Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Personal Reminiscences of Book Making, by R.M. Ballantyne
(1825-1894).

He was educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk
with the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in
Northen Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848.  The
letters he had written home were very amusing in their description of
backwoods life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he
should construct a book based on these letters.  Three of his most
enduring books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur
Traders", "Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his
experiences with the H.B.C.  In this period he also wrote "The Coral
island" and "Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never
visited by Ballantyne.  Having been chided for small mistakes he made in
these books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about.
With these books he became known as a great master of literature
intended for teenagers.  He researched the Cornish Mines, the London
Fire Brigade, the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of
submarine telegraph cables, the construction of light-houses, the
light-ship service, the life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the
North Sea fishing fleet, ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many
more, experiencing the lives of the men and women in these settings by
living with them for weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they
lived.

He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he
encountered with great care and attention to detail.  His young readers
looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and
1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year,
all very good reading.  The rate of production diminished in the last
ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed.

He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for
very young children under the pseudonym "Comus".

For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what
we would nowadays call "pi".  In part that was the way people wrote in
those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red
River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little
dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how
they ought to behave, as he felt he had been.

Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages.  These books
formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less
pocket-money.  These books are particularly well-written and researched,
because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for
their money.  They were published as six series, three books in each
series.

In this book of personal reminiscences, the author, hearing in the
distance the Grim Reaper, is at his most pi.  The first few chapters
describe the effort he had to make to gain the background information he
needed to write the books, but suddenly he tells us that he doesn't feel
at all well, that his time may well be near, and he fills out the book
with half-a- dozen short stories, all very moralist, but still well up
to his usual quality of output.

Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, August 2003.

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF BOOK MAKING, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.

CHAPTER ONE.

INCIDENTS IN BOOK MAKING--INTRODUCTORY.

Book making is mixed up, more or less, with difficulties.  It is
sometimes disappointing; often amusing; occasionally lucrative;
frequently expensive, and always interesting--at least to the maker.

Of course I do not refer to that sort of book making which is connected
with the too prevalent and disgraceful practice of gambling, but to the
making of literary books--especially story-books for the young.

For over eight-and-thirty years I have had the pleasure of making such
books and of gathering the material for them in many and distant lands.

During that period a considerable number of the juvenile public have
accepted me as one of their guides in the world of Fiction, and through
many scenes in the wildest and most out-of-the-way regions of our
wonderful world.

Surely, then, it is not presumptuous in me to suppose--at least to
hope--that a rambling account of some of the curious incidents which
have occurred, now and then, in connection with my book making, will
interest the young people of the present day.  Indeed I entertain a hope
that some even of the old boys and girls who condescended to follow me
in the days gone by may perchance derive some amusement, if not profit,
from a perusal of these reminiscences.

The shadows of life are lengthening, and, for me, that night, "in which
no man can work," may not be far off.  Before it is too late, and while
yet the flame of the lamp burns with sufficient clearness, I would fain
have a personal chat with those for whom, by God's blessing, I have been
permitted to cater so long.

But fear not, dear reader, that I shall inflict on you a complete
autobiography.  It is only the great ones of the earth who are entitled
to claim attention to the record of birth and parentage and school-days,
etcetera.  To trace my ancestry back through "the Conquerors" to Adam,
would be presumptuous as well as impossible.  Nevertheless, for the sake
of aspirants to literary fame, it may be worth while to tell here how
one of the rank and file of the moderately successful Brotherhood was
led to Authorship as a profession and how he followed it out.

I say "led" advisedly, because I made no effort whatever to adopt this
line of life, and never even dreamed of it as a possibility until I was
over twenty-eight years of age.

Let me commence, then, by at once taking a header into the middle of
that period when God--all unknown to, and unrecognised by, myself--was
furnishing me with some of the material and weapons for the future
battle of life.

One day my dear father was reading in the newspapers some account of the
discoveries of Dease and Simpson in the neighbourhood of the famous
North-west Passage.  Looking at me over his spectacles with the
perplexed air of a man who has an idle son of sixteen to start in the
race of life, he said--

"How would you like to go into the service of the Hudson's Bay Company
and discover the North-west Passage?"--or words to that effect.

"All right, father," said I--or something of that sort.

I was at that age, and in that frame of mind, which regards difficulties
with consummate presumption and profound inexperience.  If the discovery
of the North-pole had been suggested, or the South-pole, or any other
terrestrial pole that happened to exist at the time, I was quite ready
to "rush in" where even a Franklin might "fear to tread!"

This incident was but a slight one, yet it was the little hinge on which
turned my future career.

We had a relation--I won't say what, because distant relationships,
especially if complicated, are utterly beyond my mental grasp--who was
high up in the service of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company.  Through Iain I
became a clerk in the service with a salary of 20 pounds for the first
year.  Having been born without a silver spoon in my mouth, I regarded
this as an adequate, though not a princely, provision.

In due time I found myself in the heart of that vast North American
wilderness which is variously known as Rupert's Land, the Territories of
the Hudson's Bay Company, and the Great Nor'west, many hundreds of miles
north of the outmost verge of Canadian civilisation.

I am not learned in the matter of statistics, but if a rough guess may
be allowed, I should say that the population of some of the regions in
which I and my few fellow-clerks vegetated might have been about fifty
to the hundred square miles--with uninhabited regions around.  Of course
we had no libraries, magazines, or newspapers out there.  Indeed we had
almost no books at all, only a stray file or two of American newspapers,
one of which made me acquainted with some of the works of Dickens and of
Lever.  While in those northern wilds I also met--as with dear old
friends--some stray copies of _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_, and the
_Penny Magazine_.

We had a mail twice in the year--once by the Hudson's Bay ship in
summer, and once through the trackless wilderness by sledge and
snow-shoe in winter.  It will easily be understood that surroundings of
such a nature did not suggest or encourage a literary career.  My
comrades and I spent the greater part of our time in fur-trading with
the Red Indians; doing a little office-work, and in much canoeing,
boating, fishing, shooting, wishing, and skylarking.  It was a "jolly"
life, no doubt, while it lasted, but not elevating!

We did not drink.  Happily there was nothing alcoholic to be had out
there for love or money.  But we smoked, more or less consumedly,
morning, noon, and night.  Before breakfast the smoking began; after
supper it went on; far into the night it continued.  Some of us even
went to sleep with the pipes in our mouths and dropped them on our
pillows.  Being of such an immature age, I laboured under the not
uncommon delusion that to smoke looked manly, and therefore did my best
to accommodate myself to my surroundings, but I failed signally, having
been gifted with a blessed incapacity for tobacco-smoking.  This
afflicted me somewhat at the time, but ever since I have been
unmistakably thankful.

But this is wandering.  To return.

With a winter of eight months' duration and temperature sometimes at 50
below zero of Fahrenheit, little to do and nothing particular to think
of, time occasionally hung heavy on our hands.  With a view to lighten
it a little, I began to write long and elaborate letters to a loving
mother whom I had left behind me in Scotland.  The fact that these
letters could be despatched only twice in the year was immaterial.
Whenever I felt a touch of home-sickness, and at frequent intervals, I
got out my sheet of the largest-sized narrow-ruled imperial paper--I
think it was called "imperial"--and entered into spiritual intercourse
with "Home."  To this long-letter writing I attribute whatever small
amount of facility in composition I may have acquired.  Yet not the
faintest idea of story-writing crossed the clear sky of my unliterary
imagination.  I am not conscious of having had, at that time, a love for
writing in any form--very much the reverse!

Of course I passed through a highly romantic period of life--most youths
do so--and while in that condition I made a desperate attempt to tackle
a poem.  Most youths do that also!  The first two lines ran thus:--

  "Close by the shores of Hudson's Bay,
  Where Arctic winters--stern and grey--"

I must have gloated long over this couplet, for it was indelibly stamped
upon my memory, and is as fresh to-day as when the lines were penned.
This my first literary effort was carried to somewhere about the middle
of the first canto.  It stuck there--I am thankful to say--and, like the
smoking, never went further.

Rupert's Land, at that time, was little known and very seldom visited by
outsiders.  During several years I wandered to and fro in it, meeting
with a few savages, fewer white men--servants of the Company--and
becoming acquainted with modes of life and thought in what has been
aptly styled "The Great Lone Land."  Hearing so seldom from or of the
outside world, things pertaining to it grew dim and shadowy, and began
to lose interest.  In these circumstances, if it had not been that I
knew full well my mother's soul was ready to receive any amount of
out-pourings of which I was capable, I should have almost forgotten how
to use the pen.

It was in circumstances such as I have described that I began my first
book, but it was not a story-book, and I had no idea that it would ever
become a printed book at all.  It was merely a free-and-easy record of
personal adventure and every-day life, written, like all else that I
penned, solely for the uncritical eye of that long-suffering and too
indulgent mother!

I had reached the advanced age of twenty-two at the time, and had been
sent to take charge of an outpost, on the uninhabited northern shores of
the gulf of Saint Lawrence, named Seven Islands.  It was a dreary,
desolate, little-known spot, at that time.  The gulf, just opposite the
establishment, was about fifty miles broad.  The ships which passed up
and down it were invisible, not only on account of distance, but because
of seven islands at the mouth of the bay coming between them and the
outpost.  My next neighbour, in command of a similar post up the gulf,
was, if I remember rightly, about seventy miles distant.  The nearest
house down the gulf was about eighty miles off, and behind us lay the
virgin forests, with swamps, lakes, prairies, and mountains, stretching
away without break right across the continent to the Pacific Ocean.

The outpost--which, in virtue of a ship's carronade and a flagstaff, was
occasionally styled a "fort"--consisted of four wooden buildings.  One
of these--the largest, with a verandah--was the Residency.  There was an
offshoot in rear which served as a kitchen.  The other houses were a
store for goods wherewith to carry on trade with the Indians, a stable,
and a workshop.  The whole population of the establishment--indeed of
the surrounding district--consisted of myself and one man--also a horse!
The horse occupied the stable, I dwelt in the Residency, the rest of
the population lived in the kitchen.

There were, indeed, other five men belonging to the establishment, but
these did not affect its desolation, for they were away netting salmon
at a river about twenty miles distant at the time I write of.

My "Friday"--who was a French-Canadian--being cook, as well as
man-of-all-work, found a little occupation in attending to the duties of
his office, but the unfortunate Governor had nothing whatever to do
except await the arrival of Indians, who were not due at that time.  The
horse was a bad one, without a saddle, and in possession of a pronounced
backbone.  My "Friday" was not sociable.  I had no books, no newspapers,
no magazines or literature of any kind, no game to shoot, no boat
wherewith to prosecute fishing in the bay, and no prospect of seeing any
one to speak to for weeks, if not months, to come.  But I had pen and
ink, and, by great good fortune, was in possession of a blank paper book
fully an inch thick.

