whatever arrangement the captain should make, it would be agreeable in the end to all parties. "The seaman Ogilvy and I," continued the captain, "have gone over the fogs'l" (meaning the forecastle) "together, and we find that, by the use of mops, buckets, water, and swabs, the place can be made clean. By the use of paper, paint, and whitewash, it can be made respectable; and, by the use of furniture, pictures, books, and 'baccy, it can be made comfortable. Now, the question that I've got to propound this day to the judge and jury is--Why not?" Upon mature consideration, the judge and jury could not answer "why not?" therefore the thing was fixed and carried out and the captain thereafter dwelt for years in the scullery, and the inmates of the cottage spent so much of their time in the scullery that it became, as it were, the parlour, or boudoir, or drawing-room of the place. When, in course of time, a number of small Brands came to howl and tumble about the cottage, they naturally gravitated towards the scullery, which then virtually became the nursery, with a stout old seaman, of the name of Ogilvy, usually acting the part of head nurse. His duties were onerous, by reason of the strength of constitution, lungs, and muscles of the young Brands, whose ungovernable desire to play with that dangerous element from which heat is evolved, undoubtedly qualified them for the honorary title of Fire-Brands. With the proceeds of the jewel-case Ruby bought a little coasting vessel, with which he made frequent and successful voyages. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," no doubt, for Minnie grew fonder of Ruby every time he went away, and every time he came back. Things prospered with our hero, and you may be sure that he did not forget his old friends of the lighthouse. On the contrary, he and his wife became frequent visitors at the signal-tower, and the families of the lighthouse-keepers felt almost as much at home in "the cottage" as they did in their own houses. And each keeper, on returning from his six weeks' spell on the rock to take his two weeks' spell at the signal-tower, invariably made it his first business, _after_ kissing his wife and children, to go up to the Brands and smoke a pipe in the scullery with that eccentric old seafaring nursery-maid of the name of Ogilvy. In time Ruby found it convenient to build a top flat on the cottage, and above this a small turret, which overlooked the opposite houses, and commanded a view of the sea. This tower the captain converted into a point of lookout, and a summer smoking-room,--and many a time and oft, in the years that followed, did he and Ruby climb up there about nightfall, to smoke the pipe of peace, with Minnie beside them, and to watch the bright flashing of the red and white light on the Bell Rock, as it shone over the waters far and wide, like a star of the first magnitude, a star of hope and safety, guiding sailors to their desired haven; perchance reminding them of that star of Bethlehem which guided the shepherds to Him who is the Light of the World and the Rock of Ages. 
30990	----	Transcriber's notes: Text following a carat character (^) was superscript in the original (example: M^r). The following typographical errors were amended: In page 180 "his nights were for some while like other men's now banlk ..." 'banlk' was changed to 'blank'. In page 343 "If was plain, thus far, that I should have to get into India ..." 'If' was corrected to 'It'. THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SWANSTON EDITION VOLUME XVI _Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies have been printed, of which only Two Thousand Copies are for sale._ _This Is No._ ........... [Illustration: R. L. S. IN APEMAMA ISLAND: A DEVIL-PRIEST MAKING INCANTATIONS] THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON VOLUME SIXTEEN LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS RECORDS OF A FAMILY OF ENGINEERS PAGE INTRODUCTION: THE SURNAME OF STEVENSON 3 I. DOMESTIC ANNALS 12 II. THE SERVICE OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 34 III. THE BUILDING OF THE BELL ROCK 62 ADDITIONAL MEMORIES AND PORTRAITS I. RANDOM MEMORIES: I. THE COAST OF FIFE 155 II. RANDOM MEMORIES: II. THE EDUCATION OF AN ENGINEER 167 III. A CHAPTER ON DREAMS 177 IV. BEGGARS 190 V. THE LANTERN-BEARERS 200 LATER ESSAYS I. FONTAINEBLEAU: VILLAGE COMMUNITIES OF PAINTERS 215 II. A NOTE ON REALISM 234 III. ON SOME TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF STYLE IN LITERATURE 241 IV. THE MORALITY OF THE PROFESSION OF LETTERS 260 V. BOOKS WHICH HAVE INFLUENCED ME 272 VI. THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW 279 VII. LETTER TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO PROPOSES TO EMBRACE THE CAREER OF ART 290 VIII. PULVIS ET UMBRA 299 IX. A CHRISTMAS SERMON 306 X. FATHER DAMIEN: AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU 315 XI. MY FIRST BOOK--"TREASURE ISLAND" 331 XII. THE GENESIS OF "THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE" 341 XIII. RANDOM MEMORIES: _Rosa Quo Locorum_ 345 XIV. REFLECTIONS AND REMARKS ON HUMAN LIFE 354 XV. THE IDEAL HOUSE 370 LAY MORALS 379 PRAYERS WRITTEN FOR FAMILY USE AT VAILIMA 431 RECORDS OF A FAMILY OF ENGINEERS RECORDS OF A FAMILY OF ENGINEERS INTRODUCTION THE SURNAME OF STEVENSON From the thirteenth century onwards, the name, under the various disguises of Stevinstoun, Stevensoun, Stevensonne, Stenesone, and Stewinsoune, spread across Scotland from the mouth of the Firth of Forth to the mouth of the Firth of Clyde. Four times at least it occurs as a place-name. There is a parish of Stevenston in Cunningham; a second place of the name in the Barony of Bothwell in Lanark; a third on Lyne, above Drochil Castle; the fourth on the Tyne, near Traprain Law. Stevenson of Stevenson (co. Lanark) swore fealty to Edward I. in 1296, and the last of that family died after the Restoration. Stevensons of Hirdmanshiels, in Midlothian, rode in the Bishops' Raid of Aberlady, served as jurors, stood bail for neighbours--Hunter of Polwood, for instance--and became extinct about the same period, or possibly earlier. A Stevenson of Luthrie and another of Pitroddie make their bows, give their names, and vanish. And by the year 1700 it does not appear that any acre of Scots land was vested in any Stevenson.[1] Here is, so far, a melancholy picture of backward progress, and a family posting towards extinction. But the law (however administered, and I am bound to aver that, in Scotland "it couldna weel be waur") acts as a kind of dredge, and with dispassionate impartiality brings up into the light of day, and shows us for a moment, in the jury-box or on the gallows, the creeping things of the past. By these broken glimpses we are able to trace the existence of many other and more inglorious Stevensons, picking a private way through the brawl that makes Scots history. They were members of Parliament for Peebles, Stirling, Pittenweem, Kilrenny, and Inverurie. We find them burgesses of Edinburgh; indwellers in Biggar, Perth, and Dalkeith. Thomas was the forester of Newbattle Park, Gavin was a baker, John a maltman, Francis a chirurgeon, and "Schir William" a priest. In the feuds of Humes and Heatleys, Cunninghams, Montgomeries, Mures, Ogilvies, and Turnbulls, we find them inconspicuously involved, and apparently getting rather better than they gave. Schir William (reverend gentleman) was cruellie slaughtered on the Links of Kincraig in 1532; James ("in the mill-town of Roberton"), murdered in 1590; Archibald ("in Gallowfarren"), killed with shots of pistols and hagbuts in 1608. Three violent deaths in about seventy years, against which we can only put the case of Thomas, servant to Hume of Cowden Knowes, who was arraigned with his two young masters for the death of the Bastard of Mellerstanes in 1569. John ("in Dalkeith") stood sentry without Holyrood while the banded lords were despatching Rizzio within. William, at the ringing of Perth bell, ran before Cowrie House "with ane sword, and, entering to the yearde, saw George Craiggingilt with ane twa-handit sword and utheris nychtbouris; at quilk time James Boig cryit ower ane wynds, 'Awa hame! ye will all be hangit'"--a piece of advice which William took, and immediately "depairtit." John got a maid with child to him in Biggar, and seemingly deserted her; she was hanged on the Castle Hill for infanticide, June 1614; and Martin, elder in Dalkeith, eternally disgraced the name by signing witness in a witch trial, 1661. These are two of our black sheep.[2] Under the Restoration, one Stevenson was a bailie in Edinburgh, and another the lessee of the Canonmills. There were at the same period two physicians of the name in Edinburgh, one of whom, Dr. Archibald, appears to have been a famous man in his day and generation. The Court had continual need of him; it was he who reported, for instance, on the state of Rumbold; and he was for some time in the enjoyment of a pension of a thousand pounds Scots (about eighty pounds sterling) at a time when five hundred pounds is described as "an opulent future." I do not know if I should be glad or sorry that he failed to keep favour; but on 6th January 1682 (rather a cheerless New Year's present) his pension was expunged.[3] There need be no doubt, at least, of my exultation at the fact that he was knighted and recorded arms. Not quite so genteel, but still in public life, Hugh was Under-Clerk to the Privy Council, and liked being so extremely. I gather this from his conduct in September 1681, when, with all the lords and their servants, he took the woful and soul-destroying Test, swearing it "word by word upon his knees." And, behold! it was in vain, for Hugh was turned out of his small post in 1684.[4] Sir Archibald and Hugh were both plainly inclined to be trimmers; but there was one witness of the name of Stevenson who held high the banner of the Covenant--John, "Land-Labourer,[5] in the parish of Daily, in Carrick," that "eminently pious man." He seems to have been a poor sickly soul, and shows himself disabled with scrofula, and prostrate and groaning aloud with fever; but the enthusiasm of the martyr burned high within him. "I was made to take joyfully the spoiling of my goods, and with pleasure for His name's sake wandered in deserts and in mountains, in dens and caves of the earth. I lay four months in the coldest season of the year in a haystack in my father's garden, and a whole February in the open fields not far from Camragen, and this I did without the least prejudice from the night air; one night, when lying in the fields near to the Carrick-Miln, I was all covered with snow in the morning. Many nights have I lain with pleasure in the churchyard of Old Daily, and made a grave my pillow; frequently have I resorted to the old walls about the glen, near to Camragen, and there sweetly rested." The visible hand of God protected and directed him. Dragoons were turned aside from the bramble-bush where he lay hidden. Miracles were performed for his behoof. "I got a horse and a woman to carry the child, and came to the same mountain, where I wandered by the mist before; it is commonly known by the name of Kellsrhins: when we came to go up the mountain, there came on a great rain, which we thought was the occasion of the child's weeping, and she wept so bitterly, that all we could do could not divert her from it, so that she was ready to burst. When we got to the top of the mountain, where the Lord had been formerly kind to my soul in prayer, I looked round me for a stone, and espying one, I went and brought it. When the woman with me saw me set down the stone, she smiled, and asked what I was going to do with it. I told her I was going to set it up as my Ebenezer, because hitherto, and in that place, the Lord had formerly helped, and I hoped would yet help. The rain still continuing, the child weeping bitterly, I went to prayer, and no sooner did I cry to God, but the child gave over weeping, and when we got up from prayer, the rain was pouring down on every side, but in the way where we were to go there fell not one drop; the place not rained on was as big as an ordinary avenue." And so great a saint was the natural butt of Satan's persecutions. "I retired to the fields for secret prayer about midnight. When I went to pray I was much straitened, and could not get one request, but 'Lord pity,' 'Lord help'; this I came over frequently; at length the terror of Satan fell on me in a high degree, and all I could say even then was--'Lord help.' I continued in the duty for some time, notwithstanding of this terror. At length I got up to my feet, and the terror still increased; then the enemy took me by the arm-pits, and seemed to lift me up by my arms. I saw a loch just before me, and I concluded he designed to throw me there by force; and had he got leave to do so, it might have brought a great reproach upon religion."[6] But it was otherwise ordered, and the cause of piety escaped that danger.[7] On the whole, the Stevensons may be described as decent, reputable folk, following honest trades--millers, maltsters, and doctors, playing the character parts in the Waverley Novels with propriety, if without distinction; and to an orphan looking about him in the world for a potential ancestry, offering a plain and quite unadorned refuge, equally free from shame and glory. John, the land-labourer, is the one living and memorable figure, and he, alas! cannot possibly be more near than a collateral. It was on August 12, 1678, that he heard Mr. John Welsh on the Craigdowhill, and "took the heavens, earth, and sun in the firmament that was shining on us, as also the ambassador who made the offer, and _the clerk who raised the psalms_, to witness that I did give myself away to the Lord in a personal and perpetual covenant never to be forgotten"; and already, in 1675, the birth of my direct ascendant was registered in Glasgow. So that I have been pursuing ancestors too far down; and John the land-labourer is debarred me, and I must relinquish from the trophies of my house his _rare soul-strengthening and comforting cordial_. It is the same case with the Edinburgh bailie and the miller of the Canonmills, worthy man! and with that public character, Hugh the Under-Clerk, and more than all, with Sir Archibald, the physician, who recorded arms. And I am reduced to a family of inconspicuous maltsters in what was then the clean and handsome little city on the Clyde. The name has a certain air of being Norse. But the story of Scottish nomenclature is confounded by a continual process of translation and half-translation from the Gaelic which in olden days may have been sometimes reversed. Roy becomes Reid; Gow, Smith. A great Highland clan uses the name of Robertson; a sept in Appin that of Livingstone; Maclean in Glencoe answers to Johnstone at Lockerby. And we find such hybrids as Macalexander for Macallister. There is but one rule to be deduced: that however uncompromisingly Saxon a name may appear, you can never be sure it does not designate a Celt. My great-grandfather wrote the name _Stevenson_ but pronounced it _Steenson_, after the fashion of the immortal minstrel in "Redgauntlet"; and this elision of a medial consonant appears a Gaelic process; and, curiously enough, I have come across no less than two Gaelic forms: _John Macstophane cordinerius in Crossraguel_, 1573, and _William M'Steen_ in Dunskeith (co. Ross), 1605. Stevenson, Steenson, Macstophane, M'Steen: which is the original? which the translation? Or were these separate creations of the patronymic, some English, some Gaelic? The curiously compact territory in which we find them seated--Ayr, Lanark, Peebles, Stirling, Perth, Fife, and the Lothians--would seem to forbid the supposition.[8] "STEVENSON--or according to tradition of one of the proscribed of the clan MacGregor, who was born among the willows or in a hill-side sheep-pen--'Son of my love,' a heraldic bar sinister, but history reveals a reason for the birth among the willows far other than the sinister aspect of the name": these are the dark words of Mr. Cosmo Innes; but history or tradition, being interrogated, tells a somewhat tangled tale. The heir of Macgregor of Glenorchy, murdered about 1353 by the Argyll Campbells, appears to have been the original "Son of my love"; and his more loyal clansmen took the name to fight under. It may be supposed the story of their resistance became popular, and the name in some sort identified with the idea of opposition to the Campbells. Twice afterwards, on some renewed aggression, in 1502 and 1552, we find the Macgregors again banding themselves into a sept of "Sons of my love"; and when the great disaster fell on them in 1603, the whole original legend re-appears, and we have the heir of Alaster of Glenstrae born "among the willows" of a fugitive mother, and the more loyal clansmen again rallying under the name of Stevenson. A story would not be told so often unless it had some base in fact; nor (if there were no bond at all between the Red Macgregors and the Stevensons) would that extraneous and somewhat uncouth name be so much repeated in the legends of the Children of the Mist. But I am enabled, by my very lively and obliging correspondent, Mr. George A. Macgregor Stevenson of New York, to give an actual instance. His grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, and great-great-great-grandfather, all used the names of Macgregor and Stevenson as occasion served; being perhaps Macgregor by night and Stevenson by day. The great-great-great-grandfather was a mighty man of his hands, marched with the clan in the 'Forty-five, and returned with _spolia opima_ in the shape of a sword, which he had wrested from an officer in the retreat, and which is in the possession of my correspondent to this day. His great-grandson (the grandfather of my correspondent), being converted to Methodism by some wayside preacher, discarded in a moment his name, his old nature, and his political principles, and with the zeal of a proselyte sealed his adherence to the Protestant Succession by baptising his next son George. This George became the publisher and editor of the _Wesleyan Times_. His children were brought up in ignorance of their Highland pedigree; and my correspondent was puzzled to overhear his father speak of him as a true Macgregor, and amazed to find, in rummaging about that peaceful and pious house, the sword of the Hanoverian officer. After he was grown up and was better informed of his descent, "I frequently asked my father," he writes, "why he did not use the name of Macgregor; his replies were significant, and give a picture of the man: 'It isn't a good _Methodist_ name. You can use it, but it will do you no _good_.' Yet the old gentleman, by way of pleasantry, used to announce himself to friends as 'Colonel Macgregor.'" Here, then, are certain Macgregors habitually using the name of Stevenson, and at last, under the influence of Methodism, adopting it entirely. Doubtless a proscribed clan could not be particular; they took a name as a man takes an umbrella against a shower; as Rob Roy took Campbell, and his son took Drummond. But this case is different; Stevenson was not taken and left--it was consistently adhered to. It does not in the least follow that all Stevensons are of the clan Alpin; but it does follow that some may be. And I cannot conceal from myself the possibility that James Stevenson in Glasgow, my first authentic ancestor, may have had a Highland _alias_ upon his conscience and a claymore in his back parlour. To one more tradition I may allude, that we are somehow descended from a French barber-surgeon who came to St. Andrews in the service of one of the Cardinal Beatons. No details were added. But the very name of France was so detested in my family for three generations, that I am tempted to suppose there may be something in it.[9] FOOTNOTES: [1] An error: Stevensons owned at this date the barony of Dolphingston in Haddingtonshire, Montgrennan in Ayrshire, and several other lesser places. [2] Pitcairn's "Criminal Trials," at large.--[R. L. S.] [3] Fountainhall's "Decisions," vol. i. pp. 56, 132, 186, 204, 368.--[R. L. S.] [4] _Ibid._ pp. 158, 299.--[R. L. S.] [5] Working farmer: Fr. _laboureur_. [6] This John Stevenson was not the only "witness" of the name; other Stevensons were actually killed during the persecutions, in the Glen of Trool, on Pentland, etc.; and it is very possible that the author's own ancestor was one of the mounted party embodied by Muir of Caldwell, only a day too late for Pentland. [7] Wodrow Society's "Select Biographies," vol. ii.--[R. L. S.] [8] Though the districts here named are those in which the name of Stevenson is most common, it is in point of fact far more wide-spread than the text indicates, and occurs from Dumfries and Berwickshire to Aberdeen and Orkney. [9] Mr. J.H. Stevenson is satisfied that these speculations as to a possible Norse, Highland, or French origin are vain. All we know about the engineer family is that it was sprung from a stock of Westland Whigs settled in the latter part of the seventeenth century in the parish of Neilston, as mentioned at the beginning of the next chapter. It may be noted that the Ayrshire parish of Stevenson, the lands of which are said to have received the name in the twelfth century, lies within thirteen miles south-west of this place. The lands of Stevenson in Lanarkshire first mentioned in the next century, in the Ragman Roll, lie within twenty miles east. CHAPTER I DOMESTIC ANNALS It is believed that in 1665, James Stevenson in Nether Carsewell, parish of Neilston, county of Renfrew, and presumably a tenant farmer, married one Jean Keir; and in 1675, without doubt, there was born to these two a son Robert, possibly a maltster in Glasgow. In 1710, Robert married, for a second time, Elizabeth Cumming, and there was born to them, in 1720, another Robert, certainly a maltster in Glasgow. In 1742, Robert the second married Margaret Fulton (Margret, she called herself), by whom he had ten children, among whom were Hugh, born February 1749, and Alan, born June 1752. With these two brothers my story begins. Their deaths were simultaneous; their lives unusually brief and full. Tradition whispered me in childhood they were the owners of an islet near St. Kitts; and it is certain they had risen to be at the head of considerable interests in the West Indies, which Hugh managed abroad and Alan at home, at an age when others are still curveting a clerk's stool. My kinsman, Mr. Stevenson of Stirling, has heard his father mention that there had been "something romantic" about Alan's marriage: and, alas! he has forgotten what. It was early at least. His wife was Jean, daughter of David Lillie, a builder in Glasgow, and several times "Deacon of the Wrights": the date of the marriage has not reached me: but on 8th June 1772, when Robert, the only child of the union, was born, the husband and father had scarce passed, or had not yet attained, his twentieth year. Here was a youth making haste to give hostages to fortune. But this early scene of prosperity in love and business was on the point of closing. There hung in the house of this young family, and successively in those of my grandfather and father, an oil painting of a ship of many tons burthen. Doubtless the brothers had an interest in the vessel; I was told she had belonged to them outright; and the picture was preserved through years of hardship, and remains to this day in the possession of the family, the only memorial of my great-grandsire Alan. It was on this ship that he sailed on his last adventure, summoned to the West Indies by Hugh. An agent had proved unfaithful on a serious scale; and it used to be told me in my childhood how the brothers pursued him from one island to another in an open boat, were exposed to the pernicious dews of the tropics, and simultaneously struck down. The dates and places of their deaths (now before me) would seem to indicate a more scattered and prolonged pursuit: Hugh, on the 16th April 1774, in Tobago, within sight of Trinidad; Alan, so late as May 26th, and so far away as "Santt Kittes," in the Leeward Islands--both, says the family Bible, "of a fiver" (!). The death of Hugh was probably announced by Alan in a letter, to which we may refer the details of the open boat and the dew. Thus, at least, in something like the course of post, both were called away, the one twenty-five, the other twenty-two; their brief generation became extinct, their short-lived house fell with them; and "in these lawless parts and lawless times"--the words are my grandfather's--their property was stolen or became involved. Many years later, I understand some small recovery to have been made; but at the moment almost the whole means of the family seem to have perished with the young merchants. On the 27th April, eleven days after Hugh Stevenson, twenty-nine before Alan, died David Lillie, the Deacon of the Wrights; so that mother and son were orphaned in one month. Thus, from a few scraps of paper bearing little beyond dates, we construct the outlines of the tragedy that shadowed the cradle of Robert Stevenson. Jean Lillie was a young woman of strong sense, well fitted to contend with poverty, and of a pious disposition, which it is like that these misfortunes heated. Like so many other widowed Scotswomen, she vowed her son should wag his head in a pulpit; but her means were inadequate to her ambition. A charity school, and some time under a Mr. M'Intyre, "a famous linguist," were all she could afford in the way of education to the would-be minister. He learned no Greek; in one place he mentions that the Orations of Cicero were his highest book in Latin; in another that he had "delighted" in Virgil and Horace; but his delight could never have been scholarly. This appears to have been the whole of his training previous to an event which changed his own destiny and moulded that of his descendants--the second marriage of his mother. There was a Merchant-Burgess of Edinburgh of the name of Thomas Smith. The Smith pedigree has been traced a little more particularly than the Stevensons', with a similar dearth of illustrious names. One character seems to have appeared, indeed, for a moment at the wings of history: a skipper of Dundee who smuggled over some Jacobite big-wig at the time of the 'Fifteen, and was afterwards drowned in Dundee harbour while going on board his ship. With this exception, the generations of the Smiths present no conceivable interest even to a descendant; and Thomas, of Edinburgh, was the first to issue from respectable obscurity. His father, a skipper out of Broughty Ferry, was drowned at sea while Thomas was still young. He seems to have owned a ship or two--whalers, I suppose, or coasters--and to have been a member of the Dundee Trinity House, whatever that implies. On his death the widow remained in Broughty, and the son came to push his future in Edinburgh. There is a story told of him in the family which I repeat here because I shall have to tell later on a similar, but more perfectly authenticated, experience of his stepson, Robert Stevenson. Word reached Thomas that his mother was unwell, and he prepared to leave for Broughty on the morrow. It was between two and three in the morning, and the early northern daylight was already clear, when he awoke and beheld the curtains at the bed-foot drawn aside and his mother appear in the interval, smile upon him for a moment, and then vanish. The sequel is stereotype: he took the time by his watch, and arrived at Broughty to learn it was the very moment of her death. The incident is at least curious in having happened to such a person--as the tale is being told of him. In all else, he appears as a man, ardent, passionate, practical, designed for affairs and prospering in them far beyond the average. He founded a solid business in lamps and oils, and was the sole proprietor of a concern called the Greenside Company's Works--"a multifarious concern it was," writes my cousin, Professor Swan, "of tinsmiths, coppersmiths, brassfounders, blacksmiths, and japanners." He was also, it seems, a shipowner and underwriter. He built himself "a land"--Nos. 1 and 2 Baxter's Place, then no such unfashionable neighbourhood--and died, leaving his only son in easy circumstances, and giving to his three surviving daughters portions of five thousand pounds and upwards. There is no standard of success in life; but in one of its meanings, this is to succeed. In what we know of his opinions, he makes a figure highly characteristic of the time. A high Tory and patriot, a captain--so I find it in my notes--of Edinburgh Spearmen, and on duty in the Castle during the Muir and Palmer troubles, he bequeathed to his descendants a bloodless sword and a somewhat violent tradition, both long preserved. The judge who sat on Muir and Palmer, the famous Braxfield, let fall from the bench the _obiter dictum_--"I never liked the French all my days, but now I hate them." If Thomas Smith, the Edinburgh Spearman, were in court, he must have been tempted to applaud. The people of that land were his abhorrence; he loathed Buonaparte like Antichrist. Towards the end he fell into a kind of dotage; his family must entertain him with games of tin soldiers, which he took a childish pleasure to array and overset; but those who played with him must be upon their guard, for if his side, which was always that of the English against the French, should chance to be defeated, there would be trouble in Baxter's Place. For these opinions he may almost be said to have suffered. Baptised and brought up in the Church of Scotland, he had, upon some conscientious scruple, joined the communion of the Baptists. Like other Nonconformists, these were inclined to the Liberal side in politics, and, at least in the beginning, regarded Buonaparte as a deliverer. From the time of his joining the Spearmen, Thomas Smith became in consequence a bugbear to his brethren in the faith. "They that take the sword shall perish with the sword," they told him; they gave him "no rest"; "his position became intolerable"; it was plain he must choose between his political and his religious tenets; and in the last years of his life, about 1812, he returned to the Church of his fathers. August 1786 was the date of his chief advancement, when, having designed a system of oil lights to take the place of the primitive coal fires before in use, he was dubbed engineer to the newly-formed Board of Northern Lighthouses. Not only were his fortunes bettered by the appointment, but he was introduced to a new and wider field for the exercise of his abilities, and a new way of life highly agreeable to his active constitution. He seems to have rejoiced in the long journeys, and to have combined them with the practice of field sports. "A tall, stout man coming ashore with his gun over his arm"--so he was described to my father--the only description that has come down to me--by a light-keeper old in the service. Nor did this change come alone. On the 9th July of the same year, Thomas Smith had been left for the second time a widower. As he was still but thirty-three years old, prospering in his affairs, newly advanced in the world, and encumbered at the time with a family of children, five in number, it was natural that he should entertain the notion of another wife. Expeditious in business, he was no less so in his choice; and it was not later than June 1787--for my grandfather is described as still in his fifteenth year--that he married the widow of Alan Stevenson. The perilous experiment of bringing together two families for once succeeded. Mr. Smith's two eldest daughters, Jean and Janet, fervent in piety, unwearied in kind deeds, were well qualified both to appreciate and to attract the stepmother; and her son, on the other hand, seems to have found immediate favour in the eyes of Mr. Smith. It is, perhaps, easy to exaggerate the ready-made resemblances; the tired woman must have done much to fashion girls who were under ten; the man, lusty and opinionated, must have stamped a strong impression on the boy of fifteen. But the cleavage of the family was too marked, the identity of character and interest produced between the two men on the one hand, and the three women on the other, was too complete to have been the result of influence alone. Particular bonds of union must have pre-existed on each side. And there is no doubt that the man and the boy met with common ambitions, and a common bent, to the practice of that which had not so long before acquired the name of civil engineering. For the profession which is now so thronged, famous, and influential, was then a thing of yesterday. My grandfather had an anecdote of Smeaton, probably learned from John Clerk of Eldin, their common friend. Smeaton was asked by the Duke of Argyll to visit the West Highland coast for a professional purpose. He refused, appalled, it seems, by the rough travelling. "You can recommend some other fit person?" asked the Duke. "No," said Smeaton, "I'm sorry I can't." "What!" cried the Duke, "a profession with only one man in it! Pray, who taught you?" "Why," said Smeaton, "I believe I may say I was self-taught, an't please your grace." Smeaton, at the date of Thomas Smith's third marriage, was yet living; and as the one had grown to the new profession from his place at the instrument-maker's, the other was beginning to enter it by the way of his trade. The engineer of to-day is confronted with a library of acquired results; tables and formulæ to the value of folios full have been calculated and recorded; and the student finds everywhere in front of him the footprints of the pioneers. In the eighteenth century the field was largely unexplored; the engineer must read with his own eyes the face of nature; he arose a volunteer, from the workshop or the mill, to undertake works which were at once inventions and adventures. It was not a science then--it was a living art; and it visibly grew under the eyes and between the hands of its practitioners. The charm of such an occupation was strongly felt by stepfather and stepson. It chanced that Thomas Smith was a reformer; the superiority of his proposed lamp and reflectors over open fires of coal secured his appointment; and no sooner had he set his hand to the task than the interest of that employment mastered him. The vacant stage on which he was to act, and where all had yet to be created--the greatness of the difficulties, the smallness of the means intrusted him--would rouse a man of his disposition like a call to battle. The lad introduced by marriage under his roof was of a character to sympathise; the public usefulness of the service would appeal to his judgment, the perpetual need for fresh expedients stimulate his ingenuity. And there was another attraction which, in the younger man at least, appealed to, and perhaps first aroused a profound and enduring sentiment of romance: I mean the attraction of the life. The seas into which his labours carried the new engineer were still scarce charted, the coasts still dark; his way on shore was often far beyond the convenience of any road; the isles in which he must sojourn were still partly savage. He must toss much in boats; he must often adventure on horseback by the dubious bridle-track through unfrequented wildernesses; he must sometimes plant his lighthouse in the very camp of wreckers; and he was continually enforced to the vicissitudes of outdoor life. The joy of my grandfather in this career was strong as the love of woman. It lasted him through youth and manhood, it burned strong in age, and at the approach of death his last yearning was to renew these loved experiences. What he felt himself he continued to attribute to all around him. And to this supposed sentiment in others I find him continually, almost pathetically, appealing: often in vain. Snared by these interests, the boy seems to have become almost at once the eager confidant and adviser of his new connection; the Church, if he had ever entertained the prospect very warmly, faded from his view; and at the age of nineteen I find him already in a post of some authority, superintending the construction of the lighthouse on the isle of Little Cumbrae, in the Firth of Clyde. The change of aim seems to have caused or been accompanied by a change of character. It sounds absurd to couple the name of my grandfather with the word indolence; but the lad who had been destined from the cradle to the Church, and who had attained the age of fifteen without acquiring more than a moderate knowledge of Latin, was at least no unusual student. And from the day of his charge at Little Cumbrae he steps before us what he remained until the end, a man of the most zealous industry, greedy of occupation, greedy of knowledge, a stern husband of time, a reader, a writer, unflagging in his task of self-improvement. Thenceforward his summers were spent directing works and ruling workmen, now in uninhabited, now in half-savage islands; his winters were set apart, first at the Andersonian Institution, then at the University of Edinburgh to improve himself in mathematics, chemistry, natural history, agriculture, moral philosophy, and logic; a bearded student--although no doubt scrupulously shaved. I find one reference to his years in class which will have a meaning for all who have studied in Scottish Universities. He mentions a recommendation made by the professor of logic. "The high-school men," he writes, "and _bearded men like myself_, were all attention." If my grandfather were throughout life a thought too studious of the art of getting on, much must be forgiven to the bearded and belated student who looked across, with a sense of difference, at "the high-school men." Here was a gulf to be crossed; but already he could feel that he had made a beginning, and that must have been a proud hour when he devoted his earliest earnings to the repayment of the charitable foundation in which he had received the rudiments of knowledge. In yet another way he followed the example of his father-in-law, and from 1794 to 1807, when the affairs of the Bell Rock made it necessary for him to resign, he served in different corps of volunteers. In the last of these he rose to a position of distinction, no less than captain of the Grenadier Company, and his colonel, in accepting his resignation, entreated he would do them "the favour of continuing as an honorary member of a corps which has been so much indebted for your zeal and exertions." To very pious women the men of the house are apt to appear worldly. The wife, as she puts on her new bonnet before church, is apt to sigh over that assiduity which enabled her husband to pay the milliner's bill. And in the household of the Smiths and Stevensons the women were not only extremely pious, but the men were in reality a trifle worldly. Religious they both were; conscious, like all Scots, of the fragility and unreality of that scene in which we play our uncomprehended parts; like all Scots, realising daily and hourly the sense of another will than ours and a perpetual direction in the affairs of life. But the current of their endeavours flowed in a more obvious channel. They had got on so far; to get on further was their next ambition--to gather wealth, to rise in society, to leave their descendants higher than themselves, to be (in some sense) among the founders of families. Scott was in the same town nourishing similar dreams. But in the eyes of the women these dreams would be foolish and idolatrous. I have before me some volumes of old letters addressed to Mrs. Smith and the two girls, her favourites, which depict in a strong light their characters and the society in which they moved. "My very dear and much esteemed Friend," writes one correspondent, "this day being the anniversary of our acquaintance, I feel inclined to address you; but where shall I find words to express the fealings of a graitful _Heart_, first to the Lord who graiciously inclined you on this day last year to notice an afflicted Strainger providentially cast in your way far from any Earthly friend?... Methinks I shall hear him say unto you, 'Inasmuch as ye shewed kindness to my afflicted handmaiden, ye did it unto me.'" This is to Jean; but the same afflicted lady wrote indifferently to Jean, to Janet, and to Mrs. Smith, whom she calls "my Edinburgh mother." It is plain the three were as one person, moving to acts of kindness, like the Graces, inarmed. Too much stress must not be laid on the style of this correspondence; Clarinda survived, not far away, and may have met the ladies on the Calton Hill; and many of the writers appear, underneath the conventions of the period, to be genuinely moved. But what unpleasantly strikes a reader is that these devout unfortunates found a revenue in their devotion. It is everywhere the same tale: on the side of the soft-hearted ladies, substantial acts of help; on the side of the correspondents, affection, italics, texts, ecstasies, and imperfect spelling. When a midwife is recommended, not at all for proficiency in her important art, but because she has "a sister whom I [the correspondent] esteem and respect, and [who] is a spiritual daughter of my Hon^d Father in the Gosple," the mask seems to be torn off, and the wages of godliness appear too openly. Capacity is a secondary matter in a midwife, temper in a servant, affection in a daughter, and the repetition of a shibboleth fulfils the law. Common decency is at times forgot in the same page with the most sanctified advice and aspiration. Thus I am introduced to a correspondent who appears to have been at the time the housekeeper at Invermay, and who writes to condole with my grandmother in a season of distress. For nearly half a sheet she keeps to the point with an excellent discretion in language; then suddenly breaks out: "It was fully my intention to have left this at Martinmass, but the Lord fixes the bounds of our habitation. I have had more need of patience in my situation here than in any other, partly from the very violent, unsteady, deceitful temper of the Mistress of the Family, and also from the state of the house. It was in a train of repair when I came here two years ago, and is still in Confusion. There is above six Thousand Pounds' worth of Furniture come from London to be put up when the rooms are completely finished; and then, woe be to the Person who is Housekeeper at Invermay!" And by the tail of the document, which is torn, I see she goes on to ask the bereaved family to seek her a new place. It is extraordinary that people should have been so deceived in so careless an impostor; that a few sprinkled "God willings" should have blinded them to the essence of this venomous letter; and that they should have been at the pains to bind it in with others (many of them highly touching) in their memorial of harrowing days. But the good ladies were without guile and without suspicion; they were victims marked for the axe, and the religious impostors snuffed up the wind as they drew near. I have referred above to my grandmother; it was no slip of the pen: for by an extraordinary arrangement, in which it is hard not to suspect the managing hand of a mother, Jean Smith became the wife of Robert Stevenson. Mrs. Smith had failed in her design to make her son a minister, and she saw him daily more immersed in business and worldly ambition. One thing remained that she might do: she might secure for him a godly wife, that great means of sanctification; and she had two under her hand, trained by herself, her dear friends and daughters both in law and love--Jean and Janet. Jean's complexion was extremely pale, Janet's was florid; my grandmother's nose was straight, my great-aunt's aquiline; but by the sound of the voice, not even a son was able to distinguish one from other. The marriage of a man of twenty-seven and a girl of twenty who have lived for twelve years as brother and sister, is difficult to conceive. It took place, however, and thus in 1799 the family was still further cemented by the union of a representative of the male or worldly element with one of the female and devout. This essential difference remained unbridged, yet never diminished the strength of their relation. My grandfather pursued his design of advancing in the world with some measure of success; rose to distinction in his calling, grew to be the familiar of members of Parliament, judges of the Court of Session, and "landed gentlemen"; learned a ready address, had a flow of interesting conversation, and when he was referred to as "a highly respectable _bourgeois_," resented the description. My grandmother remained to the end devout and unambitious, occupied with her Bible, her children, and her house; easily shocked, and associating largely with a clique of godly parasites. I do not know if she called in the midwife already referred to; but the principle on which that lady was recommended, she accepted fully. The cook was a godly woman, the butcher a Christian man, and the table suffered. The scene has been often described to me of my grandfather sawing with darkened countenance at some indissoluble joint--"Preserve me, my dear, what kind of a reedy, stringy beast is this?"--of the joint removed, the pudding substituted and uncovered; and of my grandmother's anxious glance and hasty, deprecatory comment, "Just mismanaged!" Yet with the invincible obstinacy of soft natures, she would adhere to the godly woman and the Christian man, or find others of the same kidney to replace them. One of her confidants had once a narrow escape; an unwieldy old woman, she had fallen from an outside stair in a close of the Old Town; and my grandmother rejoiced to communicate the providential circumstance that a baker had been passing underneath with his bread upon his head. "I would like to know what kind of providence the baker thought it!" cried my grandfather. But the sally must have been unique. In all else that I have heard or read of him, so far from criticising, he was doing his utmost to honour and even to emulate his wife's pronounced opinions. In the only letter which has come to my hand of Thomas Smith's, I find him informing his wife that he was "in time for afternoon church "; similar assurances or cognate excuses abound in the correspondence of Robert Stevenson; and it is comical and pretty to see the two generations paying the same court to a female piety more highly strung: Thomas Smith to the mother of Robert Stevenson--Robert Stevenson to the daughter of Thomas Smith. And if for once my grandfather suffered himself to be hurried, by his sense of humour and justice, into that remark about the case of Providence and the Baker, I should be sorry for any of his children who should have stumbled into the same attitude of criticism. In the apocalyptic style of the housekeeper of Invermay, woe be to that person! But there was no fear; husband and sons all entertained for the pious, tender soul the same chivalrous and moved affection. I have spoken with one who remembered her, and who had been the intimate and equal of her sons, and I found this witness had been struck, as I had been, with a sense of disproportion between the warmth of the adoration felt and the nature of the woman, whether as described or observed. She diligently read and marked her Bible; she was a tender nurse; she had a sense of humour under strong control; she talked and found some amusement at her (or rather at her husband's) dinner-parties. It is conceivable that even my grandmother was amenable to the seductions of dress; at least I find her husband inquiring anxiously about "the gowns from Glasgow," and very careful to describe the toilet of the Princess Charlotte, whom he had seen in church "in a Pelisse and Bonnet of the same colour of cloth as the Boys' Dress jackets, trimmed with blue satin ribbons; the hat or Bonnet, Mr. Spittal said, was a Parisian slouch, and had a plume of three white feathers." But all this leaves a blank impression, and it is rather by reading backward in these old musty letters, which have moved me now to laughter and now to impatience, that I glean occasional glimpses of how she seemed to her contemporaries, and trace (at work in her queer world of godly and grateful parasites) a mobile and responsive nature. Fashion moulds us, and particularly women, deeper than we sometimes think; but a little while ago, and, in some circles, women stood or fell by the degree of their appreciation of old pictures; in the early years of the century (and surely with more reason) a character like that of my grandmother warmed, charmed, and subdued, like a strain of music, the hearts of the men of her own household. And there is little doubt that Mrs. Smith, as she looked on at the domestic life of her son and her step-daughter, and numbered the heads in their increasing nursery, must have breathed fervent thanks to her Creator. Yet this was to be a family unusually tried; it was not for nothing that one of the godly women saluted Miss Janet Smith as "a veteran in affliction"; and they were all before middle life experienced in that form of service. By the 1st of January 1808, besides a pair of still-born twins, five children had been born and still survived to the young couple. By the 11th two were gone; by the 28th a third had followed, and the two others were still in danger. In the letters of a former nurserymaid--I give her name, Jean Mitchell, _honoris causa_--we are enabled to feel, even at this distance of time, some of the bitterness of that month of bereavement. "I have this day received," she writes to Miss Janet, "the melancholy news of my dear babys' deaths. My heart is like to break for my dear Mrs. Stevenson. O may she be supported on this trying occasion! I hope her other three babys will be spared to her. O, Miss Smith, did I think when I parted from my sweet babys that I never was to see them more?" "I received," she begins her next, "the mournful news of my dear Jessie's death. I also received the hair of my three sweet babys, which I will preserve as dear to their memorys and as a token of Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson's friendship and esteem. At my leisure hours, when the children are in bed, they occupy all my thoughts, I dream of them. About two weeks ago, I dreamed that my sweet little Jessie came running to me in her usual way, and I took her in my arms. O my dear babys, were mortal eyes permitted to see them in heaven, we would not repine nor grieve for their loss." By the 29th of February, the Reverend John Campbell, a man of obvious sense and human value, but hateful to the present biographer, because he wrote so many letters and conveyed so little information, summed up this first period of affliction in a letter to Miss Smith: "Your dear sister but a little while ago had a full nursery, and the dear blooming creatures sitting around her table filled her breast with hope that one day they should fill active stations in society and become an ornament in the Church below. But ah!" Near a hundred years ago these little creatures ceased to be, and for not much less a period the tears have been dried. And to this day, looking in these stitched sheaves of letters, we hear the sound of many soft-hearted women sobbing for the lost. Never was such a massacre of the innocents; teething and chincough and scarlet fever and small-pox ran the round; and little Lillies, and Smiths, and Stevensons fell like moths about a candle; and nearly all the sympathetic correspondents deplore and recall the little losses of their own. "It is impossible to describe the Heavnly looks of the Dear Babe the three last days of his life," writes Mrs. Laurie to Mrs. Smith. "Never--never, my dear aunt, could I wish to eface the rememberance of this Dear Child. Never, never, my dear aunt!" And so soon the memory of the dead and the dust of the survivors are buried in one grave. There was another death in 1812; it passes almost unremarked; a single funeral seemed but a small event to these "veterans in affliction"; and by 1816 the nursery was full again. Seven little hopefuls enlivened the house; some were growing up; to the elder girl my grandfather already wrote notes in current hand at the tail of his letters to his wife: and to the elder boys he had begun to print, with laborious care, sheets of childish gossip and pedantic applications. Here, for instance, under date of May 26th, 1816, is part of a mythological account of London, with a moral for the three gentlemen, "Messieurs Alan, Robert, and James Stevenson," to whom the document is addressed: "There are many prisons here like Bridewell, for, like other large towns, there are many bad men here as well as many good men. The natives of London are in general not so tall and strong as the people of Edinburgh, because they have not so much pure air, and instead of taking porridge they eat cakes made with sugar and plums. Here you have thousands of carts to draw timber, thousands of coaches to take you to all parts of the town, and thousands of boats to sail on the river Thames. But you must have money to pay, otherwise you can get nothing. Now the way to get money is, become clever men and men of education, by being good scholars." From the same absence, he writes to his wife on a Sunday: "It is now about eight o'clock with me, and I imagine you to be busy with the young folks, hearing the questions [_Anglicé_, catechism], and indulging the boys with a chapter from the large Bible, with their interrogations and your answers in the soundest doctrine. I hope James is getting his verse as usual, and that Mary is not forgetting her little _hymn_. While Jeannie will be reading Wotherspoon, or some other suitable and instructive book, I presume our friend, Aunt Mary, will have just arrived with the news of a _throng kirk_ [a crowded church] and a great sermon. You may mention, with my compliments to my mother, that I was at St. Paul's to-day, and attended a very excellent service with Mr. James Lawrie. The text was 'Examine and see that ye be in the faith.'" A twinkle of humour lights up this evocation of the distant scene--the humour of happy men and happy homes. Yet it is penned upon the threshold of fresh sorrow. James and Mary--he of the verse and she of the hymn--did not much more than survive to welcome their returning father. On the 25th, one of the godly women writes to Janet: "My dearest beloved madam, when I last parted from you, you was so affected with your affliction [you? or I?] could think of nothing else. But on Saturday, when I went to inquire after your health, how was I startled to hear that dear James was gone! Ah, what is this? My dear benefactors, doing so much good to many, to the Lord, suddenly to be deprived of their most valued comforts? I was thrown into great perplexity, could do nothing but murmur, why these things were done to such a family. I could not rest, but at midnight, whether spoken [or not] it was presented to my mind--'Those whom ye deplore are walking with me in white.' I conclude from this the Lord saying to sweet Mrs. Stevenson: 'I gave them to be brought up for me: well done, good and faithful! they are fully prepared, and now I must present them to my father and your father, to my God and your God.'" It would be hard to lay on flattery with a more sure and daring hand. I quote it as a model of a letter of condolence; be sure it would console. Very different, perhaps quite as welcome, is this from a lighthouse inspector to my grandfather: "In reading your letter the trickling tear ran down my cheeks in silent sorrow for your departed dear ones, my sweet little friends. Well do I remember, and you will call to mind, their little innocent and interesting stories. Often have they come round me and taken me by the hand, but alas! I am no more destined to behold them." The child who is taken becomes canonised, and the looks of the homeliest babe seem in the retrospect "heavenly the three last days of his life." But it appears that James and Mary had indeed been children more than usually engaging; a record was preserved a long while in the family of their remarks and "little innocent and interesting stories," and the blow and the blank were the more sensible. Early the next month Robert Stevenson must proceed upon his voyage of inspection, part by land, part by sea. He left his wife plunged in low spirits; the thought of his loss, and still more of her concern, was continually present in his mind, and he draws in his letters home an interesting picture of his family relations:-- "_Windygates Inn, Monday (Postmark July 16th)._ "MY DEAREST JEANNIE,--While the people of the inn are getting me a little bit of something to eat, I sit down to tell you that I had a most excellent passage across the water, and got to Wemyss at mid-day. I hope the children will be very good, and that Robert will take a course with you to learn his Latin lessons daily; he may, however, read English in company. Let them have strawberries on Saturdays." "_Westhaven, 17th July._ "I have been occupied to-day at the harbour of Newport, opposite Dundee, and am this far on my way to Arbroath. You may tell the boys that I slept last night in Mr. Steadman's tent. I found my bed rather hard, but the lodgings were otherwise extremely comfortable. The encampment is on the Fife side of the Tay, immediately opposite to Dundee. From the door of the tent you command the most beautiful view of the Firth, both up and down, to a great extent. At night all was serene and still, the sky presented the most beautiful appearance of bright stars, and the morning was ushered in with the song of many little birds." "_Aberdeen, July 19th._ "I hope, my dear, that you are going out of doors regularly and taking much exercise. I would have you to _make the markets daily_--and by all means to take a seat in the coach once or twice in the week and see what is going on in town. [The family were at the sea-side.] It will be good not to be too great a stranger to the house. It will be rather painful at first, but as it is to be done, I would have you not to be too strange to the house in town. "Tell the boys that I fell in with a soldier--his name is Henderson--who was twelve years with Lord Wellington and other commanders. He returned very lately with only eightpence-halfpenny in his pocket, and found his father and mother both in life, though they had never heard from him, nor he from them. He carried my great-coat and umbrella a few miles." "_Fraserburgh, July 20th._ "Fraserburgh is the same dull place which [Auntie] Mary and Jeannie found it. As I am travelling along the coast which they are acquainted with, you had better cause Robert bring down the map from Edinburgh: and it will be a good exercise in geography for the young folks to trace my course. I hope they have entered upon the writing. The library will afford abundance of excellent books, which I wish you would employ a little. I hope you are doing me the favour to go much out with the boys, which will do you much good and prevent them from getting so very much over-heated." [_To the Boys--Printed._] "When I had last the pleasure of writing to you, your dear little brother James and your sweet little sister Mary were still with us. But it has pleased God to remove them to another and a better world, and we must submit to the will of Providence. I must, however, request of you to think sometimes upon them, and to be very careful not to do anything that will displease or vex your mother. It is therefore proper that you do not roamp [Scottish indeed] too much about, and that you learn your lessons. "I went to Fraserburgh and visited Kinnaird Head Lighthouse, which I found in good order. All this time I travelled upon good roads, and paid many a toll-man by the way; but from Fraserburgh to Banff there is no toll-bars, and the road is so bad that I had to walk up and down many a hill, and for want of bridges the horses had to drag the chaise up to the middle of the wheels in water. At Banff I saw a large ship of 300 tons lying on the sands upon her beam-ends, and a wreck for want of a good harbour. Captain Wilson--to whom I beg my compliments---will show you a ship of 300 tons. At the towns of Macduff, Banff, and Portsoy, many of the houses are built of marble, and the rocks on this part of the coast or sea-side are marble. But, my dear Boys, unless marble be polished and dressed, it is a very coarse-looking stone, and has no more beauty than common rock. As a proof of this, ask the favour of your mother to take you to Thomson's Marble Works in South Leith, and you will see marble in all its stages, and perhaps you may there find Portsoy marble! The use I wish to make of this is to tell you that, without education, a man is just like a block of rough, unpolished marble. Notice, in proof of this, how much Mr. Neill and Mr. M'Gregor [the tutor] know, and observe how little a man knows who is not a good scholar. On my way to Fochabers I passed through many thousand acres of Fir timber, and saw many deer running in these woods." [_To Mrs. Stevenson._] "_Inverness, July 21st._ "I propose going to church in the afternoon, and as I have breakfasted late, I shall afterwards take a walk, and dine about six o'clock. I do not know who is the clergyman here, but I shall think of you all. I travelled in the mail-coach [from Banff] almost alone. While it was daylight I kept the top, and the passing along a country I had never before seen was a considerable amusement. But, my dear, you are all much in my thoughts, and many are the objects which recall the recollection of our tender and engaging children we have so recently lost. We must not, however, repine. I could not for a moment wish any change of circumstances in their case; and in every comparative view of their state, I see the Lord's goodness in removing them from an evil world to an abode of bliss; and I must earnestly hope that you may be enabled to take such a view of this affliction as to live in the happy prospect of our all meeting again to part no more--and that under such considerations you are getting up your spirits. I wish you would walk about, and by all means go to town, and do not sit much at home." "_Inverness, July 23rd._ "I am duly favoured with your much-valued letter, and I am happy to find that you are so much with my mother, because that sort of variety has a tendency to occupy the mind, and to keep it from brooding too much upon one subject. Sensibility and tenderness are certainly two of the most interesting and pleasing qualities of the mind. These qualities are also none of the least of the many endearingments of the female character. But if that kind of sympathy and pleasing melancholy, which is familiar to us under distress, be much indulged, it becomes habitual, and takes such a hold of the mind as to absorb all the other affections, and unfit us for the duties and proper enjoyments of life. Resignation sinks into a kind of peevish discontent. I am far, however, from thinking there is the least danger of this in your case, my dear; for you have been on all occasions enabled to look upon the fortunes of this life as under the direction of a higher power, and have always preserved that propriety and consistency of conduct in all circumstances which endears your example to your family in particular, and to your friends. I am therefore, my dear, for you to go out much, and to go to the house up-stairs [he means to go up-stairs in the house, to visit the place of the dead children], and to put yourself in the way of the visits of your friends. I wish you would call on the Miss Grays, and it would be a good thing upon a Saturday to dine with my mother, and take Meggy and all the family with you, and let them have their strawberries in town. The tickets of one of the _old-fashioned coaches_ would take you all up, and if the evening were good, they could all walk down, excepting Meggy and little David." "_Inverness, July 25th, 11 p.m._ "Captain Wemyss, of Wemyss, has come to Inverness to go the voyage with me, and as we are sleeping in a double-bedded room, I must no longer transgress. You must remember me the best way you can to the children." "_On board of the Lighthouse Yacht, July 29th._ "I got to Cromarty yesterday about mid-day, and went to church. It happened to be the sacrament there, and I heard a Mr. Smith at that place conclude the service with a very suitable exhortation. There seemed a great concourse of people, but they had rather an unfortunate day for them at the tent, as it rained a good deal. After drinking tea at the inn, Captain Wemyss accompanied me on board, and we sailed about eight last night. The wind at present being rather a beating one, I think I shall have an opportunity of standing into the bay of Wick, and leaving this letter to let you know my progress and that I am well." "_Lighthouse Yacht, Stornoway, August 4th_ "To-day we had prayers on deck as usual when at sea. I read the 14th chapter, I think, of Job. Captain Wemyss has been in the habit of doing this on board his own ship, agreeably to the Articles of War. Our passage round the Cape [Cape Wrath] was rather a cross one, and as the wind was northerly, we had a pretty heavy sea, but upon the whole have made a good passage, leaving many vessels behind us in Orkney. I am quite well, my dear; and Captain Wemyss, who has much spirit, and who is much given to observation, and a perfect enthusiast in his profession, enlivens the voyage greatly. Let me entreat you to move about much, and take a walk with the boys to Leith. I think they have still many places to see there, and I wish you would indulge them in this respect. Mr. Scales is the best person I know for showing them the sailcloth-weaving, etc., and he would have great pleasure in undertaking this. My dear, I trust soon to be with you, and that through the goodness of God we shall meet all well. "There are two vessels lying here with emigrants for America, each with eighty people on board, at all ages, from a few days to upwards of sixty! Their prospects must be very forlorn to go with a slender purse for distant and unknown countries." "_Lighthouse Yacht, off Greenock, Aug. 18th._ "It was after _church-time_ before we got here, but we had prayers upon deck on the way up the Clyde. This has, upon the whole, been a very good voyage, and Captain Wemyss, who enjoys it much, has been an excellent companion; we met with pleasure, and shall part with regret." Strange that, after his long experience, my grandfather should have learned so little of the attitude and even the dialect of the spiritually-minded; that after forty-four years in a most religious circle, he could drop without sense of incongruity from a period of accepted phrases to "trust his wife was _getting up her spirits_," or think to reassure her as to the character of Captain Wemyss by mentioning that he had read prayers on the deck of his frigate "_agreeably to the Articles of War"_! Yet there is no doubt--and it is one of the most agreeable features of the kindly series--that he was doing his best to please, and there is little doubt that he succeeded. Almost all my grandfather's private letters have been destroyed. This correspondence has not only been preserved entire, but stitched up in the same covers with the works of the godly women, the Reverend John Campbell, and the painful Mrs. Ogle. I did not think to mention the good dame, but she comes in usefully as an example. Amongst the treasures of the ladies of my family, her letters have been honoured with a volume to themselves. I read about a half of them myself; then handed over the task to one of stauncher resolution, with orders to communicate any fact that should be found to illuminate these pages. Not one was found; it was her only art to communicate by post second-rate sermons at second-hand; and such, I take it, was the correspondence in which my grandmother delighted. If I am right, that of Robert Stevenson, with his quaint smack of the contemporary "Sandford and Merton," his interest in the whole page of experience, his perpetual quest, and fine scent of all that seems romantic to a boy, his needless pomp of language, his excellent good sense, his unfeigned, unstained, unwearied human kindliness, would seem to her, in a comparison, dry and trivial and worldly. And if these letters were by an exception cherished and preserved, it would be for one or both of two reasons--because they dealt with and were bitter-sweet reminders of a time of sorrow; or because she was pleased, perhaps touched, by the writer's guileless efforts to seem spiritually-minded. After this date there were two more births and two more deaths, so that the number of the family remained unchanged; in all five children survived to reach maturity and to outlive their parents. CHAPTER II THE SERVICE OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS I It were hard to imagine a contrast more sharply defined than that between the lives of the men and women of this family: the one so chambered, so centred in the affections and the sensibilities; the other so active, healthy, and expeditious. From May to November, Thomas Smith and Robert Stevenson were on the mail, in the saddle, or at sea; and my grandfather, in particular, seems to have been possessed with a demon of activity in travel. In 1802, by direction of the Northern Lighthouse Board, he had visited the coast of England from St. Bees, in Cumberland, and round by the Scilly Islands to some place undecipherable by me; in all a distance of 2500 miles. In 1806 I find him starting "on a tour round the south coast of England, from the Humber to the Severn." Peace was not long declared ere he found means to visit Holland, where he was in time to see, in the navy-yard at Helvoetsluys, "about twenty of Bonaparte's _English flotilla_ lying in a state of decay, the object of curiosity to Englishmen." By 1834 he seems to have been acquainted with the coast of France from Dieppe to Bordeaux; and a main part of his duty as Engineer to the Board of Northern Lights was one round of dangerous and laborious travel. In 1786, when Thomas Smith first received the appointment, the extended and formidable coast of Scotland was lighted at a single point--the Isle of May, in the jaws of the Firth of Forth, where, on a tower already a hundred and fifty years old, an open coal-fire blazed in an iron chauffer. The whole archipelago, thus nightly plunged in darkness, was shunned by sea-going vessels, and the favourite courses were north about Shetland and west about St. Kilda. When the Board met, four new lights formed the extent of their intentions--Kinnaird Head, in Aberdeenshire, at the eastern elbow of the coast; North Ronaldsay, in Orkney, to keep the north and guide ships passing to the south'ard of Shetland; Island Glass, on Harris, to mark the inner shore of the Hebrides and illuminate the navigation of the Minch; and the Mull of Kintyre. These works were to be attempted against obstacles, material and financial, that might have staggered the most bold. Smith had no ship at his command till 1791; the roads in those outlandish quarters where his business lay were scarce passable when they existed, and the tower on the Mull of Kintyre stood eleven months unlighted while the apparatus toiled and foundered by the way among rocks and mosses. Not only had towers to be built and apparatus transplanted, the supply of oil must be maintained, and the men fed, in the same inaccessible and distant scenes; a whole service, with its routine and hierarchy, had to be called out of nothing; and a new trade (that of lightkeeper) to be taught, recruited, and organised. The funds of the Board were at the first laughably inadequate. They embarked on their career on a loan of twelve hundred pounds, and their income in 1789, after relief by a fresh Act of Parliament, amounted to less than three hundred. It must be supposed that the thoughts of Thomas Smith, in these early years, were sometimes coloured with despair; and since he built and lighted one tower after another, and created and bequeathed to his successors the elements of an excellent administration, it may be conceded that he was not after all an unfortunate choice for a first engineer. War added fresh complications. In 1794 Smith came "very near to be taken" by a French squadron. In 1813 Robert Stevenson was cruising about the neighbourhood of Cape Wrath in the immediate fear of Commodore Rogers. The men, and especially the sailors, of the lighthouse service must be protected by a medal and ticket from the brutal activity of the press-gang. And the zeal of volunteer patriots was at times embarrassing. "I set off on foot," writes my grandfather, "for Marazion, a town at the head of Mount's Bay, where I was in hopes of getting a boat to freight. I had just got that length, and was making the necessary inquiry, when a young man, accompanied by several idle-looking fellows, came up to me, and in a hasty tone said, 'Sir, in the king's name I seize your person and papers.' To which I replied that I should be glad to see his authority, and know the reason of an address so abrupt. He told me the want of time prevented his taking regular steps, but that it would be necessary for me to return to Penzance, as I was suspected of being a French spy. I proposed to submit my papers to the nearest Justice of Peace, who was immediately applied to, and came to the inn where I was. He seemed to be greatly agitated, and quite at a loss how to proceed. The complaint preferred against me was 'that I had examined the Longships Lighthouse with the most minute attention, and was no less particular in my inquiries at the keepers of the lighthouse regarding the sunk rocks lying off the Land's End, with the sets of the currents and tides along the coast: that I seemed particularly to regret the situation of the rocks called the Seven Stones, and the loss of a beacon which the Trinity Board had caused to be fixed on the Wolf Rock; that I had taken notes of the bearings of several sunk rocks, and a drawing of the lighthouse, and of Cape Cornwall. Further, that I had refused the honour of Lord Edgecombe's invitation to dinner, offering as an apology that I had some particular business on hand.'" My grandfather produced in answer his credentials and letter of credit; but the justice, after perusing them, "very gravely observed that they were 'musty bits of paper,'" and proposed to maintain the arrest. Some more enlightened magistrates at Penzance relieved him of suspicion and left him at liberty to pursue his journey,--"which I did with so much eagerness," he adds, "that I gave the two coal lights on the Lizard only a very transient look." Lighthouse operations in Scotland differed essentially in character from those in England. The English coast is in comparison a habitable, homely place, well supplied with towns; the Scottish presents hundreds of miles of savage islands and desolate moors. The Parliamentary committee of 1834, profoundly ignorant of this distinction, insisted with my grandfather that the work at the various stations should be let out on contract "in the neighbourhood," where sheep and deer, and gulls and cormorants, and a few ragged gillies, perhaps crouching in a bee-hive house, made up the only neighbours. In such situations repairs and improvements could only be overtaken by collecting (as my grandfather expressed it) a few "lads," placing them under charge of a foreman, and despatching them about the coast as occasion served. The particular danger of these seas increased the difficulty. The course of the lighthouse tender lies amid iron-bound coasts, among tide-races, the whirlpools of the Pentland Firth, flocks of islands, flocks of reefs, many of them uncharted. The aid of steam was not yet. At first in random coasting sloop, and afterwards in the cutter belonging to the service, the engineer must ply and run amongst these multiplied dangers, and sometimes late into the stormy autumn. For pages together my grandfather's diary preserves a record of these rude experiences; of hard winds and rough seas; and of "the try-sail and storm-jib, those old friends which I never like to see." They do not tempt to quotation, but it was the man's element, in which he lived, and delighted to live, and some specimen must be presented. On Friday, September 10th, 1830, the _Regent_ lying in Lerwick Bay, we have this entry: "The gale increases, with continued rain." On the morrow, Saturday, 11th, the weather appeared to moderate, and they put to sea, only to be driven by evening into Levenswick. There they lay, "rolling much," with both anchors ahead and the square yard on deck, till the morning of Saturday, 18th. Saturday and Sunday they were plying to the southward with a "strong breeze and a heavy sea," and on Sunday evening anchored in Otterswick. "Monday, 20th, it blows so fresh that we have no communication with the shore. We see Mr. Rome on the beach, but we cannot communicate with him. It blows 'mere fire,' as the sailors express it." And for three days more the diary goes on with tales of davits unshipped, high seas, strong gales from the southward, and the ship driven to refuge in Kirkwall or Deer Sound. I have many a passage before me to transcribe, in which my grandfather draws himself as a man of minute and anxious exactitude about details. It must not be forgotten that these voyages in the tender were the particular pleasure and reward of his existence; that he had in him a reserve of romance which carried him delightedly over these hardships and perils; that to him it was "great gain" to be eight nights and seven days in the savage bay of Levenswick--to read a book in the much agitated cabin--to go on deck and hear the gale scream in his ears, and see the landscape dark with rain, and the ship plunge at her two anchors--and to turn in at night and wake again at morning, in his narrow berth, to the clamorous and continued voices of the gale. His perils and escapes were beyond counting. I shall only refer to two: the first, because of the impression made upon himself; the second, from the incidental picture it presents of the north islanders. On the 9th October 1794 he took passage from Orkney in the sloop _Elizabeth_ of Stromness. She made a fair passage till within view of Kinnaird Head, where, as she was becalmed some three miles in the offing, and wind seemed to threaten from the south-east, the captain landed him, to continue his journey more expeditiously ashore. A gale immediately followed, and the _Elizabeth_ was driven back to Orkney and lost with all hands. The second escape I have been in the habit of hearing related by an eye-witness, my own father, from the earliest days of childhood. On a September night, the _Regent_ lay in the Pentland Firth in a fog and a violent and windless swell. It was still dark, when they were alarmed by the sound of breakers, and an anchor was immediately let go. The peep of dawn discovered them swinging in desperate proximity to the Isle of Swona[10] and the surf bursting close under their stern. There was in this place a hamlet of the inhabitants, fisher-folk and wreckers; their huts stood close about the head of the beach. All slept; the doors were closed, and there was no smoke, and the anxious watchers on board ship seemed to contemplate a village of the dead. It was thought possible to launch a boat and tow the _Regent_ from her place of danger; and with this view a signal of distress was made and a gun fired with a red-hot poker from the galley. Its detonation awoke the sleepers. Door after door was opened, and in the grey light of the morning fisher after fisher was seen to come forth, yawning and stretching himself, nightcap on head. Fisher after fisher, I wrote, and my pen tripped; for it should rather stand wrecker after wrecker. There was no emotion, no animation, it scarce seemed any interest; not a hand was raised; but all callously awaited the harvest of the sea, and their children stood by their side and waited also. To the end of his life, my father remembered that amphitheatre of placid spectators on the beach, and with a special and natural animosity, the boys of his own age. But presently a light air sprang up, and filled the sails, and fainted, and filled them again; and little by little the _Regent_ fetched way against the swell, and clawed off shore into the turbulent firth. The purpose of these voyages was to effect a landing on open beaches or among shelving rocks, not for persons only, but for coals and food, and the fragile furniture of light-rooms. It was often impossible. In 1831 I find my grandfather "hovering for a week" about the Pentland Skerries for a chance to land; and it was almost always difficult. Much knack and enterprise were early developed among the seamen of the service; their management of boats is to this day a matter of admiration; and I find my grandfather in his diary depicting the nature of their excellence in one happily descriptive phrase, when he remarks that Captain Soutar had landed "the small stores and nine casks of oil _with all the activity of a smuggler_." And it was one thing to land, another to get on board again. I have here a passage from the diary, where it seems to have been touch-and-go. "I landed at Tarbetness, on the eastern side of the point, in _a mere gale or blast of wind_ from west-south-west, at 2 p.m. It blew so fresh that the captain, in a kind of despair, went off to the ship, leaving myself and the steward ashore. While I was in the lightroom, I felt it shaking and waving, not with the tremor of the Bell Rock, but with the _waving of a tree_! This the lightkeepers seemed to be quite familiar to, the principal keeper remarking that 'it was very pleasant,' perhaps meaning interesting or curious. The captain worked the vessel into smooth water with admirable dexterity, and I got on board again about 6 p.m. from the other side of the point." But not even the dexterity of Soutar could prevail always; and my grandfather must at times have been left in strange berths and with but rude provision. I may instance the case of my father, who was storm-bound three days upon an islet, sleeping in the uncemented and unchimneyed houses of the islanders, and subsisting on a diet of nettlesoup and lobsters. The name of Soutar has twice escaped my pen, and I feel I owe him a vignette. Soutar first attracted notice as mate of a praam at the Bell Rock, and rose gradually to be captain of the _Regent_. He was active, admirably skilled in his trade, and a man incapable of fear. Once, in London, he fell among a gang of confidence-men, naturally deceived by his rusticity and his prodigious accent. They plied him with drink--a hopeless enterprise, for Soutar could not be made drunk; they proposed cards, and Soutar would not play. At last, one of them, regarding him with a formidable countenance, inquired if he were not frightened? "I'm no' very easy fleyed," replied the captain. And the rooks withdrew after some easier pigeon. So many perils shared, and the partial familiarity of so many voyages, had given this man a stronghold in my grandfather's estimation; and there is no doubt but he had the art to court and please him with much hypocritical skill. He usually dined on Sundays in the cabin. He used to come down daily after dinner for a glass of port or whisky, often in his full rig of sou'-wester, oilskins, and long boots; and I have often heard it described how insinuatingly he carried himself on these appearances, artfully combining the extreme of deference with a blunt and seamanlike demeanour. My father and uncles, with the devilish penetration of the boy, were far from being deceived; and my father, indeed, was favoured with an object-lesson not to be mistaken. He had crept one rainy night into an apple-barrel on deck, and from this place of ambush overheard Soutar and a comrade conversing in their oilskins. The smooth sycophant of the cabin had wholly disappeared, and the boy listened with wonder to a vulgar and truculent ruffian. Of Soutar, I may say _tantum vidi_, having met him in the Leith docks now more than thirty years ago, when he abounded in the praises of my grandfather, encouraged me (in the most admirable manner) to pursue his footprints, and left impressed for ever on my memory the image of his own Bardolphian nose. He died not long after. The engineer was not only exposed to the hazards of the sea; he must often ford his way by land to remote and scarce accessible places, beyond reach of the mail or the post-chaise, beyond even the tracery of the bridle-path, and guided by natives across bog and heather. Up to 1807 my grandfather seems to have travelled much on horseback; but he then gave up the idea--"such," he writes with characteristic emphasis and capital letters, "is the Plague of Baiting." He was a good pedestrian; at the age of fifty-eight I find him covering seventeen miles over the moors of the Mackay country in less than seven hours, and that is not bad travelling for a scramble. The piece of country traversed was already a familiar track, being that between Loch Eriboll and Cape Wrath; and I think I can scarce do better than reproduce from the diary some traits of his first visit. The tender lay in Loch Eriboll; by five in the morning they sat down to breakfast on board; by six they were ashore--my grandfather, Mr. Slight an assistant, and Soutar of the jolly nose, and had been taken in charge by two young gentlemen of the neighbourhood and a pair of gillies. About noon they reached the Kyle of Durness and passed the ferry. By half-past three they were at Cape Wrath--not yet known by the emphatic abbreviation of "The Cape"--and beheld upon all sides of them unfrequented shores, an expanse of desert moor, and the high-piled Western Ocean. The site of the tower was chosen. Perhaps it is by inheritance of blood, but I know few things more inspiriting than this location of a lighthouse in a designated space of heather and air, through which the sea-birds are still flying. By 9 p.m. the return journey had brought them again to the shores of the Kyle. The night was dirty, and as the sea was high and the ferry-boat small, Soutar and Mr. Stevenson were left on the far side, while the rest of the party embarked and were received into the darkness. They made, in fact, a safe though an alarming passage; but the ferryman refused to repeat the adventure; and my grandfather and the captain long paced the beach, impatient for their turn to pass, and tormented with rising anxiety as to the fate of their companions. At length they sought the shelter of a shepherd's house. "We had miserable up-putting," the diary continues, "and on both sides of the ferry much anxiety of mind. Our beds were clean straw, and but for the circumstance of the boat, I should have slept as soundly as ever I did after a walk through moss and mire of sixteen hours." To go round the lights, even to-day, is to visit past centuries. The tide of tourists that flows yearly in Scotland, vulgarising all where it approaches, is still defined by certain barriers. It will be long ere there is a hotel at Sumburgh or a hydropathic at Cape Wrath; it will be long ere any _char-à-banc_, laden with tourists, shall drive up to Barra Head or Monach, the Island of the Monks. They are farther from London than St. Petersburg, and except for the towers, sounding and shining all night with fog-bells and the radiance of the light-room, glittering by day with the trivial brightness of white paint, these island and moorland stations seem inaccessible to the civilisation of to-day, and even to the end of my grandfather's career the isolation was far greater. There ran no post at all in the Long Island; from the lighthouse on Barra Head a boat must be sent for letters as far as Tobermory, between sixty and seventy miles of open sea; and the posts of Shetland, which had surprised Sir Walter Scott in 1814, were still unimproved in 1833, when my grandfather reported on the subject. The group contained at the time a population of 30,000 souls, and enjoyed a trade which had increased in twenty years sevenfold, to between three and four thousand tons. Yet the mails were despatched and received by chance coasting vessels at the rate of a penny a letter; six and eight weeks often elapsed between opportunities, and when a mail was to be made up, sometimes at a moment's notice, the bellman was sent hastily through the streets of Lerwick. Between Shetland and Orkney, only seventy miles apart, there was "no trade communication whatever." Such was the state of affairs, only sixty years ago, with the three largest clusters of the Scottish Archipelago; and forty-seven years earlier, when Thomas Smith began his rounds, or forty-two, when Robert Stevenson became conjoined with him in these excursions, the barbarism was deep, the people sunk in superstition, the circumstances of their life perhaps unique in history. Lerwick and Kirkwall, like Guam or the Bay of Islands, were but barbarous ports where whalers called to take up and to return experienced seamen. On the outlying islands the clergy lived isolated, thinking other thoughts, dwelling in a different country from their parishioners, like missionaries in the South Seas. My grandfather's unrivalled treasury of anecdote was never written down; it embellished his talk while he yet was, and died with him when he died; and such as have been preserved relate principally to the islands of Ronaldsay and Sanday, two of the Orkney group. These bordered on one of the water-highways of civilisation; a great fleet passed annually in their view, and of the shipwrecks of the world they were the scene and cause of a proportion wholly incommensurable to their size. In one year, 1798, my grandfather found the remains of no fewer than five vessels on the isle of Sanday, which is scarcely twelve miles long. "Hardly a year passed," he writes, "without instances of this kind; for, owing to the projecting points of this strangely formed island, the lowness and whiteness of its eastern shores, and the wonderful manner in which the scanty patches of land are intersected with lakes and pools of water, it becomes, even in daylight, a deception, and has often been fatally mistaken for an open sea. It had even become proverbial with some of the inhabitants to observe that 'if wrecks were to happen, they might as well be sent to the poor isle of Sanday as anywhere else.' On this and the neighbouring islands the inhabitants had certainly had their share of wrecked goods, for the eye is presented with these melancholy remains in almost every form. For example, although quarries are to be met with generally in these islands, and the stones are very suitable for building dykes (_Anglicé_, walls), yet instances occur of the land being enclosed, even to a considerable extent, with ship-timbers. The author has actually seen a park (_Anglicé_, meadow) paled round chiefly with cedar-wood and mahogany from the wreck of a Honduras-built ship; and in one island, after the wreck of a ship laden with wine, the inhabitants have been known to take claret to their barley-meal porridge. On complaining to one of the pilots of the badness of his boat's sails, he replied to the author with some degree of pleasantry, 'Had it been His will that you camena' here wi' your lights, we might a' had better sails to our boats, and more o' other things.' It may further be mentioned that when some of Lord Dundas's farms are to be let in these islands a competition takes place for the lease, and it is _bona fide_ understood that a much higher rent is paid than the lands would otherwise give were it not for the chance of making considerably by the agency and advantages attending shipwrecks on the shores of the respective farms." The people of North Ronaldsay still spoke Norse, or, rather, mixed it with their English. The walls of their huts were built to a great thickness of rounded stones from the sea-beach; the roof flagged, loaded with earth, and perforated by a single hole for the escape of smoke. The grass grew beautifully green on the flat house-top, where the family would assemble with their dogs and cats, as on a pastoral lawn; there were no windows, and in my grandfather's expression, "there was really no demonstration of a house unless it were the diminutive door." He once landed on Ronaldsay with two friends. "The inhabitants crowded and pressed so much upon the strangers that the bailiff, or resident factor of the island, blew with his ox-horn, calling out to the natives to stand off and let the gentlemen come forward to the laird; upon which one of the islanders, as spokesman, called out, 'God ha'e us, man! thou needsna mak' sic a noise. It's no' every day we ha'e _three hatted men_ on our isle.'" When the Surveyor of Taxes came (for the first time, perhaps) to Sanday, and began in the King's name to complain of the unconscionable swarms of dogs, and to menace the inhabitants with taxation, it chanced that my grandfather and his friend, Dr. Patrick Neill, were received by an old lady in a Ronaldsay hut. Her hut, which was similar to the model described, stood on a Ness, or point of land jutting into the sea. They were made welcome in the firelit cellar, placed "in _casey_ or straw-worked chairs, after the Norwegian fashion, with arms, and a canopy overhead," and given milk in a wooden dish. These hospitalities attended to, the old lady turned at once to Dr. Neill, whom she took for the Surveyor of Taxes. "Sir," said she, "gin ye'll tell the King that I canna keep the Ness free o' the Bangers (sheep) without twa hun's, and twa guid hun's too, he'll pass me threa the tax on dugs." This familiar confidence, these traits of engaging simplicity, are characters of a secluded people. Mankind--and, above all, islanders--come very swiftly to a bearing, and find very readily, upon one convention or another, a tolerable corporate life. The danger is to those from without, who have not grown up from childhood in the islands, but appear suddenly in that narrow horizon, life-sized apparitions. For these no bond of humanity exists, no feeling of kinship is awakened by their peril; they will assist at a shipwreck, like the fisher-folk of Lunga, as spectators, and when the fatal scene is over, and the beach strewn with dead bodies, they will fence their fields with mahogany, and, after a decent grace, sup claret to their porridge. It is not wickedness: it is scarce evil; it is only, in its highest power, the sense of isolation and the wise disinterestedness of feeble and poor races. Think how many viking ships had sailed by these islands in the past, how many vikings had landed, and raised turmoil, and broken up the barrows of the dead, and carried off the wines of the living; and blame them, if you are able, for that belief (which may be called one of the parables of the devil's gospel) that a man rescued from the sea will prove the bane of his deliverer. It might be thought that my grandfather, coming there unknown, and upon an employment so hateful to the inhabitants, must have run the hazard of his life. But this were to misunderstand. He came franked by the laird and the clergyman; he was the King's officer; the work was "opened with prayer by the Rev. Walter Trail, minister of the parish"; God and the King had decided it, and the people of these pious islands bowed their heads. There landed, indeed, in North Ronaldsay, during the last decade of the eighteenth century, a traveller whose life seems really to have been imperilled. A very little man of a swarthy complexion, he came ashore, exhausted and unshaved, from a long boat passage, and lay down to sleep in the home of the parish schoolmaster. But he had been seen landing. The inhabitants had identified him for a Pict, as, by some singular confusion of name, they called the dark and dwarfish aboriginal people of the land. Immediately the obscure ferment of a race-hatred, grown into a superstition, began to work in their bosoms, and they crowded about the house and the room-door with fearful whisperings. For some time the schoolmaster held them at bay, and at last despatched a messenger to call my grandfather. He came: he found the islanders beside themselves at this unwelcome resurrection of the dead and the detested; he was shown, as adminicular of testimony, the traveller's uncouth and thick-soled boots; he argued, and finding argument unavailing, consented to enter the room and examine with his own eyes the sleeping Pict. One glance was sufficient: the man was now a missionary, but he had been before that an Edinburgh shopkeeper with whom my grandfather had dealt. He came forth again with this report, and the folk of the island, wholly relieved, dispersed to their own houses. They were timid as sheep and ignorant as limpets; that was all. But the Lord deliver us from the tender mercies of a frightened flock! I will give two more instances of their superstition. When Sir Walter Scott visited the Stones of Stennis, my grandfather put in his pocket a hundred-foot line, which he unfortunately lost. "Some years afterwards," he writes, "one of my assistants on a visit to the Stones of Stennis took shelter from a storm in a cottage close by the lake; and seeing a box-measuring-line in the bole or sole of the cottage window, he asked the woman where she got this well-known professional appendage. She said: 'O sir, ane of the bairns fand it lang syne at the Stanes; and when drawing it out we took fright, and thinking it had belanged to the fairies, we threw it into the bole, and it has layen there ever since.'" This is for the one; the last shall be a sketch by the master hand of Scott himself:-- "At the village of Stromness, on the Orkney main island, called Pomona, lived, in 1814, an aged dame called Bessie Millie, who helped out her subsistence by selling favourable winds to mariners. He was a venturous master of a vessel who left the roadstead of Stromness without paying his offering to propitiate Bessie Millie! Her fee was extremely moderate, being exactly sixpence, for which she boiled her kettle and gave the bark the advantage of her prayers, for she disclaimed all unlawful acts. The wind thus petitioned for was sure, she said, to arrive, though occasionally the mariners had to wait some time for it. The woman's dwelling and appearance were not unbecoming her pretensions. Her house, which was on the brow of the steep hill on which Stromness is founded, was only accessible by a series of dirty and precipitous lanes, and for exposure might have been the abode of Eolus himself, in whose commodities the inhabitant dealt. She herself was, as she told us, nearly one hundred years old, withered and dried up like a mummy. A clay-coloured kerchief, folded round her neck, corresponded in colour to her corpse-like complexion. Two light blue eyes that gleamed with a lustre like that of insanity, an utterance of astonishing rapidity, a nose and chin that almost met together, and a ghastly expression of cunning, gave her the effect of Hecate. Such was Bessie Millie, to whom the mariners paid a sort of tribute with a feeling between jest and earnest." II From about the beginning of the century up to 1807 Robert Stevenson was in partnership with Thomas Smith. In the last-named year the partnership was dissolved; Thomas Smith returning to his business, and my grandfather becoming sole engineer to the Board of Northern Lights. I must try, by excerpts from his diary and correspondence, to convey to the reader some idea of the ardency and thoroughness with which he threw himself into the largest and least of his multifarious engagements in this service. But first I must say a word or two upon the life of lightkeepers, and the temptations to which they are more particularly exposed. The lightkeeper occupies a position apart among men. In sea-towers the complement has always been three since the deplorable business in the Eddystone, when one keeper died, and the survivor, signalling in vain for relief, was compelled to live for days with the dead body. These usually pass their time by the pleasant human expedient of quarrelling; and sometimes, I am assured, not one of the three is on speaking terms with any other. On shore stations, which on the Scottish coast are sometimes hardly less isolated, the usual number is two, a principal and an assistant. The principal is dissatisfied with the assistant, or perhaps the assistant keeps pigeons, and the principal wants the water from the roof. Their wives and families are with them, living cheek by jowl. The children quarrel; Jockie hits Jimsie in the eye, and the mothers make haste to mingle in the dissension. Perhaps there is trouble about a broken dish; perhaps Mrs. Assistant is more highly born than Mrs. Principal and gives herself airs; and the men are drawn in and the servants presently follow. "Church privileges have been denied the keeper's and the assistant's servants," I read in one case, and the eminently Scots periphrasis means neither more nor less than excommunication, "on account of the discordant and quarrelsome state of the families. The cause, when inquired into, proves to be _tittle-tattle_ on both sides." The tender comes round; the foremen and artificers go from station to station; the gossip flies through the whole system of the service, and the stories, disfigured and exaggerated, return to their own birthplace with the returning tender. The English Board was apparently shocked by the picture of these dissensions. "When the Trinity House can," I find my grandfather writing at Beachy Head, in 1834, "they do not appoint two keepers, they disagree so ill. A man who has a family is assisted by his family; and in this way, to my experience and present observation, the business is very much neglected. One keeper is, in my view, a bad system. This day's visit to an English lighthouse convinces me of this, as the lightkeeper was walking on a staff with the gout, and the business performed by one of his daughters, a girl of thirteen or fourteen years of age." This man received a hundred a year! It shows a different reading of human nature, perhaps typical of Scotland and England, that I find in my grandfather's diary the following pregnant entry: _"The lightkeepers, agreeing ill, keep one another to their duty."_ But the Scottish system was not alone founded on this cynical opinion. The dignity and the comfort of the northern lightkeeper were both attended to. He had a uniform to "raise him in his own estimation, and in that of his neighbour, which is of consequence to a person of trust. The keepers," my grandfather goes on, in another place, "are attended to in all the detail of accommodation in the best style as shipmasters; and this is believed to have a sensible effect upon their conduct, and to regulate their general habits as members of society." He notes, with the same dip of ink, that "the brasses were not clean, and the persons of the keepers not _trig_"; and thus we find him writing to a culprit: "I have to complain that you are not cleanly in your person, and that your manner of speech is ungentle, and rather inclines to rudeness. You must therefore take a different view of your duties as a lightkeeper." A high ideal for the service appears in these expressions, and will be more amply illustrated further on. But even the Scottish lightkeeper was frail. During the unbroken solitude of the winter months, when inspection is scarce possible, it must seem a vain toil to polish the brass hand-rail of the stair, or to keep an unrewarded vigil in the lightroom; and the keepers are habitually tempted to the beginnings of sloth, and must unremittingly resist. He who temporises with his conscience is already lost. I must tell here an anecdote that illustrates the difficulties of inspection. In the days of my uncle David and my father there was a station which they regarded with jealousy. The two engineers compared notes and were agreed. The tower was always clean, but seemed always to bear traces of a hasty cleansing, as though the keepers had been suddenly forewarned. On inquiry, it proved that such was the case, and that a wandering fiddler was the unfailing harbinger of the engineer. At last my father was storm-stayed one Sunday in a port at the other side of the island. The visit was quite overdue, and as he walked across upon the Monday morning he promised himself that he should at last take the keepers unprepared. They were both waiting for him in uniform at the gate; the fiddler had been there on Saturday! My grandfather, as will appear from the following extracts, was much a martinet, and had a habit of expressing himself on paper with an almost startling emphasis. Personally, with his powerful voice, sanguine countenance, and eccentric and original locutions, he was well qualified to inspire a salutary terror in the service. "I find that the keepers have, by some means or another, got into the way of cleaning too much with rotten-stone and oil. I take the principal keeper to _task_ on this subject, and make him bring a clean towel and clean one of the brazen frames, which leaves the towel in an odious state. This towel I put up in a sheet of paper, seal, and take with me to confront Mr. Murdoch, who has just left the station." "This letter"--a stern enumeration of complaints--"to lie a week on the lightroom book-place, and to be put in the Inspector's hands when he comes round." "It is the most painful thing that can occur for me to have a correspondence of this kind with any of the keepers; and when I come to the Lighthouse, instead of having the satisfaction to meet them with approbation, it is distressing when one is obliged to put on a most angry countenance and demeanour; but from such culpable negligence as you have shown there is no avoiding it. I hold it as a fixed maxim that, when a man or a family put on a slovenly appearance in their houses, stairs, and lanterns, I always find their reflectors, burners, windows, and light in general, ill attended to; and, therefore, I must insist on cleanliness throughout." "I find you very deficient in the duty of the high tower. You thus place your appointment as Principal Keeper in jeopardy; and I think it necessary, as an old servant of the Board, to put you upon your guard once for all at this time. I call upon you to recollect what was formerly and is now said to you. The state of the backs of the reflectors at the high tower was disgraceful, as I pointed out to you on the spot. They were as if spitten upon, and greasy finger-marks upon the back straps. I demand an explanation of this state of things." "The cause of the Commissioners dismissing you is expressed in the minute; and it must be a matter of regret to you that you have been so much engaged in smuggling, and also that the Reports relative to the cleanliness of the Lighthouse, upon being referred to, rather added to their unfavourable opinion." "I do not go into the dwelling-house, but severely chide the lightkeepers for the disagreement that seems to subsist among them." "The families of the two lightkeepers here agree very ill. I have effected a reconciliation for the present." "Things are in a very _humdrum_ state here. There is no painting, and in and out of doors no taste or tidiness displayed. Robert's wife _greets_ and M'Gregor's scolds; and Robert is so down-hearted that he says he is unfit for duty. I told him that if he was to mind wives' quarrels, and to take them up, the only way was for him and M'Gregor to go down to the point like Sir G. Grant and Lord Somerset." "I cannot say that I have experienced a more unpleasant meeting than that of the lighthouse folks this morning, or ever saw a stronger example of unfeeling barbarity than the conduct which the ----s exhibited. These two cold-hearted persons, not contented with having driven the daughter of the poor nervous woman from her father's house, _both_ kept _pouncing_ at her, lest she should forget her great misfortune. Write me of their conduct. Do not make any communication of the state of these families at Kinnaird Head, as this would be like _Tale-bearing_." There is the great word out. Tales and Tale-bearing, always with the emphatic capitals, run continually in his correspondence. I will give but two instances:-- "Write to David [one of the lightkeepers] and caution him to be more prudent how he expresses himself. Let him attend his duty to the Lighthouse and his family concerns, and give less heed to Tale-bearers." "I have not your last letter at hand to quote its date; but, if I recollect, it contains some kind of tales, which nonsense I wish you would lay aside, and notice only the concerns of your family and the important charge committed to you." Apparently, however, my grandfather was not himself inaccessible to the Tale-bearer, as the following indicates:-- "In-walking along with Mr. ----, I explain to him that I should be under the necessity of looking more closely into the business here from his conduct at Buddonness, which had given an instance of weakness in the Moral principle which had staggered my opinion of him. His answer was, 'That will be with regard to the lass?' I told him I was to enter no farther with him upon the subject." "Mr. Miller appears to be master and man. I am sorry about this foolish fellow. Had I known his train, I should not, as I did, have rather forced him into the service. Upon finding the windows in the state they were, I turned upon Mr. Watt, and especially upon Mr. Stewart. The latter did not appear for a length of time to have visited the lightroom. On asking the cause--did Mr. Watt and him (_sic_) disagree; he said no; but he had got very bad usage from the assistant, 'who was a very obstreperous man.' I could not bring Mr. Watt to put in language his objections to Miller; all I could get was that, he being your friend, and saying he was unwell, he did not like to complain or to push the man; that the man seemed to have no liking to anything like work; that he was unruly; that, being an educated man, he despised them. I was, however, determined to have out of these _unwilling_ witnesses the language alluded to. I fixed upon Mr. Stewart as chief; he hedged. My curiosity increased, and I urged. Then he said, 'What would I think, just exactly, of Mr. Watt being called an Old B----?' You may judge of my surprise. There was not another word uttered. This was quite enough, as coming from a person I should have calculated upon quite different behaviour from. It spoke a volume of the man's mind and want of principle." "Object to the keeper keeping a Bull-Terrier dog of ferocious appearance. It is dangerous, as we land at all times of the night." "Have only to complain of the storehouse floor being spotted with oil. Give orders for this being instantly rectified, so that on my return to-morrow I may see things in good order." "The furniture of both houses wants much rubbing. Mrs. ----'s carpets are absurd beyond anything I have seen. I want her to turn the fenders up with the bottom to the fireplace: the carpets, when not likely to be in use, folded up and laid as a hearthrug partly under the fender." My grandfather was king in the service to his fingertips. All should go in his way, from the principal lightkeeper's coat to the assistant's fender, from the gravel in the garden-walks to the bad smell in the kitchen, or the oil-spots on the store-room floor. It might be thought there was nothing more calculated to awake men's resentment, and yet his rule was not more thorough than it was beneficent. His thought for the keepers was continual, and it did not end with their lives. He tried to manage their successions; he thought no pains too great to arrange between a widow and a son who had succeeded his father; he was often harassed and perplexed by tales of hardship; and I find him writing, almost in despair, of their improvident habits and the destitution that awaited their families upon a death. "The house being completely furnished, they come into possession without necessaries, and they go out NAKED. The insurance seems to have failed, and what next is to be tried?" While they lived he wrote behind their backs to arrange for the education of their children, or to get them other situations if they seemed unsuitable for the Northern Lights. When he was at a lighthouse on a Sunday he held prayers and heard the children read. When a keeper was sick, he lent him his horse and sent him mutton and brandy from the ship. "The assistant's wife having been this morning confined, there was sent ashore a bottle of sherry and a few rusks--a practice which I have always observed in this service," he writes. They dwelt, many of them, in uninhabited isles or desert forelands, totally cut off from shops. Many of them were, besides, fallen into a rustic dishabitude of life, so that even when they visited a city they could scarce be trusted with their own affairs, as (for example) he who carried home to his children, thinking they were oranges, a bag of lemons. And my grandfather seems to have acted, at least in his early years, as a kind of gratuitous agent for the service. Thus I find him writing to a keeper in 1806, when his mind was already pre-occupied with arrangements for the Bell Rock: "I am much afraid I stand very unfavourably with you as a man of promise, as I was to send several things of which I believe I have more than once got the memorandum. All I can say is that in this respect you are not singular. This makes me no better; but really I have been driven about beyond all example in my past experience, and have been essentially obliged to neglect my own urgent affairs." No servant of the Northern Lights came to Edinburgh but he was entertained at Baxter's Place to breakfast. There, at his own table, my grandfather sat down delightedly with his broad-spoken, homespun officers. His whole relation to the service was, in fact, patriarchal; and I believe I may say that throughout its ranks he was adored. I have spoken with many who knew him; I was his grandson, and their words may have very well been words of flattery; but there was one thing that could not be affected, and that was the look and light that came into their faces at the name of Robert Stevenson. In the early part of the century the foreman builder was a young man of the name of George Peebles, a native of Anstruther. My grandfather had placed in him a very high degree of confidence, and he was already designated to be foreman at the Bell Rock, when, on Christmas-day 1806, on his way home from Orkney, he was lost in the schooner _Traveller_. The tale of the loss of the _Traveller_ is almost a replica of that of the _Elizabeth_ of Stromness; like the _Elizabeth_ she came as far as Kinnaird Head, was then surprised by a storm, driven back to Orkney, and bilged and sank on the island of Flotta. It seems it was about the dusk of the day when the ship struck, and many of the crew and passengers were drowned. About the same hour, my grandfather was in his office at the writing-table; and the room beginning to darken, he laid down his pen and fell asleep. In a dream he saw the door open and George Peebles come in, "reeling to and fro, and staggering like a drunken man," with water streaming from his head and body to the floor. There it gathered into a wave which, sweeping forward, submerged my grandfather. Well, no matter how deep; versions vary; and at last he awoke, and behold it was a dream! But it may be conceived how profoundly the impression was written even on the mind of a man averse from such ideas, when the news came of the wreck on Flotta and the death of George. George's vouchers and accounts had perished with himself; and it appeared he was in debt to the Commissioners. But my grandfather wrote to Orkney twice, collected evidence of his disbursements, and proved him to be seventy pounds ahead. With this sum, he applied to George's brothers, and had it apportioned between their mother and themselves. He approached the Board and got an annuity of £5 bestowed on the widow Peebles; and we find him writing her a long letter of explanation and advice, and pressing on her the duty of making a will. That he should thus act executor was no singular instance. But besides this we are able to assist at some of the stages of a rather touching experiment: no less than an attempt to secure Charles Peebles heir to George's favour. He is despatched, under the character of "a fine young man"; recommended to gentlemen for "advice, as he's a stranger in your place, and indeed to this kind of charge, this being his first outset as Foreman"; and for a long while after, the letter-book, in the midst of that thrilling first year of the Bell Rock, is encumbered with pages of instruction and encouragement. The nature of a bill, and the precautions that are to be observed about discounting it, are expounded at length and with clearness. "You are not, I hope, neglecting, Charles, to work the harbour at spring-tides; and see that you pay the greatest attention to get the well so as to supply the keeper with water, for he is a very helpless fellow, and so unfond of hard work that I fear he could do ill to keep himself in water by going to the other side for it."