When, two or three years after, a printer-cousin, seeing the manuscript,
offered to print it, and the well-known Blackwood, of Edinburgh, seeing
the book, offered to publish it--and did publish it--my ambition was
still so absolutely asleep that I did not again put pen to paper in
_that_ way for eight years thereafter, although I might have been
encouraged thereto by the fact that this first book--named _Hudson's
Bay_--besides being a commercial success, received favourable notice
from the press.

It was not until the year 1854 that my literary path was opened up.  At
that time I was a partner in the late publishing firm of Thomas
Constable and Company of Edinburgh.  Happening one day to meet with the
late William Nelson, publisher, I was asked by him how I should like the
idea of taking to literature as a profession.  My answer I forget.  It
must have been vague, for I had never thought of the subject at all.

"Well," said he, "what would you think of trying to write a story?"

Somewhat amused, I replied that I did not know what to think, but I
would try if he wished me to do so.

"Do so," said he, "and go to work at once,"--or words to that effect.

I went to work at once, and wrote my first story, or work of fiction.
It was published in 1855 under the name of _Snowflakes and Sunbeams; or,
The Young Fur-traders_.  Afterwards the first part of the title was
dropped, and the book is now known as _The Young Fur-traders_.  From
that day to this I have lived by making story-books for young folk.

From what I have said it will be seen that I have never aimed at the
achieving of this position, and I hope that it is not presumptuous in me
to think--and to derive much comfort from the thought--that God led me
into the particular path along which I have walked for so many years.

The scene of my first story was naturally laid in those backwoods with
which I was familiar, and the story itself was founded on the adventures
and experiences of my companions and myself.  When a second book was
required of me, I stuck to the same regions, but changed the locality.
While casting about in my mind for a suitable subject, I happened to
meet with an old, retired "Nor'wester" who had spent an adventurous life
in Rupert's Land.  Among other duties he had been sent to establish an
outpost of the Hudson's Bay Company at Ungava Bay, one of the most
dreary parts of a desolate region.  On hearing what I wanted, he sat
down and wrote a long narrative of his proceedings there, which he
placed at my disposal, and thus furnished me with the foundation of
_Ungava, a tale of Eskimo-Land_.

But now I had reached the end of my tether, and when a third story was
wanted I was compelled to seek new fields of adventure in the books of
travellers.  Regarding the Southern seas as the most romantic part of
the world--after the backwoods!--I mentally and spiritually plunged into
those warm waters, and the dive resulted in _The Coral Island_.

It now began to be borne in upon me that there was something not quite
satisfactory in describing, expatiating on, and energising in, regions
which one has never seen.  For one thing, it was needful to be always
carefully on the watch to avoid falling into mistakes geographical,
topographical, natural-historical, and otherwise.

For instance, despite the utmost care of which I was capable, while
studying up for _The Coral Island_, I fell into a blunder through
ignorance in regard to a familiar fruit.  I was under the impression
that cocoa-nuts grew on their trees in the same form as that in which
they are usually presented to us in grocers' windows--namely, about the
size of a large fist with three spots, suggestive of a monkey's face, at
one end.  Learning from trustworthy books that at a certain stage of
development the nut contains a delicious beverage like lemonade, I sent
one of my heroes up a tree for a nut, through the shell of which he
bored a hole with a penknife and drank the "lemonade"!  It was not till
long after the story was published that my own brother--who had voyaged
in Southern seas--wrote to draw my attention to the fact that the
cocoa-nut is nearly as large as a man's head, and its outer husk over an
inch thick, so that no ordinary penknife could bore to its interior!  Of
course I should have known this, and, perhaps, should be ashamed of my
ignorance--but, somehow, I'm not!

I admit that this was a slip, but such, and other slips, hardly justify
the remark that some people have not hesitated to make, namely, that I
have a tendency to draw the long bow.  I feel almost sensitive on this
point, for I have always laboured to be true to fact, and to nature,
even in my wildest flights of fancy.

This reminds me of the remark made to myself once by a lady in reference
to this same _Coral Island_.  "There is one thing, Mr Ballantyne," she
said, "which I really find it hard to believe.  You make one of your
three boys dive into a clear pool, go to the bottom, and then, turning
on his back, look up and wink and laugh at the other two."

"No, no, Peterkin did not `_laugh_,'" said I remonstratively.

"Well, then, you make him smile."

"Ah, that is true, but there is a vast difference between laughing and
smiling under water.  But is it not singular that you should doubt the
only incident in the story which I personally verified?  I happened to
be in lodgings at the seaside while writing that story, and, after
penning the passage you refer to, I went down to the shore, pulled off
my clothes, dived to the bottom, turned on my back, and, looking up, I
smiled and winked."

The lady laughed, but I have never been quite sure, from the tone of
that laugh, whether it was a laugh of conviction or of unbelief.  It is
not improbable that my fair friend's mental constitution may have been
somewhat similar to that of the old woman who declined to believe her
sailor-grandson when he told her he had seen flying-fish, but at once
recognised his veracity when he said he had seen the remains of
Pharaoh's chariot-wheels on the shores of the Red Sea.

Recognising, then, the difficulties of my position, I formed the
resolution always to visit--when possible--the scenes in which my
stories were laid, converse with the people who, under modification,
were to form the _dramatis personae_ of the tales, and, generally, to
obtain information in each case, as far as lay in my power, from the
fountain-head.

Thus, when about to begin _The Lifeboat_, I went to Ramsgate, and, for
some time, was hand and glove with Jarman, the heroic coxswain of the
Ramsgate boat, a lion-like as well as lion-hearted man, who rescued
hundreds of lives from the fatal Goodwin Sands during his career.  In
like manner, when getting up information for _The Lighthouse_, I
obtained permission from the Commissioners of Northern Lights to visit
the Bell Rock Lighthouse, where I hobnobbed with the three keepers of
that celebrated pillar-in-the-sea for three weeks, and read Stevenson's
graphic account of the building of the structure in the library, or
visitor's room, just under the lantern.  I was absolutely a prisoner
there during those three weeks, for boats seldom visited the rock, and
it need scarcely be said that ships kept well out of our way.  By good
fortune there came on a pretty stiff gale at the time, and Stevenson's
thrilling narrative was read to the tune of whistling winds and roaring
seas, many of which sent the spray right up to the lantern and caused
the building, more than once, to quiver to its foundation.

In order to do justice to _Fighting the Flames_ I careered through the
streets of London on fire-engines, clad in a pea-jacket and a black
leather helmet of the Salvage Corps;--this, to enable me to pass the
cordon of police without question--though not without recognition, as
was made apparent to me on one occasion at a fire by a fireman
whispering confidentially, "I know what _you_ are, sir, you're a
hamitoor!"

"Right you are," said I, and moved away in order to change the subject.

It was a glorious experience, by the way, this galloping on fire-engines
through the crowded streets.  It had in it much of the excitement of the
chase--possibly that of war--with the noble end in view of saving,
instead of destroying, life!  Such tearing along at headlong speed; such
wild roaring of the firemen to clear the way; such frantic dashing aside
of cabs, carts, 'buses, and pedestrians; such reckless courage on the
part of the men, and volcanic spoutings on the part of the fires!  But I
must not linger.  The memory of it is too enticing.  _Deep Down_ took me
to Cornwall, where, over two hundred fathoms beneath the green turf, and
more than half-a-mile out under the bed of the sea, I saw the sturdy
miners at work winning copper and tin from the solid rock, and acquired
some knowledge of their life, sufferings, and toils.

In the land of the Vikings I shot ptarmigan, caught salmon, and gathered
material for _Erling the Bold_.  A winter in Algiers made me familiar
with the _Pirate City_.  I enjoyed a fortnight with the hearty
inhabitants of the Gull Lightship off the Goodwin Sands, from which
resulted _The Floating Light_; and went to the Cape of Good Hope, and up
into the interior of the Colony, to spy out the land and hold
intercourse with _The Settler and the Savage_--although I am bound to
confess that, with regard to the latter, I talked to him only with mine
eyes.  I also went afloat for a short time with the fishermen of the
North Sea, in order to be able to do justice to _The Young Trawler_.

To arrive still closer at the truth, and to avoid errors, I have always
endeavoured to submit my proof-sheets, when possible, to experts and men
who knew the subject well.  Thus, Captain Shaw, late Chief of the London
Fire Brigade, kindly read the proofs of _Fighting the Flames_, and
prevented my getting off the rails in matters of detail, and Sir Arthur
Blackwood, financial secretary to the General Post Office, obligingly
did me the same favour in regard to _Post Haste_.

In conclusion, there are some things that I shrink from flaunting in the
eyes of the public.  Personal religion is one of these.  Nevertheless,
there are a few words which I feel constrained to write before closing
this chapter.

During all the six years that I spent in Rupert's Land I was "without
God."  He was around me and within me, guarding me, bestowing upon me
the physical and mental health by which alone I could fully enjoy a life
in the wilderness, and furnishing me with much of the material that was
to serve as my stock-in-trade during my subsequent career; yet--I
confess it with shame--I did not recognise or think of, or care for,
Him.  It was not until after I had returned home that He opened my eyes
to see myself a lost soul, and Jesus Christ--"God with us"--an
all-sufficient Redeemer, able and willing to save me from sin, as He is
to save all sinners--even the chief.

More than this I will not say.  Less I could not say, without being
unfaithful to my Creator.

CHAPTER TWO.

LIFE IN THE BELL ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.

One of my most interesting experiences in hunting up materials for books
was at the Bell Rock Lighthouse; interesting because of the novelty of
the situation, the pleasant intercourse with the keepers, and the
grandeur of the subjects brought under my observation.

The lighthouses of this kingdom present, in their construction, a
remarkable evidence of the capacity of man to overcome almost
insurmountable difficulties, and his marvellous power of adapting means
to ends.  They also stand forth as a grand army of sentinels, who, with
unobtrusive regularity, open their brilliant eyes on the great deep,
night after night--from year to year--from age to age, and gaze--
Argus-like--all around our shores, to guard our shipping from the
dangers of the sea, perhaps I should rather say from the dangers of the
coast, for it must be well-known to most people that the sailor regards
"blue water" as his safe and native home, and that it is only when he
enters the green and shallow waters of the coast that a measure of
anxiety overclouds his free-and-easy spirit.

It is when he draws near to port that the chief dangers of his career
surround him, and it is then that the lighthouse is watched for
anxiously, and hailed with satisfaction.

These observations scarce need confirmatory proof.  Of all the vessels,
great and small, that annually seek and leave our ports, a large
proportion meet their doom, and, despite all our lighthouses, beacons,
and buoys, lay their timbers and cargoes in fragments, on our shores.
This is a significant fact, for if those lost ships be--as they are--a
mere fraction of our commerce, how great must be the fleet, how vast the
wealth, that our lighthouses guide safely into port every year?  If all
our coast-lights were to be extinguished for only a single night, the
loss of property and life would be terrible beyond conception.  But such
an event can never happen, for our coast-lights arise each evening at
sunset with the regularity of the sun himself.  Like the stars, they
burst out when darkness begins to brood upon land and sea like them,
too, their action and aspect are varied.  Some, at great heights, in
exposed places, blaze bright and steady like stars of the first
magnitude.  Others, in the form of revolving lights, twinkle like the
lesser stars--now veiling, now flashing forth their beams.

One set of lights shine ruby-red like Mars; another set are white, like
Venus; while those on our pier-heads and at our harbour mouths are
green; and, in one or two instances, if not more, they shine, (by means
of reflecting prisms), with borrowed light like the moon; but all--
whether revolving or fixed, large or small, red or white or green--beam
forth, like good angels, offering welcome and guidance to the mariner
approaching from beyond seas; with God-like impartiality shedding their
radiance on friend and foe, and encircling--as with a chaplet of living
diamonds, rubies, and emeralds--our highly favoured little islands of
the sea.

Lighthouses may be divided into _two_ classes, namely, those which stand
on cliffs, and elsewhere, somewhat above the influence of the waves, and
those built on outlying rocks which are barely visible at high tide, or
invisible altogether except at low-water.  The North and South Foreland
lights in Kent, the Girdleness in Aberdeenshire, and Inchkeith in the
Forth, are examples of the former.  The Eddystone, Bell Rock, and
Skerryvore, are well-known examples of the latter, also the Wolf Rock
off the Land's End.

In one of the latter--namely the Bell Rock--I obtained permission, a
good many years ago, from the Commissioners of Northern Lights, to spend
a fortnight for literary purposes--to be imprisoned, in fact, for that
period.

This lighthouse combines within itself more or less of the elements of
all lighthouses.  The principles on which it was built are much the same
with those of Skerryvore.  It is founded on a tidal rock, is exposed to
the full "fetch" and fury of an open sea, and it has stood for the
greater part of a century exposed to inconceivable and constantly
recurring violence of wind and wave--not, indeed, unshaken, but
altogether undamaged.

The Bell Rock lies on the east of Scotland, off the mouths of the Forth
and Tay, 12 miles from the Forfarshire coast, which is the nearest land.
Its foundation is always under water except for an hour or two at
low-tide.  At high tides there are about 12 or 16 feet of water above
the highest ledge of the Bell Rock, which consists of a series of
sandstone ridges.  These, at ordinary low-tides, are uncovered to the
extent of between 100 and 200 yards.  At neap tides the rock shows only
a few black teeth with sea-weed gums above the surface.

There is a boat which attends upon this lighthouse.  On the occasion of
my visit I left Arbroath in it one morning before daybreak and reached
the Rock about dawn.  We cast anchor on arriving--not being able to
land, for as yet there _was_ no land!  The lighthouse rose out of the
sea like a bulrush out of a pond!  No foundation rock was visible, and
the water played about the tower in a fashion that would have knocked
our boat to pieces had we ventured to approach the entrance-door.

In a short time the crest of the rock began to show above the foam.
There was little or no wind, but the ordinary swell of the calm ocean
rolled in upon these rocks, and burst upon them in such a way that the
tower seemed to rise out of a caldron of boiling milk.  At last we saw
the three keepers moving amid the surges.  They walked on an iron
platform, which, being light and open, and only a few feet above the
waves, was nearly invisible.

When the tide was near its lowest ebb, so that there was a piece of
smooth water under the lee of the rock, we hoisted out our little "twin"
boat.  This was a curious contrivance, being simply a small boat cut
across amidships, so as to form two parts which fitted into each other
like saucers, and were thus rendered small enough to be easily carried
in the larger boat.  When about to be used, the twins are put into the
water and their sterns brought together and screwed tight.  Thus one
little boat, sharp at each end, is formed.

Embarking in this we rowed between tangle-covered ridges up to the
wrought-iron landing-place.  The keepers looked surprised as we drew
near.  It was evident that visitors were not "common objects of the
shore" out there!

There were three keepers.  One, the chief, was very tall, dark, and
thin; of grave temperament and sedate mien.  Another was a florid,
hearty young fellow, full of fire and energy.  The third was a stout,
short, thick-set man, with placidity and good-humour enthroned on his
fat countenance.  He was a first-rate man.  I shall call him Stout; his
comrade, Young.  The chief may appropriately be named Long.

There was no time for more than a hurried introduction at first, for the
fresh water-casks and fortnightly allowance of fresh provisions had to
be hoisted into the tower, the empty casks got out, and the boat
reloaded and despatched, before the tide--already rising--should
transform the little harbour into a wild whirlpool.  In little more than
an hour the boat was gone, and I proceeded to make myself at home with
my new friends.

Probably every one knows that the Bell Rock is the Inch Cape Rock,
immortalised by Southey in his poem of "Sir Ralph the Rover," in which
he tells how that, in the olden time--

  "The Abbot of Aberbrothock
  Had placed a bell on the Inch Cape Rock.
  On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung
  And over the waves its warning rung."

A pirate named "Sir Ralph the Rover" came there one day and cut away the
bell in a wicked frolic.  Long years after, returning with a rich cargo
of ill-gotten wealth, retributive justice overtook Sir Ralph, caused his
vessel to strike on the Inch Cape Rock--for want of the warning bell
which he had cut away--and sent him and his belongings to the bottom.

Whether this legend be true or not, there is no doubt that the Rock had
been so dangerous to shipping, that seamen often avoided the firths of
Forth and Tay in bad weather for fear of it, and many captains, in their
anxiety to keep clear of it, ran their vessels in the neighbouring
coasts and perished.

Another proof that numerous wrecks took place there lay in the fact that
the fishermen were wont to visit the rock after every gale, for the
purpose of gathering wreckage.  It was resolved, therefore, about the
beginning of this century, to erect a lighthouse on the Inchcape Rock,
and to Mr Robert Stevenson, Engineer at that time to the Board of
Northern Lights, was assigned the task of building it.  He began the
work in August 1807, and finished it in February 1811.

I began my sojourn in the Bell Rock Lighthouse with breakfast.  On
ascending to the kitchen I found Stout preparing it.  Mr Long, the
chief, offered, with delicate hospitality, to carry my meals up to the
library, so that I might feast in dignified solitude, but I declined the
honour, preferring to fraternise with the men in the kitchen.  Breakfast
over, they showed me through the tower--pointed out and explained
everything--especially the lantern and the library--in which last I
afterwards read Mr Stevenson's interesting volume on the building of
the Bell Rock; a book which has been most appropriately styled the
_Robinson Crusoe_ of Engineering literature.

On returning to the entrance-door, I found that there was now _no land_!
The tide had risen.  The lighthouse was a mere pillar in the sea.
"Water, water everywhere"--nothing else visible save the distant coast
of Forfarshire like a faint blue line on the horizon.  But in the
evening the tide again fell, and, the moment the rock was uncovered, we
descended.  Then Mr Long showed me the various points of interest about
the rock, and Stout volunteered anecdotes connected with these, and
Young corroborated and expounded everything with intense enthusiasm.
Evidently Young rejoiced in the rare opportunity my visit afforded him
of breaking the monotony of life on the Bell Rock.  He was like a caged
bird, and on one occasion expressed his sentiments very forcibly by
saying to me, "Oh, sir, I sometimes wish I could jump up and never come
doon!"  As for Long and Stout, they had got used to lighthouses and
monotony.  The placid countenance of each was a sure index of the
profound tranquillity within!

Small though it was, the rock was a very world in itself to the
residents--crowded with "ports," and "wharves" and "ledges," which had
reference to the building-time.  There were "Sir Ralph the Rover's
ledge," and "the Abbot's ledge," and "the Engineer's ledge," and
"Cunningham's ledge," and "the Smith's ledge," etcetera.  Then there
were "Port Stevenson," and "Port Boyle," and "Port Hamilton," and many
others--each port being a mere hole capable of holding a boat or two.
Besides which there were "tracks," leading to these ports--such as
"Wilson's track," and "Macurich's track," and "Gloag's track."  And then
there were "Hope's Wharf," and "Rae's Wharf," and "Watt's Reach," and
"Scoresby Point," while, among numerous outlying groups of rocklets,
there were the "Royal Burghs," the "Crown Lawyers," and the "Maritime
Sheriffs"--each and all teeming with interesting associations to those
who know the Story of the Rock,--_all_ comprehended within an area of a
few hundred yards--the whole affair being wiped entirely and regularly
off the face of nature by every rising tide.

Close beside Rae's Wharf, on which we stood, Mr Long showed me the
holes in which had been fixed the ends of the great beams of the beacon.
The beacon was a point of considerable interest to me.  If you had seen
the rock as I saw it, reader, in a storm, with the water boiling all
over and round it for more than a mile, like seething milk--and if you
had reflected that the _first_ beacon built there was carried away in a
gale, you would have entertained very exalted ideas of the courage of
the men who built the Bell Rock lighthouse.

While the tower was building, Mr Stevenson and his men were exposed for
many days and nights in this beacon--this erection of timber-beams, with
a mere pigeon-house on the top of it for a dwelling.  Before the beacon
was built, the men lived in the _Pharos_ floating light; a vessel which
was moored not far from the Rock.  Every day--weather permitting--they
rowed to the rock, landed, and worked for _one, two_, or _three_ hours,
when they were drowned out, so to speak, and obliged to return to their
floating home.  Sometimes the landing was easy.  More frequently it was
difficult.  Occasionally it was impossible.  When a landing was
accomplished, they used to set to work without delay.  There was no time
to lose.  Some bored holes in the rock for hold-fasts; others, with pick
and chisel, cut out the foundation-pit.  Then the courses began to be
laid.  On each occasion of landing the smith had to set up his bellows,
light his fire, and work in hot haste; because his whole shop, except
the anvil, had to be taken down, and carried away every tide!
Frequently, in fine weather, this enterprising son of Vulcan might have
been seen toiling with his head enveloped in volumes of smoke and
sparks, and his feet in the water, which gradually rose to his ankles
and knees until, with a sudden "hiss," it extinguished his fire and
ended his labours for the day.  Then he was forced to pack up his
bellows and tools, and decamp with the rest of the men.

Sometimes they wrought in calm, sometimes in storm; always, more or
less, in water.  Three hours was considered a fair day's work.  When
they had the good fortune to work "double tides" in a day, they made
five, or five-and-a-half, hours; but this was of rare occurrence.