--"With regard to spirits, Charles, I see very little occasion for it." These abrupt apostrophes sound to me like the voice of an awakened conscience; but they would seem to have reverberated in vain in the ears of Charles. There was trouble in Pladda, his scene of operations; his men ran away from him, there was at least a talk of calling in the Sheriff. "I fear," writes my grandfather, "you have been too indulgent, and I am sorry to add that men do not answer to be too well treated, a circumstance which I have experienced, and which you will learn as you go on in business." I wonder, was not Charles Peebles himself a case in point? Either death, at least, or disappointment and discharge, must have ended his service in the Northern Lights; and in later correspondence I look in vain for any mention of his name--Charles, I mean, not Peebles: for as late as 1839 my grandfather is patiently writing to another of the family: "I am sorry you took the trouble of applying to me about your son, as it lies quite out of my way to forward his views in the line of his profession as a Draper." III A professional life of Robert Stevenson has been already given to the world by his son David, and to that I would refer those interested in such matters. But my own design, which is to represent the man, would be very ill carried out if I suffered myself or my reader to forget that he was, first of all and last of all, an engineer. His chief claim to the style of a mechanical inventor is on account of the Jib or Balance Crane of the Bell Rock, which are beautiful contrivances. But the great merit of this engineer was not in the field of engines. He was above all things a projector of works in the face of nature, and a modifier of nature itself. A road to be made, a tower to be built, a harbour to be constructed, a river to be trained and guided in its channel--these were the problems with which his mind was continually occupied; and for these and similar ends he travelled the world for more than half a century, like an artist, note-book in hand. He once stood and looked on at the emptying of a certain oil-tube; he did so watch in hand, and accurately timed the operation; and in so doing offered the perfect type of his profession. The fact acquired might never be of use: it was acquired: another link in the world's huge chain of processes was brought down to figures and placed at the service of the engineer. "The very term mensuration sounds _engineer-like_," I find him writing; and in truth what the engineer most properly deals with is that which can be measured, weighed, and numbered. The time of any operation in hours and minutes, its cost in pounds, shillings, and pence, the strain upon a given point in foot-pounds--these are his conquests, with which he must continually furnish his mind, and which, after he has acquired them, he must continually apply and exercise. They must be not only entries in note-books, to be hurriedly consulted; in the actor's phrase, he must be _stale_ in them; in a word of my grandfather's, they must be "fixed in the mind like the ten fingers and ten toes." These are the certainties of the engineer; so far he finds a solid footing and clear views. But the province of formulas and constants is restricted. Even the mechanical engineer comes at last to an end of his figures, and must stand up, a practical man, face to face with the discrepancies of nature and the hiatuses of theory. After the machine is finished, and the steam turned on, the next is to drive it; and experience and an exquisite sympathy must teach him where a weight should be applied or a nut loosened. With the civil engineer, more properly so called (if anything can be proper with this awkward coinage), the obligation starts with the beginning. He is always the practical man. The rains, the winds and the waves, the complexity and the fitfulness of nature, are always before him. He has to deal with the unpredictable, with those forces (in Smeaton's phrase) that "are subject to no calculation"; and still he must predict, still calculate them, at his peril. His work is not yet in being, and he must foresee its influence: how it shall deflect the tide, exaggerate the waves, dam back the rain-water, or attract the thunderbolt. He visits a piece of sea-board: and from the inclination and soil of the beach, from the weeds and shell-fish, from the configuration of the coast and the depth of soundings outside, he must deduce what magnitude of waves is to be looked for. He visits a river, its summer water babbling on shallows; and he must not only read, in a thousand indications, the measure of winter freshets, but be able to predict the violence of occasional great floods. Nay, and more: he must not only consider that which is, but that which may be. Thus I find my grandfather writing, in a report on the North Esk Bridge: "A less waterway might have sufficed, but _the valleys may come to be meliorated by drainage_." One field drained after another through all that confluence of vales, and we come to a time when they shall precipitate, by so much a more copious and transient flood, as the gush of the flowing drain-pipe is superior to the leakage of a peat. It is plain there is here but a restricted use for formulas. In this sort of practice, the engineer has need of some transcendental sense. Smeaton, the pioneer, bade him obey his "feelings"; my father, that "power of estimating obscure forces which supplies a coefficient of its own to every rule." The rules must be everywhere indeed; but they must everywhere be modified by this transcendental coefficient, everywhere bent to the impression of the trained eye and the _feelings_ of the engineer. A sentiment of physical laws and of the scale of nature, which shall have been strong in the beginning and progressively fortified by observation, must be his guide in the last recourse. I had the most opportunity to observe my father. He would pass hours on the beach, brooding over the waves, counting them, noting their least deflection, noting when they broke. On Tweedside, or by Lyne or Manor, we have spent together whole afternoons; to me, at the time, extremely wearisome; to him, as I am now sorry to think, bitterly mortifying. The river was to me a pretty and various spectacle; I could not see--I could not be made to see--it otherwise. To my father it was a chequer-board of lively forces, which he traced from pool to shallow with minute appreciation and enduring interest. "That bank was being undercut," he might say; "why? Suppose you were to put a groin out here, would not the _filum fluminis_ be cast abruptly off across the channel? and where would it impinge upon the other shore? and what would be the result? Or suppose you were to blast that boulder, what would happen? Follow it--use the eyes God has given you--can you not see that a great deal of land would be reclaimed upon this side?" It was to me like school in holidays; but to him, until I had worn him out with my invincible triviality, a delight. Thus he pored over the engineer's voluminous handy-book of nature; thus must, too, have pored my grandfather and uncles. But it is of the essence of this knowledge, or this knack of mind, to be largely incommunicable. "It cannot be imparted to another," says my father. The verbal casting-net is thrown in vain over these evanescent, inferential relations. Hence the insignificance of much engineering literature. So far as the science can be reduced to formulas or diagrams, the book is to the point; so far as the art depends on intimate study of the ways of nature, the author's words will too often be found vapid. This fact--engineering looks one way, and literature another--was what my grandfather overlooked. All his life long, his pen was in his hand, piling up a treasury of knowledge, preparing himself against all possible contingencies. Scarce anything fell under his notice but he perceived in it some relation to his work, and chronicled it in the pages of his journal in his always lucid, but sometimes inexact and wordy, style. The Travelling Diary (so he called it) was kept in fascicles of ruled paper, which were at last bound up, rudely indexed, and put by for future reference. Such volumes as have reached me contain a surprising medley: the whole details of his employment in the Northern Lights and his general practice; the whole biography of an enthusiastic engineer. Much of it is useful and curious; much merely otiose; and much can only be described as an attempt to impart that which cannot be imparted in words. Of such are his repeated and heroic descriptions of reefs; monuments of misdirected literary energy, which leave upon the mind of the reader no effect but that of a multiplicity of words and the suggested vignette of a lusty old gentleman scrambling among tangle. It is to be remembered that he came to engineering while yet it was in the egg and without a library, and that he saw the bounds of that profession widen daily. He saw iron ships, steamers, and the locomotive engine, introduced. He lived to travel from Glasgow to Edinburgh in the inside of a forenoon, and to remember that he himself had "often been twelve hours upon the journey, and his grandfather (Lillie) two days"! The profession was still but in its second generation, and had already broken down the barriers of time and space. Who should set a limit to its future encroachments? And hence, with a kind of sanguine pedantry, he pursued his design of "keeping up with the day" and posting himself and his family on every mortal subject. Of this unpractical idealism we shall meet with many instances; there was not a trade, and scarce an accomplishment, but he thought it should form part of the outfit of an engineer; and not content with keeping an encyclopædic diary himself, he would fain have set all his sons to work continuing and extending it. They were more happily inspired. My father's engineering pocket-book was not a bulky volume; with its store of pregnant notes and vital formulas, it served him through life, and was not yet filled when he came to die. As for Robert Stevenson and the Travelling Diary, I should be ungrateful to complain, for it has supplied me with many lively traits for this and subsequent chapters; but I must still remember much of the period of my study there as a sojourn in the Valley of the Shadow. The duty of the engineer is twofold--to design the work, and to see the work done. We have seen already something of the vociferous thoroughness of the man, upon the cleaning of lamps and the polishing of reflectors. In building, in road-making, in the construction of bridges, in every detail and byway of his employments, he pursued the same ideal. Perfection (with a capital P and violently underscored) was his design. A crack for a penknife, the waste of "six-and-thirty shillings," "the loss of a day or a tide," in each of these he saw and was revolted by the finger of the sloven; and to spirits intense as his, and immersed in vital undertakings, the slovenly is the dishonest, and wasted time is instantly translated into lives endangered. On this consistent idealism there is but one thing that now and then trenches with a touch of incongruity, and that is his love of the picturesque. As when he laid out a road on Hogarth's line of beauty; bade a foreman be careful, in quarrying, not "to disfigure the island"; or regretted in a report that "the great stone, called the _Devil in the Hole_, was blasted or broken down to make road-metal, and for other purposes of the work." FOOTNOTE: [10] This is only a probable hypothesis; I have tried to identify my father's anecdote in my grandfather's diary, and may very well have been deceived.--R. L. S. CHAPTER III THE BUILDING OF THE BELL ROCK Off the mouths of the Tay and the Forth, thirteen miles from Fifeness, eleven from Arbroath, and fourteen from the Red Head of Angus, lies the Inchcape or Bell Rock. It extends to a length of about fourteen hundred feet, but the part of it discovered at low water to not more than four hundred and twenty-seven. At a little more than half-flood in fine weather the seamless ocean joins over the reef, and at high-water springs it is buried sixteen feet. As the tide goes down, the higher reaches of the rock are seen to be clothed by _Conferva rupestris_ as by a sward of grass; upon the more exposed edges, where the currents are most swift and the breach of the sea heaviest, Baderlock or Henware flourishes; and the great Tangle grows at the depth of several fathoms with luxuriance. Before man arrived, and introduced into the silence of the sea the smoke and clangour of a blacksmith's shop, it was a favourite resting-place of seals. The crab and lobster haunt in the crevices; and limpets, mussels, and the white buckie abound. According to a tradition, a bell had been once hung upon this rock by an abbot of Arbroath,[11] "and being taken down by a sea-pirate, a year thereafter he perished upon the same rock, with ship and goods, in the righteous judgment of God." From the days of the abbot and the sea-pirate no man had set foot upon the Inchcape, save fishers from the neighbouring coast, or perhaps--for a moment, before the surges swallowed them--the unfortunate victims of shipwreck. The fishers approached the rock with an extreme timidity; but their harvest appears to have been great, and the adventure no more perilous than lucrative. In 1800, on the occasion of my grandfather's first landing, and during the two or three hours which the ebb-tide and the smooth water allowed them to pass upon its shelves, his crew collected upwards of two hundredweight of old metal: pieces of a kedge anchor and a cabin stove, crow-bars, a hinge and lock of a door, a ship's marking-iron, a piece of a ship's caboose, a soldier's bayonet, a cannon ball, several pieces of money, a shoe-buckle, and the like. Such were the spoils of the Bell Rock. But the number of vessels actually lost upon the reef was as nothing to those that were cast away in fruitless efforts to avoid it. Placed right in the fairway of two navigations, and one of these the entrance to the only harbour of refuge between the Downs and the Moray Firth, it breathed abroad along the whole coast an atmosphere of terror and perplexity; and no ship sailed that part of the North Sea at night, but what the ears of those on board would be strained to catch the roaring of the seas on the Bell Rock. From 1794 onward, the mind of my grandfather had been exercised with the idea of a light upon this formidable danger. To build a tower on a sea rock, eleven miles from shore, and barely uncovered at low water of neaps, appeared a fascinating enterprise. It was something yet unattempted, unessayed; and even now, after it has been lighted for more than eighty years, it is still an exploit that has never been repeated.[12] My grandfather was, besides, but a young man, of an experience comparatively restricted, and a reputation confined to Scotland; and when he prepared his first models, and exhibited them in Merchants' Hall, he can hardly be acquitted of audacity. John Clerk of Eldin stood his friend from the beginning, kept the key of the model room, to which he carried "eminent strangers," and found words of counsel and encouragement beyond price. "Mr. Clerk had been personally known to Smeaton, and used occasionally to speak of him to me," says my grandfather; and again: "I felt regret that I had not the opportunity of a greater range of practice to fit me for such an undertaking; but I was fortified by an expression of my friend Mr. Clerk in one of our conversations. 'This work,' said he, 'is unique, and can be little forwarded by experience of ordinary masonic operations. In this case Smeaton's "Narrative" must be the text-book, and energy and perseverance the pratique.'" A Bill for the work was introduced into Parliament and lost in the Lords in 1802-3. John Rennie was afterwards, at my grandfather's suggestion, called in council, with the style of chief engineer. The precise meaning attached to these words by any of the parties appears irrecoverable. Chief engineer should have full authority, full responsibility, and a proper share of the emoluments; and there were none of these for Rennie. I find in an appendix a paper which resumes the controversy on this subject; and it will be enough to say here that Rennie did not design the Bell Rock, that he did not execute it, and that he was not paid for it.[13] From so much of the correspondence as has come down to me, the acquaintance of this man, eleven years his senior, and already famous, appears to have been both useful and agreeable to Robert Stevenson. It is amusing to find my grandfather seeking high and low for a brace of pistols which his colleague had lost by the way between Aberdeen and Edinburgh; and writing to Messrs. Dollond, "I have not thought it necessary to trouble Mr. Rennie with this order, but _I beg you will see to get two minutes of him as he passes your door_"--a proposal calculated rather from the latitude of Edinburgh than from London, even in 1807. It is pretty, too, to observe with what affectionate regard Smeaton was held in mind by his immediate successors. "Poor old fellow," writes Rennie to Stevenson, "I hope he will now and then take a peep at us, and inspire you with fortitude and courage to brave all difficulties and dangers to accomplish a work which will, if successful, immortalise you in the annals of fame." The style might be bettered, but the sentiment is charming. Smeaton was, indeed, the patron saint of the Bell Rock. Undeterred by the sinister fate of Winstanley, he had tackled and solved the problem of the Eddystone; but his solution had not been in all respects perfect. It remained for my grandfather to outdo him in daring, by applying to a tidal rock those principles which had been already justified by the success of the Eddystone, and to perfect the model by more than one exemplary departure. Smeaton had adopted in his floors the principle of the arch; each therefore exercised an outward thrust upon the walls, which must be met and combated by embedded chains. My grandfather's flooring-stones, on the other hand, were flat, made part of the outer wall, and were keyed and dovetailed into a central stone, so as to bind the work together and be positive elements of strength. In 1703 Winstanley still thought it possible to erect his strange pagoda, with its open gallery, its florid scrolls and candlesticks: like a rich man's folly for an ornamental water in a park. Smeaton followed; then Stevenson in his turn corrected such flaws as were left in Smeaton's design; and with his improvements, it is not too much to say the model was made perfect. Smeaton and Stevenson had between them evolved and finished the sea-tower. No subsequent builder has departed in anything essential from the principles of their design. It remains, and it seems to us as though it must remain for ever, an ideal attained. Every stone in the building, it may interest the reader to know, my grandfather had himself cut out in the model; and the manner in which the courses were fitted, joggled, trenailed, wedged, and the bond broken, is intricate as a puzzle and beautiful by ingenuity. In 1806 a second Bill passed both Houses, and the preliminary works were at once begun. The same year the Navy had taken a great harvest of prizes in the North Sea, one of which, a Prussian fishing dogger, flat-bottomed and rounded at the stem and stern, was purchased to be a floating lightship, and re-named the _Pharos_. By July 1807 she was overhauled, rigged for her new purpose, and turned into the lee of the Isle of May. "It was proposed that the whole party should meet in her and pass the night; but she rolled from side to side in so extraordinary a manner, that even the most seahardy fled. It was humorously observed of this vessel that she was in danger of making a round turn and appearing with her keel uppermost; and that she would even turn a halfpenny if laid upon deck." By two o'clock on the morning of the 15th July this purgatorial vessel was moored by the Bell Rock. A sloop of forty tons had been in the meantime built at Leith, and named the _Smeaton_: by the 7th of August my grandfather set sail in her-- "carrying with him Mr. Peter Logan, foreman builder, and five artificers selected from their having been somewhat accustomed to the sea, the writer being aware of the distressing trial which the floating light would necessarily inflict upon landsmen from her rolling motion. Here he remained till the 10th, and, as the weather was favourable, a landing was effected daily, when the workmen were employed in cutting the large seaweed from the sites of the lighthouse and beacon, which were respectively traced with pickaxes upon the rock. In the meantime the crew of the _Smeaton_ was employed in laying down the several sets of moorings within about half a mile of the rock for the convenience of vessels. The artificers, having, fortunately, experienced moderate weather, returned to the workyard of Arbroath with a good report of their treatment afloat; when their comrades ashore began to feel some anxiety to see a place of which they had heard so much, and to change the constant operations with the iron and mallet in the process of hewing for an occasional tide's work on the rock, which they figured to themselves as a state of comparative ease and comfort." I am now for many pages to let my grandfather speak for himself, and tell in his own words the story of his capital achievement. The tall quarto of 533 pages from which the following narrative has been dug out is practically unknown to the general reader, yet good judges have perceived its merit, and it has been named (with flattering wit) "The Romance of Stone and Lime" and "The Robinson Crusoe of Civil Engineering." The tower was but four years in the building; it took Robert Stevenson, in the midst of his many avocations, no less than fourteen to prepare the _Account_. The title-page is a solid piece of literature of upwards of a hundred words; the table of contents runs to thirteen pages; and the dedication (to that revered monarch, George IV) must have cost him no little study and correspondence. Walter Scott was called in council, and offered one miscorrection which still blots the page. In spite of all this pondering and filing, there remain pages not easy to construe, and inconsistencies not easy to explain away. I have sought to make these disappear, and to lighten a little the baggage with which my grandfather marches; here and there I have rejointed and rearranged a sentence, always with his own words, and all with a reverent and faithful hand; and I offer here to the reader the true Monument of Robert Stevenson with a little of the moss removed from the inscription, and the Portrait of the artist with some superfluous canvas cut away. I OPERATIONS OF 1807 1807 Sunday, 16th Aug. Everything being arranged for sailing to the rock on Saturday the 15th, the vessel might have proceeded on the Sunday; but understanding that this would not be so agreeable to the artificers it was deferred until Monday. Here we cannot help observing that the men allotted for the operations at the rock seemed to enter upon the undertaking with a degree of consideration which fully marked their opinion as to the hazardous nature of the undertaking on which they were about to enter. They went in a body to church on Sunday, and whether it was in the ordinary course, or designed for the occasion, the writer is not certain, but the service was, in many respects, suitable to their circumstances. Monday, 17th Aug. The tide happening to fall late in the evening of Monday the 17th, the party, counting twenty-four in number, embarked on board of the _Smeaton_ about ten o'clock p.m., and sailed from Arbroath with a gentle breeze at west. Our ship's colours having been flying all day in compliment to the commencement of the work, the other vessels in the harbour also saluted, which made a very gay appearance. A number of the friends and acquaintances of those on board having been thus collected, the piers, though at a late hour, were perfectly crowded, and just as the _Smeaton_ cleared the harbour, all on board united in giving three hearty cheers, which were returned by those on shore in such good earnest, that, in the still of the evening, the sound must have been heard in all parts of the town, reechoing from the walls and lofty turrets of the venerable Abbey of Aberbrothwick. The writer felt much satisfaction at the manner of this parting scene, though he must own that the present rejoicing was, on his part, mingled with occasional reflections upon the responsibility of his situation, which extended to the safety of all who should be engaged in this perilous work. With such sensations he retired to his cabin; but as the artificers were rather inclined to move about the deck than to remain in their confined berths below, his repose was transient, and the vessel being small every motion was necessarily heard. Some who were musically inclined occasionally sung; but he listened with peculiar pleasure to the sailor at the helm, who hummed over Dibdin's characteristic air:-- "They say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack." Tuesday, 18th Aug. The weather had been very gentle all night, and, about four in the morning of the 18th, the _Smeaton_ anchored. Agreeably to an arranged plan of operations, all hands were called at five o'clock a.m., just as the highest part of the Bell Rock began to show its sable head among the light breakers, which occasionally whitened with the foaming sea. The two boats belonging to the floating light attended the _Smeaton_, to carry the artificers to the rock, as her boat could only accommodate about six or eight sitters. Every one was more eager than his neighbour to leap into the boats, and it required a good deal of management on the part of the coxswains to get men unaccustomed to a boat to take their places for rowing and at the same time trimming her properly. The landing-master and foreman went into one boat, while the writer took charge of another, and steered it to and from the rock. This became the more necessary in the early stages of the work, as places could not be spared for more than two, or at most three, seamen to each boat, who were always stationed, one at the bow, to use the boat-hook in fending or pushing off, and the other at the aftermost oar, to give the proper time in rowing, while the middle oars were double-banked, and rowed by the artificers. As the weather was extremely fine, with light airs of wind from the east, we landed without difficulty upon the central part of the rock at half-past five, but the water had not yet sufficiently left it for commencing the work. This interval, however, did not pass unoccupied. The first and last of all the principal operations at the Bell Rock were accompanied by three hearty cheers from all hands, and, on occasions like the present, the steward of the ship attended, when each man was regaled with a glass of rum. As the water left the rock about six, some began to bore the holes for the great bats or holdfasts, for fixing the beams of the Beacon-house, while the smith was fully attended in laying out the site of his forge, upon a somewhat sheltered spot of the rock, which also recommended itself from the vicinity of a pool of water for tempering his irons. These preliminary steps occupied about an hour, and as nothing further could be done during this tide towards fixing the forge, the workmen gratified their curiosity by roaming about the rock, which they investigated with great eagerness till the tide overflowed it. Those who had been sick picked dulse (_Fucus palmatus_), which they ate with much seeming appetite; others were more intent upon collecting limpets for bait, to enjoy the amusement of fishing when they returned on board of the vessel. Indeed, none came away empty-handed, as everything found upon the Bell Rock was considered valuable, being connected with some interesting association. Several coins and numerous bits of shipwrecked iron, were picked up, of almost every description; and, in particular, a marking-iron lettered JAMES--a circumstance of which it was thought proper to give notice to the public, as it might lead to the knowledge of some unfortunate shipwreck, perhaps unheard of till this simple occurrence led to the discovery. When the rock began to be overflowed, the landing-master arranged the crews of the respective boats, appointing twelve persons to each. According to a rule which the writer had laid down to himself, he was always the last person who left the rock. In a short time the Bell Rock was laid completely under water, and the weather being extremely fine, the sea was so smooth that its place could not be pointed out from the appearance of the surface--a circumstance which sufficiently demonstrates the dangerous nature of this rock, even during the day, and in the smoothest and calmest state of the sea. During the interval between the morning and the evening tides, the artificers were variously employed in fishing and reading; others were busy in drying and adjusting their wet clothes, and one or two amused their companions with the violin and German flute. About seven in the evening the signal bell for landing on the rock was again rung, when every man was at his quarters. In this service it was thought more appropriate to use the bell than to _pipe_ to quarters, as the use of this instrument is less known to the mechanic than the sound of the bell. The landing, as in the morning, was at the eastern harbour. During this tide the seaweed was pretty well cleared from the site of the operations, and also from the tracks leading to the different landing-places; for walking upon the rugged surface of the Bell Rock, when covered with seaweed, was found to be extremely difficult and even dangerous. Every hand that could possibly be occupied was now employed in assisting the smith to fit up the apparatus for his forge. At 9 p.m. the boats returned to the tender, after other two hours' work, in the same order as formerly--perhaps as much gratified with the success that attended the work of this day as with any other in the whole course of the operations. Although it could not be said that the fatigues of this day had been great, yet all on board retired early to rest. The sea being calm, and no movement on deck, it was pretty generally remarked in the morning that the bell awakened the greater number on board from their first sleep; and though this observation was not altogether applicable to the writer himself, yet he was not a little pleased to find that thirty people could all at once become so reconciled to a night's quarters within a few hundred paces of the Bell Rock. Wednesday, 19th Aug. Being extremely anxious at this time to get forward with fixing the smith's forge, on which the progress of the work at present depended, the writer requested that he might be called at daybreak to learn the landing-master's opinion of the weather from the appearance of the rising sun, a criterion by which experienced seamen can generally judge pretty accurately of the state of the weather for the following day. About five o'clock, on coming upon deck, the sun's upper limb or disc had just begun to appear as if rising from the ocean, and in less than a minute he was seen in the fullest splendour; but after a short interval he was enveloped in a soft cloudy sky, which was considered emblematical of fine weather. His rays had not yet sufficiently dispelled the clouds which hid the land from view, and the Bell Rock being still overflowed, the whole was one expanse of water. This scene in itself was highly gratifying; and, when the morning bell was tolled, we were gratified with the happy forebodings of good weather and the expectation of having both a morning and an evening tide's work on the rock. The boat which the writer steered happened to be the last which approached the rock at this tide; and, in standing up in the stern, while at some distance, to see how the leading boat entered the creek, he was astonished to observe something in the form of a human figure, in a reclining posture, upon one of the ledges of the rock. He immediately steered the boat through a narrow entrance to the eastern harbour, with a thousand unpleasant sensations in his mind. He thought a vessel or boat must have been wrecked upon the rock during the night; and it seemed probable that the rock might be strewed with dead bodies, a spectacle which could not fail to deter the artificers from returning so freely to their work. In the midst of these reveries the boat took the ground at an improper landing-place but, without waiting to push her off, he leapt upon the rock, and making his way hastily to the spot which had privately given him alarm, he had the satisfaction to ascertain that he had only been deceived by the peculiar situation and aspect of the smith's anvil and block, which very completely represented the appearance of a lifeless body upon the rock. The writer carefully suppressed his feelings, the simple mention of which might have had a bad effect upon the artificers, and his haste passed for an anxiety to examine the apparatus of the smith's forge, left in an unfinished state at evening tide. In the course of this morning's work two or three apparently distant peals of thunder were heard, and the atmosphere suddenly became thick and foggy. But as the _Smeaton_, our present tender, was moored at no great distance from the rock, the crew on board continued blowing with a horn, and occasionally fired a musket, so that the boats got to the ship without difficulty. Thursday, 20th Aug. The wind this morning inclined from the north-east, and the sky had a heavy and cloudy appearance, but the sea was smooth, though there was an undulating motion on the surface, which indicated easterly winds, and occasioned a slight surf upon the rock. But the boats found no difficulty in landing at the western creek at half-past seven, and, after a good tide's work, left it again about a quarter from eleven. In the evening the artificers landed at half-past seven, and continued till half-past eight, having completed the fixing of the smith's forge, his vice, and a wooden board or bench, which were also batted to a ledge of the rock, to the great joy of all, under a salute of three hearty cheers. From an oversight on the part of the smith, who had neglected to bring his tinder-box and matches from the vessel, the work was prevented from being continued for at least an hour longer. The smith's shop was, of course, in _open space_: the large bellows were carried to and from the rock every tide, for the serviceable condition of which, together with the tinder-box, fuel, and embers of the former fire, the smith was held responsible. Those who have been placed in situations to feel the inconveniency and want of this useful artisan, will be able to appreciate his value in a case like the present. It often happened, to our annoyance and disappointment, in the early state of the work, when the smith was in the middle of a _favourite heat_ in making some useful article, or in sharpening the tools, after the flood-tide had obliged the pickmen to strike work, a sea would come rolling over the rocks, dash out the fire, and endanger his indispensable implement, the bellows. If the sea was smooth, while the smith often stood at work knee-deep in water, the tide rose by imperceptible degrees, first cooling the exterior of the fireplace, or hearth, and then quietly blackening and extinguishing the fire from below. The writer has frequently been amused at the perplexing anxiety of the blacksmith when coaxing his fire and endeavouring to avert the effects of the rising tide. Friday, 21st Aug. Everything connected with the forge being now completed, the artificers found no want of sharp tools, and the work went forward with great alacrity and spirit. It was also alleged that the rock had a more habitable appearance from the volumes of smoke which ascended from the smith's shop and the busy noise of his anvil, the operations of the masons, the movements of the boats, and shipping at a distance--all contributed to give life and activity to the scene. This noise and traffic had, however, the effect of almost completely banishing the herd of seals which had hitherto frequented the rock as a resting-place during the period of low water. The rock seemed to be peculiarly adapted to their habits, for, excepting two or three days at neap-tides, a part of it always dries at low water--at least, during the summer season--and as there was good fishing-ground in the neighbourhood, without a human being to disturb or molest them, it had become a very favourite residence of these amphibious animals, the writer having occasionally counted from fifty to sixty playing about the rock at a time. But when they came to be disturbed every tide, and their seclusion was broken in upon by the kindling of great fires, together with the beating of hammers and picks during low water, after hovering about for a time, they changed their place, and seldom more than one or two were to be seen about the rock upon the more detached outlayers which dry partially, whence they seemed to look with that sort of curiosity which is observable in these animals when following a boat. Saturday, 22nd Aug. Hitherto the artificers had remained on board the _Smeaton_, which was made fast to one of the mooring buoys at a distance only of about a quarter of a mile from the rock, and, of course, a very great conveniency to the work. Being so near, the seamen could never be mistaken as to the progress of the tide, or state of the sea upon the rock, nor could the boats be much at a loss to pull on board of the vessel during fog, or even in very rough weather; as she could be cast loose from her moorings at pleasure, and brought to the lee side of the rock. But the _Smeaton_ being only about forty register tons, her accommodations were extremely limited. It may, therefore, be easily imagined that an addition of twenty-four persons to her own crew must have rendered the situation of those on board rather uncomfortable. The only place for the men's hammocks on board being in the hold, they were unavoidably much crowded: and if the weather had required the hatches to be fastened down, so great a number of men could not possibly have been accommodated. To add to this evil, the _co-boose_ or cooking-place being upon deck, it would not have been possible to have cooked for so large a company in the event of bad weather. The stock of water was now getting short, and some necessaries being also wanted for the floating light, the _Smeaton_ was despatched for Arbroath; and the writer, with the artificers, at the same time shifted their quarters from her to the floating light. Although the rock barely made its appearance at this period of the tides till eight o'clock, yet, having now a full mile to row from the floating light to the rock, instead of about a quarter of a mile from the moorings of the _Smeaton_, it was necessary to be earlier astir, and to form different arrangements; breakfast was accordingly served up at seven o'clock this morning. From the excessive motion of the floating light, the writer had looked forward rather with anxiety to the removal of the workmen to this ship. Some among them, who had been congratulating themselves upon having become sea-hardy while on board the _Smeaton_, had a complete relapse upon returning to the floating light. This was the case with the writer. From the spacious and convenient berthage of the floating light, the exchange to the artificers was, in this respect, much for the better. The boats were also commodious, measuring sixteen feet in length on the keel, so that, in fine weather, their complement of sitters was sixteen persons for each, with which, however, they were rather crowded, but she could not stow two boats of larger dimensions. When there was what is called a breeze of wind, and a swell in the sea, the proper number for each boat could not, with propriety, be rated at more than twelve persons. When the tide-bell rung the boats were hoisted out, and two active seamen were employed to keep them from receiving damage alongside. The floating light being very buoyant, was so quick in her motions that when those who were about to step from her gunwale into a boat, placed themselves upon a cleat or step on the ship's side, with the man or rail ropes in their hands, they had often to wait for some time till a favourable opportunity occurred for stepping into the boat. While in this situation, with the vessel rolling from side to side, watching the proper time for letting go the man-ropes, it required the greatest dexterity and presence of mind to leap into the boats. One who was rather awkward would often wait a considerable period in this position: at one time his side of the ship would be so depressed that he would touch the boat to which he belonged, while the next sea would elevate him so much that he would see his comrades in the boat on the opposite side of the ship, his friends in the one boat calling to him to "Jump," while those in the boat on the other side, as he came again and again into their view, would jocosely say, "Are you there yet? You seem to enjoy a swing." In this situation it was common to see a person upon each side of the ship for a length of time, waiting to quit his hold. On leaving the rock to-day a trial of seamanship was proposed amongst the rowers, for by this time the artificers had become tolerably expert in this exercise. By inadvertency some of the oars provided had been made of fir instead of ash, and although a considerable stock had been laid in, the workmen, being at first awkward in the art, were constantly breaking their oars; indeed it was no uncommon thing to see the broken blades of a pair of oars floating astern, in the course of a passage from the rock to the vessel. The men, upon the whole, had but little work to perform in the course of a day; for though they exerted themselves extremely hard while on the rock, yet, in the early state of the operations, this could not be continued for more than three or four hours at a time, and as their rations were large--consisting of one pound and a half of beef, one pound of ship biscuit, eight ounces oatmeal, two ounces barley, two ounces butter, three quarts of small beer, with vegetables and salt--they got into excellent spirits when free of sea-sickness. The rowing of the boats against each other became a favourite amusement, which was rather a fortunate circumstance, as it must have been attended with much inconvenience had it been found necessary to employ a sufficient number of sailors for this purpose. The writer, therefore, encouraged this spirit of emulation, and the speed of their respective boats became a favourite topic. Premiums for boat-races were instituted, which were contended for with great eagerness, and the respective crews kept their stations in the boats with as much precision as they kept their beds on board of the ship. With these and other pastimes, when the weather was favourable, the time passed away among the inmates of the forecastle and waist of the ship. The writer looks back with interest upon the hours of solitude which he spent in this lonely ship with his small library. This being the first Saturday that the artificers were afloat, all hands were served with a glass of rum and water at night, to drink the sailors' favourite toast of "Wives and Sweethearts." It was customary, upon these occasions, for the seamen and artificers to collect in the galley, when the musical instruments were put in requisition: for, according to invariable practice, every man must play a tune, sing a song, or tell a story. Sunday, 23rd Aug. Having, on the previous evening, arranged matters with the landing-master as to the business of the day, the signal was rung for all hands at half-past seven this morning. In the early state of the spring-tides the artificers went to the rock before breakfast, but as the tides fell later in the day, it became necessary to take this meal before leaving the ship. At eight o'clock all hands were assembled on the quarter-deck for prayers, a solemnity which was gone through in as orderly a manner as circumstances would admit. When the weather permitted, the flags of the ship were hung up as an awning or screen, forming the quarter-deck into a distinct compartment; the pendant was also hoisted at the mainmast, and a large ensign flag was displayed over the stern; and lastly, the ship's companion, or top of the staircase, was covered with the _flag proper_ of the Lighthouse Service, on which the Bible was laid. A particular toll of the bell called all hands to the quarter-deck, when the writer read a chapter of the Bible, and, the whole ship's company being uncovered, he also read the impressive prayer composed by the Reverend Dr. Brunton, one of the ministers of Edinburgh. Upon concluding this service, which was attended with becoming reverence and attention, all on board retired to their respective berths to breakfast, and, at half-past nine, the bell again rung for the artificers to take their stations in their respective boats. Some demur having been evinced on board about the propriety of working on Sunday, which had hitherto been touched upon as delicately as possible, all hands being called aft, the writer, from the quarter-deck, stated generally the nature of the service, expressing his hopes that every man would feel himself called upon to consider the erection of a lighthouse on the Bell Rock, in every point of view, as a work of necessity and mercy. He knew that scruples had existed with some, and these had, indeed, been fairly and candidly urged before leaving the shore; but it was expected that, after having seen the critical nature of the rock, and the necessity of the measure, every man would now be satisfied of the propriety of embracing all opportunities of landing on the rock when the state of the weather would permit. The writer further took them to witness that it did not proceed from want of respect for the appointments and established forms of religion that he had himself adopted the resolution of attending the Bell Rock works on the Sunday; but, as he hoped, from a conviction that it was his bounden duty, on the strictest principles of morality. At the same time it was intimated that, if any were of a different opinion, they should be perfectly at liberty to hold their sentiments without the imputation of contumacy or disobedience; the only difference would be in regard to the pay. Upon stating this much, he stepped into his boat, requesting all who were so disposed to follow him. The sailors, from their habits, found no scruple on this subject, and all of the artificers, though a little tardy, also embarked, excepting four of the masons, who, from the beginning, mentioned that they would decline working on Sundays. It may here be noticed that throughout the whole of the operations it was observable that the men wrought, if possible, with more keenness upon the Sundays than at other times, from an impression that they were engaged in a work of imperious necessity, which required every possible exertion. On returning to the floating light, after finishing the tide's work, the boats were received by the part of the ship's crew left on board with the usual attention of handing ropes to the boats and helping the artificers on board; but the four masons who had absented themselves from the work did not appear upon deck. Monday, 24th Aug. The boats left the floating light at a quarter-past nine o'clock this morning, and the work began at three-quarters past nine; but as the neap-tides were approaching the working time at the rock became gradually shorter, and it was now with difficulty that two and a half hours' work could be got. But so keenly had the workmen entered into the spirit of the Beacon-house operations, that they continued to bore the holes in the rock till some of them were knee-deep in water. The operations at this time were entirely directed to the erection of the beacon, in which every man felt an equal interest, as at this critical period the slightest casualty to any of the boats at the rock might have been fatal to himself individually, while it was perhaps peculiar to the writer more immediately to feel for the safety of the whole. Each log or upright beam of the beacon was to be fixed to the rock by two strong and massive bats or stanchions of iron. These bats, for the fixture of the principal and diagonal beams and bracing chains, required fifty-four holes, each measuring two inches in diameter and eighteen inches in depth. There had already been so considerable a progress made in boring and excavating the holes that the writer's hopes of getting the beacon erected this year began to be more and more confirmed, although it was now advancing towards what was considered the latter end of the proper working season at the Bell Rock. The foreman joiner, Mr. Francis Watt, was accordingly appointed to attend at the rock to-day, when the necessary levels were taken for the step or seat of each particular beam of the beacon, that they might be cut to their respective lengths, to suit the inequalities of the rock; several of the stanchions were also tried into their places, and other necessary observations made, to prevent mistakes on the application of the apparatus, and to facilitate the operations when the beams came to be set up, which would require to be done in the course of a single tide. Tuesday, 25th Aug. We had now experienced an almost unvaried tract of light airs of easterly wind, with clear weather in the fore-part of the day and fog in the evenings. To-day, however, it sensibly changed; when the wind came to the south-west, and blew a fresh breeze. At nine a.m. the bell rung, and the boats were hoisted out, and though the artificers were now pretty well accustomed to tripping up and down the sides of the floating light, yet it required more seamanship this morning than usual. It therefore afforded some merriment to those who had got fairly seated in their respective boats to see the difficulties which attended their companions, and the hesitating manner in which they quitted hold of the man-ropes in leaving the ship. The passage to the rock was tedious, and the boats did not reach it till half-past ten. It being now the period of neap-tides, the water only partially left the rock, and some of the men who were boring on the lower ledges of the site of the beacon stood knee-deep in water. The situation of the smith to-day was particularly disagreeable, but his services were at all times indispensable. As the tide did not leave the site of the forge, he stood in the water, and as there was some roughness on the surface it was with considerable difficulty that, with the assistance of the sailors, he was enabled to preserve alive his fire; and, while his feet were immersed in water, his face was not only scorched but continually exposed to volumes of smoke, accompanied with sparks from the fire, which were occasionally set up owing to the strength and direction of the wind. Wednesday, 26th Aug The wind had shifted this morning to N.N.W., with rain, and was blowing what sailors call a fresh breeze. To speak, perhaps, somewhat more intelligibly to the general reader, the wind was such that a fishing-boat could just carry full sail. But as it was of importance, specially in the outset of the business, to keep up the spirit of enterprise for landing on all practicable occasions, the writer, after consulting with the landing-master, ordered the bell to be rung for embarking, and at half-past eleven the boats reached the rock, and left it again at a quarter-past twelve, without, however, being able to do much work, as the smith could not be set to work from the smallness of the ebb and the strong breach of sea, which lashed with great force among the bars of the forge. Just as we were about to leave the rock the wind shifted to the S.W., and, from a fresh gale, it became what seamen term a hard gale, or such as would have required the fisherman to take in two or three reefs in his sail. It is a curious fact that the respective tides of ebb and flood are apparent upon the shore about an hour and a half sooner than at the distance of three or four miles in the offing. But what seems chiefly interesting here is that the tides around this small sunken rock should follow exactly the same laws as on the extensive shores of the mainland. When the boats left the Bell Rock to-day it was overflowed by the flood-tide, but the floating light did not swing round to the flood-tide for more than an hour afterwards. Under this disadvantage the boats had to struggle with the ebb-tide and a hard gale of wind, so that it was with the greatest difficulty they reached the floating light. Had this gale happened in spring-tides when the current was strong we must have been driven to sea in a very helpless condition. The boat which the writer steered was considerably behind the other, one of the masons having unluckily broken his oar. Our prospect of getting on board, of course, became doubtful, and our situation was rather perilous, as the boat shipped so much sea that it occupied two of the artificers to bale and clear her of water. When the oar gave way we were about half a mile from the ship, but, being fortunately to windward, we got into the wake of the floating light, at about 250 fathoms astern, just as the landing-master's boat reached the vessel. He immediately streamed or floated a life-buoy astern, with a line which was always in readiness, and by means of this useful implement the boat was towed alongside of the floating light, where, from her rolling motion, it required no small management to get safely on board, as the men were worn out with their exertions in pulling from the rock. On the present occasion the crews of both boats were completely drenched with spray, and those who sat upon the bottom of the boats to bale them were sometimes pretty deep in the water before it could be cleared out. After getting on board, all hands were allowed an extra dram, and, having shifted and got a warm and comfortable dinner, the affair, it is believed, was little more thought of. Thursday, 27th Aug. The tides were now in that state which sailors term the dead of the neap, and it was not expected that any part of the rock would be seen above water to-day; at any rate, it was obvious, from the experience of yesterday, that no work could be done upon it, and therefore the artificers were not required to land. The wind was at west, with light breezes, and fine clear weather; and as it was an object with the writer to know the actual state of the Bell Rock at neap-tides, he got one of the boats manned, and, being accompanied by the landing-master, went to it at a quarter-past twelve. The parts of the rock that appeared above water being very trifling, were covered by every wave, so that no landing was made. Upon trying the depth of water with a boat-hook, particularly on the sites of the lighthouse and beacon, on the former, at low water, the depth was found to be three feet, and on the central parts of the latter it was ascertained to be two feet eight inches. Having made these remarks, the boat returned to the ship at two p.m., and the weather being good, the artificers were found amusing themselves with fishing. The _Smeaton_ came from Arbroath this afternoon, and made fast to her moorings, having brought letters and newspapers, with parcels of clean linen, etc., for the workmen, who were also made happy by the arrival of three of their comrades from the workyard ashore. From these men they not only received all the news of the workyard, but seemed themselves to enjoy great pleasure in communicating whatever they considered to be interesting with regard to the rock. Some also got letters from their friends at a distance, the postage of which for the men afloat was always free, so that they corresponded the more readily. The site of the building having already been carefully traced out with the pick-axe, the artificers this day commenced the excavation of the rock for the foundation or first course of the lighthouse. Four men only were employed at this work, while twelve continued at the site of the beacon-house, at which every possible opportunity was embraced, till this essential part of the operations should be completed. Wednesday 2nd Sept. The floating light's bell rung this morning at half-past four o'clock, as a signal for the boats to be got ready, and the landing took place at half-past five. In passing the _Smeaton_ at her moorings near the rock, her boat followed with eight additional artificers who had come from Arbroath with her at last trip, but there being no room for them in the floating light's boats, they had continued on board. The weather did not look very promising in the morning, the wind blowing pretty fresh from W.S.W.: and had it not been that the writer calculated upon having a vessel so much at command, in all probability he would not have ventured to land. The _Smeaton_ rode at what sailors call a _salvagee_, with a cross-head made fast to the floating buoy. This kind of attachment was found to be more convenient than the mode of passing the hawser through the ring of the buoy when the vessel was to be made fast. She had then only to be steered very close to the buoy, when the salvagee was laid hold of with a boat-hook, and the _bite_ of the hawser thrown over the cross-head. But the salvagee, by this method, was always left at the buoy, and was, of course, more liable to chafe and wear than a hawser passed through the ring, which could be wattled with canvas, and shifted at pleasure. The salvagee and cross method is, however, much practised; but the experience of this morning showed it to be very unsuitable for vessels riding in an exposed situation for any length of time. Soon after the artificers landed they commenced work; but the Wind coming to blow hard, the _Smeaton's_ boat and crew, who had brought their complement of eight men to the rock, went off to examine her riding ropes, and see that they were in proper order. The boat had no sooner reached the vessel than she went adrift, carrying the boat along with her. By the time that she was got round to make a tack towards the rock, she had drifted at least three miles to leeward, with the praam boat astern; and, having both the Wind and a tide against her, the writer perceived, with no little anxiety, that she could not possibly return to the rock till long after its being overflowed; for, owing to the anomaly of the tides formerly noticed, the Bell Rock is completely under water when the ebb abates to the offing. In this perilous predicament, indeed, he found himself placed between hope and despair--but certainly the latter was by much the most predominant feeling of his mind--situate upon a sunken rock in the middle of the ocean, which, in the progress of the flood-tide, was to be laid under water to the depth of at least twelve feet in a stormy sea. There were this morning thirty-two persons in all upon the rock, with only two boats, whose complement, even in good weather, did not exceed twenty-four sitters; but to row to the floating light with so much wind, and in so heavy a sea, a complement of eight men for each boat was as much as could, with propriety, be attempted, so that, in this way, about one-half of our number was unprovided for. Under these circumstances, had the writer ventured to despatch one of the boats in expectation of either working the _Smeaton_ sooner up towards the rock, or in hopes of getting her boat brought to our assistance, this must have given an immediate alarm to the artificers, each of whom would have insisted upon taking to his own boat, and leaving the eight artificers belonging to the _Smeaton_ to their chance. Of course a scuffle might have ensued, and it is hard to say, in the ardour of men contending for life, where it might have ended. It has even been hinted to the writer that a party of the _pickmen_ were determined to keep exclusively to their own boat against all hazards. The unfortunate circumstance of the _Smeaton_ and her boat having drifted was, for a considerable time, only known to the writer and to the landing-master, who removed to the farther point of the rock, where he kept his eye steadily upon the progress of the vessel. While the artificers were at work, chiefly in sitting or kneeling postures, excavating the rock, or boring with the jumpers, and while their numerous hammers, with the sound of the smith's anvil, continued, the situation of things did not appear so awful. In this state of suspense, with almost certain destruction at hand, the water began to rise upon those who were at work on the lower parts of the sites of the beacon and lighthouse. From the run of sea upon the rock, the forge fire was also sooner extinguished this morning than usual, and the volumes of smoke having ceased, objects in every direction became visible from all parts of the rock. After having had about three hours' work, the men began, pretty generally, to make towards their respective boats for their jackets and stockings, when, to their astonishment, instead of three, they found only two boats, the third being adrift with the _Smeaton_. Not a word was uttered by any one, but all appeared to be silently calculating their numbers, and looking to each other with evident marks of perplexity depicted in their countenances. The landing-master, conceiving that blame might be attached to him for allowing the boat to leave the rock, still kept at a distance. At this critical moment the author was standing upon an elevated part of Smith's Ledge, where he endeavoured to mark the progress of the _Smeaton_, not a little surprised that her crew did not cut the praam adrift, which greatly retarded her way, and amazed that some effort was not making to bring at least the boat, and attempt our relief. The workmen looked steadfastly upon the writer, and turned occasionally towards the vessel, still far to leeward.[14] All this passed in the most perfect silence, and the melancholy solemnity of the group made an impression never to be effaced from his mind. The writer had all along been considering of various schemes--providing the men could be kept under command--which might be put in practice for the general safety, in hopes that the _Smeaton_ might be able to pick up the boats to leeward, when they were obliged to leave the rock. He was, accordingly, about to address the artificers on the perilous nature of their circumstances, and to propose that all hands should unstrip their upper clothing when the higher parts of the rock were laid under water; that the seamen should remove every unnecessary weight and encumbrance from the boats; that a specified number of men should go into each boat, and that the remainder should hang by the gunwales, while the boats were to be rowed gently towards the _Smeaton_, as the course to the _Pharos_, or floating light, lay rather to windward of the rock. But when he attempted to speak his mouth was so parched that his tongue refused utterance, and he now learned by experience that the saliva is as necessary as the tongue itself for speech. He turned to one of the pools on the rock and lapped a little water, which produced immediate relief. But what was his happiness, when on rising from this unpleasant beverage, some one called out, "A boat! a boat!" and, on looking around, at no great distance, a large boat was seen through the haze making towards the rock. This at once enlivened and rejoiced every heart. The timeous visitor proved to be James Spink, the Bell Rock pilot, who had come express from Arbroath with letters. Spink had for some time seen the _Smeaton_, and had even supposed, from the state of the weather, that all hands were on board of her till he approached more nearly and observed people upon the rock; but not supposing that the assistance of his boat was necessary to carry the artificers off the rock, he anchored on the lee-side and began to fish, waiting, as usual, till the letters were sent for, as the pilot-boat was too large and unwieldy for approaching the rock when there was any roughness or run of the sea at the entrance of the landing creeks. Upon this fortunate change of circumstances, sixteen of the artificers were sent, at two trips, in one of the boats, with instructions for Spink to proceed with them to the floating light. This being accomplished, the remaining sixteen followed in the two boats belonging to the service of the rock. Every one felt the most perfect happiness at leaving the Bell Rock this morning, though a very hard and dangerous passage to the floating light still awaited us, as the wind by this time had increased to a pretty hard gale, accompanied with a considerable swell of sea. Every one was as completely drenched in water as if he had been dragged astern of the boats. The writer, in particular, being at the helm, found, on getting on board, that his face and ears were completely coated with a thin film of salt from the sea spray, which broke constantly over the bows of the boat. After much baling of water and severe work at the oars, the three boats reached the floating light, where some new difficulties occurred in getting on board in safety, owing partly to the exhausted state of the men, and partly to the violent rolling of the vessel. As the tide flowed, it was expected that the _Smeaton_ would have got to windward; but, seeing that all was safe, after tacking for several hours and making little progress, she bore away for Arbroath, with the praam-boat. As there was now too much wind for the pilot-boat to return to Arbroath, she was made fast astern of the floating light, and the crew remained on board till next day, when the weather moderated. There can be very little doubt that the appearance of James Spink with his boat on this critical occasion was the means of preventing the loss of lives at the rock this morning. When these circumstances, some years afterwards, came to the knowledge of the Board, a small pension was ordered to our faithful pilot, then in his seventieth year; and he still continues to wear the uniform clothes and badge of the Lighthouse service. Spink is a remarkably strong man, whose _tout ensemble_ is highly characteristic of a North-country fisherman. He usually dresses in a _pé-jacket_, cut after a particular fashion, and wears a large, flat, blue bonnet. A striking likeness of Spink in his pilot-dress, with the badge or insignia on his left arm which is characteristic of the boatmen in the service of the Northern Lights, has been taken by Howe, and is in the writer's possession. Thursday, 3rd. Sept. The bell rung this morning at five o'clock, but the writer must acknowledge, from the circumstances of yesterday, that its sound was extremely unwelcome. This appears also to have been the feelings of the artificers, for when they came to be mustered, out of twenty-six, only eight, besides the foreman and seamen, appeared upon deck to accompany the writer to the rock. Such are the baneful effects of anything like misfortune or accident connected with a work of this description. The use of argument to persuade the men to embark in cases of this kind would have been out of place, as it is not only discomfort, or even the risk of the loss of a limb, but life itself that becomes the question. The boats, notwithstanding the thinness of our ranks, left the vessel at half-past five. The rough weather of yesterday having proved but a summer's gale, the wind came to-day in gentle breezes; yet, the atmosphere being cloudy, it had not a very favourable appearance. The boats reached the rock at six a.m., and the eight artificers who landed were employed in clearing out the bat-holes for the beacon-house, and had a very prosperous tide of four hours' work, being the longest yet experienced by half an hour. The boats left the rock again at ten o'clock, and the weather having cleared up as we drew near the vessel, the eighteen artificers who had remained on board were observed upon deck, but as the boats approached they sought their way below, being quite ashamed of their conduct. This was the only instance of refusal to go to the rock which occurred during the whole progress of the work, excepting that of the four men who declined working upon Sunday, a case which the writer did not conceive to be at all analogous to the present. It may here be mentioned, much to the credit of these four men, that they stood foremost in embarking for the rock this morning. Saturday, 5th Sept. It was fortunate that a landing was not attempted this evening, for at eight o'clock the wind shifted to E.S.E., and at ten it had become a hard gale, when fifty fathoms of the floating light's hempen cable were veered out. The gale still increasing, the ship rolled and laboured excessively, and at midnight eighty fathoms of cable were veered out; while the sea continued to strike the vessel with a degree of force which had not before been experienced. Sunday, 6th Sept. During the last night there was little rest on board of the _Pharos_, and daylight, though anxiously wished for, brought no relief, as the gale continued with unabated violence. The sea struck so hard upon the vessel's bows that it rose in great quantities, or in "green seas," as the sailors termed it, which were carried by the wind as far aft as the quarter-deck, and not unfrequently over the stern of the ship altogether. It fell occasionally so heavily on the skylight of the writer's cabin, though so far aft as to be within five feet of the helm, that the glass was broken to pieces before the dead-light could be got into its place, so that the water poured down in great quantities. In shutting out the water, the admission of light was prevented, and in the morning all continued in the most comfortless state of darkness. About ten o'clock a.m. the wind shifted to N.E., and blew, if possible, harder than before, and it was accompanied by a much heavier swell of sea. In the course of the gale, the part of the cable in the hause-hole had been so often shifted that nearly the whole length of one of her hempen cables, of 120 fathoms, had been veered out, besides the chain-moorings. The cable, for its preservation, was also carefully served or wattled with pieces of canvas round the windlass, and with leather well greased in the hause-hole. In this state things remained during the whole day, every sea which struck the vessel--and the seas followed each other in close succession--causing her to shake, and all on board occasionally to tremble. At each of these strokes of the sea the rolling and pitching of the vessel ceased for a time, and her motion was felt as if she had either broke adrift before the wind or were in the act of sinking; but, when another sea came, she ranged up against it with great force, and this became the regular intimation of our being still riding at anchor. About eleven o'clock, the writer with some difficulty got out of bed, but, in attempting to dress, he was thrown twice upon the floor at the opposite end of the cabin. In an undressed state he made shift to get about half-way up the companion-stairs, with an intention to observe the state of the sea and of the ship upon deck; but he no sooner looked over the companion than a heavy sea struck the vessel, which fell on the quarter-deck, and rushed downstairs in the officers' cabin in so considerable a quantity that it was found necessary to lift one of the scuttles in the floor, to let the water into the limbers of the ship, as it dashed from side to side in such a manner as to run into the lower tier of beds. Having been foiled in this attempt, and being completely wetted, he again got below and went to bed. In this state of the weather the seamen had to move about the necessary or indispensable duties of the ship with the most cautious use both of hands and feet, while it required all the art of the landsman to keep within the precincts of his bed. The writer even found himself so much tossed about that it became necessary, in some measure, to shut himself in bed, in order to avoid being thrown upon the floor. Indeed, such was the motion of the ship that it seemed wholly impracticable to remain in any other than a lying posture. On deck the most stormy aspect presented itself, while below all was wet and comfortless. About two o'clock p.m. a great alarm was given throughout the ship from the effects of a very heavy sea which struck her, and almost filled the waist, pouring down into the berths below, through every chink and crevice of the hatches and skylights. From the motion of the vessel being thus suddenly deadened or checked, and from the flowing in of the water above, it is believed there was not an individual on board who did not think, at the moment, that the vessel had foundered, and was in the act of sinking. The writer could withstand this no longer, and as soon as she again began to range to the sea he determined to make another effort to get upon deck. In the first instance, however, he groped his way in darkness from his own cabin through the berths of the officers, where all was quietness. He next entered the galley and other compartments occupied by the artificers. Here also all was shut up in darkness, the fire having been drowned out in the early part of the gale. Several of the artificers were employed in prayer, repeating psalms and other devotional exercises in a full tone of voice; others protesting that, if they should fortunately get once more on shore, no one should ever see them afloat again. With the assistance of the landing-master, the writer made his way, holding on step by step, among the numerous impediments which lay in the way. Such was the creaking noise of the bulkheads or partitions, the dashing of the water, and the whistling noise of the winds, that it was hardly possible to break in upon such a confusion of sounds. In one or two instances, anxious and repeated inquiries were made by the artificers as to the state of things upon deck, to which the captain made the usual answer, that it could not blow long in this way, and that we must soon have better weather. The next berth in succession, moving forward in the ship, was that allotted for the seamen. Here the scene was considerably different. Having reached the middle of this darksome berth without its inmates being aware of any intrusion, the writer had the consolation of remarking that, although they talked of bad weather and the cross accidents of the sea, yet the conversation was carried on in that sort of tone and manner which bespoke an ease and composure of mind highly creditable to them and pleasing to him. The writer immediately accosted the seamen about the state of the ship. To these inquiries they replied that the vessel being light, and having but little hold of the water, no top-rigging, with excellent ground-tackle, and everything being fresh and new, they felt perfect confidence in their situation. It being impossible to open any of the hatches in the fore part of the ship in communicating with the deck, the watch was changed by passing through the several berths to the companion-stair leading to the quarter-deck. The writer, therefore, made the best of his way aft, and, on a second attempt to look out, he succeeded, and saw indeed an astonishing sight. The sea or waves appeared to be ten or fifteen feet in height of unbroken water, and every approaching billow seemed as if it would overwhelm our vessel, but she continued to rise upon the waves and to fall between the seas in a very wonderful manner. It seemed to be only those seas which caught her in the act of rising which struck her with so much violence and threw such quantities of water aft. On deck there was only one solitary individual looking out, to give the alarm in the event of the ship breaking from her moorings. The seaman on watch continued only two hours; he who kept watch at this time was a tall, slender man of a black complexion; he had no greatcoat nor over-all of any kind, but was simply dressed in his ordinary jacket and trousers; his hat was tied under his chin with a napkin, and he stood aft the foremast, to which he had lashed himself with a gasket or small rope round his waist, to prevent his falling upon deck or being washed overboard. When the writer looked up, he appeared to smile, which afforded a further symptom of the confidence of the crew in their ship. This person on watch was as completely wetted as if he had been drawn through the sea, which was given as a reason for his not putting on a greatcoat, that he might wet as few of his clothes as possible, and have a dry shift when he went below. Upon deck everything that was movable was out of sight, having either been stowed below, previous to the gale, or been washed overboard. Some trifling parts of the quarter boards were damaged by the breach of the sea; and one of the boats upon deck was about one-third full of water, the oyle-hole or drain having been accidentally stopped up, and part of her gunwale had received considerable injury. These observations were hastily made, and not without occasionally shutting the companion, to avoid being wetted by the successive seas which broke over the bows and fell upon different parts of the deck according to the impetus with which the waves struck the vessel. By this time it was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the gale, which had now continued with unabated force for twenty-seven hours, had not the least appearance of going off. In the dismal prospect of undergoing another night like the last, and being in imminent hazard of parting from our cable, the writer thought it necessary to advise with the master and officers of the ship as to the probable event of the vessel's drifting from her moorings. They severally gave it as their opinion that we had now every chance of riding out the gale, which, in all probability, could not continue with the same fury many hours longer; and that even if she should part from her anchor, the storm-sails had been laid to hand, and could be bent in a very short time. They further stated that from the direction of the wind being N.E., she would sail up the Firth of Forth to Leith Roads. But if this should appear doubtful, after passing the Island and Light of May, it might be advisable at once to steer for Tyningham Sands, on the western side of Dunbar, and there run the vessel ashore. If this should happen at the time of high-water, or during the ebbing of the tide, they were of opinion, from the flatness and strength of the floating light, that no danger would attend her taking the ground, even with a very heavy sea. The writer, seeing the confidence which these gentlemen possessed with regard to the situation of things, found himself as much relieved with this conversation as he had previously been with the seeming indifference of the forecastle-men, and the smile of the watch upon deck, though literally lashed to the foremast. From this time he felt himself almost perfectly at ease; at any rate, he was entirely resigned to the ultimate result. About six o'clock in the evening the ship's company was heard moving upon deck, which on the present occasion was rather the cause of alarm. The writer accordingly rang his bell to know what was the matter, when he was informed by the steward that the weather looked considerably better, and that the men upon deck were endeavouring to ship the smoke-funnel of the galley that the people might get some meat. This was a more favourable account than had been anticipated. During the last twenty-one hours he himself had not only had nothing to eat, but he had almost never passed a thought on the subject. Upon the mention of a change of weather, he sent the steward to learn how the artificers felt, and on his return he stated that they now seemed to be all very happy, since the cook had begun to light the galley-fire and make preparations for the suet-pudding of Sunday, which was the only dish to be attempted for the mess, from the ease with which it could both be cooked and served up. The principal change felt upon the ship as the wind abated was her increased rolling motion, but the pitching was much diminished, and now hardly any sea came farther aft than the foremast: but she rolled so extremely hard as frequently to dip and take in water over the gunwales and rails in the waist. By nine o'clock all hands had been refreshed by the exertions of the cook and steward, and were happy in the prospect of the worst of the gale being over. The usual complement of men was also now set on watch, and more quietness was experienced throughout the ship. Although the previous night had been a very restless one, it had not the effect of inducing repose in the writer's berth on the succeeding night; for having been so much tossed about in bed during the last thirty hours, he found no easy spot to turn to, and his body was all sore to the touch, which ill accorded with the unyielding materials with which his bed-place was surrounded. Monday, 7th Sept. This morning, about eight o'clock, the writer was agreeably surprised to see the scuttle of his cabin skylight removed, and the bright rays of the sun admitted. Although the ship continued to roll excessively, and the sea was still running very high, yet the ordinary business on board seemed to be going forward on deck. It was impossible to steady a telescope, so as to look minutely at the progress of the waves and trace their breach upon the Bell Rock; but the height to which the cross-running waves rose in sprays when they met each other was truly grand, and the continued roar and noise of the sea was very perceptible to the ear. To estimate the height of the sprays at forty or fifty feet would surely be within the mark. Those of the workmen who were not much afflicted with sea-sickness came upon deck, and the wetness below being dried up, the cabins were again brought into a habitable state. Every one seemed to meet as if after a long absence, congratulating his neighbour upon the return of good weather. Little could be said as to the comfort of the vessel, but after riding out such a gale, no one felt the least doubt or hesitation as to the safety and good condition of her moorings. The master and mate were extremely anxious, however, to heave in the hempen cable, and see the state of the clinch or iron ring of the chain-cable. But the vessel rolled at such a rate that the seamen could not possibly keep their feet at the windlass nor work the handspikes, though it had been several times attempted since the gale took off. About twelve noon, however, the vessel's motion was observed to be considerably less, and the sailors were enabled to walk upon deck with some degree of freedom. But, to the astonishment of every one, it was soon discovered that the floating light was adrift! The windlass was instantly manned, and the men soon gave out that there was no strain upon the cable. The mizzen sail, which was bent for the occasional purpose of making the vessel ride more easily to the tide, was immediately set, and the other sails were also hoisted in a short time, when, in no small consternation, we bore away about one mile to the south-westward of the former station, and there let go the best bower anchor and cable in twenty fathoms water, to ride until the swell of the sea should fall, when it might be practicable to grapple for the moorings, and find a better anchorage for the ship. Tuesday, 15th Sept. This morning, at five a.m., the bell rung as a signal for landing upon the rock, a sound which, after a lapse of ten days, it is believed was welcomed by every one on board. There being a heavy breach of sea at the eastern creek, we landed, though not without difficulty, on the western side, every one seeming more eager than another to get upon the rock; and never did hungry men sit down to a hearty meal with more appetite than the artificers began to pick the dulse from the rocks. This marine plant had the effect of reviving the sickly, and seemed to be no less relished by those who were more hardy. While the water was ebbing, and the men were roaming in quest of their favourite morsel, the writer was examining the effects of the storm upon the forge and loose apparatus left upon the rock. Six large blocks of granite which had been landed, by way of experiment, on the 1st instant, were now removed from their places and, by the force of the sea, thrown over a rising ledge into a hole at the distance of twelve or fifteen paces from the place on which they had been landed. This was a pretty good evidence both of the violence of the storm and the agitation of the sea upon the rock. The safety of the smith's forge was always an object of essential regard. The ash-pan of the hearth or fireplace, with its weighty cast-iron back, had been washed from their places of supposed security; the chains of attachment had been broken, and these ponderous articles were found at a very considerable distance in a hole on the western side of the rock; while the tools and picks of the Aberdeen masons were scattered about in every direction. It is, however, remarkable that not a single article was ultimately lost. This being the night on which the floating light was advertised to be lighted, it was accordingly exhibited, to the great joy of every one. Wednesday, 16th Sept. The writer was made happy to-day by the return of the Lighthouse yacht from a voyage to the Northern Lighthouses. Having immediately removed on board of this fine vessel of eighty-one tons register, the artificers gladly followed; for, though they found themselves more pinched for accommodation on board of the yacht, and still more so in the _Smeaton_, yet they greatly preferred either of these to the _Pharos_, or floating light, on account of her rolling motion, though in all respects fitted up for their conveniency. The writer called them to the quarter-deck and informed them that, having been one month afloat, in terms of their agreement they were now at liberty to return to the workyard at Arbroath if they preferred this to continuing at the Bell Rock. But they replied that, in the prospect of soon getting the beacon erected upon the rock, and having made a change from the floating light, they were now perfectly reconciled to their situation, and would remain afloat till the end of the working season. Thursday, 17th Sept. The wind was at N.E. this morning, and though there were only light airs, yet there was a pretty heavy swell coming ashore upon the rock. The boats landed at half-past seven o'clock a.m., at the creek on the southern side of the rock, marked Port Hamilton. But as one of the boats was in the act of entering this creek, the seaman at the bow-oar, who had just entered the service, having inadvertently expressed some fear from a heavy sea which came rolling towards the boat, and one of the artificers having at the same time looked round and missed a stroke with his oar, such a preponderance was thus given to the rowers upon the opposite side that when the wave struck the boat it threw her upon a ledge of shelving rocks, where the water left her, and she having _kanted_ to seaward, the next wave completely filled her with water. After making considerable efforts the boat was again got afloat in the proper track of the creek, so that we landed without any other accident than a complete ducking. There being no possibility of getting a shift of clothes, the artificers began with all speed to work, so as to bring themselves into heat, while the writer and his assistants kept as much as possible in motion. Having remained more than an hour upon the rock, the boats left it at half-past nine; and, after getting on board, the writer recommended to the artificers, as the best mode of getting into a state of comfort, to strip off their wet clothes and go to bed for an hour or two. No further inconveniency was felt, and no one seemed to complain of the affection called "catching cold." Friday, 18th Sept. An important occurrence connected with the operations of this season was the arrival of the _Smeaton_ at four p.m., having in tow the six principal beams of the beacon-house, together with all the stanchions and other work on board for fixing it on the rock. The mooring of the floating light was a great point gained, but in the erection of the beacon at this late period of the season new difficulties presented themselves. The success of such an undertaking at any season was precarious, because a single day of bad weather occurring before the necessary fixtures could be made might sweep the whole apparatus from the rock. Notwithstanding these difficulties, the writer had determined to make the trial, although he could almost have wished, upon looking at the state of the clouds and the direction of the wind, that the apparatus for the beacon had been still in the workyard. Saturday, 19th Sept. The main beams of the beacon were made up in two separate rafts, fixed with bars and bolts of iron. One of these rafts, not being immediately wanted, was left astern of the floating light, and the other was kept in tow by the _Smeaton_, at the buoy nearest to the rock. The Lighthouse yacht rode at another buoy with all hands on board that could possibly be spared out of the floating light. The party of artificers and seamen which landed on the rock counted altogether forty in number. At half-past eight o'clock a derrick, or mast of thirty feet in height, was erected and properly supported with guy-ropes, for suspending the block for raising the first principal beam of the beacon; and a winch machine was also bolted down to the rock for working the purchase-tackle. Upon raising the derrick, all hands on the rock spontaneously gave three hearty cheers, as a favourable omen of our future exertions in pointing out more permanently the position of the rock. Even to this single spar of timber, could it be preserved, a drowning man might lay hold. When the _Smeaton_ drifted on the 2nd of this month such a spar would have been sufficient to save us till she could have come to our relief. Sunday, 20th Sept. The wind this morning was variable, but the weather continued extremely favourable for the operations throughout the whole day. At six a.m. the boats were in motion, and the raft, consisting of four of the six principal beams of the beacon-house, each measuring about sixteen inches square, and fifty feet in length, was towed to the rock, where it was anchored, that it might _ground_ upon it as the water ebbed. The sailors and artificers, including all hands, to-day counted no fewer than fifty-two, being perhaps the greatest number of persons ever collected upon the Bell Rock. It was early in the tide when the boats reached the rock, and the men worked a considerable time up to their middle in water, every one being more eager than his neighbour to be useful. Even the four artificers who had hitherto declined working on Sunday were to-day most zealous in their exertions. They had indeed become so convinced of the precarious nature and necessity of the work that they never afterwards absented themselves from the rock on Sunday when a landing was practicable. Having made fast a piece of very good new line, at about two-thirds from the lower end of one of the beams, the purchase-tackle of the derrick was hooked into the turns of the line, and it was speedily raised by the number of men on the rock and the power of the winch tackle. When this log was lifted to a sufficient height, its foot, or lower end, was _stepped_ into the spot which had been previously prepared for it. Two of the great iron stanchions were then set in their respective holes on each side of the beam, when a rope was passed round them and the beam, to prevent it from slipping till it could be more permanently fixed. The derrick, or upright spar used for carrying the tackle to raise the first beam, was placed in such a position as to become useful for supporting the upper end of it, which now became, in its turn, the prop of the tackle for raising the second beam. The whole difficulty of this operation was in the raising and propping of the first beam, which became a convenient derrick for raising the second, these again a pair of shears for lifting the third, and the shears a triangle for raising the fourth. Having thus got four of the six principal beams set on end, it required a considerable degree of trouble to get their upper ends to fit. Here they formed the apex of a cone, and were all together mortised into a large piece of beechwood, and secured, for the present, with ropes, in a temporary manner. During the short period of one tide all that could further be done for their security was to put a single screw-bolt through the great kneed bats or stanchions on each side of the beams, and screw the nut home. In this manner these four principal beams were erected, and left in a pretty secure state. The men had commenced while there was about two or three feet of water upon the side of the beacon, and as the sea was smooth they continued the work equally long during flood-tide. Two of the boats being left at the rock to take off the joiners, who were busily employed on the upper parts till two o'clock p.m., this tide's work may be said to have continued for about seven hours, which was the longest that had hitherto been got upon the rock by at least three hours. When the first boats left the rock with the artificers employed on the lower part of the work during the flood-tide, the beacon had quite a novel appearance. The beams erected formed a common base of about thirty-three feet, meeting at the top, which was about forty-five feet above the rock, and here half a dozen of the artificers were still at work. After clearing the rock the boats made a stop, when three hearty cheers were given, which were returned with equal goodwill by those upon the beacon, from the personal interest which every one felt in the prosperity of this work, so intimately connected with his safety. All hands having returned to their respective ships, they got a shift of dry clothes and some refreshment. Being Sunday, they were afterwards convened by signal on board of the Lighthouse yacht, when prayers were read; for every heart upon this occasion felt gladness, and every mind was disposed to be thankful for the happy and successful termination of the operations of this day. Monday, 21st Sept. The remaining two principal beams were erected in the course of this tide, which, with the assistance of those set up yesterday, was found to be a very simple operation. Tuesday, 22nd Sept. The six principal beams of the beacon were thus secured, at least in a temporary manner, in the course of two tides, or in the short space of about eleven hours and a half. Such is the progress that may be made when active hands and willing minds set properly to work in operations of this kind. Having now got the weighty part of this work over, and being thereby relieved of the difficulty both of landing and victualling such a number of men, the _Smeaton_ could now be spared, and she was accordingly despatched to Arbroath for a supply of water and provisions, and carried with her six of the artificers who could best be spared. Wednesday, 23rd Sept. In going out of the eastern harbour, the boat which the writer steered shipped a sea, that filled her about one-third with water. She had also been hid for a short time, by the waves breaking upon the rock, from the sight of the crew of the preceding boat, who were much alarmed for our safety, imagining for a time that she had gone down. The _Smeaton_ returned from Arbroath this afternoon, but there was so much sea that she could not be made fast to her moorings, and the vessel was obliged to return to Arbroath without being able either to deliver the provisions or take the artificers on board. The Lighthouse yacht was also soon obliged to follow her example, as the sea was breaking heavily over her bows. After getting two reefs in the mainsail, and the third or storm-jib set, the wind being S.W., she bent to windward, though blowing a hard gale, and got into St. Andrews Bay, where we passed the night under the lee of Fifeness. Thursday, 24th Sept. At two o'clock this morning we were in St. Andrews Bay, standing off and on shore, with strong gales of wind at S.W.; at seven we were off the entrance of the Tay; at eight stood towards the rock, and at ten passed to leeward of it, but could not attempt a landing. The beacon, however, appeared to remain in good order, and by six p.m. the vessel had again beaten up to St. Andrews Bay, and got into somewhat smoother water for the night. Friday, 25th Sept. At seven o'clock bore away for the Bell Rock, but finding a heavy sea running on it were unable to land. The writer, however, had the satisfaction to observe, with his telescope, that everything about the beacon appeared entire; and although the sea had a most frightful appearance, yet it was the opinion of every one that, since the erection of the beacon, the Bell Rock was divested of many of its terrors, and had it been possible to have got the boats hoisted out and manned, it might have even been found practicable to land. At six it blew so hard that it was found necessary to strike the topmast and take in a third reef of the mainsail, and under this low canvas we soon reached St. Andrews Bay, and got again under the lee of the land for the night. The artificers, being sea-hardy, were quite reconciled to their quarters on board of the Lighthouse yacht; but it is believed that hardly any consideration would have induced them again to take up their abode in the floating light. Saturday, 26th Sept. At daylight the yacht steered towards the Bell Rock, and at eight a.m. made fast to her moorings; at ten, all hands, to the amount of thirty, landed, when the writer had the happiness to find that the beacon had withstood the violence of the gale and the heavy breach of sea, everything being found in the same state in which it had been left on the 21st. The artificers were now enabled to work upon the rock throughout the whole day, both at low and high water, but it required the strictest attention to the state of the weather, in case of their being overtaken with a gale, which might prevent the possibility of getting them off the rock. Two somewhat memorable circumstances in the annals of the Bell Rock attended the operations of this day: one was the removal of Mr. James Dove, the foreman smith, with his apparatus, from the rock to the upper part of the beacon, where the forge was now erected on a temporary platform, laid on the cross beams or upper framing. The other was the artificers having dined for the first time upon the rock, their dinner being cooked on board of the yacht, and sent to them by one of the boats. But what afforded the greatest happiness and relief was the removal of the large bellows, which had all along been a source of much trouble and perplexity, by their hampering and incommoding the boat which carried the smiths and their apparatus. Saturday, 3rd Oct. The wind being west to-day, the weather was very favourable for operations at the rock, and during the morning and evening tides, with the aid of torchlight, the masons had seven hours' work upon the site of the building. The smiths and joiners, who landed at half-past six a.m., did not leave the rock till a quarter-past eleven p.m., having been at work, with little intermission, for sixteen hours and three-quarters. When the water left the rock, they were employed at the lower parts of the beacon, and as the tide rose or fell, they shifted the place of their operations. From these exertions, the fixing and securing of the beacon made rapid advancement, as the men were now landed in the morning, and remained throughout the day. But, as a sudden change of weather might have prevented their being taken off at the proper time of tide, a quantity of bread and water was always kept on the beacon. During this period of working at the beacon all the day, and often a great part of the night, the writer was much on board of the tender; but, while the masons could work on the rock, and frequently also while it was covered by the tide, he remained on the beacon; especially during the night, as he made a point of being on the rock to the latest hour, and was generally the last person who stepped into the boat. He had laid this down as part of his plan of procedure; and in this way had acquired, in the course of the first season, a pretty complete knowledge and experience of what could actually be done at the Bell Rock, under all circumstances of the weather. By this means also his assistants, and the artificers and mariners, got into a systematic habit of proceeding at the commencement of the work, which, it is believed, continued throughout the whole of the operations. Sunday, 4th Oct. The external part of the beacon was now finished, with its supports and bracing-chains, and whatever else was considered necessary for its stability, in so far as the season would permit; and although much was still wanting to complete this fabric, yet it was in such a state that it could be left without much fear of the consequences of a storm. The painting of the upper part was nearly finished this afternoon and the _Smeaton_ had brought off a quantity of brushwood and other articles, for the purpose of heating or charring the lower part of the principal beams, before being laid over with successive coats of boiling pitch, to the height of from eight to twelve feet, or as high as the rise of spring-tides. A small flagstaff having also been erected to-day, a flag was displayed for the first time from the beacon, by which its perspective effect was greatly improved. On this, as on all like occasions at the Bell Rock, three hearty cheers were given; and the steward served out a dram of rum to all hands, while the Lighthouse yacht, _Smeaton_, and floating light, hoisted their colours in compliment to the erection. Monday, 5th Oct. In the afternoon, and just as the tide's work was over, Mr. John Rennie, engineer, accompanied by his son Mr. George, on their way to the harbour works of Fraserburgh, in Aberdeenshire, paid a visit to the Bell Rock, in a boat from Arbroath. It being then too late in the tide for landing, they remained on board of the Lighthouse yacht all night, when the writer, who had now been secluded from society for several weeks, enjoyed much of Mr. Rennie's interesting conversation, both on general topics, and professionally upon the progress of the Bell Rock works, on which he was consulted as chief engineer. Tuesday, 6th Oct. The artificers landed this morning at nine, after which one of the boats returned to the ship for the writer and Messrs. Rennie, who, upon landing, were saluted with a display of the colours from the beacon and by three cheers from the workmen. Everything was now in a prepared state for leaving the rock, and giving up the works afloat for this season, excepting some small articles, which would still occupy the smiths and joiners for a few days longer. They accordingly shifted on board of the _Smealon_, while the yacht left the rock for Arbroath, with Messrs. Rennie, the writer, and the remainder of the artificers. But, before taking leave, the steward served out a farewell glass, when three hearty cheers were given, and an earnest wish expressed that everything, in the spring of 1808, might be found in the same state of good order as it was now about to be left. II OPERATIONS OF 1808 Monday, 29th Feb. The writer sailed from Arbroath at one a.m. in the Lighthouse yacht. At seven the floating light was hailed, and all on board found to be well. The crew were observed to have a very healthy-like appearance, and looked better than at the close of the works upon the rock. They seemed only to regret one thing, which was the secession of their cook, Thomas Elliot--not on account of his professional skill, but for his facetious and curious manner. Elliot had something peculiar in his history, and was reported by his comrades to have seen better days. He was, however, happy with his situation on board of the floating light, and having a taste for music, dancing, and acting plays, he contributed much to the amusement of the ship's company in their dreary abode during the winter months. He had also recommended himself to their notice as a good shipkeeper for as it did not answer Elliot to go often ashore, he had always given up his turn of leave to his neighbours. At his own desire he was at length paid off, when he had a considerable balance of wages to receive, which he said would be sufficient to carry him to the West Indies, and he accordingly took leave of the Lighthouse service. Tuesday, 1st March. At daybreak the Lighthouse yacht, attended by a boat from the floating light, again stood towards the Bell Rock. The weather felt extremely cold this morning, the thermometer being at 34 degrees, with the wind at east, accompanied by occasional showers of snow, and the marine barometer indicated 29.80. At half-past seven the sea ran with such force upon the rock that it seemed doubtful if a landing could be effected. At half-past eight, when it was fairly above water, the writer took his place in the floating light's boat with the artificers, while the yacht's boat followed, according to the general rule of having two boats afloat in landing expeditions of this kind, that, in case of accident to one boat, the other might assist. In several unsuccessful attempts the boats were beat back by the breach of the sea upon the rock. On the eastern side it separated into two distinct waves, which came with a sweep round to the western side, where they met; and at the instance of their confluence the water rose in spray to a considerable height. Watching what the sailors term a _smooth_, we caught a favourable opportunity, and in a very dexterous manner the boats were rowed between the two seas, and made a favourable landing at the western creek. At the latter end of last season, as was formerly noticed, the beacon was painted white, and from the bleaching of the weather and the sprays of the sea the upper parts were kept clean; but within the range of the tide the principal beams were observed to be thickly coated with a green stuff, the _conferva_ of botanists. Notwithstanding the intrusion of these works, which had formerly banished the numerous seals that played about the rock, they were now seen in great numbers, having been in an almost undisturbed state for six months. It had now also, for the first time, got some inhabitants of the feathered tribe: in particular the scarth or cormorant, and the large herring-gull, had made the beacon a resting-place, from its vicinity to their fishing-grounds. About a dozen of these birds had rested upon the cross-beams, which, in some places, were