"You see that mark there, sir, on Smith's Ledge?" said Mr Long to me
one day, "that was the place where the forge stood; and the ledge
beyond, with the old bit of iron on it, is the `_Last Hope_,' where Mr
Stevenson and his men were so nearly lost."  Then he went on to tell me
the following incident, as illustrating one of the many narrow escapes
made by the builders.

One day, soon after the men had commenced work, it began to blow hard,
and the crew of the boat belonging to the attending vessel, named the
"Smeaton," fearing that her moorings might be insufficient, went off to
examine them.  This was wrong.  The workmen on the rock were
sufficiently numerous to completely fill three boats.  For one of these
to leave the rock was to run a great risk, as the event proved.  Almost
as soon as they reached the "Smeaton," her cables parted and she went
adrift, carrying the boat with her away to leeward, and although sail
was instantly made, they found it impossible to regain the rock against
wind and tide.  Mr Stevenson observed this with the deepest anxiety,
but the men, (busy as bees about the rock), were not aware of it at
first.

The situation was terrible.  There were thirty-two men left on a rock
which would in a short time be overflowed to a depth of twelve or
fifteen feet by a stormy sea, and only two boats in which to remove
them.  These two boats, if loaded to the gunwales, could have held only
a few more than the half of them.

While the sound of the numerous hammers and the ring of the anvil were
heard, the situation did not appear so hopeless; but soon the men at the
lowest part of the foundation were driven from work by the rising tide;
then the forge-fire was extinguished, and the men generally began to
make towards their respective boats for their jackets and dry socks.
When it was discovered that one of the three boats was gone not a word
was uttered, but the men looked at each other in evident perplexity.
They seemed to realise their position at once.

In a few minutes some of that band must inevitably be left to perish,
for the absent boat and vessel were seen drifting farther and farther
away to leeward.  Mr Stevenson knew that in such a case, where life and
death were in the balance, a desperate struggle among the men for
precedence would be certain.  Indeed he afterwards learned that the
pickmen had resolved to stick by their boat against all hazards.  While
they were thus gazing in silence at each other and at the distant
vessel, their enterprising leader had been casting about in his mind as
to the best method of at least attempting the deliverance of his men,
and he finally turned round to propose, as a forlorn hope, that all
hands should strip off their upper clothing, that every unnecessary
article should be removed from the boats, that a specified number should
get into each, and that the remainder should hang on by the gunwales,
and thus be dragged through the water while they were rowed cautiously
towards the "Smeaton"!  But when he tried to speak his mouth was so
parched that his tongue refused utterance! and then he discovered, (as
he says himself), "that saliva is as necessary to speech as the tongue
itself!"  Turning to a pool, he moistened his lips with sea-water, and
found immediate relief.  He was again about to speak when some one
shouted "a boat! a boat!" and, sure enough, a large boat was seen
through the haze making towards the rock.  This timely visitor was James
Spink, the Bell Rock pilot, who had come off express from Arbroath with
letters.  His visit was altogether an unusual one, and his truly
providential appearance unquestionably prevented loss of life on that
critical occasion.  This is one specimen--selected from innumerable
instances of danger and risk--which may give one some idea of what is
encountered by those who build such lighthouses as the Bell Rock.

Our rambles on the rock were necessarily of short duration.  We used to
stand in the doorway watching the retreating waves, and, the moment the
rails were uncovered, we hurried down the ladder--all of us bent on
getting as much exercise as possible on land!  We marched in single
file, up and down the narrow rails, until the rock was uncovered--then
we rambled over the slippery ledges.

Sometimes we had one hour--sometimes two, or even three hours, according
to the state of the tides.  Then the returning waves drove us gradually
from the rocks to the rails, from the rails to the ladder--and so back
into the lighthouse.

Among other things that impressed me deeply was the grandeur of the
waves at the Bell Rock.

One enjoys an opportunity there of studying the form and colour of ocean
billows which cannot be obtained on any ordinary shore, because, the
water being deep alongside the Rock, these waves come up to it in all
their unbroken magnificence.  I tried to paint them, but found it
difficult, owing to the fact that, like refractory children, they would
not stand still to be painted!  It was not only in stormy weather that
these waves arose.  I have seen them during a dead calm, when the sea
was like undulating glass.  No doubt the cause of them was a gale in
some distant part of the sea--inducing a heavy ground-swell; but, be the
cause what it might, these majestic rollers often came in without a
breath of air to help them, and with the sun glittering on their
light-green crystal sides.  Their advance seemed slow and solemn amid
the deep silence, which made them all the more impressive.  The rise of
each wave was so gradual that you could not tell where it began in the
distant sea.  As it drew near, it took definite form and swelled
upwards, and at last came on like a wall of glass--probably ten or
twelve feet high--so high, at all events, that I felt as if looking up
at it from my position on the low rock.  When close at hand its green
edge lipped over and became fringed with white--then it bent forward
with a profound obeisance to the Bell Rock and broke the silence with a
grand reverberating roar, as it fell in a ruin of foam and rushed up to
my very feet!

When those waves began to paint the canvas with their own spray and
change the oil into a water-colour, I was constrained to retire to the
lighthouse, where Mr Long, (a deeply interested student), watched me as
I continued my studies from the doorway.

Mr Long had an inquiring mind and closely observed all that went on
around him.  Among other things, he introduced me to a friend of his, a
species of fish which he called a "_Paddle_."

Stout called it a sucker, in virtue of an arrangement on its breast
whereby it could fasten itself to a rock and hold on.  This fish dwelt
in Port Hamilton, near Sir Ralph the Rover's ledge, and could be visited
at low-tide.  He happened to be engaged at that time in watching his
wife's spawn, and could not be induced to let go his hold of the rock on
any account!  Mr Long pulled at him pretty forcibly once or twice, but
with no effect, and the fish did not seem in the least alarmed!  While
Mr Paddle did duty in the nursery, Mrs Paddle roamed the sea at large.
Apparently women's rights have made some progress in that quarter!  It
was supposed by Stout that she took the night-watches.  Mr Young
inclined to the opinion that she attended to the commissariat--was out
marketing in fact, and brought food to her husband.  All that I can say
on the matter is, that I visited the family frequently, and always saw
the father "on duty," but only once found Mrs Paddle at home!  The
tameness of this kind of fish is very remarkable.  One day I saw a large
one in a pool which actually allowed me to put my hand under him and
lift him gently out!  Suddenly it occurred to me that I might paint him!
The palette chanced to be at hand, so I began at once.  In about two
minutes the paddle gave a flop of discomfort as he lay on the rock; I
therefore put him into a small pool for a minute or so to let him,
breathe, then took him out and had a second sitting, after which he had
another rest and a little refreshment in the pool.  Thus in about ten
minutes, I had his portrait, and put him back into his native element.

I am inclined to think that this is the only fish in the sea that has
had his portrait taken and returned to tell the tale to his admiring,
perhaps unbelieving, friends!

Of course one of the most interesting points in the lighthouse was the
lantern.  I frequently sat in it at night with the man on duty, who
expounded the lighting apparatus to me, or "spun yarns."

The fifth day of my sojourn on the Bell Rock was marked by an event of
great interest,--the arrival of a fishing-boat with letters and
newspapers.  I had begun by that time to feel some degree of longing to
hear something about the outer world, though I had not felt lonely by
any means--my companions were too pleasant to admit of that.  Our little
world contained a large amount of talent!  Mr Long had a magnificent
bass voice and made good use of it.  Then, Young played the violin, (not
so badly), and sang tenor--not quite so well; besides which he played
the accordion.  His instrument, however, was not perfect.  One of the
bass notes would not sound, and one of the treble notes could not by any
means be silenced!  Between the two, some damage was done to the
harmony; but we were not particular.  As to Stout--he could neither sing
nor play, but he was a _splendid_ listener! and the sight of his
good-humoured face, smiling through clouds of tobacco smoke as he sat by
the kitchen fire, was of itself sufficient to encourage us.

But Stout could do more than listen and admire.  He was cook to the
establishment during my visit.  The men took this duty by turns--each
for a fortnight--and Stout excelled the others.  It was he who knew how
to extract sweet music from the tea-kettle and the frying-pan!  But
Stout's forte was buttered toast!  He was quite an adept at the
formation of this luxury.  If I remember rightly, it was an entire loaf
that Stout cut up and toasted each morning for breakfast.  He knew
nothing of delicate treatment.  Every slice was an inch thick at the
least!  It was quite a study to see him go to work.  He never sawed with
the knife.  Having a powerful hand and arm, one sweep of the blade
sufficed for one slice, and he cut up the whole loaf before beginning to
toast.  Then, he always had the fire well prepared.  You never saw
alternate stripes of black and white on Stout's toast; and he laid on
the butter as he might have laid tar on the side of a ship, thick and
heavy.  He never scraped it off one part to put it on another--and he
never picked the lumps out of the holes.  Truly, Stout was quite a
genius in this matter.

The fisherman who brought off our letters could not have landed if the
weather had not been fine.  Poor fellow! after I left, he lost his boat
in consequence of being on too familiar terms with the Bell Rock.  He
was in the habit of fishing near the rock, and occasionally ran in at
low-water to smoke a pipe with the keepers.  One morning he stayed too
long.  The large green billows which had been falling with solemn boom
on the outlying rocks began to lip over into the pool where his boat
lay--Port Stevenson.  Embarking in haste with his comrade he pushed off.
Just then there came a tremendous wave, the crest of which toppled over
Smith's Ledge, fell into the boat, and sank it like a stone.  The men
were saved by the keepers, but their boat was totally destroyed.  They
never saw a fragment of it again.  What a commentary this was on the
innumerable wrecks that have taken place on the Inch Cape Rock in days
gone by!

Sometimes, on a dark stormy night, I used to try to realise something of
this.  Turning my back on the lighthouse I tried to forget it, and
imagine what must have been the feelings of those who had actually stood
there and been driven inch by inch to the higher ledges, with the
certain knowledge that their doom was fixed, and without the comfort and
assurance that, behind them, stood a strong tower of refuge from the
storm!

I was fortunate, during my stay, in having experience of every variety
of weather--from a dead calm to a regular gale.  It was towards the end
of my visit that the gale came on, and it lasted two days.  No language
can convey an adequate idea of the sublimity of the scene and the sense
of power in the seething waves that waged furious war over the Rock
during the height of that gale.  The spray rose above the kitchen
windows, (70 feet on the tower), in such solid masses as to darken the
room in passing, and twice during the storm we were struck by waves with
such force as to shake the tower to its foundation.

This storm delayed the "Relief boat" a day.  Next day, however, it
succeeded in getting alongside--and at length, after a most agreeable
and interesting sojourn of two weeks, I parted from the hospitable
keepers with sincere regret and bade adieu to a lighthouse which is not
only a monument of engineering skill, but a source of safety to the
shipping, and of confidence to the mariners frequenting these waters.

In former days men shunned the dreaded neighbourhood of the Inch Cape
Rock with anxious care.  Now, they look out for that:--

  "Ruddy gem of changeful light
  Bound on the dusky brow of night,--"

And _make for it_ with perfect safety.  In time past human lives, and
noble ships, and costly merchandise were lost on the Bell Rock every
year.  Now, disaster to shipping there is not even dreamed of; and one
of the most notable proofs of the value of the lighthouse, (and,
indirectly, of all other lighthouses), lies in the fact, that not a
single wreck has occurred on the Bell Rock since that auspicious evening
in 1811 when the sturdy pillar opened its eyes for the first time, and
threw its bright beams far and wide over the North Sea.

CHAPTER THREE.

NIGHTS WITH THE FIRE BRIGADE.

There are few lives, we should think, more trying or more full of
curious adventure and thrilling incident than that of a London fireman.

He must always be on the alert.  No hour of the day or night can he ever
count on as being his own, unless on those occasions when he obtains
leave of absence, which I suppose are not frequent.  If he does not
absolutely sleep in his clothes, he sleeps beside them--arranged in such
a way that he can jump into them at a moment's notice.

When the summons comes there must be no preliminary yawning; no soft
transition from the land of dreams to the world of reality.  He jumps
into his boots which stand invitingly ready, pulls on his trousers,
buttons his braces while descending to the street, and must be
brass-helmeted on the engine and away like a fiery dragon-gone-mad
within three minutes of "the call," or thereabouts, if he is to escape a
fine.

Moreover, the London fireman must be prepared to face death at any
moment.  When the call comes he never knows whether he is turning out to
something not much more serious than "a chimney," or to one of those
devastating conflagrations on the river-side in which many thousand
pounds worth of property are swept away, and his life may go along with
them.  Far more frequently than the soldier or sailor is he liable to be
ordered on a duty which shall turn out to be a forlorn hope, and not
less pluckily does he obey.

There is no respite for him.  The field which the London Brigade covers
is so vast that the liability to be sent into action is continuous--
chiefly, of course, at night.  At one moment he may be calmly polishing
up the "brasses" of his engine, or skylarking with his comrades, or
sedately reading a book, or snoozing in bed, and the next he may be
battling fiercely with the flames.  Unlike the lifeboat heroes, who may
sleep when the world of waters is calm, he must be ever on the watch;
for his enemy is a lurking foe--like the Red Indian who pounces on you
when you least expect him, and does not utter his warwhoop until he
deems his victory secure.  The little spark smoulders while the fireman
on guard, booted and belted, keeps watch at his station.  It creeps
while he waits, and not until its energies have gained considerable
force does it burst forth with a grand roar and bid him fierce defiance.

Even when conquered in one quarter it often leaps up in another, so that
the fireman sometimes returns from the field twice or thrice in the same
night to find that the enemy is in force elsewhere and that the fight
must be resumed.

In the spring of 1867 I went to London to gather material for my book
_Fighting the Flames_, and was kindly permitted by Captain Shaw--then
Chief of the Fire Brigade--to spend a couple of weeks at one of the
principal west-end stations, and accompany the men to fires.

My first experience was somewhat stirring.

My plan was to go to the station late in the evening and remain up all
night with the men on guard waiting for fires.

One day, in the afternoon, when it was growing dusk, and before I had
made my first visit to the station, a broad-shouldered jovial-looking
fellow in blue coat, belted, and with a sailor's cap, called on me and
asked if I should like to "see a 'ouse as 'ad bin blowed up with gas."

Of course I was only too glad to follow him.  He conducted me to an
elegant mansion in Bayswater, and chatted pleasantly as we went along in
somewhat nautical tones, for he had been a man-of-war's man.  His name
was Flaxmore.

I may remark here that the men of the London brigade were, and still
are, I believe, chosen from among seamen.

"You see, sir," said Flaxmore, in explanation of this fact, "sailors are
found to be most suitable for the brigade because they're accustomed to
strict discipline,--to turn out suddenly at all hours, in all weathers,
and to climbing in dangerous circumstances."

Arrived at the mansion, we found that the outside looked all right
except that most of the windows were broken.  The interior, however,
presented a sad and curious appearance.  The house had been recently
done up in the most expensive style, and its gilded cornices, painted
pilasters and other ornaments, with the lath and plaster of walls and
ceilings had been blown into the rooms in dire confusion.

"Bin a pretty considerable smash here, sir," said Flaxmore, with a
genial smile on his broad countenance.  I admitted the fact, and asked
how it happened.

"Well, sir, you see," said he, "there was an 'orrid smell of gas in the
'ouse, an' the missus she sent for a gas man to find out where it was,
and, _would_ _you believe it_, sir, they went to look for it _with a
candle_!  Sure enough they found it too, in a small cupboard.  The gas
had been escapin', it had, but couldn't git out o' that there cupboard,
'cause the door was a tight fit, so it had made its way all over the
'ouse between the lath and plaster and the walls.  As soon as ever it
caught light, sir, it blowed the whole place into smash--as you see.  It
blowed the gas man flat on his back; (an' sarved him right!) it blowed
the missus through the doorway, an' it blowed the cook--(as was on the
landin' outside)--right down the kitchen stairs, it did;--but there was
none of 'em much hurt, sir, they wasn't, beyond a bruise or two!"

After examining this house, Flaxmore proposed that I should go and see
his engine.  He was proud of his engine, evidently, and spoke of it as a
man might speak of his wife!

On our way to the station the driver of a passing 'bus called out--

"Fireman, there's a fire in New Bond Street."

One word Flaxmore exchanged with the driver, and then, turning to me,
said, "Come on, sir, I'll give you a ride!"

Off we went at a run, and burst into the station.  "Get her out, Jim,"
cried Flaxmore, (_her_ being the engine).  Jim, the man on duty, put on
his helmet without saying a word, and hauled out the fire-engine, while
a comrade ran for the horses, and another called up the men.  In five
minutes more I was seated beside seven men in blue uniforms and brass
helmets, dashing through the streets of London at full gallop!

Now, those who have never seen a London fire-engine go to a fire have no
conception of what it is--much less have they any conception of what it
is to ride on the engine!  To those accustomed to it, no doubt, it may
be tame enough--I cannot tell; but to those who mount an engine for the
first time and dash through the crowded thoroughfares at a wild tearing
gallop; it is probably the most exciting drive conceivable.  It beats
steeplechasing!  It feels like driving to destruction--so desperate and
reckless is it.  And yet, it is not reckless in the strict sense of that
word; for there is a stern need-be in the case.  Every moment, (not to
mention minutes or hours), is of the utmost importance in the progress
of a fire, for when it gets the mastery and bursts into flames it
flashes to its work, and completes it quickly.  At such times one moment
wasted may involve the loss of thousands of pounds, ay, and of human
lives also.  This is well-known to those whose profession it is to fight
the flames.  Hence the union of apparent mad desperation, with cool,
quiet self-possession in their proceedings.  When firemen can work in
silence they do so.  No unnecessary word is uttered, no voice is
needlessly raised; but, when occasion requires it, their course is a
tumultuous rush, amid a storm of shouting and gesticulation!

So was it on the present occasion.  Had the fire been distant, they
would have had to commence their gallop somewhat leisurely, for fear of
breaking down the horses; but it was not far off--not much more than a
couple of miles--so they dashed round the corner of their own street and
swept into the Edgeware Road at full speed.

Here the noise of our progress began, for the great thoroughfare was
crowded with vehicles and pedestrians.

To pass through such a crowd without coming into collision with anything
required not only dexterous driving, but rendered it necessary that two
of the men on the engine should stand up and shout incessantly as we
whirled along, clearing everything out of our way.

The men seemed to shout with the memory of the boatswain strong upon
them, for their tones were pitched in the deepest and gruffest bass-key.
Sometimes there was a lull for a moment, as a comparatively clear space
of 100 yards or so lay before us; then their voices rose like the
roaring of the gale as a stupid or deaf cabman got in our way, or a
plethoric 'bus threatened to interrupt our furious career.  The cross
streets were the points where the chief difficulties met us.  There cab-
and van-drivers turned into or crossed the great thoroughfare, all
ignorant of the thunderbolt that was rushing on like a fiery meteor,
with its lanterns casting a glare of light before, and the helmets of
the stern charioteers flashing back the rays from street-lamps and
windows.  At the corner of one of the streets the crowd of vehicles was
so great that the driver of the engine began to tighten his reins, while
Flaxmore and his comrades raised a furious roar.  Cabs, 'buses, and
pedestrians scattered right and left in a marvellous manner; the driver
slackened his reins, cracked his whip, and the horses stretched out
again.

"There, it shows a light," observed Flaxmore, as we tore along Oxford
Street.  At that moment a stupid cabman blocked up the way.  There was a
terrific shout from all the firemen, at once! but the man did not hear.
Our driver attempted both to pull up and to turn aside; the first was
impossible, the latter he did so effectively that he not only cleared
the cab but made straight at a lamp-post on the other side!  A crash
seemed inevitable, but Flaxmore, observing the danger, seized the rein
next to him and swung the horses round.  We flew past, just shaving the
lamp-post, and in three minutes more pulled up at a house which was
blazing in the upper floors.  Three engines were already at work on it.
Flaxmore and his men at once entered the burning house, which by that
time was nearly gutted.  I stood outside looking on, but soon became
anxious to know what was doing inside, and attempted to enter.  A
policeman stopped me, but at that moment Flaxmore came out like a
half-drowned rat, his face streaked with brick-dust and charcoal.
Seeing what I wanted he led me into the house, and immediately I found
myself in a hot shower-bath which did not improve my coat or hat!  At
the same time I stepped up to the ankles in hot water!  Tons of water
were being poured on the house by three powerful engines, and this, in
passing through so much heated material had become comfortably warm.
The first thing I saw on entering was a foaming cataract!  This was the
staircase, down which the water rushed, breaking over masses of fallen
brickwork and debris, with a noise like a goodly Highland burn!  Up this
we waded, but could get no further than the room above, as the upper
stair had fallen in.  I was about to descend in order to try to reach
the roof by some other way, when a fireman caught me by the collar,
exclaiming--"Hold on, sir!"  He thought the staircase was about to fall.
"Bolt now, sir," he added, releasing me.  I bolted, and was out in the
street in a moment, where I found that some of the firemen who had first
arrived, and were much exhausted, were being served with a glass of
brandy.  If there were any case in which a teetotaller might be
justified in taking spirits, it would be, I think, when exhausted by
toiling for hours amid the heat and smoke and danger of a fire--
nevertheless I found that several of the firemen there were
teetotallers.