coated with their dung; and their flight, as the boats approached, was a very unlooked-for indication of life and habitation on the Bell Rock, conveying the momentary idea of the conversion of this fatal rock, from being a terror to the mariner, into a residence of man and a safeguard to shipping. Upon narrowly examining the great iron stanchions with which the beams were fixed to the rock, the writer had the satisfaction of finding that there was not the least appearance of working or shifting at any of the joints or places of connection; and, excepting the loosening of the bracing-chains, everything was found in the same entire state in which it had been left in the month of October. This, in the estimation of the writer, was a matter of no small importance to the future success of the work. He from that moment saw the practicability and propriety of fitting up the beacon, not only as a place of refuge in case of accident to the boats in landing, but as a residence for the artificers during the working months. While upon the top of the beacon the writer was reminded by the landing-master that the sea was running high, and that it would be necessary to set off while the rock afforded anything like shelter to the boats, which by this time had been made fast by a long line to the beacon, and rode with much agitation, each requiring two men with boat-hooks to keep them from striking each other, or from ranging up against the beacon. But even under these circumstances the greatest confidence was felt by every one, from the security afforded by this temporary erection. For, supposing the wind had suddenly increased to a gale, and that it had been found unadvisable to go into the boats; or, supposing they had drifted or sprung a leak from striking upon the rocks; in any of these possible and not at all improbable cases, those who might thus have been left upon the rock had now something to lay hold of, and, though occupying this dreary habitation of the sea-gull and the cormorant, affording only bread and water, yet _life_ would be preserved, and the mind would still be supported by the hope of being ultimately relieved. Wednesday, 25th May. On the 25th of May the writer embarked at Arbroath, on board of the _Sir Joseph Banks_, for the Bell Rock, accompanied by Mr. Logan senior, foreman builder, with twelve masons, and two smiths, together with thirteen seamen, including the master, mate, and steward. Thursday, 26th May. Mr. James Wilson, now commander of the _Pharos_, floating light, and landing-master, in the room of Mr. Sinclair, who had left the service, came into the writer's cabin this morning at six o'clock, and intimated that there was a good appearance of landing on the rock. Everything being arranged, both boats proceeded in company, and at eight a.m. they reached the rock. The lighthouse colours were immediately hoisted upon the flag-staff of the beacon, a compliment which was duly returned by the tender and floating light, when three hearty cheers were given, and a glass of rum was served out to all hands to drink success to the operations of 1808. Friday, 27th May. This morning the wind was at east, blowing a fresh gale, the weather being hazy, with a considerable breach of sea setting in upon the rock. The morning bell was therefore rung, in some doubt as to the practicability of making a landing. After allowing the rock to get fully up, or to be sufficiently left by the tide, that the boats might have some shelter from the range of the sea, they proceeded at eight a.m., and upon the whole made a pretty good landing; and after two hours and three-quarters' work returned to the ship in safety. In the afternoon the wind considerably increased, and, as a pretty heavy sea was still running, the tender rode very hard, when Mr. Taylor, the commander, found it necessary to take in the bowsprit, and strike the fore and main topmasts, that she might ride more easily. After consulting about the state of the weather, it was resolved to leave the artificers on board this evening, and carry only the smiths to the rock, as the sharpening of the irons was rather behind, from their being so much broken and blunted by the hard and tough nature of the rock, which became much more compact and hard as the depth of excavation was increased. Besides avoiding the risk of encumbering the boats with a number of men who had not yet got the full command of the oar in a breach of sea, the writer had another motive for leaving them behind. He wanted to examine the site of the building without interruption, and to take the comparative levels of the different inequalities of its area; and as it would have been painful to have seen men standing idle upon the Bell Rock, where all moved with activity, it was judged better to leave them on board. The boats landed at half-past seven p.m., and the landing-master, with the seamen, was employed during this tide in cutting the seaweeds from the several paths leading to the landing-places, to render walking more safe, for, from the slippery state of the surface of the rock, many severe tumbles had taken place. In the meantime the writer took the necessary levels, and having carefully examined the site of the building and considered all its parts, it still appeared to be necessary to excavate to the average depth of fourteen inches over the whole area of the foundation. Saturday, 28th May. The wind still continued from the eastward with a heavy swell; and to-day it was accompanied with foggy weather and occasional showers of rain. Notwithstanding this, such was the confidence which the erection of the beacon had inspired that the boats landed the artificers on the rock under very unpromising circumstances, at half-past eight, and they continued at work till half-past eleven, being a period of three hours, which was considered a great tide's work in the present low state of the foundation. Three of the masons on board were so afflicted with sea-sickness that they had not been able to take any food for almost three days, and they were literally assisted into the boats this morning by their companions. It was, however, not a little surprising to see how speedily these men revived upon landing on the rock and eating a little dulse. Two of them afterwards assisted the sailors in collecting the chips of stone and carrying them out of the way of the pickmen; but the third complained of a pain in his head, and was still unable to do anything. Instead of returning to the tender with the boats, these three men remained on the beacon all day, and had their victuals sent to them along with the smiths'. From Mr. Dove, the foreman smith, they had much sympathy, for he preferred remaining on the beacon at all hazards, to be himself relieved from the malady of sea-sickness. The wind continuing high, with a heavy sea, and the tide falling late, it was not judged proper to land the artificers this evening, but in the twilight the boats were sent to fetch the people on board who had been left on the rock. Sunday, 29th May. The wind was from the S.W. to-day, and the signal-bell rung, as usual, about an hour before the period for landing on the rock. The writer was rather surprised, however, to hear the landing-master repeatedly call, "All hands for the rock!" and, coming on deck, he was disappointed to find the seamen only in the boats. Upon inquiry, it appeared that some misunderstanding had taken place about the wages of the artificers for Sundays. They had preferred wages for seven days statedly to the former mode of allowing a day for each tide's work on Sunday, as they did not like the appearance of working for double or even treble wages on Sunday, and would rather have it understood that their work on that day arose more from the urgency of the case than with a view to emolument. This having been judged creditable to their religious feelings, and readily adjusted to their wish, the boats proceeded to the rock, and the work commenced at nine a.m. Monday, 30th May. Mr. Francis Watt commenced, with five joiners, to fit up a temporary platform upon the beacon, about twenty-five feet above the highest part of the rock. This platform was to be used as the site of the smith's forge, after the beacon should be fitted up as a barrack; and here also the mortar was to be mixed and prepared for the building, and it was accordingly termed the Mortar Gallery. The landing-master's crew completed the discharging from the _Smeaton_ of her cargo of the cast-iron rails and timber. It must not here be omitted to notice that the _Smeaton_ took in ballast from the Bell Rock, consisting of the shivers or chips of stone produced by the workmen in preparing the site of the building, which were now accumulating in great quantities on the rock. These the boats loaded, after discharging the iron. The object in carrying off these chips, besides ballasting the vessel, was to get them permanently out of the way, as they were apt to shift about from place to place with every gale of wind; and it often required a considerable time to clear the foundation a second time of this rubbish. The circumstance of ballasting a ship at the Bell Rock afforded great entertainment, especially to the sailors; and it was perhaps with truth remarked that the _Smeaton_ was the first vessel that had ever taken on board ballast at the Bell Rock. Mr. Pool, the commander of this vessel, afterwards acquainted the writer that, when the ballast was landed upon the quay at Leith, many persons carried away specimens of it, as part of a cargo from the Bell Rock; when he added, that such was the interest excited, from the number of specimens carried away, that some of his friends suggested that he should have sent the whole to the Cross of Edinburgh, where each piece might have sold for a penny. Tuesday, 31st May. In the evening the boats went to the rock, and brought the joiners and smiths, and their sickly companions, on board of the tender. These also brought with them two baskets full of fish, which they had caught at high-water from the beacon, reporting, at the same time, to their comrades, that the fish were swimming in such numbers over the rock at high-water that it was completely hid from their sight, and nothing seen but the movement of thousands of fish. They were almost exclusively of the species called the podlie, or young coal-fish. This discovery, made for the first time to-day by the workmen, was considered fortunate, as an additional circumstance likely to produce an inclination among the artificers to take up their residence in the beacon, when it came to be fitted up as a barrack. Tuesday, 7th June. At three o'clock in the morning the ship's bell was rung as the signal for landing at the rock. When the landing was to be made before breakfast, it was customary to give each of the artificers and seamen a dram and a biscuit, and coffee was prepared by the steward for the cabins. Exactly at four o'clock the whole party landed from three boats, including one of those belonging to the floating light, with a part of that ship's crew, which always attended the works in moderate weather. The landing-master's boat, called the _Seaman_, but more commonly called the _Lifeboat_, took the lead. The next boat, called the _Mason_, was generally steered by the writer; while the floating light's boat, _Pharos_, was under the management of the boatswain of that ship. Having now so considerable a party of workmen and sailors on the rock, it may be proper here to notice how their labours were directed. Preparations having been made last month for the erection of a second forge upon the beacon, the smiths commenced their operations both upon the lower and higher platforms. They were employed in sharpening the picks and irons for the masons, and making bats and other apparatus of various descriptions connected with the fitting of the railways. The landing-master's crew were occupied in assisting the millwrights in laying the railways to hand. Sailors, of all other descriptions of men, are the most accommodating in the use of their hands. They worked freely with the boring-irons, and assisted in all the operations of the railways, acting by turns as boatmen, seamen, and artificers. We had no such character on the Bell Rock as the common labourer. All the operations of this department were cheerfully undertaken by the seamen, who, both on the rock and on shipboard, were the inseparable companions of every work connected with the erection of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. It will naturally be supposed that about twenty-five masons, occupied with their picks in executing and preparing the foundation of the lighthouse, in the course of a tide of about three hours, would make a considerable impression upon an area even of forty-two feet in diameter. But in proportion as the foundation was deepened, the rock was found to be much more hard and difficult to work, while the baling and pumping of water became much more troublesome. A joiner was kept almost constantly employed in fitting the picks to their handles, which, as well as the points to the irons, were very frequently broken. The Bell Rock this morning presented by far the most busy and active appearance it had exhibited since the erection of the principal beams of the beacon. The surface of the rock was crowded with men, the two forges flaming, the one above the other, upon the beacon, while the anvils thundered with the rebounding noise of their wooden supports, and formed a curious contrast with the occasional clamour of the surges. The wind was westerly, and the weather being extremely agreeable, so soon after breakfast as the tide had sufficiently overflowed the rock to float the boats over it, the smiths, with a number of the artificers, returned to the beacon, carrying their fishing-tackle along with them. In the course of the forenoon, the beacon exhibited a still more extraordinary appearance than the rock had done in the morning. The sea being smooth, it seemed to be afloat upon the water, with a number of men supporting themselves in all the variety of attitude and position: while, from the upper part of this wooden house, the volumes of smoke which ascended from the forges gave the whole a very curious and fanciful appearance. In the course of this tide it was observed that a heavy swell was setting in from the eastward, and the appearance of the sky indicated a change of weather, while the wind was shifting about. The barometer also had fallen from 30 in. to 29.6. It was, therefore, judged prudent to shift the vessel to the S.W. or more distant buoy. Her bowsprit was also soon afterwards taken in, the topmasts struck, and everything made _snug_, as seamen term it, for a gale. During the course of the night the wind increased and shifted to the eastward, when the vessel rolled very hard, and the sea often broke over her bows with great force. Wednesday, 8th June. Although the motion of the tender was much less than that of the floating light--at least, in regard to the rolling motion--yet she _sended_, or pitched, much. Being also of a very handsome build, and what seamen term very _clean aft_, the sea often struck her counter with such force that the writer, who possessed the aftermost cabin, being unaccustomed to this new vessel, could not divest himself of uneasiness; for when her stern fell into the sea, it struck with so much violence as to be more like the resistance of a rock than the sea. The water, at the same time, often rushed with great force up the rudder-case, and, forcing up the valve of the water-closet, the floor of his cabin was at times laid under water. The gale continued to increase, and the vessel rolled and pitched in such a manner that the hawser by which the tender was made fast to the buoy snapped, and she went adrift. In the act of swinging round to the wind she shipped a very heavy sea, which greatly alarmed the artificers, who imagined that we had got upon the rock; but this, from the direction of the wind, was impossible. The writer, however, sprung upon deck, where he found the sailors busily employed in rigging out the bowsprit and in setting sail. From the easterly direction of the wind, it was considered most advisable to steer for the Firth of Forth, and there wait a change of weather. At two p.m. we accordingly passed the Isle of May, at six anchored in Leith Roads, and at eight the writer landed, when he came in upon his friends, who were not a little surprised at his unexpected appearance, which gave an instantaneous alarm for the safety of things at the Bell Rock. Thursday, 9th June. The wind still continued to blow very hard at E. by N., and the _Sir Joseph Banks_ rode heavily, and even drifted with both anchors ahead, in Leith Roads. The artificers did not attempt to leave the ship last night; but there being upwards of fifty people on board, and the decks greatly lumbered with the two large boats, they were in a very crowded and impatient state on board. But to-day they got ashore, and amused themselves by walking about the streets of Edinburgh, some in very humble apparel, from having only the worst of their jackets with them, which, though quite suitable for their work, were hardly fit for public inspection, being not only tattered, but greatly stained with the red colour of the rock. Friday, 10th June. To-day the wind was at S.E., with light breezes and foggy weather. At six a.m. the writer again embarked for the Bell Rock, when the vessel immediately sailed. At eleven p.m., there being no wind, the kedge-anchor was _let go_ off Anstruther, one of the numerous towns on the coast of Fife, where we waited the return of the tide. Saturday, 11th June. At six a.m. the _Sir Joseph_ got under weigh, and at eleven was again made fast to the southern buoy at the Bell Rock. Though it was now late in the tide, the writer, being anxious to ascertain the state of things after the gale, landed with the artificers to the number of forty-four. Everything was found in an entire state; but, as the tide was nearly gone, only half an hour's work had been got when the site of the building was overflowed. In the evening the boats again landed at nine, and, after a good tide's work of three hours with torchlight, the work was left off at midnight. To the distant shipping the appearance of things under night on the Bell Rock, when the work was going forward, must have been very remarkable, especially to those who were strangers to the operations. Mr. John Reid, principal lightkeeper, who also acted as master of the floating light during the working months at the rock, described the appearance of the numerous lights situated so low in the water, when seen at the distance of two or three miles, as putting him in mind of Milton's description of the fiends in the lower regions, adding, "for it seems greatly to surpass Will-o'-the-wisp, or any of those earthly spectres of which we have so often heard." Monday 13th June. From the difficulties attending the landing on the rock, owing to the breach of sea which had for days past been around it, the artificers showed some backwardness at getting into the boats this morning; but after a little explanation this was got over. It was always observable that for some time after anything like danger had occurred at the rock, the workmen became much more cautious, and on some occasions their timidity was rather troublesome. It fortunately happened, however, that along with the writer's assistants and the sailors there were also some of the artificers themselves who felt no such scruples, and in this way these difficulties were the more easily surmounted. In matters where life is in danger it becomes necessary to treat even unfounded prejudices with tenderness, as an accident, under certain circumstances, would not only have been particularly painful to those giving directions, but have proved highly detrimental to the work, especially in the early stages of its advancement. At four o'clock fifty-eight persons landed; but the tides being extremely languid, the water only left the higher parts of the rock, and no work could be done at the site of the building. A third forge was, however, put in operation during a short time, for the greater conveniency of sharpening the picks and irons, and for purposes connected with the preparations for fixing the railways on the rock. The weather towards the evening became thick and foggy, and there was hardly a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the water. Had it not, therefore, been for the noise from the anvils of the smiths who had been left on the beacon throughout the day, which afforded a guide for the boats, a landing could not have been attempted this evening, especially with such a company of artificers. This circumstance confirmed the writer's opinion with regard to the propriety of connecting large bells to be rung with machinery in the lighthouse, to be tolled day and night during the continuance of foggy weather. Thursday, 23rd June. The boats landed this evening, when the artificers had again two hours' work. The weather still continuing very thick and foggy, more difficulty was experienced in getting on board of the vessels to-night than had occurred on any previous occasion, owing to a light breeze of wind which carried the sound of the bell, and the other signals made on board of the vessels, away from the rock. Having fortunately made out the position of the sloop _Smeaton_ at the N.E. buoy--to which we were much assisted by the barking of the ship's dog,--we parted with the _Smeaton's_ boat, when the boats of the tender took a fresh departure for that vessel, which lay about half a mile to the south-westward. Yet such is the very deceiving state of the tides, that, although there was a small binnacle and compass in the landing-master's boat, we had, nevertheless, passed the _Sir Joseph_ a good way, when, fortunately, one of the sailors catched the sound of a blowing-horn. The only firearms on board were a pair of swivels of one-inch calibre; but it is quite surprising how much the sound is lost in foggy weather, as the report was heard but at a very short distance. The sound from the explosion of gunpowder is so instantaneous that the effect of the small guns was not so good as either the blowing of a horn or the tolling of a bell, which afforded a more constant and steady direction for the pilot. Wednesday, 6th July. Landed on the rock with the three boats belonging to the tender at five p.m., and began immediately to bale the water out of the foundation-pit with a number of buckets, while the pumps were also kept in action with relays of artificers and seamen. The work commenced upon the higher parts of the foundation as the water left them, but it was now pretty generally reduced to a level. About twenty men could be conveniently employed at each pump, and it is quite astonishing in how short a time so great a body of water could be drawn off. The water in the foundation-pit at this time measured about two feet in depth, on an area of forty-two feet in diameter, and yet it was drawn off in the course of about half an hour. After this the artificers commenced with their picks and continued at work for two hours and a half, some of the sailors being at the same time busily employed in clearing the foundation of chips and in conveying the irons to and from the smiths on the beacon, where they were sharped. At eight o'clock the sea broke in upon us and overflowed the foundation-pit, when the boats returned to the tender. Thursday, 7th July. The landing-master's bell rung this morning about four o'clock, and at half-past five, the foundation being cleared, the work commenced on the site of the building. But from the moment of landing, the squad of joiners and millwrights was at work upon the higher parts of the rock in laying the railways, while the anvils of the smith resounded on the beacon, and such columns of smoke ascended from the forges that they were often mistaken by strangers at a distance for a ship on fire. After continuing three hours at work the foundation of the building was again overflowed, and the boats returned to the ship at half-past eight o'clock. The masons and pickmen had, at this period, a pretty long day on board of the tender, but the smiths and joiners were kept constantly at work upon the beacon, the stability and great conveniency of which had now been so fully shown that no doubt remained as to the propriety of fitting it up as a barrack. The workmen were accordingly employed, during the period of high-water, in making preparations for this purpose. The foundation-pit now assumed the appearance of a great platform, and the late tides had been so favourable that it became apparent that the first course, consisting of a few irregular and detached stones for making up certain inequalities in the interior parts of the site of the building, might be laid in the course of the present spring-tides. Having been enabled to-day to get the dimensions of the foundation, or first stone, accurately taken, a mould was made of its figure, when the writer left the rock, after the tide's work of this morning, in a fast rowing-boat for Arbroath; and, upon landing, two men were immediately set to work upon one of the blocks from Mylnefield quarry, which was prepared in the course of the following day, as the stone-cutters relieved each other, and worked both night and day, so that it was sent off in one of the stone-lighters without delay. Saturday, 9th July. The site of the foundation-stone was very difficult to work, from its depth in the rock; but being now nearly prepared, it formed a very agreeable kind of pastime at high-water for all hands to land the stone itself upon the rock. The landing-master's crew and artificers accordingly entered with great spirit into this operation. The stone was placed upon the deck of the _Hedderwick_ praam-boat, which had just been brought from Leith, and was decorated with colours for the occasion. Flags were also displayed from the shipping in the offing, and upon the beacon. Here the writer took his station with the greater part of the artificers, who supported themselves in every possible position while the boats towed the praam from her moorings and brought her immediately over the site of the building, where her grappling anchors were let go. The stone was then lifted off the deck by a tackle hooked into a Lewis bat inserted into it, when it was gently lowered into the water and grounded on the site of the building, amidst the cheering acclamations of about sixty persons. Sunday, 10th July. At eleven o'clock the foundation-stone was laid to hand. It was of a square form, containing about twenty cubic feet, and had the figures, or date, of 1808 simply cut upon it with a chisel. A derrick, or spar of timber, having been erected at the edge of the hole and guyed with ropes, the stone was then hooked to the tackle and lowered into its place, when the writer, attended by his assistants--Mr. Peter Logan, Mr. Francis Watt, and Mr. James Wilson,--applied the square, the level, and the mallet, and pronounced the following benediction: "May the Great Architect of the Universe complete and bless this building," on which three hearty cheers were given, and success to the future operations was drunk with the greatest enthusiasm. Tuesday, 26th July. The wind being at S.E. this evening, we had a pretty heavy swell of sea upon the rock, and some difficulty attended our getting off in safety, as the boats got aground in the creek and were in danger of being upset. Upon extinguishing the torch-lights, about twelve in number, the darkness of the night seemed quite horrible; the water being also much charged with the phosphorescent appearance which is familiar to every one on shipboard, the waves, as they dashed upon the rock, were in some degree like so much liquid flame. The scene, upon the whole, was truly awful! Wednesday, 27th July. In leaving the rock this evening everything, after the torches were extinguished, had the same dismal appearance as last night, but so perfectly acquainted were the landing-master and his crew with the position of things at the rock, that comparatively little inconveniency was experienced on these occasions when the weather was moderate; such is the effect of habit, even in the most unpleasant situations. If, for example, it had been proposed to a person accustomed to a city life, at once to take up his quarters off a sunken reef and land upon it in boats at all hours of the night, the proposition must have appeared quite impracticable and extravagant; but this practice coming progressively upon the artificers, it was ultimately undertaken with the greatest alacrity. Notwithstanding this, however, it must be acknowledged that it was not till after much labour and peril, and many an anxious hour, that the writer is enabled to state that the site of the Bell Rock Lighthouse is fully prepared for the first entire course of the building. Friday, 12th Aug. The artificers landed this morning at half-past ten, and after an hour and a half's work eight stones were laid, which completed the first entire course of the building, consisting of 123 blocks, the last of which was laid with three hearty cheers. Saturday, 10th Sept. Landed at nine a.m., and by a quarter-past twelve noon twenty-three stones had been laid. The works being now somewhat elevated by the lower courses, we got quit of the very serious inconvenience of pumping water to clear the foundation-pit. This gave much facility to the operations, and was noticed with expressions of as much happiness by the artificers as the seamen had shown when relieved of the continual trouble of carrying the smith's bellows off the rock prior to the erection of the beacon. Wednesday, 21st Sept. Mr. Thomas Macurich, mate of the _Smeaton_, and James Scott, one of the crew, a young man about eighteen years of age, immediately went into their boat to make fast a hawser to the ring in the top of the floating buoy of the moorings, and were forthwith to proceed to land their cargo, so much wanted, at the rock. The tides at this period were very strong, and the mooring-chain, when sweeping the ground, had caught hold of a rock or piece of wreck by which the chain was so shortened that when the tide flowed the buoy got almost under water, and little more than the ring appeared at the surface. When Macurich and Scott were in the act of making the hawser fast to the ring, the chain got suddenly disentangled at the bottom, and this large buoy, measuring about seven feet in height and three feet in diameter at the middle, tapering to both ends, being what seamen term a _Nun-buoy_, vaulted or sprung up with such force that it upset the boat, which instantly filled with water. Mr. Macurich, with much exertion, succeeded in getting hold of the boat's gunwale, still above the surface of the water, and by this means was saved; but the young man Scott was unfortunately drowned. He had in all probability been struck about the head by the ring of the buoy, for although surrounded with the oars and the thwarts of the boat which floated near him, yet he seemed entirely to want the power of availing himself of such assistance, and appeared to be quite insensible, while Pool, the master of the _Smeaton_. called loudly to him; and before assistance could be got from the tender, he was carried away by the strength of the current and disappeared. The young man Scott was a great favourite in the service, having had something uncommonly mild and complaisant in his manner; and his loss was therefore universally regretted. The circumstances of his case were also peculiarly distressing to his mother, as her husband, who was a seaman, had for three years past been confined to a French prison, and the deceased was the chief support of the family. In order in some measure to make up the loss to the poor woman for the monthly aliment regularly allowed her by her late son, it was suggested that a younger boy, a brother of the deceased, might be taken into the service. This appeared to be rather a delicate proposition, but it was left to the landing-master to arrange according to circumstances; such was the resignation, and at the same time the spirit, of the poor woman, that she readily accepted the proposal, and in a few days the younger Scott was actually afloat in the place of his brother. On representing this distressing case to the Board, the Commissioners were pleased to grant an annuity of £5 to Scott's mother. The _Smeaton_, not having been made fast to the buoy, had, with the ebb-tide, drifted to leeward a considerable way eastward of the rock, and could not, till the return of the flood-tide, be worked up to her moorings, so that the present tide was lost, notwithstanding all exertions which had been made both ashore and afloat with this cargo. The artificers landed at six a.m.; but, as no materials could be got upon the rock this morning, they were employed in boring trenail holes and in various other operations, and after four hours' work they returned on board the tender. When the _Smeaton_ got up to her moorings, the landing-master's crew immediately began to unload her. There being too much wind for towing the praams in the usual way, they were warped to the rock in the most laborious manner by their windlasses, with successive grapplings and hawsers laid out for this purpose. At six p.m. the artificers landed, and continued at work till half-past ten, when the remaining seventeen stones were laid which completed the third entire course, or fourth of the lighthouse, with which the building operations were closed for the season. III OPERATIONS OF 1809 Wednesday, 24th May. The last night was the first that the writer had passed in his old quarters on board of the floating light for about twelve months, when the weather was so fine and the sea so smooth that even here he felt but little or no motion, excepting at the turn of the tide, when the vessel gets into what the seamen term the _trough of the sea_. At six a.m. Mr. Watt, who conducted the operations of the railways and beacon-house, had landed with nine artificers. At half-past one p.m. Mr. Peter Logan had also landed with fifteen masons, and immediately proceeded to set up the crane. The sheer-crane or apparatus for lifting the stones out of the praam-boats at the eastern creek had been already erected, and the railways now formed about two-thirds of an entire circle round the building: some progress had likewise been made with the reach towards the western landing-place. The floors being laid, the beacon now assumed the appearance of a habitation. The _Smeaton_ was at her moorings, with the _Fernie_ praam-boat astern, for which she was laying down moorings, and the tender being also at her station, the Bell Rock had again put on its former busy aspect. Wednesday, 31st May. The landing-master's bell, often no very favourite sound, rung at six this morning; but on this occasion, it is believed, it was gladly received by all on board, as the welcome signal of the return of better weather. The masons laid thirteen stones to-day, which the seamen had landed, together with other building materials. During these twenty-four hours the wind was from the south, blowing fresh breezes, accompanied with showers of snow. In the morning the snow showers were so thick that it was with difficulty the landing-master, who always steered the leading boat, could make his way to the rock through the drift. But at the Bell Rock neither snow nor rain, nor fog nor wind, retarded the progress of the work, if unaccompanied by a heavy swell or breach of the sea. The weather during the months of April and May had been uncommonly boisterous, and so cold that the thermometer seldom exceeded 40º, while the barometer was generally about 29.50. We had not only hail and sleet, but the snow on the last day of May lay on the decks and rigging of the ship to the depth of about three inches; and, although now entering upon the month of June, the length of the day was the chief indication of summer. Yet such is the effect of habit, and such was the expertness of the landing-master's crew, that, even in this description of weather, seldom a tide's work was lost. Such was the ardour and zeal of the heads of the several departments at the rock, including Mr. Peter Logan, foreman builder, Mr. Francis Watt, foreman millwright, and Captain Wilson, landing-master, that it was on no occasion necessary to address them, excepting in the way of precaution or restraint. Under these circumstances, however, the writer not unfrequently felt considerable anxiety, of which this day's experience will afford an example. Thursday, 1st June. This morning, at a quarter-past eight, the artificers were landed as usual, and, after three hours and three-quarters' work, five stones were laid, the greater part of this tide having been taken up in completing the boring and trenailing of the stones formerly laid. At noon the writer, with the seamen and artificers, proceeded to the tender, leaving on the beacon the joiners, and several of those who were troubled with sea-sickness--among whom was Mr. Logan, who remained with Mr. Watt--counting altogether eleven persons. During the first and middle parts of these twenty-four hours the wind was from the east, blowing what the seamen term "fresh breezes"; but in the afternoon it shifted to E.N.E., accompanied with so heavy a swell of sea that the _Smeaton_ and tender struck their topmasts, launched in their bolt-sprits, and "made all snug" for a gale. At four p.m. the _Smeaton_ was obliged to slip her moorings, and passed the tender, drifting before the wind, with only the foresail set. In passing, Mr. Pool hailed that he must run for the Firth of Forth to prevent the vessel from "riding under." On board of the tender the writer's chief concern was about the eleven men left upon the beacon. Directions were accordingly given that everything about the vessel should be put in the best possible state, to present as little resistance to the wind as possible, that she might have the better chance of riding out the gale. Among these preparations the best bower cable was bent, so as to have a second anchor in readiness in case the mooring-hawser should give way, that every means might be used for keeping the vessel within sight of the prisoners on the beacon, and thereby keep them in as good spirits as possible. From the same motive the boats were kept afloat that they might be less in fear of the vessel leaving her station. The landing-master had, however, repeatedly expressed his anxiety for the safety of the boats, and wished much to have them hoisted on board. At seven p.m. one of the boats, as he feared, was unluckily filled with sea from a wave breaking into her, and it was with great difficulty that she could be baled out and got on board, with the loss of her oars, rudder, and loose thwarts. Such was the motion of the ship that in taking this boat on board her gunwale was stove in, and she otherwise received considerable damage. Night approached, but it was still found quite impossible to go near the rock. Consulting, therefore, the safety of the second boat, she also was hoisted on board of the tender. At this time the cabins of the beacon were only partially covered, and had neither been provided with bedding nor a proper fireplace, while the stock of provisions was but slender. In these uncomfortable circumstances the people on the beacon were left for the night, nor was the situation of those on board of the tender much better. The rolling and pitching motion of the ship was excessive; and, excepting to those who had been accustomed to a residence in the floating light, it seemed quite intolerable. Nothing was heard but the hissing of the winds and the creaking of the bulkheads or partitions of the ship; the night was, therefore, spent in the most unpleasant reflections upon the condition of the people on the beacon, especially in the prospect of the tender being driven from her moorings. But, even in such a case, it afforded some consolation that the stability of the fabric was never doubted, and that the boats of the floating light were at no great distance, and ready to render the people on the rock the earliest assistance which the weather would permit. The writer's cabin being in the sternmost part of the ship, which had what sailors term a good entry, or was sharp built, the sea, as before noticed, struck her counter with so much violence that the water, with a rushing noise, continually forced its way up the rudder-case, lifted the valve of the water-closet, and overran the cabin floor. In these circumstances daylight was eagerly looked for, and hailed with delight, as well by those afloat as by the artificers upon the rock. Friday, 2nd June. In the course of the night the writer held repeated conversations with the officer on watch, who reported that the weather continued much in the same state, and that the barometer still indicated 29.20 inches. At six a.m. the landing-master considered the weather to have somewhat moderated; and, from certain appearances of the sky, he was of opinion that a change for the better would soon take place. He accordingly proposed to attempt a landing at low-water, and either get the people off the rock, or at least ascertain what state they were in. At nine a.m. he left the vessel with a boat well manned, carrying with him a supply of cooked provisions and a tea-kettle full of mulled port wine for the people on the beacon, who had not had any regular diet for about thirty hours, while they were exposed during that period, in a great measure, both to the winds and the sprays of the sea. The boat having succeeded in landing, she returned at eleven a.m. with the artificers, who had got off with considerable difficulty, and who were heartily welcomed by all on board. Upon inquiry it appeared that three of the stones last laid upon the building had been partially lifted from their beds by the force of the sea, and were now held only by the trenails, and that the cast-iron sheer-crane had again been thrown down and completely broken. With regard to the beacon, the sea at high-water had lifted part of the mortar gallery or lowest floor, and washed away all the lime-casks and other movable articles from it; but the principal parts of this fabric had sustained no damage. On pressing Messrs. Logan and Watt on the situation of things in the course of the night, Mr. Logan emphatically said; "That the beacon had an _ill-faured[15] twist_ when the sea broke upon it at high-water, but that they were not very apprehensive of danger." On inquiring as to how they spent the night, it appeared that they had made shift to keep a small fire burning, and by means of some old sails defended themselves pretty well from the sea sprays. It was particularly mentioned that by the exertions of James Glen, one of the joiners, a number of articles were saved from being washed off the mortar gallery. Glen was also very useful in keeping up the spirits of the forlorn party. In the early part of life he had undergone many curious adventures at sea, which he now recounted somewhat after the manner of the tales of the "Arabian Nights." When one observed that the beacon was a most comfortless lodging, Glen would presently introduce some of his exploits and hardships, in comparison with which the state of things at the beacon bore an aspect of comfort and happiness. Looking to their slender stock of provisions, and their perilous and uncertain chance of speedy relief, he would launch out into an account of one of his expeditions in the North Sea, when the vessel, being much disabled in a storm, was driven before the wind with the loss of almost all their provisions; and the ship being much infested with rats, the crew hunted these vermin with great eagerness to help their scanty allowance. By such means Glen had the address to make his companions, in some measure, satisfied, or at least passive, with regard to their miserable prospects upon this half-tide rock in the middle of the ocean. This incident is noticed, more particularly, to show the effects of such a happy turn of mind, even under the most distressing and ill-fated circumstances. Saturday, 17th June. At eight a.m. the artificers and sailors, forty-five in number, landed on the rock, and after four hours' work seven stones were laid. The remainder of this tide, from the threatening appearance of the weather, was occupied in trenailing and making all things as secure as possible. At twelve noon the rock and building were again overflowed, when the masons and seamen went on board of the tender, but Mr. Watt, with his squad of ten men, remained on the beacon throughout the day. As it blew fresh from the N.W. in the evening, it was found impracticable either to land the building artificers or to take the artificers off the beacon, and they were accordingly left there all night, but in circumstances very different from those of the 1st of this month. The house, being now in a more complete state, was provided with bedding, and they spent the night pretty well, though they complained of having been much disturbed at the time of high-water by the shaking and tremulous motion of their house and by the plashing noise of the sea upon the mortar gallery. Here James Glen's versatile powers were again at work in cheering up those who seemed to be alarmed, and in securing everything as far as possible. On this occasion he had only to recall to the recollections of some of them the former night which they had spent on the beacon, the wind and sea being then much higher, and their habitation in a far less comfortable state. The wind still continuing to blow fresh from the N.W., at five p.m. the writer caused a signal to be made from the tender for the _Smeaton_ and _Patriot_ to slip their moorings, when they ran for Lunan Bay, an anchorage on the east side of the Redhead. Those on board of the tender spent but a very rough night, and perhaps slept less soundly than their companions on the beacon, especially as the wind was at N.W., which caused the vessel to ride with her stern towards the Bell Rock; so that, in the event of anything giving way, she could hardly have escaped being stranded upon it. Sunday, 18th June. The weather having moderated to-day, the wind shifted to the westward. At a quarter-past nine a.m. the artificers landed from the tender and had the pleasure to find their friends who had been left on the rock quite hearty, alleging that the beacon was the preferable quarters of the two. Saturday, 24th June. Mr. Peter Logan, the foreman builder, and his squad, twenty-one in number, landed this morning at three o'clock, and continued at work four hours and a quarter, and after laying seventeen stones returned to the tender. At six a.m. Mr. Francis Watt and his squad of twelve men landed, and proceeded with their respective operations at the beacon and railways, and were left on the rock during the whole day without the necessity of having any communication with the tender, the kitchen of the beacon-house being now fitted up. It was to-day, also, that Peter Fortune--a most obliging and well-known character in the Lighthouse service--was removed from the tender to the beacon as cook and steward, with a stock of provisions as ample as his limited storeroom would admit. When as many stones were built as comprised this day's work, the demand for mortar was proportionally increased, and the task of the mortar-makers on these occasions was both laborious and severe. This operation was chiefly performed by John Watt--a strong, active quarrier by profession,--who was a perfect character in his way, and extremely zealous in his department. While the operations of the mortar-makers continued, the forge upon their gallery was not generally in use; but, as the working hours of the builders extended with the height of the building, the forge could not be so long wanted, and then a sad confusion often ensued upon the circumscribed floor of the mortar gallery, as the operations of Watt and his assistants trenched greatly upon those of the smiths. Under these circumstances the boundary of the smiths was much circumscribed, and they were personally annoyed, especially in blowy weather, with the dust of the lime in its powdered state. The mortar-makers, on the other hand, were often not a little distressed with the heat of the fire and the sparks elicited on the anvil, and not unaptly complained that they were placed between "the devil and the deep sea." Sunday, 25th June. The work being now about ten feet in height, admitted of a rope-ladder being distended[16] between the beacon and the building. By this "Jacob's Ladder," as the seamen termed it, a communication was kept up with the beacon while the rock was considerably under water. One end of it being furnished with tackle-blocks, was fixed to the beams of the beacon, at the level of the mortar gallery, while the further end was connected with the upper course of the building by means of two Lewis bats which were lifted from course to course as the work advanced. In the same manner a rope furnished with a travelling pulley was distended for the purpose of transporting the mortar-buckets, and other light articles between the beacon and the building, which also proved a great conveniency to the work. At this period the rope-ladder and tackle for the mortar had a descent from the beacon to the building; by and by they were on a level, and towards the end of the season, when the solid part had attained its full height, the ascent was from the mortar gallery to the building. Friday, 30th June. The artificers landed on the rock this morning at a quarter-past six, and remained at work five hours. The cooking apparatus being now in full operation, all hands had breakfast on the beacon at the usual hour, and remained there throughout the day. The crane upon the building had to be raised to-day from the eighth to the ninth course, an operation which now required all the strength that could be mustered for working the guy-tackles; for as the top of the crane was at this time about thirty-five feet above the rock, it became much more unmanageable. While the beam was in the act of swinging round from one guy to another, a great strain was suddenly brought upon the opposite tackle, with the end of which the artificers had very improperly neglected to take a turn round some stationary object, which would have given them the complete command of the tackle. Owing to this simple omission, the crane got a preponderancy to one side, and fell upon the building with a terrible crash. The surrounding artificers immediately flew in every direction to get out of its way; but Michael Wishart, the principal builder, having unluckily stumbled upon one of the uncut trenails, fell upon his back. His body fortunately got between the movable beam and the upright shaft of the crane, and was thus saved; but his feet got entangled with the wheels of the crane and were severely injured. Wishart, being a robust young man, endured his misfortune with wonderful firmness; he was laid upon one of the narrow framed beds of the beacon and despatched in a boat to the tender, where the writer was when this accident happened, not a little alarmed on missing the crane from the top of the building, and at the same time seeing a boat rowing towards the vessel with great speed. When the boat came alongside with poor Wishart, stretched upon a bed covered with blankets, a moment of great anxiety followed, which was, however, much relieved when, on stepping into the boat, he was accosted by Wishart, though in a feeble voice, and with an aspect pale as death from excessive bleeding. Directions having been immediately given to the coxswain to apply to Mr. Kennedy at the workyard to procure the best surgical aid, the boat was sent off without delay to Arbroath. The writer then landed at the rock, when the crane was in a very short time got into its place and again put in a working state. Monday, 3rd July. The writer having come to Arbroath with the yacht, had an opportunity of visiting Michael Wishart, the artificer who had met with so severe an accident at the rock on the 30th ult., and had the pleasure to find him in a state of recovery. From Dr. Stevenson's account, under whose charge he had been placed, hopes were entertained that amputation would not be necessary, as his patient still kept free of fever or any appearance of mortification; and Wishart expressed a hope that he might, at least, be ultimately capable of keeping the light at the Bell Rock, as it was not now likely that he would assist further in building the house. Saturday, 8th July. It was remarked to-day, with no small demonstration of joy, that the tide, being neap, did not, for the first time, overflow the building at high-water. Flags were accordingly hoisted on the beacon-house and crane on the top of the building, which were repeated from the floating light, Lighthouse yacht, tender, _Smeaton, Patriot_, and the two praams. A salute of three guns was also fired from the yacht at high-water, when, all the artificers being collected on the top of the building, three cheers were given in testimony of this important circumstance. A glass of rum was then served out to all hands on the rock and on board of the respective ships. Sunday, 16th July. Besides laying, boring, trenailing, wedging, and grouting thirty-two stones, several other operations were proceeded with on the rock at low-water, when some of the artificers were employed at the railways and at high-water at the beacon-house. The seamen having prepared a quantity of tarpaulin or cloth laid over with successive coats of hot tar, the joiners had just completed the covering of the roof with it. This sort of covering was lighter and more easily managed than sheet-lead in such a situation. As a further defence against the weather the whole exterior of this temporary residence was painted with three coats of white-lead paint. Between the timber framing of the habitable part of the beacon the interstices were to be stuffed with moss as a light substance that would resist dampness and check sifting winds; the whole interior was then to be lined with green baize cloth, so that both without and within the cabins were to have a very comfortable appearance. Although the building artificers generally remained on the rock throughout the day, and the millwrights, joiners, and smiths, while their number was considerable, remained also during the night, yet the tender had hitherto been considered as their night quarters. But the wind having in the course of the day shifted to the N.W., and as the passage to the tender, in the boats, was likely to be attended with difficulty, the whole of the artificers, with Mr. Logan, the foreman, preferred remaining all night on the beacon, which had of late become the solitary abode of George Forsyth, a jobbing upholsterer, who had been employed in lining the beacon-house with cloth and in fitting up the bedding. Forsyth was a tall, thin, and rather loose-made man, who had an utter aversion at climbing upon the trap-ladders of the beacon, but especially at the process of boating, and the motion of the ship, which he said "was death itself." He therefore pertinaciously insisted with the landing-master in being left upon the beacon, with a small black dog as his only companion. The writer, however, felt some delicacy in leaving a single individual upon the rock, who must have been so very helpless in case of accident. This fabric had, from the beginning, been rather intended by the writer to guard against accident from the loss or damage of a boat, and as a place for making mortar, a smith's shop, and a store for tools during the working months, than as permanent quarters; nor was it at all meant to be possessed until the joiner-work was completely finished, and his own cabin, and that for the foreman, in readiness, when it was still to be left to the choice of the artificers to occupy the tender or the beacon. He, however, considered Forsyth's partiality and confidence in the latter as rather a fortunate occurrence. Wednesday, 19th July. The whole of the artificers, twenty-three in number, now removed of their own accord from the tender, to lodge in the beacon, together with Peter Fortune, a person singularly adapted for a residence of this kind, both from the urbanity of his manners and the versatility of his talents. Fortune, in his person, was of small stature, and rather corpulent. Besides being a good Scots cook, he had acted both as groom and house-servant; he had been a soldier, a sutler, a writer's clerk, and an apothecary, from which he possessed the art of writing and suggesting recipes, and had hence, also, perhaps, acquired a turn for making collections in natural history. But in his practice in surgery on the Bell Rock, for which he received an annual fee of three guineas, he is supposed to have been rather partial to the use of the lancet. In short, Peter was the _factotum_ of the beacon-house, where he ostensibly acted in the several capacities of cook, steward, surgeon, and barber, and kept a statement of the rations or expenditure of the provisions with the strictest integrity. In the present important state of the building, when it had just attained the height of sixteen feet, and the upper courses, and especially the imperfect one, were in the wash of the heaviest seas, an express boat arrived at the rock with a letter from Mr. Kennedy, of the workyard, stating that in consequence of the intended expedition to Walcheren, an embargo had been laid on shipping at all the ports of Great Britain: that both the _Smeaton_ and _Patriot_ were detained at Arbroath, and that but for the proper view which Mr. Ramsey, the port officer, had taken of his orders, neither the express boat nor one which had been sent with provisions and necessaries for the floating light would have been permitted to leave the harbour. The writer set off without delay for Arbroath, and on landing used every possible means with the official people, but their orders were deemed so peremptory that even boats were not permitted to sail from any port upon the coast. In the meantime, the collector of the Customs at Montrose applied to the Board at Edinburgh, but could, of himself, grant no relief to the Bell Rock shipping. At this critical period Mr. Adam Duff, then Sheriff of Forfarshire, now of the county of Edinburgh, and _ex officio_ one of the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, happened to be at Arbroath. Mr. Duff took an immediate interest in representing the circumstances of the case to the Board of Customs at Edinburgh. But such were the doubts entertained on the subject that, on having previously received the appeal from the collector at Montrose, the case had been submitted to the consideration of the Lords of the Treasury, whose decision was now waited for. In this state of things the writer felt particularly desirous to get the thirteenth course finished, that the building might be in a more secure state in the event of bad weather. An opportunity was therefore embraced on the 25th, in sailing with provisions for the floating light, to carry the necessary stones to the rock for this purpose, which were landed and built on the 26th and 27th. But so closely was the watch kept up that a Custom-house officer was always placed on board of the _Smeaton_ and _Patriot_ while they were afloat, till the embargo was especially removed from the lighthouse vessels. The artificers at the Bell Rock had been reduced to fifteen, who were regularly supplied with provisions, along with the crew of the floating light, mainly through the port officer's liberal interpretation of his orders. Tuesday, 1st Aug. There being a considerable swell and breach of sea upon the rock yesterday, the stones could not be got landed till the day following, when the wind shifted to the southward and the weather improved. But to-day no less than seventy-eight blocks of stone were landed, of which forty were built, which completed the fourteenth and part of the fifteenth courses. The number of workmen now resident in the beacon-house were augmented to twenty-four, including the landing-master's crew from the tender and the boat's crew from the floating light, who assisted at landing the stones. Those daily at work upon the rock at this period amounted to forty-six. A cabin had been laid out for the writer on the beacon, but his apartment had been the last which was finished, and he had not yet taken possession of it; for though he generally spent the greater part of the day, at this time, upon the rock, yet he always slept on board of the tender. Friday, 11th Aug. The wind was at S.E. on the 11th, and there was so very heavy a swell of sea upon the rock that no boat could approach it. Saturday, 12th Aug. The gale still continuing from the S.E., the sea broke with great violence both upon the building and the beacon. The former being twenty-three feet in height, the upper part of the crane erected on it having been lifted from course to course as the building advanced, was now about thirty-six feet above the rock. From observations made on the rise of the sea by this crane, the artificers were enabled to estimate its height to be about fifty feet above the rock, while the sprays fell with a most alarming noise upon their cabins. At low-water, in the evening, a signal was made from the beacon, at the earnest desire of some of the artificers, for the boats to come to the rock; and although this could not be effected without considerable hazard, it was, however, accomplished, when twelve of their number, being much afraid, applied to the foreman to be relieved, and went on board of the tender. But the remaining fourteen continued on the rock, with Mr. Peter Logan, the foreman builder. Although this rule of allowing an option to every man either to remain on the rock or return to the tender was strictly adhered to, yet, as it would have been extremely inconvenient to have had the men parcelled out in this manner, it became necessary to embrace the first opportunity of sending those who had left the beacon to the workyard, with as little appearance of intention as possible, lest it should hurt their feelings, or prevent others from acting according to their wishes, either in landing on the rock or remaining on the beacon. Tuesday, 15th Aug. The wind had fortunately shifted to the S.W. this morning, and though a considerable breach was still upon the rock, yet the landing-master's crew were enabled to get one praam-boat, lightly loaded with five stones, brought in safety to the western creek; these stones were immediately laid by the artificers, who gladly embraced the return of good weather to proceed with their operations. The writer had this day taken possession of his cabin in the beacon-house. It was small, but commodious, and was found particularly convenient in coarse and blowing weather, instead of being obliged to make a passage to the tender in an open boat at all times, both during the day and the night, which was often attended with much difficulty and danger. Saturday, 19th Aug. For some days past the weather had been occasionally so thick and foggy that no small difficulty was experienced in going even between the rock and the tender, though quite at hand. But the floating light's boat lost her way so far in returning on board that the first land she made, after rowing all night, was Fifeness, a distance of about fourteen miles. The weather having cleared in the morning, the crew stood off again for the floating light, and got on board in a half-famished and much exhausted state, having been constantly rowing for about sixteen hours. Sunday, 20th Aug. The weather being very favourable to-day, fifty-three stones were landed, and the builders were not a little gratified in having built the twenty-second course, consisting of fifty-one stones, being the first course which had been completed in one day. This, as a matter of course, produced three hearty cheers. At twelve noon prayers were read for the first time on the Bell Rock; those present, counting thirty, were crowded into the upper apartment of the beacon, where the writer took a central position, while two of the artificers, joining hands, supported the Bible. Friday, 25th Aug. To-day the artificers laid forty-five stones, which completed the twenty-fourth course, reckoning above the first entire one, and the twenty-sixth above the rock. This finished the solid part of the building, and terminated the height of the outward casing of granite, which is thirty-one feet six inches above the rock or site of the foundation-stone, and about seventeen feet above high water of spring-tides. Being a particular crisis in the progress of the lighthouse, the landing and laying of the last stone for the season was observed with the usual ceremonies. From observations often made by the writer, in so far as such can be ascertained, it appears that no wave in the open seas, in an unbroken state, rises more than from seven to nine feet above the general surface of the ocean. The Bell Rock Lighthouse may therefore now be considered at from eight to ten feet above the height of the waves; and, although the sprays and heavy seas have often been observed, in the present state of the building, to rise to the height of fifty feet, and fall with a tremendous noise on the beacon-house, yet such seas were not likely to make any impression on a mass of solid masonry, containing about 1400 tons. Wednesday, 30th Aug. The whole of the artificers left the rock at mid-day, when the tender made sail for Arbroath, which she reached about six p.m. The vessel being decorated with colours, and having fired a salute of three guns on approaching the harbour, the workyard artificers, with a multitude of people, assembled at the harbour, when mutual cheering and congratulations took place between those afloat and those on the quays. The tender had now, with little exception, been six months on the station at the Bell Rock, and during the last four months few of the squad of builders had been ashore. In particular, Mr. Peter Logan, the foreman, and Mr. Robert Selkirk, principal builder, had never once left the rock. The artificers, having made good wages during their stay, like seamen upon a return voyage, were extremely happy, and spent the evening with much innocent mirth and jollity. In reflecting upon the state of the matters at the Bell Rock during the working months, when the writer was much with the artificers, nothing can equal the happy manner in which these excellent workmen spent their time. They always went from Arbroath to their arduous task cheering, and they generally returned in the same hearty state. While at the rock, between the tides, they amused themselves in reading, fishing, music, playing cards, draughts, etc., or in sporting with one another. In the workyard at Arbroath the young men were almost, without exception, employed in the evening at school, in writing and arithmetic, and not a few were learning architectural drawing, for which they had every convenience and facility, and were, in a very obliging manner, assisted in their studies by Mr. David Logan, clerk of the works. It therefore affords the most pleasing reflections to look back upon the pursuits of about sixty individuals who for years conducted themselves, on all occasions, in a sober and rational manner. IV OPERATIONS OF 1810 Thursday, 10th May. The wind had shifted to-day to W.N.W., when the writer, with considerable difficulty, was enabled to land upon the rock for the first time this season, at ten a.m. Upon examining the state of the building, and apparatus in general, he had the satisfaction to find everything in good order. The mortar in all the joints was perfectly entire. The building, now thirty feet in height, was thickly coated with _fuci_ to the height of about fifteen feet, calculating from the rock; on the eastern side, indeed, the growth of seaweed was observable to the full height of thirty feet, and even on the top or upper bed of the last-laid course, especially towards the eastern side, it had germinated, so as to render walking upon it somewhat difficult. The beacon-house was in a perfectly sound state, and apparently just as it had been left in the month of November. But the tides being neap, the lower parts, particularly where the beams rested on the rock, could not now be seen. The floor of the mortar gallery having been already laid down by Mr. Watt and his men on a former visit, was merely soaked with the sprays; but the joisting-beams which supported it had, in the course of the winter, been covered with a fine downy conferva produced by the range of the sea. They were also a good deal whitened with the mute of the cormorant and other sea-fowls, which had roosted upon the beacon in winter. Upon ascending to the apartments, it was found that the motion of the sea had thrown open the door of the cook-house: this was only shut with a single latch, that in case of shipwreck at the Bell Rock the mariner might find ready access to the shelter of this forlorn habitation, where a supply of provisions was kept; and being within two miles and a half of the floating light, a signal could readily be observed, when a boat might be sent to his relief as soon as the weather permitted. An arrangement for this purpose formed one of the instructions on board of the floating light, but happily no instance occurred for putting it in practice. The hearth or fireplace of the cook-house was built of brick in as secure a manner as possible to prevent accident from fire; but some of the plaster-work had shaken loose, from its damp state and the tremulous motion of the beacon in stormy weather. The writer next ascended to the floor which was occupied by the cabins of himself and his assistants, which were in tolerably good order, having only a damp and musty smell. The barrack for the artificers, over all, was next visited; it had now a very dreary and deserted appearance when its former thronged state was recollected. In some parts the water had come through the boarding, and had discoloured the lining of green cloth, but it was, nevertheless, in a good habitable condition. While the seamen were employed in landing a stock of provisions, a few of the artificers set to work with great eagerness to sweep and clean the several apartments. The exterior of the beacon was, in the meantime, examined, and found in perfect order. The painting, though it had a somewhat blanched appearance, adhered firmly both on the sides and roof, and only two or three panes of glass were broken in the cupola, which had either been blown out by the force of the wind or perhaps broken by sea-fowl. Having on this occasion continued upon the building and beacon a considerable time after the tide had begun to flow, the artificers were occupied in removing the forge from the top of the building, to which the gangway or wooden bridge gave great facility; and, although it stretched or had a span of forty-two feet, its construction was extremely simple, while the roadway was perfectly firm and steady. In returning from this visit to the rock every one was pretty well soused in spray before reaching the tender at two o'clock p.m., where things awaited the landing party in as comfortable a way as such a situation would admit. Friday, 11th May. The wind was still easterly, accompanied with rather a heavy swell of sea for the operations in hand. A landing was, however, made this morning, when the artificers were immediately employed in scraping the seaweed off the upper course of the building, in order to apply the moulds of the first course of the staircase, that the joggle-holes might be marked off in the upper course of the solid. This was also necessary previously to the writer's fixing the position of the entrance door, which was regulated chiefly by the appearance of the growth of the seaweed on the building, indicating the direction of the heaviest seas, on the opposite side of which the door was placed. The landing-master's crew succeeded in towing into the creek on the western side of the rock the praam-boat with the balance-crane, which had now been on board of the praam for five days. The several pieces of this machine, having been conveyed along the railways upon the waggons to a position immediately under the bridge, were elevated to its level, or thirty feet above the rock, in the following manner. A chain-tackle was suspended over a pulley from the cross-beam connecting the tops of the kingposts of the bridge, which was worked by a winch-machine with wheel, pinion, and barrel, round which last the chain was wound. This apparatus was placed on the beacon side of the bridge, at the distance of about twelve feet from the cross-beam and pulley in the middle of the bridge. Immediately under the cross-beam a hatch was formed in the roadway of the bridge, measuring seven feet in length and five feet in breadth, made to shut with folding boards like a double door, through which stones and other articles were raised; the folding doors were then let down, and the stone or load was gently lowered upon a waggon which was wheeled on railway trucks towards the lighthouse. In this manner the several castings of the balance-crane were got up to the top of the solid of the building. The several apartments of the beacon-house having been cleaned out and supplied with bedding, a sufficient stock of provisions was put into the store, when Peter Fortune, formerly noticed, lighted his fire in the beacon for the first time this season. Sixteen artificers at the same time mounted to their barrack-room, and all the foremen of the works also took possession of their cabin, all heartily rejoiced at getting rid of the trouble of boating and the sickly motion of the tender. Saturday, 12th May. The wind was at E.N.E., blowing so fresh, and accompanied with so much sea, that no stones could be landed to-day. The people on the rock, however, were busily employed in screwing together the balance-crane, cutting out the joggle-holes in the upper course, and preparing all things for commencing the building operations. Sunday, 13th May. The weather still continues boisterous, although the barometer has all the while stood at about 30 inches. Towards evening the wind blew so fresh at E. by S. that the boats both of the _Smeaton_ and tender were obliged to be hoisted in, and it was feared that the _Smeaton_ would have to slip her moorings. The people on the rock were seen busily employed, and had the balance-crane apparently ready for use, but no communication could be had with them to-day. Monday, 14th May. The wind continued to blow so fresh, and the _Smeaton_ rode so heavily with her cargo, that at noon a signal was made for her getting under weigh, when she stood towards Arbroath; and on board of the tender we are still without any communication with the people on the rock, where the sea was seen breaking over the top of the building in great sprays, and raging with much agitation among the beams of the beacon. Thursday, 17th May. The wind, in the course of the day, had shifted from north to west; the sea being also considerably less, a boat landed on the rock at six p.m., for the first time since the 11th, with the provisions and water brought off by the _Patriot_. The inhabitants of the beacon were all well, but tired above measure for want of employment, as the balance-crane and apparatus was all in readiness. Under these circumstances they felt no less desirous of the return of good weather than those afloat, who were continually tossed with the agitation of the sea. The writer, in particular, felt himself almost as much fatigued and worn-out as he had been at any period since the commencement of the work. The very backward state of the weather at so advanced a period of the season unavoidably created some alarm, lest he should be overtaken with bad weather at a late period of the season, with the building operations in an unfinished state. These apprehensions were, no doubt, rather increased by the inconveniences of his situation afloat, as the tender rolled and pitched excessively at times. This being also his first off-set for the season, every bone of his body felt sore with preserving a sitting posture while he endeavoured to pass away the time in reading; as for writing, it was wholly impracticable. He had several times entertained thoughts of leaving the station for a few days and going into Arbroath with the tender till the weather should improve; but as the artificers had been landed on the rock he was averse to this at the commencement of the season, knowing also that he would be equally uneasy in every situation till the first cargo was landed: and he therefore resolved to continue at his post until this should be effected. Friday, 18th May. The wind being now N.W., the sea was considerably run down, and this morning at five o'clock the landing-master's crew, thirteen in number, left the tender; and having now no detention with the landing of artificers, they proceeded to unmoor the _Hedderwick_ praam-boat, and towed her alongside of the _Smeaton_: and in the course of the day twenty-three blocks of stone, three casks of pozzolano, three of sand, three of lime, and one of Roman cement, together with three bundles of trenails and three of wedges, were all landed on the rock and raised to the top of the building by means of the tackle suspended from the cross-beam on the middle of the bridge. The stones were then moved along the bridge on the waggon to the building within reach of the balance-crane, with which they were laid in their respective places on the building. The masons immediately thereafter proceeded to bore the trenail-holes into the course below, and otherwise to complete the one in hand. When the first stone was to be suspended by the balance-crane, the bell on the beacon was rung, and all the artificers and seamen were collected on the building. Three hearty cheers were given while it was lowered into its place, and the steward served round a glass of rum, when success was drunk to the further progress of the building. Sunday, 20th May. The wind was southerly to-day, but there was much less sea than yesterday, and the landing-master's crew were enabled to discharge and land twenty-three pieces of stone and other articles for the work. The artificers had completed the laying of the twenty-seventh or first course of the staircase this morning, and in the evening they finished the boring, trenailing, wedging, and grouting it with mortar. At twelve o'clock noon the beacon-house bell was rung, and all hands were collected on the top of the building, where prayers were read for the first time on the lighthouse, which forcibly struck every one, and had, upon the whole, a very impressive effect. From the hazardous situation of the beacon-house with regard to fire, being composed wholly of timber, there was no small risk from accident: and on this account one of the most steady of the artificers was appointed to see that the fire of the cooking-house, and the lights in general, were carefully extinguished at stated hours. Monday, 4th June. This being the birthday of our much-revered Sovereign King George III, now in the fiftieth year of his reign, the shipping of the Lighthouse service were this morning decorated with colours according to the taste of their respective captains. Flags were also hoisted upon the beacon-house and balance-crane on the top of the building. At twelve noon a salute was fired from the tender, when the King's health was drunk, with all the honours, both on the rock and on board of the shipping. Tuesday, 5th June. As the lighthouse advanced in height, the cubical contents of the stones were less, but they had to be raised to a greater height; and the walls, being thinner, were less commodious for the necessary machinery and the artificers employed, which considerably retarded the work. Inconvenience was also occasionally experienced from the men dropping their coats, hats, mallets, and other tools, at high-water, which were carried away by the tide; and the danger to the people themselves was now greatly increased. Had any of them fallen from the beacon or building at high-water, while the landing-master's crew were generally engaged with the craft at a distance, it must have rendered the accident doubly painful to those on the rock, who at this time had no boat, and consequently no means of rendering immediate and prompt assistance. In such cases it would have been too late to have got a boat by signal from the tender. A small boat, which could be lowered at pleasure, was therefore suspended by a pair of davits projected from the cook-house, the keel being about thirty feet from the rock. This boat, with its tackle, was put under the charge of James Glen, of whose exertions on the beacon mention has already been made, and who, having in early life been a seaman, was also very expert in the management of a boat. A life-buoy was likewise suspended from the bridge, to which a coil of line two hundred fathoms in length was attached, which could be let out to a person falling into the water, or to the people in the boat, should they not be able to work her with the oars. Thursday, 7th June. To-day twelve stones were landed on the rock, being the remainder of the _Patriot's_ cargo; and the artificers built the thirty-ninth course, consisting of fourteen stones. The Bell Rock works had now a very busy appearance, as the lighthouse was daily getting more into form. Besides the artificers and their cook, the writer and his servant were also lodged on the beacon, counting in all twenty-nine; and at low-water the landing-master's crew, consisting of from twelve to fifteen seamen, were employed in transporting the building materials, working the landing apparatus on the rock, and dragging the stone waggons along the railways. Friday, 8th June. In the course of this day the weather varied much. In the morning it was calm, in the middle part of the day there were light airs of wind from the south, and in the evening fresh breezes from the east. The barometer in the writer's cabin in the beacon-house oscillated from 30 inches to 30.42, and the weather was extremely pleasant. This, in any situation, forms one of the chief comforts of life; but, as may easily be conceived, it was doubly so to people stuck, as it were, upon a pinnacle in the middle of the ocean. Sunday, 10th June. One of the praam-boats had been brought to the rock with eleven stones, notwithstanding the perplexity which attended the getting of those formerly landed taken up to the building. Mr. Peter Logan, the foreman builder, interposed and prevented this cargo from being delivered; but the landing-master's crew were exceedingly averse to this arrangement, from an idea that "ill luck" would in future attend the praam, her cargo, and those who navigated her, from thus reversing her voyage. It may be noticed that this was the first instance of a praam-boat having been sent from the Bell Rock with any part of her cargo on board, and was considered so uncommon an occurrence that it became a topic of conversation among the seamen and artificers. Tuesday, 12th June. To-day the stones formerly sent from the rock were safely landed, notwithstanding the augury of the seamen in consequence of their being sent away two days before. Thursday, 14th June. To-day twenty-seven stones and eleven joggle-pieces were landed, part of which consisted of the forty-seventh course, forming the storeroom floor. The builders were at work this morning by four o'clock, in the hopes of being able to accomplish the laying of the eighteen stones of this course. But at eight o'clock in the evening they had still two to lay, and as the stones of this course were very unwieldy, being six feet in length, they required much precaution and care both in lifting and laying them. It was only on the writer's suggestion to Mr. Logan that the artificers were induced to leave off, as they had intended to complete this floor before going to bed. The two remaining stones were, however, laid in their places without mortar when the bell on the beacon was rung, and, all hands being collected on the top of the building, three hearty cheers were given on covering the first apartment. The steward then served out a dram to each, when the whole retired to their barrack much fatigued, but with the anticipation of the most perfect repose even in the "hurricane-house," amidst the dashing seas on the Bell Rock. While the workmen were at breakfast and dinner it was the writer's usual practice to spend his time on the walls of the building, which, notwithstanding the narrowness of the track, nevertheless formed his principal walk when the rock was under water. But this afternoon he had his writing-desk set upon the storeroom floor, when he wrote to Mrs. Stevenson--certainly the first letter dated from the Bell Rock _Lighthouse_--giving a detail of the fortunate progress of the work, with an assurance that the lighthouse would soon be completed at the rate at which it now proceeded; and, the _Patriot_ having sailed for Arbroath in the evening, he felt no small degree of pleasure in despatching this communication to his family. The weather still continuing favourable for the operations at the rock, the work proceeded with much energy, through the exertions both of the seamen and artificers. For the more speedy and effectual working of the several tackles in raising the materials as the building advanced in height, and there being a great extent of railway to attend to, which required constant repairs, two additional millwrights were added to the complement on the rock, which, including the writer, now counted thirty-one in all. So crowded was the men's barrack that the beds were ranged five tier in height, allowing only about one foot eight inches for each bed. The artificers commenced this morning at five o'clock, and, in the course of the day, they laid the forty-eighth and forty-ninth courses, consisting each of sixteen blocks. From the favourable state of the weather, and the regular manner in which the work now proceeded, the artificers had generally from four to seven extra hours' work, which, including their stated wages of 3s. 4d., yielded them from 5s. 4d. to about 6s. 10d. per day besides their board; even the postage of their letters was paid while they were at the Bell Rock. In these advantages the foremen also shared, having about double the pay and amount of premiums of the artificers. The seamen being less out of their element in the Bell Rock operations than the landsmen, their premiums consisted in a slump sum payable at the end of the season, which extended from three to ten guineas. As the laying of the floors was somewhat tedious, the landing-master and his crew had got considerably beforehand with the building artificers in bringing materials faster to the rock than they could be built. The seamen having, therefore, some spare time, were occasionally employed during fine weather in dredging or grappling for the several mushroom anchors and mooring-chains which had been lost in the vicinity of the Bell Rock during the progress of the work by the breaking loose and drifting of the floating buoys. To encourage their exertions in this search, five guineas were offered as a premium for each set they should find; and, after much patient application, they succeeded to-day in hooking one of these lost anchors with its chain. It was a general remark at the Bell Rock, as before noticed, that fish were never plenty in its neighbourhood excepting in good weather. Indeed, the seamen used to speculate about the state of the weather from their success in fishing. When the fish disappeared at the rock, it was considered a sure indication that a gale was not far off, as the fish seemed to seek shelter in deeper water from the roughness of the sea during these changes in the weather. At this time the rock, at high-water, was completely covered with podlies, or the fry of the coal-fish, about six or eight inches in length. The artificers sometimes occupied half an hour after breakfast and dinner in catching these little fishes, but were more frequently supplied from the boats of the tender. Saturday, 16th June. The landing-master having this day discharged the _Smeaton_ and loaded the _Hedderwick_ and _Dickie_ praam-boats with nineteen stones, they were towed to their respective moorings, when Captain Wilson, in consequence of the heavy swell of sea, came in his boat to the beacon-house to consult with the writer as to the propriety of venturing the loaded praam-boats with their cargoes to the rock while so much sea was running. After some dubiety expressed on the subject, in which the ardent mind of the landing-master suggested many arguments in favour of his being able to convey the praams in perfect safety, it was acceded to. In bad weather, and especially on occasions of difficulty like the present, Mr. Wilson, who was an extremely active seaman, measuring about five feet three inches in height, of a robust habit, generally dressed himself in what he called a _monkey jacket_, made of thick duffle cloth, with a pair of Dutchman's petticoat trousers, reaching only to his knees, where they were met with a pair of long water-tight boots; with this dress, his glazed hat, and his small brass speaking-trumpet in his hand, he bade defiance to the weather. When he made his appearance in this most suitable attire for the service, his crew seemed to possess additional life, never failing to use their utmost exertions when the captain put on his _storm rigging._ They had this morning commenced loading the praam-boats at four o'clock, and proceeded to tow them into the eastern landing-place, which was accomplished with much dexterity, though not without the risk of being thrown, by the force of the sea, on certain projecting ledges of the rock. In such a case the loss even of a single stone would have greatly retarded the work. For the greater safety in entering the creek it was necessary to put out several warps and guy-ropes to guide the boats into its narrow and intricate entrance; and it frequently happened that the sea made a clean breach over the praams, which not only washed their decks, but completely drenched the crew in water. Sunday, 17th June. It was fortunate, in the present state of the weather, that the fiftieth course was in a sheltered spot, within the reach of the tackle of the winch-machine upon the bridge; a few stones were stowed upon the bridge itself, and the remainder upon the building, which kept the artificers at work. The stowing of the materials upon the rock was the department of Alexander Brebner, mason, who spared no pains in attending to the safety of the stones, and who, in the present state of the work, when the stones were landed faster than could be built, generally worked till the water rose to his middle. At one o'clock to-day the bell rung for prayers, and all hands were collected into the upper barrack-room of the beacon-house, when the usual service was performed. The wind blew very hard in the course of last night from N.E., and to-day the sea ran so high that no boat could approach the rock. During the dinner-hour, when the writer was going to the top of the building as usual, but just as he had entered the door and was about to ascend the ladder, a great noise was heard overhead, and in an instant he was soused in water from a sea which had most unexpectedly come over the walls, though now about fifty-eight feet in height. On making his retreat he found himself completely whitened by the lime, which had mixed with the water while dashing down through the different floors; and, as nearly as he could guess, a quantity equal to about a hogshead had come over the walls, and now streamed out at the door. After having shifted himself, he again sat down in his cabin, the sea continuing to run so high that the builders did not resume their operations on the walls this afternoon. The incident just noticed did not create more surprise in the mind of the writer than the sublime appearance of the waves as they rolled majestically over the rock. This scene he greatly enjoyed while sitting at his cabin window; each wave approached the beacon like a vast scroll unfolding; and in passing discharged a quantity of air, which he not only distinctly felt, but was even sufficient to lift the leaves of a book which lay before him. These waves might be ten or twelve feet in height, and about 250 feet in length, their smaller end being towards the north, where the water was deep, and they were opened or cut through by the interposition of the building and beacon. The gradual manner in which the sea, upon these occasions, is observed to become calm or to subside, is a very remarkable feature of this phenomenon. For example, when a gale is succeeded by a calm, every third or fourth wave forms one of these great seas, which occur in spaces of from three to five minutes, as noted by the writer's watch; but in the course of the next tide they become less frequent, and take off so as to occur only in ten or fifteen minutes; and, singular enough, at the third tide after such gales, the writer has remarked that only one or two of these great waves appear in the course of the whole tide. Tuesday, 19th June. The 19th was a very unpleasant and disagreeable day, both for the seamen and artificers, as it rained throughout with little intermission from four a.m. till eleven p.m., accompanied with thunder and lightning, during which period the work nevertheless continued unremittingly and the builders laid the fifty-first and fifty-second courses. This state of weather was no less severe upon the mortar-makers, who required to temper or prepare the mortar of a thicker or thinner consistency, in some measure, according to the state of the weather. From the elevated position of the building, the mortar gallery on the beacon was now much lower, and the lime-buckets were made to traverse upon a rope distended between it and the building. On occasions like the present, however, there was often a difference of opinion between the builders and the mortar-makers. John Watt, who had the principal charge of the mortar, was a most active worker, but, being somewhat of an irascible temper, the builders occasionally amused themselves at his expense: for while he was eagerly at work with his large iron-shod pestle in the mortar-tub, they often sent down contradictory orders, some crying, "Make it a little stiffer, or thicker, John," while others called out to make it "thinner," to which he generally returned very speedy and sharp replies, so that these conversations at times were rather amusing. During wet weather the situation of the artificers on the top of the building was extremely disagreeable; for although their work did not require great exertion, yet, as each man had his particular part to perform, either in working the crane or in laying the stones, it required the closest application and attention, not only on the part of Mr. Peter Logan, the foreman, who was constantly on the walls, but also of the chief workmen. Robert Selkirk, the principal builder, for example, had every stone to lay in its place. David Cumming, a mason, had the charge of working the tackle of the balance-weight, and James Scott, also a mason, took charge of the purchase with which the stones were laid; while the pointing the joints of the walls with cement was intrusted to William Reid and William Kennedy, who stood upon a scaffold suspended over the walls in rather a frightful manner. The least act of carelessness or inattention on the part of any of these men might have been fatal, not only to themselves, but also to the surrounding workmen, especially if any accident had happened to the crane itself, while the material damage or loss of a single stone would have put an entire stop to the operations until another could have been brought from Arbroath. The artificers, having wrought seven and a half hours of extra time to-day, had 3s. 9d. of extra pay, while the foremen had 7s. 6d. over and above their stated pay and board. Although, therefore, the work was both hazardous and fatiguing, yet, the encouragement being considerable, they were always very cheerful, and perfectly reconciled to the confinement and other disadvantages of the place. During fine weather, and while the nights were short, the duty on board of the floating light was literally nothing but a waiting on, and therefore one of her boats, with a crew of five men, daily attended the rock, but always returned to the vessel at night. The carpenter, however, was one of those who was left on board of the ship, as he also acted in the capacity of assistant lightkeeper, being, besides, a person who was apt to feel discontent and to be averse to changing his quarters, especially to work with the millwrights and joiners at the rock, who often, for hours together, wrought knee-deep, and not unfrequently up to the middle, in water. Mr. Watt having about this time made a requisition for another hand, the carpenter was ordered to attend the rock in the floating light's boat. This he did with great reluctance, and found so much fault that he soon got into discredit with his messmates. On this occasion he left the Lighthouse service, and went as a sailor in a vessel bound for America--a step which, it is believed, he soon regretted, as, in the course of things, he would, in all probability, have accompanied Mr John Reid, the principal lightkeeper of the floating light, to the Bell Rock Lighthouse as his principal assistant. The writer had a wish to be of service to this man, as he was one of those who came off to the floating light in the month of September 1807, while she was riding at single anchor after the severe gale of the 7th, at a time when it was hardly possible to make up this vessel's crew; but the crossness of his manner prevented his reaping the benefit of such intentions. Friday, 22nd June. The building operations had for some time proceeded more slowly, from the higher parts of the lighthouse requiring much longer time than an equal tonnage of the lower courses. The duty of the landing-master's crew had, upon the whole, been easy of late; for though the work was occasionally irregular, yet the stones being lighter, they were more speedily lifted from the hold of the stone vessel to the deck of the praam-boat, and again to the waggons on the railway, after which they came properly under the charge of the foreman builder. It is, however, a strange, though not an uncommon, feature in the human character, that, when people have least to complain of they are most apt to become dissatisfied, as was now the case with the seamen employed in the Bell Rock service about their rations of beer. Indeed, ever since the carpenter of the floating light, formerly noticed, had been brought to the rock, expressions of discontent had been manifested upon various occasions. This being represented to the writer, he sent for Captain Wilson, the landing-master, and Mr. Taylor, commander of the tender, with whom he talked over the subject. They stated that they considered the daily allowance of the seamen in every respect ample, and that, the work being now much lighter than formerly, they had no just ground for complaint; Mr. Taylor adding that, if those who now complained "were even to be fed upon soft bread and turkeys, they would not think themselves right." At twelve noon the work of the landing-master's crew was completed for the day; but at four o'clock, while the rock was under water, those on the beacon were surprised by the arrival of a boat from the tender without any signal having been made from the beacon. It brought the following note to the writer from the landing-master's crew:-- _Sir Joseph Banks Tender_ "SIR,--We are informed by our masters that our allowance is to be as before, and it is not sufficient to serve us, for we have been at work since four o'clock this morning, and we have come on board to dinner, and there is no beer for us before to-morrow morning, to which a sufficient answer is required before we go from the beacon; and we are, Sir, your most obedient servants." On reading this, the writer returned a verbal message, intimating that an answer would be sent on board of the tender, at the same time ordering the boat instantly to quit the beacon. He then addressed the following note to the landing-master:-- "_Beacon-house, 22nd June 1810, Five o'clock p.m._ "SIR,--I have just now received a letter purporting to be from the landing-master's crew and seamen on board of the _Sir Joseph Banks_, though without either date or signature; in answer to which I enclose a statement of the daily allowance of provisions for the seamen in this service, which you will post up in the ship's galley, and at seven o'clock this evening I will come on board to inquire into this unexpected and most unnecessary demand for an additional allowance of beer. In the enclosed you will not find any alteration from the original statement, fixed in the galley at the beginning of the season. I have, however, judged this mode of giving your people an answer preferable to that of conversing with them on the beacon.--I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, "ROBERT STEVENSON. "To CAPTAIN WILSON." "_Beacon House_, 22_nd June_ 1810.--Schedule of the daily allowance of provisions to be served out on board of the _Sir Joseph Banks_ tender: '1-1/2 lb. beef; 1 lb. bread; 8 oz. oatmeal; 2 oz. barley; 2 oz. butter; 3 quarts beer; vegetables and salt no stated allowance. When the seamen are employed in unloading the _Smeaton_ and _Patriot_, a draught of beer is, as formerly, to be allowed from the stock of these vessels. Further, in wet and stormy weather, or when the work commences very early in the morning, or continues till a late hour at night, a glass of spirits will also be served out to the crew as heretofore, on the requisition of the landing-master.' "ROBERT STEVENSON." On writing this letter and schedule, a signal was made on the beacon for the landing-master's boat, which immediately came to the rock, and the schedule was afterwards stuck up in the tender's galley. When sufficient time had been allowed to the crew to consider of their conduct, a second signal was made for a boat, and at seven o'clock the writer left the Bell Rock, after a residence of four successive weeks in the beacon-house. The first thing which occupied his attention on board of the tender was to look round upon the lighthouse, which he saw, with some degree of emotion and surprise, now vying in height with the beacon-house; for although he had often viewed it from the extremity of the western railway on the rock, yet the scene, upon the whole, seemed far more interesting from the tender's moorings at the distance of about half a mile. The _Smeaton_ having just arrived at her moorings with a cargo, a signal was made for Captain Pool to come on board of the tender, that he might be at hand to remove from the service any of those who might persist in their discontented conduct. One of the two principal leaders in this affair, the master of one of the praam-boats, who had also steered the boat which brought the letter to the beacon, was first called upon deck, and asked if he had read the statement fixed up in the galley this afternoon, and whether he was satisfied with it. He replied that he had read the paper, but was not satisfied, as it held out no alteration on the allowance, on which he was immediately ordered into the _Smeaton's_ boat. The next man called had but lately entered the service, and, being also interrogated as to his resolution, he declared himself to be of the same mind with the praam-master, and was also forthwith ordered into the boat. The writer, without calling any more of the seamen, went forward to the gangway, where they were collected and listening to what was passing upon deck. He addressed them at the hatchway, and stated that two of their companions had just been dismissed the service and sent on board of the _Smeaton_ to be conveyed to Arbroath. He therefore wished each man to consider for himself how far it would be proper, by any unreasonableness of conduct, to place themselves in a similar situation, especially as they were aware that it was optional in him either to dismiss them or send them on board a man-of-war. It might appear that much inconveniency would be felt at the rock by a change of hands at this critical period, by checking for a time the progress of a building so intimately connected with the best interests of navigation; yet this would be but of a temporary nature, while the injury to themselves might be irreparable. It was now, therefore, required of any man who, in this disgraceful manner, chose to leave the service, that he should instantly make his appearance on deck while the _Smeaton's_ boat was alongside. But those below having expressed themselves satisfied with their situation--viz., William Brown, George Gibb, Alexander Scott, John Dick, Robert Couper, Alexander Shephard, James Grieve, David Carey, William Pearson, Stuart Eaton, Alexander Lawrence, and John Spink--were accordingly considered as having returned to their duty. This disposition to mutiny, which had so strongly manifested itself, being now happily suppressed, Captain Pool got orders to proceed for Arbroath Bay, and land the two men he had on board, and to deliver the following letter at the office of the workyard:-- "_On board of the Tender off the Bell Rock_, 22_nd June_ 1810, _eight o'clock p.m._ "DEAR SIR,--A discontented and mutinous spirit having manifested itself of late among the landing-master's crew, they struck work to-day and demanded an additional allowance of beer, and I have found it necessary to dismiss D----d and M----e, who are now sent on shore with the _Smeaton_. You will therefore be so good as to pay them their wages, including this day only. Nothing can be more unreasonable than the conduct of the seamen on this occasion, as the landing-master's crew not only had their allowance on board of the tender, but, in the course of this day, they had drawn no fewer than twenty-four quart pots of beer from the stock of the _Patriot_ while unloading her.