There was a shout of laughter at this moment, occasioned by one of the
firemen having accidentally turned the _branch_ or delivery pipe full on
the faces of the crowd and drenched some of them.  This was followed by
a loud cheer when another fireman was seen to have clambered to the roof
whence he could apply the water with better effect.  At last their
efforts were crowned with success.  Before midnight the fire was
extinguished, and we drove back to the Paddington Station at a more
leisurely pace.  Thus ended my first experience of a London fire.

Accidents, as may be easily believed, are of frequent occurrence.

Accidents.

There were between forty to fifty a year.  In 1865 they were as
follows:--

+=========================+==+
|Cuts and Lacerated Wounds|12|
+-------------------------+--+
|Contusions               |15|
+-------------------------+--+
|Fractures                | 2|
+-------------------------+--+
|Sprains                  | 9|
+-------------------------+--+
|Burns and Scalds         | 3|
+-------------------------+--+
|Injury to Eyes           | 5|
+-------------------------+--+
|                         |46|
+=========================+==+

My friend Flaxmore himself met with an accident not long afterwards.  He
slipped off the roof of a house and fell on his back from a height of
about fifteen feet.  Being a heavy man, the fall told severely on him.

For about two weeks I went almost every evening to the Regent Street
Station and spent the night with the men, in the hope of accompanying
them to fires.  The "lobby"--as the watch room of the station was
named--was a small one, round the walls of which the brass helmets and
hatchets of the men were hung.  Here, each night, two men slept on two
trestle-beds.  They were fully equipped, with the exception of their
helmets.  Their comrades slept at their own homes, which were within a
few yards of the station.  The furniture of the "lobby" was scanty--a
desk, a bookcase, two chairs, a clock, an alarm-bell, and four
telegraphic instruments comprised it all.  These last formed part of a
network of telegraphs which extended from the central station to nearly
all the other stations in London.  By means of the telegraph a "call" is
given--i.e. a fire is announced to the firemen all over London, if need
be, in a very few minutes.  Those who are nearest to the scene of
conflagration hasten to it at once with their engines, while each
outlying or distant station sends forward a man on foot.  These men,
coming up one by one, relieve those who have first hastened to the fire.

"Calls," however, are not always sent by telegraph.  Sometimes a furious
ring comes to the alarm-bell, and a man or a boy rushes in shouting
"_fire_!" with all his might.  People are generally much excited in such
circumstances,--sometimes half mad.  In one case a man came with a
"call" in such perturbation of mind that he could not tell where the
fire was at all for nearly five minutes!  On another occasion two men
rushed in with a call at the same moment, and both were stutterers.  My
own opinion is that one stuttered by nature and the other from
agitation.  Be that as it may, they were both half mad with excitement.

"F-f-f-fire!" roared one.

"F-f-f-fire!" yelled the other.

"Where away?" asked a fireman as he quietly buckled his belt and put on
his helmet.

"B-B-Brompton!"--"B-B-Bayswater!" burst from them both at the same
moment.  Then one cried, "I--I s-s-say Brompton," and the other shouted,
"I--I s-say Bayswater."

"What street?" asked the fireman.

"W-W-Walton Street," cried one.

"N-No--P-P-orchester Terrace," roared the other, and at the word the
Walton Street man hit the Porchester Terrace man between the eyes and
knocked him down.  A regular scuffle ensued, in the midst of which the
firemen got out two engines--and, before the stutterers were separated,
went off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater, and found
that, as they had guessed, there were in reality two fires!

One night's experience in the "lobby" will give a specimen of the
fireman's work.  I had spent the greater part of the night there without
anything turning up.  About three in the morning the two men on duty lay
down on their trestle-beds to sleep, and I sat at the desk reading the
reports of recent fires.  The place was very quiet--the sounds of the
great city were hushed--the night was calm, and nothing was heard but
the soft breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock as I sat
there waiting for a fire.  I often looked at the telegraph needles and,
(I am half ashamed to say it), longed for them to move and give us "a
call."  At last, when I had begun to despair, the sharp little telegraph
bell rang.  Up I started in some excitement--up started one of the
sleepers too, quite as quickly as I did, but without any excitement
whatever--he was accustomed to alarms!  Reading the telegraph with
sleepy eyes he said, with a yawn, "it's only a stop for a chimbley."  He
lay down again to sleep, and I sat down again to read and wait.  Soon
after the foreman came down-stairs to have a smoke and a chat.  Among
the many anecdotes which he told me was one which had a little of the
horrible in it.  He said he was once called to a fire in a cemetery,
where workmen had been employed in filling some of the vaults with
sawdust and closing them up.  They had been smoking down there and had
set fire to the sawdust, which set light to the coffins, and when the
firemen arrived these were burning fiercely, and the stench and smoke
were almost overpowering--nevertheless one of the men ran down the stair
of the vaults, but slipped his foot and fell.  Next moment he rushed up
with a face like a ghost, having fallen, he said, between two coffins!
Quickly recovering from his fright he again descended with his comrades,
and they soon managed to extinguish the fire.

The foreman went off to bed after relating this pleasant little incident
and left me to meditate on it.  Presently a sound of distant wheels
struck my ear.  On they came at a rattling pace.  In a few minutes a cab
dashed round the corner and drew up sharply at the door, which was
severely kicked, while the bell was rung furiously.  Up jumped the
sleepers again and in rushed a cabman, backed by a policeman, with the
usual shout of "fire."  Then followed "question brief and quick
reply"--"a fire in Great Portland Street close at hand."

"Get her out, Bill," was the order.  Bill darted to the engine-shed and
knocked up the driver in passing.  He got out the horses while the other
man ran from house to house of the neighbouring firemen giving a
_double_ ring to their bells.  Before the engine was horsed one and
another and another of the men darted into the station, donned his
helmet, and buckled on his axe; then they all sprang to their places,
the whip cracked, and off we went at full gallop only eight minutes
after the alarm-bell rang.  We spun through the streets like a rocket
with a tail of sparks behind us, for the fire of the engine had been
lighted before starting.

On reaching the fire it was found to be only smouldering in the basement
of the house, and the men of another engine were swarming through the
place searching for the seat of it.  I went in with our men, and the
first thing I saw was a coffin lying ready for use!  The foreman led me
down into a vaulted cellar, and here, strange to say, I found myself in
the midst of coffins!  It seemed like the realisation of the story I had
just heard.  There were not fewer than thirty of them on the floor and
ranged round the walls.  Happily, however, they were not tenanted.  In
fact the fire had occurred in an undertaker's workshop, and, in looking
through the premises, I came upon several coffins laid out ready for
immediate use.  Two of these impressed me much.  They lay side by side.
One was of plain black wood--a pauper's coffin evidently.  The other was
covered with fine cloth and gilt ornaments, and lined with padded white
satin!  I was making some moral reflections on the curious difference
between the last resting-place of the rich man and the poor, when I was
interrupted by the firemen who had discovered the fire and put it out,
so we jumped on the engine once more, and galloped back to the station.
Most of the men went off immediately to bed; the engine was housed; the
horses were stabled; the men on guard hung up their helmets and lay down
again on their trestle-beds; the foreman bade me "good-night," and I was
left once more in a silence that was broken only by the deep breathing
of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock--scarcely able to believe
that the stirring events of the previous hour were other than a vivid
dream.

All over London, at short distances apart, fire-escapes may be seen
rearing their tall heads in recesses and corners formed by the angles in
churches or other public buildings.  Each night these are brought out to
the streets, where they stand in readiness for instant use.

At the present time the escapes are in charge of the Fire Brigade.  When
I visited the firemen they were under direction of the Royal Society for
the Protection of Life from Fire, and in charge of Conductors, who sat
in sentry-boxes beside the escapes every night, summer and winter, ready
for action.

These conductors were clad like the firemen--except that their helmets
were made of black leather instead of brass.  They were not very
different from other mortals to look at, but they were picked men--every
one--bold as lions; true as steel; ready each night, at a moment's
notice, to place their lives in jeopardy in order to rescue their
fellow-creatures from the flames.  Of course they were paid for the
work, but the pay was small when we consider that it was the price of
indomitable courage, tremendous energy, great strength of limb, and
untiring perseverance in the face of appalling danger.

Here is a specimen of the way in which the escapes were worked.

On the night of the 2nd March 1866, the premises of a blockmaker named
George Milne caught fire.  The flames spread with great rapidity,
arousing Milne and his family, which consisted of his wife and seven
children.  All these sought refuge in the attics.  At first Milne
thought he could have saved himself, but with so many little children
round him he found himself utterly helpless.  Not far from the spot,
Henry Douglas, a fire-escape conductor, sat in his sentry-box, reading a
book, perchance, or meditating, mayhap, on the wife and little ones
slumbering snugly at home, while he kept watch over the sleeping city.
Soon the shout of fire reached his ears.  At once his cloth-cap was
exchanged for the black helmet, and, in a few seconds, the escape was
flying along the streets, pushed by the willing hands of policemen and
passers-by.  The answer to the summons was very prompt on this occasion,
but the fire was burning fiercely when Conductor Douglas arrived, and
the whole of the lower part of the house was so enveloped in flames and
smoke that the windows could not be seen at all.  Douglas therefore
pitched his escape, at a venture, on what he _thought_ would bring him
to the second-floor windows, and up he went amid the cheers of the
on-lookers.  Entering a window, he tried to search the room, (and the
cheers were hushed while the excited multitude gazed and listened with
breathless anxiety--for they knew that the man was in a position of
imminent danger).  In a few moments he re-appeared on the escape, half
suffocated.  He had heard screams in the room above, and at once threw
up the fly-ladder, by which he ascended to the parapet below the attic
rooms.  Here he discovered Milne and his family grouped together in
helpless despair.  We may conceive the gush of hope that must have
thrilled their breasts when Conductor Douglas leaped through the smoke
into the midst of them; but we can neither describe nor conceive,
(unless we have heard it in similar circumstances), the _tone_ of the
deafening cheers that greeted the brave man when he re-appeared on the
ladders, and, (with the aid of a policeman named John Pead), bore the
whole family, one by one, in safety to the ground!  For this deed
Conductor Douglas received the silver medal of the Society, and Pead,
the policeman, received a written testimonial and a sovereign.
Subsequently, in consequence of Conductor Douglas's serious illness,--
resulting from his efforts on this occasion--the Society voted him a
gratuity of 5 pounds beyond his sick allowance to mark their strong
approbation of his conduct.  Now in this case it is obvious that but for
the fire-escape, the blockmaker and his family must have perished.

Here is another case.  I quote the conductor's own account of it, as
given in the Fire Escape Society's annual report.  The conductor's name
was Shaw.  He writes:--

  "Upon my arrival from Aldersgate Street Station, the fire had gained
  strong hold upon the lower portion of the building, and the smoke
  issuing therefrom was so dense and suffocating as to render all escape
  by the staircase quite impossible.  Hearing cries for help from the
  upper part of the house, I placed my Fire Escape, ascended to the
  third floor, whence I rescued four persons--viz. Mrs Ferguson, her
  two children, and a lodger named Gibson.  They were all leaning
  against the window-sill, almost overcome.  I carried each down the
  Escape, (a height of nearly fifty feet), in perfect safety; and
  afterwards entered the back part of the premises, and took five young
  children from a yard where they were exposed to great danger from the
  fire."

There was a man in the London Brigade who deserves special notice--viz.
Conductor Samuel Wood.  Wood had been many years in the service, and
had, in the course of his career, saved no fewer than 168 lives.

On one occasion he was called to a fire in Church Lane.  He found a Mr
Nathan in the first-floor unable to descend the staircase, as the ground
floor was in flames.  He unshipped his first-floor ladder, and, with the
assistance of a policeman, brought Mr Nathan down.  Being informed that
there was a servant girl in the kitchen, Wood took his crowbar, wrenched
up the grating, and brought the young woman out in safety.  Now this I
give as a somewhat ordinary case.  It involved danger; but not so much
as to warrant the bestowal of the silver medal.  Nevertheless, Wood and
the policeman were awarded a written testimonial and a sum of money.

I have had some correspondence with Conductor Wood, whose broad breast
was covered with medals and clasps won in the service of the F.E.
Society.  At one fire he rushed up the escape before it was properly
pitched, and caught in his arms a man named Middleton as he was in the
act of jumping from a window.

At another time, on arriving at a fire, he found that the family thought
all had escaped, "but," wrote the conductor to me, "they soon missed the
old grandmother.--I immediately broke the shop door open and passed
through to the first-floor landing, where I discovered the old lady
lying insensible.  I placed her on my back, and crawled back to the
door, and I am happy to say she is alive now and doing well!"

So risky was a conductor's work that sometimes he had to be rescued by
others--as the following extract will illustrate.  It is from one of the
Society's reports:--

  "CASE 10,620.

  "Awarded to James Griffin, Inspector of the K Division of Police, the
  Society's Silver Medal, for the intrepid and valuable assistance
  rendered to Fire Escape Conductor Rickell at a Fire at the `Rose and
  Crown' public-house, Bridge Street, at one o'clock on the morning of
  February 1st, when, but for his assistance there is little doubt that
  the Conductor would have perished.  On the arrival of Conductor
  Rickell with the Mile End Fire Escape, not being satisfied that all
  the inmates had escaped, the Conductor entered the house, the upper
  part of which was burning fiercely; the Conductor not being seen for
  some time, the Inspector called to him, and, not receiving an answer,
  entered the house and ascended the stairs, and saw the Conductor lying
  on the floor quite insensible.  With some difficulty the Inspector
  reached him, and, dragging him down the staircase, carried him into
  the air, where he gradually recovered."

While attending fires in London, I wore one of the black leather helmets
of the Salvage Corps.  This had the double effect of protecting my head
from falling bricks, and enabling me to pass the cordon of police
unquestioned.

After a night of it I was wont to return home about dawn, as few fires
occur after that.  On these occasions I felt deeply grateful to the
keepers of small coffee-stalls, who, wheeling their entire shop and
stock-in-trade in a barrow, supplied early workmen with cups of hot
coffee at a halfpenny a piece, and slices of bread and butter for the
same modest sum.  At such times I came to know that "man wants but
little here below," if he only gets it hot and substantial.

Fire is such an important subject, and an element that any one may be
called on so suddenly and unexpectedly to face, that, at the risk of
being deemed presumptuous, I will, for a few minutes, turn aside from
these reminiscences to put a few plain questions to my reader.

Has it ever occurred to you to think what you would do if your house
took fire at night?  Do you know of any other mode of exit from your
house than by the front or back doors and the staircase?  Have you a
rope at home which would support a man's weight, and extend from an
upper window to the ground?  Nothing easier than to get and keep such a
rope.  A few shillings would purchase it.  Do you know how you would
attempt to throw water on the walls of one of your rooms, if it were on
fire near the ceiling?  A tea-cup would be of no use!  A sauce-pan would
not be much better.  As for buckets or basins, the strongest man could
not heave such weights of water to the ceiling with any precision or
effect.  But there are garden hand-pumps in every seedsman's shop with
which a man could deluge his property with the greatest ease.

Do you know how to tie two blankets or sheets together, so that the knot
shall not slip?  Your life may one day depend on such a simple piece of
knowledge.

Still further, do you know that in retreating from room to room before a
fire you should shut doors and windows behind you to prevent the supply
of air which feeds the flames?  Are you aware that by creeping on your
hands and knees, and keeping your head close to the ground, you can
manage to breathe in a room where the smoke would suffocate you if you
stood up?--also, that a wet sponge or handkerchief held over the mouth
and nose will enable you to breathe with less difficulty in the midst of
smoke?--Do you know that many persons, especially children, lose their
lives by being forgotten by the inmates of a house in cases of fire, and
that, if a fire came to you, you ought to see to it that every member of
your household is present to take advantage of any means of escape that
may be sent to you?

These subjects deserve to be considered thoughtfully by every one,
especially by heads of families--not only for their own sakes, but for
the sake of those whom God has committed to their care.  For suppose
that, (despite the improbability of such an event), your dwelling really
_did_ catch fire, how inconceivable would be the bitterness added to
your despair, if, in the midst of gathering smoke and flames--with death
staring you in the face, and rescue all but hopeless--you were compelled
to feel that you and yours might have escaped the impending danger if
you had only bestowed on fire-prevention, fire-extinction, and
fire-escape a very little forethought and consideration.

CHAPTER FOUR.

A WAR OF MERCY.

There is a great war in which the British Nation is at all times
engaged.

No bright seasons of peace mark the course of this war.  Year by year it
is waged unceasingly, though not at all times with the same fury, nor
always with the same results.

Sometimes, as in ordinary warfare, there are minor skirmishes in which
many a deed of heroism is done, though not recorded, and there are
pitched battles in which all our resources are called into action, and
the papers teem with the news of the defeats, disasters, and victories
of the great fight.

This war costs us hundreds of lives, thousands of ships, and millions of
money every year.  Our undying and unconquerable enemy is the storm, and
our great engines of war with which, through the blessing of God, we are
enabled to fight more or less successfully against the foe, are the
Lifeboat and the Rocket.

These engines, and the brave men who work them, are our sentinels of the
coast.  When the storm is brewing; when grey clouds lower, and muttering
thunder comes rolling over the sea, men with hard hands and bronzed
faces, clad in oilskin coats and sou'westers, saunter down to our quays
and headlands, all round the kingdom.  These are the Lifeboat crews on
the look-out.  The enemy is moving, and the sentinels are being posted--
or, rather, they are posting themselves--for the night, for all the
fighting men in this great war are volunteers.  They need no drilling to
prepare them for the field; no bugle or drum to sound the charge.  Their
drum is the rattling thunder, their trumpet the roaring storm.  They
began to train for this warfare when they were not so tall as their
fathers' boots, and there are no awkward squads among them now.  Their
organisation is rough and ready, like themselves, and simple too.  The
heavens call them to action; the coxswain grasps the helm; the men seize
the oars; the word is given, and the rest is straightforward fighting--
over everything, through everything, in the teeth of everything, until
the victory is gained, and rescued men and women and children are landed
in safety on our shores.

In the winter of 1863 my enthusiasm in the Lifeboat cause was aroused by
the reading in the papers of that wonderful achievement of the famous
Ramsgate Lifeboat, which, on a terrible night in that year, fought
against the storm for sixteen hours, and rescued a hundred and twenty
souls from death.

A strange fatality attaches to me somehow--namely, that whenever I have
an attack of enthusiasm, a book is the result!

Immediately after reading this episode in the great war, I called on the
Secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who kindly gave me
minute information as to the working of his Society, and lent me its
journals.

Then I took train to the coast of Deal, and spent a considerable part of
the succeeding weeks in the company of Isaac Jarman--at that time the
coxswain of the Ramsgate Lifeboat, and the chief hero in many a gallant
fight with the sea.

The splendid craft which he commanded was one of the self-righting,
insubmergible boats of the Institution.  Jarman's opinion of her was
expressed in the words "she's parfect, sir, and if you tried to improve
her you'd only spile her."  From him I obtained much information, and
many a yarn about his experiences on the famous and fatal Goodwin Sands,
which, if recorded, would fill a volume.  Indeed a volume has already
been written about them, and other deeds of daring on those Sands, by
one of the clergymen of Ramsgate.

I also saw the captain of the steam-tug that attends upon that boat.  He
took me on board his vessel and showed me the gold and silver medals he
had received from his own nation, and from the monarchs of foreign
lands, for rescuing human lives.  I chatted with the men of Deal whose
profession it is to work in the storm, and succour ships in distress,
and who have little to do but lounge on the beach and spin yarns when
the weather is fine.  I also listened to the thrilling yarns of Jarman
until I felt a strong desire to go off with him to a wreck.  This,
however, was not possible.  No amateur is allowed to go off in the
Ramsgate boat on any pretext whatever, but the restriction is not so
absolute in regard to the steamer which attends on her.  I obtained
leave to go out in this tug, which always lies with her fires banked up
ready to take the Lifeboat off to the sands, if her services should be
required.  Jarman promised to rouse me if a summons should come.  As in
cases of rescue from fire, speed is all-important.  I slept for several
nights with my clothes on--boots and all--at the hotel nearest to the
harbour.  But it was not to be.  Night after night continued
exasperatingly calm.

No gale would arise or wreck occur.  This was trying, as I lay there,
wakeful and hopeful, with plenty of time to study the perplexing
question whether it is legitimate, under any circumstance, to wish for a
wreck or a fire!

When patience was worn out I gave it up in despair.

At another time, however, I had an opportunity of seeing the Lifeboat in
action.  It was when I was spending a couple of weeks on board of the
"Gull" Lightship, which lies between Ramsgate and the Goodwins.

A "dirty" day had culminated in a tempestuous night.  The watch on deck,
clad in drenched oil-skins, was tramping overhead, rendering my repose
fitful.  Suddenly he opened the skylight, and shouted that the Southsand
Head Lightship was firing, and sending up rockets.  As this meant a
wreck on the sands we all rushed on deck, and saw the flare of a
tar-barrel in the far distance.  Already our watch was loading, and
firing our signal-gun, and sending up rockets for the purpose of calling
off the Ramsgate Lifeboat.  It chanced that the Broadstairs boat
observed the signals first, and, not long after, she flew past us under
sail, making for the wreck.