--I remain, yours truly, "ROBERT STEVENSON. "To Mr. LACHLAN KENNEDY, Bell Rock Office, Arbroath." On despatching this letter to Mr. Kennedy, the writer returned to the beacon about nine o'clock, where this afternoon's business had produced many conjectures, especially when the _Smeaton_ got under weigh, instead of proceeding to land her cargo. The bell on the beacon being rung, the artificers were assembled on the bridge, when the affair was explained to them. He, at the same time, congratulated them upon the first appearance of mutiny being happily set at rest by the dismissal of its two principal abettors. Sunday, 24th June. At the rock, the landing of the materials and the building operations of the light-room store went on successfully, and in a way similar to those of the provision store. To-day it blew fresh breezes; but the seamen nevertheless landed twenty-eight stones, and the artificers built the fifty-eighth and fifty-ninth courses. The works were visited by Mr. Murdoch, junior, from Messrs. Boulton and Watt's works of Soho. He landed just as the bell rung for prayers, after which the writer enjoyed much pleasure from his very intelligent conversation; and, having been almost the only stranger he had seen for some weeks, he parted with him, after a short interview, with much regret. Thursday, 28th June. Last night the wind had shifted to north-east, and, blowing fresh, was accompanied with a heavy surf upon the rock. Towards high-water it had a very grand and wonderful appearance. Waves of considerable magnitude rose as high as the solid or level of the entrance-door, which, being open to the south-west, was fortunately to the leeward; but on the windward side the sprays flew like lightning up the sloping sides of the building; and although the walls were now elevated sixty-four feet above the rock, and about fifty-two feet from high-water mark, yet the artificers were nevertheless wetted, and occasionally interrupted, in their operations on the top of the walls. These appearances were, in a great measure, new at the Bell Rock, there having till of late been no building to conduct the seas, or object to compare with them. Although, from the description of the Eddystone Lighthouse, the mind was prepared for such effects, yet they were not expected to the present extent in the summer season; the sea being most awful to-day, whether observed from the beacon or the building. To windward, the sprays fell from the height above noticed in the most wonderful cascades, and streamed down the walls of the building in froth as white as snow. To leeward of the lighthouse the collision or meeting of the waves produced a pure white kind of _drift_: it rose about thirty feet in height, like a fine downy mist, which, in its fall, fell upon the face and hands more like a dry powder than a liquid substance. The effect of these seas, as they raged among the beams and dashed upon the higher parts of the beacon, produced a temporary tremulous motion throughout the whole fabric, which to a stranger must have been frightful. Sunday, 1st July. The writer had now been at the Bell Rock since the latter end of May, or about six weeks, during four of which he had been a constant inhabitant of the beacon without having been once off the rock. After witnessing the laying of the sixty-seventh or second course of the bedroom apartment, he left the rock with the tender and went ashore, as some arrangements were to be made for the future conduct of the works at Arbroath, which were soon to be brought to a close; the landing-master's crew having, in the meantime, shifted on board of the _Patriot_. In leaving the rock, the writer kept his eyes fixed upon the lighthouse, which had recently got into the form of a house, having several tiers or stories of windows. Nor was he unmindful of his habitation in the beacon--now far overtopped by the masonry,--where he had spent several weeks in a kind of active retirement, making practical experiment of the fewness of the positive wants of man. His cabin measured not more than four feet three inches in breadth on the floor; and though, from the oblique direction of the beams of the beacon, it widened towards the top, yet it did not admit of the full extension of his arms when he stood on the floor; while its length was little more than sufficient for suspending a cot-bed during the night, calculated for being triced up to the roof through the day, which left free room for the admission of occasional visitants. His folding table was attached with hinges, immediately under the small window of the apartment, and his books, barometer, thermometer, portmanteau, and two or three camp-stools, formed the bulk of his movables. His diet being plain, the paraphernalia of the table were proportionally simple; though everything had the appearance of comfort, and even of neatness, the walls being covered with green cloth formed into panels with red tape, and his bed festooned with curtains of yellow cotton-stuff. If, in speculating upon the abstract wants of man in such a state of exclusion, one were reduced to a single book, the Sacred Volume--whether considered for the striking diversity of its story, the morality of its doctrine, or the important truths of its gospel--would have proved by far the greatest treasure. Monday, 2nd July. In walking over the workyard at Arbroath this morning, the writer found that the stones of the course immediately under the cornice were all in hand, and that a week's work would now finish the whole, while the intermediate courses lay ready numbered and marked for shipping to the rock. Among other subjects which had occupied his attention to-day was a visit from some of the relations of George Dall, a young man who had been impressed near Dundee in the month of February last; a dispute had arisen between the magistrates of that burgh and the Regulating Officer as to his right of impressing Dall, who was _bonâ fide_ one of the protected seamen in the Bell Rock service. In the meantime, the poor lad was detained, and ultimately committed to the prison of Dundee, to remain until the question should be tried before the Court of Session. His friends were naturally very desirous to have him relieved upon bail. But, as this was only to be done by the judgment of the Court, all that could be said was that his pay and allowances should be continued in the same manner as if he had been upon the sick-list. The circumstances of Dall's case were briefly these:--He had gone to see some of his friends in the neighbourhood of Dundee, in winter, while the works were suspended, having got leave of absence from Mr. Taylor, who commanded the Bell Rock tender, and had in his possession one of the Protection Medals. Unfortunately, however, for Dall, the Regulating Officer thought proper to disregard these documents, as, according to the strict and literal interpretation of the Admiralty regulations, a seaman does not stand protected unless he is actually on board of his ship, or in a boat belonging to her, or has the Admiralty protection in his possession. This order of the Board, however, cannot be rigidly followed in practice; and therefore, when the matter is satisfactorily stated to the Regulating Officer, the impressed man is generally liberated. But in Dall's case this was peremptorily refused, and he was retained at the instance of the magistrates. The writer having brought the matter under the consideration of the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, they authorised it to be tried on the part of the Lighthouse Board, as one of extreme hardship. The Court, upon the first hearing, ordered Dall to be liberated from prison; and the proceedings never went further. Wednesday, 4th July. Being now within twelve courses of being ready for building the cornice, measures were taken for getting the stones of it and the parapet-wall of the light-room brought from Edinburgh, where, as before noticed, they had been prepared and were in readiness for shipping. The honour of conveying the upper part of the lighthouse, and of landing the last stone of the building on the rock, was considered to belong to Captain Pool of the _Smeaton_, who had been longer in the service than the master of the _Patriot_. The _Smeaton_ was, therefore, now partly loaded with old iron, consisting of broken railways and other lumber which had been lying about the rock. After landing these at Arbroath, she took on board James Craw, with his horse and cart, which could now be spared at the workyard, to be employed in carting the stones from Edinburgh to Leith. Alexander Davidson and William Kennedy, two careful masons, were also sent to take charge of the loading of the stones at Greenside, and stowing them on board of the vessel at Leith. The writer also went on board, with a view to call at the Bell Rock and to take his passage up the Firth of Forth. The wind, however, coming to blow very fresh from the eastward, with thick and foggy weather, it became necessary to reef the mainsail and set the second jib. When in the act of making a tack towards the tender, the sailors who worked the head-sheets were, all of a sudden, alarmed with the sound of the smith's hammer and anvil on the beacon, and had just time to put the ship about to save her from running ashore on the north-western point of the rock, marked "James Craw's Horse." On looking towards the direction from whence the sound came, the building and beacon-house were seen, with consternation, while the ship was hailed by those on the rock, who were no less confounded at seeing the near approach of the _Smeaton_; and, just as the vessel cleared the danger, the smith and those in the mortar gallery made signs in token of their happiness at our fortunate escape. From this occurrence the writer had an experimental proof of the utility of the large bells which were in preparation to be rung by the machinery of the revolving light; for, had it not been for the sound of the smith's anvil, the _Smeaton_, in all probability, would have been wrecked upon the rock. In case the vessel had struck, those on board might have been safe, having now the beacon-house as a place of refuge; but the vessel, which was going at a great velocity, must have suffered severely, and it was more than probable that the horse would have been drowned, there being no means of getting him out of the vessel. Of this valuable animal and his master we shall take an opportunity of saying more in another place. Thursday, 5th July. The weather cleared up in the course of the night, but the wind shifted to the N.E. and blew very fresh. From the force of the wind, being now the period of spring-tides, a very heavy swell was experienced at the rock. At two o'clock on the following morning the people on the beacon were in a state of great alarm about their safety, as the sea had broke up part of the floor of the mortar gallery, Which was thus cleared of the lime-casks and other buoyant articles; and, the alarm-bell being rung, all hands were called to render what assistance was in their power for the safety of themselves and the materials. At this time some would willingly have left the beacon and gone into the building; the sea, however, ran so high that there was no passage along the bridge of communication, and, when the interior of the lighthouse came to be examined in the morning, it appeared that great quantities of water had come over the walls--now eighty feet in height--and had run down through the several apartments and out at the entrance door. The upper course of the lighthouse at the workyard of Arbroath was completed on the 6th, and the whole of the stones were, therefore, now ready for being shipped to the rock. From the present state of the works it was impossible that the two squads of artificers at Arbroath and the Bell Rock could meet together at this period; and as in public works of this kind, which had continued for a series of years, it is not customary to allow the men to separate without what is termed a "finishing-pint," five guineas were for this purpose placed at the disposal of Mr. David Logan, clerk of works. With this sum the stone-cutters at Arbroath had a merry meeting in their barrack, collected their sweethearts and friends, and concluded their labours with a dance. It was remarked, however, that their happiness on this occasion was not without alloy. The consideration of parting and leaving a steady and regular employment, to go in quest of work and mix with other society, after having been harmoniously lodged for years together in one large "guildhall or barrack," was rather painful. Friday, 6th July. While the writer was at Edinburgh he was fortunate enough to meet with Mrs. Dickson, only daughter of the late celebrated Mr. Smeaton, whose works at the Eddystone Lighthouse had been of such essential consequence to the operations at the Bell Rock. Even her own elegant accomplishments are identified with her father's work, she having herself made the drawing of the vignette on the title-page of the "Narrative of the Eddystone Lighthouse." Every admirer of the works of that singularly eminent man must also feel an obligation to her for the very comprehensive and distinct account given of his life, which is attached to his reports, published, in three volumes quarto, by the Society of Civil Engineers. Mrs. Dickson, being at this time returning from a tour to the Hebrides and Western Highlands of Scotland, had heard of the Bell Rock works, and from their similarity to those of the Eddystone, was strongly impressed with a desire of visiting the spot. But on inquiring for the writer at Edinburgh, and finding from him that the upper part of the lighthouse, consisting of nine courses, might be seen in the immediate vicinity, and also that one of the vessels, which, in compliment to her father's memory, had been named the _Smeaton_, might also now be seen in Leith, she considered herself extremely fortunate; and having first visited the works at Greenside, she afterwards went to Leith to see the _Smeaton_, then loading for the Bell Rock. On stepping on board, Mrs. Dickson seemed to be quite overcome with so many concurrent circumstances, tending in a peculiar manner to revive and enliven the memory of her departed father, and, on leaving the vessel, she would not be restrained from presenting the crew with a piece of money. The _Smeaton_ had been named spontaneously, from a sense of the obligation which a public work of the description of the Bell Rock owed to the labours and abilities of Mr. Smeaton. The writer certainly never could have anticipated the satisfaction which he this day felt in witnessing the pleasure it afforded to the only representative of this great man's family. Friday, 20th July. The gale from the N.E. still continued so strong, accompanied with a heavy sea, that the _Patriot_ could not approach her moorings; although the tender still kept her station, no landing was made to-day at the rock. At high-water it was remarked that the spray rose to the height of about sixty feet upon the building. The _Smeaton_ now lay in Leith loaded, but, the wind and weather being so unfavourable for her getting down the Firth, she did not sail till this afternoon. It may be here proper to notice that the loading of the centre of the light-room floor, or last principal stone of the building, did not fail, when put on board, to excite an interest among those connected with the work. When the stone was laid upon the cart to be conveyed to Leith, the seamen fixed an ensign-staff and flag into the circular hole in the centre of the stone, and decorated their own hats, and that of James Craw, the Bell Rock carter, with ribbons; even his faithful and trusty horse Brassey was ornamented with bows and streamers of various colours. The masons also provided themselves with new aprons, and in this manner the cart was attended in its progress to the ship. When the cart came opposite the Trinity House of Leith, the officer of that corporation made his appearance dressed in his uniform, with his staff of office; and when it reached the harbour, the shipping in the different tiers where the _Smeaton_ lay hoisted their colours, manifesting by these trifling ceremonies the interest with which the progress of this work was regarded by the public, as ultimately tending to afford safety and protection to the mariner. The wind had fortunately shifted to the S.W., and about five o'clock this afternoon the Smeaton reached the Bell Rock. Friday, 27th July. The artificers had finished the laying of the balcony course, excepting the centre-stone of the light-room floor, which, like the centres of the other floors, could not be laid in its place till after the removal of the foot and shaft of the balance-crane. During the dinner-hour, when the men were off work, the writer generally took some exercise by walking round the walls when the rock was under water; but to-day his boundary was greatly enlarged, for, instead of the narrow wall as a path, he felt no small degree of pleasure in walking round the balcony and passing out and in at the space allotted for the light-room door. In the labours of this day both the artificers and seamen felt their work to be extremely easy compared with what it had been for some days past. Sunday, 29th July. Captain Wilson and his crew had made preparations for landing the last stone, and, as may well be supposed, this was a day of great interest at the Bell Rock. "That it might lose none of its honours," as he expressed himself, the _Hedderwick_ praam-boat, with which the first stone of the building had been landed, was appointed also to carry the last. At seven o'clock this evening the seamen hoisted three flags upon the _Hedderwick_, when the colours of the _Dickie_ praam-boat, tender, _Smeaton_, floating light, beacon-house, and lighthouse were also displayed; and, the weather being remarkably fine, the whole presented a very gay appearance, and, in connection with the associations excited, the effect was very pleasing. The praam which carried the stone was towed by the seamen in gallant style to the rock, and, on its arrival, cheers were given as a finale to the landing department. Monday, 30th July. The ninetieth or last course of the building having been laid to-day, which brought the masonry to the height of one hundred and two feet six inches, the lintel of the light-room door, being the finishing-stone of the exterior walls, was laid with due formality by the writer, who, at the same time, pronounced the following benediction: "May the Great Architect of the Universe, under whose blessing this perilous work has prospered, preserve it as a guide to the mariner." Friday, 3rd Aug. At three p.m., the necessary preparations having been made, the artificers commenced the completing of the floors of the several apartments, and at seven o'clock the centre-stone of the light-room floor was laid, which may be held as finishing the masonry of this important national edifice. After going through the usual ceremonies observed by the brotherhood on occasions of this kind, the writer, addressing himself to the artificers and seamen who were present, briefly alluded to the utility of the undertaking as a monument of the wealth of British commerce, erected through the spirited measures of the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses by means of the able assistance of those who now surrounded him. He then took an opportunity of stating that toward those connected with this arduous work he would ever retain the most heartfelt regard in all their interests. Saturday, 4th Aug. When the bell was rung as usual on the beacon this morning, every one seemed as if he were at a loss what to make of himself. At this period the artificers at the rock consisted of eighteen masons, two joiners, one millwright, one smith, and one mortar-maker, besides Messrs. Peter Logan and Francis Watt, foremen, counting in all twenty-five; and matters were arranged for proceeding to Arbroath this afternoon with all hands. The _Sir Joseph Banks_ tender had by this time been afloat, with little intermission, for six months, during greater part of which the artificers had been almost constantly off at the rock, and were now much in want of necessaries of almost every description. Not a few had lost different articles of clothing, which had dropped into the sea from the beacon and building. Some wanted jackets; others, from want of hats, wore nightcaps; each was, in fact, more or less curtailed in his wardrobe, and it must be confessed that at best the party were but in a very tattered condition. This morning was occupied in removing the artificers and their bedding on board of the tender; and, although their personal luggage was easily shifted, the boats had, nevertheless, many articles to remove from the beacon-house, and were consequently employed in this service till eleven a.m. All hands being collected, and just ready to embark, as the water had nearly overflowed the rock, the writer, in taking leave, after alluding to the harmony which had ever marked the conduct of those employed on the Bell Rock, took occasion to compliment the great zeal, attention, and abilities of Mr. Peter Logan and Mr. Francis Watt, foremen; Captain James Wilson, landing-master; and Captain David Taylor, commander of the tender, who, in their several departments, had so faithfully discharged the duties assigned to them, often under circumstances the most difficult and trying. The health of these gentlemen was drunk with much warmth of feeling by the artificers and seamen, who severally expressed the satisfaction they had experienced in acting under them; after which the whole party left the rock. In sailing past the floating light, mutual compliments were made by a display of flags between that vessel and the tender; and at five p.m. the latter vessel entered the harbour of Arbroath, where the party were heartily welcomed by a numerous company of spectators, who had collected to see the artificers arrive after so long an absence from the port. In the evening the writer invited the foremen and captains of the service, together with Mr. David Logan, clerk of works at Arbroath, and Mr. Lachlan Kennedy, engineer's clerk and bookkeeper, and some of their friends, to the principal inn, where the evening was spent very happily; and after "His Majesty's Health" and "The Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses" had been given, "Stability to the Bell Rock Lighthouse" was hailed as a standing toast in the Lighthouse service. Sunday, 5th Aug. The author has formerly noticed the uniformly decent and orderly deportment of the artificers who were employed at the Bell Rock Lighthouse, and to-day, it is believed, they very generally attended church, no doubt with grateful hearts for the narrow escapes from personal danger which all of them had more or less experienced during their residence at the rock. Tuesday, 14th Aug. The _Smeaton_ sailed to-day at one p.m., having on board sixteen artificers, with Mr. Peter Logan, together with a supply of provisions and necessaries, who left the harbour pleased and happy to find themselves once more afloat in the Bell Rock service. At seven o'clock the tender was made fast to her moorings, when the artificers landed on the rock and took possession of their old quarters in the beacon-house, with feelings very different from those of 1807, when the works commenced. The barometer for some days past had been falling from 29.90, and to-day it was 29.50, with the wind at N.E., which, in the course of this day, increased to a strong gale accompanied with a sea which broke with great violence upon the rock. At twelve noon the tender rode very heavily at her moorings, when her chain broke at about ten fathoms from the ship's bows. The kedge-anchor was immediately let go, to hold her till the floating buoy and broken chain should be got on board. But while this was in operation the hawser of the kedge was chafed through on the rocky bottom and parted, when the vessel was again adrift. Most fortunately, however, she cast off with her head from the rock, and narrowly cleared it, when she sailed up the Firth of Forth to wait the return of better weather. The artificers were thus left upon the rock with so heavy a sea running that it was ascertained to have risen to the height of eighty feet on the building. Under such perilous circumstances it would be difficult to describe the feelings of those who, at this time, were cooped up in the beacon in so forlorn a situation, with the sea not only raging under them, but occasionally falling from a great height upon the roof of their temporary lodging, without even the attending vessel in view to afford the least gleam of hope in the event of any accident. It is true that they had now the masonry of the lighthouse to resort to, which, no doubt, lessened the actual danger of their situation; but the building was still without a roof, and the deadlights, or storm-shutters, not being yet fitted, the windows of the lower story were stove in and broken, and at high-water the sea ran in considerable quantities out at the entrance door. Thursday, 16th Aug. The gale continues with unabated violence to-day, and the sprays rise to a still greater height, having been carried over the masonry the building, or about ninety feet above the level of the sea. At four o'clock this morning it was breaking into the cook's berth, when he rang the alarm-bell, and all hands turned out to attend to their personal safety. The floor of the smith's, or mortar gallery, was now completely burst up by the force of the sea, when the whole of the deals and the remaining articles upon the floor were swept away, such as the cast-iron mortar-tubs, the iron hearth of the forge, the smith's bellows, and even his anvil were thrown down upon the rock. Before the tide rose to its full height to-day some of the artificers passed along the bridge into the lighthouse, to observe the effects of the sea upon it, and they reported that they had felt a slight tremulous motion in the building when great seas struck it in a certain direction, about high-water mark. On this occasion the sprays were again observed to wet the balcony, and even to come over the parapet wall into the interior of the light-room. Thursday, 23rd Aug. The wind being at W.S.W., and the weather more moderate, both the tender and the _Smeaton_ got to their moorings on the 23rd, when hands were employed in transporting the sash-frames from on board of the _Smeaton_ to the rock. In the act of setting up one of these frames upon the bridge, it was unguardedly suffered to lose its balance, and in saving it from damage, Captain Wilson met with a severe bruise in the groin, on the seat of a gun-shot wound received in the early part of his life. This accident laid him aside for several days. Monday, 27th Aug. The sash-frames of the light-room, eight in number, and weighing each 254 pounds, having been got safely up to the top of the building were ranged on the balcony in the order in which they were numbered for their places on the top of the parapet-wall; and the balance-crane, that useful machine having now lifted all the heavier articles, was unscrewed and lowered, to use the landing-master's phrase, "in mournful silence." Sunday, 2nd Sept. The steps of the stair being landed, and all the weightier articles of the light-room got up to the balcony, the wooden bridge was now to be removed, as it had a very powerful effect upon the beacon when a heavy sea struck it, and could not possibly have withstood the storms of a winter. Everything having been cleared from the bridge, and nothing left but the two principal beams with their horizontal braces, James Glen, at high-water, proceeded with a saw to cut through the beams at the end next the beacon, which likewise disengaged their opposite extremity, inserted a few inches into the building. The frame was then gently lowered into the water, and floated off to the _Smeaton_ to be towed to Arbroath, to be applied as part of the materials in the erection of the lightkeepers' houses. After the removal of the bridge, the aspect of things at the rock was much altered. The beacon-house and building had both a naked look to those accustomed to their former appearance; a curious optical deception was also remarked, by which the lighthouse seemed to incline from the perpendicular towards the beacon. The horizontal rope-ladder before noticed was again stretched to preserve the communication, and the artificers were once more obliged to practise the awkward and straddling manner of their passage between them during 1809. At twelve noon the bell rung for prayers, after which the artificers went to dinner, when the writer passed along the rope-ladder to the lighthouse, and went through the several apartments, which were now cleared of lumber. In the afternoon all hands were summoned to the interior of the house, when he had the satisfaction of laying the upper step of the stair, or last stone of the building. This ceremony concluded with three cheers, the sound of which had a very loud and strange effect within the walls of the lighthouse. At six o'clock Mr. Peter Logan and eleven of the artificers embarked with the writer for Arbroath, leaving Mr. James Glen with the special charge of the beacon and railways, Mr. Robert Selkirk with the building, with a few artificers to fit the temporary windows to render the house habitable. Sunday, 14th Oct. On returning from his voyage to the Northern Lighthouses, the writer landed at the Bell Rock on Sunday, the 14th of October, and had the pleasure to find, from the very favourable state of the weather, that the artificers had been enabled to make great progress with the fitting-up of the light-room. Friday, 19th Oct. The light-room work had proceeded, as usual, to-day under the direction of Mr. Dove, assisted in the plumber-work by Mr. John Gibson, and in the brazier-work by Mr. Joseph Fraser; while Mr. James Slight, with the joiners, were fitting up the storm-shutters of the windows. In these several departments the artificers were at work till seven o'clock p.m., and it being then dark, Mr. Dove gave orders to drop work in the light-room; and all hands proceeded from thence to the beacon-house, when Charles Henderson, smith, and Henry Dickson, brazier, left the work together. Being both young men, who had been for several weeks upon the rock, they had become familiar, and even playful, on the most difficult parts about the beacon and building. This evening they were trying to outrun each other in descending from the light-room, when Henderson led the way; but they were in conversation with each other till they came to the rope-ladder distended between the entrance-door of the lighthouse and the beacon. Dickson, on reaching the cook-room, was surprised at not seeing his companion, and inquired hastily for Henderson. Upon which the cook replied, "Was he before you upon the rope-ladder?" Dickson answered, "Yes; and I thought I heard something fall." Upon this the alarm was given, and links were immediately lighted, with which the artificers descended on the legs of the beacon, as near the surface of the water as possible, it being then about full tide, and the sea breaking to a considerable height upon the building, with the wind at S.S.E. But, after watching till low-water, and searching in every direction upon the rock, it appeared that poor Henderson must have unfortunately fallen through the rope-ladder and been washed into the deep water. The deceased had passed along this rope-ladder many hundred times, both by day and night, and the operations in which he was employed being nearly finished, he was about to leave the rock when this melancholy catastrophe took place. The unfortunate loss of Henderson cast a deep gloom upon the minds of all who were at the rock, and it required some management on the part of those who had charge to induce the people to remain patiently at their work; as the weather now became more boisterous, and the nights long, they found their habitation extremely cheerless, while the winds were howling about their ears, and the waves lashing with fury against the beams of their insulated habitation. Tuesday, 23rd Oct. The wind had shifted in the night to N.W., and blew a fresh gale, while the sea broke with violence upon the rock. It was found impossible to land, but the writer, from the boat, hailed Mr. Dove, and directed the ball to be immediately fixed. The necessary preparations were accordingly made, while the vessel made short tacks on the southern side of the rock, in comparatively smooth water. At noon Mr. Dove, assisted by Mr. James Slight, Mr. Robert Selkirk, Mr. James Glen, and Mr. John Gibson, plumber, with considerable difficulty, from the boisterous state of the weather, got the gilded ball screwed on, measuring two feet in diameter, and forming the principal ventilator at the upper extremity of the cupola of the lightroom. At Mr. Hamilton's desire, a salute of seven guns was fired on this occasion, and, all hands being called to the quarter-deck, "Stability to the Bell Rock Lighthouse" was not forgotten. Tuesday, 30th Oct. On reaching the rock it was found that a very heavy sea still ran upon it; but the writer having been disappointed on two former occasions, and, as the erection of the house might now be considered complete, there being nothing wanted externally, excepting some of the storm-shutters for the defence of the windows, he was the more anxious at this time to inspect it. Two well-manned boats were therefore ordered to be in attendance; and, after some difficulty, the wind being at N.N.E., they got safely into the western creek, though not without encountering plentiful sprays. It would have been impossible to have attempted a landing to-day, under any other circumstances than with boats perfectly adapted to the purpose, and with seamen who knew every ledge of the rock, and even the length of the sea-weeds at each particular spot, so as to dip their oars into the water accordingly, and thereby prevent them from getting entangled. But what was of no less consequence to the safety of the party, Captain Wilson, who always steered the boat, had a perfect knowledge of the set of the different waves, while the crew never shifted their eyes from observing his motions, and the strictest silence was preserved by every individual except himself. On entering the house, the writer had the pleasure to find it in a somewhat habitable condition, the lower apartments being closed in with temporary windows, and fitted with proper storm-shutters. The lowest apartment at the head of the staircase was occupied with water, fuel, and provisions, put up in a temporary way until the house could be furnished with proper utensils. The second, or light-room store, was at present much encumbered with various tools and apparatus for the use of the workmen. The kitchen immediately over this had, as yet, been supplied only with a common ship's caboose and plate-iron funnel, while the necessary cooking utensils had been taken from the beacon. The bedroom was for the present used as the joiners' workshop, and the strangers' room, immediately under the light-room, was occupied by the artificers, the beds being ranged in tiers, as was done in the barrack of the beacon. The lightroom, though unprovided with its machinery, being now covered over with the cupola, glazed and painted, had a very complete and cleanly appearance. The balcony was only as yet fitted with a temporary rail, consisting of a few iron stanchions, connected with ropes; and in this state it was necessary to leave it during the winter. Having gone over the whole of the low-water works on the rock, the beacon, and lighthouse, and being satisfied that only the most untoward accident in the landing of the machinery could prevent the exhibition of the light in the course of the winter, Mr. John Reid, formerly of the floating light, was now put in charge of the lighthouse as principal keeper; Mr. James Slight had charge of the operations of the artificers, while Mr. James Dove and the smiths, having finished the frame of the light-room, left the rock for the present. With these arrangements the writer bade adieu to the works for the season. At eleven a.m. the tide was far advanced; and there being now little or no shelter for the boats at the rock, they had to be pulled through the breach of sea, which came on board in great quantities, and it was with extreme difficulty that they could be kept in the proper direction of the landing-creek. On this occasion he may be permitted to look back with gratitude on the many escapes made in the course of this arduous undertaking, now brought so near to a successful conclusion. Monday, 5th Nov. On Monday, the 5th, the yacht again visited the rock, when Mr. Slight and the artificers returned with her to the workyard, where a number of things were still to prepare connected with the temporary fitting up of the accommodation for the lightkeepers. Mr. John Reid and Peter Fortune were now the only inmates of the house. This was the smallest number of persons hitherto left in the lighthouse. As four lightkeepers were to be the complement, it was intended that three should always be at the rock. Its present inmates, however, could hardly have been better selected for such a situation; Mr. Reid being a person possessed of the strictest notions of duty and habits of regularity from long service on board of a man-of-war, while Mr. Fortune had one of the most happy and contented dispositions imaginable. Tuesday, 13th Nov. From Saturday the 10th till Tuesday the 13th, the wind had been from N.E. blowing a heavy gale; but to-day, the weather having greatly moderated, Captain Taylor, who now commanded the _Smeaton_, sailed at two o'clock a.m. for the Bell Rock. At five the floating light was hailed and found to be all well. Being a fine moonlight morning, the seamen were changed from the one ship to the other. At eight, the _Smeaton_ being off the rock, the boats were manned, and taking a supply of water, fuel, and other necessaries, landed at the western side, when Mr. Reid and Mr. Fortune were found in good health and spirits. Mr. Reid stated that during the late gales, particularly on Friday, the 30th, the wind veering from S.E. to N.E., both he and Mr. Fortune sensibly felt the house tremble when particular seas struck, about the time of high-water; the former observing that it was a tremor of that sort which rather tended to convince him that everything about the building was sound, and reminded him of the effect produced when a good log of timber is struck sharply with a mallet; but, with every confidence in the stability of the building, he nevertheless confessed that, in so forlorn a situation, they were not insensible to those emotions which, he emphatically observed, "made a man look back upon his former life." Friday, 1st Feb. The day, long wished for, on which the mariner was to see a light exhibited on the Bell Rock at length arrived. Captain Wilson, as usual, hoisted the float's lanterns to the topmast on the evening of the 1st of February; but the moment that the light appeared on the rock, the crew, giving three cheers, lowered them, and finally extinguished the lights. FOOTNOTES: [11] This is, of course, the tradition commemorated by Southey in his ballad of "The Inchcape Bell." Whether true or not, it points to the fact that from the infancy of Scottish navigation, the seafaring mind had been fully alive to the perils of this reef. Repeated attempts had been made to mark the place with beacons, but all efforts were unavailing (one such beacon having been carried away within eight days of its erection) until Robert Stevenson conceived and carried out the idea of the stone tower. [12] The particular event which concentrated Mr. Stevenson's attention on the problem of the Bell Rock was the memorable gale of December 1799, when, among many other vessels, H.M.S. _York,_ a seventy-four-gun ship, went down with all hands on board. Shortly after this disaster Mr. Stevenson made a careful survey, and prepared his models for a stone tower, the idea of which was at first received with pretty general scepticism. Smeaton's Eddystone tower could not be cited as affording a parallel, for there the rock is not submerged even at high-water, while the problem of the Bell Rock was to build a tower of masonry on a sunken reef far distant from land, covered at every tide to a depth of twelve feet or more, and having thirty-two fathoms' depth of water within a mile of its eastern edge. [13] The grounds for the rejection of the Bill by the House of Lords in 1802-3 had been that the extent of coast over which dues were proposed to be levied would be too great. Before going to Parliament again, the Board of Northern Lights, desiring to obtain support and corroboration for Mr. Stevenson's views, consulted first Telford, who was unable to give the matter his attention, and then (on Stevenson's suggestion) Rennie, who concurred in affirming the practicability of a stone tower, and supported the Bill when it came again before Parliament in 1806. Rennie was afterwards appointed by the Commissioners as advising engineer, whom Stevenson might consult in cases of emergency. It seems certain that the title of chief engineer had in this instance no more meaning than the above. Rennie, in point of fact, proposed certain modifications in Stevenson's plans, which the latter did not accept; nevertheless Rennie continued to take a kindly interest in the work, and the two engineers remained in friendly correspondence during its progress. The official view taken by the Board as to the quarter in which lay both the merit and the responsibility of the work may be gathered from a minute of the Commissioners at their first meeting held after Stevenson died; in which they record their regret "at the death of this zealous, faithful, and able officer, _to whom is due the honour of conceiving and executing the Bell Rock Lighthouse_." The matter is briefly summed up in the "Life" of Robert Stevenson by his son David Stevenson (A. & C. Black, 1878), and fully discussed, on the basis of official facts and figures, by the same writer in a letter to the _Civil Engineers' and Architects' Journal_, 1862. [14] "Nothing was said, but I was _looked out of countenance_," he says in a letter. [15] Ill-formed--ugly.--[R. L. S.] [16] This is an incurable illusion of my grandfather's; he always writes "distended" for "extended." [R. L. S.] ADDITIONAL MEMORIES AND PORTRAITS ADDITIONAL MEMORIES AND PORTRAITS I RANDOM MEMORIES I. THE COAST OF FIFE Many writers have vigorously described the pains of the first day or the first night at school; to a boy of any enterprise, I believe, they are more often agreeably exciting. Misery--or at least misery unrelieved--is confined to another period, to the days of suspense and the "dreadful looking-for" of departure; when the old life is running to an end, and the new life, with its new interests, not yet begun; and to the pain of an imminent parting, there is added the unrest of a state of conscious pre-existence. The area railings, the beloved shop-window, the smell of semi-suburban tanpits, the song of the church-bells upon a Sunday, the thin, high voices of compatriot children in a playing-field--what a sudden, what an overpowering pathos breathes to him from each familiar circumstance! The assaults of sorrow come not from within, as it seems to him, but from without. I was proud and glad to go to school; had I been let alone, I could have borne up like any hero; but there was around me, in all my native town, a conspiracy of lamentation: "Poor little boy, he is going away--unkind little boy, he is going to leave us"; so the unspoken burthen followed me as I went, with yearning and reproach. And at length, one melancholy afternoon in the early autumn, and at a place where it seems to me, looking back, it must be always autumn and generally Sunday, there came suddenly upon the face of all I saw--the long empty road, the lines of the tall houses, the church upon the hill, the woody hillside garden--a look of such a piercing sadness that my heart died; and seating myself on a door-step, I shed tears of miserable sympathy. A benevolent cat cumbered me the while with consolations--we two were alone in all that was visible of the London Road: two poor waifs who had each tasted sorrow--and she fawned upon the weeper, and gambolled for his entertainment, watching the effect, it seemed, with motherly eyes. For the sake of the cat, God bless her! I confessed at home the story of my weakness; and so it comes about that I owed a certain journey, and the reader owes the present paper, to a cat in the London Road. It was judged, if I had thus brimmed over on the public highway, some change of scene was (in the medical sense) indicated; my father at the time was visiting the harbour lights of Scotland; and it was decided that he should take me along with him around a portion of the shores of Fife; my first professional tour, my first journey in the complete character of man, without the help of petticoats. The Kingdom of Fife (that royal province) may be observed by the curious on the map, occupying a tongue of land between the firths of Forth and Tay. It may be continually seen from many parts of Edinburgh (among the rest, from the windows of my father's house) dying away into the distance and the easterly _haar_ with one smoky seaside town beyond another, or in winter printing on the grey heaven some glittering hill-tops. It has no beauty to recommend it, being a low, sea-salted, wind-vexed promontory; trees very rare, except (as common on the east coast) along the dens of rivers; the fields well cultivated, I understand, but not lovely to the eye. It is of the coast I speak: the interior may be the garden of Eden. History broods over that part of the world like the easterly haar. Even on the map, its long row of Gaelic place-names bear testimony to an old and settled race. Of these little towns, posted along the shore as close as sedges, each with its bit of harbour, its old weather-beaten church or public building, its flavour of decayed prosperity and decaying fish, not one but has its legend, quaint or tragic: Dunfermline, in whose royal towers the king may be still observed (in the ballad) drinking the blood-red wine; somnolent Inverkeithing, once the quarantine of Leith; Aberdour, hard by the monastic islet of Inchcolm, hard by Donibristle where the "bonny face was spoiled": Burntisland, where, when Paul Jones was off the coast, the Reverend Mr. Shirra had a table carried between tide-marks, and publicly prayed against the rover at the pitch of his voice and his broad lowland dialect; Kinghorn, where Alexander "brak's neck-bane" and left Scotland to the English wars; Kirkcaldy, where the witches once prevailed extremely and sank tall ships and honest mariners in the North Sea; Dysart, famous--well, famous at least to me for the Dutch ships that lay in its harbour, painted like toys and with pots of flowers and cages of song-birds in the cabin-windows, and for one particular Dutch skipper who would sit all day in slippers on the break of the poop, smoking a long German pipe; Wemyss (pronounced Weems) with its bat-haunted caves, where the Chevalier Johnstone, on his flight from Culloden, passed a night of superstitious terrors; Leven, a bald, quite modern place, sacred to summer visitors, whence there has gone but yesterday the tall figure and the white locks of the last Englishman in Delhi, my uncle Dr. Balfour, who was still walking his hospital rounds, while the troopers from Meerut clattered and cried "Deen Deen" along the streets of the imperial city, and Willoughby mustered his handful of heroes at the magazine, and the nameless brave one in the telegraph office was perhaps already fingering his last despatch; and just a little beyond Leven, Largo Law and the smoke of Largo town mounting about its feet, the town of Alexander Selkirk, better known under the name of Robinson Crusoe. So on the list might be pursued (only for private reasons, which the reader will shortly have an opportunity to guess) by St. Monans, and Pittenweem, and the two Anstruthers, and Cellardyke, and Crail, where Primate Sharpe was once a humble and innocent country minister: on to the heel of the land, to Fife Ness, overlooked by a sea-wood of matted elders and the quaint old mansion of Balcomie, itself overlooking but the breach or the quiescence of the deep--the Carr Rock beacon rising close in front, and as night draws in, the star of the Inchcape reef springing up on the one hand, and the star of the May Island on the other, and farther off yet a third and a greater on the craggy foreland of St. Abb's. And but a little way round the corner of the land, imminent itself above the sea, stands the gem of the province and the light of mediæval Scotland, St. Andrews, where the great Cardinal Beaton held garrison against the world, and the second of the name and title perished (as you may read in Knox's jeering narrative) under the knives of true-blue Protestants, and to this day (after so many centuries) the current voice of the professor is not hushed. Here it was that my first tour of inspection began, early on a bleak easterly morning. There was a crashing run of sea upon the shore, I recollect, and my father and the man of the harbour light must sometimes raise their voices to be audible. Perhaps it is from this circumstance, that I always imagine St. Andrews to be an ineffectual seat of learning, and the sound of the east wind and the bursting surf to linger in its drowsy class-rooms and confound the utterance of the professor, until teacher and taught are alike drowned in oblivion, and only the sea-gull beats on the windows and the draught of the sea-air rustles in the pages of the open lecture. But upon all this, and the romance of St. Andrews in general, the reader must consult the works of Mr. Andrew Lang; who has written of it but the other day in his dainty prose and with his incommunicable humour, and long ago, in one of his best poems, with grace and local truth and a note of unaffected pathos. Mr. Lang knows all about the romance, I say, and the educational advantages, but I doubt if he had turned his attention to the harbour lights; and it may be news even to him, that in the year 1863 their case was pitiable. Hanging about with the east wind humming in my teeth, and my hands (I make no doubt) in my pockets, I looked for the first time upon that tragi-comedy of the visiting engineer which I have seen so often re-enacted on a more important stage. Eighty years ago, I find my grandfather writing: "It is the most painful thing that can occur to me to have a correspondence of this kind with any of the keepers, and when I come to the Light House, instead of having the satisfaction to meet them with approbation and welcome their Family, it is distressing when one is obliged to put on a most angry countenance and demeanour." This painful obligation has been hereditary in my race. I have myself, on a perfectly amateur and unauthorised inspection of Turnberry Point, bent my brows upon the keeper on the question of storm-panes; and felt a keen pang of self-reproach, when we went downstairs again and I found he was making a coffin for his infant child; and then regained my equanimity with the thought that I had done the man a service, and when the proper inspector came, he would be readier with his panes. The human race is perhaps credited with more duplicity than it deserves. The visitation of a lighthouse at least is a business of the most transparent nature. As soon as the boat grates on the shore, and the keepers step forward in their uniformed coats, the very slouch of the fellows' shoulders tells their story, and the engineer may begin at once to assume his "angry countenance." Certainly the brass of the handrail will be clouded; and if the brass be not immaculate, certainly all will be to match--the reflectors scratched, the spare lamp unready, the storm-panes in the storehouse. If a light is not rather more than middling good, it will be radically bad. Mediocrity (except in literature) appears to be unattainable by man. But of course the unfortunate of St. Andrews was only an amateur, he was not in the Service, he had no uniform coat, he was, I believe, a plumber by his trade, and stood (in the mediæval phrase) quite out of the danger of my father; but he had a painful interview for all that, and perspired extremely. From St. Andrews we drove over Magus Muir. My father had announced we were "to post," and the phrase called up in my hopeful mind visions of top-boots and the pictures in Rowlandson's "Dance of Death"; but it was only a jingling cab that came to the inn door, such as I had driven in a thousand times at the low price of one shilling on the streets of Edinburgh. Beyond this disappointment, I remember nothing of that drive. It is a road I have often travelled, and of not one of these journeys do I remember any single trait. The fact has not been suffered to encroach on the truth of the imagination. I still see Magus Muir two hundred years ago: a desert place, quite unenclosed; in the midst, the primate's carriage fleeing at the gallop; the assassins loose-reined in pursuit, Burley Balfour, pistol in hand, among the first. No scene of history has ever written itself so deeply on my mind; not because Balfour, that questionable zealot, was an ancestral cousin of my own; not because of the pleadings of the victim and his daughter; not even because of the live bum-bee that flew out of Sharpe's 'bacco-box, thus clearly indicating his complicity with Satan; nor merely because, as it was after all a crime of a fine religious flavour, it figured in Sunday books and afforded a grateful relief from "Ministering Children" or the "Memoirs of Mrs. Katherine Winslowe." The figure that always fixed my attention is that of Hackston of Rathillet, sitting in the saddle with his cloak about his mouth, and through all that long, bungling, vociferous hurly-burly, revolving privately a case of conscience. He would take no hand in the deed, because he had a private spite against the victim, and "that action" must be sullied with no suggestion of a worldly motive; on the other hand, "that action" in itself was highly justified, he had cast in his lot with "the actors," and he must stay there, inactive, but publicly sharing the responsibility. "You are a gentleman--you will protect me!" cried the wounded old man, crawling towards him. "I will never lay a hand on you," said Hackston, and put his cloak about his mouth. It is an old temptation with me to pluck away that cloak and see the face--to open that bosom and to read the heart. With incomplete romances about Hackston, the drawers of my youth were lumbered. I read him up in every printed book that I could lay my hands on. I even dug among the Wodrow manuscripts, sitting shame-faced in the very room where my hero had been tortured two centuries before, and keenly conscious of my youth in the midst of other and (as I fondly thought) more gifted students. All was vain: that he had passed a riotous nonage, that he was a zealot, that he twice displayed (compared with his grotesque companions) some tincture of soldierly resolution and even of military common sense, and that he figured memorably in the scene on Magus Muir, so much and no more could I make out. But whenever I cast my eyes backward, it is to see him like a landmark on the plains of history, sitting with his cloak about his mouth, inscrutable. How small a thing creates an immortality! I do not think he can have been a man entirely commonplace; but had he not thrown his cloak about his mouth, or had the witnesses forgot to chronicle the action, he would not thus have haunted the imagination of my boyhood, and to-day he would scarce delay me for a paragraph. An incident, at once romantic and dramatic, which at once awakes the judgment and makes a picture for the eye, how little do we realise its perdurable power! Perhaps no one does so but the author, just as none but he appreciates the influence of jingling words; so that he looks on upon life, with something of a covert smile, seeing people led by what they fancy to be thoughts and what are really the accustomed artifices of his own trade, or roused by what they take to be principles and are really picturesque effects. In a pleasant book about a school-class club, Colonel Fergusson has recently told a little anecdote. A "Philosophical Society" was formed by some Academy boys--among them, Colonel Fergusson himself, Fleeming Jenkin, and Andrew Wilson, the Christian Buddhist and author of "The Abode of Snow." Before these learned pundits, one member laid the following ingenious problem: "What would be the result of putting a pound of potassium in a pot of porter?" "I should think there would be a number of interesting bi-products," said a smatterer at my elbow; but for me the tale itself has a bi-product, and stands as a type of much that is most human. For this inquirer, who conceived himself to burn with a zeal entirely chemical, was really immersed in a design of a quite different nature: unconsciously to his own recently breeched intelligence, he was engaged in literature. Putting, pound, potassium, pot, porter; initial p, mediant t--that was his idea, poor little boy! So with politics and that which excites men in the present, so with history and that which rouses them in the past: there lie, at the root of what appears, most serious unsuspected elements. The triple town of Anstruther Wester, Anstruther Easter, and Cellardyke, all three Royal Burghs--or two Royal Burghs and a less distinguished suburb, I forget which--lies continuously along the seaside, and boasts of either two or three separate parish churches, and either two or three separate harbours. These ambiguities are painful; but the fact is (although it argues me uncultured), I am but poorly posted up on Cellardyke. My business lay in the two Anstruthers. A tricklet of a stream divides them, spanned by a bridge; and over the bridge at the time of my knowledge, the celebrated Shell House stood outpost on the west. This had been the residence of an agreeable eccentric; during his fond tenancy he had illustrated the outer walls, as high (if I remember rightly) as the roof, with elaborate patterns and pictures, and snatches of verse in the vein of _exegi monumentum_; shells and pebbles, artfully contrasted and conjoined, had been his medium; and I like to think of him standing back upon the bridge, when all was finished, drinking in the general effect, and (like Gibbon) already lamenting his employment. The same bridge saw another sight in the seventeenth century. Mr. Thomson, the "curat" of Anstruther Easter, was a man highly obnoxious to the devout: in the first place, because he was a "curat"; in the second place, because he was a person of irregular and scandalous life; and in the third place, because he was generally suspected of dealings with the Enemy of Man. These three disqualifications, in the popular literature of the time, go hand in hand; but the end of Mr. Thomson was a thing quite by itself, and, in the proper phrase, a manifest judgment. He had been at a friend's house in Anstruther Wester, where (and elsewhere, I suspect) he had partaken of the bottle; indeed, to put the thing in our cold modern way, the reverend gentleman was on the brink of _delirium tremens_. It was a dark night, it seems; a little lassie came carrying a lantern to fetch the curate home; and away they went down the street of Anstruther Wester, the lantern swinging a bit in the child's hand, the barred lustre tossing up and down along the front of slumbering houses, and Mr. Thomson not altogether steady on his legs nor (to all appearance) easy in his mind. The pair had reached the middle of the bridge when (as I conceive the scene) the poor tippler started in some baseless fear and looked behind him; the child, already shaken by the minister's strange behaviour, started also; in so doing she would jerk the lantern; and for the space of a moment the lights and the shadows would be all confounded. Then it was that to the unhinged toper and the twittering child, a huge bulk of blackness seemed to sweep down, to pass them close by as they stood upon the bridge, and to vanish on the farther side in the general darkness of the night. "Plainly the devil come for Mr. Thomson!" thought the child. What Mr. Thomson thought himself, we have no ground of knowledge; but he fell upon his knees in the midst of the bridge like a man praying. On the rest of the journey to the manse, history is silent; but when they came to the door, the poor caitiff, taking the lantern from the child, looked upon her with so lost a countenance that her little courage died within her, and she fled home screaming to her parents. Not a soul would venture out; all that night the minister dwelt alone with his terrors in the manse; and when the day dawned, and men made bold to go about the streets, they found the devil had come indeed for Mr. Thomson. This manse of Anstruther Easter has another and a more cheerful association. It was early in the morning, about a century before the days of Mr. Thomson, that his predecessor was called out of bed to welcome a Grandee of Spain, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, just landed in the harbour underneath. But sure there was never seen a more decayed grandee; sure there was never a duke welcomed from a stranger place of exile. Half-way between Orkney and Shetland there lies a certain isle; on the one hand the Atlantic, on the other the North Sea, bombard its pillared cliffs; sore-eyed, short-living, inbred fishers and their families herd in its few huts; in the graveyard pieces of wreck-wood stand for monuments; there is nowhere a more inhospitable spot. _Belle-Isle-en-Mer_--Fair-Isle-at-Sea--that is a name that has always rung in my mind's ear like music; but the only "Fair Isle" on which I ever set my foot was this unhomely, rugged turret-top of submarine sierras. Here, when his ship was broken, my lord Duke joyfully got ashore; here for long months he and certain of his men were harboured; and it was from this durance that he landed at last to be welcomed (as well as such a papist deserved, no doubt) by the godly incumbent of Anstruther Easter; and after the Fair Isle, what a fine city must that have appeared! and after the island diet, what a hospitable spot the minister's table! And yet he must have lived on friendly terms with his outlandish hosts. For to this day there still survives a relic of the long winter evenings when the sailors of the great Armada crouched about the hearths of the Fair-Islanders, the planks of their own lost galleon perhaps lighting up the scene, and the gale and the surf that beat about the coast contributing their melancholy voices. All the folk of the north isles are great artificers of knitting: the Fair-Islanders alone dye their fabrics in the Spanish manner. To this day, gloves and nightcaps, innocently decorated, may be seen for sale in the Shetland warehouse at Edinburgh, or on the Fair Isle itself in the catechist's house; and to this day, they tell the story of the Duke of Medina Sidonia's adventure. It would seem as if the Fair Isle had some attraction for "persons of quality." When I landed there myself, an elderly gentleman, unshaved, poorly attired, his shoulders wrapped in a plaid, was seen walking to and fro, with a book in his hand, upon the beach. He paid no heed to our arrival, which we thought a strange thing in itself; but when one of the officers of the _Pharos_, passing narrowly by him, observed his book to be a Greek Testament, our wonder and interest took a higher flight. The catechist was cross-examined; he said the gentleman had been put across some time before in Mr. Bruce of Sumburgh's schooner, the only link between the Fair Isle and the rest of the world; and that he held services and was doing "good." So much came glibly enough; but when pressed a little further, the catechist displayed embarrassment. A singular diffidence appeared upon his face: "They tell me," said he, in low tones, "that he's a lord." And a lord he was; a peer of the realm pacing that inhospitable beach with his Greek Testament, and his plaid about his shoulders, set upon doing good, as he understood it, worthy man! And his grandson, a good-looking little boy, much better dressed than the lordly evangelist, and speaking with a silken English accent very foreign to the scene, accompanied me for a while in my exploration of the island. I suppose this little fellow is now my lord, and wonder how much he remembers of the Fair Isle. Perhaps not much; for he seemed to accept very quietly his savage situation; and under such guidance, it is like that this was not his first nor yet his last adventure. II RANDOM MEMORIES II. THE EDUCATION OF AN ENGINEER Anstruther is a place sacred to the Muse; she inspired (really to a considerable extent) Tennant's vernacular poem "Anster Fair"; and I have there waited upon her myself with much devotion. This was when I came as a young man to glean engineering experience from the building of the breakwater. What I gleaned, I am sure I do not know; but indeed I had already my own private determination to be an author; I loved the art of words and the appearances of life; and _travellers_, and _headers_, and _rubble_, and _polished ashlar_, and _pierres perdues_, and even the thrilling question of the _string-course_, interested me only (if they interested me at all) as properties for some possible romance or as words to add to my vocabulary. To grow a little catholic is the compensation of years; youth is one-eyed; and in those days, though I haunted the breakwater by day, and even loved the place for the sake of the sunshine, the thrilling seaside air, the wash of waves on the sea-face, the green glimmer of the divers' helmets far below, and the musical chinking of the masons, my one genuine pre-occupation lay elsewhere, and my only industry was in the hours when I was not on duty. I lodged with a certain Bailie Brown, a carpenter by trade; and there, as soon as dinner was despatched, in a chamber scented with dry rose-leaves, drew in my chair to the table and proceeded to pour forth literature, at such a speed, and with such intimations of early death and immortality, as I now look back upon with wonder. Then it was that I wrote "Voces Fidelium," a series of dramatic monologues in verse; then that I indited the bulk of a covenanting novel--like so many others, never finished. Late I sat into the night, toiling (as I thought) under the very dart of death, toiling to leave a memory behind me. I feel moved to thrust aside the curtain of the years, to hail that poor feverish idiot, to bid him go to bed and clap "Voces Fidelium" on the fire before he goes; so clear does he appear before me, sitting there between his candles in the rose-scented room and the late night; so ridiculous a picture (to my elderly wisdom) does the fool present! But he was driven to his bed at last without miraculous intervention; and the manner of his driving sets the last touch upon this eminently youthful business. The weather was then so warm that I must keep the windows open; the night without was populous with moths. As the late darkness deepened, my literary tapers beaconed forth more brightly; thicker and thicker came the dusty night-fliers, to gyrate for one brilliant instant round the flame and fall in agonies upon my paper. Flesh and blood could not endure the spectacle; to capture immortality was doubtless a noble enterprise, but not to capture it at such a cost of suffering; and out would go the candles, and off would I go to bed in the darkness, raging to think that the blow might fall on the morrow, and there was "Voces Fidelium" still incomplete. Well, the moths are all gone, and "Voces Fidelium" along with them; only the fool is still on hand and practises new follies. Only one thing in connection with the harbour tempted me, and that was the diving, an experience I burned to taste of. But this was not to be, at least in Anstruther; and the subject involves a change of scene to the sub-arctic town of Wick. You can never have dwelt in a country more unsightly than that part of Caithness, the land faintly swelling, faintly falling, not a tree, not a hedgerow, the fields divided by single slate stones set upon their edge, the wind always singing in your ears and (down the long road that led nowhere) thrumming in the telegraph wires. Only as you approached the coast was there anything to stir the heart. The plateau broke down to the North Sea in formidable cliffs, the tall out-stacks rose like pillars ringed about with surf, the coves were over-brimmed with clamorous froth, the sea-birds screamed, the wind sang in the thyme on the cliff's edge; here and there, small ancient castles toppled on the brim; here and there, it was possible to dip into a dell of shelter, where you might lie and tell yourself you were a little warm, and hear (near at hand) the whin-pods bursting in the afternoon sun, and (farther off) the rumour of the turbulent sea. As for Wick itself, it is one of the meanest of man's towns, and situate certainly on the baldest of God's bays. It lives for herring, and a strange sight it is to see (of an afternoon) the heights of Pulteney blackened by seaward-looking fishers, as when a city crowds to a review--or, as when bees have swarmed, the ground is horrible with lumps and clusters; and a strange sight, and a beautiful, to see the fleet put silently out against a rising moon, the sea-line rough as a wood with sails, and ever and again and one after another, a boat flitting swiftly by the silver disk. This mass of fishers, this great fleet of boats, is out of all proportion to the town itself; and the oars are manned and the nets hauled by immigrants from the Long Island (as we call the outer Hebrides), who come for that season only, and depart again, if "the take" be poor, leaving debts behind them. In a bad year, the end of the herring-fishery is therefore an exciting time; fights are common, riots often possible; an apple knocked from a child's hand was once the signal for something like a war; and even when I was there, a gunboat lay in the bay to assist the authorities. To contrary interests, it should be observed, the curse of Babel is here added; the Lews men are Gaelic speakers, those of Caithness have adopted English; an odd circumstance, if you reflect that both must be largely Norsemen by descent. I remember seeing one of the strongest instances of this division: a thing like a Punch-and-Judy box erected on the flat gravestones of the churchyard; from the hutch or proscenium--I know not what to call it--an eldritch-looking preacher laying down the law in Gaelic about some one of the name of _Powl_, whom I at last divined to be the apostle to the Gentiles; a large congregation of the Lews men very devoutly listening; and on the outskirts of the crowd, some of the town's children (to whom the whole affair was Greek and Hebrew) profanely playing tigg. The same descent, the same country, the same narrow sect of the same religion, and all these bonds made very largely nugatory by an accidental difference of dialect! Into the bay of Wick stretched the dark length of the unfinished breakwater, in its cage of open staging; the travellers (like frames of churches) over-plumbing all; and away at the extreme end, the divers toiling unseen on the foundation. On a platform of loose planks, the assistants turned their air-mills; a stone might be swinging between wind and water; underneath the swell ran gaily; and from time to time, a mailed dragon with a window-glass snout came dripping up the ladder. Youth is a blessed season after all; my stay at Wick was in the year of "Voces Fidelium" and the rose-leaf room at Bailie Brown's; and already I did not care two straws for literary glory. Posthumous ambition perhaps requires an atmosphere of roses; and the more rugged excitant of Wick east winds had made another boy of me. To go down in the diving-dress, that was my absorbing fancy; and with the countenance of a certain handsome scamp of a diver, Bob Bain by name, I gratified the whim. It was grey, harsh, easterly weather, the swell ran pretty high, and out in the open there were "skipper's daughters," when I found myself at last on the diver's platform, twenty pounds of lead upon each foot and my whole person swollen with ply and ply of woollen underclothing. One moment, the salt wind was whistling round my night-capped head; the next, I was crushed almost double under the weight of the helmet. As that intolerable burthen was laid upon me, I could have found it in my heart (only for shame's sake) to cry off from the whole enterprise. But it was too late. The attendants began to turn the hurdy-gurdy, and the air to whistle through the tube; some one screwed in the barred window of the vizor; and I was cut off in a moment from my fellow-men; standing there in their midst, but quite divorced from intercourse: a creature deaf and dumb, pathetically looking forth upon them from a climate of his own. Except that I could move and feel, I was like a man fallen in a catalepsy. But time was scarce given me to realise my isolation; the weights were hung upon my back and breast, the signal-rope was thrust into my unresisting hand; and setting a twenty-pound foot upon the ladder, I began ponderously to descend. Some twenty rounds below the platform, twilight fell. Looking up, I saw a low green heaven mottled with vanishing bells of white; looking around, except for the weedy spokes and shafts of the ladder, nothing but a green gloaming, somewhat opaque but very restful and delicious. Thirty rounds lower, I stepped off on the _pierres perdues_ of the foundation; a dumb helmeted figure took me by the hand, and made a gesture (as I read it) of encouragement; and looking in at the creature's window, I beheld the face of Bain. There we were, hand to hand and (when it pleased us) eye to eye; and either might have burst himself with shouting, and not a whisper come to his companion's hearing. Each, in his own little world of air, stood incommunicably separate. Bob had told me ere this a little tale, a five minutes' drama at the bottom of the sea, which at that moment possibly shot across my mind. He was down with another, settling a stone of the sea-wall. They had it well adjusted, Bob gave the signal, the scissors were slipped, the stone set home; and it was time to turn to something else. But still his companion remained bowed over the block like a mourner on a tomb, or only raised himself to make absurd contortions and mysterious signs unknown to the vocabulary of the diver. There, then, these two stood for a while, like the dead and the living; till there flashed a fortunate thought into Bob's mind, and he stooped, peered through the window of that other world, and beheld the face of its inhabitant wet with streaming tears. Ah! the man was in pain! And Bob, glancing downward, saw what was the trouble: the block had been lowered on the foot of that unfortunate--he was caught alive at the bottom of the sea under fifteen tons of rock. That two men should handle a stone so heavy, even swinging in the scissors, may appear strange to the inexpert. These must bear in mind the great density of the water of the sea, and the surprising results of transplantation to that medium. To understand a little what these are, and how a man's weight, so far from being an encumbrance, is the very ground of his agility, was the chief lesson of my submarine experience. The knowledge came upon me by degrees. As I began to go forward with the hand of my estranged companion, a world of tumbled stones was visible, pillared with the weedy uprights of the staging: overhead, a flat roof of green: a little in front, the sea-wall, like an unfinished rampart. And presently in our upward progress, Bob motioned me to leap upon a stone; I looked to see if he were possibly in earnest, and he only signed to me the more imperiously. Now the block stood six feet high; it would have been quite a leap to me unencumbered; with the breast and back weights, and the twenty pounds upon each foot, and the staggering load of the helmet, the thing was out of reason. I laughed aloud in my tomb; and to prove to Bob how far he was astray, I gave a little impulse from my toes. Up I soared like a bird, my companion soaring at my side. As high as to the stone, and then higher, I pursued my impotent and empty flight. Even when the strong arm of Bob had checked my shoulders, my heels continued their ascent; so that I blew out side-ways like an autumn leaf, and must be hauled in, hand over hand, as sailors haul in the slack of a sail, and propped upon my feet again like an intoxicated sparrow. Yet a little higher on the foundation, and we began to be affected by the bottom of the swell, running there like a strong breeze of wind. Or so I must suppose; for, safe in my cushion of air, I was conscious of no impact; only swayed idly like a weed, and was now borne helplessly abroad, and now swiftly--and yet with dream-like gentleness--impelled against my guide. So does a child's balloon divagate upon the currents of the air, and touch and slide off again from every obstacle. So must have ineffectually swung, so resented their inefficiency, those light crowds that followed the Star of Hades, and uttered exiguous voices in the land beyond Cocytus. There was something strangely exasperating, as well as strangely wearying, in these uncommanded evolutions. It is bitter to return to infancy, to be supported, and directed, and perpetually set upon your feet, by the hand of some one else. The air besides, as it is supplied to you by the busy millers on the platform, closes the eustachian tubes and keeps the neophyte perpetually swallowing, till his throat is grown so dry that he can swallow no longer. And for all these reasons--although I had a fine, dizzy, muddle-headed joy in my surroundings, and longed, and tried, and always failed, to lay hands on the fish that darted here and there about me, swift as humming-birds--yet I fancy I was rather relieved than otherwise when Bain brought me back to the ladder and signed to me to mount. And there was one more experience before me even then. Of a sudden, my ascending head passed into the trough of a swell. Out of the green, I shot at once into a glory of rosy, almost of sanguine light--the multitudinous seas incarnadined, the heaven above a vault of crimson. And then the glory faded into the hard, ugly daylight of a Caithness autumn, with a low sky, a grey sea, and a whistling wind. Bob Bain had five shillings for his trouble, and I had done what I desired. It was one of the best things I got from my education as an engineer: of which, however, as a way of life, I wish to speak with sympathy. It takes a man into the open air; it keeps him hanging about harbour-sides, which is the richest form of idling; it carries him to wild islands; it gives him a taste of the genial dangers of the sea; it supplies him with dexterities to exercise; it makes demands upon his ingenuity; it will go far to cure him of any taste (if ever he had one) for the miserable life of cities. And when it has done so, it carries him back and shuts him in an office! From the roaring skerry and the wet thwart of the tossing boat, he passes to the stool and desk, and with a memory full of ships, and seas, and perilous headlands, and the shining pharos, he must apply his long-sighted eyes to the pretty niceties of drawing, or measure his inaccurate mind with several pages of consecutive figures. He is a wise youth, to be sure, who can balance one part of genuine life against two parts of drudgery between four walls, and for the sake of the one, manfully accept the other. Wick was scarce an eligible place of stay. But how much better it was to hang in the cold wind upon the pier, to go down with Bob Bain among the roots of the staging, to be all day in a boat coiling a wet rope and shouting orders--not always very wise--than to be warm and dry, and dull, and dead-alive, in the most comfortable office. And Wick itself had in those days a note of originality. It may have still, but I misdoubt it much. The old minister of Keiss would not preach, in these degenerate times, for an hour and a half upon the clock. The gipsies must be gone from their cavern; where you might see, from the mouth, the women tending their fire, like Meg Merrilies, and the men sleeping off their coarse potations; and where in winter gales, the surf would beleaguer them closely, bursting in their very door. A traveller to-day upon the Thurso coach would scarce observe a little cloud of smoke among the moorlands, and be told, quite openly, it marked a private still. He would not indeed make that journey, for there is now no Thurso coach. And even if he could, one little thing that happened to me could never happen to him, or not with the same trenchancy of contrast. We had been upon the road all evening; the coach-top was crowded with Lews fishers going home, scarce anything but Gaelic had sounded in my ears; and our way had lain throughout over a moorish country very northern to behold. Latish at night, though it was still broad day in our sub-arctic latitude, we came down upon the shores of the roaring Pentland Firth, that grave of mariners; on one hand, the cliffs of Dunnet Head ran seaward; in front was the little bare white town of Castleton, its streets full of blowing sand; nothing beyond, but the North Islands, the great deep, and the perennial ice-fields of the Pole. And here, in the last imaginable place, there sprang up young outlandish voices and a chatter of some foreign speech; and I saw, pursuing the coach with its load of Hebridean fishers--as they had pursued _vetturini_ up the passes of the Apennines or perhaps along the grotto under Virgil's tomb--two little dark-eyed, white-toothed Italian vagabonds, of twelve to fourteen years of age, one with a hurdy-gurdy, the other with a cage of white mice. The coach passed on, and their small Italian chatter died in the distance; and I was left to marvel how they had wandered into that country, and how they fared in it, and what they thought of it, and when (if ever) they should see again the silver wind-breaks run among the olives, and the stone-pine stand guard upon Etruscan sepulchres. Upon any American, the strangeness of this incident is somewhat lost. For as far back as he goes in his own land, he will find some alien camping there; the Cornish miner, the French or Mexican half-blood, the negro in the South, these are deep in the woods and far among the mountains. But in an old, cold, and rugged country such as mine, the days of immigration are long at an end; and away up there, which was at that time far beyond the northernmost extreme of railways, hard upon the shore of that ill-omened strait of whirlpools, in a land of moors where no stranger came, unless it should be a sportsman to shoot grouse or an antiquary to decipher runes, the presence of these small pedestrians struck the mind as though a bird-of-paradise had risen from the heather or an albatross come fishing in the bay of Wick. They were as strange to their surroundings as my lordly evangelist or the old Spanish grandee on the Fair Isle. III A CHAPTER ON DREAMS The past is all of one texture--whether feigned or suffered--whether acted out in three dimensions, or only witnessed in that small theatre of the brain which we keep brightly lighted all night long, after the jets are down, and darkness and sleep reign undisturbed in the remainder of the body. There is no distinction on the face of our experiences; one is vivid indeed, and one dull, and one pleasant, and another agonising to remember; but which of them is what we call true, and which a dream, there is not one hair to prove. The past stands on a precarious footing; another straw split in the field of metaphysic, and behold us robbed of it. There is scarce a family that can count four generations but lays a claim to some dormant title or some castle and estate: a claim not prosecutable in any court of law, but flattering to the fancy and a great alleviation of idle hours. A man's claim to his own past is yet less valid. A paper might turn up (in proper story-book fashion) in the secret drawer of an old ebony secretary, and restore your family to its ancient honours and reinstate mine in a certain West Indian islet (not far from St. Kitt's, as beloved tradition hummed in my young ears) which was once ours, and is now unjustly some one else's, and for that matter (in the state of the sugar trade) is not worth anything to anybody. I do not say that these revolutions are likely; only no man can deny that they are possible; and the past, on the other hand, is lost for ever: our old days and deeds, our old selves, too, and the very world in which these scenes were acted, all brought down to the same faint residuum as a last night's dream, to some incontinuous images, and an echo in the chambers of the brain. Not an hour, not a mood, not a glance of the eye, can we revoke; it is all gone, past conjuring. And yet conceive us robbed of it, conceive that little thread of memory that we trail behind us broken at the pocket's edge; and in what naked nullity should we be left! for we only guide ourselves, and only know ourselves, by these air-painted pictures of the past. Upon these grounds, there are some among us who claim to have lived longer and more richly than their neighbours; when they lay asleep they claim they were still active; and among the treasures of memory that all men review for their amusement, these count in no second place the harvests of their dreams. There is one of this kind whom I have in my eye, and whose case is perhaps unusual enough to be described. He was from a child an ardent and uncomfortable dreamer. When he had a touch of fever at night, and the room swelled and shrank, and his clothes, hanging on a nail, now loomed up instant to the bigness of a church, and now drew away into a horror of infinite distance and infinite littleness, the poor soul was very well aware of what must follow, and struggled hard against the approaches of that slumber which was the beginning of sorrows. But his struggles were in vain; sooner or later the night-hag would have him by the throat, and pluck him, strangling and screaming, from his sleep. His dreams were at times commonplace enough, at times very strange: at times they were almost formless, he would be haunted, for instance, by nothing more definite than a certain hue of brown, which he did not mind in the least while he was awake, but feared and loathed while he was dreaming; at times, again, they took on every detail of circumstance, as when once he supposed he must swallow the populous world, and awoke screaming with the horror of the thought. The two chief troubles of his very narrow existence--the practical and everyday trouble of school tasks and the ultimate and airy one of hell and judgment--were often confounded together into one appalling nightmare. He seemed to himself to stand before the Great White Throne; he was called on, poor little devil, to recite some form of words, on which his destiny depended; his tongue stuck, his memory was blank, hell gaped for him; and he would awake, clinging to the curtain-rod with his knees to his chin. These were extremely poor experiences, on the whole; and at that time of life my dreamer would have very willingly parted with his power of dreams. But presently, in the course of his growth, the cries and physical contortions passed away, seemingly for ever; his visions were still for the most part miserable, but they were more constantly supported; and he would awake with no more extreme symptom than a flying heart, a freezing scalp, cold sweats, and the speechless midnight fear. His dreams, too, as befitted a mind better stocked with particulars, became more circumstantial, and had more the air and continuity of life. The look of the world beginning to take hold on his attention, scenery came to play a part in his sleeping as well as in his waking thoughts, so that he would take long, uneventful journeys and see strange towns and beautiful places as he lay in bed. And, what is more significant, an odd taste that he had for the Georgian costume and for stories laid in that period of English history, began to rule the features of his dreams; so that he masqueraded there in a three-cornered hat, and was much engaged with Jacobite conspiracy between the hour for bed and that for breakfast. About the same time, he began to read in his dreams--tales, for the most part, and for the most part after the manner of G. P. R. James, but so incredibly more vivid and moving than any printed book, that he has ever since been malcontent with literature. And then, while he was yet a student, there came to him a dream-adventure which he has no anxiety to repeat; he began, that is to say, to dream in sequence and thus to lead a double life--one of the day, one of the night--one that he had every reason to believe was the true one, another that he had no means of proving to be false. I should have said he studied, or was by way of studying, at Edinburgh College, which (it may be supposed) was how I came to know him. Well, in his dream-life he passed a long day in the surgical theatre, his heart in his mouth, his teeth on edge, seeing monstrous malformations and the abhorred dexterity of surgeons. In a heavy, rainy, foggy evening he came forth into the South Bridge, turned up the High Street, and entered the door of a tall _land_, at the top of which he supposed himself to lodge. All night long, in his wet clothes, he climbed the stairs, stair after stair in endless series, and at every second flight a flaring lamp with a reflector. All night long he brushed by single persons passing downward--beggarly women of the street, great, weary, muddy labourers, poor scarecrows of men, pale parodies of women--but all drowsy and weary like himself, and all single, and all brushing against him as they passed. In the end, out of a northern window, he would see day beginning to whiten over the Firth, give up the ascent, turn to descend, and in a breath be back again upon the streets, in his wet clothes, in the wet, haggard dawn, trudging to another day of monstrosities and operations. Time went, quicker in the life of dreams, some seven hours (as near as he can guess) to one; and it went, besides, more intensely, so that the gloom of these fancied experiences clouded the day, and he had not shaken off their shadow ere it was time to lie down and to renew them. I cannot tell how long it was that he endured this discipline; but it was long enough to leave a great black blot upon his memory, long enough to send him, trembling for his reason, to the doors of a certain doctor; whereupon with a simple draught he was restored to the common lot of man. The poor gentleman has since been troubled by nothing of the sort; indeed, his nights were for some while like other men's, now blank, now chequered with dreams, and these sometimes charming, sometimes appalling, but except for an occasional vividness, of no extraordinary kind. I will just note one of these occasions, ere I pass on to what makes my dreamer truly interesting. It seemed to him that he was in the first floor of a rough hill-farm. The room showed some poor efforts at gentility, a carpet on the floor, a piano, I think, against the wall; but, for all these refinements, there was no mistaking he was in a moorland place, among hillside people, and set in miles of heather. He looked down from the window upon a bare farmyard, that seemed to have been long disused. A great, uneasy stillness lay upon the world. There was no sign of the farm-folk or of any live stock, save for an old, brown, curly dog of the retriever breed, who sat close in against the wall of the house and seemed to be dozing. Something about this dog disquieted the dreamer; it was quite a nameless feeling, for the beast looked right enough--indeed, he was so old and dull and dusty and broken-down, that he should rather have awakened pity; and yet the conviction came and grew upon the dreamer that this was no proper dog at all, but something hellish. A great many dozing summer flies hummed about the yard; and presently the dog thrust forth his paw, caught a fly in his open palm, carried it to his mouth like an ape, and looking suddenly up at the dreamer in the window, winked to him with one eye. The dream went on, it matters not how it went; it was a good dream as dreams go; but there was nothing in the sequel worthy of that devilish brown dog. And the point of interest for me lies partly in that very fact: that having found so singular an incident, my imperfect dreamer should prove unable to carry the tale to a fit end and fall back on indescribable noises and indiscriminate horrors. It would be different now; he knows his business better! For, to approach at last the point: This honest fellow had long been in the custom of setting himself to sleep with tales, and so had his father before him; but these were irresponsible inventions, told for the teller's pleasure, with no eye to the crass public or the thwart reviewer: tales where a thread might be dropped, or one adventure quitted for another, on fancy's least suggestion. So that the little people who manage man's internal theatre had not as yet received a very rigorous training; and played upon their stage like children who should have slipped into the house and found it empty, rather than like drilled actors performing a set piece to a huge hall of faces. But presently my dreamer began to turn his former amusement of story-telling to (what is called) account; by which I mean that he began to write and sell his tales. Here was he, and here were the little people who did that part of his business, in quite new conditions. The stories must now be trimmed and pared and set upon all-fours, they must run from a beginning to an end and fit (after a manner) with the laws of life; the pleasure, in one word, had become a business; and that not only for the dreamer, but for the little people of his theatre. These understood the change as well as he. When he lay down to prepare himself for sleep, he no longer sought amusement, but printable and profitable tales; and after he had dozed off in his box-seat, his little people continued their evolutions with the same mercantile designs. All other forms of dream deserted him but two: he still occasionally reads the most delightful books, he still visits at times the most delightful places; and it is perhaps worthy of note that to these same places, and to one in particular, he returns at intervals of months and years, finding new field-paths, visiting new neighbours, beholding that happy valley under new effects of noon and dawn and sunset. But all the rest of the family of visions is quite lost to him: the common, mangled version of yesterday's affairs, the raw-head-and-bloody-bones nightmare, rumoured to be the child of toasted cheese--these and their like are gone; and, for the most part, whether awake or asleep, he is simply occupied--he or his little people--in consciously making stories for the market. This dreamer (like many other persons) has encountered some trifling vicissitudes of fortune. When the bank begins to send letters and the butcher to linger at the back gate, he sets to belabouring his brains after a story, for that is his readiest money-winner; and, behold! at once the little people begin to bestir themselves in the same quest, and labour all night long, and all night long set before him truncheons of tales upon their lighted theatre. No fear of his being frightened now; the flying heart and the frozen scalp are things bygone; applause, growing applause, growing interest, growing exultation in his own cleverness (for he takes all the credit), and at last a jubilant leap to wakefulness, with the cry, "I have it, that'll do!" upon his lips: with such and similar emotions he sits at these nocturnal dramas, with such outbreaks, like Claudius in the play, he scatters the performance in the midst. Often enough the waking is a disappointment: he has been too deep asleep, as I explain the thing; drowsiness has gained his little people, they have gone stumbling and maundering through their parts; and the play, to the awakened mind, is seen to be a tissue of absurdities. And yet how often have these sleepless Brownies done him honest service, and given him, as he sat idly taking his pleasure in the boxes, better tales than he could fashion for himself. Here is one, exactly as it came to him. It seemed he was the son of a very rich and wicked man, the owner of broad acres and a most damnable temper. The dreamer (and that was the son) had lived much abroad, on purpose to avoid his parent; and when at length he returned to England, it was to find him married again to a young wife, who was supposed to suffer cruelly and to loathe her yoke. Because of this marriage (as the dreamer indistinctly understood) it was desirable for father and son to have a meeting; and yet both being proud and both angry, neither would condescend upon a visit. Meet they did accordingly, in a desolate, sandy country by the sea; and there they quarrelled, and the son, stung by some intolerable insult, struck down the father dead. No suspicion was aroused; the dead man was found and buried, and the dreamer succeeded to the broad estates, and found himself installed under the same roof with his father's widow, for whom no provision had been made. These two lived very much alone, as people may after a bereavement, sat down to table together, shared the long evenings, and grew daily better friends; until it seemed to him of a sudden that she was prying about dangerous matters, that she had conceived a notion of his guilt, that she watched him and tried him with questions. He drew back from her company as men draw back from a precipice suddenly discovered; and yet so strong was the attraction that he would drift again and again into the old intimacy, and again and again be startled back by some suggestive question or some inexplicable meaning in her eye. So they lived at cross purposes, a life full of broken dialogue, challenging glances, and suppressed passion; until, one day, he saw the woman slipping from the house in a veil, followed her to the station, followed her in the train to the seaside country, and out over the sandhills to the very place where the murder was done. There she began to grope among the bents, he watching her, flat upon his face; and presently she had something in her hand--I cannot remember what it was, but it was deadly evidence against the dreamer--and as she held it up to look at it, perhaps from the shock of the discovery, her foot slipped, and she hung at some peril on the brink of the tall sand-wreaths. He had no thought but to spring up and rescue her; and there they stood face to face, she with that deadly matter openly in her hand--his very presence on the spot another link of proof. It was plain she was about to speak, but this was more than he could bear--he could bear to be lost, but not to talk of it with his destroyer; and he cut her short with trivial conversation. Arm in arm, they returned together to the train, talking he knew not what, made the journey back in the same carriage, sat down to dinner, and passed the evening in the drawing-room as in the past. But suspense and fear drummed in the dreamer's bosom. "She has not denounced me yet"--so his thoughts ran: "when will she denounce me? Will it be to-morrow?" And it was not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next; and their life settled back on the old terms, only that she seemed kinder than before, and that, as for him, the burthen of his suspense and wonder grew daily more unbearable, so that he wasted away like a man with a disease. Once, indeed, he broke all bounds of decency, seized an occasion when she was abroad, ransacked her room, and at last, hidden away among her jewels, found the damning evidence. There he stood, holding this thing, which was his life, in the hollow of his hand, and marvelling at her inconsequent behaviour, that she should seek, and keep, and yet not use it; and then the door opened, and behold herself. So, once more, they stood, eye to eye, with the evidence between them; and once more she raised to him a face brimming with some communication; and once more he shied away from speech and cut her off. But before he left the room, which he had turned upside down, he laid back his death-warrant where he had found it; and at that, her face lighted up. The next thing he heard, she was explaining to her maid, with some ingenious falsehood, the disorder of her things. Flesh and blood could bear the strain no longer; and I think it was the next morning (though chronology is always hazy in the theatre of the mind) that he burst from his reserve. They had been breakfasting together in one corner of a great, parqueted, sparely-furnished room of many windows; all the time of the meal she had tortured him with sly allusions; and no sooner were the servants gone, and these two protagonists alone together, than he leaped to his feet. She too sprang up, with a pale face; with a pale face, she heard him as he raved out his complaint: Why did she torture him so? she knew all, she knew he was no enemy to her; why did she not denounce him at once? what signified her whole behaviour? why did she torture him? and yet again, why did she torture him? And when he had done, she fell upon her knees, and with outstretched hands: "Do you not understand?" she cried. "I love you!" Hereupon, with a pang of wonder and mercantile delight the dreamer awoke. His mercantile delight was not of long endurance; for it soon became plain that in this spirited tale there were unmarketable elements; which is just the reason why you have it here so briefly told. But his wonder has still kept growing; and I think the reader's will also, if he consider it ripely. For now he sees why I speak of the little people as of substantive inventors and performers. To the end they had kept their secret. I will go bail for the dreamer (having excellent grounds for valuing his candour) that he had no guess whatever at the motive of the woman--the hinge of the whole well-invented plot--until the instant of that highly dramatic declaration. It was not his tale; it was the little people's! And observe: not only was the secret kept, the story was told with really guileful craftsmanship. The conduct of both actors is (in the cant phrase) psychologically correct, and the emotion aptly graduated up to the surprising climax. I am awake now, and I know this trade; and yet I cannot better it. I am awake, and I live by this business; and yet I could not outdo--could not perhaps equal--that crafty artifice (as of some old, experienced carpenter of plays, some Dennery or Sardou) by which the same situation is twice presented and the two actors twice brought face to face over the evidence, only once it is in her hand, once in his--and these in their due order, the least dramatic first. The more I think of it, the more I am moved to press upon the world my question: Who are the Little People? They are near connections of the dreamer's, beyond doubt; they share in his financial worries and have an eye to the bank-book; they share plainly in his training; they have plainly learned like him to build the scheme of a considerate story and to arrange emotion in progressive order; only I think they have more talent; and one thing is beyond doubt, they can tell him a story piece by piece, like a serial, and keep him all the while in ignorance of where they aim. Who are they, then? and who is the dreamer? Well, as regards the dreamer, I can answer that, for he is no less a person than myself;--as I might have told you from the beginning, only that the critics murmur over my consistent egotism;--and as I am positively forced to tell you now, or I could advance but little further with my story. And for the Little People, what shall I say they are but just my Brownies, God bless them! who do one-half my work for me while I am fast asleep, and in all human likelihood, do the rest for me as well, when I am wide awake and fondly suppose I do it for myself. That part which is done while I am sleeping is the Brownies' part beyond contention; but that which is done when I am up and about is by no means necessarily mine, since all goes to show the Brownies have a hand in it even then. Here is a doubt that much concerns my conscience. For myself--what I call I, my conscious ego, the denizen of the pineal gland unless he has changed his residence since Descartes, the man with the conscience and the variable bank-account, the man with the hat and the boots, and the privilege of voting and not carrying his candidate at the general elections--I am sometimes tempted to suppose is no story-teller at all, but a creature as matter of fact as any cheesemonger or any cheese, and a realist bemired up to the ears in actuality; so that, by that account, the whole of my published fiction should be the single-handed product of some Brownie, some Familiar, some unseen collaborator, whom I keep locked in a back garret, while I get all the praise and he but a share (which I cannot prevent him getting) of the pudding. I am an excellent adviser, something like Molière's servant. I pull back and I cut down; and I dress the whole in the best words and sentences that I can find and make; I hold the pen, too; and I do the sitting at the table, which is about the worst of it; and when all is done, I make up the manuscript and pay for the registration; so that, on the whole, I have some claim to share, though not so largely as I do, in the profits of our common enterprise. I can but give an instance or so of what part is done sleeping and what part awake, and leave the reader to share what laurels there are, at his own nod, between myself and my collaborators; and to do this I will first take a book that a number of persons have been polite enough to read, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." I had long been trying to write a story on this subject, to find a body, a vehicle, for that strong sense of man's double being which must at times come in upon and overwhelm the mind of every thinking creature. I had even written one, "The Travelling Companion," which was returned by an editor on the plea that it was a work of genius and indecent, and which I burned the other day on the ground that it was not a work of genius, and that "Jekyll" had supplanted it. Then came one of those financial fluctuations to which (with an elegant modesty) I have hitherto referred in the third person. For two days I went about racking my brains for a plot of any sort; and on the second night I dreamed the scene at the window, and a scene afterward split in two, in which Hyde, pursued for some crime, took the powder and underwent the change in the presence of his pursuers. All the rest was made awake, and consciously, although I think I can trace in much of it the manner of my Brownies. The meaning of the tale is therefore mine, and had long pre-existed in my garden of Adonis, and tried one body after another in vain; indeed, I do most of the morality, worse luck! and my Brownies have not a rudiment of what we call a conscience. Mine, too, is the setting, mine the characters. All that was given me was the matter of three scenes, and the central idea of a voluntary change becoming involuntary. Will it be thought ungenerous, after I have been so liberally ladling out praise to my unseen collaborators, if I here toss them over, bound hand and foot, into the arena of the critics? For the business of the powders, which so many have censured, is, I am relieved to say, not mine at all, but the Brownies'. Of another tale, in case the reader should have glanced at it, I may say a word: the not very defensible story of "Olalla." Here the court, the mother, the mother's niche, Olalla, Olalla's chamber, the meetings on the stair, the broken window, the ugly scene of the bite, were all given me in bulk and detail as I have tried to write them; to this I added only the external scenery (for in my dream I never was beyond the court), the portrait, the characters of Felipe and the priest, the moral, such as it is, and the last pages, such as, alas! they are. And I may even say that in this case the moral itself was given me; for it arose immediately on a comparison of the mother and the daughter, and from the hideous trick of atavism in the first. Sometimes a parabolic sense is still more undeniably present in a dream; sometimes I cannot but suppose my Brownies have been aping Bunyan, and yet in no case with what would possibly be called a moral in a tract; never with the ethical narrowness; conveying hints instead of life's larger limitations and that sort of sense which we seem to perceive in the arabesque of time and space. For the most part, it will be seen, my Brownies are somewhat fantastic, like their stories hot and hot, full of passion and the picturesque, alive with animating incident; and they have no prejudice against the supernatural. But the other day they gave me a surprise, entertaining me with a love-story, a little April comedy, which I ought certainly to hand over to the author of "A Chance Acquaintance," for he could write it as it should be written, and I am sure (although I mean to try) that I cannot.--But who would have supposed that a Brownie of mine should invent a tale for Mr. Howells? IV BEGGARS I In a pleasant, airy, up-hill country, it was my fortune when I was young to make the acquaintance of a certain beggar. I call him beggar, though he usually allowed his coat and his shoes (which were open-mouthed, indeed) to beg for him. He was the wreck of an athletic man, tall, gaunt, and bronzed; far gone in consumption, with that disquieting smile of the mortally stricken on his face; but still active afoot, still with the brisk military carriage, the ready military salute. Three ways led through this piece of country; and as I was inconstant in my choice, I believe he must often have awaited me in vain. But often enough, he caught me; often enough, from some place of ambush by the roadside, he would spring suddenly forth in the regulation attitude, and launching at once into his inconsequential talk, fall into step with me upon my farther course. "A fine morning, sir, though perhaps a trifle inclining to rain. I hope I see you well, sir. Why, no, sir, I don't feel as hearty myself as I could wish, but I am keeping about my ordinary. I am pleased to meet you on the road, sir. I assure you I quite look forward to one of our little conversations." He loved the sound of his own voice inordinately, and though (with something too off-hand to call servility) he would always hasten to agree with anything you said, yet he could never suffer you to say it to an end. By what transition he slid to his favourite subject I have no memory; but we had never been long together on the way before he was dealing, in a very military manner, with the English poets. "Shelley was a fine poet, sir, though a trifle atheistical in his opinions. His 'Queen Mab,' sir, is quite an atheistical work. Scott, sir, is not so poetical a writer. With the works of Shakespeare I am not so well acquainted, but he was a fine poet. Keats--John Keats, sir--he was a very fine poet." With such references, such trivial criticism, such loving parade of his own knowledge, he would beguile the road, striding forward up-hill, his staff now clapped to the ribs of his deep, resonant chest, now swinging in the air with the remembered jauntiness of the private soldier; and all the while his toes looking out of his boots, and his shirt looking out of his elbows, and death looking out of his smile, and his big, crazy frame shaken by accesses of cough. He would often go the whole way home with me: often to borrow a book, and that book always a poet. Off he would march, to continue his mendicant rounds, with the volume slipped into the pocket of his ragged coat; and although he would sometimes keep it quite a while, yet it came always back again at last, not much the worse for its travels into beggardom. And in this way, doubtless, his knowledge grew and his glib, random criticism took a wider range. But my library was not the first he had drawn upon: at our first encounter, he was already brimful of Shelley and the atheistical "Queen Mab," and "Keats--John Keats, sir." And I have often wondered how he came by these acquirements, just as I often wondered how he fell to be a beggar. He had served through the Mutiny--of which (like so many people) he could tell practically nothing beyond the names of places, and that it was "difficult work, sir," and very hot, or that so-and-so was "a very fine commander, sir." He was far too smart a man to have remained a private; in the nature of things, he must have won his stripes. And yet here he was, without a pension. When I touched on this problem, he would content himself with diffidently offering me advice. "A man should be very careful when he is young, sir. If you'll excuse me saying so, a spirited young gentleman like yourself, sir, should be very careful. I was perhaps a trifle inclined to atheistical opinions myself." For (perhaps with a deeper wisdom than we are inclined in these days to admit) he plainly bracketed agnosticism with beer and skittles. Keats--John Keats, sir--and Shelley were his favourite bards. I cannot remember if I tried him with Rossetti; but I know his taste to a hair, and if ever I did, he must have doted on that author. What took him was a richness in the speech; he loved the exotic, the unexpected word; the moving cadence of a phrase; a vague sense of emotion (about nothing) in the very letters of the alphabet: the romance of language. His honest head was very nearly empty, his intellect like a child's; and when he read his favourite authors, he can almost never have understood what he was reading. Yet the taste was not only genuine, it was exclusive; I tried in vain to offer him novels; he would none of them, he cared for nothing but romantic language that he could not understand. The case may be commoner than we suppose. I am reminded of a lad who was laid in the next cot to a friend of mine in a public hospital, and who was no sooner installed than he sent out (perhaps with his last pence) for a cheap Shakespeare. My friend pricked up his ears; fell at once in talk with his new neighbour, and was ready, when the book arrived, to make a singular discovery. For this lover of great literature understood not one sentence out of twelve, and his favourite part was that of which he understood the least--the inimitable, mouth-filling rodomontade of the ghost in _Hamlet_. It was a bright day in hospital when my friend expounded the sense of this beloved jargon: a task for which I am willing to believe my friend was very fit, though I can never regard it as an easy one. I know indeed a point or two, on which I would gladly question Mr. Shakespeare, that lover of big words, could he revisit the glimpses of the moon, or could I myself climb backward to the spacious days of Elizabeth. But, in the second case, I should most likely pretermit these questionings, and take my place instead in the pit at the Blackfriars, to hear the actor in his favourite part, playing up to Mr. Burbage, and rolling out--as I seem to hear him--with a ponderous gusto-- "Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd." What a pleasant chance, if we could go there in a party! and what a surprise for Mr. Burbage, when the ghost received the honours of the evening! As for my old soldier, like Mr. Burbage and Mr. Shakespeare, he is long since dead; and now lies buried, I suppose, and nameless and quite forgotten, in some poor city graveyard.--But not for me, you brave heart, have you been buried! For me, you are still afoot, tasting the sun and air, and striding southward. By the groves of Comiston and beside the Hermitage of Braid, by the Hunters' Tryst, and where the curlews and plovers cry around Fairmilehead, I see and hear you, stalwartly carrying your deadly sickness, cheerfully discoursing of uncomprehended poets. II The thought of the old soldier recalls that of another tramp, his counterpart. This was a little, lean, and fiery man, with the eyes of a dog and the face of a gipsy; whom I found one morning encamped with his wife and children and his grinder's wheel, beside the burn of Kinnaird. To this beloved dell I went, at that time, daily; and daily the knife-grinder and I (for as long as his tent continued pleasantly to interrupt my little wilderness) sat on two stones, and smoked, and plucked grass and talked to the tune of the brown water. His children were mere whelps, they fought and bit among the fern like vermin. His wife was a mere squaw; I saw her gather brush and tend the kettle, but she never ventured to address her lord while I was present. The tent was a mere gipsy hovel, like a sty for pigs. But the grinder himself had the fine self-sufficiency and grave politeness of the hunter and the savage; he did me the honours of this dell, which had been mine but the day before, took me far into the secrets of his life, and used me (I am proud to remember) as a friend. Like my old soldier, he was far gone in the national complaint. Unlike him, he had a vulgar taste in letters; scarce flying higher than the story papers; probably finding no difference, certainly seeking none, between Tannahill and Burns; his noblest thoughts, whether of poetry or music, adequately embodied in that somewhat obvious ditty, "Will ye gang, lassie, gang To the braes o' Balquhidder": --which is indeed apt to echo in the ears of Scottish children, and to him, in view of his experience, must have found a special directness of address. But if he had no fine sense of poetry in letters, he felt with a deep joy the poetry of life. You should have heard him speak of what he loved; of the tent pitched beside the talking water; of the stars overhead at night; of the blest return of morning, the peep of day over the moors, the awaking birds among the birches; how he abhorred the long winter shut in cities; and with what delight, at the return of the spring, he once more pitched his camp in the living out-of-doors. But we were a pair of tramps; and to you, who are doubtless sedentary and a consistent first-class passenger in life, he would scarce have laid himself so open;--to you, he might have been content to tell his story of a ghost--that of a buccaneer with his pistols as he lived--whom he had once encountered in a seaside cave near Buckie; and that would have been enough, for that would have shown you the mettle of the man. Here was a piece of experience solidly and livingly built up in words, here was a story created, _teres atque rotundus_. And to think of the old soldier, that lover of the literary bards! He had visited stranger spots than any seaside cave; encountered men more terrible than any spirit; done and dared and suffered in that incredible, unsung epic of the Mutiny War; played his part with the field force of Delhi, beleaguering and beleaguered; shared in that enduring, savage anger and contempt of death and decency that, for long months together, bedevil'd and inspired the army; was hurled to and fro in the battle-smoke of the assault; was there, perhaps, where Nicholson fell; was there when the attacking column, with hell upon every side, found the soldier's enemy--strong drink, and the lives of tens of thousands trembled in the scale, and the fate of the flag of England staggered. And of all this he had no more to say than "hot work, sir," or "the army suffered a great deal, sir," or, "I believe General Wilson, sir, was not very highly thought of in the papers." His life was naught to him, the vivid pages of experience quite blank: in words his pleasure lay--melodious, agitated words--printed words, about that which he had never seen and was connatally incapable of comprehending. We have here two temperaments face to face; both untrained, unsophisticated, surprised (we may say) in the egg; both boldly charactered:--that of the artist, the lover and artificer of words; that of the maker, the seeër, the lover and forger of experience. If the one had a daughter and the other had a son, and these married, might not some illustrious writer count descent from the beggar-soldier and the needy knife-grinder? III Every one lives by selling something, whatever be his right to it. The burglar sells at the same time his own skill and courage and my silver plate (the whole at the most moderate figure) to a Jew receiver. The bandit sells the traveller an article of prime necessity: that traveller's life. And as for the old soldier, who stands for central mark to my capricious figures of eight, he dealt in a specialty; for he was the only beggar in the world who ever gave me pleasure for my money. He had learned a school of manners in the barracks and had the sense to cling to it, accosting strangers with a regimental freedom, thanking patrons with a merely regimental difference, sparing you at once the tragedy of his position and the embarrassment of yours. There was not one hint about him of the beggar's emphasis, the outburst of revolting gratitude, the rant and cant, the "God bless you, Kind, Kind gentleman," which insults the smallness of your alms by disproportionate vehemence, which is so notably false, which would be so unbearable if it were true. I am sometimes tempted to suppose this reading of the beggar's part a survival of the old days when Shakespeare was intoned upon the stage and mourners keened beside the death-bed; to think that we cannot now accept these strong emotions unless they be uttered in the just note of life; nor (save in the pulpit) endure these gross conventions. They wound us, I am tempted to say, like mockery; the high voice of keening (as it yet lingers on) strikes in the face of sorrow like a buffet; and the rant and cant of the staled beggar stirs in us a shudder of disgust. But the fact disproves these amateur opinions. The beggar lives by his knowledge of the average man. He knows what he is about when he bandages his head, and hires and drugs a babe, and poisons life with "Poor Mary Ann" or "Long, long ago"; he knows what he is about when he loads the critical ear and sickens the nice conscience with intolerable thanks; they know what they are about, he and his crew, when they pervade the slums of cities, ghastly parodies of suffering, hateful parodies of gratitude. This trade can scarce be called an imposition; it has been so blown upon with exposures; it flaunts its fraudulence so nakedly. We pay them as we pay those who show us, in huge exaggeration, the monsters of our drinking-water; or those who daily predict the fall of Britain. We pay them for the pain they inflict, pay them, and wince, and hurry on. And truly there is nothing that can shake the conscience like a beggar's thanks; and that polity in which such protestations can be purchased for a shilling, seems no scene for an honest man. Are there, then, we may be asked, no genuine beggars? And the answer is, Not one. My old soldier was a humbug like the rest; his ragged boots were, in the stage phrase, properties; whole boots were given him again and again, and always gladly accepted; and the next day, there he was on the road as usual, with toes exposed. His boots were his method; they were the man's trade; without his boots he would have starved; he did not live by charity, but by appealing to a gross taste in the public, which loves the limelight on the actor's face, and the toes out of the beggar's boots. There is a true poverty, which no one sees: a false and merely mimetic poverty, which usurps its place and dress, and lives, and above all drinks, on the fruits of the usurpation. The true poverty does not go into the streets; the banker may rest assured, he has never put a penny in its hand. The self-respecting poor beg from each other; never from the rich. To live in the frock-coated ranks of life, to hear canting scenes of gratitude rehearsed for twopence, a man might suppose that giving was a thing gone out of fashion; yet it goes forward on a scale so great as to fill me with surprise. In the houses of the working classes, all day long there will be a foot upon the stair; all day long there will be a knocking at the doors; beggars come, beggars go, without stint, hardly with intermission, from morning till night; and meanwhile, in the same city and but a few streets off, the castles of the rich stand unsummoned. Get the tale of any honest tramp, you will find it was always the poor who helped him; get the truth from any workman who has met misfortunes, it was always next door that he would go for help, or only with such exceptions as are said to prove a rule; look at the course of the mimetic beggar, it is through the poor quarters that he trails his passage, showing his bandages to every window, piercing even to the attics with his nasal song. Here is a remarkable state of things in our Christian commonwealths, that the poor only should be asked to give. IV There is a pleasant tale of some worthless, phrasing Frenchman, who was taxed with ingratitude: "_Il faut savoir garder l'indépendance du coeur_," cried he. I own I feel with him. Gratitude without familiarity, gratitude otherwise than as a nameless element in a friendship, is a thing so near to hatred that I do not care to split the difference. Until I find a man who is pleased to receive obligations, I shall continue to question the tact of those who are eager to confer them. What an art it is, to give, even to our nearest friends! and what a test of manners, to receive! How, upon either side, we smuggle away the obligation, blushing for each other; how bluff and dull we make the giver; how hasty, how falsely cheerful, the receiver! And yet an act of such difficulty and distress between near friends, it is supposed we can perform to a total stranger and leave the man transfixed with grateful emotions. The last thing you can do to a man is to burthen him with an obligation, and it is what we propose to begin with! But let us not be deceived: unless he is totally degraded to his trade, anger jars in his inside, and he grates his teeth at our gratuity. We should wipe two words from our vocabulary: gratitude and charity. In real life, help is given out of friendship, or it is not valued; it is received from the hand of friendship, or it is resented. We are all too proud to take a naked gift: we must seem to pay it, if in nothing else, then with the delights of our society. Here, then, is the pitiful fix of the rich man; here is that needle's eye in which he stuck already in the days of Christ, and still sticks to-day, firmer, if possible, than ever: that he has the money and lacks the love which should make his money acceptable. Here and now, just as of old in Palestine, he has the rich to dinner, it is with the rich that he takes his pleasure: and when his turn comes to be charitable, he looks in vain for a recipient. His friends are not poor, they do not want; the poor are not his friends, they will not take. To whom is he to give? Where to find--note this phrase--the Deserving Poor? Charity is (what they call) centralised; offices are hired; societies founded, with secretaries paid or unpaid: the hunt of the Deserving Poor goes merrily forward. I think it will take more than a merely human secretary to disinter that character. What! a class that is to be in want from no fault of its own, and yet greedily eager to receive from strangers; and to be quite respectable, and at the same time quite devoid of self-respect; and play the most delicate part of friendship, and yet never be seen; and wear the form of man, and yet fly in the face of all the laws of human nature:--and all this, in the hope of getting a belly-god Burgess through a needle's eye! Oh, let him stick, by all means: and let his polity tumble in the dust; and let his epitaph and all his literature (of which my own works begin to form no inconsiderable part) be abolished even from the history of man! For a fool of this monstrosity of dulness, there can be no salvation: and the fool who looked for the elixir of life was an angel of reason to the fool who looks for the Deserving Poor! V And yet there is one course which the unfortunate gentleman may take. He may subscribe to pay the taxes. There were the true charity, impartial and impersonal, cumbering none with obligation, helping all. There were a destination for loveless gifts; there were the way to reach the pocket of the deserving poor, and yet save the time of secretaries! But, alas! there is no colour of romance in such a course; and people nowhere demand the picturesque so much as in their virtues. V THE LANTERN-BEARERS I These boys congregated every autumn about a certain easterly fisher-village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory of existence. The place was created seemingly on purpose for the diversion of young gentlemen. A street or two of houses, mostly red and many of them tiled; a number of fine trees clustered about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the chief street into a shady alley; many little gardens more than usually bright with flowers; nets a-drying, and fisher-wives scolding in the backward parts; a smell of fish, a genial smell of seaweed; whiffs of blowing sand at the street-corners; shops with golf-balls and bottled lollipops; another shop with penny pickwicks (that remarkable cigar) and the _London Journal_, dear to me for its startling pictures, and a few novels, dear for their suggestive names: such, as well as memory serves me, were the ingredients of the town. These, you are to conceive posted on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with villas--enough for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cocknify the scene: a haven in the rocks in front: in front of that, a file of grey islets: to the left, endless links and sand wreaths, a wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring gulls: to the right, a range of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond another; the ruins of a mighty and ancient fortress on the brink of one; coves between--now charmed into sunshine quiet, now whistling with wind and clamorous with bursting surges; the dens and sheltered hollows redolent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliff's edge brisk and clean and pungent of the sea--in front of all, the Bass Rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing it with white, the solan-geese hanging round its summit like a great and glittering smoke. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, to the wrecker; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still flew the colours of King James; and in the ear of fancy the arches of Tantallon still rang with horse-shoe iron, and echoed to the commands of Bell-the-Cat. There was nothing to mar your days, if you were a boy summering in that part, but the embarrassment of pleasure. You might golf if you wanted; but I seem to have been better employed. You might secrete yourself in the Lady's Walk, a certain sunless dingle of elders, all mossed over by the damp as green as grass, and dotted here and there by the stream-side with roofless walls, the cold homes of anchorites. To fit themselves for life, and with a special eye to acquire the art of smoking, it was even common for the boys to harbour there; and you might have seen a single penny pickwick, honestly shared in lengths with a blunt knife, bestrew the glen with these apprentices. Again, you might join our fishing parties, where we sat perched as thick as solan-geese, a covey of little anglers, boy and girl, angling over each other's heads, to the much entanglement of lines and loss of podleys and consequent shrill recrimination--shrill as the geese themselves. Indeed, had that been all, you might have done this often; but though fishing be a fine pastime, the podley is scarce to be regarded as a dainty for the table; and it was a point of honour that a boy should eat all that he had taken. Or again, you might climb the Law, where the whale's jawbone stood landmark in the buzzing wind, and behold the face of many counties, and the smoke and spires of many towns, and the sails of distant ships. You might bathe, now in the flaws of fine weather, that we pathetically call our summer, now in a gale of wind, with the sand scourging your bare hide, your clothes thrashing abroad from underneath their guardian stone, the froth of the great breakers casting you headlong ere it had drowned your knees. Or you might explore the tidal rocks, above all in the ebb of springs, when the very roots of the hills were for the nonce discovered; following my leader from one group to another, groping in slippery tangle for the wreck of ships, wading in pools after the abominable creatures of the sea, and ever with an eye cast backward on the march of the tide and the menaced line of your retreat. And then you might go Crusoeing, a word that covers all extempore eating in the open air: digging perhaps a house under the margin of the links, kindling a fire of the sea-ware, and cooking apples there--if they were truly apples, for I sometimes suppose the merchant must have played us off with some inferior and quite local fruit, capable of resolving, in the neighbourhood of fire, into mere sand and smoke and iodine; or perhaps pushing to Tantallon, you might lunch on sandwiches and visions in the grassy court, while the wind hummed in the crumbling turrets; or clambering along the coast, eat geans[17] (the worst, I must suppose, in Christendom) from an adventurous gean tree that had taken root under a cliff, where it was shaken with an ague of east wind, and silvered after gales with salt, and grew so foreign among its bleak surroundings that to eat of its produce was an adventure in itself. There are mingled some dismal memories with so many that were joyous. Of the fisher-wife, for instance, who had cut her throat at Canty Bay; and of how I ran with the other children to the top of the Quadrant, and beheld a posse of silent people escorting a cart, and on the cart, bound in a chair, her throat bandaged, and the bandage all bloody--horror!--the fisher-wife herself, who continued thenceforth to hag-ride my thoughts, and even to-day (as I recall the scene) darkens daylight. She was lodged in the little old gaol in the chief street; but whether or no she died there, with a wise terror of the worst, I never inquired. She had been tippling; it was but a dingy tragedy; and it seems strange and hard that, after all these years, the poor crazy sinner should be still pilloried on her cart in the scrap-book of my memory. Nor shall I readily forget a certain house in the Quadrant where a visitor died, and a dark old woman continued to dwell alone with the dead body; nor how this old woman conceived a hatred to myself and one of my cousins, and in the dread hour of the dusk, as we were clambering on the garden-walls, opened a window in that house of mortality and cursed us in a shrill voice and with a marrowy choice of language. It was a pair of very colourless urchins that fled down the lane from this remarkable experience! But I recall with a more doubtful sentiment, compounded out of fear and exultation, the coil of equinoctial tempests; trumpeting squalls, scouring flaws of rain; the boats with their reefed lugsails scudding for the harbour mouth, where danger lay, for it was hard to make when the wind had any east in it; the wives clustered with blowing shawls at the pier-head, where (if fate was against them) they might see boat and husband and sons--their whole wealth and their whole family--engulfed under their eyes; and (what I saw but once) a troop of neighbours forcing such an unfortunate homeward, and she squalling and battling in their midst, a figure scarcely human, a tragic Mænad. These are things that I recall with interest; but what my memory dwells upon the most, I have been all this while withholding. It was a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to a week or so of our two months' holiday there. Maybe it still flourishes in its native spot; for boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man; so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the sun and moon; and the harmless art of knucklebones has seen the fall of the Roman empire and the rise of the United States. It may still flourish in its native spot, but nowhere else, I am persuaded; for I tried myself to introduce it on Tweedside, and was defeated lamentably; its charm being quite local, like a country wine that cannot be exported. The idle manner of it was this:-- Toward the end of September, when school-time was drawing near and the nights were already black, we would begin to sally from our respective villas, each equipped with a tin bull's-eye lantern. The thing was so well known that it had worn a rut in the commerce of Great Britain; and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish their windows with our particular brand of luminary. We wore them buckled to the waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was the rigour of the game, a buttoned top-coat. They smelled noisomely of blistered tin; they never burned aright, though they would always burn our fingers; their use was naught; the pleasure of them merely fanciful; and yet a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat asked for nothing more. The fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and it was from them, I suppose, that we had got the hint; but theirs were not bull's-eyes, nor did we ever play at being fishermen. The police carried them at their belts, and we had plainly copied them in that; yet we did not pretend to be policemen. Burglars, indeed, we may have had some haunting thoughts of; and we had certainly an eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to certain story-books in which we had found them to figure very largely. But take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive; and to be a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat was good enough for us. When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious "Have you got your lantern?" and a gratified "Yes!" That was the shibboleth, and very needful too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, none could recognise a lantern-bearer, unless (like the polecat) by the smell. Four or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten-man lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above them--for the cabin was usually locked--or choose out some hollow of the links where the wind might whistle overhead. There the coats would be unbuttoned and the bull's-eyes discovered; and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge windy hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the cold sand of the links or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight themselves with inappropriate talk. Woe is me that I may not give some specimens--some of their foresights of life, or deep inquiries into the rudiments of man and nature, these were so fiery and so innocent, they were so richly silly, so romantically young. But the talk, at any rate, was but a condiment; and these gatherings themselves only accidents in the career of the lantern-bearer. The essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night; the slide shut; the top-coat buttoned; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public: a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge. II It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid. It may be contended, rather, that this (somewhat minor) bard in almost every case survives, and is the spice of life to his possessor. Justice is not done to the versatility and the unplumbed childishness of man's imagination. His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud; there will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells delighted; and for as dark as his pathway seems to the observer, he will have some kind of a bull's-eye at his belt. It would be hard to pick out a career more cheerless than that of Dancer, the miser, as he figures in the "Old Bailey Reports," a prey to the most sordid persecutions, the butt of his neighbourhood, betrayed by his hired man, his house beleaguered by the impish school-boy, and he himself grinding and fuming and impotently fleeing to the law against these pin-pricks. You marvel at first that any one should willingly prolong a life so destitute of charm and dignity; and then you call to memory that had he chosen, had he ceased to be a miser, he could have been freed at once from these trials, and might have built himself a castle and gone escorted by a squadron. For the love of more recondite joys, which we cannot estimate, which, it may be, we should envy, the man had willingly forgone both comfort and consideration. "His mind to him a kingdom was"; and sure enough, digging into that mind, which seems at first a dust-heap, we unearth some priceless jewels. For Dancer must have had the love of power and the disdain of using it, a noble character in itself; disdain of many pleasures, a chief part of what is commonly called wisdom; disdain of the inevitable end, that finest trait of mankind; scorn of men's opinions, another element of virtue; and at the back of all, a conscience just like yours and mine, whining like a cur, swindling like a thimble-rigger, but still pointing (there or thereabout) to some conventional standard. Here were a cabinet portrait to which Hawthorne perhaps had done justice; and yet not Hawthorne either, for he was mildly minded, and it lay not in him to create for us that throb of the miser's pulse, his fretful energy of gusto, his vast arms of ambition clutching in he knows not what: insatiable, insane, a god with a muck-rake. Thus, at least, looking in the bosom of the miser, consideration detects the poet in the full tide of life, with more, indeed, of the poetic fire than usually goes to epics; and tracing that mean man about his cold hearth, and to and fro in his discomfortable house, spies within him a blazing bonfire of delight. And so with others, who do not live by bread alone, but by some cherished and perhaps fantastic pleasure; who are meat salesmen to the external eye, and possibly to themselves are Shakespeares, Napoleons, or Beethovens; who have not one virtue to rub against another in the field of active life, and yet perhaps, in the life of contemplation, sit with the saints. We see them on the street, and we can count their buttons; but heaven knows in what they pride themselves! heaven knows where they have set their treasure! There is one fable that touches very near the quick of life: the fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and found himself on his return a stranger at his convent gates; for he had been absent fifty years, and of all his comrades there survived but one to recognise him. It is not only in the woods that this enchanter carols, though perhaps he is native there. He sings in the most doleful places. The miser hears him and chuckles, and the days are moments. With no more apparatus than an ill-smelling lantern I have evoked him on the naked links. All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of two strands: seeking for that bird and hearing him. And it is just this that makes life so hard to value, and the delight of each so incommunicable; and just a knowledge of this, and a remembrance of those fortunate hours in which the bird has sung to us, that fills us with such wonder when we turn the pages of the realist. There, to be sure, we find a picture of life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap desires and cheap fears, that which we are ashamed to remember and that which we are careless whether we forget; but of the note of that time-devouring nightingale we hear no news. The case of these writers of romance is most obscure. They have been boys and youths; they have lingered outside the window of the beloved, who was then most probably writing to some one else; they have sat before a sheet of paper, and felt themselves mere continents of congested poetry, not one line of which would flow; they have walked alone in the woods, they have walked in cities under the countless lamps; they have been to sea, they have hated, they have feared, they have longed to knife a man, and maybe done it; the wild taste of life has stung their palate. Or, if you deny them all the rest, one pleasure at least they have tasted to the full--their books are there to prove it--the keen pleasure of successful literary composition. And yet they fill the globe with volumes, whose cleverness inspires me with despairing admiration, and whose consistent falsity to all I care to call existence, with despairing wrath. If I had no better hope than to continue to revolve among the dreary and petty businesses, and to be moved by the paltry hopes and fears with which they surround and animate their heroes, I declare I would die now. But there has never an hour of mine gone quite so dully yet; if it were spent waiting at a railway junction, I would have some scattering thoughts, I could count some grains of memory, compared to which the whole of one of these romances seems but dross. These writers would retort (if I take them properly) that this was very true; that it was the same with themselves and other persons of (what they call) the artistic temperament that in this we were exceptional, and should apparently be ashamed of ourselves; but that our works must deal exclusively with (what they call) the average man, who was a prodigious dull fellow, and quite dead to all but the paltriest considerations. I accept the issue. We can only know others by ourselves. The artistic temperament (a plague on the expression!) does not make us different from our fellow-men, or it would make us incapable of writing novels; and the average man (a murrain on the word!) is just like you and me, or he would not be average. It was Whitman who stamped a kind of Birmingham sacredness upon the latter phrase; but Whitman knew very well, and showed very nobly, that the average man was full of joys and full of poetry of his own. And this harping on life's dulness and man's meanness is a loud profession of incompetence; it is one of two things: the cry of the blind eye, _I cannot see_, or the complaint of the dumb tongue, _I cannot utter_. To draw a life without delights is to prove I have not realised it. To picture a man without some sort of poetry--well, it goes near to prove my case, for it shows an author may have little enough. To see Dancer only as a dirty, old, small-minded, impotently fuming man, in a dirty house, besieged by Harrow boys, and probably beset by small attorneys, is to show myself as keen an observer as ... the Harrow boys. But these young gentlemen (with a more becoming modesty) were content to pluck Dancer by the coat-tails; they did not suppose they had surprised his secret or could put him living in a book: and it is there my error would have lain. Or say that in the same romance--I continue to call these books romances, in the hope of giving pain--say that in the same romance, which now begins really to take shape, I should leave to speak of Dancer, and follow instead the Harrow boys; and say that I came on some such business as that of my lantern-bearers on the links; and described the boys as very cold, spat upon by flurries of rain, and drearily surrounded, all of which they were; and their talk as silly and indecent, which it certainly was. I might upon these lines, and had I Zola's genius, turn out, in a page or so, a gem of literary art, render the lantern-light with the touches of a master, and lay on the indecency with the ungrudging hand of love; and when all was done, what a triumph would my picture be of shallowness and dulness! how it would have missed the point! how it would have belied the boys! To the ear of the stenographer, the talk is merely silly and indecent; but ask the boys themselves, and they are discussing (as it is highly proper they should) the possibilities of existence. To the eye of the observer they are wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heaven of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an ill-smelling lantern. III For, to repeat, the ground of a man's joy is often hard to hit. It may hinge at times upon a mere accessory, like the lantern; it may reside, like Dancer's, in the mysterious inwards of psychology. It may consist with perpetual failure, and find exercise in the continued chase. It has so little bond with externals (such as the observer scribbles in his note-book) that it may even touch them not; and the man's true life, for which he consents to live, lie altogether in the field of fancy. The clergyman, in his spare hours, may be winning battles, the farmer sailing ships, the banker reaping triumph in the arts: all leading another life, plying another trade from that they chose; like the poet's housebuilder, who, after all, is cased in stone, "By his fireside, as impotent fancy prompts, Rebuilds it to his liking." In such a case the poetry runs underground. The observer (poor soul, with his documents!) is all abroad. For to look at the man is but to court deception. We shall see the trunk from which he draws his nourishment; but he himself is above and abroad in the green dome of foliage, hummed through by winds and nested in by nightingales. And the true realism were that of the poets, to climb up after him like a squirrel, and catch some glimpse of the heaven for which he lives. And the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss all. In the joy of the actors lies the sense of any action. That is the explanation, that the excuse. To one who has not the secret of the lanterns, the scene upon the links is meaningless. And hence the haunting and truly spectral unreality of realistic books. Hence, when we read the English realists, the incredulous wonder with which we observe the hero's constancy under the submerging tide of dulness, and how he bears up with his jibbing sweetheart, and endures the chatter of idiot girls, and stands by his whole unfeatured wilderness of an existence, instead of seeking relief in drink or foreign travel. Hence in the French, in that meat-market of middle-aged sensuality, the disgusted surprise with which we see the hero drift sidelong, and practically quite untempted, into every description of misconduct and dishonour. In each, we miss the personal poetry, the enchanted atmosphere, that rainbow work of fancy that clothes what is naked and seems to ennoble what is base; in each, life falls dead like dough, instead of soaring away like a balloon into the colours of the sunset; each is true, each inconceivable; for no man lives in external truth, among salts and acids, but in the warm, phantasmagoric chamber of his brain, with the painted windows and the storied walls. Of this falsity we have had a recent example from a man who knows far better--Tolstoi's "Powers of Darkness." Here is a piece full of force and truth, yet quite untrue. For before Mikita was led into so dire a situation he was tempted, and temptations are beautiful at least in part; and a work which dwells on the ugliness of crime and gives no hint of any loveliness in the temptation, sins against the modesty of life, and, even when Tolstoi writes it, sinks to melodrama. The peasants are not understood; they saw their life in fairer colours; even the deaf girl was clothed in poetry for Mikita, or he had never fallen. And so, once again, even an Old Bailey melodrama, without some brightness of poetry and lustre of existence, falls into the inconceivable and ranks with fairy tales. IV In nobler books we are moved with something like the emotions of life; and this emotion is very variously provoked. We are so moved when Levine labours on the field, when André sinks beyond emotion, when Richard Feverel and Lucy Desborough meet beside the river, when Antony, "not cowardly, puts off his helmet," when Kent has infinite pity on the dying Lear, when, in Dostoieffsky's "Despised and Rejected," the uncomplaining hero drains his cup of suffering and virtue. These are notes that please the great heart of man. Not only love, and the fields, and the bright face of danger, but sacrifice and death and unmerited suffering humbly supported, touch in us the vein of the poetic. We love to think of them, we long to try them, we are humbly hopeful that we may prove heroes also. We have heard, perhaps, too much of lesser matters. Here is the door, here is the open air. _Itur in antiquam silvam._ FOOTNOTE: [17] Wild cherries. LATER ESSAYS LATER ESSAYS I FONTAINEBLEAU VILLAGE COMMUNITIES OF PAINTERS I The charm of Fontainebleau is a thing apart. It is a place that people love even more than they admire. The vigorous forest air, the silence, the majestic avenues of highway, the wilderness of tumbled boulders, the great age and dignity of certain groves--these are but ingredients, they are not the secret of the philtre. The place is sanative; the air, the light, the perfumes, and the shapes of things concord in happy harmony. The artist may be idle and not fear the "blues." He may dally with his life. Mirth, lyric mirth, and a vivacious classical contentment are of the very essence of the better kind of art; and these, in that most smiling forest, he has the chance to learn or to remember. Even on the plain of Bière, where the Angelus of Millet still tolls upon the ear of fancy, a larger air, a higher heaven, something ancient and healthy in the face of nature, purify the mind alike from dulness and hysteria. There is no place where the young are more gladly conscious of their youth, or the old better contented with their age. The fact of its great and special beauty further recommends this country to the artist. The field was chosen by men in whose blood there still raced some of the gleeful or solemn exultation of great art--Millet who loved dignity like Michelangelo, Rousseau whose modern brush was dipped in the glamour of the ancients. It was chosen before the day of that strange turn in the history of art, of which we now perceive the culmination in impressionistic tales and pictures--that voluntary aversion of the eye from all speciously strong and beautiful effects--that disinterested love of dulness which has set so many Peter Bells to paint the river-side primrose. It was then chosen for its proximity to Paris. And for the same cause, and by the force of tradition, the painter of to-day continues to inhabit and to paint it. There is in France scenery incomparable for romance and harmony. Provence, and the valley of the Rhone from Vienne to Tarascon, are one succession of masterpieces waiting for the brush. The beauty is not merely beauty; it tells, besides, a tale to the imagination, and surprises while it charms. Here you shall see castellated towns that would befit the scenery of dreamland; streets that glow with colour like cathedral windows; hills of the most exquisite proportions; flowers of every precious colour, growing thick like grass. All these, by the grace of railway travel, are brought to the very door of the modern painter; yet he does not seek them; he remains faithful to Fontainebleau, to the eternal bridge of Grez, to the watering-pot cascade in Cernay valley. Even Fontainebleau was chosen for him; even in Fontainebleau he shrinks from what is sharply charactered. But one thing, at least, is certain: whatever he may choose to paint and in whatever manner, it is good for the artist to dwell among graceful shapes. Fontainebleau, if it be but quiet scenery, is classically graceful; and though the student may look for different qualities, this quality, silently present, will educate his hand and eye. But, before all its other advantages--charm, loveliness, or proximity to Paris--comes the great fact that it is already colonised. The institution of a painters' colony is a work of time and tact. The population must be conquered. The innkeeper has to be taught, and he soon learns, the lesson of unlimited credit; he must be taught to welcome as a favoured guest a young gentleman in a very greasy coat, and with little baggage beyond a box of colours and a canvas; and he must learn to preserve his faith in customers who will eat heartily and drink of the best, borrow money to buy tobacco, and perhaps not pay a stiver for a year. A colour merchant has next to be attracted. A certain vogue must be given to the place, lest the painter, most gregarious of animals, should find himself alone. And no sooner are these first difficulties overcome than fresh perils spring up upon the other side; and the bourgeois and the tourist are knocking at the gate. This is the crucial moment for the colony. If these intruders gain a footing, they not only banish freedom and amenity; pretty soon, by means of their long purses, they will have undone the education of the innkeeper; prices will rise and credit shorten; and the poor painter must fare farther on and find another hamlet. "Not here, O Apollo!" will become his song. Thus Trouville and, the other day, St. Raphael were lost to the arts. Curious and not always edifying are the shifts that the French student uses to defend his lair; like the cuttlefish, he must sometimes blacken the waters of his chosen pool; but at such a time and for so practical a purpose Mrs. Grundy must allow him licence. Where his own purse and credit are not threatened, he will do the honours of his village generously. Any artist is made welcome, through whatever medium he may seek expression; science is respected; even the idler, if he prove, as he so rarely does, a gentleman, will soon begin to find himself at home. And when that essentially modern creature, the English or American girl-student, began to walk calmly into his favourite inns as if into a drawing-room at home, the French painter owned himself defenceless; he submitted or he fled. His French respectability, quite as precise as ours, though covering different provinces of life, recoiled aghast before the innovation. But the girls were painters; there was nothing to be done; and Barbizon, when I last saw it and for the time at least, was practically ceded to the fair invader. Paterfamilias, on the other hand, the common tourist, the holiday shopman, and the cheap young gentleman upon the spree, he hounded from his villages with every circumstance of contumely. This purely artistic society is excellent for the young artist. The lads are mostly fools; they hold the latest orthodoxy in its crudeness; they are at that stage of education, for the most part, when a man is too much occupied with style to be aware of the necessity for any matter; and this, above all for the Englishman, is excellent. To work grossly at the trade, to forget sentiment, to think of his material and nothing else, is, for a while at least, the king's highway of progress. Here, in England, too many painters and writers dwell dispersed, unshielded, among the intelligent bourgeois. These, when they are not merely indifferent, prate to him about the lofty aims and moral influence of art. And this is the lad's ruin. For art is, first of all and last of all, a trade. The love of words and not a desire to publish new discoveries, the love of form and not a novel reading of historical events, mark the vocation of the writer and the painter. The arabesque, properly speaking, and even in literature, is the first fancy of the artist; he first plays with his material as a child plays with a kaleidoscope; and he is already in a second stage when he begins to use his pretty counters for the end of representation. In that, he must pause long and toil faithfully; that is his apprenticeship; and it is only the few who will really grow beyond it, and go forward, fully equipped, to do the business of real art--to give life to abstractions and significance and charm to facts. In the meanwhile, let him dwell much among his fellow-craftsmen. They alone can take a serious interest in the childish tasks and pitiful successes of these years. They alone can behold with equanimity this fingering of the dumb keyboard, this polishing of empty sentences, this dull and literal painting of dull and insignificant subjects. Outsiders will spur him on. They will say, "Why do you not write a great book? paint a great picture?" If his guardian angel fail him, they may even persuade him to the attempt, and, ten to one, his hand is coarsened and his style falsified for life. And this brings me to a warning. The life of the apprentice to any art is both unstrained and pleasing; it is strewn with small successes in the midst of a career of failure, patiently supported; the heaviest scholar is conscious of a certain progress; and if he come not appreciably nearer to the art of Shakespeare, grows letter-perfect in the domain of A-B, ab. But the time comes when a man should cease prelusory gymnastic, stand up, put a violence upon his will, and, for better or worse, begin the business of creation. This evil day there is a tendency continually to postpone: above all with painters. They have made so many studies that it has become a habit; they make more, the walls of exhibitions blush with them; and death finds these aged students still busy with their horn-book. This class of man finds a congenial home in artist villages; in the slang of the English colony at Barbizon we used to call them "Snoozers." Continual returns to the city, the society of men further advanced, the study of great works, a sense of humour or, if such a thing is to be had, a little religion or philosophy, are the means of treatment. It will be time enough to think of curing the malady after it has been caught; for to catch it is the very thing for which you seek that dream-land of the painters' village. "Snoozing" is a part of the artistic education; and the rudiments must be learned stupidly, all else being forgotten, as if they were an object in themselves. Lastly, there is something, or there seems to be something, in the very air of France that communicates the love of style. Precision, clarity, the cleanly and crafty employment of material, a grace in the handling, apart from any value in the thought, seem to be acquired by the mere residence; or, if not acquired, become at least the more appreciated. The air of Paris is alive with this technical inspiration. And to leave that airy city and awake next day upon the borders of the forest is but to change externals. The same spirit of dexterity and finish breathes from the long alleys and the lofty groves, from the wildernesses that are still pretty in their confusion, and the great plain that contrives to be decorative in its emptiness. II In spite of its really considerable extent, the forest of Fontainebleau is hardly anywhere tedious. I know the whole western side of it with what, I suppose, I may call thoroughness; well enough at least to testify that there is no square mile without some special character and charm. Such quarters, for instance, as the Long Rocher, the Bas-Bréau, and the Reine Blanche might be a hundred miles apart; they have scarce a point in common beyond the silence of the birds. The two last are really conterminous; and in both are tall and ancient trees that have outlived a thousand political vicissitudes. But in the one the great oaks prosper placidly upon an even floor; they beshadow a great field; and the air and the light are very free below their stretching boughs. In the other the trees find difficult footing; castles of white rock lie tumbled one upon another, the foot slips, the crooked viper slumbers, the moss clings in the crevice; and above it all the great beech goes spiring and casting forth her arms, and, with a grace beyond church architecture, canopies this rugged chaos. Meanwhile, dividing the two cantons, the broad white causeway of the Paris road runs in an avenue; a road conceived for pageantry and for triumphal marches, an avenue for an army; but, its days of glory over, it now lies grilling in the sun between cool groves, and only at intervals the vehicle of the cruising tourist is seen far away and faintly audible along its ample sweep. A little upon one side, and you find a district of sand and birch and boulder; a little upon the other lies the valley of Apremont, all juniper and heather; and close beyond that you may walk into a zone of pine trees. So artfully are the ingredients mingled. Nor must it be forgotten that, in all this part, you come continually forth upon a hill-top, and behold the plain, northward and westward, like an unrefulgent sea; nor that all day long the shadows keep changing; and at last, to the red fires of sunset, night succeeds, and with the night a new forest, full of whisper, gloom, and fragrance. There are few things more renovating than to leave Paris, the lamplit arches of the Carrousel, and the long alignment of the glittering streets, and to bathe the senses in this fragrant darkness of the wood. In this continual variety the mind is kept vividly alive. It is a changeful place to paint, a stirring place to live in. As fast as your foot carries you, you pass from scene to scene, each vigorously painted in the colours of the sun, each endeared by that hereditary spell of forests on the mind of man, who still remembers and salutes the ancient refuge of his race. And yet the forest has been civilised throughout. The most savage corners bear a name, and have been cherished like antiquities; in the most remote, Nature has prepared and balanced her effects as if with conscious art; and man, with his guiding arrows of blue paint, has countersigned the picture. After your farthest wandering, you are never surprised to come forth upon the vast avenue of highway, to strike the centre point of branching alleys, or to find the aqueduct trailing, thousand-footed, through the brush. It is not a wilderness; it is rather a preserve. And, fitly enough, the centre of the maze is not a hermit's cavern. In the midst, a little mirthful town lies sunlit, humming with the business of pleasure; and the palace, breathing distinction and peopled by historic names, stands smokeless among gardens. Perhaps the last attempt at savage life was that of the harmless humbug who called himself the hermit. In a great tree, close by the highroad, he had built himself a little cabin after the manner of the Swiss Family Robinson; thither he mounted at night, by the romantic aid of a rope ladder; and if dirt be any proof of sincerity, the man was savage as a Sioux. I had the pleasure of his acquaintance; he appeared grossly stupid, not in his perfect wits, and interested in nothing but small change; for that he had a great avidity. In the course of time he proved to be a chicken-stealer, and vanished from his perch; and perhaps from the first he was no true votary of forest freedom, but an ingenious, theatrically-minded beggar, and his cabin in the tree was only stock-in-trade to beg withal. The choice of his position would seem to indicate so much; for if in the forest there are no places still to be discovered, there are many that have been forgotten, and that lie unvisited. There, to be sure, are the blue arrows waiting to reconduct you, now blazed upon a tree, now posted in the corner of a rock. But your security from interruption is complete; you might camp for weeks, if there were only water, and not a soul suspect your presence; and if I may suppose the reader to have committed some great crime and come to me for aid, I think I could still find my way to a small cavern, fitted with a hearth and chimney, where he might lie perfectly concealed. A confederate landscape-painter might daily supply him with food; for water, he would have to make a nightly tramp as far as to the nearest pond; and at last, when the hue and cry began to blow over, he might get gently on the train at some side station, work round by a series of junctions, and be quietly captured at the frontier. Thus Fontainebleau, although it is truly but a pleasure-ground, and although, in favourable weather, and in the more celebrated quarters, it literally buzzes with the tourist, yet has some of the immunities and offers some of the repose of natural forests. And the solitary, although he must return at night to his frequented inn, may yet pass the day with his own thoughts in the companionable silence of the trees. The demands of the imagination vary; some can be alone in a back garden looked upon by windows; others, like the ostrich, are content with a solitude that meets the eye; and others, again, expand in fancy to the very borders of their desert, and are irritably conscious of a hunter's camp in an adjacent county. To these last, of course, Fontainebleau will seem but an extended tea-garden: a Rosherville on a by-day. But to the plain man it offers solitude: an excellent thing in itself, and a good whet for company. III I was for some time a consistent Barbizonian; _et ego in Arcadia vixi_; it was a pleasant season; and that noiseless hamlet lying close among the borders of the wood is for me, as for so many others, a green spot in memory. The great Millet was just dead, the green shutters of his modest house were closed; his daughters were in mourning. The date of my first visit was thus an epoch in the history of art: in a lesser way, it was an epoch in the history of the Latin Quarter. The _Petit Cénacle_ was dead and buried; Murger and his crew of sponging vagabonds were all at rest from their expedients; the tradition of their real life was nearly lost; and the petrified legend of the _Vie de Bohême_ had become a sort of gospel, and still gave the cue to zealous imitators. But if the book be written in rose-water, the imitation was still further expurgated; honesty was the rule; the innkeepers gave, as I have said, almost unlimited credit; they suffered the seediest painter to depart, to take all his belongings, and to leave his bill unpaid; and if they sometimes lost, it was by English and Americans alone. At the same time, the great influx of Anglo-Saxons had begun to affect the life of the studious. There had been disputes; and, in one instance at least, the English and the Americans had made common cause to prevent a cruel pleasantry. It would be well if nations and races could communicate their qualities; but in practice when they look upon each other, they have an eye to nothing but defects. The Anglo-Saxon is essentially dishonest; the French is devoid by nature of the principle that we call "Fair Play." The Frenchman marvelled at the scruples of his guest, and, when that defender of innocence retired overseas and left his bills unpaid, he marvelled once again; the good and evil were, in his eyes, part and parcel of the same eccentricity; a shrug expressed his judgment upon both. At Barbizon there was no master, no pontiff in the arts. Palizzi bore rule at Grez--urbane, superior rule--his memory rich in anecdotes of the great men of yore, his mind fertile in theories; sceptical, composed, and venerable to the eye; and yet beneath these outworks, all twittering with Italian superstition, his eye scouting for omens, and the whole fabric of his manners giving way on the appearance of a hunchback. Cernay had Pelouse, the admirable, placid Pelouse, smilingly critical of youth, who, when a full-blown commercial traveller suddenly threw down his samples, bought a colour-box, and became the master whom we have all admired. Marlotte, for a central figure, boasted Olivier de Penne. Only Barbizon, since the death of Millet, was a headless commonwealth. Even its secondary lights, and those who in my day made the stranger welcome, have since deserted it. The good Lachèvre has departed, carrying his household gods; and long before that Gaston Lafenestre was taken from our midst by an untimely death. He died before he had deserved success; it may be, he would never have deserved it; but his kind, comely, modest countenance still haunts the memory of all who knew him. Another--whom I will not name--has moved farther on, pursuing the strange Odyssey of his decadence. His days of royal favour had departed even then; but he still retained, in his narrower life at Barbizon, a certain stamp of conscious importance, hearty, friendly, filling the room, the occupant of several chairs; nor had he yet ceased his losing battle, still labouring upon great canvases that none would buy, still waiting the return of fortune. But these days also were too good to last; and the former favourite of two sovereigns fled, if I heard the truth, by night. There was a time when he was counted a great man, and Millet but a dauber; behold, how the whirligig of time brings in his revenges! To pity Millet is a piece of arrogance; if life be hard for such resolute and pious spirits, it is harder still for us, had we the wit to understand it; but we may pity his unhappier rival, who, for no apparent merit, was raised to opulence and momentary fame, and, through no apparent fault, was suffered step by step to sink again to nothing. No misfortune can exceed the bitterness of such back-foremost progress, even bravely supported as it was; but to those also who were taken early from the easel, a regret is due. From all the young men of this period, one stood out by the vigour of his promise; he was in the age of fermentation, enamoured of eccentricities. "_Il faut faire de la peinture nouvelle_," was his watchword; but if time and experience had continued his education, if he had been granted health to return from these excursions to the steady and the central, I must believe that the name of Hills had become famous. Siron's inn, that excellent artists' barrack, was managed upon easy principles. At any hour of the night, when you returned from wandering in the forest, you went to the billiard-room and helped yourself to liquors, or descended to the cellar and returned laden with beer or wine. The Sirons were all locked in slumber; there was none to check your inroads; only at the week's end a computation was made, the gross sum was divided, and a varying share set down to every lodger's name under the rubric: _estrats_. Upon the more long-suffering the larger tax was levied; and your bill lengthened in a direct proportion to the easiness of your disposition. At any hour of the morning, again, you could get your coffee or cold milk, and set forth into the forest. The doves had perhaps wakened you, fluttering into your chamber; and on the threshold of the inn you were met by the aroma of the forest. Close by were the great aisles, the mossy boulders, the interminable field of forest shadow. There you were free to dream and wander. And at noon, and again at six o'clock, a good meal awaited you on Siron's table. The whole of your accommodation, set aside that varying item of the _estrats_, cost you five francs a day; your bill was never offered you until you asked it; and if you were out of luck's way, you might depart for where you pleased and leave it pending. IV Theoretically, the house was open to all comers; practically, it was a kind of club. The guests protected themselves, and, in so doing, they protected Siron. Formal manners being laid aside, essential courtesy was the more rigidly exacted; the new arrival had to feel the pulse of the society; and a breach of its undefined observances was promptly punished. A man might be as plain, as dull, as slovenly, as free of speech as he desired; but to a touch of presumption or a word of hectoring these free Barbizonians were as sensitive as a tea-party of maiden ladies. I have seen people driven forth from Barbizon; it would be difficult to say in words what they had done, but they deserved their fate. They had shown themselves unworthy to enjoy these corporate freedoms; they had pushed themselves; they had "made their head"; they wanted tact to appreciate the "fine shades" of Barbizonian etiquette. And, once they were condemned, the process of extrusion was ruthless in its cruelty; after one evening with the formidable Bodmer, the Bailly of our commonwealth, the erring stranger was beheld no more; he rose exceeding early the next day, and the first coach conveyed him from the scene of his discomfiture. These sentences of banishment were never, in my knowledge, delivered against an artist; such would, I believe, have been illegal; but the odd and pleasant fact is this, that they were never needed. Painters, sculptors, writers, singers, I have seen all of these in Barbizon; and some were sulky, and some blatant and inane; but one and all entered at once into the spirit of the association. This singular society is purely French, a creature of French virtues, and possibly of French defects. It cannot be imitated by the English. The roughness, the impatience, the more obvious selfishness, and even the more ardent friendships of the Anglo-Saxon, speedily dismember such a commonwealth. But this random gathering of young French painters, with neither apparatus nor parade of government, yet kept the life of the place upon a certain footing, insensibly imposed their etiquette upon the docile, and by caustic speech enforced their edicts against the unwelcome. To think of it is to wonder the more at the strange failure of their race upon the larger theatre. This inbred civility--to use the word in its completest meaning--this natural and facile adjustment of contending liberties, seems all that is required to make a governable nation and a just and prosperous country. Our society, thus purged and guarded, was full of high spirits, of laughter, and of the initiative of youth. The few elder men who joined us were still young at heart, and took the key from their companions. We returned from long stations in the fortifying air, our blood renewed by the sunshine, our spirits refreshed by the silence of the forest; the Babel of loud voices sounded good; we fell to eat and play like the natural man; and in the high inn chamber, panelled with indifferent pictures and lit by candles guttering in the night air, the talk and laughter sounded far into the night. It was a good place and a good life for any naturally-minded youth; better yet for the student of painting, and perhaps best of all for the student of letters. He, too, was saturated in this atmosphere of style; he was shut out from the disturbing currents of the world, he might forget that there existed other and more pressing interests than that of art. But, in such a place, it was hardly possible to write; he could not drug his conscience, like the painter, by the production of listless studies; he saw himself idle among many who were apparently, and some who were really, employed; and what with the impulse of increasing health and the continual provocation of romantic scenes, he became tormented with the desire to work. He enjoyed a strenuous idleness, full of visions, hearty meals, long, sweltering walks, mirth among companions; and, still floating like music through his brain, foresights of great works that Shakespeare might be proud to have conceived, headless epics, glorious torsos of dramas, and words that were alive with import. So in youth, like Moses from the mountain, we have sights of that House Beautiful of art which we shall never enter. They are dreams and unsubstantial; visions of style that repose upon no base of human meaning; the last heart-throbs of that excited amateur who has to die in all of us before the artist can be born. But they come to us in such a rainbow of glory that all subsequent achievement appears dull and earthly in comparison. We were all artists; almost all in the age of illusion, cultivating an imaginary genius, and walking to the strains of some deceiving Ariel; small wonder, indeed, if we were happy! But art, of whatever nature, is a kind mistress; and though these dreams of youth fall by their own baselessness, others succeed, graver and more substantial; the symptoms change, the amiable malady endures; and still, at an equal distance, the House Beautiful shines upon its hill-top. V Grez lies out of the forest, down by the bright river. It boasts a mill, an ancient church, a castle, and a bridge of many sterlings. And the bridge is a piece of public property; anonymously famous; beaming on the incurious dilettante from the walls of a hundred exhibitions. I have seen it in the Salon; I have seen it in the Academy; I have seen it in the last French Exposition, excellently done by Bloomer; in a black-and-white by Mr. A. Henley, it once adorned this essay in the pages of the _Magazine of Art_. Long-suffering bridge! And if you visit Grez to-morrow, you shall find another generation, camped at the bottom of Chevillon's garden under their white umbrellas, and doggedly painting it again. The bridge taken for granted, Grez is a less inspiring place than Barbizon. I give it the palm over Cernay. There is something ghastly in the great empty village square of Cernay, with the inn tables standing in one corner, as though the stage were set for rustic opera, and in the early morning all the painters breaking their fast upon white wine under the windows of the villagers. It is vastly different to awake in Grez, to go down the green inn-garden, to find the river streaming through the bridge, and to see the dawn begin across the poplared level. The meals are laid in the cool arbour, under fluttering leaves. The splash of oars and bathers, the bathing costumes out to dry, the trim canoes beside the jetty, tell of a society that has an eye to pleasure. There is "something to do" at Grez. Perhaps, for that very reason, I can recall no such enduring ardours, no such glories of exhilaration, as among the solemn groves and uneventful hours of Barbizon. This "something to do" is a great enemy to joy; it is a way out of it; you wreak your high spirits on some cut-and-dry employment, and behold them gone! But Grez is a merry place after its kind: pretty to see, merry to inhabit. The course of its pellucid river, whether up or down, is full of gentle attractions for the navigator: islanded reed-mazes where, in autumn, the red berries cluster; the mirrored and inverted images of trees; lilies, and mills, and the foam and thunder of weirs. And of all noble sweeps of roadway, none is nobler, on a windy dusk, than the highroad to Nemours between its lines of talking poplar. But even Grez is changed. The old inn, long shored and trussed and buttressed, fell at length under the mere weight of years, and the place as it was is but a fading image in the memory of former guests. They, indeed, recall the ancient wooden stair; they recall the rainy evening, the wide hearth, the blaze of the twig fire, and the company that gathered round the pillar in the kitchen. But the material fabric is now dust; soon, with the last of its inhabitants, its very memory shall follow; and they, in their turn, shall suffer the same law, and, both in name and lineament, vanish from the world of men. "For remembrance of the old house' sake," as Pepys once quaintly put it, let me tell one story. When the tide of invasion swept over France, two foreign painters were left stranded and penniless in Grez; and there, until the war was over, the Chevillons ungrudgingly harboured them. It was difficult to obtain supplies; but the two waifs were still welcome to the best, sat down daily with the family to table, and at the due intervals were supplied with clean napkins, which they scrupled to employ. Madame Chevillon observed the fact and reprimanded them. But they stood firm; eat they must, but having no money they would soil no napkins. VI Nemours and Moret, for all they are so picturesque, have been little visited by painters. They are, indeed, too populous; they have manners of their own, and might resist the drastic process of colonisation. Montigny has been somewhat strangely neglected; I never knew it inhabited but once, when Will H. Low installed himself there with a barrel of _piquette_, and entertained his friends in a leafy trellis above the weir, in sight of the green country and to the music of the falling water. It was a most airy, quaint, and pleasant place of residence, just too rustic to be stagey; and from my memories of the place in general, and that garden trellis in particular--at morning, visited by birds, or at night, when the dew fell and the stars were of the party--I am inclined to think perhaps too favourably of the future of Montigny. Chailly-en-Bière has outlived all things, and lies dustily slumbering in the plain--the cemetery of itself. The great road remains to testify of its former bustle of postilions and carriage bells; and, like memorial tablets, there still hang in the inn room the paintings of a former generation, dead or decorated long ago. In my time, one man only, greatly daring, dwelt there. From time to time he would walk over to Barbizon, like a shade revisiting the glimpses of the moon, and after some communication with flesh and blood return to his austere hermitage. But even he, when I last revisited the forest, had come to Barbizon for good, and closed the roll of the Chaillyites. It may revive--but I much doubt it. Achères and Recloses still wait a pioneer; Bourron is out of the question, being merely Grez over again, without the river, the bridge, or the beauty; and of all the possible places on the western side, Marlotte alone remains to be discussed. I scarcely know Marlotte, and, very likely for that reason, am not much in love with it. It seems a glaring and unsightly hamlet. The inn of Mother Antonie is unattractive; and its more reputable rival, though comfortable enough, is commonplace. Marlotte has a name; it is famous; if I were the young painter I would leave it alone in its glory. VII These are the words of an old stager; and though time is a good conservative in forest places, much may be untrue to-day. Many of us have passed Arcadian days there and moved on, but yet left a portion of our souls behind us buried in the woods. I would not dig for these reliquiæ; they are incommunicable treasures that will not enrich the finder; and yet there may lie, interred below great oaks or scattered along forest paths, stores of youth's dynamite and dear remembrances. And as one generation passes on and renovates the field of tillage for the next, I entertain a fancy that when the young men of to-day go forth into the forest they shall find the air still vitalised by the spirits of their predecessors, and, like those "unheard melodies" that are the sweetest of all, the memory of our laughter shall still haunt the field of trees. Those merry voices that in woods call the wanderer farther, those thrilling silences and whispers of the groves, surely in Fontainebleau they must be vocal of me and my companions? We are not content to pass away entirely from the scenes of our delight; we would leave, if but in gratitude, a pillar and a legend. One generation after another fall like honey-bees upon this memorable forest, rifle its sweets, pack themselves with vital memories, and when the theft is consummated depart again into life richer, but poorer also. The forest, indeed, they have possessed, from that day forward it is theirs indissolubly, and they will return to walk in it at night in the fondest of their dreams, and use it for ever in their books and pictures. Yet when they made their packets, and put up their notes and sketches, something, it should seem, had been forgotten. A projection of themselves shall appear to haunt unfriended these scenes of happiness, a natural child of fancy, begotten and forgotten unawares. Over the whole field of our wanderings such fetches are still travelling like indefatigable bagmen; but the imps of Fontainebleau, as of all beloved spots, are very long of life, and memory is piously unwilling to forget their orphanage. If anywhere about that wood you meet my airy bantling, greet him with tenderness. He was a pleasant lad, though now abandoned. And when it comes to your own turn to quit the forest, may you leave behind you such another; no Antony or Werther, let us hope, no tearful whipster, but, as becomes this not uncheerful and most active age in which we figure, the child of happy hours. No art, it may be said, was ever perfect, and not many noble, that has not been mirthfully conceived. And no man, it may be added, was ever anything but a wet blanket and a cross to his companions who boasted not a copious spirit of enjoyment. Whether as man or artist, let the youth make haste to Fontainebleau, and once there let him address himself to the spirit of the place; he will learn more from exercise than from studies, although both are necessary; and if he can get into his heart the gaiety and inspiration of the woods he will have gone far to undo the evil of his sketches. A spirit once well strung up to the concert-pitch of the primeval out-of-doors will hardly dare to finish a study and magniloquently ticket it a picture. The incommunicable thrill of things, that is the tuning-fork by which we test the flatness of our art. Here it is that Nature teaches and condemns, and still spurs up to further effort and new failure. Thus it is that she sets us blushing at our ignorant and tepid works; and the more we find of these inspiring shocks the less shall we be apt to love the literal in our productions. In all sciences and senses the letter kills; and to-day, when cackling human geese express their ignorant condemnation of all studio pictures, it is a lesson most useful to be learnt. Let the young painter go to Fontainebleau, and while he stupefies himself with studies that teach him the mechanical side of his trade, let him walk in the great air, and be a servant of mirth, and not pick and botanise, but wait upon the moods of Nature. So he will learn--or learn not to forget--the poetry of life and earth, which, when he has acquired his track, will save him from joyless reproduction. II A NOTE ON REALISM Style is the invariable mark of any master; and for the student who does not aspire so high as to be numbered with the giants, it is still the one quality in which he may improve himself at will. Passion, wisdom, creative force, the power of mystery or colour, are allotted in the hour of birth, and can be neither learned nor simulated. But the just and dexterous use of what qualities we have, the proportion of one part to another and to the whole, the elision of the useless, the accentuation of the important, and the preservation of a uniform character from end to end--these, which taken together constitute technical perfection, are to some degree within the reach of industry and intellectual courage. What to put in and what to leave out; whether some particular fact be organically necessary or purely ornamental; whether, if it be purely ornamental, it may not weaken or obscure the general design; and finally, whether, if we decide to use it, we should do so grossly and notably, or in some conventional disguise: are questions of plastic style continually re-arising. And the sphinx that patrols the highways of executive art has no more unanswerable riddle to propound. In literature (from which I must draw my instances) the great change of the past century has been effected by the admission of detail. It was inaugurated by the romantic Scott; and at length, by the semi-romantic Balzac and his more or less wholly unromantic followers, bound like a duty on the novelist. For some time it signified and expressed a more ample contemplation of the conditions of man's life; but it has recently (at least in France) fallen into a merely technical and decorative stage, which it is, perhaps, still too harsh to call survival. With a movement of alarm, the wiser or more timid begin to fall a little back from these extremities; they begin to aspire after a more naked, narrative articulation; after the succinct, the dignified, and the poetic; and as a means to this, after a general lightening of this baggage of detail. After Scott we beheld the starveling story--once, in the hands of Voltaire, as abstract as a parable--begin to be pampered upon facts. The introduction of these details developed a particular ability of hand; and that ability, childishly indulged, has led to the works that now amaze us on a railway journey. A man of the unquestionable force of M. Zola spends himself on technical successes. To afford a popular flavour and attract the mob, he adds a steady current of what I may be allowed to call the rancid. That is exciting to the moralist; but what more particularly interests the artist is this tendency of the extreme of detail, when followed as a principle, to degenerate into mere _feux-de-joie_ of literary tricking. The other day even M. Daudet was to be heard babbling of audible colours and visible sounds. This odd suicide of one branch of the realists may serve to remind us of the fact which underlies a very dusty conflict of the critics. All representative art, which can be said to live, is both realistic and ideal; and the realism about which we quarrel is a matter purely of externals. It is no especial cultus of nature and veracity, but a mere whim of veering fashion, that has made us turn our back upon the larger, more various, and more romantic art of yore. A photographic exactitude in dialogue is now the exclusive fashion; but even in the ablest hands it tells us no more--I think it even tells us less--than Molière, wielding his artificial medium, has told to us and to all time of Alceste or Orgon, Dorine or Chrysale. The historical novel is forgotten. Yet truth to the conditions of man's nature and the conditions of man's life, the truth of literary art, is free of the ages. It may be told us in a carpet comedy, in a novel of adventure, or a fairy tale. The scene may be pitched in London, on the sea-coast of Bohemia, or away on the mountains of Beulah. And by an odd and luminous accident, if there is any page of literature calculated to awake the envy of M. Zola, it must be that "Troilus and Cressida" which Shakespeare, in a spasm of unmanly anger with the world, grafted on the heroic story of the siege of Troy. This question of realism, let it then be clearly understood, regards not in the least degree the fundamental truth, but only the technical method, of a work of art. Be as ideal or as abstract as you please, you will be none the less veracious; but if you be weak, you run the risk of being tedious and inexpressive; and if you be very strong and honest, you may chance upon a masterpiece. A work of art is first cloudily conceived in the mind; during the period of gestation it stands more clearly forward from these swaddling mists, puts on expressive lineaments, and becomes at length that most faultless, but also, alas! that incommunicable product of the human mind, a perfected design. On the approach to execution all is changed. The artist must now step down, don his working clothes, and become the artisan. He now resolutely commits his airy conception, his delicate Ariel, to the touch of matter; he must decide, almost in a breath, the scale, the style, the spirit, and the particularity of execution of his whole design. The engendering idea of some works is stylistic; a technical pre-occupation stands them instead of some robuster principle of life. And with these the execution is but play; for the stylistic problem is resolved beforehand, and all large originality of treatment wilfully foregone. Such are the verses, intricately designed, which we have learnt to admire, with a certain smiling admiration, at the hands of Mr. Lang and Mr. Dobson; such, too, are those canvases where dexterity or even breadth of plastic style takes the place of pictorial nobility of design. So, it may be remarked, it was easier to begin to write "Esmond" than "Vanity Fair," since, in the first, the style was dictated by the nature of the plan; and Thackeray, a man probably of some indolence of mind, enjoyed and got good profit of this economy of effort. But the case is exceptional. Usually in all works of art that have been conceived from within outwards, and generously nourished from the author's mind, the moment in which he begins to execute is one of extreme perplexity and strain. Artists of indifferent energy and an imperfect devotion to their own ideal make this ungrateful effort once for all; and, having formed a style, adhere to it through life. But those of a higher order cannot rest content with a process which, as they continue to employ it, must infallibly degenerate towards the academic and the cut-and-dried. Every fresh work in which they embark is the signal for a fresh engagement of the whole forces of their mind; and the changing views which accompany the growth of their experience are marked by still more sweeping alterations in the manner of their art. So that criticism loves to dwell upon and distinguish the varying periods of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, or a Beethoven. It is, then, first of all, at this initial and decisive moment when execution is begun, and thenceforth only in a less degree, that the ideal and the real do indeed, like good and evil angels, contend for the direction of the work. Marble, paint, and language, the pen, the needle, and the brush, all have their grossnesses, their ineffable impotences, their hours, if I may so express myself, of insubordination. It is the work and it is a great part of the delight of any artist to contend with these unruly tools, and now by brute energy, now by witty expedient, to drive and coax them to effect his will. Given these means, so laughably inadequate, and given the interest, the intensity, and the multiplicity of the actual sensation whose effect he is to render with their aid, the artist has one main and necessary resource which he must, in every case and upon any theory, employ. He must, that is, suppress much and omit more. He must omit what is tedious or irrelevant, and suppress what is tedious and necessary. But such facts as, in regard to the main design, subserve a variety of purposes, he will perforce and eagerly retain. And it is the mark of the very highest order of creative art to be woven exclusively of such. There, any fact that is registered is contrived a double or a treble debt to pay, and is at once an ornament in its place and a pillar in the main design. Nothing would find room in such a picture that did not serve, at once, to complete the composition, to accentuate the scheme of colour, to distinguish the planes of distance, and to strike the note of the selected sentiment; nothing would be allowed in such a story that did not, at the same time, expedite the progress of the fable, build up the characters, and strike home the moral or the philosophical design. But this is unattainable. As a rule, so far from building the fabric of our works exclusively with these, we are thrown into a rapture if we think we can muster a dozen or a score of them, to be the plums of our confection. And hence, in order that the canvas may be filled or the story proceed from point to point, other details must be admitted. They must be admitted, alas! upon a doubtful title; many without marriage robes. Thus any work of art, as it proceeds towards completion, too often--I had almost written always--loses in force and poignancy of main design. Our little air is swamped and dwarfed among hardly relevant orchestration; our little passionate story drowns in a deep sea of descriptive eloquence or slipshod talk. But again, we are rather more tempted to admit those particulars which we know we can describe; and hence those most of all which, having been described very often, have grown to be conventionally treated in the practice of our art. These we choose, as the mason chooses the acanthus to adorn his capital, because they come naturally to the accustomed hand. The old stock incidents and accessories, tricks of workmanship and schemes of composition (all being admirably good, or they would long have been forgotten) haunt and tempt our fancy; offer us ready-made but not perfectly appropriate solutions for any problem that arises; and wean us from the study of nature and the uncompromising practice of art. To struggle, to face nature, to find fresh solutions, and give expression to facts which have not yet been adequately or not yet elegantly expressed, is to run a little upon the danger of extreme self-love. Difficulty sets a high price upon achievement; and the artist may easily fall into the error of the French naturalists, and consider any fact as welcome to admission if it be the ground of brilliant handiwork; or, again, into the error of the modern landscape-painter, who is apt to think that difficulty overcome and science well displayed can take the place of what is, after all, the one excuse and breath of art--charm. A little further, and he will regard charm in the light of an unworthy sacrifice to prettiness, and the omission of a tedious passage as an infidelity to art. We have now the matter of this difference before us. The idealist, his eye singly fixed upon the greater outlines, loves rather to fill up the interval with detail of the conventional order, briefly touched, soberly suppressed in tone, courting neglect. But the realist, with a fine intemperance, will not suffer the presence of anything so dead as a convention; he shall have all fiery, all hot-pressed from nature, all charactered and notable, seizing the eye. The style that befits either of these extremes, once chosen, brings with it its necessary disabilities and dangers. The immediate danger of the realist is to sacrifice the beauty and significance of the whole to local dexterity, or, in the insane pursuit of completion, to immolate his readers under facts; but he comes in the last resort, and as his energy declines, to discard all design, abjure all choice, and, with scientific thoroughness, steadily to communicate matter which is not worth learning. The danger of the idealist is, of course, to become merely null and lose all grip of fact, particularity, or passion. We talk of bad and good. Everything, indeed, is good which is conceived with honesty and executed with communicative ardour. But though on neither side is dogmatism fitting, and though in every case the artist must decide for himself, and decide afresh and yet afresh for each succeeding work and new creation; yet one thing may be generally said, that we of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, breathing as we do the intellectual atmosphere of our age, are more apt to err upon the side of realism than to sin in quest of the ideal. Upon that theory it may be well to watch and correct our own decisions, always holding back the hand from the least appearance of irrelevant dexterity, and resolutely fixed to begin no work that is not philosophical, passionate, dignified, happily mirthful, or at the last and least, romantic in design. III ON SOME TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF STYLE IN LITERATURE There is nothing more disenchanting to man than to be shown the springs and mechanism of any art. All our arts and occupations lie wholly on the surface; it is on the surface that we perceive their beauty, fitness, and significance; and to pry below is to be appalled by their emptiness and shocked by the coarseness of the strings and pulleys. In a similar way, psychology itself, when pushed to any nicety, discovers an abhorrent baldness, but rather from the fault of our analysis than from any poverty native to the mind. And perhaps in æsthetics the reason is the same: those disclosures which seem fatal to the dignity of art seem so perhaps only in the proportion of our ignorance; and those conscious and unconscious artifices which it seems unworthy of the serious artist to employ were yet, if we had the power to trace them to their springs, indications of a delicacy of the sense finer than we conceive, and hints of ancient harmonies in nature. This ignorance at least is largely irremediable. We shall never learn the affinities of beauty, for they lie too deep in nature and too far back in the mysterious history of man. The amateur, in consequence, will always grudgingly receive details of method, which can be stated but can never wholly be explained; nay, on the principle laid down in Hudibras, that "Still the less they understand, The more they admire the sleight-of-hand," many are conscious at each new disclosure of a diminution in the ardour of their pleasure. I must therefore warn that well-known character, the general reader, that I am here embarked upon a most distasteful business: taking down the picture from the wall and looking on the back; and, like the inquiring child, pulling the musical cart to pieces. 1. _Choice of Words_.--The art of literature stands apart from among its sisters, because the material in which the literary artist works is the dialect of life; hence, on the one hand, a strange freshness and immediacy of address to the public mind, which is ready prepared to understand it; but hence, on the other, a singular limitation. The sister arts enjoy the use of a plastic and ductile material, like the modeller's clay; literature alone is condemned to work in mosaic with finite and quite rigid words. You have seen these blocks, dear to the nursery: this one a pillar, that a pediment, a third a window or a vase. It is with blocks of just such arbitrary size and figure that the literary architect is condemned to design the palace of his art. Nor is this all; for since these blocks, or words, are the acknowledged currency of our daily affairs, there are here possible none of those suppressions by which other arts obtain relief, continuity and vigour; no hieroglyphic touch, no smoothed impasto, no inscrutable shadow, as in painting; no blank wall, as in architecture; but every word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph must move in a logical progression, and convey a definite conventional import. Now, the first merit which attracts in the pages of a good writer, or the talk of a brilliant conversationalist, is the apt choice and contrast of the words employed. It is, indeed, a strange art to take these blocks, rudely conceived for the purpose of the market or the bar, and by tact of application touch them to the finest meanings and distinctions, restore to them their primal energy, wittily shift them to another issue, or make of them a drum to rouse the passions. But though this form of merit is without doubt the most sensible and seizing, it is far from being equally present in all writers. The effect of words in Shakespeare, their singular justice, significance, and poetic charm, is different, indeed, from the effect of words in Addison or Fielding. Or, to take an example nearer home, the words in Carlyle seem electrified into an energy of lineament, like the faces of men furiously moved; whilst the words in Macaulay, apt enough to convey his meaning, harmonious enough in sound, yet glide from the memory like undistinguished elements in a general effect. But the first class of writers have no monopoly of literary merit. There is a sense in which Addison is superior to Carlyle; a sense in which Cicero is better than Tacitus, in which Voltaire excels Montaigne: it certainly lies not in the choice of words; it lies not in the interest or value of the matter; it lies not in force of intellect, of poetry, or of humour. The three first are but infants to the three second; and yet each, in a particular point of literary art, excels his superior in the whole. What is that point? 2. _The Web_.--Literature, although it stands apart by reason of the great destiny and general use of its medium in the affairs of men, is yet an art like other arts. Of these we may distinguish two great classes: those arts, like sculpture, painting, acting, which are representative, or, as used to be said very clumsily, imitative; and those, like architecture, music, and the dance, which are self-sufficient, and merely presentative. Each class, in right of this distinction, obeys principles apart; yet both may claim a common ground of existence, and it may be said with sufficient justice that the motive and end of any art whatever is to make a pattern; a pattern, it may be, of colours, of sounds, of changing attitudes, geometrical figures, or imitative lines; but still a pattern. That is the plane on which these sisters meet; it is by this that they are arts; and if it be well they should at times forget their childish origin, addressing their intelligence to virile tasks, and performing unconsciously that necessary function of their life, to make a pattern, it is still imperative that the pattern shall be made. Music and literature, the two temporal arts, contrive their pattern of sounds in time; or, in other words, of sounds and pauses. Communication may be made in broken words, the business of life be carried on with substantives alone; but that is not what we call literature; and the true business of the literary artist is to plait or weave his meaning, involving it around itself; so that each sentence, by successive phrases, shall first come into a kind of knot, and then, after a moment of suspended meaning, solve and clear itself. In every properly constructed sentence there should be observed this knot or hitch; so that (however delicately) we are led to foresee, to expect, and then to welcome the successive phrases. The pleasure may be heightened by an element of surprise, as, very grossly, in the common figure of the antithesis, or, with much greater subtlety, where an antithesis is first suggested and then deftly evaded. Each phrase, besides, is to be comely in itself; and between the implication and the evolution of the sentence there should be a satisfying equipoise of sound; for nothing more often disappoints the ear than a sentence solemnly and sonorously prepared, and hastily and weakly finished. Nor should the balance be too striking and exact, for the one rule is to be infinitely various; to interest, to disappoint, to surprise, and yet still to gratify; to be ever changing, as it were, the stitch, and yet still to give the effect of an ingenious neatness. The conjurer juggles with two oranges, and our pleasure in beholding him springs from this, that neither is for an instant overlooked or sacrificed. So with the writer. His pattern, which is to please the supersensual ear, is yet addressed, throughout and first of all, to the demands of logic. Whatever be the obscurities, whatever the intricacies of the argument, the neatness of the fabric must not suffer, or the artist has been proved unequal to his design. And, on the other hand, no form of words must be selected, no knot must be tied among the phrases, unless knot and word be precisely what is wanted to forward and illuminate the argument; for to fail in this is to swindle in the game. The genius of prose rejects the _cheville_ no less emphatically than the laws of verse; and the _cheville_, I should perhaps explain to some of my readers, is any meaningless or very watered phrase employed to strike a balance in the sound. Pattern and argument live in each other; and it is by the brevity, clearness, charm, or emphasis of the second, that we judge the strength and fitness of the first. Style is synthetic; and the artist, seeking, so to speak, a peg to plait about, takes up at once two or more elements or two or more views of the subject in hand; combines, implicates, and contrasts them; and while, in one sense, he was merely seeking an occasion for the necessary knot, he will be found, in the other, to have greatly enriched the meaning, or to have transacted the work of two sentences in the space of one. In the change from the successive shallow statements of the old chronicler to the dense and luminous flow of highly synthetic narrative, there is implied a vast amount of both philosophy and wit. The philosophy we clearly see, recognising in the synthetic writer a far more deep and stimulating view of life, and a far keener sense of the generation and affinity of events. The wit we might imagine to be lost; but it is not so, for it is just that wit, these perpetual nice contrivances, these difficulties overcome, this double purpose attained, these two oranges kept simultaneously dancing in the air, that, consciously or not, afford the reader his delight. Nay, and this wit, so little recognised, is the necessary organ of that philosophy which we so much admire. That style is therefore the most perfect, not, as fools say, which is the most natural, for the most natural is the disjointed babble of the chronicler; but which attains the highest degree of elegant and pregnant implication unobtrusively; or if obtrusively, then with the greatest gain to sense and vigour. Even the derangement of the phrases from their (so-called) natural order is luminous for the mind; and it is by the means of such designed reversal that the elements of a judgment may be most pertinently marshalled, or the stages of a complicated action most perspicuously bound into one. The web, then, or the pattern: a web at once sensuous and logical, an elegant and pregnant texture: that is style, that is the foundation of the art of literature. Books indeed continue to be read, for the interest of the fact or fable, in which this quality is poorly represented, but still it will be there. And, on the other hand, how many do we continue to peruse and reperuse with pleasure whose only merit is the elegance of texture? I am tempted to mention Cicero; and since Mr. Anthony Trollope is dead, I will. It is a poor diet for the mind, a very colourless and toothless "criticism of life"; but we enjoy the pleasure of a most intricate and dexterous pattern, every stitch a model at once of elegance and of good sense; and the two oranges, even if one of them be rotten, kept dancing with inimitable grace. Up to this moment I have had my eye mainly upon prose; for though in verse also the implication of the logical texture is a crowning beauty, yet in verse it may be dispensed with. You would think that here was a death-blow to all I have been saying; and far from that, it is but a new illustration of the principle involved. For if the versifier is not bound to weave a pattern of his own, it is because another pattern has been formally imposed upon him by the laws of verse. For that is the essence of a prosody. Verse may be rhythmical; it may be merely alliterative; it may, like the French, depend wholly on the (quasi) regular recurrence of the rhyme; or, like the Hebrew, it may consist in the strangely fanciful device of repeating the same idea. It does not matter on what principle the law is based, so it be a law. It may be pure convention; it may have no inherent beauty; all that we have a right to ask of any prosody is, that it shall lay down a pattern for the writer, and that what it lays down shall be neither too easy nor too hard. Hence it comes that it is much easier for men of equal facility to write fairly pleasing verse than reasonably interesting prose; for in prose the pattern itself has to be invented, and the difficulties first created before they can be solved. Hence, again, there follows the peculiar greatness of the true versifier: such as Shakespeare, Milton, and Victor Hugo, whom I place beside them as versifier merely, not as poet. These not only knit and knot the logical texture of the style with all the dexterity and strength of prose; they not only fill up the pattern of the verse with infinite variety and sober wit; but they give us, besides, a rare and special pleasure, by the art, comparable to that of counterpoint, with which they follow at the same time, and now contrast, and now combine, the double pattern of the texture and the verse. Here the sounding line concludes; a little further on, the well-knit sentence; and yet a little further, and both will reach their solution on the same ringing syllable. The best that can be offered by the best writer of prose is to show us the development of the idea and the stylistic pattern proceed hand in hand, sometimes by an obvious and triumphant effort, sometimes with a great air of ease and nature. The writer of verse, by virtue of conquering another difficulty, delights us with a new series of triumphs. He follows three purposes where his rival followed only two; and the change is of precisely the same nature as that from melody to harmony. Or if you prefer to return to the juggler, behold him now, to the vastly increased enthusiasm of the spectators, juggling with three oranges instead of two. Thus it is: added difficulty, added beauty; and the pattern, with every fresh element, becoming more interesting in itself. Yet it must not be thought that verse is simply an addition; something is lost as well as something gained; and there remains plainly traceable, in comparing the best prose with the best verse, a certain broad distinction of method in the web. Tight as the versifier may draw the knot of logic, yet for the ear he still leaves the tissue of the sentence floating somewhat loose. In prose, the sentence turns upon a pivot, nicely balanced, and fits into itself with an obtrusive neatness like a puzzle. The ear remarks and is singly gratified by this return and balance; while in verse it is all diverted to the measure. To find comparable passages is hard; for either the versifier is hugely the superior of the rival, or, if he be not, and still persist in his more delicate enterprise, he falls to be as widely his inferior. But let us select them from the pages of the same writer, one who was ambidexter; let us take, for instance, Rumour's Prologue to the Second Part of _Henry IV._, a fine flourish of eloquence in Shakespeare's second manner, and set it side by side with Falstaff's praise of sherris, act iv., scene 1; or let us compare the beautiful prose spoken throughout by Rosalind and Orlando, compare, for example, the first speech of all, Orlando's speech to Adam, with what passage it shall please you to select--the Seven Ages from the same play, or even such a stave of nobility as Othello's farewell to war; and still you will be able to perceive, if you have any ear for that class of music, a certain superior degree of organisation in the prose; a compacter fitting of the parts; a balance in the swing and the return as of a throbbing pendulum. We must not, in things temporal, take from those who have little, the little that they have; the merits of prose are inferior, but they are not the same; it is a little kingdom, but an independent. 3. _Rhythm of the Phrase._--Some way back, I used a word which still awaits an application. Each phrase, I said, was to be comely; but what is a comely phrase? In all ideal and material points, literature, being a representative art, must look for analogies to painting and the like; but in what is technical and executive, being a temporal art, it must seek for them in music. Each phrase of each sentence, like an air or a recitative in music, should be so artfully compounded out of long and short, out of accented and unaccented, as to gratify the sensual ear. And of this the ear is the sole judge. It is impossible to lay down laws. Even in our accentual and rhythmic language no analysis can find the secret of the beauty of a verse; how much less, then, of those phrases, such as prose is built of, which obey no law but to be lawless and yet to please? The little that we know of verse (and for my part I owe it all to my friend Professor Fleeming Jenkin) is, however, particularly interesting in the present connection. We have been accustomed to describe the heroic line as five iambic feet, and to be filled with pain and confusion whenever, as by the conscientious schoolboy, we have heard our own description put in practice. "All nìght | the dreàd | less àn | gel ùn | pursùed,"[18] goes the schoolboy; but though we close our ears, we cling to our definition, in spite of its proved and naked insufficiency. Mr. Jenkin was not so easily pleased, and readily discovered that the heroic line consists of four groups, or, if you prefer the phrase, contains four pauses: "All night | the dreadless | angel | unpursued." Four groups, each practically uttered as one word: the first, in this case, an iamb; the second, an amphibrachys; the third, a trochee; and the fourth an amphimacer; and yet our schoolboy, with no other liberty but that of inflicting pain, had triumphantly scanned it as five iambs. Perceive, now, this fresh richness of intricacy in the web; this fourth orange, hitherto unremarked, but still kept flying with the others. What had seemed to be one thing it now appears is two; and, like some puzzle in arithmetic, the verse is made at the same time to read in fives and to read in fours. But again, four is not necessary. We do not, indeed, find verses in six groups, because there is not room for six in the ten syllables; and we do not find verses of two, because one of the main distinctions of verse from prose resides in the comparative shortness of the group; but it is even common to find verses of three. Five is the one forbidden number; because five is the number of the feet; and if five were chosen, the two patterns would coincide, and that opposition which is the life of verse would instantly be lost. We have here a clue to the effect of polysyllables, above all in Latin, where they are so common and make so brave an architecture in the verse; for the polysyllable is a group of Nature's making. If but some Roman would return from Hades (Martial, for choice), and tell me by what conduct of the voice these thundering verses should be uttered--"_Aut Lacedæmonium Tarentum_," for a case in point--I feel as if I should enter at last into the full enjoyment of the best of human verses. But, again, the five feet are all iambic, or supposed to be; by the mere count of syllables the four groups cannot be all iambic; as a question of elegance, I doubt if any one of them requires to be so; and I am certain that for choice no two of them should scan the same. The singular beauty of the verse analysed above is due, so far as analysis can carry us, part, indeed, to the clever repetition of L, D and N, but part to this variety of scansion in the groups. The groups which, like the bar in music, break up the verse for utterance, fall uniambically; and in declaiming a so-called iambic verse, it may so happen that we never utter one iambic foot. And yet to this neglect of the original beat there is a limit. "Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts,"[19] is, with all its eccentricities, a good heroic line; for though it scarcely can be said to indicate the beat of the iamb, it certainly suggests no other measure to the ear. But begin "Mother Athens, eye of Greece," or merely "Mother Athens," and the game is up, for the trochaic beat has been suggested. The eccentric scansion of the groups is an adornment; but as soon as the original beat has been forgotten, they cease implicitly to be eccentric. Variety is what is sought; but if we destroy the original mould, one of the terms of this variety is lost, and we fall back on sameness. Thus, both as to the arithmetical measure of the verse, and the degree of regularity in scansion, we see the laws of prosody to have one common purpose: to keep alive the opposition of two schemes simultaneously followed; to keep them notably apart, though still coincident; and to balance them with such judicial nicety before the reader, that neither shall be unperceived and neither signally prevail. The rule of rhythm in prose is not so intricate. Here, too, we write in groups, or phrases, as I prefer to call them, for the prose phrase is greatly longer and is much more nonchalantly uttered than the group in verse; so that not only is there a greater interval of continuous sound between the pauses, but, for that very reason, word is linked more readily to word by a more summary enunciation. Still, the phrase is the strict analogue of the group, and successive phrases, like successive groups, must differ openly in length and rhythm. The rule of scansion in verse is to suggest no measure but the one in hand; in prose, to suggest no measure at all. Prose must be rhythmical, and it may be as much so as you will; but it must not be metrical. It may be anything, but it must not be verse. A single heroic line may very well pass and not disturb the somewhat larger stride of the prose style; but one following another will produce an instant impression of poverty, flatness, and disenchantment. The same lines delivered with the measured utterance of verse would perhaps seem rich in variety. By the more summary enunciation proper to prose, as to a more distant vision, these niceties of difference are lost. A whole verse is uttered as one phrase; and the ear is soon wearied by a succession of groups identical in length. The prose writer, in fact, since he is allowed to be so much less harmonious, is condemned to a perpetually fresh variety of movement on a larger scale, and must never disappoint the ear by the trot of an accepted metre. And this obligation is the third orange with which he has to juggle, the third quality which the prose writer must work into his pattern of words. It may be thought perhaps that this is a quality of ease rather than a fresh difficulty; but such is the inherently rhythmical strain of the English language, that the bad writer--and must I take for example that admired friend of my boyhood, Captain Reid?--the inexperienced writer, as Dickens in his earlier attempts to be impressive, and the jaded writer, as any one may see for himself, all tend to fall at once into the production of bad blank verse. And here it may be pertinently asked, Why bad? And I suppose it might be enough to answer that no man ever made good verse by accident, and that no verse can ever sound otherwise than trivial when uttered with the delivery of prose. But we can go beyond such answers. The weak side of verse is the regularity of the beat, which in itself is decidedly less impressive than the movement of the nobler prose; and it is just into this weak side, and this alone, that our careless writer falls. A peculiar density and mass, consequent on the nearness of the pauses, is one of the chief good qualities of verse; but this our accidental versifier, still following after the swift gait and large gestures of prose, does not so much as aspire to imitate. Lastly, since he remains unconscious that he is making verse at all, it can never occur to him to extract those effects of counterpoint and opposition which I have referred to as the final grace and justification of verse, and, I may add, of blank verse in particular. 4. _Contents of the Phrase._--Here is a great deal of talk about rhythm--and naturally; for in our canorous language rhythm is always at the door. But it must not be forgotten that in some languages this element is almost, if not quite, extinct, and that in our own it is probably decaying. The even speech of many educated Americans sounds the note of danger. I should see it go with something as bitter as despair, but I should not be desperate. As in verse no element, not even rhythm, is necessary; so, in prose also, other sorts of beauty will arise and take the place and play the part of those that we outlive. The beauty of the expected beat in verse, the beauty in prose of its larger and more lawless melody, patent as they are to English hearing, are already silent in the ears of our next neighbours; for in France the oratorical accent and the pattern of the web have almost or altogether succeeded to their places; and the French prose writer would be astounded at the labours of his brother across the Channel, and how a good quarter of his toil, above all _invita Minerva_, is to avoid writing verse. So wonderfully far apart have races wandered in spirit, and so hard it is to understand the literature next door! Yet French prose is distinctly better than English; and French verse, above all while Hugo lives, it will not do to place upon one side. What is more to our purpose, a phrase or a verse in French is easily distinguishable as comely or uncomely. There is then another element of comeliness hitherto overlooked in this analysis: the contents of the phrase. Each phrase in literature is built of sounds, as each phrase in music consists of notes. One sound suggests, echoes, demands, and harmonises with another; and the art of rightly using these concordances is the final art in literature. It used to be a piece of good advice to all young writers to avoid alliteration; and the advice was sound, in so far as it prevented daubing. None the less for that, was it abominable nonsense, and the mere raving of those blindest of the blind who will not see? The beauty of the contents of a phrase, or of a sentence, depends implicitly upon alliteration and upon assonance. The vowel demands to be repeated; the consonant demands to be repeated; and both cry aloud to be perpetually varied. You may follow the adventures of a letter through any passage that has particularly pleased you; find it, perhaps, denied a while, to tantalise the ear; find it fired again at you in a whole broadside; or find it pass into congenerous sounds, one liquid or labial melting away into another. And you will find another and much stranger circumstance. Literature is written by and for two senses: a sort of internal ear, quick to perceive "unheard melodies"; and the eye, which directs the pen and deciphers the printed phrase. Well, even as there are rhymes for the eye, so you will find that there are assonances and alliterations; that where an author is running the open A, deceived by the eye and our strange English spelling, he will often show a tenderness for the flat A; and that where he is running a particular consonant, he will not improbably rejoice to write it down even when it is mute or bears a different value. Here, then, we have a fresh pattern--a pattern, to speak grossly, of letters--which makes the fourth preoccupation of the prose writer, and the fifth of the versifier. At times it is very delicate and hard to perceive, and then perhaps most excellent and winning (I say perhaps); but at times again the elements of this literal melody stand more boldly forward and usurp the ear. It becomes, therefore, somewhat a matter of conscience to select examples; and as I cannot very well ask the reader to help me, I shall do the next best by giving him the reason or the history of each selection. The two first, one in prose, one in verse, I chose without previous analysis, simply as engaging passages that had long re-echoed in my ear. "I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat."[20] Down to "virtue," the current S and R are both announced and repeated unobtrusively, and by way of a grace-note that almost inseparable group PVF is given entire.[21] The next phrase is a period of repose, almost ugly in itself, both S and R still audible, and B given as the last fulfilment of PVF. In the next four phrases, from "that never" down to "run for," the mask is thrown off, and, but for a slight repetition of the F and V, the whole matter turns, almost too obtrusively, on S and R; first S coming to the front, and then R. In the concluding phrase all these favourite letters, and even the flat A, a timid preference for which is just perceptible, are discarded at a blow and in a bundle; and to make the break more obvious, every word ends with a dental, and all but one with T, for which we have been cautiously prepared since the beginning. The singular dignity of the first clause, and this hammer-stroke of the last, go far to make the charm of this exquisite sentence. But it is fair to own that S and R are used a little coarsely. "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan (KANDL) A stately pleasure dome decree, (KDLSR) Where Alph the sacred river ran, (KANDLSR) Through caverns measureless to man, (KANLSR) Down to a sunless sea."[22] (NDLS) Here I have put the analysis of the main group alongside the lines; and the more it is looked at, the more interesting it will seem. But there are further niceties. In lines two and four, the current S is most delicately varied with Z. In line three, the current flat A is twice varied with the open A, already suggested in line two, and both times ("where" and "sacred") in conjunction with the current R. In the same line F and V (a harmony in themselves, even when shorn of their comrade P) are admirably contrasted. And in line four there is a marked subsidiary M, which again was announced in line two. I stop from weariness, for more might yet be said. My next example was recently quoted from Shakespeare as an example of the poet's colour sense. Now, I do not think literature has anything to do with colour, or poets anyway the better of such a sense; and I instantly attacked this passage, since "purple" was the word that had so pleased the writer of the article, to see if there might not be some literary reason for its use. It will be seen that I succeeded amply; and I am bound to say I think the passage exceptional in Shakespeare--exceptional, indeed, in literature; but it was not I who chose it. "The BaRge she sat iN, like a BURNished throNe BURNt ON the water: the POOP was BeateN gold, PURPle the sails and so PUR*Fumèd that *per The wiNds were lovesick with them."[23] It may be asked why I have put the F of perfumèd in capitals; and I reply, because this change from P to F is the completion of that from B to P, already so adroitly carried out. Indeed, the whole passage is a monument of curious ingenuity; and it seems scarce worth while to indicate the subsidiary S, L and W. In the same article, a second passage from Shakespeare was quoted, once again as an example of his colour sense: "A mole cinque-spotted like the crimson drops I' the bottom of a cowslip."[24] It is very curious, very artificial, and not worth while to analyse at length: I leave it to the reader. But before I turn my back on Shakespeare, I should like to quote a passage, for my own pleasure, and for a very model of every technical art:-- "But in the wind and tempest of her frown, W. P. V. F. (st) (OW)[25] Distinction with a loud and powerful fan, W. P. F. (st) (OW) L Puffing at all, winnowes the light away; W. P. F. L And what hath mass and matter by itself W. F. L. M. A. Lies rich in virtue and unmingled."[26] V. L. M. From these delicate and choice writers I turned with some curiosity to a player of the big drum--Macaulay. I had in hand the two-volume edition, and I opened at the beginning of the second volume. Here was what I read:-- "The violence of revolutions is generally proportioned to the degree of the maladministration which has produced them. It is therefore not strange that the government of Scotland, having been during many years greatly more corrupt than the government of England, should have fallen with a far heavier ruin. The movement against the last king of the house of Stuart was in England conservative, in Scotland destructive. The English complained not of the law, but of the violation of the law." This was plain-sailing enough; it was our old friend PVF, floated by the liquids in a body; but as I read on, and turned the page, and still found PVF with his attendant liquids, I confess my mind misgave me utterly. This could be no trick of Macaulay's; it must be the nature of the English tongue. In a kind of despair, I turned half-way through the volume; and coming upon his lordship dealing with General Cannon, and fresh from Claverhouse and Killiekrankie, here, with elucidative spelling, was my reward:-- "Meanwhile the disorders of Kannon's Kamp went on inKreasing. He Kalled a KOUNCIL of war to Konsider what Kourse it would be advisable to taKe. But as soon as the Kouncil had met a preliminary Kuestion was raised. The army was almost eKsKlusively a Highland army. The recent viKtory had been won eKsKlusively by Highland warriors. Great chie_f_s who had brought siKs or se_v_en hundred _f_ighting men into the _f_ield, did not think it _f_air that they should be out_v_oted by gentlemen _f_rom Ireland and _f_rom the Low Kountries, who bore indeed King James's Kommission, and were Kalled Kolonels and Kaptains, but who were Kolonels without regiments and Kaptains without Kompanies." A moment of FV in all this world of K's! It was not the English language, then, that was an instrument of one string, but Macaulay that was an incomparable dauber. It was probably from this barbaric love of repeating the same sound, rather than from any design of clearness, that he acquired his irritating habit of repeating words; I say the one rather than the other, because such a trick of the ear is deeper seated and more original in man than any logical consideration. Few writers, indeed, are probably conscious of the length to which they push this melody of letters. One, writing very diligently, and only concerned about the meaning of his words and the rhythm of his phrases, was struck into amazement by the eager triumph with which he cancelled one expression to substitute another. Neither changed the sense; both being mono-syllables, neither could affect the scansion; and it was only by looking back on what he had already written that the mystery was solved: the second word contained an open A, and for nearly half a page he had been riding that vowel to the death. In practice, I should add, the ear is not always so exacting; and ordinary writers, in ordinary moments, content themselves with avoiding what is harsh, and here and there, upon a rare occasion, buttressing a phrase, or linking two together, with a patch of assonance or a momentary jingle of alliteration. To understand how constant is this preoccupation of good writers, even where its results are least obtrusive, it is only necessary to turn to the bad. There, indeed, you will find cacophony supreme, the rattle of incongruous consonants only relieved by the jaw-breaking hiatus, and whole phrases not to be articulated by the powers of man. _Conclusion_.--We may now briefly enumerate the elements of style. We have, peculiar to the prose writer, the task of keeping his phrases large, rhythmical and pleasing to the ear, without ever allowing them to fall into the strictly metrical: peculiar to the versifier, the task of combining and contrasting his double, treble, and quadruple pattern, feet and groups, logic and metre--harmonious in diversity: common to both, the task of artfully combining the prime elements of language into phrases that shall be musical in the mouth; the task of weaving their argument into a texture of committed phrases and of rounded periods--but this particularly binding in the case of prose: and, again common to both, the task of choosing apt, explicit, and communicative words. We begin to see now what an intricate affair is any perfect passage; how many faculties, whether of taste or pure reason, must be held upon the stretch to make it; and why, when it is made, it should afford us so complete a pleasure. From the arrangement of according letters, which is altogether arabesque and sensual, up to the architecture of the elegant and pregnant sentence, which is a vigorous act of the pure intellect, there is scarce a faculty in man but has been exercised. We need not wonder, then, if perfect sentences are rare, and perfect pages rarer. FOOTNOTES: [18] Milton. [19] Milton. [20] Milton. [21] As PVF will continue to haunt us through our English examples, take, by way of comparison, this Latin verse, of which it forms a chief adornment, and do not hold me answerable for the all too Roman freedom of the sense: "Hanc volo, quæ facilis, quæ palliolata vagatur." [22] Coleridge. [23] Antony and Cleopatra. [24] Cymbeline. [25] The V is in "of." [26] Troilus and Cressida. IV THE MORALITY OF THE PROFESSION OF LETTERS The profession of letters has been lately debated in the public prints; and it has been debated, to put the matter mildly, from a point of view that was calculated to surprise high-minded men, and bring a general contempt on books and reading. Some time ago, in particular, a lively, pleasant, popular writer[27] devoted an essay, lively and pleasant like himself, to a very encouraging view of the profession. We may be glad that his experience is so cheering, and we may hope that all others, who deserve it, shall be as handsomely rewarded; but I do not think we need be at all glad to have this question, so important to the public and ourselves, debated solely on the ground of money. The salary in any business under heaven is not the only, nor indeed the first, question. That you should continue to exist is a matter for your own consideration; but that your business should be first honest, and second useful, are points in which honour and morality are concerned. If the writer to whom I refer succeeds in persuading a number of young persons to adopt this way of life with an eye set singly on the livelihood, we must expect them in their works to follow profit only, and we must expect in consequence, if he will pardon me the epithets, a slovenly, base, untrue, and empty literature. Of that writer himself I am not speaking: he is diligent, clean, and pleasing; we all owe him periods of entertainment, and he has achieved an amiable popularity which he has adequately deserved. But the truth is, he does not, or did not when he first embraced it, regard his profession from this purely mercenary side. He went into it, I shall venture to say, if not with any noble design, at least in the ardour of a first love; and he enjoyed its practice long before he paused to calculate the wage. The other day an author was complimented on a piece of work, good in itself and exceptionally good for him, and replied in terms unworthy of a commercial traveller, that as the book was not briskly selling he did not give a copper farthing for its merit. It must not be supposed that the person to whom this answer was addressed received it as a profession of faith; he knew, on the other hand, that it was only a whiff of irritation; just as we know, when a respectable writer talks of literature as a way of life, like shoemaking, but not so useful, that he is only debating one aspect of a question, and is still clearly conscious of a dozen others more important in themselves and more central to the matter in hand. But while those who treat literature in this penny-wise and virtue-foolish spirit are themselves truly in possession of a better light, it does not follow that the treatment is decent or improving, whether for themselves or others. To treat all subjects in the highest, the most honourable, and the pluckiest spirit, consistent with the fact, is the first duty of a writer. If he be well paid, as I am glad to hear he is, this duty becomes the more urgent, the neglect of it the more disgraceful. And perhaps there is no subject on which a man should speak so gravely as that industry, whatever it may be, which is the occupation or delight of his life; which is his tool to earn or serve with; and which, if it be unworthy, stamps himself as a mere incubus of dumb and greedy bowels on the shoulders of labouring humanity. On that subject alone even to force the note might lean to virtue's side. It is to be hoped that a numerous and enterprising generation of writers will follow and surpass the present one; but it would be better if the stream were stayed, and the roll of our old, honest English books were closed, than that esurient bookmakers should continue and debase a brave tradition, and lower, in their own eyes, a famous race. Better that our serene temples were deserted than filled with trafficking and juggling priests. There are two just reasons for the choice of any way of life: the first is inbred taste in the chooser; the second some high utility in the industry selected. Literature, like any other art, is singularly interesting to the artist; and, in a degree peculiar to itself among the arts, it is useful to mankind. These are the sufficient justifications for any young man or woman who adopts it as the business of his life. I shall not say much about the wages. A writer can live by his writing. If not so luxuriously as by other trades, then less luxuriously. The nature of the work he does all day will more affect his happiness than the quality of his dinner at night. Whatever be your calling, and however much it brings you in the year, you could still, you know, get more by cheating. We all suffer ourselves to be too much concerned about a little poverty; but such considerations should not move us in the choice of that which is to be the business and justification of so great a portion of our lives; and like the missionary, the patriot, or the philosopher, we should all choose that poor and brave career in which we can do the most and best for mankind. Now Nature, faithfully followed, proves herself a careful mother. A lad, for some liking to the jingle of words, betakes himself to letters for his life; by-and-by, when he learns more gravity, he finds that he has chosen better than he knew; that if he earns little, he is earning it amply; that if he receives a small wage, he is in a position to do considerable services; that it is in his power, in some small measure, to protect the oppressed and to defend the truth. So kindly is the world arranged, such great profit may arise from a small degree of human reliance on oneself, and such, in particular, is the happy star of this trade of writing, that it should combine pleasure and profit to both parties, and be at once agreeable, like fiddling, and useful, like good preaching. This is to speak of literature at its highest; and with the four great elders who are still spared to our respect and admiration, with Carlyle, Ruskin, Browning, and Tennyson before us, it would be cowardly to consider it at first in any lesser aspect. But while we cannot follow these athletes, while we may none of us, perhaps, be very vigorous, very original, or very wise, I still contend that, in the humblest sort of literary work, we have it in our power either to do great harm or great good. We may seek merely to please; we may seek, having no higher gift, merely to gratify the idle nine-days' curiosity of our contemporaries; or we may essay, however feebly, to instruct. In each of these we shall have to deal with that remarkable art of words which, because it is the dialect of life, comes home so easily and powerfully to the minds of men; and since that is so, we contribute, in each of these branches, to build up the sum of sentiments and appreciations which goes by the name of Public Opinion or Public Feeling. The total of a nation's reading, in these days of daily papers, greatly modifies the total of the nation's speech; and the speech and reading, taken together, form the efficient educational medium of youth. A good man or woman may keep a youth some little while in clearer air; but the contemporary atmosphere is all-powerful in the end on the average of mediocre characters. The copious Corinthian baseness of the American reporter or the Parisian _chroniqueur_, both so lightly readable, must exercise an incalculable influence for ill; they touch upon all subjects, and on all with the same ungenerous hand; they begin the consideration of all, in young and unprepared minds, in an unworthy spirit; on all, they supply some pungency for dull people to quote. The mere body of this ugly matter overwhelms the rarer utterances of good men; the sneering, the selfish, and the cowardly are scattered in broad sheets on every table, while the antidote, in small volumes, lies unread upon the shelf. I have spoken of the American and the French, not because they are so much baser, but so much more readable, than the English; their evil is done more effectively, in America for the masses, in French for the few that care to read; but with us as with them, the duties of literature are daily neglected, truth daily perverted and suppressed, and grave subjects daily degraded in the treatment. The journalist is not reckoned an important officer; yet judge of the good he might do, the harm he does; judge of it by one instance only: that when we find two journals on the reverse sides of politics each, on the same day, openly garbling a piece of news for the interest of its own party, we smile at the discovery (no discovery now!) as over a good joke and pardonable stratagem. Lying so open is scarce lying, it is true; but one of the things that we profess to teach our young is a respect for truth; and I cannot think this piece of education will be crowned with any great success, so long as some of us practise and the rest openly approve of public falsehood. There are two duties incumbent upon any man who enters on the business of writing: truth to the fact and a good spirit in the treatment. In every department of literature, though so low as hardly to deserve the name, truth to the fact is of importance to the education and comfort of mankind, and so hard to preserve, that the faithful trying to do so will lend some dignity to the man who tries it. Our judgments are based upon two things, first, upon the original preferences of our soul; but, second, upon the mass of testimony to the nature of God, man, and the universe which reaches us, in divers manners, from without. For the most part these divers manners are reducible to one, all that we learn of past times and much that we learn of our own reaching us through the medium of books or papers, and even he who cannot read learning from the same source at second-hand and by the report of him who can. Thus the sum of the contemporary knowledge or ignorance of good and evil is, in large measure, the handiwork of those who write. Those who write have to see that each man's knowledge is, as near as they can make it, answerable to the facts of life; that he shall not suppose himself an angel or a monster; nor take this world for a hell; nor be suffered to imagine that all rights are concentred in his own caste or country, or all veracities in his own parochial creed. Each man should learn what is within him, that he may strive to mend; he must be taught what is without him, that he may be kind to others. It can never be wrong to tell him the truth; for, in his disputable state, weaving as he goes his theory of life, steering himself, cheering or reproving others, all facts are of the first importance to his conduct; and even if a fact shall discourage or corrupt him, it is still best that he should know it; for it is in this world as it is, and not in a world made easy by educational suppressions, that he must win his way to shame or glory. In one word, it must always be foul to tell what is false; and it can never be safe to suppress what is true. The very fact that you omit may be the fact which somebody was wanting, for one man's meat is another man's poison, and I have known a person who was cheered by the perusal of "Candide." Every fact is a part of that great puzzle we must set together; and none that comes directly in a writer's path but has some nice relations, unperceivable by him, to the totality and bearing of the subject under hand. Yet there are certain classes of fact eternally more necessary than others, and it is with these that literature must first bestir itself. They are not hard to distinguish, nature once more easily leading us; for the necessary, because the efficacious, facts are those which are most interesting to the natural mind of man. Those which are coloured, picturesque, human, and rooted in morality, and those, on the other hand, which are clear, indisputable, and a part of science, are alone vital in importance, seizing by their interest, or useful to communicate. So far as the writer merely narrates, he should principally tell of these. He should tell of the kind and wholesome and beautiful elements of our life; he should tell unsparingly of the evil and sorrow of the present, to move us with instances; he should tell of wise and good people in the past, to excite us by example; and of these he should tell soberly and truthfully, not glossing faults, that we may neither grow discouraged with ourselves nor exacting to our neighbours. So the body of contemporary literature, ephemeral and feeble in itself, touches in the minds of men the springs of thought and kindness, and supports them (for those who will go at all are easily supported) on their way to what is true and right. And if, in any degree, it does so now, how much more might it do so if the writers chose! There is not a life in all the records of the past but, properly studied, might lend a hint and a help to some contemporary. There is not a juncture in to-day's affairs but some useful word may yet be said of it. Even the reporter has an office, and, with clear eyes and honest language, may unveil injustices and point the way to progress. And for a last word: in all narration there is only one way to be clever, and that is to be exact. To be vivid is a secondary quality which must presuppose the first; for vividly to convey a wrong impression is only to make failure conspicuous. But a fact may be viewed on many sides; it may be chronicled with rage, tears, laughter, indifference, or admiration, and by each of these the story will be transformed to something else. The newspapers that told of the return of our representatives from Berlin, even if they had not differed as to the facts, would have sufficiently differed by their spirit; so that the one description would have been a second ovation, and the other a prolonged insult. The subject makes but a trifling part of any piece of literature, and the view of the writer is itself a fact more important because less disputable than the others. Now this spirit in which a subject is regarded, important in all kinds of literary work, becomes all-important in works of fiction, meditation, or rhapsody; for there it not only colours but itself chooses the facts; not only modifies but shapes the work. And hence, over the far larger proportion of the field of literature, the health or disease of the writer's mind or momentary humour forms not only the leading feature of his work, but is, at bottom, the only thing he can communicate to others. In all works of art, widely speaking, it is first of all the author's attitude that is narrated, though in the attitude there be implied a whole experience and a theory of life. An author who has begged the question and reposes in some narrow faith cannot, if he would, express the whole or even many of the sides of this various existence; for, his own life being maim, some of them are not admitted in his theory, and were only dimly and unwillingly recognised in his experience. Hence the smallness, the triteness, and the inhumanity in works of merely sectarian religion; and hence we find equal although unsimilar limitations in works inspired by the spirit of the flesh or the despicable taste for high society. So that the first duty of any man who is to write is intellectual. Designedly or not, he has so far set himself up for a leader of the minds of men; and he must see that his own mind is kept supple, charitable, and bright. Everything but prejudice should find a voice through him; he should see the good in all things; where he has even a fear that he does not wholly understand, there he should be wholly silent; and he should recognise from the first that he has only one tool in his workshop and that tool is sympathy.[28] The second duty, far harder to define, is moral. There are a thousand different humours in the mind, and about each of them, when it is uppermost, some literature tends to be deposited. Is this to be allowed? Not certainly in every case, and yet perhaps in more than rigorists would fancy. It were to be desired that all literary work, and chiefly works of art, issued from sound, human, healthy, and potent impulses, whether grave or laughing, humorous, romantic, or religious. Yet it cannot be denied that some valuable books are partially insane; some, mostly religious, partially inhuman; and very many tainted with morbidity and impotence. We do not loathe a masterpiece although we gird against its blemishes. We are not, above all, to look for faults but merits. There is no book perfect, even in design; but there are many that will delight, improve, or encourage the reader. On the one hand, the Hebrew Psalms are the only religious poetry on earth; yet they contain sallies that savour rankly of the man of blood. On the other hand, Alfred de Musset had a poisoned and a contorted nature; I am only quoting that generous and frivolous giant, old Dumas, when I accuse him of a bad heart; yet, when the impulse under which he wrote was purely creative, he could give us works like "Carmosine" or "Fantasio," in which the last note of the romantic comedy seems to have been found again to touch and please us. When Flaubert wrote "Madame Bovary," I believe he thought chiefly of a somewhat morbid realism; and behold! the book turned in his hands into a masterpiece of appalling morality. But the truth is, when books are conceived under a great stress, with a soul of nine-fold power nine times heated and electrified by effort, the conditions of our being are seized with such an ample grasp, that, even should the main design be trivial or base, some truth and beauty cannot fail to be expressed. Out of the strong comes forth sweetness; but an ill thing poorly done is an ill thing top and bottom. And so this can be no encouragement to knock-knee'd, feeble-wristed scribes, who must take their business conscientiously or be ashamed to practise it. Man is imperfect; yet, in his literature, he must express himself and his own views and preferences; for to do anything else is to do a far more perilous thing than to risk being immoral: it is to be sure of being untrue. To ape a sentiment, even a good one, is to travesty a sentiment; that will not be helpful. To conceal a sentiment, if you are sure you hold it, is to take a liberty with truth. There is probably no point of view possible to a sane man but contains some truth and, in the true connection, might be profitable to the race. I am not afraid of the truth, if any one could tell it me, but I am afraid of parts of it impertinently uttered. There is a time to dance and a time to mourn; to be harsh as well as to be sentimental; to be ascetic as well as to glorify the appetites; and if a man were to combine all these extremes into his work, each in its place and proportion, that work would be the world's masterpiece of morality as well as of art. Partiality is immorality; for any book is wrong that gives a misleading picture of the world and life. The trouble is that the weakling must be partial; the work of one proving dank and depressing; of another, cheap and vulgar; of a third, epileptically sensual; of a fourth, sourly ascetic. In literature as in conduct, you can never hope to do exactly right. All you can do is to make as sure as possible; and for that there is but one rule. Nothing should be done in a hurry that can be done slowly. It is no use to write a book and put it by for nine or even ninety years; for in the writing you will have partly convinced yourself; the delay must precede any beginning; and if you meditate a work of art, you should first long roll the subject under the tongue to make sure you like the flavour, before you brew a volume that shall taste of it from end to end; or if you propose to enter on the field of controversy, you should first have thought upon the question under all conditions, in health as well as in sickness, in sorrow as well as in joy. It is this nearness of examination necessary for any true and kind writing, that makes the practice of the art a prolonged and noble education for the writer. There is plenty to do, plenty to say, or to say over again, in the meantime. Any literary work which conveys faithful facts or pleasing impressions is a service to the public. It is even a service to be thankfully proud of having rendered. The slightest novels are a blessing to those in distress, not chloroform itself a greater. Our fine old sea-captain's life was justified when Carlyle soothed his mind with "The King's Own" or "Newton Forster." To please is to serve; and so far from its being difficult to instruct while you amuse, it is difficult to do the one thoroughly without the other. Some part of the writer or his life will crop out in even a vapid book; and to read a novel that was conceived with any force is to multiply experience and to exercise the sympathies. Every article, every piece of verse, every essay, every _entrefilet_, is destined to pass, however swiftly, through the minds of some portion of the public, and to colour, however transiently, their thoughts. When any subject falls to be discussed, some scribbler on a paper has the invaluable opportunity of beginning its discussion in a dignified and human spirit; and if there were enough who did so in our public press neither the public nor the parliament would find it in their minds to drop to meaner thoughts. The writer has the chance to stumble, by the way, on something pleasing, something interesting, something encouraging, were it only to a single reader. He will be unfortunate, indeed, if he suit no one. He has the chance, besides, to stumble on something that a dull person shall be able to comprehend; and for a dull person to have read anything and, for that once, comprehended it, makes a marking epoch in his education. Here then is work worth doing and worth trying to do well. And so, if I were minded to welcome any great accession to our trade, it should not be from any reason of a higher wage, but because it was a trade which was useful in a very great and in a very high degree; which every honest tradesman could make more serviceable to mankind in his single strength; which was difficult to do well and possible to do better every year; which called for scrupulous thought on the part of all who practised it, and hence became a perpetual education to their nobler natures; and which, pay it as you please, in the large majority of the best cases will still be underpaid. For surely, at this time of day in the nineteenth century, there is nothing that an honest man should fear more timorously than getting and spending more than he deserves. FOOTNOTES: [27] Mr. James Payn. [28] A footnote, at least, is due to the admirable example set before all young writers in the width of literary sympathy displayed by Mr. Swinburne. He runs forth to welcome merit, whether in Dickens or Trollope, whether in Villon, Milton, or Pope. This is, in criticism, the attitude we should all seek to preserve, not only in that, but in every branch of literary work. V BOOKS WHICH HAVE INFLUENCED ME The Editor[29] has somewhat insidiously laid a trap for his correspondents, the question put appearing at first so innocent, truly cutting so deep. It is not, indeed, until after some reconnaissance and review that the writer awakes to find himself engaged upon something in the nature of autobiography, or, perhaps worse, upon a chapter in the life of that little, beautiful brother whom we once all had, and whom we have all lost and mourned, the man we ought to have been, the man we hoped to be. But when word has been passed (even to an editor), it should, if possible, be kept; and if sometimes I am wise and say too little, and sometimes weak and say too much, the blame must lie at the door of the person who entrapped me. The most influential books, and the truest in their influence, are works of fiction. They do not pin the reader to a dogma, which he must afterwards discover to be inexact; they do not teach him a lesson, which he must afterwards unlearn. They repeat, they rearrange, they clarify the lessons of life; they disengage us from ourselves, they constrain us to the acquaintance of others; and they show us the web of experience, not as we can see it for ourselves, but with a singular change--that monstrous, consuming _ego_ of ours being, for the nonce, struck out. To be so, they must be reasonably true to the human comedy; and any work that is so serves the turn of instruction. But the course of our education is answered best by those poems and romances where we breathe a magnanimous atmosphere of thought and meet generous and pious characters. Shakespeare has served me best. Few living friends have had upon me an influence so strong for good as Hamlet or Rosalind. The last character, already well beloved in the reading, I had the good fortune to see, I must think, in an impressionable hour, played by Mrs. Scott Siddons. Nothing has ever more moved, more delighted, more refreshed me; nor has the influence quite passed away. Kent's brief speech over the dying Lear had a great effect upon my mind, and was the burthen of my reflections for long, so profoundly, so touchingly generous did it appear in sense, so overpowering in expression. Perhaps my dearest and best friend outside of Shakespeare is D'Artagnan--the elderly D'Artagnan of the "Vicomte de Bragelonne." I know not a more human soul, nor, in his way, a finer; I shall be very sorry for the man who is so much of a pedant in morals that he cannot learn from the Captain of Musketeers. Lastly, I must name the "Pilgrim's Progress," a book that breathes of every beautiful and valuable emotion. But of works of art little can be said; their influence is profound and silent, like the influence of nature; they mould by contact; we drink them up like water, and are bettered, yet know not how. It is in books more specifically didactic that we can follow out the effect, and distinguish and weigh and compare. A book which has been very influential upon me fell early into my hands, and so may stand first, though I think its influence was only sensible later on, and perhaps still keeps growing, for it is a book not easily outlived: the "Essais" of Montaigne. That temperate and genial picture of life is a great gift to place in the hands of persons of to-day; they will find in these smiling pages a magazine of heroism and wisdom, all of an antique strain; they will have their "linen decencies" and excited orthodoxies fluttered, and will (if they have any gift of reading) perceive that these have not been fluttered without some excuse and ground of reason; and (again if they have any gift of reading) they will end by seeing that this old gentleman was in a dozen ways a finer fellow, and held in a dozen ways a nobler view of life, than they or their contemporaries. The next book, in order of time, to influence me was the New Testament, and in particular the Gospel according to St. Matthew. I believe it would startle and move any one if they could make a certain effort of imagination and read it freshly like a book, not droningly and dully like a portion of the Bible. Any one would then be able to see in it those truths which we are all courteously supposed to know and all modestly refrain from applying. But upon this subject it is perhaps better to be silent. I come next to Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," a book of singular service, a book which tumbled the world upside down for me, blew into space a thousand cobwebs of genteel and ethical illusion, and, having thus shaken my tabernacle of lies, set me back again upon a strong foundation of all the original and manly virtues. But it is, once more, only a book for those who have the gift of reading. I will be very frank--I believe it is so with all good books, except, perhaps, fiction. The average man lives, and must live, so wholly in convention, that gunpowder charges of the truth are more apt to discompose than to invigorate his creed. Either he cries out upon blasphemy and indecency, and crouches the closer round that little idol of part-truths and part-conveniences which is the contemporary deity, or he is convinced by what is new, forgets what is old, and becomes truly blasphemous and indecent himself. New truth is only useful to supplement the old; rough truth is only wanted to expand, not to destroy, our civil and often elegant conventions. He who cannot judge had better stick to fiction and the daily papers. There he will get little harm, and, in the first at least, some good. Close upon the back of my discovery of Whitman, I came under the influence of Herbert Spencer. No more persuasive rabbi exists, and few better. How much of his vast structure will bear the touch of time, how much is clay and how much brass, it were too curious to inquire. But his words, if dry, are always manly and honest; there dwells in his pages a spirit of highly abstract joy, plucked naked like an algebraic symbol, but still joyful; and the reader will find there a _caput-mortuum_ of piety, with little indeed of its loveliness, but with most of its essentials; and these two qualities make him a wholesome, as his intellectual vigour makes him a bracing, writer. I should be much of a hound if I lost my gratitude to Herbert Spencer. "Goethe's Life," by Lewes, had a great importance for me when it first fell into my hands--a strange instance of the partiality of man's good and man's evil. I know no one whom I less admire than Goethe; he seems a very epitome of the sins of genius, breaking open the doors of private life, and wantonly wounding friends, in that crowning offence of "Werther," and in his own character a mere pen-and-ink Napoleon, conscious of the rights and duties of superior talents as a Spanish inquisitor was conscious of the rights and duties of his office. And yet in his fine devotion to his art, in his honest and serviceable friendship for Schiller, what lessons are contained! Biography, usually so false to its office, does here for once perform for us some of the work of fiction, reminding us, that is, of the truly mingled tissue of man's nature, and how huge faults and shining virtues cohabit and persevere in the same character. History serves us well to this effect, but in the originals, not in the pages of the popular epitomiser, who is bound, by the very nature of his task, to make us feel the difference of epochs instead of the essential identity of man, and even in the originals only to those who can recognise their own human virtues and defects in strange forms, often inverted and under strange names, often interchanged. Martial is a poet of no good repute, and it gives a man new thoughts to read his works dispassionately, and find in this unseemly jester's serious passages the image of a kind, wise, and self-respecting gentleman. It is customary, I suppose, in reading Martial, to leave out these pleasant verses; I never heard of them, at least, until I found them for myself; and this partiality is one among a thousand things that help to build up our distorted and hysterical conception of the great Roman empire. This brings us by a natural transition to a very noble book--the "Meditations" of Marcus Aurelius. The dispassionate gravity, the noble forgetfulness of self, the tenderness of others, that are there expressed and were practised on so great a scale in the life of its writer, make this book a book quite by itself. No one can read it and not be moved. Yet it scarcely or rarely appeals to the feelings--those very mobile, those not very trusty parts of man. Its address lies further back: its lesson comes more deeply home; when you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another bond on you thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of virtue. Wordsworth should perhaps come next. Every one has been influenced by Wordsworth, and it is hard to tell precisely how. A certain innocence, a rugged austerity of joy, a sight of the stars, "the silence that is in the lonely hills," something of the cold thrill of dawn, cling to his work and give it a particular address to what is best in us. I do not know that you learn a lesson; you need not--Mill did not--agree with any one of his beliefs; and yet the spell is cast. Such are the best teachers; a dogma learned is only a new error--the old one was perhaps as good; but a spirit communicated is a perpetual possession. These best teachers climb beyond teaching to the plane of art; it is themselves, and what is best in themselves, that they communicate. I should never forgive myself if I forgot "The Egoist." It is art, if you like, but it belongs purely to didactic art, and from all the novels I have read (and I have read thousands) stands in a place by itself. Here is a Nathan for the modern David; here is a book to send the blood into men's faces. Satire, the angry picture of human faults, is not great art; we can all be angry with our neighbour; what we want is to be shown, not his defects, of which we are too conscious, but his merits, to which we are too blind. And "The Egoist" is a satire; so much must be allowed; but it is a satire of a singular quality, which tells you nothing of that obvious mote, which is engaged from first to last with that invisible beam. It is yourself that is hunted down; these are your own faults that are dragged into the day and numbered, with lingering relish, with cruel cunning and precision. A young friend of Mr. Meredith's (as I have the story) came to him in an agony. "This is too bad of you," he cried. "Willoughby is me!" "No, my dear fellow," said the author, "he is all of us." I have read "The Egoist" five or six times myself, and I mean to read it again; for I am like the young friend of the anecdote--I think Willoughby an unmanly but a very serviceable exposure of myself. I suppose, when I am done, I shall find that I have forgotten much that was most influential, as I see already I have forgotten Thoreau, and Hazlitt, whose paper "On the Spirit of Obligations" was a turning-point in my life, and Penn, whose little book of aphorisms had a brief but strong effect on me, and Mitford's "Tales of Old Japan," wherein I learned for the first time the proper attitude of any rational man to his country's laws--a secret found, and kept, in the Asiatic islands. That I should commemorate all is more than I can hope or the editor could ask. It will be more to the point, after having said so much upon improving books, to say a word or two about the improvable reader. The gift of reading, as I have called it, is not very common, nor very generally understood. It consists, first of all, in a vast intellectual endowment--a free grace, I find I must call it--by which a man rises to understand that he is not punctually right, nor those from whom he differs absolutely wrong. He may hold dogmas; he may hold them passionately; and he may know that others hold them but coldly, or hold them differently, or hold them not at all. Well, if he has the gift of reading, these others will be full of meat for him. They will see the other side of propositions and the other side of virtues. He need not change his dogma for that, but he may change his reading of that dogma, and he must supplement and correct his deductions from it. A human truth, which is always very much a lie, hides as much of life as it displays. It is men who hold another truth, or, as it seems to us, perhaps, a dangerous lie, who can extend our restricted field of knowledge, and rouse our drowsy consciences. Something that seems quite new, or that seems insolently false or very dangerous, is the test of a reader. If he tries to see what it means, what truth excuses it, he has the gift, and let him read. If he is merely hurt, or offended, or exclaims upon his author's folly, he had better take to the daily papers; he will never be a reader. And here, with the aptest illustrative force, after I have laid down my part-truth, I must step in with its opposite. For, after all, we are vessels of a very limited content. Not all men can read all books; it is only in a chosen few that any man will find his appointed food; and the fittest lessons are the most palatable, and make themselves welcome to the mind. A writer learns this early, and it is his chief support; he goes on unafraid, laying down the law; and he is sure at heart that most of what he says is demonstrably false, and much of a mingled strain, and some hurtful, and very little good for service; but he is sure besides that when his words fall into the hands of any genuine reader, they will be weighed and winnowed, and only that which suits will be assimilated; and when they fall into the hands of one who cannot intelligently read, they come there quite silent and inarticulate, falling upon deaf ears, and his secret is kept as if he had not written. FOOTNOTE: [29] Of _The British Weekly_. VI THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no doubt correctly; and rival historians expose each other's blunders with gratification. Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of the period he studies than the best of us can hope to form of that in which we live. The obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand reasons of inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and multiplicity of experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an insidious shifting of landmarks. Parties and ideas continually move, but not by measurable marches on a stable course; the political soil itself steals forth by imperceptible degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom not only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so that what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a flying island of Laputa. It is for this reason in particular that we are all becoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would not in the least refer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters, sounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist Jericho--but to the stealthy change that has come over the spirit of Englishmen and English legislation. A little while ago, and we were still for liberty; "crowd a few more thousands on the bench of Government," we seemed to cry; "keep her head direct on liberty, and we cannot help but come to port." This is over; _laisser faire_ declines in favour; our legislation grows authoritative, grows philanthropical, bristles with new duties and new penalties, and casts a spawn of inspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to darken the face of England. It may be right or wrong, we are not trying that; but one thing it is beyond doubt: it is Socialism in action, and the strange thing is that we scarcely know it. Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved to be self-exclusive in the long run. She has taken wages besides (like all other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we were accustomed to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to all were truly benefits of wealth, and took their value from our neighbours' poverty. A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic phrase) of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners may imply for operatives, tenants or seamen, and we not unnaturally begin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent tyranny. Freedom, to be desirable, involves kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the free; but the free man as we have seen him in action has been, as of yore, only the master of many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, ill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in other men's affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to despair of virtue in these other men, and from our seat in Parliament begin to discharge upon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors. The landlord has long shaken his head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land have lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions look askance upon the retail traders and have even started their co-operative stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths of Birmingham a finger has begun to write upon the wall the condemnation of the landlord. Thus, piece by piece, do we condemn each other, and yet not perceive the conclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, piece by piece, each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away the branch on which some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all labouring together to bring in Socialism at large. A tendency so stupid and so selfish is like to prove invincible; and if Socialism be at all a practicable rule of life, there is every chance that our grandchildren will see the day and taste the pleasures of existence in something far liker an ant-heap than any previous human polity. And this not in the least because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his followers; but by the mere glacier movement of the political soil, bearing forward on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the proud camps of Whig and Tory. If Mr. Hyndman were a man of keen humour, which is far from my conception of his character, he might rest from his troubling and look on: the walls of Jericho begin already to crumble and dissolve. That great servile war, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked forward when young, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a peaceable and blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in political tactics and dead to political results. The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new evolution (if it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the state of Parliament is not only diagnostic of the present but fatefully prophetic of the future. Well, we all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it. We may pardon it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish obstruction--a bitter trial, which it supports with notable good humour. But the excuse is merely local; it cannot apply to similar bodies in America and France; and what are we to say of these? President Cleveland's letter may serve as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will convince us of the weakness of the other. Decay appears to have seized on the organ of popular government in every land; and this just at the moment when we begin to bring to it, as to an oracle of justice, the whole skein of our private affairs to be unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take upon itself our frailties and play for us the part that should be played by our own virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. We cannot trust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust our consciences; and the remedy proposed is to elect a round number of our neighbours, pretty much at random, and say to these: "Be ye our conscience; make laws so wise, and continue from year to year to administer them so wisely, that they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous and happy, world without end. Amen." And who can look twice at the British Parliament and then seriously bring it such a task? I am not advancing this as an argument against Socialism; once again, nothing is further from my mind. There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even Mr. Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did one-tenth part of what it offers, I for one should make it welcome. But if it is to come, we may as well have some notion of what it will be like; and the first thing to grasp is that our new polity will be designed and administered (to put it courteously) with something short of inspiration. It will be made, or will grow, in a human parliament; and the one thing that will not very hugely change is human nature. The Anarchists think otherwise, from which it is only plain that they have not carried to the study of history the lamp of human sympathy. Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, what headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a good deal at that excellent thing, the income-tax, because it brings into our affairs the prying fingers, and exposes us to the tart words, of the official. The official, in all degrees, is already something of a terror to many of us. I would not willingly have to do with even a police-constable in any other spirit than that of kindness. I still remember in my dreams the eye-glass of a certain _attaché_ at a certain embassy--an eye-glass that was a standing indignity to all on whom it looked; and my next most disagreeable remembrance is of a bracing, Republican postman in the city of San Francisco. I lived in that city among working folk, and what my neighbours accepted at the postman's hands--nay, what I took from him myself--it is still distasteful to recall. The bourgeois, residing in the upper parts of society, has but few opportunities of tasting this peculiar bowl; but about the income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about a patent, or in the halls of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the eye-glass, he occasionally sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine (if he has that faculty of imagination, without which most faculties are void) how it tastes to his poorer neighbours who must drain it to the dregs. In every contact with authority, with their employer, with the police, with the School Board officer, in the hospital, or in the workhouse, they have equally the occasion to appreciate the light-hearted civility of the man in office; and as an experimentalist in several out-of-the-way provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be appreciated. Well, this golden age of which we are speaking will be the golden age of officials. In all our concerns it will be their beloved duty to meddle, with what tact, with what obliging words, analogy will aid us to imagine. It is likely these gentlemen will be periodically elected; they will therefore have their turn of being underneath, which does not always sweeten men's conditions. The laws they will have to administer will be no clearer than those we know to-day, and the body which is to regulate their administration no wiser than the British Parliament. So that upon all hands we may look for a form of servitude most galling to the blood--servitude to many and changing masters, and for all the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And if the Socialistic programme be carried out with the least fulness, we shall have lost a thing, in most respects not much to be regretted, but as a moderator of oppression, a thing nearly invaluable--the newspaper. For the independent journal is a creature of capital and competition; it stands and falls with millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses and glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its bent to authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on private property, the days of the independent journal are numbered. State railways may be good things and so may State bakeries; but a State newspaper will never be a very trenchant critic of the State officials. But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime would perhaps be less, for some of the motives of crime we may suppose would pass away. But if Socialism were carried out with any fulness, there would be more contraventions. We see already new sins springing up like mustard--School Board sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping Act sins--none of which I would be thought to except against in particular, but all of which, taken together, show us that Socialism can be a hard master even in the beginning. If it go on to such heights as we hear proposed and lauded, if it come actually to its ideal of the ant-heap, ruled with iron justice, the number of new contraventions will be out of all proportion multiplied. Take the case of work alone. Man is an idle animal. He is at least as intelligent as the ant; but generations of advisers have in vain recommended him the ant's example. Of those who are found truly indefatigable in business, some are misers; some are the practisers of delightful industries, like gardening; some are students, artists, inventors, or discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; and the rest are those who live by games of skill or hazard--financiers, billiard-players, gamblers, and the like. But in unloved toils, even under the prick of necessity, no man is continually sedulous. Once eliminate the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the hope of riches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and malingering. Society will then be something not wholly unlike a cotton plantation in the old days; with cheerful, careless, demoralised slaves, with elected overseers, and, instead of the planter, a chaotic popular assembly. If the blood be purposeful and the soil strong, such a plantation may succeed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and long hours of leisure. But even then I think the whip will be in the overseer's hands, and not in vain. For, when it comes to be a question of each man doing his own share or the rest doing more, prettiness of sentiment will be forgotten. To dock the skulker's food is not enough; many will rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put their shoulder to the wheel for one hour daily. For such as these, then, the whip will be in the overseer's hand; and his own sense of justice and the superintendence of a chaotic popular assembly will be the only checks on its employment. Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen, and yet not love, nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It is admitted by private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant is an evil not to be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and in a brief while you will either be disgraced or have deserted. And the sergeant can no longer appeal to the lash. But if these things go on, we shall see, or our sons shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector. This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, even those whom the inspector loves, it may not be altogether well. It is concluded that in such a state of society, supposing it to be financially sound, the level of comfort will be high. It does not follow: there are strange depths of idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, as in the case of the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all besides; and it is possible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may sink even into squalor. But suppose they do not; suppose our tricksy instrument of human nature, when we play upon it this new tune, should respond kindly; suppose no one to be damped and none exasperated by the new conditions, the whole enterprise to be financially sound--a vaulting supposition--and all the inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we have yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be what man will even deign to accept for a continuance. It is certain that man loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves that only or that best. He is supposed to love comfort; it is not a love, at least, that he is faithful to. He is supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that he rather loves excitement. Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the aleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals. He does not think so when he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on the hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry. It would be always after dinner in that society, as, in the land of the Lotos-eaters, it was always afternoon; and food, which, when we have it not, seems all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to a mere pre-requisite of living. That for which man lives is not the same thing for all individuals nor in all ages; yet it has a common base; what he seeks and what he must have is that which will seize and hold his attention. Regular meals and weather-proof lodgings will not do this long. Play in its wide sense, as the artificial induction of sensation, including all games and all arts, will, indeed, go far to keep him conscious of himself; but in the end he wearies for realities. Study or experiment, to some rare natures, is the unbroken pastime of a life. These are enviable natures; people shut in the house by sickness often bitterly envy them; but the commoner man cannot continue to exist upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical adventure; his blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs; his fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue to look for them in books and crucibles, but must seek them on the breathing stage of life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the shock of disappointment, furious contention with obstacles: these are the true elixir for all vital spirits, these are what they seek alike in their romantic enterprises and their unromantic dissipations. When they are taken in some pinch closer than the common, they cry, "Catch me here again!" and sure enough you catch them there again--perhaps before the week is out. It is as old as "Robinson Crusoe"; as old as man. Our race has not been strained for all these ages through that sieve of dangers that we call Natural Selection, to sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the voices of its fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it exists, the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living; he sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of reach of any vicissitude but one of health; and there he yawns. If the people in the next villa took pot-shots at him, he might be killed indeed, but so long as he escaped he would find his blood oxygenated and his views of the world brighter. If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the publishers, should have his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would not occur to him--at least for several hours--to ask if life were worth living; and if such peril were a daily matter, he would ask it never more; he would have other things to think about, he would be living indeed--not lying in a box with cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull. The aleatory, whether it touch life, or fortune, or renown--whether we explore Africa or only toss for halfpence--that is what I conceive men to love best, and that is what we are seeking to exclude from men's existences. Of all forms of the aleatory, that which most commonly attends our working men--the danger of misery from want of work--is the least inspiriting: it does not whip the blood, it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is tragic, but it is passive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, and a peril sensibly touching them, it does truly season the men's lives. Of those who fail, I do not speak--despair should be sacred; but to those who even modestly succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job found, a shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of pleasure springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not from these but from the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of the unworthiness of life. Much, then, as the average of the proletariat would gain in this new state of life, they would also lose a certain something, which would not be missed in the beginning, but would be missed progressively and progressively lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there would be tales of the old world humming in young men's ears, tales of the tramp and the pedlar, and the hopeful emigrant. And in the stall-fed life of the successful ant-heap--with its regular meals, regular duties, regular pleasures, an even course of life, and fear excluded--the vicissitudes, delights, and havens of to-day will seem of epic breadth. This may seem a shallow observation; but the springs by which men are moved lie much on the surface. Bread, I believe, has always been considered first, but the circus comes close upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be given amply; the cry for circuses will be the louder, and if the life of our descendants be such as we have conceived, there are two beloved pleasures on which they will be likely to fall back: the pleasures of intrigue and of sedition. In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially sound. I am no economist, only a writer of fiction; but even as such, I know one thing that bears on the economic question--I know the imperfection of man's faculty for business. The Anarchists, who count some rugged elements of common-sense among what seem to me their tragic errors, have said upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and condemned beforehand great economical polities. So far it is obvious that they are right; they may be right also in predicting a period of communal independence, and they may even be right in thinking that desirable. But the rise of communes is none the less the end of economic equality, just when we were told it was beginning. Communes will not be all equal in extent, nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the surplus produce of all be equally marketable. It will be the old story of competing interests, only with a new unit; and, as it appears to me, a new, inevitable danger. For the merchant and the manufacturer, in this new world, will be a sovereign commune; it is a sovereign power that will see its crops undersold, and its manufactures worsted in the market. And all the more dangerous that the sovereign power should be small. Great powers are slow to stir; national affronts, even with the aid of newspapers, filter slowly into popular consciousness; national losses are so unequally shared, that one part of the population will be counting its gains while another sits by a cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune all will be centralised and sensitive. When jealousy springs up, when (let us say) the commune of Poole has overreached the commune of Dorchester, irritation will run like quicksilver throughout the body politic; each man in Dorchester will have to suffer directly in his diet and his dress; even the secretary, who drafts the official correspondence, will sit down to his task embittered, as a man who has dined ill and may expect to dine worse; and thus a business difference between communes will take on much the same colour as a dispute between diggers in the lawless West, and will lead as directly to the arbitrament of blows. So that the establishment of the communal system will not only reintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings of economic inequality, but will, in all human likelihood, inaugurate a world of hedgerow warfare. Dorchester will march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester, Wimborne on both; the waggons will be fired on as they follow the highway, the trains wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed into the field of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad literature, the local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the victory of Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At least this will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed such a world with relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, and irresistibly suggests the growth of military powers and the foundation of new empires. VII LETTER TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO PROPOSES TO EMBRACE THE CAREER OF ART With the agreeable frankness of youth, you address me on a point of some practical importance to yourself and (it is even conceivable) of some gravity to the world: Should you or should you not become an artist? It is one which you must decide entirely for yourself; all that I can do is to bring under your notice some of the materials of that decision; and I will begin, as I shall probably conclude also, by assuring you that all depends on the vocation. To know what you like is the beginning of wisdom and of old age. Youth is wholly experimental. The essence and charm of that unquiet and delightful epoch is ignorance of self as well as ignorance of life. These two unknowns the young man brings together again and again, now in the airiest touch, now with a bitter hug; now with exquisite pleasure, now with cutting pain; but never with indifference, to which he is a total stranger, and never with that near kinsman of indifference, contentment. If he be a youth of dainty senses or a brain easily heated, the interest of this series of experiments grows upon him out of all proportion to the pleasure he receives. It is not beauty that he loves, nor pleasure that he seeks, though he may think so; his design and his sufficient reward is to verify his own existence and taste the variety of human fate. To him, before the razor-edge of curiosity is dulled, all that is not actual living and the hot chase of experience wears a face of a disgusting dryness difficult to recall in later days; or if there be any exception--and here destiny steps in--it is in those moments when, wearied or surfeited of the primary activity of the senses, he calls up before memory the image of transacted pains and pleasures. Thus it is that such an one shies from all cut-and-dry professions, and inclines insensibly toward that career of art which consists only in the tasting and recording of experience. This, which is not so much a vocation for art as an impatience of all other honest trades, frequently exists alone; and, so existing, it will pass gently away in the course of years. Emphatically, it is not to be regarded; it is not a vocation, but a temptation; and when your father the other day so fiercely and (in my view) so properly discouraged your ambition, he was recalling not improbably some similar passage in his own experience. For the temptation is perhaps nearly as common as the vocation is rare. But again we have vocations which are imperfect; we have men whose minds are bound up, not so much in any art, as in the general _ars artium_ and common base of all creative work; who will now dip into painting, and now study counterpoint, and anon will be inditing a sonnet: all these with equal interest, all often with genuine knowledge. And of this temper, when it stands alone, I find it difficult to speak; but I should counsel such an one to take to letters, for in literature (which drags with so wide a net) all his information may be found some day useful, and if he should go on as he has begun, and turn at last into the critic, he will have learned to use the necessary tools. Lastly we come to those vocations which are at once decisive and precise; to the men who are born with the love of pigments, the passion of drawing, the gift of music, or the impulse to create with words, just as other and perhaps the same men are born with the love of hunting, or the sea, or horses, or the turning-lathe. These are predestined; if a man love the labour of any trade, apart from any question of success or fame, the gods have called him. He may have the general vocation too: he may have a taste for all the arts, and I think he often has; but the mark of his calling is this laborious partiality for one, this inextinguishable zest in its technical successes, and (perhaps above all) a certain candour of mind, to take his very trifling enterprise with a gravity that would befit the cares of empire, and to think the smallest improvement worth accomplishing at any expense of time and industry. The book, the statue, the sonata, must be gone upon with the unreasoning good faith and the unflagging spirit of children at their play. _Is it worth doing?_--when it shall have occurred to any artist to ask himself that question, it is implicitly answered in the negative. It does not occur to the child as he plays at being a pirate on the dining-room sofa, nor to the hunter as he pursues his quarry; and the candour of the one and the ardour of the other should be united in the bosom of the artist. If you recognise in yourself some such decisive taste, there is no room for hesitation: follow your bent. And observe (lest I should too much discourage you) that the disposition does not usually burn so brightly at the first, or rather not so constantly. Habit and practice sharpen gifts; the necessity of toil grows less disgusting, grows even welcome, in the course of years; a small taste (if it be only genuine) waxes with indulgence into an exclusive passion. Enough, just now, if you can look back over a fair interval, and see that your chosen art has a little more than held its own among the thronging interests of youth. Time will do the rest, if devotion help it; and soon your every thought will be engrossed in that beloved occupation. But even with devotion, you may remind me, even with unfaltering and delighted industry, many thousand artists spend their lives, if the result be regarded, utterly in vain: a thousand artists, and never one work of art. But the vast mass of mankind are incapable of doing anything reasonably well, art among the rest. The worthless artist would not improbably have been a quite incompetent baker. And the artist, even if he does not amuse the public, amuses himself; so that there will always be one man the happier for his vigils. This is the practical side of art: its inexpugnable fortress for the true practitioner. The direct returns--the wages of the trade--are small, but the indirect--the wages of the life--are incalculably great. No other business offers a man his daily bread upon such joyful terms. The soldier and the explorer have moments of a worthier excitement, but they are purchased by cruel hardships and periods of tedium that beggar language. In the life of the artist there need be no hour without its pleasure. I take the author, with whose career I am best acquainted; and it is true he works in a rebellious material, and that the act of writing is cramped and trying both to the eyes and the temper; but remark him in his study when matter crowds upon him and words are not wanting--in what a continual series of small successes time flows by; with what a sense of power, as of one moving mountains, he marshals his petty characters; with what pleasures, both of the ear and eye, he sees his airy structure growing on the page; and how he labours in a craft to which the whole material of his life is tributary, and which opens a door to all his tastes, his loves, his hatreds, and his convictions, so that what he writes is only what he longed to utter. He may have enjoyed many things in this big, tragic playground of the world; but what shall he have enjoyed more fully than a morning of successful work? Suppose it ill-paid: the wonder is it should be paid at all. Other men pay, and pay dearly, for pleasures less desirable. Nor will the practice of art afford you pleasure only; it affords besides an admirable training. For the artist works entirely upon honour. The public knows little or nothing of those merits in the quest of which you are condemned to spend the bulk of your endeavours. Merits of design, the merit of first-hand energy, the merit of a certain cheap accomplishment which a man of the artistic temper easily acquires--these they can recognise, and these they value. But to those more exquisite refinements of proficiency and finish, which the artist so ardently desires and so keenly feels, for which (in the vigorous words of Balzac) he must toil "like a miner buried in a landslip," for which, day after day, he recasts and revises and rejects--the gross mass of the public must be ever blind. To those lost pains, suppose you attain the highest pitch of merit, posterity may possibly do justice; suppose, as is so probable, you fail by even a hair's breadth of the highest, rest certain they shall never be observed. Under the shadow of this cold thought, alone in his studio, the artist must preserve from day to day his constancy to the ideal. It is this which makes his life noble; it is by this that the practice of his craft strengthens and matures his character; it is for this that even the serious countenance of the great emperor was turned approvingly (if only for a moment) on the followers of Apollo, and that sternly gentle voice bade the artist cherish his art. And here there fall two warnings to be made. First, if you are to continue to be a law to yourself, you must beware of the first signs of laziness. This idealism in honesty can only be supported by perpetual effort; the standard is easily lowered, the artist who says "_It will do_," is on the downward path; three or four pot-boilers are enough at times (above all at wrong times) to falsify a talent, and by the practice of journalism a man runs the risk of becoming wedded to cheap finish. This is the danger on the one side; there is not less upon the other. The consciousness of how much the artist is (and must be) a law to himself debauches the small heads. Perceiving recondite merits very hard to attain, making or swallowing artistic formulæ, or perhaps falling in love with some particular proficiency of his own, many artists forget the end of all art: to please. It is doubtless tempting to exclaim against the ignorant bourgeois; yet it should not be forgotten, it is he who is to pay us, and that (surely on the face of it) for services that he shall desire to have performed. Here also, if properly considered, there is a question of transcendental honesty. To give the public what they do not want, and yet expect to be supported: we have there a strange pretension, and yet not uncommon, above all with painters. The first duty in this world is for a man to pay his way; when that is quite accomplished, he may plunge into what eccentricity he likes; but emphatically not till then. Till then, he must pay assiduous court to the bourgeois who carries the purse. And if in the course of these capitulations he shall falsify his talent, it can never have been a strong one, and he will have preserved a better thing than talent--character. Or if he be of a mind so independent that he cannot stoop to this necessity, one course is yet open: he can desist from art, and follow some more manly way of life. I speak of a more manly way of life; it is a point on which I must be frank. To live by a pleasure is not a high calling; it involves patronage, however veiled; it numbers the artist, however ambitious, along with dancing girls and billiard-markers. The French have a romantic evasion for one employment, and call its practitioners the Daughters of Joy. The artist is of the same family, he is of the Sons of Joy, chose his trade to please himself, gains his livelihood by pleasing others, and has parted with something of the sterner dignity of man. Journals but a little while ago declaimed against the Tennyson peerage; and this Son of Joy was blamed for condescension when he followed the example of Lord Lawrence and Lord Cairns and Lord Clyde. The poet was more happily inspired; with a better modesty he accepted the honour; and anonymous journalists have not yet (if I am to believe them) recovered the vicarious disgrace to their profession. When it comes to their turn, these gentlemen can do themselves more justice; and I shall be glad to think of it; for to my barbarian eyesight, even Lord Tennyson looks somewhat out of place in that assembly. There should be no honours for the artist; he has already, in the practice of his art, more than his share of the rewards of life; the honours are pre-empted for other trades, less agreeable and perhaps more useful. But the devil in these trades of pleasing is to fail to please. In ordinary occupations, a man offers to do a certain thing or to produce a certain article with a merely conventional accomplishment, a design in which (we may almost say) it is difficult to fail. But the artist steps forth out of the crowd and proposes to delight: an impudent design, in which it is impossible to fail without odious circumstances. The poor Daughter of Joy, carrying her smiles and finery quite unregarded through the crowd, makes a figure which it is impossible to recall without a wounding pity. She is the type of the unsuccessful artist. The actor, the dancer, and the singer must appear like her in person, and drain publicly the cup of failure. But though the rest of us escape this crowning bitterness of the pillory, we all court in essence the same humiliation. We all profess to be able to delight. And how few of us are! We all pledge ourselves to be able to continue to delight. And the day will come to each, and even to the most admired, when the ardour shall have declined and the cunning shall be lost, and he shall sit by his deserted booth ashamed. Then shall he see himself condemned to do work for which he blushes to take payment. Then (as if his lot were not already cruel) he must lie exposed to the gibes of the wreckers of the press, who earn a little bitter bread by the condemnation of trash which they have not read, and the praise of excellence which they cannot understand. And observe that this seems almost the necessary end at least of writers. "Les Blancs et les Bleus" (for instance) is of an order of merit very different from "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne"; and if any gentleman can bear to spy upon the nakedness of "Castle Dangerous," his name I think is Ham: let it be enough for the rest of us to read of it (not without tears) in the pages of Lockhart. Thus in old age, when occupation and comfort are most needful, the writer must lay aside at once his pastime and his breadwinner. The painter indeed, if he succeed at all in engaging the attention of the public, gains great sums and can stand to his easel until a great age without dishonourable failure. The writer has the double misfortune to be ill-paid while he can work, and to be incapable of working when he is old. It is thus a way of life which conducts directly to a false position. For the writer (in spite of notorious examples to the contrary) must look to be ill-paid. Tennyson and Montépin make handsome livelihoods; but we cannot all hope to be Tennyson, and we do not all perhaps desire to be Montépin. If you adopt an art to be your trade, weed your mind at the outset of all desire of money. What you may decently expect, if you have some talent and much industry, is such an income as a clerk will earn with a tenth or perhaps a twentieth of your nervous output. Nor have you the right to look for more; in the wages of the life, not in the wages of the trade, lies your reward; the work is here the wages. It will be seen I have little sympathy with the common lamentations of the artist class. Perhaps they do not remember the hire of the field labourer; or do they think no parallel will lie? Perhaps they have never observed what is the retiring allowance of a field officer; or do they suppose their contributions to the arts of pleasing more important than the services of a colonel? Perhaps they forget on how little Millet was content to live; or do they think, because they have less genius, they stand excused from the display of equal virtues? But upon one point there should be no dubiety: if a man be not frugal, he has no business in the arts. If he be not frugal, he steers directly for that last tragic scene of _le vieux saltimbanque_; if he be not frugal, he will find it hard to continue to be honest. Some day, when the butcher is knocking at the door, he may be tempted, he may be obliged, to turn out and sell a slovenly piece of work. If the obligation shall have arisen through no wantonness of his own, he is even to be commended; for words cannot describe how far more necessary it is that a man should support his family, than that he should attain to--or preserve--distinction in the arts. But if the pressure comes through his own fault, he has stolen, and stolen under trust, and stolen (which is the worst of all) in such a way that no law can reach him. And now you may perhaps ask me whether--if the débutant artist is to have no thought of money, and if (as is implied) he is to expect no honours from the State--he may not at least look forward to the delights of popularity? Praise, you will tell me, is a savoury dish. And in so far as you may mean the countenance of other artists, you would put your finger on one of the most essential and enduring pleasures of the career of art. But in so far as you should have an eye to the commendations of the public or the notice of the newspapers, be sure you would but be cherishing a dream. It is true that in certain esoteric journals the author (for instance) is duly criticised, and that he is often praised a great deal more than he deserves, sometimes for qualities which he prided himself on eschewing, and sometimes by ladies and gentlemen who have denied themselves the privilege of reading his work. But if a man be sensitive to this wild praise, we must suppose him equally alive to that which often accompanies and always follows it--wild ridicule. A man may have done well for years, and then he may fail; he will hear of his failure. Or he may have done well for years, and still do well, but the critics may have tired of praising him, or there may have sprung up some new idol of the instant, some "dust a little gilt," to whom they now prefer to offer sacrifice. Here is the obverse and the reverse of that empty and ugly thing called popularity. Will any man suppose it worth the gaining? VIII PULVIS ET UMBRA We look for some reward of our endeavours and are disappointed; not success, not happiness, not even peace of conscience, crowns our ineffectual efforts to do well. Our frailties are invincible, our virtues barren; the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun. The canting moralist tells us of right and wrong; and we look abroad, even on the face of our small earth, and find them change with every climate, and no country where some action is not honoured for a virtue and none where it is not branded for a vice; and we look in our experience, and find no vital congruity in the wisest rules, but at the best a municipal fitness. It is not strange if we are tempted to despair of good. We ask too much. Our religions and moralities have been trimmed to flatter us, till they are all emasculate and sentimentalised, and only please and weaken. Truth is of a rougher strain. In the harsh face of life, faith can read a bracing gospel. The human race is a thing more ancient than the ten commandments; and the bones and revolutions of the Kosmos, in whose joints we are but moss and fungus, more ancient still. I Of the Kosmos in the last resort, science reports many doubtful things, and all of them appalling. There seems no substance to this solid globe on which we stamp: nothing but symbols and ratios. Symbols and ratios carry us and bring us forth and beat us down; gravity, that swings the incommensurable suns and worlds through space, is but a figment varying inversely as the squares of distances; and the suns and worlds themselves, imponderable figures of abstraction, NH_{3} and H_{2}O. Consideration dares not dwell upon this view; that way madness lies; science carries us into zones of speculation, where there is no habitable city for the mind of man. But take the Kosmos with a grosser faith, as our senses give it us. We behold space sown with rotatory islands, suns and worlds and the shards and wrecks of systems: some, like the sun, still blazing; some rotting, like the earth; others, like the moon, stable in desolation. All of these we take to be made of something we call matter: a thing which no analysis can help us to conceive; to whose incredible properties no familiarity can reconcile our minds. This stuff, when not purified by the lustration of fire, rots uncleanly into something we call life; seized through all its atoms with a pediculous malady; swelling in tumours that become independent, sometimes even (by an abhorrent prodigy) locomotory; one splitting into millions, millions cohering into one, as the malady proceeds through varying stages. This vital putrescence of the dust, used as we are to it, yet strikes us with occasional disgust, and the profusion of worms in a piece of ancient turf, or the air of a marsh darkened with insects, will sometimes check our breathing so that we aspire for cleaner places. But none is clean: the moving sand is infected with lice; the pure spring, where it bursts out of the mountain, is a mere issue of worms; even in the hard rock the crystal is forming. In two main shapes this eruption covers the countenance of the earth: the animal and the vegetable: one in some degree the inversion of the other: the second rooted to the spot; the first coming detached out of its natal mud, and scurrying abroad with the myriad feet of insects or towering into the heavens on the wings of birds: a thing so inconceivable that, if it be well considered, the heart stops. To what passes with the anchored vermin, we have little clue: doubtless they have their joys and sorrows, their delights and killing agonies: it appears not how. But of the locomotory, to which we ourselves belong, we can tell more. These share with us a thousand miracles: the miracles of sight, of hearing, of the projection of sound, things that bridge space; the miracles of memory and reason, by which the present is conceived, and, when it is gone, its image kept living in the brains of man and brute; the miracle of reproduction, with its imperious desires and staggering consequences. And to put the last touch upon this mountain mass of the revolting and the inconceivable, all these prey upon each other, lives tearing other lives in pieces, cramming them inside themselves, and by that summary process, growing fat: the vegetarian, the whale, perhaps the tree, not less than the lion of the desert; for the vegetarian is only the eater of the dumb. Meanwhile our rotary island loaded with predatory life, and more drenched with blood, both animal and vegetable, than ever mutinied ship, scuds through space with unimaginable speed, and turns alternate cheeks to the reverberation of a blazing world, ninety million miles away. II What a monstrous spectre is this man, the disease of the agglutinated dust, lifting alternate feet or lying drugged with slumber; killing, feeding, growing, bringing forth small copies of himself; grown upon with hair like grass, fitted with eyes that move and glitter in his face; a thing to set children screaming;--and yet looked at nearlier, known as his fellows know him, how surprising are his attributes! Poor soul, here for so little, cast among so many hardships, filled with desires so incommensurate and so inconsistent, savagely surrounded, savagely descended, irremediably condemned to prey upon his fellow lives: who should have blamed him had he been of a piece with his destiny and a being merely barbarous? And we look and behold him instead filled with imperfect virtues: infinitely childish, often admirably valiant, often touchingly kind; sitting down, amidst his momentary life, to debate of right and wrong and the attributes of the Deity; rising up to do battle for an egg or die for an idea; singling out his friends and his mate with cordial affection; bringing forth in pain, rearing with long-suffering solicitude, his young. To touch the heart of his mystery, we find in him one thought, strange to the point of lunacy: the thought of duty; the thought of something owing to himself, to his neighbour, to his God: an ideal of decency, to which he would rise if it were possible; a limit of shame, below which, if it be possible, he will not stoop. The design in most men is one of conformity; here and there, in picked natures, it transcends itself and soars on the other side, arming martyrs with independence; but in all, in their degrees, it is a bosom thought:--Not in man alone, for we trace it in dogs and cats whom we know fairly well, and doubtless some similar point of honour sways the elephant, the oyster, and the louse, of whom we know so little:--But in man, at least, it sways with so complete an empire that merely selfish things come second, even with the selfish: that appetites are starved, fears are conquered, pains supported; that almost the dullest shrinks from the reproof of a glance, although it were a child's; and all but the most cowardly stand amid the risks of war; and the more noble, having strongly conceived an act as due to their ideal, affront and embrace death. Strange enough if, with their singular origin and perverted practice, they think they are to be rewarded in some future life: stranger still, if they are persuaded of the contrary, and think this blow, which they solicit, will strike them senseless for eternity. I shall be reminded what a tragedy of misconception and misconduct man at large presents: of organised injustice, cowardly violence and treacherous crime; and of the damning imperfections of the best. They cannot be too darkly drawn. Man is indeed marked for failure in his efforts to do right. But where the best consistently miscarry, how tenfold more remarkable that all should continue to strive: and surely we should find it both touching and inspiriting, that in a field from which success is banished, our race should not cease to labour. If the first view of this creature, stalking in his rotatory isle, be a thing to shake the courage of the stoutest, on this nearer sight he startles us with an admiring wonder. It matters not where we look, under what climate we observe him, in what stage of society, in what depth of ignorance, burthened with what erroneous morality; by camp-fires in Assiniboia, the snow powdering his shoulders, the wind plucking his blanket, as he sits, passing the ceremonial calumet and uttering his grave opinions like a Roman senator; in ships at sea, a man inured to hardship and vile pleasures, his brightest hope a fiddle in a tavern and a bedizened trull who sells herself to rob him, and he, for all that, simple, innocent, cheerful, kindly like a child, constant to toil, brave to drown, for others; in the slums of cities, moving among indifferent millions to mechanical employments, without hope of change in the future, with scarce a pleasure in the present, and yet true to his virtues, honest up to his lights, kind to his neighbours, tempted perhaps in vain by the bright gin-palace, perhaps long-suffering with the drunken wife that ruins him; in India (a woman this time) kneeling with broken cries and streaming tears, as she drowns her child in the sacred river; in the brothel, the discard of society, living mainly on strong drink, fed with affronts, a fool, a thief, the comrade of thieves, and even here keeping the point of honour and the touch of pity, often repaying the world's scorn with service, often standing firm upon a scruple, and at a certain cost, rejecting riches:--everywhere some virtue cherished or affected, everywhere some decency of thought and carriage, everywhere the ensign of man's ineffectual goodness:--ah! if I could show you this! if I could show you these men and women, all the world over, in every stage of history, under every abuse of error, under every circumstance of failure, without hope, without help, without thanks, still obscurely fighting the lost fight of virtue, still clinging, in the brothel or on the scaffold, to some rag of honour, the poor jewel of their souls! They may seek to escape, and yet they cannot; it is not alone their privilege and glory, but their doom; they are condemned to some nobility; all their lives long, the desire of good is at their heels, the implacable hunter. Of all earth's meteors, here at least is the most strange and consoling: that this ennobled lemur, this hair-crowned bubble of the dust, this inheritor of a few years and sorrows, should yet deny himself his rare delights, and add to his frequent pains, and live for an ideal, however misconceived. Nor can we stop with man. A new doctrine, received with screams a little while ago by canting moralists, and still not properly worked into the body of our thoughts, lights us a step farther into the heart of this rough but noble universe. For nowadays the pride of man denies in vain his kinship with the original dust. He stands no longer like a thing apart. Close at his heels we see the dog, prince of another genus: and in him, too, we see dumbly testified the same cultus of an unattainable ideal, the same constancy in failure. Does it stop with the dog? We look at our feet where the ground is blackened with the swarming ant; a creature so small, so far from us in the hierarchy of brutes, that we can scarce trace and scarce comprehend his doings; and here also, in his ordered polities and rigorous justice, we see confessed the law of duty and the fact of individual sin. Does it stop, then, with the ant? Rather this desire of welldoing and this doom of frailty run through all the grades of life: rather is this earth, from the frosty top of Everest to the next margin of the internal fire, one stage of ineffectual virtues and one temple of pious tears and perseverance. The whole creation groaneth and travaileth together. It is the common and the god-like law of life. The browsers, the biters, the barkers, the hairy coats of field and forest, the squirrel in the oak, the thousand-footed creeper in the dust, as they share with us the gift of life, share with us the love of an ideal: strive like us--like us are tempted to grow weary of the struggle--to do well; like us receive at times unmerited refreshment, visitings of support, returns of courage; and are condemned like us to be crucified between that double law of the members and the will. Are they like us, I wonder, in the timid hope of some reward, some sugar with the drug? do they, too, stand aghast at unrewarded virtues, at the sufferings of those whom, in our partiality, we take to be just, and the prosperity of such as, in our blindness, we call wicked? It may be, and yet God knows what they should look for. Even while they look, even while they repent, the foot of man treads them by thousands in the dust, the yelping hounds burst upon their trail, the bullet speeds, the knives are heating in the den of the vivisectionist; or the dew falls, and the generation of a day is blotted out. For these are creatures, compared with whom our weakness is strength, our ignorance wisdom, our brief span eternity. And as we dwell, we living things, in our isle of terror and under the imminent hand of death, God forbid it should be man the erected, the reasoner, the wise in his own eyes--God forbid it should be man that wearies in welldoing, that despairs of unrewarded effort, or utters the language of complaint. Let it be enough for faith, that the whole creation groans in mortal frailty, strives with unconquerable constancy: Surely not all in vain. IX A CHRISTMAS SERMON By the time this paper appears, I shall have been talking for twelve months;[30] and it is thought I should take my leave in a formal and seasonable manner. Valedictory eloquence is rare, and death-bed sayings have not often hit the mark of the occasion. Charles Second, wit and sceptic, a man whose life had been one long lesson in human incredulity, an easy-going comrade, a manoeuvring king--remembered and embodied all his wit and scepticism along with more than his usual good humour in the famous "I am afraid, gentlemen, I am an unconscionable time a-dying." I An unconscionable time a-dying--there is the picture ("I am afraid, gentlemen,") of your life and of mine. The sands run out, and the hours are "numbered and imputed," and the days go by; and when the last of these finds us, we have been a long time dying, and what else? The very length is something, if we reach that hour of separation undishonoured; and to have lived at all is doubtless (in the soldierly expression) to have served. There is a tale in Tacitus of how the veterans mutinied in the German wilderness; of how they mobbed Germanicus, clamouring to go home; and of how, seizing their general's hand, these old, war-worn exiles passed his finger along their toothless gums. _Sunt lacrymæ rerum_: this was the most eloquent of the songs of Simeon. And when a man has lived to a fair age, he bears his marks of service. He may have never been remarked upon the breach at the head of the army; at least he shall have lost his teeth on the camp bread. The idealism of serious people in this age of ours is of a noble character. It never seems to them that they have served enough; they have a fine impatience of their virtues. It were perhaps more modest to be singly thankful that we are no worse. It is not only our enemies, those desperate characters--it is we ourselves who know not what we do;--thence springs the glimmering hope that perhaps we do better than we think: that to scramble through this random business with hands reasonably clean, to have played the part of a man or woman with some reasonable fulness, to have often resisted the diabolic, and at the end to be still resisting it, is for the poor human soldier to have done right well. To ask to see some fruit of our endeavour is but a transcendental way of serving for reward; and what we take to be contempt of self is only greed of hire. And again if we require so much of ourselves, shall we not require much of others? If we do not genially judge our own deficiencies, is it not to be feared we shall be even stern to the trespasses of others? And he who (looking back upon his own life) can see no more than that he has been unconscionably long a-dying, will he not be tempted to think his neighbour unconscionably long of getting hanged? It is probable that nearly all who think of conduct at all, think of it too much; it is certain we all think too much of sin. We are not damned for doing wrong, but for not doing right; Christ would never hear of negative morality; _thou shall_ was ever His word, with which He superseded _thou shall not_. To make our idea of morality centre on forbidden acts is to defile the imagination and to introduce into our judgments of our fellow-men a secret element of gusto. If a thing is wrong for us, we should not dwell upon the thought of it; or we shall soon dwell upon it with inverted pleasure. If we cannot drive it from our minds--one thing of two: either our creed is in the wrong and we must more indulgently remodel it; or else, if our morality be in the right, we are criminal lunatics and should place our persons in restraint. A mark of such unwholesomely divided minds is the passion for interference with others: the Fox without the Tail was of this breed, but had (if his biographer is to be trusted) a certain antique civility now out of date. A man may have a flaw, a weakness, that unfits him for the duties of life, that spoils his temper, that threatens his integrity, or that betrays him into cruelty. It has to be conquered; but it must never be suffered to engross his thoughts. The true duties lie all upon the further side, and must be attended to with a whole mind so soon as this preliminary clearing of the decks has been effected. In order that he may be kind and honest, it may be needful he should become a total abstainer; let him become so then, and the next day let him forget the circumstance. Trying to be kind and honest will require all his thoughts; a mortified appetite is never a wise companion; in so far as he has had to mortify an appetite, he will still be the worse man; and of such an one a great deal of cheerfulness will be required in judging life, and a great deal of humility in judging others. It may be argued again that dissatisfaction with our life's endeavour springs in some degree from dulness. We require higher tasks, because we do not recognise the height of those we have. Trying to be kind and honest seems an affair too simple and too inconsequential for gentlemen of our heroic mould; we had rather set ourselves to something bold, arduous, and conclusive; we had rather found a schism or suppress a heresy, cut off a hand or mortify an appetite. But the task before us, which is to co-endure with our existence, is rather one of microscopic fineness, and the heroism required is that of patience. There is no cutting of the Gordian knots of life; each must be smilingly unravelled. To be honest, to be kind--to earn a little and to spend a little less, to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence, to renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered, to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation--above all, on the same grim condition, to keep friends with himself--here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy. He has an ambitious soul who would ask more; he has a hopeful spirit who should look in such an enterprise to be successful. There is indeed one element in human destiny that not blindness itself can controvert: whatever else we are intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted. It is so in every art and study; it is so above all in the continent art of living well. Here is a pleasant thought for the year's end or for the end of life: Only self-deception will be satisfied, and there need be no despair for the despairer. II But Christmas is not only the mile-mark of another year, moving us to thoughts of self-examination: it is a season, from all its associations, whether domestic or religious, suggesting thoughts of joy. A man dissatisfied with his endeavours is a man tempted to sadness. And in the midst of the winter, when his life runs lowest and he is reminded of the empty chairs of his beloved, it is well he should be condemned to this fashion of the smiling face. Noble disappointment, noble self-denial, are not to be admired, not even to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It is one thing to enter the kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim yourself and stay without. And the kingdom of heaven is of the childlike, of those who are easy to please, who love and who give pleasure. Mighty men of their hands, the smiters and the builders and the judges, have lived long and done sternly and yet preserved this lovely character; and among our carpet interests and twopenny concerns, the shame were indelible if _we_ should lose it. Gentleness and cheerfulness, these come before all morality; they are the perfect duties. And it is the trouble with moral men that they have neither one nor other. It was the moral man, the Pharisee, whom Christ could not away with. If your morals make you dreary, depend upon it they are wrong. I do not say "give them up," for they may be all you have; but conceal them like a vice, lest they should spoil the lives of better and simpler people. A strange temptation attends upon man: to keep his eye on pleasures, even when he will not share in them; to aim all his morals against them. This very year a lady (singular iconoclast!) proclaimed a crusade against dolls; and the racy sermon against lust is a feature of the age. I venture to call such moralists insincere. At any excess or perversion of a natural appetite, their lyre sounds of itself with relishing denunciations; but for all displays of the truly diabolic--envy, malice, the mean lie, the mean silence, the calumnious truth, the backbiter, the petty tyrant, the peevish poisoner of family life--their standard is quite different. These are wrong, they will admit, yet somehow not so wrong; there is no zeal in their assault on them, no secret element of gusto warms up the sermon; it is for things not wrong in themselves that they reserve the choicest of their indignation. A man may naturally disclaim all moral kinship with the Reverend Mr. Zola or the hobgoblin old lady of the dolls; for these are gross and naked instances. And yet in each of us some similar element resides. The sight of a pleasure in which we cannot or else will not share moves us to a particular impatience. It may be because we are envious, or because we are sad, or because we dislike noise and romping--being so refined, or because--being so philosophic--we have an overweighing sense of life's gravity: at least, as we go on in years, we are all tempted to frown upon our neighbour's pleasures. People are nowadays so fond of resisting temptations; here is one to be resisted. They are fond of self-denial; here is a propensity that cannot be too peremptorily denied. There is an idea abroad among moral people that they should make their neighbours good. One person I have to make good: myself. But my duty to my neighbour is much more nearly expressed by saying that I have to make him happy--if I may. III Happiness and goodness, according to canting moralists, stand in the relation of effect and cause. There was never anything less proved or less probable: our happiness is never in our own hands; we inherit our constitution; we stand buffet among friend and enemies; we may be so built as to feel a sneer or an aspersion with unusual keenness, and so circumstanced as to be unusually exposed to them; we may have nerves very sensitive to pain, and be afflicted with a disease very painful. Virtue will not help us, and it is not meant to help us. It is not even its own reward, except for the self-centred and--I had almost said--the unamiable. No man can pacify his conscience; if quiet be what he want, he shall do better to let that organ perish from disuse. And to avoid the penalties of the law, and the minor _capitis diminutio_ of social ostracism, is an affair of wisdom--of cunning, if you will--and not of virtue. In his own life, then, a man is not to expect happiness, only to profit by it gladly when it shall arise; he is on duty here; he knows not how or why, and does not need to know; he knows not for what hire, and must not ask. Somehow or other, though he does not know what goodness is, he must try to be good; somehow or other, though he cannot tell what will do it, he must try to give happiness to others. And no doubt there comes in here a frequent clash of duties. How far is he to make his neighbour happy? How far must he respect that smiling face, so easy to cloud, so hard to brighten again? And how far, on the other side, is he bound to be his brother's keeper and the prophet of his own morality? How far must he resent evil? The difficulty is that we have little guidance; Christ's sayings on the point being hard to reconcile with each other, and (the most of them) hard to accept. But the truth of His teaching would seem to be this: in our own person and fortune, we should be ready to accept and to pardon all; it is _our_ cheek we are to turn, _our_ coat that we are to give away to the man who has taken _our_ cloak. But when another's face is buffeted, perhaps a little of the lion will become us best. That we are to suffer others to be injured, and stand by, is not conceivable, and surely not desirable. Revenge, says Bacon, is a kind of wild justice; its judgments at least are delivered by an insane judge; and in our own quarrel we can see nothing truly and do nothing wisely. But in the quarrel of our neighbour, let us be more bold. One person's happiness is as sacred as another's; when we cannot defend both, let us defend one with a stout heart. It is only in so far as we are doing this, that we have any right to interfere: the defence of B is our only ground of action against A. A has as good a right to go to the devil as we to go to glory; and neither knows what he does. The truth is that all these interventions and denunciations and militant mongerings of moral half-truths, though they be sometimes needful, though they are often enjoyable, do yet belong to an inferior grade of duties. Ill-temper and envy and revenge find here an arsenal of pious disguises; this is the playground of inverted lusts. With a little more patience and a little less temper, a gentler and wiser method might be found in almost every case; and the knot that we cut by some fine heady quarrel-scene in private life, or, in public affairs, by some denunciatory act against what we are pleased to call our neighbour's vices, might yet have been unwoven by the hand of sympathy. IV To look back upon the past year, and see how little we have striven, and to what small purpose; and how often we have been cowardly and hung back, or temerarious and rushed unwisely in; and how every day and all day long we have transgressed the law of kindness;--it may seem a paradox, but in the bitterness of these discoveries a certain consolation resides. Life is not designed to minister to a man's vanity. He goes upon his long business most of the time with a hanging head, and all the time like a blind child. Full of rewards and pleasures as it is--so that to see the day break or the moon rise, or to meet a friend, or to hear the dinner-call when he is hungry, fills him with surprising joys--this world is yet for him no abiding city. Friendships fall through, health fails, weariness assails him; year after year he must thumb the hardly varying record of his own weakness and folly. It is a friendly process of detachment. When the time comes that he should go, there need be few illusions left about himself. _Here lies one who meant well, tried a little, failed much:_--surely that may be his epitaph, of which he need not be ashamed. Nor will he complain at the summons which calls a defeated soldier from the field: defeated, ay, if he were Paul or Marcus Aurelius!--but if there is still one inch of fight in his old spirit, undishonoured. The faith which sustained him in his lifelong blindness and lifelong disappointment will scarce even be required in this last formality of laying down his arms. Give him a march with his old bones; there, out of the glorious sun-coloured earth, out of the day and the dust and the ecstasy--there goes another Faithful Failure! From a recent book of verse, where there is more than one such beautiful and manly poem, I take this memorial piece: it says better than I can, what I love to think; let it be our parting word:-- "A late lark twitters from the quiet skies; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, grey city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. "The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- Night, with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep. "So be my passing! My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death."[31] FOOTNOTES: [30] _i.e._ in the pages of _Scribner's Magazine_ (1888). [31] From "A Book of Verses," by William Ernest Henley. D. Nutt, 1888. X FATHER DAMIEN AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU SYDNEY, _February_ 25, 1890. Sir,--It may probably occur to you that we have met, and visited, and conversed; on my side, with interest. You may remember that you have done me several courtesies, for which I was prepared to be grateful. But there are duties which come before gratitude, and offences which justly divide friends, far more acquaintances. Your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had filled me with bread when I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse my father when he lay a-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of gratitude. You know enough, doubtless, of the process of canonisation to be aware that, a hundred years after the death of Damien, there will appear a man charged with the painful office of the _devil's advocate_. After that noble brother of mine, and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century at rest, one shall accuse, one defend him. The circumstance is unusual that the devil's advocate should be a volunteer, should be a member of a sect immediately rival, and should make haste to take upon himself his ugly office ere the bones are cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall leave my readers free to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring. If I have at all learned the trade of using words to convey truth and to arouse emotion, you have at last furnished me with a subject. For it is in the interest of all mankind, and the cause of public decency in every quarter of the world, not only that Damien should be righted, but that you and your letter should be displayed at length, in their true colours, to the public eye. To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I shall then proceed to criticise your utterance from several points of view, divine and human, in the course of which I shall attempt to draw again, and with more specification, the character of the dead saint whom it has pleased you to vilify: so much being done, I shall say farewell to you for ever. "HONOLULU, _August_ 2, 1889. "Rev. H. B. GAGE. "Dear Brother,--In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, I can only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the extravagant newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly philanthropist. The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, headstrong and bigoted. He was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders; did not stay at the leper settlement (before he became one himself), but circulated freely over the whole island (less than half the island is devoted to the lepers), and he came often to Honolulu. He had no hand in the reforms and improvements inaugurated, which were the work of our Board of Health, as occasion required and means were provided. He was not a pure man in his relations with women, and the leprosy of which he died should be attributed to his vices and carelessness. Others have done much for the lepers, our own ministers, the government physicians, and so forth, but never with the Catholic idea of meriting eternal life.--Yours, etc., "C. M. HYDE."[32] To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at the outset on my private knowledge of the signatory and his sect. It may offend others; scarcely you, who have been so busy to collect, so bold to publish, gossip on your rivals. And this is perhaps the moment when I may best explain to you the character of what you are to read: I conceive you as a man quite beyond and below the reticences of civility: with what measure you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; with you, at last, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to plunge home. And if in aught that I shall say I should offend others, your colleagues, whom I respect and remember with affection, I can but offer them my regret; I am not free, I am inspired by the consideration of interests far more large; and such pain as can be inflicted by anything from me must be indeed trifling when compared with the pain with which they read your letter. It is not the hangman, but the criminal, that brings dishonour on the house. You belong, sir, to a sect--I believe my sect, and that in which my ancestors laboured--which has enjoyed, and partly failed to utilise, an exceptional advantage in the islands of Hawaii. The first missionaries came; they found the land already self-purged of its old and bloody faith; they were embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; what troubles they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians; and to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of God. This is not the place to enter into the degree or causes of their failure, such as it is. One element alone is pertinent, and must here be plainly dealt with. In the course of their evangelical calling, they--or too many of them--grew rich. It may be news to you that the houses of missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of Honolulu. It will at least be news to you, that when I returned your civil visit, the driver of my cab commented on the size, the taste, and the comfort of your home. It would have been news certainly to myself, had any one told me that afternoon that I should live to drag such matter into print. But you see, sir, how you degrade better men to your own level; and it is needful that those who are to judge betwixt you and me, betwixt Damien and the devil's advocate, should understand your letter to have been penned in a house which could raise, and that very justly, the envy and the comments of the passers-by. I think (to employ a phrase of yours which I admire) it "should be attributed" to you that you have never visited the scene of Damien's life and death. If you had, and had recalled it, and looked about your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps would have been stayed. Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is mine) has not done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian Kingdom. When calamity befell their innocent parishioners, when leprosy descended and took root in the Eight Islands, a _quid pro quo_ was to be looked for. To that prosperous mission, and to you, as one of its adornments, God had sent at last an opportunity. I know I am touching here upon a nerve acutely sensitive. I know that others of your colleagues look back on the inertia of your Church, and the intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, with something almost to be called remorse. I am sure it is so with yourself; I am persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not essentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that performance. You were thinking of the lost chance, the past day; of that which should have been conceived and was not; of the service due and not rendered. _Time was_, said the voice in your ear, in your pleasant room, as you sat raging and writing; and if the words written were base beyond parallel, the rage, I am happy to repeat--it is the only compliment I shall pay you--the rage was almost virtuous. But, sir, when we have failed, and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, and another has stepped in; when we sit and grow bulky in our charming mansions, and a plain, uncouth peasant steps into the battle, under the eyes of God, and succours the afflicted, and consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted in his turn, and dies upon the field of honour--the battle cannot be retrieved as your unhappy irritation has suggested. It is a lost battle, and lost for ever. One thing remained to you in your defeat--some rags of common honour; and these you have made haste to cast away. Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, but the honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the honour of the inert: that was what remained to you. We are not all expected to be Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more narrowly, he may love his comforts better; and none will cast a stone at him for that. But will a gentleman of your reverend profession allow me an example from the fields of gallantry? When two gentlemen compete for the favour of a lady, and the one succeeds and the other is rejected, and (as will sometimes happen) matter damaging to the successful rival's credit reaches the ear of the defeated, it is held by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth is, in the circumstance, almost necessarily closed. Your Church and Damien's were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, to edify, to set divine examples. You having (in one huge instance) failed, and Damien succeeded, I marvel it should not have occurred to you that you were doomed to silence; that when you had been outstripped in that high rivalry, and sat inglorious in the midst of your well-being, in your pleasant room--and Damien, crowned with glories and horrors, toiled and rotted in that pigsty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao--you, the elect who would not, were the last man on earth to collect and propagate gossip on the volunteer who would and did. I think I see you--for I try to see you in the flesh as I write these sentences--I think I see you leap at the word pigsty, a hyperbolical expression at the best. "He had no hand in the reforms," he was "a coarse, dirty man"; these were your own words; and you may think it possible that I am come to support you with fresh evidence. In a sense, it is even so. Damien has been too much depicted with a conventional halo and conventional features; so drawn by men who perhaps had not the eye to remark or the pen to express the individual; or who perhaps were only blinded and silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy for myself--such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would envy on your bended knees. It is the least defect of such a method of portraiture that it makes the path easy for the devil's advocate, and leaves for the misuse of the slanderer a considerable field of truth. For the truth that is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the enemy. The world, in your despite, may perhaps owe you something, if your letter be the means of substituting once for all a credible likeness for a wax abstraction. For, if that world at all remember you, on the day when Damien of Molokai shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue of one work: your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage. You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my inclement destiny to become acquainted, not with Damien, but with Dr. Hyde. When I visited the lazaretto Damien was already in his resting grave. But such information as I have, I gathered on the spot in conversation with those who knew him well and long: some indeed who revered his memory; but others who had sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with no halo, who perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose unprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human features of the man shone on me convincingly. These gave me what knowledge I possess; and I learnt it in that scene where it could be most completely and sensitively understood--Kalawao, which you have never visited, about which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; for, brief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble into that confession. "_Less than one-half_ of the island," you say, "is devoted to the lepers." Molokai--"_Molokai ahina_," the "grey," lofty, and most desolate island--along all its northern side plunges a front of precipice into a sea of unusual profundity. This range of cliff is, from east to west, the true end and frontier of the island. Only in one spot there projects into the ocean a certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, stony, windy, and rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the whole bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able to pick out the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge how much of Molokai is thus cut off between the surf and precipice, whether less than a half, or less than a quarter, or a fifth, or a tenth--or say, a twentieth; and the next time you burst into print you will be in a position to share with us the issue of your calculations. I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with cheerfulness of that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not drag you to behold. You, who do not even know its situation on the map, probably denounce sensational descriptions, stretching your limbs the while in your pleasant parlour on Beretania Street. When I was pulled ashore there one early morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding farewell (in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys of human life. One of these wept silently; I could not withhold myself from joining her. Had you been there, it is my belief that nature would have triumphed even in you; and as the boat drew but a little nearer, and you beheld the stairs crowded with abominable deformations of our common manhood, and saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population as only now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare--what a haggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder towards the house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had you found every fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you visited the hospital and seen the butt-ends of human beings lying there almost unrecognisable, but still breathing, still thinking, still remembering; you would have understood that life in the lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves of a man's spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness of the sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to visit and a hell to dwell in. It is not the fear of possible infection. That seems a little thing when compared with the pain, the pity, and the disgust of the visitor's surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction, disease, and physical disgrace in which he breathes. I do not think I am a man more than usually timid; but I never recall the days and nights I spent upon that island promontory (eight days and seven nights), without heartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere else. I find in my diary that I speak of my stay as a "grinding experience": I have once jotted in the margin, "_Harrowing_ is the word"; and when the _Mokolii_ bore me at last towards the outer world, I kept repeating to myself, with a new conception of their pregnancy, those simple words of the song-- "'Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen." And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a settlement purged, bettered, beautified; the new village built, the hospital and the Bishop-Home excellently arranged; the sisters, the doctor, and the missionaries, all indefatigable in their noble tasks. It was a different place when Damien came there, and made his great renunciation, and slept that first night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with pestilence; and looking forward (with what courage, with what pitiful sinkings of dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of dressing sores and stumps. You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as painful abound in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by doctors and nurses. I have long learned to admire and envy the doctors and the nurses. But there is no cancer hospital so large and populous as Kalawao and Kalaupapa; and in such a matter every fresh case, like every inch of length in the pipe of an organ, deepens the note of the impression; for what daunts the onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering by which he stands surrounded. Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called upon to enter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not say farewell, they need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; they but go for a time to their high calling, and can look forward as they go to relief, to recreation, and to rest. But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors of his own sepulchre. I shall now extract three passages from my diary at Kalawao. _A_. "Damien is dead and already somewhat ungratefully remembered in the field of his labours and sufferings. 'He was a good man, but very officious,' says one. Another tells me he had fallen (as other priests so easily do) into something of the ways and habits of thought of a Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise the fact, and the good sense to laugh at" [over] "it. A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he was a popular." _B_. "After Ragsdale's death" [Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or overseer, of the unruly settlement] "there followed a brief term of office by Father Damien which served only to publish the weakness of that noble man. He was rough in his ways, and he had no control. Authority was relaxed; Damien's life was threatened, and he was soon eager to resign." _C_. "Of Damien I begin to have an idea. He seems to have been a man of the peasant class, certainly of the peasant type: shrewd; ignorant and bigoted, yet with an open mind, and capable of receiving and digesting a reproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly generous in the least thing as well as in the greatest, and as ready to give his last shirt (although not without human grumbling) as he had been to sacrifice his life; essentially indiscreet and officious, which made him a troublesome colleague; domineering in all his ways, which made him incurably unpopular with the Kanakas, but yet destitute of real authority, so that his boys laughed at him and he must carry out his wishes by the means of bribes. He learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas against the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps (if anything matter at all in the treatment of such a disease) the worst thing that he did, and certainly the easiest. The best and worst of the man appear very plainly in his dealings with Mr. Chapman's money; he had originally laid it out" [intended to lay it out] "entirely for the benefit of Catholics, and even so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, he admitted his error fully and revised the list. The sad state of the boys' home is in part the result of his lack of control; in part, of his own slovenly ways and false ideas of hygiene. Brother officials used to call it 'Damien's Chinatown.' 'Well,' they would say, 'your Chinatown keeps growing.' And he would laugh with perfect good-nature, and adhere to his errors with perfect obstinacy. So much I have gathered of truth about this plain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections are the traits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; his martyrdom and his example nothing can lessen or annul; and only a person here on the spot can properly appreciate their greatness." I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, without correction; thanks to you, the public has them in their bluntness. They are almost a list of the man's faults, for it is rather these that I was seeking: with his virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, I and the world were already sufficiently acquainted. I was besides a little suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but merely because Damien's admirers and disciples were the least likely to be critical. I know you will be more suspicious still; and the facts set down above were one and all collected from the lips of Protestants who had opposed the father in his life. Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up the image of a man, with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, and alive with rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth. Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst sides of Damien's character, collected from the lips of those who had laboured with and (in your own phrase) "knew the man";--though I question whether Damien would have said that he knew you. Take it, and observe with wonder how well you were served by your gossips, how ill by your intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact we are at one, and how widely our appreciations vary. There is something wrong here; either with you or me. It is possible, for instance, that you, who seem to have so many ears in Kalawao, had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman's money, and were singly struck by Damien's intended wrong-doing. I was struck with that also, and set it fairly down; but I was struck much more by the fact that he had the honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here tell you that it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him late into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that the father listened as usual with "perfect good-nature and perfect obstinacy"; but at the last, when he was persuaded--"Yes," said he, "I am very much obliged to you; you have done me a service; it would have been a theft." There are many (not Catholics merely) who require their heroes and saints to be infallible; to these the story will be painful; not to the true lovers, patrons, and servants of mankind. And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are one of those who have an eye for faults and failures; that you take a pleasure to find and publish them; and that, having found them, you make haste to forget the overvailing virtues and the real success which had alone introduced them to your knowledge. It is a dangerous frame of mind. That you may understand how dangerous, and into what a situation it has already brought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand through the different phrases of your letter, and candidly examine each from the point of view of its truth, its appositeness, and its charity. Damien was _coarse_. It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers who had only a coarse old peasant for their friend and father. But you, who were so refined, why were you not there, to cheer them with the lights of culture? Or may I remind you that we have some reason to doubt if John the Baptist were genteel; and in the case of Peter, on whose career you doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt at all he was a "coarse, headstrong" fisherman! Yet even in our Protestant Bibles Peter is called Saint. Damien was _dirty_. He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty comrade! But the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine house. Damien was _headstrong_. I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head and heart. Damien was _bigoted_. I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me. But what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish in a priest? Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity of a peasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do. For this, I wonder at him some way off; and had that been his only character, should have avoided him in life. But the point of interest in Damien, which has caused him to be so much talked about and made him at last the subject of your pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, his intense and narrow faith, wrought potently for good, and strengthened him to be one of the world's heroes and exemplars. Damien _was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders_. Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for blame? I have heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, held up for imitation on the ground that His sacrifice was voluntary. Does Dr. Hyde think otherwise? Damien _did not stay at the settlement, etc_. It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to understand that you blame the father for profiting by these, or the officers for granting them? In either case, it is a mighty Spartan standard to issue from the house on Beretania Street; and I am convinced you will find yourself with few supporters. Damien _had no hand in the reforms, etc_. I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in my description of the man I am defending; but before I take you up upon this head, I will be franker still, and tell you that perhaps nowhere in the world can a man taste a more pleasurable sense of contrast than when he passes from Damien's "Chinatown" at Kalawao to the beautiful Bishop-Home at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my desire to make all fair for you, I will break my rule and adduce Catholic testimony. Here is a passage from my diary about my visit to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it is (even now) regarded by its own officials: "We went round all the dormitories, refectories, etc.--dark and dingy enough, with a superficial cleanliness, which he" [Mr. Dutton, the lay brother] "did not seek to defend. 'It is almost decent,' said he; 'the sisters will make that all right when we get them here.'" And yet I gathered it was already better since Damien was dead, and far better than when he was there alone and had his own (not always excellent) way. I have now come far enough to meet you on a common ground of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not prejudiced by jealousy, all the reforms of the lazaretto, and even those which he most vigorously opposed, are properly the work of Damien. They are the evidence of his success; they are what his heroism provoked from the reluctant and the careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. Meyer, for instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there have been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none had more devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you will confess, they had effected little. It was his part, by one striking act of martyrdom, to direct all men's eyes on that distressful country. At a blow, and with the price of his life, he made the place illustrious and public. And that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform needful; pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought money; it brought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; it brought supervision, for public opinion and public interest landed with the man at Kalawao. If ever any man brought reforms, and died to bring them, it was he. There is not a clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty Damien washed it. Damien _was not a pure man in his relations with women, etc_. How do you know that? Is this the nature of the conversation in that house on Beretania Street which the cabman envied, driving past?--racy details of the misconduct of the poor peasant priest, toiling under the cliffs of Molokai? Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have heard the rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking tales, for my informants were men speaking with the plainness of the laity; and I heard plenty of complaints of Damien. Why was this never mentioned? and how came it to you in the retirement of your clerical parlour? But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, when I read it in your letter, was not new to me. I had heard it once before; and I must tell you how. There came to Samoa a man from Honolulu; he in a public-house on the beach volunteered the statement that Damien had "contracted the disease from having connection with the female lepers"; and I find a joy in telling you how the report was welcomed in a public-house. A man sprang to his feet; I am not at liberty to give his name, but from what I heard I doubt if you would care to have him to dinner in Beretania Street. "You miserable little ----" (here is a word I dare not print, it would so shock your ears). "You miserable little ----," he cried, "if the story were a thousand times true, can't you see you are a million times a lower ---- for daring to repeat it?" I wish it could be told of you that when the report reached you in your house, perhaps after family worship, you had found in your soul enough holy anger to receive it with the same expressions; ay, even with that one which I dare not print; it would not need to have been blotted away, like Uncle Toby's oath, by the tears of the recording angel; it would have been counted to you for your brightest righteousness. But you have deliberately chosen the part of the man from Honolulu, and you have played it with improvements of your own. The man from Honolulu--miserable, leering creature--communicated the tale to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers in a public-house, where (I will so far agree with your temperance opinions) man is not always at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had himself been drinking--drinking, we may charitably fancy, to excess. It was to your "Dear Brother, the Reverend H. B. Gage," that you chose to communicate the sickening story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your portly bosom forbids me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were drunk when it was done. Your "dear brother"--a brother indeed--made haste to deliver up your letter (as a means of grace, perhaps) to the religious papers; where, after many months, I found and read and wondered at it; and whence I have now reproduced it for the wonder of others. And you and your dear brother have, by this cycle of operations, built up a contrast very edifying to examine in detail. The man whom you would not care to have to dinner, on the one side; on the other, the Reverend Dr. Hyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse. But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your fellow-men; and to bring it home to you, I will suppose your story to be true. I will suppose--and God forgive me for supposing it--that Damien faltered and stumbled in his narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the horror of his isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, he, who was doing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter of his priestly oath--he, who was so much a better man than either you or me, who did what we have never dreamed of daring--he too tasted of our common frailty. "O, Iago, the pity of it!" The least tender should be moved to tears; the most incredulous to prayer. And all that you could do was to pen your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage! Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have drawn of your own heart? I will try yet once again to make it clearer. You had a father: suppose this tale were about him, and some informant brought it to you, proof in hand: I am not making too high an estimate of your emotional nature when I suppose you would regret the circumstance? that you would feel the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed the author of your days? and that the last thing you would do would be to publish it in the religious press? Well, the man who tried to do what Damien did is my father, and the father of the man in the Apia bar, and the father of all who love goodness; and he was your father too, if God had given you grace to see it. FOOTNOTE: [32] From the Sydney _Presbyterian_, October 26, 1889. XI MY FIRST BOOK--"TREASURE ISLAND" It was far indeed from being my first book, for I am not a novelist alone. But I am well aware that my paymaster, the Great Public, regards what else I have written with indifference, if not aversion; if it call upon me at all, it calls on me in the familiar and indelible character; and when I am asked to talk of my first book, no question in the world but what is meant is my first novel. Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various manias: from my earliest childhood it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary series of events; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the papermakers. Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of "Rathillet," "The Pentland Rising,"[33] "The King's Pardon" (otherwise "Park Whitehead"), "Edward Daven," "A Country Dance," and "A Vendetta in the West"; and it is consolatory to remember that these reams are now all ashes, and have been received again into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-fated efforts, only such indeed as came to a fair bulk ere they were desisted from; and even so they cover a long vista of years. "Rathillet" was attempted before fifteen, "The Vendetta" at twenty-nine, and the succession of defeats lasted unbroken till I was thirty-one. By that time I had written little books and little essays and short stories; and had got patted on the back and paid for them--though not enough to live upon. I had quite a reputation, I was the successful man; I passed my days in toil, the futility of which would sometimes make my cheek to burn--that I should spend a man's energy upon this business, and yet could not earn a livelihood: and still there shone ahead of me an unattained ideal: although I had attempted the thing with vigour not less than ten or twelve times, I had not yet written a novel. All--all my pretty ones--had gone for a little, and then stopped inexorably like a schoolboy's watch. I might be compared to a cricketer of many years' standing who should never have made a run. Anybody can write a short story--a bad one, I mean--who has industry and paper and time enough; but not every one may hope to write even a bad novel. It is the length that kills. The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, spend days upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes haste to blot. Not so the beginner. Human nature has certain rights; instinct--the instinct of self-preservation--forbids that any man (cheered and supported by the consciousness of no previous victory) should endure the miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period to be measured in weeks. There must be something for hope to feed upon. The beginner must have a slant of wind, a lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of those hours when the words come and the phrases balance of themselves--_even to begin_. And having begun, what a dread looking forward is that until the book shall be accomplished! For so long a time the slant is to continue unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long a time you must keep at command the same quality of style: for so long a time your puppets are to be always vital, always consistent, always vigorous! I remember I used to look, in those days, upon every three-volume novel with a sort of veneration, as a feat--not, possibly, of literature--but at least of physical and moral endurance and the courage of Ajax. In the fated year I came to live with my father and mother at Kinnaird, above Pitlochry. Then I walked on the red moors and by the side of the golden burn; the rude, pure air of our mountains inspirited, if it did not inspire, us, and my wife and I projected a joint volume of bogey stories, for which she wrote "The Shadow on the Bed," and I turned out "Thrawn Janet" and a first draft of "The Merry Men." I love my native air, but it does not love me; and the end of this delightful period was a cold, a fly-blister and a migration by Strathardle and Glenshee to the Castleton of Braemar. There it blew a good deal and rained in a proportion; my native air was more unkind than man's ingratitude, and I must consent to pass a good deal of my time between four walls in a house lugubriously known as the Late Miss M^cGregor's Cottage. And now admire the finger of predestination. There was a schoolboy in the Late Miss M^cGregor's Cottage, home from the holidays, and much in want of "something craggy to break his mind upon." He had no thought of literature; it was the art of Raphael that received his fleeting suffrages; and with the aid of pen and ink and a shilling box of watercolours, he had soon turned one of the rooms into a picture-gallery. My more immediate duty towards the gallery was to be showman; but I would sometimes unbend a little, join the artist (so to speak) at the easel, and pass the afternoon with him in a generous emulation, making coloured drawings. On one of these occasions, I made the map of an island; it was elaborately and (I thought) beautifully coloured; the shape of it took my fancy beyond expression; it contained harbours that pleased me like sonnets; and, with the unconsciousness of the predestined, I ticketed my performance "Treasure Island." I am told there are people who do not care for maps, and find it hard to believe. The names, the shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehistoric footsteps of man still distinctly traceable up hill and down dale, the mills and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the _Standing Stone_ or the _Druidic Circle_ on the heath; here is an inexhaustible fund of interest for any man with eyes to see or twopence-worth of imagination to understand with! No child but must remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies. Somewhat in this way, as I paused upon my map of "Treasure Island," the future character of the book began to appear there visibly among imaginary woods; and their brown faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection. The next thing I knew I had some papers before me and was writing out a list of chapters. How often have I done so, and the thing gone on further! But there seemed elements of success about this enterprise. It was to be a story for boys: no need of psychology or fine writing; and I had a boy at hand to be a touchstone. Women were excluded. I was unable to handle a brig (which the _Hispaniola_ should have been), but I thought I could make shift to sail her as a schooner without public shame. And then I had an idea for John Silver from which I promised myself funds of entertainment: to take an admired friend of mine (whom the reader very likely knows and admires as much as I do), to deprive him of all his finer qualities and higher graces of temperament, to leave him with nothing but his strength, his courage, his quickness, and his magnificent geniality, and to try to express these in terms of the culture of a raw tarpaulin. Such psychical surgery is, I think, a common way of "making character"; perhaps it is, indeed, the only way. We can put in the quaint figure that spoke a hundred words with us yesterday by the wayside; but do we know him? Our friend with his infinite variety and flexibility, we know--but can we put him in? Upon the first, we must engraft secondary and imaginary qualities, possibly all wrong; from the second, knife in hand, we must cut away and deduct the needless arborescence of his nature, but the trunk and the few branches that remain we may at least be fairly sure of. On a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk fire, and the rain drumming on the window, I began "The Sea Cook," for that was the original title. I have begun (and finished) a number of other books, but I cannot remember to have sat down to one of them with more complacency. It is not to be wondered at, for stolen waters are proverbially sweet. I am now upon a painful chapter. No doubt the parrot once belonged to Robinson Crusoe. No doubt the skeleton is conveyed from Poe. I think little of these, they are trifles and details; and no man can hope to have a monopoly of skeletons or make a corner in talking birds. The stockade, I am told, is from "Masterman Ready." It may be, I care not a jot. These useful writers had fulfilled the poet's saying: departing, they had left behind them Footprints on the sands of time, Footprints which perhaps another--and I was the other! It is my debt to Washington Irving that exercises my conscience, and justly so, for I believe plagiarism was rarely carried further. I chanced to pick up the "Tales of a Traveller" some years ago with a view to an anthology of prose narrative, and the book flew up and struck me: Billy Bones, his chest, the company in the parlour, the whole inner spirit, and a good deal of the material detail of my first chapters--all were there, all were the property of Washington Irving. But I had no guess of it then as I sat writing by the fireside, in what seemed the spring-tides of a somewhat pedestrian inspiration; nor yet day by day, after lunch, as I read aloud my morning's work to the family. It seemed to me original as sin; it seemed to belong to me like my right eye. I had counted on one boy, I found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at once with all the romance and childishness of his original nature. His own stories, that every night of his life he put himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside inns, robbers, old sailors, and commercial travellers before the era of steam. He never finished one of these romances; the lucky man did not require to finish them! But in "Treasure Island" he recognised something kindred to his own imagination; it was _his_ kind of picturesque; and he not only heard with delight the daily chapter, but set himself acting to collaborate. When the time came for Billy Bones's chest to be ransacked, he must have passed the better part of a day preparing, on the back of a legal envelope, an inventory of its contents, which I exactly followed; and the name of "Flint's old ship"--the _Walrus_--was given at his particular request. And now who should come dropping in, _ex machinâ_, but Dr. Japp, like the disguised prince who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and happiness in the last act; for he carried in his pocket, not a horn or a talisman, but a publisher. Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled before the extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the mutilated members of "The Sea Cook"; at the same time, we would by no means stop our readings; and accordingly the tale was begun again at the beginning, and solemnly re-delivered for the benefit of Dr. Japp. From that moment on, I have thought highly of his critical faculty; for when he left us he carried away the manuscript in his portmanteau to submit to his friend (since then my own) Mr. Henderson, who accepted it for his periodical, _Young Folks_. Here, then, was everything to keep me up, sympathy, help, and now a positive engagement. I had chosen besides a very easy style. Compare it with the almost contemporary "Merry Men"; one reader may prefer the one style, one the other--'tis an affair of character, perhaps of mood; but no expert can fail to see that the one is much more difficult, and the other much easier to maintain. It seems as though a full-grown experienced man of letters might engage to turn out "Treasure Island" at so many pages a day, and keep his pipe alight. But alas! this was not my case. Fifteen days I stuck to it, and turned out fifteen chapters; and then, in the early paragraphs of the sixteenth, ignominiously lost hold. My mouth was empty; there was not one word of "Treasure Island" in my bosom; and here were the proofs of the beginning already waiting me at the "Hand and Spear"! Then I corrected them, living for the most part alone, walking on the heath at Weybridge in dewy autumn mornings, a good deal pleased with what I had done, and more appalled than I can depict to you in words at what remained for me to do. I was thirty-one; I was the head of a family; I had lost my health; I had never yet paid my way, never yet made £200 a year; my father had quite recently bought back and cancelled a book that was judged a failure: was this to be another and last fiasco? I was indeed very close on despair; but I shut my mouth hard, and during the journey to Davos, where I was to pass the winter, had the resolution to think of other things and bury myself in the novels of M. du Boisgobey. Arrived at my destination, down I sat one morning to the unfinished tale; and behold! it flowed from me like small-talk; and in a second tide of delighted industry, and again at the rate of a chapter a day, I finished "Treasure Island." It had to be transcribed almost exactly; my wife was ill; the schoolboy remained alone of the faithful; and John Addington Symonds (to whom I timidly mentioned what I was engaged on) looked on me askance. He was at that time very eager I should write on the characters of Theophrastus: so far out may be the judgments of the wisest men. But Symonds (to be sure) was scarce the confidant to go to for sympathy on a boy's story. He was large-minded; "a full man," if there was one; but the very name of my enterprise would suggest to him only capitulations of sincerity and solecisms of style. Well! he was not far wrong. "Treasure Island"--it was Mr. Henderson who deleted the first title, "The Sea Cook"--appeared duly in the story paper, where it figured in the ignoble midst, without woodcuts, and attracted not the least attention. I did not care. I liked the tale myself, for much the same reason as my father liked the beginning; it was my kind of picturesque. I was not a little proud of John Silver, also; and to this day rather admire that smooth and formidable adventurer. What was infinitely more exhilarating, I had passed a landmark; I had finished a tale, and written "The End" upon my manuscript, as I had not done since "The Pentland Rising," when I was a boy of sixteen not yet at college. In truth it was so by a set of lucky accidents; had not Dr. Japp come on his visit, had not the tale flowed from me with singular ease, it must have been laid aside like its predecessors, and found a circuitous and unlamented way to the fire. Purists may suggest it would have been better so. I am not of that mind. The tale seems to have given much pleasure, and it brought (or was the means of bringing) fire and food and wine to a deserving family in which I took an interest. I need scarcely say I mean my own. But the adventures of "Treasure Island" are not yet quite at an end. I had written it up to the map. The map was the chief part of my plot. For instance, I had called an islet "Skeleton Island," not knowing what I meant, seeking only for the immediate picturesque, and it was to justify this name that I broke into the gallery of Mr. Poe and stole Flint's pointer. And in the same way, it was because I had made two harbours that the _Hispaniola_ was sent on her wanderings with Israel Hands. The time came when it was decided to republish, and I sent in my manuscript, and the map along with it, to Messrs. Cassell. The proofs came, they were corrected, but I heard nothing of the map. I wrote and asked; was told it had never been received, and sat aghast. It is one thing to draw a map at random, set a scale in one corner of it at a venture, and write up a story to the measurements. It is quite another to have to examine a whole book, make an inventory of all the allusions contained in it, and with a pair of compasses, painfully design a map to suit the data. I did it; and the map was drawn again in my father's office, with embellishments of blowing whales and sailing ships, and my father himself brought into service a knack he had of various writing, and elaborately _forged_ the signature of Captain Flint, and the sailing directions of Billy Bones. But somehow it was never _Treasure Island_ to me. I have said the map was the most of the plot. I might almost say it was the whole. A few reminiscences of Poe, Defoe, and Washington Irving, a copy of Johnson's "Buccaneers," the name of the Dead Man's Chest from Kingsley's "At Last," some recollections of canoeing on the high seas, and the map itself, with its infinite, eloquent suggestion, made up the whole of my materials. It is, perhaps, not often that a map figures so largely in a tale, yet it is always important. The author must know his countryside, whether real or imaginary, like his hand; the distances, the points of the compass, the place of the sun's rising, the behaviour of the moon, should all be beyond cavil. And how troublesome the moon is! I have come to grief over the moon in "Prince Otto," and, so soon as that was pointed out to me, adopted a precaution which I recommend to other men--I never write now without an almanac. With an almanac and the map of the country, and the plan of every house, either actually plotted on paper or already and immediately apprehended in the mind, a man may hope to avoid some of the grossest possible blunders. With the map before him, he will scarce allow the sun to set in the east, as it does in "The Antiquary." With the almanac at hand, he will scarce allow two horsemen, journeying on the most urgent affair, to employ six days, from three of the Monday morning till late in the Saturday night, upon a journey of, say, ninety or a hundred miles, and before the week is out, and still on the same nags, to cover fifty in one day, as may be read at length in the inimitable novel of "Rob Roy." And it is certainly well, though far from necessary, to avoid such "croppers." But it is my contention--my superstition, if you like--that who is faithful to his map, and consults it, and draws from it his inspiration, daily and hourly, gains positive support, and not mere negative immunity from accident. The tale has a root there; it grows in that soil; it has a spine of its own behind the words. Better if the country be real, and he has walked every foot of it and knows every milestone. But even with imaginary places, he will do well in the beginning to provide a map; as he studies it, relations will appear that he had not thought upon; he will discover obvious, though unsuspected, shortcuts and footprints for his messengers; and even when a map is not all the plot, as it was in "Treasure Island," it will be found to be a mine of suggestion. FOOTNOTE: [33] _Ne pas confondre_. Not the slim green pamphlet with the imprint of Andrew Elliot, for which (as I see with amazement from the book-lists) the gentlemen of England are willing to pay fancy prices; but its predecessor, a bulky historical romance without a spark of merit and now deleted from the world.--[R. L. S.] XII THE GENESIS OF "THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE" I was walking one night in the verandah of a small house in which I lived, outside the hamlet of Saranac. It was winter; the night was very dark; the air extraordinary clear and cold, and sweet with the purity of forests. From a good way below, the river was to be heard contending with ice and boulders: a few lights appeared, scattered unevenly among the darkness, but so far away as not to lessen the sense of isolation. For the making of a story here were fine conditions. I was besides moved with the spirit of emulation, for I had just finished my third or fourth perusal of "The Phantom Ship." "Come," said I to my engine, "let us make a tale, a story of many years and countries, of the sea and the land, savagery, and civilisation; a story that shall have the same large features, and may be treated in the same summary elliptic method as the book you have been reading and admiring." I was here brought up with a reflection exceedingly just in itself, but which, as the sequel shows, I failed to profit by. I saw that Marryat, not less than Homer, Milton, and Virgil, profited by the choice of a familiar and legendary subject; so that he prepared his readers on the very title-page; and this set me cudgelling my brains, if by any chance I could hit upon some similar belief to be the centre-piece of my own meditated fiction. In the course of this vain search there cropped up in my memory a singular case of a buried and resuscitated fakir, which I had been often told by an uncle of mine, then lately dead, Inspector-General John Balfour. On such a fine frosty night, with no wind and the thermometer below zero, the brain works with much vivacity; and the next moment I had seen the circumstance transplanted from India and the tropics to the Adirondack wilderness and the stringent cold of the Canadian border. Here then, almost before I had begun my story, I had two countries, two of the ends of the earth involved: and thus though the notion of the resuscitated man failed entirely on the score of general acceptation, or even (as I have since found) acceptability, it fitted at once with my design of a tale of many lands; and this decided me to consider further of its possibilities. The man who should thus be buried was the first question: a good man, whose return to life would be hailed by the reader and the other characters with gladness? This trenched upon the Christian picture and was dismissed. If the idea, then, was to be of any use at all for me, I had to create a kind of evil genius to his friends and family, take him through many disappearances, and make this final restoration from the pit of death, in the icy American wilderness, the last and the grimmest of the series. I need not tell my brothers of the craft that I was now in the most interesting moment of an author's life; the hours that followed that night upon the balcony, and the following nights and days, whether walking abroad or lying wakeful in my bed, were hours of unadulterated joy. My mother, who was then living with me alone, perhaps had less enjoyment; for, in the absence of my wife, who is my usual helper in these times of parturition, I must spur her up at all seasons to hear me relate and try to clarify my unformed fancies. And while I was groping for the fable and the character required, behold I found them lying ready and nine years old in my memory. Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the pot, nine years old. Was there ever a more complete justification of the rule of Horace? Here, thinking of quite other things, I had stumbled on the solution or perhaps I should rather say (in stagewright phrase) the Curtain or final Tableau of a story conceived long before on the moors between Pitlochry and Strathardle, conceived in Highland rain, in the blend of the smell of heather and bog-plants, and with a mind full of the Athole correspondence and the memories of the dumlicide Justice. So long ago, so far away it was, that I had first evoked the faces and the mutual tragic situation of the men of Durrisdeer. My story was now world-wide enough: Scotland, India, and America being all obligatory scenes. But of these India was strange to me except in books; I had never known any living Indian save a Parsee, a member of my club in London, equally civilised, and (to all seeing) equally Occidental with myself. It was plain, thus far, that I should have to get into India and out of it again upon a foot of fairy lightness; and I believe this first suggested to me the idea of the Chevalier Burke for a narrator. It was at first intended that he should be Scottish, and I was then filled with fears that he might prove only the degraded shadow of my own Alan Breck. Presently, however, it began to occur to me it would be like my Master to curry favour with the Prince's Irishmen; and that an Irish refugee would have a particular reason to find himself in India with his countryman, the unfortunate Lally. Irish, therefore, I decided he should be, and then, all of a sudden, I was aware of a tall shadow across my path, the shadow of Barry Lyndon. No man (in Lord Foppington's phrase) of a nice morality could go very deep with my Master: in the original idea of this story conceived in Scotland, this companion had been besides intended to be worse than the bad elder son with whom (as it was then meant) he was to visit Scotland; if I took an Irishman, and a very bad Irishman, in the midst of the eighteenth century, how was I to evade Barry Lyndon? The wretch besieged me, offering his services; he gave me excellent references; he proved that he was highly fitted for the work I had to do; he, or my own evil heart, suggested it was easy to disguise his ancient livery with a little lace and a few frogs and buttons, so that Thackeray himself should hardly recognise him. And then of a sudden there came to me memories of a young Irishman, with whom I was once intimate, and had spent long nights walking and talking with, upon a very desolate coast in a bleak autumn: I recalled him as a youth of an extraordinary moral simplicity--almost vacancy; plastic to any influence, the creature of his admirations: and putting such a youth in fancy into the career of a soldier of fortune, it occurred to me that he would serve my turn as well as Mr. Lyndon, and, in place of entering into competition with the Master, would afford a slight though a distinct relief. I know not if I have done him well, though his moral dissertations always highly entertained me: but I own I have been surprised to find that he reminded some critics of Barry Lyndon after all.... XIII RANDOM MEMORIES: _ROSA QUO LOCORUM_ I Through what little channels, by what hints and premonitions, the consciousness of the man's art dawns first upon the child, it should be not only interesting but instructive to inquire. A matter of curiosity to-day, it will become the ground of science to-morrow. From the mind of childhood there is more history and more philosophy to be fished up than from all the printed volumes in a library. The child is conscious of an interest, not in literature but in life. A taste for the precise, the adroit or the comely in the use of words, comes late; but long before that he has enjoyed in books a delightful dress rehearsal of experience. He is first conscious of this material--I had almost said this practical--pre-occupation; it does not follow that it really came the first. I have some old fogged negatives in my collection that would seem to imply a prior stage. "The Lord is gone up with a shout, and God with the sound of a trumpet"--memorial version, I know not where to find the text--rings still in my ear from my first childhood, and perhaps with something of my nurse's accent. There was possibly some sort of image written in my mind by these loud words, but I believe the words themselves were what I cherished. I had about the same time, and under the same influence--that of my dear nurse--a favourite author: it is possible the reader has not heard of him--the Rev. Robert Murray M'Cheyne. My nurse and I admired his name exceedingly, so that I must have been taught the love of beautiful sounds before I was breeched; and I remember two specimens of his muse until this day:-- "Behind the hills of Naphtali The sun went slowly down, Leaving on mountain, tower, and tree, A tinge of golden brown." There is imagery here, and I set it on one side. The other--it is but a verse--not only contains no image, but is quite unintelligible even to my comparatively instructed mind, and I know not even how to spell the outlandish vocable that charmed me in my childhood: "Jehovah Tschidkenu is nothing to her ";[34] I may say, without flippancy, that he was nothing to me either, since I had no ray of a guess of what he was about; yet the verse, from then to now, a longer interval than the life of a generation, has continued to haunt me. I have said that I should set a passage distinguished by obvious and pleasing imagery, however faint; for the child thinks much in images, words are very live to him, phrases that imply a picture eloquent beyond their value. Rummaging in the dusty pigeon-holes of memory, I came once upon a graphic version of the famous Psalm, "The Lord is my Shepherd": and from the places employed in its illustration, which are all in the immediate neighbourhood of a house then occupied by my father, I am able to date it before the seventh year of my age, although it was probably earlier in fact. The "pastures green" were represented by a certain suburban stubble-field, where I had once walked with my nurse, under an autumnal sunset, on the banks of the Water of Leith: the place is long ago built up; no pastures now, no stubble-fields; only a maze of little streets and smoking chimneys and shrill children. Here, in the fleecy person of a sheep, I seemed to myself to follow something unseen, unrealised, and yet benignant; and close by the sheep in which I was incarnated--as if for greater security--rustled the skirts of my nurse. "Death's dark vale" was a certain archway in the Warriston Cemetery: a formidable yet beloved spot, for children love to be afraid,--in measure as they love all experience of vitality. Here I beheld myself some paces ahead (seeing myself, I mean, from behind) utterly alone in that uncanny passage: on the one side of me a rude, knobby shepherd's staff, such as cheers the heart of the cockney tourist, on the other a rod like a billiard cue, appeared to accompany my progress: the staff sturdily upright, the billiard cue inclined confidentially, like one whispering, towards my ear. I was aware--I will never tell you how--that the presence of these articles afforded me encouragement. The third and last of my pictures illustrated the words:-- "My table Thou hast furnishèd In presence of my foes: My head Thou dost with oil anoint, And my cup overflows": and this was perhaps the most interesting of the series. I saw myself seated in a kind of open stone summer-house at table; over my shoulder a hairy, bearded, and robed presence anointed me from an authentic shoe-horn; the summer-house was part of the green court of a ruin, and from the far side of the court black and white imps discharged against me ineffectual arrows. The picture appears arbitrary, but I can trace every detail to its source, as Mr. Brock analysed the dream of Alan Armadale. The summer-house and court were muddled together out of Billings' "Antiquities of Scotland"; the imps conveyed from Bagster's "Pilgrim's Progress"; the bearded and robed figure from any one of a thousand Bible pictures; and the shoe-horn was plagiarised from an old illustrated Bible, where it figured in the hand of Samuel anointing Saul, and had been pointed out to me as a jest by my father. It was shown me for a jest, remark; but the serious spirit of infancy adopted it in earnest. Children are all classics; a bottle would have seemed an intermediary too trivial--that divine refreshment of whose meaning I had no guess; and I seized on the idea of that mystic shoe-horn with delight, even as, a little later, I should have written flagon, chalice, hanaper, beaker, or any word that might have appealed to me at the moment as least contaminate with mean associations. In this string of pictures I believe the gist of the psalm to have consisted; I believe it had no more to say to me; and the result was consolatory. I would go to sleep dwelling with restfulness upon these images; they passed before me, besides, to an appropriate music; for I had already singled out from that rude psalm the one lovely verse which dwells in the minds of all, not growing old, not disgraced by its association with long Sunday tasks, a scarce conscious joy in childhood, in age a companion thought:-- "In pastures green Thou leadest me, The quiet waters by." The remainder of my childish recollections are all of the matter of what was read to me, and not of any manner in the words. If these pleased me, it was unconsciously; I listened for news of the great vacant world upon whose edge I stood; I listened for delightful plots that I might re-enact in play, and romantic scenes and circumstances that I might call up before me, with closed eyes, when I was tired of Scotland, and home and that weary prison of the sick-chamber in which I lay so long in durance. "Robinson Crusoe"; some of the books of that cheerful, ingenious, romantic soul, Mayne Reid; and a work rather gruesome and bloody for a child, but very picturesque, called "Paul Blake"; these are the three strongest impressions I remember: "The Swiss Family Robinson" came next, _longo intervallo_. At these I played, conjured up their scenes, and delighted to hear them rehearsed unto seventy times seven. I am not sure but what "Paul Blake" came after I could read. It seems connected with a visit to the country, and an experience unforgettable. The day had been warm; H---- and I had played together charmingly all day in a sandy wilderness across the road; then came the evening with a great flash of colour and a heavenly sweetness in the air. Somehow my playmate had vanished, or is out of the story, as the sagas say, but I was sent into the village on an errand; and, taking a book of fairy tales, went down alone through a fir-wood, reading as I walked. How often since then has it befallen me to be happy even so; but that was the first time: the shock of that pleasure I have never since forgot, and if my mind serves me to the last, I never shall, for it was then that I knew I loved reading. II To pass from hearing literature to reading it is to take a great and dangerous step. With not a few, I think a large proportion of their pleasure then comes to an end; "the malady of not marking" overtakes them; they read thenceforward by the eye alone and hear never again the chime of fair words or the march of the stately period. _Non ragioniam_ of these. But to all the step is dangerous; it involves coming of age; it is even a kind of second weaning. In the past all was at the choice of others; they chose, they digested, they read aloud for us and sang to their own tune the books of childhood. In the future we are to approach the silent, inexpressive type alone, like pioneers; and the choice of what we are to read is in our own hands thenceforward. For instance, in the passages already adduced, I detect and applaud the ear of my old nurse; they were of her choice, and she imposed them on my infancy, reading the works of others as a poet would scarce dare to read his own; gloating on the rhythm, dwelling with delight on assonances and alliterations. I know very well my mother must have been all the while trying to educate my taste upon more secular authors; but the vigour and the continual opportunities of my nurse triumphed, and after a long search, I can find in these earliest volumes of my autobiography no mention of anything but nursery rhymes, the Bible, and Mr. M'Cheyne. I suppose all children agree in looking back with delight on their school Readers. We might not now find so much pathos in "Bingen on the Rhine," "A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers," or in "The Soldier's Funeral," in the declamation of which I was held to have surpassed myself. "Robert's voice," said the master on this memorable occasion, "is not strong, but impressive": an opinion which I was fool enough to carry home to my father; who roasted me for years in consequence. I am sure one should not be so deliciously tickled by the humorous pieces:-- "What, crusty? cries Will in a taking, Who would not be crusty with half a year's baking?" I think this quip would leave us cold. The "Isles of Greece" seem rather tawdry too; but on the "Address to the Ocean," or on "The Dying Gladiator," "time has writ no wrinkle." "'Tis the morn, but dim and dark, Whither flies the silent lark?"-- does the reader recall the moment when his eye first fell upon these lines in the Fourth Reader; and "surprised with joy, impatient as the wind," he plunged into the sequel? And there was another piece, this time in prose, which none can have forgotten; many like me must have searched Dickens with zeal to find it again, and in its proper context, and have perhaps been conscious of some inconsiderable measure of disappointment, that it was only Tom Pinch who drove, in such a pomp of poetry, to London. But in the Reader we are still under guides. What a boy turns out for himself, as he rummages the bookshelves, is the real test and pleasure. My father's library was a spot of some austerity: the proceedings of learned societies, some Latin divinity, cyclopædias, physical science, and, above all, optics, held the chief place upon the shelves, and it was only in holes and corners that anything really legible existed as by accident. The "Parent's Assistant," "Rob Roy," "Waverley," and "Guy Mannering," the "Voyages of Captain Woods Rogers," Fuller's and Bunyan's "Holy Wars," "The Reflections of Robinson Crusoe," "The Female Bluebeard," G. Sand's "Mare au Diable"--(how came it in that grave assembly!), Ainsworth's "Tower of London," and four old volumes of _Punch_--these were the chief exceptions. In these latter, which made for years the chief of my diet, I very early fell in love (almost as soon as I could spell) with the Snob Papers. I knew them almost by heart, particularly the visit to the Pontos; and I remember my surprise when I found, long afterwards, that they were famous, and signed with a famous name; to me, as I read and admired them, they were the works of Mr. Punch. Time and again I tried to read "Rob Roy," with whom of course I was acquainted from the "Tales of a Grandfather"; time and again the early part, with Rashleigh and (think of it!) the adorable Diana, choked me off; and I shall never forget the pleasure and surprise with which, lying on the floor one summer evening, I struck of a sudden into the first scene with Andrew Fairservice. "The worthy Dr. Lightfoot"--"mistrysted with a bogle"--"a wheen green trash"--"Jenny, lass, I think I ha'e her": from that day to this the phrases have been unforgotten. I read on, I need scarce say; I came to Glasgow, I bided tryst on Glasgow Bridge, I met Rob Roy and the Bailie in the Tolbooth, all with transporting pleasure; and then the clouds gathered once more about my path; and I dozed and skipped until I stumbled half asleep into the clachan of Aberfoyle, and the voices of Iverach and Galbraith recalled me to myself. With that scene and the defeat of Captain Thornton the book concluded; Helen and her sons shocked even the little schoolboy of nine or ten with their unreality; I read no more, or I did not grasp what I was reading; and years elapsed before I consciously met Diana and her father among the hills, or saw Rashleigh dying in the chair. When I think of that novel and that evening, I am impatient with all others; they seem but shadows and impostors; they cannot satisfy the appetite which this awakened; and I dare be known to think it the best of Sir Walter's by nearly as much as Sir Walter is the best of novelists. Perhaps Mr. Lang is right, and our first friends in the land of fiction are always the most real. And yet I had read before this "Guy Mannering," and some of "Waverley," with no such delighted sense of truth and humour, and I read immediately after the greater part of the Waverley Novels, and was never moved again in the same way or to the same degree. One circumstance is suspicious: my critical estimate of the Waverley Novels has scarce changed at all since I was ten. "Rob Roy," "Guy Mannering," and "Redgauntlet" first; then, a little lower, "The Fortunes of Nigel"; then, after a huge gulf, "Ivanhoe" and "Anne of Geierstein": the rest nowhere; such was the verdict of the boy. Since then "The Antiquary," "St. Ronan's Well," "Kenilworth," and "The Heart of Midlothian" have gone up in the scale; perhaps "Ivanhoe" and "Anne of Geierstein" have gone a trifle down; Diana Vernon has been added to my admirations in that enchanted world of "Rob Roy"; I think more of the letters in "Redgauntlet" and Peter Peebles, that dreadful piece of realism, I can now read about with equanimity, interest, and I had almost said pleasure, while to the childish critic he often caused unmixed distress. But the rest is the same; I could not finish "The Pirate" when I was a child, I have never finished it yet; "Peveril of the Peak" dropped half way through from my schoolboy hands, and though I have since waded to an end in a kind of wager with myself, the exercise was quite without enjoyment. There is something disquieting in these considerations. I still think the visit to Ponto's the best part of the "Book of Snobs": does that mean that I was right when I was a child, or does it mean that I have never grown since then, that the child is not the man's father, but the man? and that I came into the world with all my faculties complete, and have only learned sinsyne to be more tolerant of boredom?... FOOTNOTE: [34] "Jehovah Tsidkenu," translated in the Authorised Version as "The Lord our Righteousness" (Jeremiah xxiii. 6 and xxxiii. 16). XIV REFLECTIONS AND REMARKS ON HUMAN LIFE I. JUSTICE AND JUSTIFICATION.--(1) It is the business of this life to make excuses for others, but none for ourselves. We should be clearly persuaded of our own misconduct, for that is the part of knowledge in which we are most apt to be defective. (2) Even justice is no right of a man's own, but a thing, like the king's tribute, which shall never be his, but which he should strive to see rendered to another. None was ever just to me; none ever will be. You may reasonably aspire to be chief minister or sovereign pontiff: but not to be justly regarded in your own character and acts. You know too much to be satisfied. For justice is but an earthly currency, paid to appearances; you may see another superficially righted; but be sure he has got too little or too much; and in your own case rest content with what is paid you. It is more just than you suppose; that your virtues are misunderstood is a price you pay to keep your meannesses concealed. (3) When you seek to justify yourself to others, you may be sure you will plead falsely. If you fail, you have the shame of the failure; if you succeed, you will have made too much of it, and be unjustly esteemed upon the other side. (4) You have perhaps only one friend in the world, in whose esteem it is worth while for you to right yourself. Justification to indifferent persons is, at best, an impertinent intrusion. Let them think what they please; they will be the more likely to forgive you in the end. (5) It is a question hard to be resolved, whether you should at any time criminate another to defend yourself. I have done it many times, and always had a troubled conscience for my pains. II. PARENT AND CHILD.--(1) The love of parents for their children is, of all natural affections, the most ill-starred. It is not a love for the person, since it begins before the person has come into the world, and founds on an imaginary character and looks. Thus it is foredoomed to disappointment; and because the parent either looks for too much, or at least for something inappropriate, at his offspring's hands, it is too often insufficiently repaid. The natural bond, besides, is stronger from parent to child than from child to parent; and it is the side which confers benefits, not which receives them, that thinks most of a relation. (2) What do we owe our parents? No man can _owe_ love; none can _owe_ obedience. We owe, I think, chiefly pity; for we are the pledge of their dear and joyful union, we have been the solicitude of their days and the anxiety of their nights, we have made them, though by no will of ours, to carry the burthen of our sins, sorrows, and physical infirmities; and too many of us grow up at length to disappoint the purpose of their lives and requite their care and piety with cruel pangs. (3) _Mater Dolorosa_. It is the particular cross of parents that when the child grows up and becomes himself instead of that pale ideal they had preconceived, they must accuse their own harshness or indulgence for this natural result. They have all been like the duck and hatched swan's eggs, or the other way about; yet they tell themselves with miserable penitence that the blame lies with them; and had they sat more closely, the swan would have been a duck, and home-keeping, in spite of all. (4) A good son, who can fulfil what is expected of him, has done his work in life. He has to redeem the sins of many, and restore the world's confidence in children. III. DIALOGUE ON CHARACTER AND DESTINY BETWEEN TWO PUPPETS.--At the end of Chapter XXXIII. Count Spada and the General of the Jesuits were left alone in the pavilion, while the course of the story was turned upon the doings of the virtuous hero. Profiting by this moment of privacy, the Jesuit turned with a very warning countenance upon the peer. "Have a care, my lord," said he, raising a finger. "You are already no favourite with the author; and for my part, I begin to perceive from a thousand evidences that the narrative is drawing near a close. Yet a chapter or two at most, and you will be overtaken by some sudden and appalling judgment." "I despise your womanish presentiments," replied Spada, "and count firmly upon another volume; I see a variety of reasons why my life should be prolonged to within a few pages of the end; indeed, I permit myself to expect resurrection in a sequel, or second part. You will scarce suggest that there can be any end to the newspaper; and you will certainly never convince me that the author, who cannot be entirely without sense, would have been at so great pains with my intelligence, gallant exterior, and happy and natural speech, merely to kick me hither and thither for two or three paltry chapters and then drop me at the end like a dumb personage. I know you priests are often infidels in secret. Pray, do you believe in an author at all?" "Many do not, I am aware," replied the General softly; "even in the last chapter we encountered one, the self-righteous David Hume, who goes so far as to doubt the existence of the newspaper in which our adventures are now appearing; but it would neither become my cloth, nor do credit to my great experience, were I to meddle with these dangerous opinions. My alarm for you is not metaphysical, it is moral in its origin: You must be aware, my poor friend, that you are a very bad character--the worst indeed that I have met with in these pages. The author hates you, Count; and difficult as it may be to connect the idea of immortality--or, in plain terms, of a sequel--with the paper and printer's ink of which your humanity is made, it is yet more difficult to foresee anything but punishment and pain for one who is justly hateful in the eyes of his creator." "You take for granted many things that I shall not easily be persuaded to allow," replied the villain. "Do you really so far deceive yourself in your imagination as to fancy that the author is a friend to good? Read; read the book in which you figure; and you will soon disown such crude vulgarities. Lelio is a good character; yet only two chapters ago we left him in a fine predicament. His old servant was a model of the virtues, yet did he not miserably perish in that ambuscade upon the road to Poitiers? And as for the family of the bankrupt merchant, how is it possible for greater moral qualities to be alive with more irremediable misfortunes? And yet you continue to misrepresent an author to yourself, as a deity devoted to virtue and inimical to vice? Pray, if you have no pride in your own intellectual credit for yourself, spare at least the sensibilities of your associates." "The purposes of the serial story," answered the Priest, "are, doubtless for some wise reason, hidden from those who act in it. To this limitation we must bow. But I ask every character to observe narrowly his own personal relations to the author. There, if nowhere else, we may glean some hint of his superior designs. Now I am myself a mingled personage, liable to doubts, to scruples, and to sudden revulsions of feeling; I reason continually about life, and frequently the result of my reasoning is to condemn or even to change my action. I am now convinced, for example, that I did wrong in joining in your plot against the innocent and most unfortunate Lelio. I told you so, you will remember, in the chapter which has just been concluded and though I do not know whether you perceived the ardour and fluency with which I expressed myself, I am still confident in my own heart that I spoke at that moment not only with the warm approval, but under the direct inspiration, of the author of the tale. I know, Spada, I tell you I _know_, that he loved me as I uttered these words; and yet at other periods of my career I have been conscious of his indifference and dislike. You must not seek to reason me from this conviction; for it is supplied me from higher authority than that of reason, and is indeed a part of my experience. It may be an illusion that I drove last night from Saumur; it may be an illusion that we are now in the garden chamber of the château; it may be an illusion that I am conversing with Count Spada; you may be an illusion, Count, yourself; but of three things I will remain eternally persuaded, that the author exists not only in the newspaper but in my own heart, that he loves me when I do well, and that he hates and despises me when I do otherwise." "I too believe in the author," returned the Count. "I believe likewise in a sequel, written in finer style and probably cast in a still higher rank of society than the present story; although I am not convinced that we shall then be conscious of our pre-existence here. So much of your argument is, therefore, beside the mark; for to a certain point I am as orthodox as yourself. But where you begin to draw general conclusions from your own private experience, I must beg pointedly and finally to differ. You will not have forgotten, I believe, my daring and single-handed butchery of the five secret witnesses? Nor the sleight of mind and dexterity of language with which I separated Lelio from the merchant's family? These were not virtuous actions; and yet, how am I to tell you? I was conscious of a troubled joy, a glee, a hellish gusto in my author's bosom, which seemed to renew my vigour with every sentence, and which has indeed made the first of these passages accepted for a model of spirited narrative description, and the second for a masterpiece of wickedness and wit. What result, then, can be drawn from two experiences so contrary as yours and mine? For my part, I lay it down as a principle, no author can be moral in a merely human sense. And, to pursue the argument higher, how can you, for one instant, suppose the existence of free-will in puppets situated as we are in the thick of a novel which we do not even understand? And how, without free-will upon our parts, can you justify blame or approval on that of the author? We are in his hands; by a stroke of the pen, to speak reverently, he made us what we are; by a stroke of the pen he can utterly undo and transmute what he has made. In the very next chapter, my dear General, you may be shown up for an impostor, or I be stricken down in the tears of penitence and hurried into the retirement of a monastery!" "You use an argument old as mankind, and difficult of answer," said the Priest. "I cannot justify the free-will of which I am usually conscious; nor will I ever seek to deny that this consciousness is interrupted. Sometimes events mount upon me with such swiftness and pressure that my choice is overwhelmed, and even to myself I seem to obey a will external to my own; and again I am sometimes so paralysed and impotent between alternatives that I am tempted to imagine a hesitation on the part of my author. But I contend, upon the other hand, for a limited free-will in the sphere of consciousness; and as it is in and by my consciousness that I exist to myself, I will not go on to inquire whether that free-will is valid as against the author, the newspaper, or even the readers of the story. And I contend, further, for a sort of empire or independence of our own characters when once created, which the author cannot or at least does not choose to violate. Hence Lelio was conceived upright, honest, courageous, and headlong; to that first idea all his acts and speeches must of necessity continue to answer; and the same, though with such different defects and qualities, applies to you, Count Spada, and to myself. We must act up to our characters; it is these characters that the author loves or despises; it is on account of them that we must suffer or triumph, whether in this work or in a sequel. Such is my belief." "It is pure Calvinistic election, my dear sir, and, by your leave, a very heretical position for a churchman to support," replied the Count. "Nor can I see how it removes the difficulty. I was not consulted as to my character; I might have chosen to be Lelio; I might have chosen to be yourself; I might even have preferred to figure in a different romance, or not to enter into the world of literature at all. And am I to be blamed or hated, because some one else wilfully and inhumanely made me what I am, and has continued ever since to encourage me in what are called my vices? You may say what you please, my dear sir, but if that is the case, I had rather be a telegram from the seat of war than a reasonable and conscious character in a romance; nay, and I have a perfect right to repudiate, loathe, curse, and utterly condemn the ruffian who calls himself the author." "You have, as you say, a perfect right," replied the Jesuit; "and I am convinced that it will not affect him in the least." "He shall have one slave the fewer for me," added the Count. "I discard my allegiance once for all." "As you please," concluded the other; "but at least be ready, for I perceive we are about to enter on the scene." And, indeed, just at that moment, Chapter XXXIV. being completed, Chapter XXXV., "The Count's Chastisement," began to appear in the columns of the newspaper. IV. SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY.--(1) A little society is needful to show a man his failings; for if he lives entirely by himself, he has no occasion to fall, and like a soldier in time of peace, becomes both weak and vain. But a little solitude must be used, or we grow content with current virtues and forget the ideal. In society we lose scrupulous brightness of honour; in solitude we lose the courage necessary to face our own imperfections. (2) As a question of pleasure, after a man has reached a certain age, I can hardly perceive much room to choose between them: each is in a way delightful, and each will please best after an experience of the other. (3) But solitude for its own sake should surely never be preferred. We are bound by the strongest obligations to busy ourselves amid the world of men, if it be only to crack jokes. The finest trait in the character of St. Paul was his readiness to be damned for the salvation of anybody else. And surely we should all endure a little weariness to make one face look brighter or one hour go more pleasantly in this mixed world. (4) It is our business here to speak, for it is by the tongue that we multiply ourselves most influentially. To speak kindly, wisely, and pleasantly is the first of duties, the easiest of duties, and the duty that is most blessed in its performance. For it is natural, it whiles away life, it spreads intelligence; and it increases the acquaintance of man with man. (5) It is, besides, a good investment, for while all other pleasures decay, and even the delight in nature, Grandfather William is still bent to gossip. (6) Solitude is the climax of the negative virtues. When we go to bed after a solitary day we can tell ourselves that we have not been unkind nor dishonest nor untruthful; and the negative virtues are agreeable to that dangerous faculty we call the conscience. That they should ever be admitted for a part of virtue is what I cannot explain. I do not care two straws for all the _nots_. (7) The positive virtues are imperfect; they are even ugly in their imperfection: for man's acts, by the necessity of his being, are coarse and mingled. The kindest, in the course of a day of active kindnesses, will say some things rudely, and do some things cruelly; the most honourable, perhaps, trembles at his nearness to a doubtful act. (8) Hence the solitary recoils from the practice of life, shocked by its unsightlinesses. But if I could only retain that superfine and guiding delicacy of the sense that grows in solitude, and still combine with it that courage of performance which is never abashed by any failure, but steadily pursues its right and human design in a scene of imperfection, I might hope to strike in the long-run a conduct more tender to others and less humiliating to myself. V. SELFISHNESS AND EGOISM.--An unconscious, easy, selfish person shocks less, and is more easily loved, than one who is laboriously and egotistically unselfish. There is at least no fuss about the first; but the other parades his sacrifices, and so sells his favours too dear. Selfishness is calm, a force of nature: you might say the trees were selfish. But egoism is a piece of vanity; it must always take you into its confidence; it is uneasy, troublesome, seeking; it can do good, but not handsomely; it is uglier, because less dignified, than selfishness itself. But here I perhaps exaggerate to myself, because I am the one more than the other, and feel it like a hook in my mouth, at every step I take. Do what I will, this seems to spoil all. VI. RIGHT AND WRONG.--It is the mark of a good action that it appears inevitable in the retrospect. We should have been cut-throats to do otherwise. And there's an end. We ought to know distinctly that we are damned for what we do wrong; but when we have done right, we have only been gentlemen, after all. There is nothing to make a work about. VII. DISCIPLINE OF CONSCIENCE.--(1) Never allow your mind to dwell on your own misconduct: that is ruin. The conscience has morbid sensibilities; it must be employed but not indulged, like the imagination or the stomach. (2) Let each stab suffice for the occasion; to play with this spiritual pain turns to penance; and a person easily learns to feel good by dallying with the consciousness of having done wrong. (3) Shut your eyes hard against the recollection of your sins. Do not be afraid, you will not be able to forget them. (4) You will always do wrong: you must try to get used to that, my son. It is a small matter to make a work about, when all the world is in the same case. I meant when I was a young man to write a great poem; and now I am cobbling little prose articles and in excellent good spirits, I thank you. So, too, I meant to lead a life that should keep mounting from the first; and though I have been repeatedly down again below sea-level, and am scarce higher than when I started, I am as keen as ever for that enterprise. Our business in this world is not to succeed, but to continue to fail, in good spirits. (5) There is but one test of a good life: that the man shall continue to grow more difficult about his own behaviour. That is to be good: there is no other virtue attainable. The virtues we admire in the saint and the hero are the fruits of a happy constitution. You, for your part, must not think you will ever be a good man, for these are born and not made. You will have your own reward, if you keep on growing better than you were--how do I say? if you do not keep on growing worse. (6) A man is one thing, and must be exercised in all his faculties. Whatever side of you is neglected, whether it is the muscles, or the taste for art, or the desire for virtue, that which is cultivated will suffer in proportion. ---- was greatly tempted, I remember, to do a very dishonest act, in order that he might pursue his studies in art. When he consulted me, I advised him not (putting it that way for once), because his art would suffer. (7) It might be fancied that if we could only study all sides of our being in an exact proportion, we should attain wisdom. But in truth a chief part of education is to exercise one set of faculties _à outrance_--one, since we have not the time so to practise all; thus the dilettante misses the kernel of the matter; and the man who has wrung forth the secret of one part of life knows more about the others than he who has tepidly circumnavigated all. (8) Thus, one must be your profession, the rest can only be your delights; and virtue had better be kept for the latter, for it enters into all, but none enters by necessity into it. You will learn a great deal of virtue by studying any art; but nothing of any art in the study of virtue. (9) The study of conduct has to do with grave problems; not every action should be higgled over; one of the leading virtues therein is to let oneself alone. But if you make it your chief employment, you are sure to meddle too much. This is the great error of those who are called pious. Although the war of virtue be unending except with life, hostilities are frequently suspended, and the troops go into winter quarters; but the pious will not profit by these times of truce; where their conscience can perceive no sin, they will find a sin in that very innocency; and so they pervert, to their annoyance, those seasons which God gives to us for repose and a reward. (10) The nearest approximation to sense in all this matter lies with the Quakers. There must be no _will_-worship; how much more, no _will_-repentance! The damnable consequence of set seasons, even for prayer, is to have a man continually posturing to himself, till his conscience is taught as many tricks as a pet monkey, and the gravest expressions are left with a perverted meaning. (11) For my part, I should try to secure some part of every day for meditation, above all in the early morning and the open air; but how that time was to be improved I should leave to circumstance and the inspiration of the hour. Nor if I spent it in whistling or numbering my footsteps, should I consider it misspent for that. I should have given my conscience a fair field; when it has anything to say, I know too well it can speak daggers; therefore, for this time, my hard taskmaster has given me a holyday, and I may go in again rejoicing to my breakfast and the human business of the day. VIII. GRATITUDE TO GOD.--(1) To the gratitude that becomes us in this life, I can set no limit. Though we steer after a fashion, yet we must sail according to the winds and currents. After what I have done, what might I not have done? That I have still the courage to attempt my life, that I am not now overladen with dishonours, to whom do I owe it but to the gentle ordering of circumstances in the great design? More has not been done to me than I can bear; I have been marvellously restrained and helped; not unto us, O Lord! (2) I cannot forgive God for the suffering of others; when I look abroad upon His world and behold its cruel destinies, I turn from Him with disaffection; nor do I conceive that He will blame me for the impulse. But when I consider my own fates, I grow conscious of His gentle dealing: I see Him chastise with helpful blows, I feel His stripes to be caresses; and this knowledge is my comfort that reconciles me to the world. (3) All those whom I now pity with indignation, are perhaps not less fatherly dealt with than myself. I do right to be angry: yet they, perhaps, if they lay aside heat and temper, and reflect with patience on their lot, may find everywhere, in their worst trials, the same proofs of a divine affection. (4) While we have little to try us, we are angry with little; small annoyances do not bear their justification on their faces; but when we are overtaken by a great sorrow or perplexity, the greatness of our concern sobers us so that we see more clearly and think with more consideration. I speak for myself; nothing grave has yet befallen me but I have been able to reconcile my mind to its occurrence, and see in it, from my own little and partial point of view, an evidence of a tender and protecting God. Even the misconduct into which I have been led has been blessed to my improvement. If I did not sin, and that so glaringly that my conscience is convicted on the spot, I do not know what I should become, but I feel sure I should grow worse. The man of very regular conduct is too often a prig, if he be not worse--a rabbi. I, for my part, want to be startled out of my conceits; I want to be put to shame in my own eyes; I want to feel the bridle in my mouth, and be continually reminded of my own weakness and the omnipotence of circumstances. (5) If I from my spy-hole, looking with purblind eyes upon the least part of a fraction of the universe, yet perceive in my own destiny some broken evidences of a plan and some signals of an overruling goodness; shall I then be so mad as to complain that all cannot be deciphered? Shall I not rather wonder, with infinite and grateful surprise, that in so vast a scheme I seem to have been able to read, however little, and that that little was encouraging to faith? IX. BLAME.--What comes from without and what from within, how much of conduct proceeds from the spirit or how much from circumstances, what is the part of choice and what the part of the selection offered, where personal character begins or where, if anywhere, it escapes at all from the authority of nature, these are questions of curiosity and eternally indifferent to right and wrong. Our theory of blame is utterly sophisticated and untrue to man's experience. We are as much ashamed of a pimpled face that came to us by natural descent as by one that we have earned by our excesses, and rightly so; since the two cases, in so much as they unfit us for the easier sort of pleasing and put an obstacle in the path of love, are exactly equal in their consequence. We look aside from the true question. We cannot blame others at all; we can only punish them; and ourselves we blame indifferently for a deliberate crime, a thoughtless brusquerie, or an act done without volition in an ecstasy of madness. We blame ourselves from two considerations: first, because another has suffered; and second, because, in so far as we have again done wrong, we can look forward with the less confidence to what remains of our career. Shall we repent this failure? It is there that the consciousness of sin most cruelly affects us; it is in view of this that a man cries out, in exaggeration, that his heart is desperately wicked and deceitful above all things. We all tacitly subscribe this judgment: Woe unto him by whom offences shall come! We accept palliations for our neighbours; we dare not, in sight of our own soul, accept them for ourselves. We may not be to blame; we may be conscious of no free will in the matter, of a possession, on the other hand, or an irresistible tyranny of circumstance,--yet we know, in another sense, we are to blame for all. Our right to live, to eat, to share in mankind's pleasures, lies precisely in this: that we must be persuaded we can on the whole live rather beneficially than hurtfully to others. Remove this persuasion, and the man has lost his right. That persuasion is our dearest jewel, to which we must sacrifice the life itself to which it entitles us. For it is better to be dead than degraded. X. MARRIAGE.--(1) No considerate man can approach marriage without deep concern. I, he will think, who have made hitherto so poor a business of my own life, am now about to embrace the responsibility of another's. Henceforth, there shall be two to suffer from my faults; and that other is the one whom I most desire to shield from suffering. In view of our impotence and folly, it seems an act of presumption to involve another's destiny with ours. We should hesitate to assume command of an army or a trading-smack; shall we not hesitate to become surety for the life and happiness, now and henceforward, of our dearest friend? To be nobody's enemy but one's own, although it is never possible to any, can least of all be possible to one who is married. (2) I would not so much fear to give hostages to fortune, if fortune ruled only in material things; but fortune, as we call those minor and more inscrutable workings of providence, rules also in the sphere of conduct. I am not so blind but that I know I might be a murderer or even a traitor to-morrow; and now, as if I were not already too feelingly alive to my misdeeds, I must choose out the one person whom I most desire to please, and make her the daily witness of my failures, I must give a part in all my dishonours to the one person who can feel them more keenly than myself. (3) In all our daring, magnanimous human way of life, I find nothing more bold than this. To go into battle is but a small thing by comparison. It is the last act of committal. After that, there is no way left, not even suicide, but to be a good man. (4) She will help you, let us pray. And yet she is in the same case; she, too, has daily made shipwreck of her own happiness and worth; it is with a courage no less irrational than yours, that she also ventures on this new experiment of life. Two who have failed severally, now join their fortunes with a wavering hope. (5) But it is from the boldness of the enterprise that help springs. To take home to your hearth that living witness whose blame will most affect you, to eat, to sleep, to live with your most admiring and thence most exacting judge, is not this to domesticate the living God? Each becomes a conscience to the other, legible like a clock upon the chimney-piece. Each offers to his mate a figure of the consequence of human acts. And while I may still continue by my inconsiderate or violent life to spread far-reaching havoc throughout man's confederacy, I can do so no more, at least, in ignorance and levity; one face shall wince before me in the flesh; I have taken home the sorrows I create to my own hearth and bed; and though I continue to sin, it must be now with open eyes. XI. IDLENESS AND INDUSTRY.--I remember a time when I was very idle; and lived and profited by that humour. I have no idea why I ceased to be so, yet I scarce believe I have the power to return to it; it is a change of age. I made consciously a thousand little efforts, but the determination from which these arose came to me while I slept and in the way of growth. I have had a thousand skirmishes to keep myself at work upon particular mornings, and sometimes the affair was hot; but of that great change of campaign, which decided all this part of my life, and turned me from one whose business was to shirk into one whose business was to strive and persevere,--it seems as though all that had been done by some one else. The life of Goethe affected me; so did that of Balzac; and some very noble remarks by the latter in a pretty bad book, the "Cousine Bette." I daresay I could trace some other influences in the change. All I mean is, I was never conscious of a struggle, nor registered a vow, nor seemingly had anything personally to do with the matter. I came about like a well-handled ship. There stood at the wheel that unknown steersman whom we call God. XII. COURAGE.--Courage is the principal virtue, for all the others presuppose it. If you are afraid, you may do anything. Courage is to be cultivated, and some of the negative virtues may be sacrificed in the cultivation. XIII. RESULTS OF ACTION.--The result is the reward of actions, not the test. The result is a child born; if it be beautiful and healthy, well: if club-footed or crook-back, perhaps well also. We cannot direct ... [1878?] XV THE IDEAL HOUSE Two things are necessary in any neighbourhood where we propose to spend a life: a desert and some living water. There are many parts of the earth's face which offer the necessary combination of a certain wildness with a kindly variety. A great prospect is desirable, but the want may be otherwise supplied; even greatness can be found on the small scale; for the mind and the eye measure differently. Bold rocks near hand are more inspiriting than distant Alps, and the thick fern upon a Surrey heath makes a fine forest for the imagination, and the dotted yew trees noble mountains. A Scottish moor with birches and firs grouped here and there upon a knoll, or one of those rocky sea-side deserts of Provence overgrown with rosemary and thyme and smoking with aroma, are places where the mind is never weary. Forests, being more enclosed, are not at first sight so attractive, but they exercise a spell; they must, however, be diversified with either heath or rock, and are hardly to be considered perfect without conifers. Even sand-hills, with their intricate plan, and their gulls and rabbits, will stand well for the necessary desert. The house must be within hail of either a little river or the sea. A great river is more fit for poetry than to adorn a neighbourhood; its sweep of waters increases the scale of the scenery and the distance of one notable object from another; and a lively burn gives us, in the space of a few yards, a greater variety of promontory and islet, of cascade, shallow goil, and boiling pool, with answerable changes both of song and colour, than a navigable stream in many hundred miles. The fish, too, make a more considerable feature of the brook-side, and the trout plumping in the shadow takes the ear. A stream should, besides, be narrow enough to cross, or the burn hard by a bridge, or we are at once shut out of Eden. The quantity of water need be of no concern, for the mind sets the scale, and can enjoy a Niagara Fall of thirty inches. Let us approve the singer of "Shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals." If the sea is to be our ornamental water, choose an open seaboard with a heavy beat of surf; one much broken in outline, with small havens and dwarf headlands; if possible a few islets; and as a first necessity, rocks reaching out into deep water. Such a rock on a calm day is a better station than the top of Teneriffe or Chimborazo. In short, both for the desert and the water, the conjunction of many near and bold details is bold scenery for the imagination and keeps the mind alive. Given these two prime luxuries, the nature of the country where we are to live is, I had almost said, indifferent; after that, inside the garden, we can construct a country of our own. Several old trees, a considerable variety of level, several well-grown hedges to divide our garden into provinces, a good extent of old well-set turf, and thickets of shrubs and evergreens to be cut into and cleared at the new owner's pleasure, are the qualities to be sought for in your chosen land. Nothing is more delightful than a succession of small lawns, opening one out of the other through tall hedges; these have all the charm of the old bowling-green repeated, do not require the labour of many trimmers, and afford a series of changes. You must have much lawn against the early summer, so as to have a great field of daisies, the year's morning frost; as you must have a wood of lilacs, to enjoy to the full the period of their blossoming. Hawthorn is another of the spring's ingredients; but it is even best to have a rough public lane at one side of your enclosure which, at the right season, shall become an avenue of bloom and odour. The old flowers are the best and should grow carelessly in corners. Indeed, the ideal fortune is to find an old garden, once very richly cared for, since sunk into neglect, and to tend, not repair, that neglect; it will thus have a smack of nature and wildness which skilful dispositions cannot overtake. The gardener should be an idler, and have a gross partiality to the kitchen plots: an eager or toilful gardener mis-becomes the garden landscape; a tasteful gardener will be ever meddling, will keep the borders raw, and take the bloom off nature. Close adjoining, if you are in the south, an olive-yard, if in the north, a swarded apple-orchard reaching to the stream, completes your miniature domain; but this is perhaps best entered through a door in the high fruit-wall; so that you close the door behind you on your sunny plots, your hedges and evergreen jungle, when you go down to watch the apples falling in the pool. It is a golden maxim to cultivate the garden for the nose, and the eyes will take care of themselves. Nor must the ear be forgotten: without birds, a garden is a prison-yard. There is a garden near Marseilles on a steep hill-side, walking by which, upon a sunny morning, your ear will suddenly be ravished with a burst of small and very cheerful singing: some score of cages being set out there to sun the occupants. This is a heavenly surprise to any passer-by; but the price paid, to keep so many ardent and winged creatures from their liberty, will make the luxury too dear for any thoughtful pleasure-lover. There is only one sort of bird that I can tolerate caged, though even then I think it hard, and that is what is called in France the Bec-d'Argent. I once had two of these pigmies in captivity; and in the quiet, bare house upon a silent street where I was then living, their song, which was not much louder than a bee's, but airily musical, kept me in a perpetual good humour. I put the cage upon my table when I worked, carried it with me when I went for meals, and kept it by my head at night: the first thing in the morning, these _maestrini_ would pipe up. But these, even if you can pardon their imprisonment, are for the house. In the garden the wild birds must plant a colony, a chorus of the lesser warblers that should be almost deafening, a blackbird in the lilacs, a nightingale down the lane, so that you must stroll to hear it, and yet a little farther, tree-tops populous with rooks. Your house should not command much outlook; it should be set deep and green, though upon rising ground, or, if possible, crowning a knoll, for the sake of drainage. Yet it must be open to the east, or you will miss the sunrise; sunset occurring so much later, you can go up a few steps and look the other way. A house of more than two stories is a mere barrack; indeed the ideal is of one story, raised upon cellars. If the rooms are large, the house may be small: a single room, lofty, spacious, and lightsome, is more palatial than a castleful of cabinets and cupboards. Yet size in a house, and some extent and intricacy of corridor, is certainly delightful to the flesh. The reception room should be, if possible, a place of many recesses, which are "petty retiring places for conference"; but it must have one long wall with a divan: for a day spent upon a divan, among a world of cushions, is as full of diversion as to travel. The eating-room, in the French mode, should be _ad hoc_: unfurnished, but with a buffet, the table, necessary chairs, one or two of Canaletto's etchings, and a tile fire-place for the winter. In neither of these public places should there be anything beyond a shelf or two of books; but the passages may be one library from end to end, and the stair, if there be one, lined with volumes in old leather, very brightly carpeted, and leading half-way up, and by way of landing, to a windowed recess with a fire-place; this window, almost alone in the house, should command a handsome prospect. Husband and wife must each possess a studio; on the woman's sanctuary I hesitate to dwell, and turn to the man's. The walls are shelved waist-high for books, and the top thus forms a continuous table running round the wall. Above are prints, a large map of the neighbourhood, a Corot and a Claude or two. The room is very spacious, and the five tables and two chairs are but as islands. One table is for actual work, one close by for references in use; one, very large, for MSS. or proofs that wait their turn; one kept clear for an occasion; and the fifth is the map table, groaning under a collection of large-scale maps and charts. Of all books these are the least wearisome to read and the richest in matter; the course of roads and rivers, the contour lines and the forests in the maps--the reefs, soundings, anchors, sailing marks and little pilot-pictures in the charts--and, in both, the bead-roll of names, make them of all printed matter the most fit to stimulate and satisfy the fancy. The chair in which you write is very low and easy, and backed into a corner; at one elbow the fire twinkles; close at the other, if you are a little inhumane, your cage of silver-bills are twittering into song. Joined along by a passage, you may reach the great sunny, glass-roofed, and tiled gymnasium, at the far end of which, lined with bright marble, is your plunge and swimming bath, fitted with a capacious boiler. The whole loft of the house from end to end makes one undivided chamber; here are set forth tables on which to model imaginary or actual countries in putty or plaster, with tools and hardy pigments; a carpenter's bench; and a spared corner for photography, while at the far end a space is kept clear for playing soldiers. Two boxes contain the two armies of some five hundred horse and foot; two others the ammunition of each side, and a fifth the foot-rules and the three colours of chalk, with which you lay down, or, after a day's play, refresh the outlines of the country; red or white for the two kinds of road (according as they are suitable or not for the passage of ordnance), and blue for the course of the obstructing rivers. Here I foresee that you may pass much happy time; against a good adversary a game may well continue for a month; for with armies so considerable three moves will occupy an hour. It will be found to set an excellent edge on this diversion if one of the players shall, every day or so, write a report of the operations in the character of army correspondent. I have left to the last the little room for winter evenings. This should be furnished in warm positive colours, and sofas and floor thick with rich furs. The hearth, where you burn wood of aromatic quality on silver dogs, tiled round about with Bible pictures; the seats deep and easy; a single Titian in a gold frame; a white bust or so upon a bracket; a rack for the journals of the week; a table for the books of the year; and close in a corner the three shelves full of eternal books that never weary: Shakespeare, Molière, Montaigne, Lamb, Sterne, De Musset's comedies (the one volume open at _Carmosine_ and the other at _Fantasio_); the "Arabian Nights," and kindred stories, in Weber's solemn volumes; Borrow's "Bible in Spain," the "Pilgrim's Progress," "Guy Mannering," and "Rob Roy," "Monte Cristo," and the "Vicomte de Bragelonne," immortal Boswell sole among biographers, Chaucer, Herrick, and the "State Trials." The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, floors of varnished wood, and at the bed-head, in case of insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable order, such as "Pepys," the "Paston Letters," Burt's "Letters from the Highlands," or the "Newgate Calendar." ... [1884?] LAY MORALS _The following chapters of a projected treatise on Ethics were drafted at Edinburgh in the spring of 1879. They are unrevised, and must not be taken as representing, either as to matter or form, their author's final thoughts; but they contain much that is essentially characteristic of his mind._ LAY MORALS CHAPTER I The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to utter. Every one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks more nobly and profoundly than he speaks; and the best of teachers can impart only broken images of the truth which they perceive. Speech which goes from one to another between two natures, and, what is worse, between two experiences, is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; it is for the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or spoken, is in a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. Such, moreover, is the complexity of life, that when we condescend upon details in our advice, we may be sure we condescend on error; and the best of education is to throw out some magnanimous hints. No man was ever so poor that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or actions; his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it is a knowledge of himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no process of the mind, but in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and circumstances. A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and contempt for others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they can grasp of this inner law; but the vast majority, when they come to advise the young, must be content to retail certain doctrines which have been already retailed to them in their own youth. Every generation has to educate another which it has brought upon the stage. People who readily accept the responsibility of parentship, having very different matters in their eye, are apt to feel rueful when their responsibility falls due. What are they to tell the child about life and conduct, subjects on which they have themselves so few and such confused opinions? Indeed, I do not know; the least said, perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child keeps asking, and the parent must find some words to say in his own defence. Where does he find them? and what are they when found? As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat three bad things; the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from that as a fountain, the desire of wealth and applause. Besides these, or what might be deduced as corollaries from these, he will teach not much else of any effective value: some dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how to walk through a quadrille. But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be Christians. It may be want of penetration, but I have not yet been able to perceive it. As an honest man, whatever we teach, and be it good or evil, it is not the doctrine of Christ. What He taught (and in this He is like all other teachers worthy of the name) was not a code of rules, but a ruling spirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, but a view. What He showed us was an attitude of mind. Towards the many considerations on which conduct is built, each man stands in a certain relation. He takes life on a certain principle. He has a compass in his spirit which points in a certain direction. It is the attitude, the relation, the point of the compass, that is the whole body and gist of what he has to teach us; in this, the details are comprehended; out of this the specific precepts issue, and by this, and this only, can they be explained and applied. And thus, to learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, like a historical artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his position and, in the technical phrase, create his character. A historian confronted with some ambiguous politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but one pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, and grope for some central conception which is to explain and justify the most extreme details; until that is found, the politician is an enigma, or perhaps a quack, and the part a tissue of fustian sentiment and big words; but once that is found, all enters into a plan, a human nature appears, the politician or the stage-king is understood from point to point, from end to end. This is a degree of trouble which will be gladly taken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror of eternal fire can teach a business man to bend his imagination to such athletic efforts. Yet without this, all is vain; until we understand the whole, we shall understand none of the parts; and otherwise we have no more than broken images and scattered words; the meaning remains buried; and the language in which our prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our ears. Take a few of Christ's sayings and compare them with our current doctrines. "_Ye cannot_," He says, "_serve God and Mammon_." Cannot? And our whole system is to teach us how we can! "_The children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light._" Are they? I had been led to understand the reverse: that the Christian merchant, for example, prospered exceedingly in his affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that an author of repute had written a conclusive treatise "How to make the best of both worlds." Of both worlds indeed! Which am I to believe then--Christ or the author of repute? "_Take no thought for the morrow._" Ask the Successful Merchant; interrogate your own heart; and you will have to admit that this is not only a silly but an immoral position. All we believe, all we hope, all we honour in ourselves or our contemporaries, stands condemned in this one sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns the sentence as unwise and inhumane. We are not then of the "same mind that was in Christ." We disagree with Christ. Either Christ meant nothing, or else He or we must be in the wrong. Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts from the New Testament, and finding a strange echo of another style which the reader may recognise: "Let but one of these sentences be rightly read from any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one stone of that meeting-house upon another." It may be objected that these are what are called "hard sayings"; and that a man, or an education, may be very sufficiently Christian although it leave some of these sayings upon one side. But this is a very gross delusion. Although truth is difficult to state, it is both easy and agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet it ere the phrase be done. The universe, in relation to what any man can say of it, is plain, patent, and staringly comprehensible. In itself, it is a great and travailing ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or, let us say, it is a monstrous and impassable mountain, one side of which, and a few near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study with these mortal eyes. But what any man can say of it, even in his highest utterance, must have relation to this little and plain corner, which is no less visible to us than to him. We are looking on the same map; it will go hard if we cannot follow the demonstration. The longest and most abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and shallow, in the flash of a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect and drift of his intention. The longest argument is but a finger pointed; once we get our own finger rightly parallel, and we see what the man meant, whether it be a new star or an old street-lamp. And briefly, if a saying is hard to understand, it is because we are thinking of something else. But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our prophet, and to think of different things in the same order. To be of the same mind with another is to see all things in the same perspective; it is not to agree in a few indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated; it is to follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that whatever he may express, your eyes will light at once on the original, that whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at once accept. You do not belong to the school of any philosopher, because you agree with him that theft is, on the whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead at noon. It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested. We are all agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of knowledge and morality; even the most soaring spirits too often take them tamely upon trust. But the man, the philosopher or the moralist, does not stand upon these chance adhesions; and the purpose of any system looks towards those extreme points where it steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with some covert hint of things outside. Then only can you be certain that the words are not words of course, nor mere echoes of the past; then only are you sure that if he be indicating anything at all, it is a star and not a street-lamp; then only do you touch the heart of the mystery; since it was for these that the author wrote his book. Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ finds a word that transcends all commonplace morality; every now and then He quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and throws out a pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by some bold poetry of thought that men can be strung up above the level of everyday conceptions to take a broader look upon experience or accept some higher principle of conduct. To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands at some centre not too far from His, and looks at the world and conduct from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude--or, shortly, to a man who is of Christ's philosophy--every such saying should come home with a thrill of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one below his feet as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; each should be another proof that in the torrent of the years and generations, where doctrines and great armaments and empires are swept away and swallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the eternal stars. But, alas! at this juncture of the ages it is not so with us; on each and every such occasion our whole fellowship of Christians falls back in disapproving wonder and implicitly denies the saying. Christians! the farce is impudently broad. Let us stand up in the sight of heaven and confess. The ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin Franklin. _Honesty is the best policy_, is perhaps a hard saying; it is certainly one by which a wise man of these days will not too curiously direct his steps; but I think it shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed intelligences; I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think, without hyperbole, we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin Franklin. CHAPTER II But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a world of morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all ethics and religion; and a young man with these precepts engraved upon his mind must follow after profit with some conscience and Christianity of method. A man cannot go very far astray who neither dishonours his parents, nor kills, nor commits adultery, nor steals, nor bears false witness; for these things, rightly thought out, cover a vast field of duty. Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; it is case law at the best which can be learned by precept. The letter is not only dead, but killing; the spirit which underlies, and cannot be uttered, alone is true and helpful. This is trite to sickness; but familiarity has a cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can steal all beauty from the mountain tops; and the most startling words begin to fall dead upon the ear after several repetitions. If you see a thing too often, you no longer see it; if you hear a thing too often, you no longer hear it. Our attention requires to be surprised; and to carry a fort by assault, or to gain a thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are feats of about equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar means. The whole Bible has thus lost its message for the common run of hearers; it has become mere words of course; and the parson may bawl himself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a thing possessed, but his hearers will continue to nod; they are strangely at peace; they know all he has to say; ring the old bell as you choose, it is still the old bell and it cannot startle their composure. And so with this byword about the letter and the spirit. It is quite true, no doubt; but it has no meaning in the world to any man of us. Alas! it has just this meaning, and neither more nor less: that while the spirit is true, the letter is eternally false. The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, perfect, clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man set himself to mark out the boundary with cords and pegs, and were he never so nimble and never so exact, what with the multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of the shadow as it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made the circuit the whole figure will have changed. Life may be compared, not to a single tree, but to a great and complicated forest; circumstance is more swiftly changing than a shadow, language much more inexact than the tools of a surveyor; from day to day the trees fall and are renewed; the very essences are fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves is swinging tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look now for your shadows. O man of formulæ, is this a place for you? Have you fitted the spirit to a single case? Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such another be proposed for the judgment of man? Now when the sun shines and the winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable multitude of shadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at every gust the whole carpet leaps and becomes new. Can you or your heart say more? Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; and although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had every step of conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, tell me what definite lesson does experience hand on from youth to manhood, or from both to age? The settled tenor which first strikes the eye is but the shadow of a delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; and you yourself are altered beyond recognition. Times and men and circumstances change about your changing character, with a speed of which no earthly hurricane affords an image. What was the best yesterday, is it still the best in this changed theatre of a to-morrow? Will your own Past truly guide you in your own violent and unexpected Future? And if this be questionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should we not watch other men driving beside us on their unknown careers, seeing with unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, doing and suffering in another sphere of things? And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of scene, do you offer me these two score words? these five bald prohibitions? For the moral precepts are no more than five; the first four deal rather with matters of observance than of conduct; the tenth, _Thou shall not covet_, stands upon another basis, and shall be spoken of ere long. The Jews, to whom they were first given, in the course of years began to find these precepts insufficient; and made an addition of no less than six hundred and fifty others! They hoped to make a pocket-book of reference on morals, which should stand to life in some such relation, say, as Hoyle stands in to the scientific game of whist. The comparison is just, and condemns the design; for those who play by rule will never be more than tolerable players; and you and I would like to play our game in life to the noblest and the most divine advantage. Yet if the Jews took a petty and huckstering view of conduct, what view do we take ourselves, who callously leave youth to go forth into the enchanted forest, full of spells and dire chimeras, with no guidance more complete than is afforded by these five precepts? _Honour thy father and thy mother_. Yes, but does that mean to obey? and if so, how long and how far? _Thou shall not kill_. Yet the very intention and purport of the prohibition may be best fulfilled by killing. _Thou shall not commit adultery_. But some of the ugliest adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under the sanction of religion and law. _Thou shalt not bear false witness_. How? by speech or by silence also? or even by a smile? _Thou shalt not steal._ Ah, that indeed! But what is _to steal_? To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is to be our guide? The police will give us one construction, leaving the world only that least minimum of meaning without which society would fall in pieces; but surely we must take some higher sense than this; surely we hope more than a bare subsistence for mankind; surely we wish mankind to prosper and go on from strength to strength, and ourselves to live rightly in the eye of some more exacting potentate than a policeman. The approval or the disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent to a man who is both valorous and good. There is extreme discomfort, but no shame, in the condemnation of the law. The law represents that modicum of morality which can be squeezed out of the ruck of mankind; but what is that to me, who aim higher and seek to be my own more stringent judge? I observe with pleasure that no brave man has ever given a rush for such considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and more sentimental feeling for this social bond into which we all are born when we come into the world, and whose comforts and protection we all indifferently share throughout our lives:--but even to them, no more than to our Western saints and heroes, does the law of the state supersede the higher law of duty. Without hesitation and without remorse, they transgress the stiffest enactments rather than abstain from doing right. But the accidental superior duty being thus fulfilled, they at once return in allegiance to the common duty of all citizens; and hasten to denounce themselves; and value at an equal rate their just crime and their equally just submission to its punishment. The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active conscience or a thoughtful head. But to show you how one or the other may trouble a man, and what a vast extent of frontier is left unridden by this invaluable eighth commandment, let me tell you a few pages out of a young man's life. He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, flighty, as variable as youth itself, but always with some high motives and on the search for higher thoughts of life. I should tell you at once that he thoroughly agrees with the eighth commandment. But he got hold of some unsettling works, the New Testament among others, and this loosened his views of life and led him into many perplexities. As he was the son of a man in a certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed from the first the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept alive through a sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, comforts, and change of air; for all of which he was indebted to his father's wealth. At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who followed the plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in winter; and this inequality struck him with some force. He was at that age of a conversible temper, and insatiably curious in the aspects of life; and he spent much of his time scraping acquaintance with all classes of man- and woman-kind. In this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many intelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also struck him. He began to perceive that life was a handicap upon strange, wrong-sided principles; and not, as he had been told, a fair and equal race. He began to tremble that he himself had been unjustly favoured, when he saw all the avenues of wealth, and power, and comfort closed against so many of his superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly open before so idle, so desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself. There sat a youth beside him on the college benches who had only one shirt to his back, and, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must stay at home to have it washed. It was my friend's principle to stay away as often as he dared; for I fear he was no friend to learning. But there was something that came home to him sharply, in this fellow who had to give over study till his shirt was washed, and the scores of others who had never an opportunity at all. _If one of these could take his place_, he thought; and the thought tore away a bandage from his eyes. He was eaten by the shame of his discoveries, and despised himself as an unworthy favourite and a creature of the back-stairs of Fortune. He could no longer see without confusion one of these brave young fellows battling up-hill against adversity. Had he not filched that fellow's birthright? At best was he not coldly profiting by the injustice of society, and greedily devouring stolen goods? The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who had worked, and thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what justice could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done nothing but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, joined to a more even and impartial temperament, would have drawn from these considerations a new force of industry, that this equivocal position might be brought as swiftly as possible to an end, and some good services to mankind justify the appropriation of expense. It was not so with my friend, who was only unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that trumpeting anger with which young men regard injustices in the first blush of youth; although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in their existence, and knowingly profit by their complications. Yet all this while he suffered many indignant pangs. And once, when he put on his boots, like any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was his best consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and to battle equally against his fellows in the warfare of life. Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at great expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his perplexities were thickest. When he thought of all the other young men of singular promise, upright, good, the prop of families, who must remain at home to die, and with all their possibilities be lost to life and mankind; and how he, by one more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these others to survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no devotion of soul and body, that could repay and justify these partialities. A religious lady, to whom he communicated these reflections, could see no force in them whatever. "It was God's will," said she. But he knew it was by God's will that Joan of Arc was burnt at Rouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and again, by God's will that Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem, which excused neither the rancour of the priests nor the timidity of Pilate. He knew, moreover, that although the possibility of this favour he was now enjoying issued from his circumstances, its acceptance was the act of his own will; and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest and sunshine. And hence this allegation of God's providence did little to relieve his scruples. I promise you he had a very troubled mind. And I would not laugh if I were you, though while he was thus making mountains out of what you think molehills, he were still (as perhaps he was) contentedly practising many other things that to you seem black as hell. Every man is his own judge and mountain-guide through life. There is an old story of a mote and a beam, apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some consideration. I should, if I were you, give some consideration to these scruples of his, and if I were he, I should do the like by yours; for it is not unlikely that there may be something under both. In the meantime you must hear how my invalid acted. Like many invalids, he supposed that he would die. Now should he die, he saw no means of repaying this huge loan which, by the hands of his father, mankind had advanced him for his sickness. In that case it would be lost money. So he determined that the advance should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued to doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself all but necessaries. But so soon as he began to perceive a change for the better, he felt justified in spending more freely, to speed and brighten his return to health, and trusted in the future to lend a help to mankind, as mankind, out of its treasury, had lent a help to him. I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and partial in his view; nor thought too much of himself and too little of his parents; but I do say that here are some scruples which tormented my friend in his youth, and still, perhaps, at odd times give him a prick in the midst of his enjoyments, and which after all have some foundation in justice, and point, in their confused way, to some honourable honesty within the reach of man. And at least, is not this an unusual gloss upon the eighth commandment? And what sort of comfort, guidance, or illumination did that precept afford my friend throughout these contentions? "Thou shall not steal." With all my heart! But _am_ I stealing? The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us from pursuing any transaction to an end. You can make no one understand that his bargain is anything more than a bargain, whereas in point of fact it is a link in the policy of mankind, and either a good or an evil to the world. We have a sort of blindness which prevents us from seeing anything but sovereigns. If one man agrees to give another so many shillings for so many hours' work, and then wilfully gives him a certain proportion of the price in bad money and only the remainder in good, we can see with half an eye that this man is a thief. But if the other spends a certain proportion of the hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco, and a certain other proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or trying to recall an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and only the remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is he, because the theft is one of time and not of money,--is he any the less a thief? The one gave a bad shilling, the other an imperfect hour; but both broke the bargain, and each is a thief. In piecework, which is what most of us do, the case is none the less plain for being even less material. If you forge a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind's iron, and then, with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of mankind's money for your trouble. Is there any man so blind who cannot see that this is theft? Again, if you carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been playing fast and loose with mankind's resources against hunger; there will be less bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody will die next winter: a grim consideration. And you must not hope to shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your less quantity of bread; for although a theft be partly punished, it is none the less a theft for that. You took the farm against competitors; there were others ready to shoulder the responsibility and be answerable for the tale of loaves; but it was you who took it. By the act you came under a tacit bargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with your best endeavour; you were under no superintendence, you were on parole; and you have broke your bargain, and to all who look closely, and yourself among the rest if you have moral eyesight, you are a thief. Or take the case of men of letters. Every piece of work which is not as good as you can make it, which you have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on parole and in a sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue performance, should rise up against you in the court of your own heart and condemn you for a thief. Have you a salary? If you trifle with your health, and so render yourself less capable for duty, and still touch, and still greedily pocket the emolument--what are you but a thief? Have you double accounts? do you by any time-honoured juggle, deceit, or ambiguous process, gain more from those who deal with you than if you were bargaining and dealing face to face in front of God?--What are you but a thief? Lastly, if you fill an office, or produce an article, which, in your heart of hearts, you think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and still draw your salary and go through the sham manoeuvres of this office, or still book your profits and keep on flooding the world with these injurious goods?--though you were old, and bald, and the first at church, and a baronet, what are you but a thief? These may seem hard words and mere curiosities of the intellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty is so sparingly cultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and so-called customs of the trade, that not a man bestows two thoughts on the utility or honourableness of his pursuit. I would say less if I thought less. But looking to my own reason and the right of things, I can only avow that I am a thief myself, and that I passionately suspect my neighbours of the same guilt. Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you find that in your Bible? Easy? It is easy to be an ass and follow the multitude like a blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what you and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest. But it will not bear the stress of time nor the scrutiny of conscience. Even before the lowest of all tribunals,--before a court of law, whose business it is, not to keep men right, or within a thousand miles of right, but to withhold them from going so tragically wrong that they will pull down the whole jointed fabric of society by their misdeeds--even before a court of law, as we begin to see in these last days, our easy view of following at each other's tails, alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and punished, and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and swindling; and simpletons who have gone on through life with a quiet conscience may learn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, that the custom of the trade may be a custom of the devil. You thought it was easy to be honest. Did you think it was easy to be just and kind and truthful? Did you think the whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a hornpipe? and you could walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more concern than it takes to go to church or to address a circular? And yet all this time you had the eighth commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would not have broken it for the world! The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of little use in private judgment. If compression is what you want, you have their whole spirit compressed into the golden rule; and yet there expressed with more significance, since the law is there spiritually and not materially stated. And in truth, four out of these ten commands, from the sixth to the ninth, are rather legal than ethical. The police-court is their proper home. A magistrate cannot tell whether you love your neighbour as yourself, but he can tell more or less whether you have murdered, or stolen, or committed adultery, or held up your hand and testified to that which was not; and these things, for rough practical tests, are as good as can be found. And perhaps, therefore, the best condensation of the Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, "neminem lædere" and "suum cuique tribunere." But all this granted, it becomes only the more plain that they are inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that while they tell the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never direct an anxious sinner what to do. Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a succinct proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in our faces. We grant them one and all and for all that they are worth; it is something above and beyond that we desire. Christ was in general a great enemy to such a way of teaching; we rarely find Him meddling with any of these plump commands but it was to open them out, and lift His hearers from the letter to the spirit. For morals are a personal affair; in the war of righteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the six hundred precepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; my magistracy of myself is an indefeasible charge, and my decisions absolute for the time and case. The moralist is not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who pleads at my tribunal. He has to show not the law, but that the law applies. Can he convince me? then he gains the cause. And thus you find Christ giving various counsels to varying people, and often jealously careful to avoid definite precept. Is He asked, for example, to divide a heritage? He refuses: and the best advice that He will offer is but a paraphrase of that tenth commandment which figures so strangely among the rest. _Take heed, and beware of covetousness._ If you complain that this is vague, I have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. For no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from heaven by the voice of God. And life is so intricate and changing, that perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages, shall we find that nice consent of circumstances to which alone it can apply. CHAPTER III Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace to our experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true sentiment slumbers within us; and we have but to reflect on ourselves or our surroundings to rekindle our astonishment. No length of habit can blunt our first surprise. Of the world I have but little to say in this connection; a few strokes shall suffice. We inhabit a dead ember swimming wide in the blank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and lighted up from several million miles away by a more horrible hell-fire than was ever conceived by the theological imagination. Yet the dead ember is a green, commodious dwelling-place; and the reverberation of this hell-fire ripens flower and fruit and mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn. Far off on all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race in the apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so far that the heart sickens in the effort to conceive the distance. Shipwrecked seamen on the deep, though they bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are safe and near at home compared with mankind on its bullet. Even to us who have known no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place of residence. But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of wonders that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to himself. He inhabits a body which he is continually outliving, discarding, and renewing. Food and sleep, by an unknown alchemy, restore his spirits and the freshness of his countenance. Hair grows on him like grass; his eyes, his brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and touch and hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently ponder on his astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up and run, to perform the strange and revolting round of physical functions. The sight of a flower, the note of a bird, will often move him deeply; yet he looks unconcerned on the impassable distances and portentous bonfires of the universe. He comprehends, he designs, he tames nature, rides the sea, ploughs, climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast inquiries, begins interminable labours, joins himself into federations and populous cities, spends his days to deliver the ends of the earth or to benefit unborn posterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of unsurpassed fragility and the creature of a few days. His sight, which conducts him, which takes notice of the farthest stars, which is miraculous in every way and a thing defying explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, and can be extinguished with a touch. His heart, which all through life so indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, and may be stopped with a pin. His whole body, for all its savage energies, its leaping and its winged desires, may yet be tamed and conquered by a draught of air or a sprinkling of cold dew. What he calls death, which is the seeming arrest of everything, and the ruin and hateful transformation of the visible body, lies in wait for him outwardly in a thousand accidents, and grows up in secret diseases from within. He is still learning to be a man when his faculties are already beginning to decline; he has not yet understood himself or his position before he inevitably dies. And yet this mad, chimerical creature can take no thought of his last end, lives as though he were eternal, plunges with his vulnerable body into the shock of war, and daily affronts death with unconcern. He cannot take a step without pain or pleasure. His life is a tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come more directly from himself or his surroundings. He is conscious of himself as a joyer or a sufferer, as that which craves, chooses, and is satisfied; conscious of his surroundings as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, the source of aspects, inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and transporting caresses. Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights and agonies. Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a root in man. To him everything is important in the degree to which it moves him. The telegraph wires and posts, the electricity speeding from clerk to clerk, the clerks, the glad or sorrowful import of the message, and the paper on which it is finally brought to him at home, are all equally facts, all equally exist for man. A word or a thought can wound him as acutely as a knife of steel. If he thinks he is loved, he will rise up and glory to himself, although he be in a distant land and short of necessary bread. Does he think he is not loved?--he may have the woman at his beck, and there is not a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to make any account of this figment of reason, the distinction between material and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each man as an individual is immaterial, although the continuation and prospects of mankind as a race turn upon material conditions. The physical business of each man's body is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has attentive valets in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests without an effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most part he even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were between two thoughts. His life is centred among other and more important considerations; touch him in his honour or his love, creatures of the imagination which attach him to mankind or to an individual man or woman; cross him in his piety which connects his soul with heaven; and he turns from his food, he loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts the knots of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web of pains and pleasures. It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a rounded and autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him there dwell other powers, tributary but independent. If I now behold one walking in a garden curiously coloured and illuminated by the sun, digesting his food, with elaborate chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing himself by the sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand delicate balancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, and all the time, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or the dog-star, or the attributes of God--what am I to say, or how am I to describe the thing I see? Is that truly a man, in the rigorous meaning of the word? or is it not a man and something else? What, then, are we to count the centre-bit and axle of a being so variously compounded? It is a question much debated. Some read his history in a certain intricacy of nerve and the success of successive digestions; others find him an exiled piece of heaven blown upon and determined by the breath of God; and both schools of theorists will scream like scalded children at a word of doubt. Yet either of these views, however plausible, is beside the question; either may be right; and I care not; I ask a more particular answer, and to a more immediate point. What is the man? There is Something that was before hunger and that remains behind after a meal. It may or may not be engaged in any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes, heightens, and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in lust, where satisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, where no satisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where age, sickness, or alienation may deface what was desirable without diminishing the sentiment. This something, which is the man, is a permanence which abides through the vicissitudes of passion, now overwhelmed and now triumphant, now unconscious of itself in the immediate distress of appetite or pain, now rising unclouded above all. So, to the man, his own central self fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of the senses, like a revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; it is hid, it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall behold himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and storm. Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and eats, that generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer and lower sides of man. This inner consciousness, this lantern alternately obscured and shining, to and by which the individual exists and must order his conduct, is something special to himself and not common to the race. His joys delight, his sorrows wound him, according as _this_ is interested or indifferent in the affair: according as they arise in an imperial war or in a broil conducted by the tributary chieftains of the mind. He may lose all, and _this_ not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle, and _this_ leap in his bosom with a cruel pang. I do not speak of it to hardened theorists: the living man knows keenly what it is I mean. "Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and more divine than the things which cause the various effects, and, as it were, pull thee by the strings. What is that now in thy mind? is it fear, or suspicion, or desire, or anything of that kind?" Thus far Marcus Aurelius, in one of the most notable passages in any book. Here is a question worthy to be answered. What is in thy mind? What is the utterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet hour, it can be heard intelligibly? It is something beyond the compass of your thinking, inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it not of a higher spirit than you had dreamed betweenwhiles, and erect above all base considerations? This soul seems hardly touched with our infirmities; we can find in it certainly no fear, suspicion, or desire; we are only conscious--and that as though we read it in the eyes of some one else--of a great and unqualified readiness. A readiness to what? to pass over and look beyond the objects of desire and fear, for something else. And this something else? this something which is apart from desire and fear, to which all the kingdoms of the world and the immediate death of the body are alike indifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards conduct--by what name are we to call it? It may be the love of God; or it may be an inherited (and certainly well concealed) instinct to preserve self and propagate the race; I am not, for the moment, averse to either theory; but it will save time to call it righteousness. By so doing I intend no subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than willing, to accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far as the treachery of the reason will permit, all former meanings attached to the word righteousness. What is right is that for which a man's central self is ever ready to sacrifice immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is what the central self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed design of righteousness. To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of definition. That which is right upon this theory is intimately dictated to each man by himself, but can never be rigorously set forth in language, and never, above all, imposed upon another. The conscience has, then, a vision like that of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the most part illuminates none but its possessor. When many people perceive the same or any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as symbol; and hence we have such words as _tree_, _star_, _love_, _honour_, or _death_; hence also we have this word _right_, which, like the others, we all understand, most of us understand differently, and none can express succinctly otherwise. Yet even on the straitest view, we can make some steps towards comprehension of our own superior thoughts. For it is an incredible and most bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms with himself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the intimacy is at times almost suspended, at times it is renewed again with joy. As we said before, his inner self or soul appears to him by successive revelations, and is frequently obscured. It is from a study of these alternations that we can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems right and what seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself. All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call impression as well as what we call intuition, so far as my argument looks, we must accept. It is not wrong to desire food, or exercise, or beautiful surroundings, or the love of sex, or interest which is the food of the mind. All these are craved; all these should be craved; to none of these in itself does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable want, we recognise a demand of nature. Yet we know that these natural demands may be superseded, for the demands which are common to mankind make but a shadowy consideration in comparison to the demands of the individual soul. Food is almost the first pre-requisite; and yet a high character will go without food to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain it in a manner which the spirit disavows. Pascal laid aside mathematics; Origen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus mortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in Christ's words, entering maim into the Kingdom of Heaven. This is to supersede the lesser and less harmonious affections by renunciation; and though by this ascetic path we may get to heaven, we cannot get thither a whole and perfect man. But there is another way, to supersede them by reconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties and senses pursue a common route and share in one desire. Thus, man is tormented by a very imperious physical desire; it spoils his rest, it is not to be denied; the doctors will tell you, not I, how it is a physical need, like the want of food or slumber. In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first appears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly regrets and disapproves the satisfaction. But let the man learn to love a woman as far as he is capable of love; and for this random affection of the body there is substituted a steady determination, a consent of all his powers and faculties, which supersedes, adopts, and commands the other. The desire survives, strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience, and changed in scope and character. Life is no longer a tale of betrayals and regrets; for the man now lives as a whole; his consciousness now moves on uninterrupted like a river; through all the extremes and ups and downs of passion, he remains approvingly conscious of himself. Now to me this seems a type of that rightness which the soul demands. It demands that we shall not live alternately with our opposing tendencies in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, but seek some path on which the tendencies shall no longer oppose, but serve each other to a common end. It demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but great and comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like notes in a harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of peace and pleasure, that were indeed a heaven upon earth. It does not demand, however, or, to speak in measure, it does not demand of me, that I should starve my appetites for no purpose under heaven but as a purpose in itself; or, in a weak despair, pluck out the eye that I have not yet learned to guide and enjoy with wisdom. The soul demands unity of purpose, not the dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his strength and sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of him a perfect man exulting in perfection. To conclude ascetically is to give up, and not to solve, the problem. The ascetic and the creeping hog, although they are at different poles, have equally failed in life. The one has sacrificed his crew; the other brings back his seamen in a cock-boat, and has lost the ship. I believe there are not many sea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a success. But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive impulses and march with one mind through life, there is plainly one thing more unrighteous than all others, and one declension which is irretrievable and draws on the rest. And this is to lose consciousness of oneself. In the best of times, it is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear, strong and conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy communion with our soul. At the worst, we are so fallen and passive that we may say shortly we have none. An arctic torpor seizes upon men. Although built of nerves, and set adrift in a stimulating world, they develop a tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed among the reflex and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the will and power to look higher considerations in the face. This is ruin; this is the last failure in life; this is temporal damnation; damnation on the spot and without the form of judgment. "What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and _lose himself_?" It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and its fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of moral and religious education is directed; not only that of words and doctors, but the sharp ferule of calamity under which we are all God's scholars till we die. If, as teachers, we are to say anything to the purpose, we must say what will remind the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul's dialect; we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him think of them. If, from some conformity between us and the pupil, or perhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a dialect and express such views, beyond question we shall touch in him a spring; beyond question he will recognise the dialect as one that he himself has spoken in his better hours; beyond question he will cry, "I had forgotten, but now I remember; I too have eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I too have a soul of my own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and conform." In short, say to him anything that he has once thought, or been upon the point of thinking, or show him any view of life that he has once clearly seen, or been upon the point of clearly seeing; and you have done your part and may leave him to complete the education for himself. Now the view taught at the present time seems to me to want greatness; and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly uttered is not the dialect of my soul. It is a sort of postponement of life; nothing quite is, but something different is to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the indirect from the cradle to the grave. We are to regulate our conduct not by desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; and to value acts as they will bring us money or good opinion; as they will bring us, in one word, _profit_. We must be what is called respectable, and offend no one by our carriage; it will not do to make oneself conspicuous--who knows? even in virtue? says the Christian parent! And we must be what is called prudent and make money; not only because it is pleasant to have money, but because that also is a part of respectability, and we cannot hope to be received in society without decent possessions. Received in society! as if that were the kingdom of heaven! There is dear Mr. So-and-so;--look at him!--so much respected--so much looked up to--quite the Christian merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as possible after the pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole lives to make money and be strictly decent. Besides these holy injunctions, which form by far the greater part of a youth's training in our Christian homes, there are at least two other doctrines. We are to live just now as well as we can, but scrape at last into heaven, where we shall be good. We are to worry through the week in a lay, disreputable way, but, to make matters square, live a different life on Sunday. The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to all these positions, without stepping aside to justify them on their own ground. It is because we have been disgusted fifty times with physical squalls and fifty times torn between conflicting impulses, that we teach people this indirect and tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote consequences instead of the immediate face of things. The very desire to act as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic disbelief in ourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; perhaps, who knows? they may be on the right track; and the more our patterns are in number, the better seems the chance; until, if we be acting in concert with a whole civilised nation, there are surely a majority of chances that we must be acting right. And again, how true it is that we can never behave as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only aspire to different and more favourable circumstances, in order to stand out and be ourselves wholly and rightly! And yet once more, if in the hurry and pressure of affairs and passions you tend to nod and become drowsy, here are twenty-four hours of Sunday set apart for you to hold counsel with your soul and look around you on the possibilities of life. This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, said for these doctrines. Only, in the course of this chapter, the reader and I have agreed upon a few catchwords, and been looking at morals on a certain system; it was a pity to lose an opportunity of testing the catchwords, and seeing whether, by this system as well as by others, current doctrines could show any probable justification. If the doctrines had come too badly out of the trial, it would have condemned the system. Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but a pedestrian instrument; there's nothing new under the sun, as Solomon says, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect of everything else, yet he must see the same things as other people, only from a different side. And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to criticism. If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him, unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the majority of his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes the one authoritative voice of his own soul. He may be a docile citizen; he will never be a man. It is ours, on the other hand, to disregard this babble and chattering of other men better and worse than we are, and to walk straight before us by what light we have. They may be right; but so, before heaven, are we. They may know; but we know also, and by that knowledge we must stand or fall. There is such a thing as loyalty to a man's own better self; and from those who have not that, God help me, how am I to look for loyalty to others? The most dull, the most imbecile, at a certain moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational sense of right. It is not only by steel or fire, but through contempt and blame, that the martyr fulfils the calling of his dear soul. Be glad if you are not tried by such extremities. But although all the world ranged themselves in one line to tell you "This is wrong," be you your own faithful vassal and the ambassador of God--throw down the glove and answer "This is right." Do you think you are only declaring yourself? Perhaps in some dim way, like a child who delivers a message not fully understood, you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing mankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; perhaps, as you stand forth for your own judgment, you are covering a thousand weak ones with your body; perhaps, by this declaration alone, you have avoided the guilt of false witness against humanity and the little ones unborn. It is good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect oneself and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, speaks daily in a new language by the tongues of men; the thoughts and habits of each fresh generation and each new-coined spirit throw another light upon the universe and contain another commentary on the printed Bibles; every scruple, every true dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter of God's alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility for all who speak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep silence and conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak God's counsel? And how should we regard the man of science who suppressed all facts that would not tally with the orthodoxy of the hour? Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this morning round the revolving shoulder of the world. Not truth, but truthfulness, is the good of your endeavour. For when will men receive that first part and prerequisite of truth, that, by the order of things, by the greatness of the universe, by the darkness and partiality of man's experience, by the inviolate secrecy of God, kept close in His most open revelations, every man is, and to the end of the ages must be, wrong? Wrong to the universe; wrong to mankind; wrong to God. And yet in another sense, and that plainer and nearer, every man of men, who wishes truly, must be right. He is right to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and candour. That let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not sparing a thought for contrary opinions; that, for what it is worth, let him proclaim. Be not afraid; although he be wrong, so also is the dead, stuffed Dagon he insults. For the voice of God, whatever it is, is not that stammering, inept tradition which the people holds. These truths survive in travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and confusion; and what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in their dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and misinterpret. So far of Respectability: what the Covenanters used to call "rank conformity": the deadliest gag and wet blanket that can be laid on men. And now of Profit. And this doctrine is perhaps the more redoubtable, because it harms all sorts of men; not only the heroic and self-reliant, but the obedient, cowlike squadrons. A man, by this doctrine, looks to consequences at the second, or third, or fiftieth turn. He chooses his end, and for that, with wily turns and through a great sea of tedium, steers this mortal bark. There may be political wisdom in such a view; but I am persuaded there can spring no great moral zeal. To look thus obliquely upon life is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention and endeavour should be directed, not on some vague end of money or applause, which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a year, or twenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval of others, but on the rightness of that act. At every instant, at every step in life, the point has to be decided, our soul has to be saved, heaven has to be gained or lost. At every step our spirits must applaud, at every step we must set down the foot and sound the trumpet. "This have I done," we must say; "right or wrong, this have I done, in unfeigned honour of intention, as to myself and God." The profit of every act should be this, that it was right for us to do it. Any other profit than that, if it involved a kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were God's upright soldier, to leave me untempted. It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it is made directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind and body, having come to an agreement, tyrannically dictates conduct. There are two dispositions eternally opposed: that in which we recognise that one thing is wrong and another right, and that in which, not seeing any clear distinction, we fall back on the consideration of consequences. The truth is, by the scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought very wrong and nothing very right, except a few actions which have the disadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more serious part of men inclining to think all things _rather wrong_, the more jovial to suppose them _right enough for practical purposes_. I will engage my head, they do not find that view in their own hearts; they have taken it up in a dark despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their sleep. The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very distinctly upon many points of right and wrong, and often differs flatly with what is held out as the thought of corporate humanity in the code of society or the code of law. Am I to suppose myself a monster? I have only to read books, the Christian Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer; and instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their sleep. It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in school copy-books, that honour is to be sought and not fame. I ask no other admission; we are to seek honour, upright walking with our own conscience every hour of the day, and not fame, the consequence, the far-off reverberation of our footsteps. The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is what concerns righteousness. Better disrespectable honour than dishonourable fame. Better useless or seemingly hurtful honour, than dishonour ruling empires and filling the mouths of thousands. For the man must walk by what he sees, and leave the issue with God who made him and taught him by the fortune of his life. You would not dishonour yourself for money; which is at least tangible; would you do it, then, for a doubtful forecast in politics, or another person's theory in morals? So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can calculate the bearing of his own behaviour even on those immediately around him, how much less upon the world at large or on succeeding generations! To walk by external prudence and the rule of consequences would require, not a man, but God. All that we know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is our soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a few old precepts which commend themselves to that. The precepts are vague when we endeavour to apply them; consequences are more entangled than a wisp of string, and their confusion is unrestingly in change; we must hold to what we know and walk by it. We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by knowledge. You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or eminently respectable: you love him because you love him; that is love, and any other only a derision and grimace. It should be the same with all our actions. If we were to conceive a perfect man, it should be one who was never torn between conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent of all his parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life to a self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him love one woman and be true to her till death. But we should not conceive him as sagacious, ascetical, playing off his appetites against each other, turning the wing of public respectable immorality instead of riding it directly down, or advancing toward his end through a thousand sinister compromises and considerations. The one man might be wily, might be adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be gloriously useful; it is the other man who would be good. The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be successful; to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not outwardly, respectable. Does your soul ask profit? Does it ask money? Does it ask the approval of the indifferent herd? I believe not. For my own part, I want but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be decent at all, but to be good. CHAPTER IV We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and circumstances. Now, for us, that is ultimate. It may be founded on some reasonable process, but it is not a process which we can follow or comprehend. And moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not continuous except in very lively and well-living natures; and betweenwhiles we must brush along without it. Practice is a more intricate and desperate business than the toughest theorising; life is an affair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt action are alone possible and right. As a matter of fact, there is no one so upright but he is influenced by the world's chatter; and no one so headlong but he requires to consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the soul adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and cares only to combine them for some common purpose which shall interest all. Now respect for the opinion of others, the study of consequences and the desire of power and comfort, are all undeniably factors in the nature of man; and the more undeniably since we find that, in our current doctrines, they have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude in themselves all the worthy parts of man. These, then, must also be suffered to affect conduct in the practical domain, much or little according as they are forcibly or feebly present to the mind of each. Now a man's view of the universe is mostly a view of the civilised society in which he lives. Other men and women are so much more grossly and so much more intimately palpable to his perceptions, that they stand between him and all the rest; they are larger to his eye than the sun, he hears them more plainly than thunder; with them, by them, and for them, he must live and die. And hence the laws that affect his intercourse with his fellow-men, although merely customary and the creatures of a generation, are more clearly and continually before his mind than those which bind him into the eternal system of things, support him in his upright progress on this whirling ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily life. And hence it is that money stands in the first rank of considerations and so powerfully affects the choice. For our society is built with money for mortar; money is present in every joint of circumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, since, in society, it is by that alone men continue to live, and only through that or chance that they can reach or affect one another. Money gives us food, shelter, and privacy; it permits us to be clean in person, opens for us the doors of the theatre, gains us books for study or pleasure, enables us to help the distresses of others, and puts us above necessity so that we can choose the best in life. If we love, it enables us to meet and live with the loved one, or even to prolong her health and life; if we have scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be honest; if we have any bright designs, here is what will smooth the way to their accomplishment. Penury is the worst slavery, and will soon lead to death. But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use it. The rich can go where he pleases, but perhaps please himself nowhere. He can buy a library or visit the whole world, but perhaps has neither patience to read nor intelligence to see. The table may be loaded and the appetite wanting; the purse may be full and the heart empty. He may have gained the world and lost himself; and with all his wealth around him, in a great house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he may live as blank a life as any tattered ditcher. Without an appetite, without an aspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt of desire and hope, there, in his great house, let him sit and look upon his fingers. It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire. Although neither is to be despised, it is always better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand pounds; for the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel no joy in spending it; but the interest remains imperishable and ever new. To become a botanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, an antiquary, or an artist, is to enlarge one's possessions in the universe by an incalculably higher degree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a farm of many acres. You had perhaps two thousand a year before the transaction; perhaps you have two thousand five hundred after it. That represents your gain in the one case. But in the other, you have thrown down a barrier which concealed significance and beauty. The blind man has learned to see. The prisoner has opened up a window in his cell and beholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a prisoner as he was; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, ships on the river, travellers on the road, and the stars at night; happy prisoner! his eyes have broken gaol! And again he who has learned to love an art or science has wisely laid up riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come, he will not enter poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and forget himself in the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle treasures, but be up and briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic touch, which is not that of Midas, but which transmutes dead money into living delight and satisfaction. _�tre et pas avoir_--to be, not to possess--that is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a rich nature is the first requisite and money but the second. To be of a quick and healthy blood, to share in all honourable curiosities, to be rich in admiration and free from envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of others, to love with such generosity of heart that your love is still a dear possession in absence or unkindness--these are the gifts of fortune which money cannot buy and without which money can buy nothing. For what can a man possess, or what can he enjoy, except himself? If he enlarge his nature, it is then that he enlarges his estates. If his nature be happy and valiant, he will enjoy the universe as if it were his park and orchard. But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be earned. It is not merely a convenience or a necessary in social life; but it is the coin in which mankind pays his wages to the individual man. And from this side, the question of money has a very different scope and application. For no man can be honest who does not work. Service for service. If the farmer buys corn, and the labourer ploughs and reaps, and the baker sweats in his hot bakery, plainly you who eat must do something in your turn. It is not enough to take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for the admirable constitution of society and your own convenient situation in its upper and more ornamental stories. Neither is it enough to buy the loaf with a sixpence; for then you are only changing the point of the inquiry; and you must first have _bought the sixpence_. Service for service: how have you bought your sixpences? A man of spirit desires certainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that there is some reciprocity between him and mankind; that he pays his expenditure in service; that he has not a lion's share in profit and a drone's in labour; and is not a sleeping partner and mere costly incubus on the great mercantile concern of mankind. Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are so inappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a matter for the private conscience, but one which even there must be leniently and trustfully considered. For remember how many serve mankind who do no more than meditate; and how many are precious to their friends for no more than a sweet and joyous temper. To perform the function of a man of letters it is not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a living book. So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved by others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend. The true services of life are inestimable in money, and are never paid. Kind words and caresses, high and wise thoughts, humane designs, tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and all the charities of man's existence, are neither bought nor sold. Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion of a man's services, is the wage that mankind pays him, or, briefly, what he earns. There at least there can be no ambiguity. St. Paul is fully and freely entitled to his earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and freely entitled to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business of each was not only something different, but something which remained unpaid. A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, and serves mankind on parole. He would like, when challenged by his own conscience, to reply: "I have done so much work, and no less, with my own hands and brain, and taken so much profit, and no more, for my own personal delight." And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a private fortune, would probably have scorned to waste his time in making tents, yet of all sacrifices to public opinion none can be more easily pardoned than that by which a man, already spiritually useful to the world, should restrict the field of his chief usefulness to perform services more apparent, and possess a livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in question. Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere external decency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul should rest contented with its own approval and indissuadably pursue its own calling. Yet, so grave and delicate is the question, that a man may well hesitate before he decides it for himself; he may well fear that he sets too high a valuation on his own endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon a humbler duty, where others than himself shall judge the service and proportion the wage. And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born. They can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own paymasters on parole; and must pay themselves fair wages and no more. For I suppose that in the course of ages, and through reform and civil war and invasion, mankind was pursuing some other and more general design than to set one or two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of needs and duties. Society was scarce put together, and defended with so much eloquence and blood, for the convenience of two or three millionaires and a few hundred other persons of wealth and position. It is plain that if mankind thus acted and suffered during all these generations, they hoped some benefit, some ease, some well-being, for themselves and their descendants; that if they supported law and order, it was to secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the present, they must have had some designs upon the future. Now a great hereditary fortune is a miracle of man's wisdom and mankind's forbearance; it has not only been amassed and handed down, it has been suffered to be amassed and handed down; and surely in such a consideration as this, its possessor should find only a new spur to activity and honour, that with all this power of service he should not prove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or a hundred thousand at his banker's, or if all Yorkshire or all California were his to manage or to sell, he would still be morally penniless, and have the world to begin like Whittington, until he had found some way of serving mankind. His wage is physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that wage must still be earned. He is only steward on parole of what is called his fortune. He must honourably perform his stewardship. He must estimate his own services and allow himself a salary in proportion, for that will be one among his functions. And while he will then be free to spend that salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the rest of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; it is not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, because his services have already been paid; but year by year it is his to distribute, whether to help individuals whose birthright and outfit have been swallowed up in his, or to further public works and institutions. At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible to be both rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far more continuous temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets his shilling daily for despicable toils. Are you surprised? It is even so. And you repeat it every Sunday in your churches. "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." I have heard this and similar texts ingeniously explained away and brushed from the path of the aspiring Christian by the tender Greatheart of the parish. One excellent clergyman told us that the "eye of a needle" meant a low, Oriental postern through which camels could not pass till they were unloaded--which is very likely just; and then went on, bravely confounding the "kingdom of God" with heaven, the future paradise, to show that of course no rich person could expect to carry his riches beyond the grave--which, of course, he could not and never did. Various greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the comfortable doctrine with relief. It was worth the while having come to church that Sunday morning! All was plain. The Bible, as usual, meant nothing in particular; it was merely an obscure and figurative school-copybook; and if a man were only respectable, he was a man after God's own heart. Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a man's services is one for his own conscience, there are some cases in which it is difficult to restrain the mind from judging. Thus I shall be very easily persuaded that a man has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a friend or two to whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more than persuaded at once. But it will be very hard to persuade me that any one has earned an income of a hundred thousand. What he is to his friends, he still would be if he were made penniless to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury and power, I will neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider them at all. What he does for mankind there are most likely hundreds who would do the same, as effectually for the race and as pleasurably to themselves, for the merest fraction of this monstrous wage. Why it is paid, I am, therefore, unable to conceive, and as the man pays it himself, out of funds in his detention, I have a certain backwardness to think him honest. At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that _what a man spends upon himself he shall have earned by services to the race_. Thence flows a principle for the outset of life, which is a little different from that taught in the present day. I am addressing the middle and the upper classes; those who have already been fostered and prepared for life at some expense; those who have some choice before them, and can pick professions; and above all, those who are what is called independent, and need do nothing unless pushed by honour or ambition. In this particular the poor are happy; among them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must take the work that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. But in the richer classes the question is complicated by the number of opportunities and a variety of considerations. Here, then, this principle of ours comes in helpfully. The young man has to seek, not a road to wealth, but an opportunity of service; not money, but honest work. If he has some strong propensity, some calling of nature, some overweening interest in any special field of industry, inquiry, or art, he will do right to obey the impulse; and that for two reasons: the first external, because there he will render the best services; the second personal, because a demand of his own nature is to him without appeal whenever it can be satisfied with the consent of his other faculties and appetites. If he has no such elective taste, by the very principle on which he chooses any pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and serviceable, and not the most highly remunerated. We have here an external problem, not from or to ourself, but flowing from the constitution of society; and we have our own soul with its fixed design of righteousness. All that can be done is to present the problem in proper terms and leave it to the soul of the individual. Now the problem to the poor is one of necessity: to earn wherewithal to live, they must find remunerative labour. But the problem to the rich is one of honour: having the wherewithal, they must find serviceable labour. Each has to earn his daily bread: the one, because he has not yet got it to eat; the other, who has already eaten it, because he has not yet earned it. Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and comforts, whether for the body or the mind. But the consideration of luxuries leads us to a new aspect of the whole question, and to a second proposition no less true, and maybe no less startling, than the last. At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state of surfeit and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us with indifference; and we are covered from head to foot with the callosities of habitual opulence. Born into what is called a certain rank, we live, as the saying is, up to our station. We squander without enjoyment, because our fathers squandered. We eat of the best, not from delicacy, but from brazen habit. We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the presence of a luxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence. And not only do we squander money from habit, but still more pitifully waste it in ostentation. I can think of no more melancholy disgrace for a creature who professes either reason or pleasure for his guide, than to spend the smallest fraction of his income upon that which he does not desire; and to keep a carriage in which you do not wish to drive, or a butler of whom you are afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. Money, being a means of happiness, should make both parties happy when it changes hands; rightly disposed, it should be twice blessed in its employment; and buyer and seller should alike have their twenty shillings' worth of profit out of every pound. Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he once paid too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern springs usually from a deeper source, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not want one. I find I regret this, or would regret it if I gave myself the time, not only on personal but on moral and philanthropical considerations. For, first, in a world where money is wanting to buy books for eager students and food and medicine for pining children, and where a large majority are starved in their most immediate desires, it is surely base, stupid, and cruel to squander money when I am pushed by no appetite and enjoy no return of genuine satisfaction. My philanthropy is wide enough in scope to include myself; and when I have made myself happy, I have at least one good argument that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, and I have bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive that I have robbed the poor. And, second, anything I buy or use which I do not sincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs the balance of supply and demand, and contributes to remove industrious hands from the production of what is useful or pleasurable and to keep them busy upon ropes of sand and things that are a weariness to the flesh. That extravagance is truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we impoverish mankind and ourselves. It is another question for each man's heart. He knows if he can enjoy what he buys and uses; if he cannot, he is a dog in the manger; nay, if he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for nothing really belongs to a man which he cannot use. Proprietor is connected with propriety; and that only is the man's which is proper to his wants and faculties. A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by poverty. Want is a sore thing, but poverty does not imply want. It remains to be seen whether with half his present income, or a third, he cannot, in the most generous sense, live as fully as at present. He is a fool who objects to luxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest against the waste of luxuries on those who do not desire and cannot enjoy them. It remains to be seen, by each man who would live a true life to himself and not a merely specious life to society, how many luxuries he truly wants and to how many he merely submits as to a social propriety; and all these last he will immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be surprised to find how little money it requires to keep him in complete contentment and activity of mind and senses. Life at any level among the easy classes is conceived upon a principle of rivalry, where each man and each household must ape the tastes and emulate the display of others. One is delicate in eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art or dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who am perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer, flannel shirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these other tastes and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own. It may be cynical: I am sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend my money as I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of a halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall not wear gloves unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born with a delight in them. Dress is my own affair, and that of one other in the world; that, in fact, and for an obvious reason, of any woman who shall chance to be in love with me. I shall lodge where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to live with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no further right but to refuse the invitation. There is a kind of idea abroad that a man must live up to his station, that his house, his table, and his toilette, shall be in a ratio of equivalence, and equally imposing to the world. If this is in the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries. If it is not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the fool. Throw aside this fancy. See what you want, and spend upon that; distinguish what you do not care about, and spend nothing upon that. There are not many people who can differentiate wines above a certain and that not at all a high price. Are you sure you are one of these? Are you sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction of a farthing? Are you sure you wish to keep a gig? Do you care about where you sleep, or are you not as much at your ease in a cheap lodging as in an Elizabethan manor-house? Do you enjoy fine clothes? It is not possible to answer these questions without a trial; and there is nothing more obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not experienced some ups and downs, and been forced to live more cheaply than in his father's house, has still his education to begin. Let the experiment be made, and he will find to his surprise that he has been eating beyond his appetite up to that hour; that the cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough country clothes, the plain table, have not only no power to damp his spirits, but perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the dainties that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous and somnambulous submission to wealth. The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary Bohemians of literature, is exactly described by such a principle of life. The Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is good for him and prefers anything to work, and wears strange clothes, is for the most part a respectable Bohemian, respectable in disrespectability, living for the outside, and an adventurer. But the man I mean lives wholly to himself, does what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys what he wants for himself and not what is thought proper, works at what he believes he can do well and not what will bring him in money or favour. You may be the most respectable of men, and yet a true Bohemian. And the test is this: a Bohemian, for as poor as he may be, is always open-handed to his friends; he knows what he can do with money and how he can do without it, a far rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had less, and continued to live in some contentment; and hence he cares not to keep more, and shares his sovereign or his shilling with a friend. The poor, if they are generous, are Bohemian in virtue of their birth. Do you know where beggars go? Not to the great houses where people sit dazed among their thousands, but to the doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it was the widow who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the treasury. But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or who in any way falls out of the level of expenditure which is common to his level in society, falls out of society altogether. I suppose the young man to have chosen his career on honourable principles; he finds his talents and instincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; in a certain industry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a healthy and becoming service; and he is not sure that he would be doing so, or doing so equally well, in any other industry within his reach. Then that is his true sphere in life; not the one in which he was born to his father, but the one which is proper to his talents and instincts. And suppose he does fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? Is your heart so dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love of a few? Do you think society loves you? Put it to the proof. Decline in material expenditure, and you will find they care no more for you than for the Khan of Tartary. You will lose no friends. If you had any, you will keep them. Only those who were friends to your coat and equipage will disappear; the smiling faces will disappear as by enchantment; but the kind hearts will remain steadfastly kind. Are you so lost, are you so dead, are you so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon solid fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the countenance of sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a report of ruin, who will drop you with insult at a shadow of disgrace, who do not know you and do not care to know you but by sight, and whom you in your turn neither know nor care to know in a more human manner? Is it not the principle of society, openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere with business; which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration of money goes before any consideration of affection known to this cold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, and will rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a stranger? I hope I would go as far as most to serve a friend; but I declare openly I would not put on my hat to do a pleasure to society. I may starve my appetites and control my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall take me as I choose to be, or go without me. Neither they nor I will lose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and unprofitable to associate. But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend money on that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the doctrine applies with equal force to the rich and to the poor, to the man who has amassed many thousands as well as to the youth precariously beginning life. And it may be asked, Is not this merely preparing misers, who are not the best of company? But the principle was this: that which a man has not fairly earned, and, further, that which he cannot fully enjoy, does not belong to him, but is a part of mankind's treasure which he holds as steward on parole. To mankind, then, it must be made profitable; and how this should be done is, once more, a problem which each man must solve for himself, and about which none has a right to judge him. Yet there are a few considerations which are very obvious and may here be stated. Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every one in particular. Every man or woman is one of mankind's dear possessions; to his or her just brain, and kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of its hopes for the future; he or she is a possible wellspring of good acts and source of blessings to the race. This money which you do not need, which, in a rigid sense, you do not want, may therefore be returned not only in public benefactions to the race, but in private kindnesses. Your wife, your children, your friends stand nearest to you, and should be helped the first. There at least there can be little imposture, for you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And consider, if all the world did as you did, and according to their means extended help in the circle of their affections, there would be no more crying want in times of plenty and no more cold, mechanical charity given with a doubt and received with confusion. Would not this simple rule make a new world out of the old and cruel one which we inhabit? [_After two more sentences the fragment breaks off._] PRAYERS WRITTEN FOR FAMILY USE AT VAILIMA PRAYERS WRITTEN FOR FAMILY USE AT VAILIMA _For Success_ Lord, behold our family here assembled. We thank Thee for this place in which we dwell; for the love that unites us; for the peace accorded us this day; for the hope with which we expect the morrow; for the health, the work, the food, and the bright skies, that make our lives delightful; for our friends in all parts of the earth, and our friendly helpers in this foreign isle. Let peace abound in our small company. Purge out of every heart the lurking grudge. Give us grace and strength to forbear and to persevere. Offenders, give us the grace to accept and to forgive offenders. Forgetful ourselves, help us to bear cheerfully the forgetfulness of others. Give us courage and gaiety and the quiet mind. Spare to us our friends, soften to us our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavours. If it may not, give us the strength to encounter that which is to come, that we be brave in peril, constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath, and in all changes of fortune, and down to the gates of death, loyal and loving one to another. As the clay to the potter, as the windmill to the wind, as children of their sire, we beseech of Thee this help and mercy for Christ's sake. _For Grace_ Grant that we here before Thee may be set free from the fear of vicissitude and the fear of death, may finish what remains before us of our course without dishonour to ourselves or hurt to others, and, when the day comes, may die in peace. Deliver us from fear and favour: from mean hopes and cheap pleasures. Have mercy on each in his deficiency; let him be not cast down; support the stumbling on the way, and give at last rest to the weary. _At Morning_ The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces, let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonoured, and grant us in the end the gift of sleep. _Evening_ We come before Thee, O Lord, in the end of Thy day with thanksgiving. Our beloved in the far parts of the earth, those who are now beginning the labours of the day what time we end them, and those with whom the sun now stands at the point of noon, bless, help, console, and prosper them. Our guard is relieved, the service of the day is over, and the hour come to rest. We resign into Thy hands our sleeping bodies, our cold hearths and open doors. Give us to awake with smiles, give us to labour smiling. As the sun returns in the east, so let our patience be renewed with dawn; as the sun lightens the world, so let our loving-kindness make bright this house of our habitation. _Another for Evening_ Lord, receive our supplications for this house, family, and country. Protect the innocent, restrain the greedy and the treacherous, lead us out of our tribulation into a quiet land. Look down upon ourselves and upon our absent dear ones. Help us and them; prolong our days in peace and honour. Give us health, food, bright weather, and light hearts. In what we meditate of evil, frustrate our will; in what of good, further our endeavours. Cause injuries to be forgot and benefits to be remembered. Let us lie down without fear and awake and arise with exultation. For His sake, in whose words we now conclude. _In Time of Rain_ We thank Thee, Lord, for the glory of the late days and the excellent face of Thy sun. We thank Thee for good news received. We thank Thee for the pleasures we have enjoyed and for those we have been able to confer. And now, when the clouds gather and the rain impends over the forest and our house, permit us not to be cast down; let us not lose the savour of past mercies and past pleasures; but, like the voice of a bird singing in the rain, let grateful memory survive in the hour of darkness. If there be in front of us any painful duty, strengthen us with the grace of courage; if any act of mercy, teach us tenderness and patience. _Another in Time of Rain_ Lord, Thou sendest down rain upon the uncounted millions of the forest, and givest the trees to drink exceedingly. We are here upon this isle a few handfuls of men, and how many myriads upon myriads of stalwart trees! Teach us the lesson of the trees. The sea around us, which this rain recruits, teems with the race of fish; teach us, Lord, the meaning of the fishes. Let us see ourselves for what we are, one out of the countless number of the clans of Thy handiwork. When we would despair, let us remember that these also please and serve Thee. _Before a Temporary Separation_ To-day we go forth separate, some of us to pleasure, some of us to worship, some upon duty. Go with us, our guide and angel; hold Thou before us in our divided paths the mark of our low calling, still to be true to what small best we can attain to. Help us in that, our maker, the dispenser of events--Thou, of the vast designs, in which we blindly labour, suffer us to be so far constant to ourselves and our beloved. _For Friends_ For our absent loved ones we implore Thy loving-kindness. Keep them in life, keep them in growing honour; and for us, grant that we remain worthy of their love. For Christ's sake, let not our beloved blush for us, nor we for them. Grant us but that, and grant us courage to endure lesser ills unshaken, and to accept death, loss, and disappointment as it were straws upon the tide of life. _For the Family_ Aid us, if it be Thy will, in our concerns. Have mercy on this land and innocent people. Help them who this day contend in disappointment with their frailties. Bless our family, bless our forest house, bless our island helpers. Thou who hast made for us this place of ease and hope, accept and inflame our gratitude; help us to repay, in service one to another, the debt of Thine unmerited benefits and mercies, so that when the period of our stewardship draws to a conclusion, when the windows begin to be darkened, when the bond of the family is to be loosed, there shall be no bitterness of remorse in our farewells. Help us to look back on the long way that Thou hast brought us, on the long days in which we have been served not according to our deserts but our desires; on the pit and the miry clay, the blackness of despair, the horror of misconduct, from which our feet have been plucked out. For our sins forgiven or prevented, for our shame unpublished, we bless and thank Thee, O God. Help us yet again and ever. So order events, so strengthen our frailty, as that day by day we shall come before Thee with this song of gratitude, and in the end we be dismissed with honour. In their weakness and their fear, the vessels of Thy handiwork so pray to Thee, so praise Thee. Amen. _Sunday_ We beseech Thee, Lord, to behold us with favour, folk of many families and nations gathered together in the peace of this roof, weak men and women subsisting under the covert of Thy patience. Be patient still; suffer us yet a while longer;--with our broken purposes of good, with our idle endeavours against evil, suffer us a while longer to endure, and (if it may be) help us to do better. Bless to us our extraordinary mercies; if the day come when these must be taken, brace us to play the man under affliction. Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to rest; if any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when the day returns, return to us, our sun and comforter, and call us up with morning faces and with morning hearts--eager to labour--eager to be happy, if happiness shall be our portion--and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure it. We thank Thee and praise Thee; and in the words of Him to whom this day is sacred, close our oblation. _For Self-blame_ Lord, enlighten us to see the beam that is in our own eye, and blind us to the mote that is in our brother's. Let us feel our offences with our hands, make them great and bright before us like the sun, make us eat them and drink them for our diet. Blind us to the offences of our beloved, cleanse them from our memories, take them out of our mouths for ever. Let all here before Thee carry and measure with the false balances of love, and be in their own eyes and in all conjunctures the most guilty. Help us at the same time with the grace of courage, that we be none of us cast down when we sit lamenting amid the ruins of our happiness or our integrity: touch us with fire from the altar, that we may be up and doing to rebuild our city: in the name and by the method of Him in whose words of prayer we now conclude. _For Self-forgetfulness_ Lord, the creatures of Thy hand, Thy disinherited children, come before Thee with their incoherent wishes and regrets: Children we are, children we shall be, till our mother the earth hath fed upon our bones. Accept us, correct us, guide us, Thy guilty innocents. Dry our vain tears, wipe out our vain resentments, help our yet vainer efforts. If there be any here, sulking as children will, deal with and enlighten him. Make it day about that person, so that he shall see himself and be ashamed. Make it heaven about him, Lord, by the only way to heaven, forgetfulness of self, and make it day about his neighbours, so that they shall help, not hinder him. _For Renewal of Joy_ We are evil, O God, and help us to see it and amend. We are good, and help us to be better. Look down upon Thy servants with a patient eye, even as Thou sendest sun and rain; look down, call upon the dry bones, quicken, enliven; re-create in us the soul of service, the spirit of peace; renew in us the sense of joy. END OF VOL. XVI PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.