A little later we saw the signal-light of the Ramsgate tug, looming
through the mist like the great eye of the storm-fiend.  She ranged
close up, in order to ask whereaway the wreck was.  Being answered, she
sheared off, and as she did so, the Lifeboat, towing astern, came full
into view.  It seemed as if she had no crew, save only one man--
doubtless my friend Jarman--holding the steering lines; but, on closer
inspection, we could see the men crouching down, like a mass of oilskin
coats and sou'westers.  In a few minutes they were out of sight, and we
saw them no more, but afterwards heard that the wrecked crew had been
rescued and landed at Deal.

In this manner I obtained information sufficient to enable me to write
_The Lifeboat: a Tale of our Coast Heroes_, and _The Floating Light of
the Goodwin Sands_.

A curious coincidence occurred when I was engaged with the Lifeboat
story, which merits notice.

Being much impressed with the value of the Lifeboat service to the
nation, I took to lecturing as well as writing on this subject.  One
night, while in Edinburgh in the spring of 1866, a deputation of working
men, some of whom had become deeply interested in Lifeboat work, asked
me to re-deliver my lecture.  I willingly agreed to do so, and the
result was that the working men of Edinburgh resolved to raise 400
pounds among themselves, and present a boat to the Institution.  They
set to work energetically; appointed a Committee, which met once a week;
divided the city into districts; canvassed all the principal trades and
workshops, and, before the year was out, had almost raised the necessary
funds.

In the end, the boat was ordered and paid for, and sent to Edinburgh to
be exhibited.  It was drawn by six magnificent horses through the
principal streets of the city, with a real lifeboat crew on board, in
their sou'westers and cork life-belts.  Then it was launched in Saint
Margaret's Loch, at the foot of Arthur's Seat, where it was upset--with
great difficulty, by means of a large erection with blocks and ropes--in
order to show its self-righting and self-emptying qualities to the
thousands of spectators who crowded the hill-sides.

At this time the good people of Glasgow had been smitten with a desire
to present a lifeboat to the Institution, and, in order to create an
interest in the movement, asked the loan of the Edinburgh boat for
exhibition.  The boat was sent, and placed on view in a conspicuous part
of the city.

Among the thousands who paid it a visit was a lady who took her little
boy to see it, and who dropped a contribution into the box, which stood
invitingly alongside.  That lady was the wife of a sea-captain, who lost
his ship on the coast of Wigton, where the Edinburgh boat was stationed,
and whose life was saved by that identical boat.  And not only so, but
the rescue was accomplished on the anniversary of the very day on which
his wife had put her contribution into the collecting-box!

Sixteen lives were saved by it at that time, and, not long afterwards,
fourteen more people were rescued by it from the insatiable sea; so that
the working men of Edinburgh have reason to be thankful for the success
which has attended them in their effort to "rescue the perishing."

Moreover, some time afterwards, the ladies of Edinburgh--smitten with
zeal for the cause of suffering humanity, and for the honour of their
"own romantic town"--put their pretty, if not lusty, shoulders to the
wheel, raised a thousand pounds, and endowed the boat, so that, with
God's blessing, it will remain in all time coming on that exposed coast,
ready for action in the good cause.

CHAPTER FIVE.

DESCENT INTO THE CORNISH MINES.

From Lighthouses, Lifeboats, and Fire-brigades into the tin and copper
mines of Cornwall is a rather violent leap, but by no means an
unpleasant one.

In the year 1868 I took this leap when desirous of obtaining material
for _Deep Down: a Tale of the Cornish Mines_.

For three months my wife and I stayed in the town of Saint Just, close
to the Land's End, during which time I visited some of the principal
mines in Cornwall; associated with the managers, "captains," and miners,
and tried my best to become acquainted with the circumstances of the
people.

The Cornish tin trade is very old.  In times so remote that historical
light is dim, the Phoenicians came in their galleys to trade with the
men of Cornwall for tin.

Herodotus, (writing 450 years B.C.) mentions the tin islands of Britain
under the name of the _Cassiterides_ and Diodorus Siculus, (writing
about half a century B.C.), says:

"The inhabitants of that extremity of Britain which is called Bolerion,
excel in hospitality, and also, by their intercourse with foreign
merchants, they are civilised in their mode of life.  These prepare the
tin, working very skilfully the earth which produces it."

There is said to be ground for believing that Cornish tin was used in
the construction of the temple of Jerusalem.  At the present time the
men of Cornwall are to be found toiling, as did their forefathers in the
days of old, deep down in the bowels of the earth--and even out under
the bed of the sea--in quest of tin.

"Tin, Copper, and Fish" is one of the standing toasts in Cornwall, and
in these three words lie the head, backbone, and tail of the county, the
sources of its wealth, and the objects of its energies.

As my visit, however, was paid chiefly for the purpose of investigating
the mines, I will not touch on fish here.  Having obtained introduction
to the managers of Botallack--the most famous of the Cornish Mines--I
was led through miles of subterranean tunnels and to depths profound, by
the obliging, amiable, and anecdotal Captain Jan--one of the "Captains"
or overseers of the mine.

He was quite an original, this Captain Jan; a man who knew the forty
miles of underground workings in Botallack as well, I suppose, as a
postman knows his beat; a man who dived into the bowels of the earth
with the vigour and confidence of a mole and the simple-minded serenity
of a seraph.

The land at this part of Cornwall is not picturesque, except at the
sea-cliffs, which rise somewhere about three hundred feet sheer out of
deep water, where there is usually no strip of beach to break the rush
of the great Atlantic billows that grind the rocks incessantly.

The most prominent objects elsewhere are masses of debris; huge pieces
of worn-out machinery; tall chimneys and old engine-houses, with big
ungainly beams, or "bobs," projecting from them.  These "bobs" are
attached to pumps which work continually to keep the mines dry.  They
move up and down very slowly, with a pause between each stroke, as if
they were seriously considering whether it was worth while continuing
the dreary work any longer, and could not make up their minds on the
point.  Their slow motions, however, give evidence of life and toil
below the surface.  Other "bobs" standing idle tell of disappointed
hopes and broken fortunes.  There are not a few such landmarks at the
Land's End--stern monitors, warning wild and wicked speculators to
beware.

One day--it might have been night as far as our gloomy surroundings
indicated--Captain Jan and I were stumbling along one of the levels of
Botallack, I know not how many fathoms down.  We wore miners' hats with
a candle stuck in front of each by means of a piece of clay.  The hats
were thicker than a fireman's helmet, though by no means as elegant.
You might have plunged upon them head first without causing a dint.

Captain Jan stopped beside some fallen rocks.  We had been walking for
more than an hour in these subterranean labyrinths and felt inclined to
rest.

"You were asking about the word _wheal_," said the captain, sticking his
candle against the wall of the level and sitting down on a ledge, "it do
signify a mine, as Wheal Frances, Wheal Owles, Wheal Edwards, and the
like.  When Cornishmen do see a London Company start a mine on a grand
scale, with a deal of fuss and superficial show, and an imposing staff
of directors, etcetera, while, down in the mine itself, where the real
work ought to be done, perhaps only two men and a boy are known to be at
work, they shake their heads and button up their pockets; perhaps they
call the affair wheal _Do-em_, and when that mine stops, (becomes what
we call a `knacked bal') it may be styled wheal _Donem_!"

A traveller chanced to pass a water-wheel not long ago, near Saint Just.

"What's that?" he said to a miner who sat smoking his pipe beside it.

"That, sur? why, that's a pump, that is."

"What does it pump?" asked the traveller.

"Pump, sur?" replied the man with a grim smile, "why, et do pump gold
out o' the Londoners!"

There have been too many wheal _Do-ems_ in Cornwall.

Botallack mine is not, I need scarcely say, a wheal Do-em.  It is a
grand old mine--grand because its beginning is enveloped in the mists of
antiquity; because it affords now, and has afforded for ages back,
sustenance to hundreds of miners and their families, besides enriching
the country; because its situation on the wild cliffs is unusually
picturesque, and because its dark shafts and levels not only descend to
an immense depth below the surface, but extend far out under the bottom
of the sea.  Its engine-houses and machinery are perched upon the edge
of a steep cliff, and scattered over its face and down among its dark
chasms in places where one would imagine that only a sea-gull would dare
to venture.

Underground there exists a vast region of shafts and levels, or
tunnels--mostly low, narrow, and crooked places--in which men have to
stoop and walk with caution, and where they work by candlelight--a
region which is measured to the inch, and has all its parts mapped out
and named as carefully as are the fields above.  Some idea of the extent
of this mine may be gathered from the fact that it is 245 fathoms, (1470
feet), deep, and that all the levels put together form an amount of
cutting through almost solid granite equal to nearly 40 miles in extent.
The deepest part of the mine is that which lies under the bottom of the
sea, three-quarters of a mile from the shore; and, strange to say, that
is also the _driest_ part of the mine.  The Great Eastern would find
depth of water sufficient to permit of her anchoring and floating
securely in places where miners are at work, blowing up the solid rock,
1470 feet below her keel--a depth so profound that the wildest waves
that ever burst upon the shore, or the loudest thunder that ever
reverberated among the cliffs, could not send down the faintest echo of
a sound.

The ladder-way by which the men descend to their work is 1230 feet deep.
It takes half an hour to descend and an hour to climb to the surface.

It was a bright morning in May when I walked over from Saint Just with
Captain Jan to pay my first underground visit to Botallack.

Arrayed in the red-stained canvas coat and trousers of the mine, with a
candle stuck in the front of our very strong hats and three spare ones
each hung at our breasts, we proceeded to the ladder-way.  This was a
small platform with a hole in it just big enough to admit a man, out of
which projected the head of a strong ladder.  Before descending Captain
Jan glanced down the hole and listened to a distant, regular, clicking
sound--like the ticking of a clock.  "A man coming up," said he, "we'll
wait a minute."

I looked down, and, in the profound abyss, saw the twinkling of,
apparently, a little star.  The steady click of the miner's nailed shoes
on the iron rounds of the ladder continued, and the star advanced,
until, by its feeble light I saw the hat to which it was attached.
Presently a man emerged from the hole, and raising himself erect, gave
vent to a long, deep-drawn sigh.  It was, I may say, a suggestive sigh,
for there was a sense of intense relief conveyed by it.  The man had
just completed an hour of steady, continuous climbing up the ladders,
after eight hours of night-work in impure atmosphere, and the first
great draught of the fresh air of heaven must have seemed like nectar to
his soul!  His red garments were soaking, perspiration streamed from
every pore in his body, and washed the red earth in streaks down his
pale countenance.  Although pale, however, the miner was strong and in
the prime of life.  Chills and bad air, (the two great demons of the
mines), had not yet smitten his sturdy frame with "miner's complaint."
He looked tired, but not exhausted, and bestowed a grave glance on me
and a quiet nod on Captain Jan as he walked away to change his dress in
the drying-house.  My contemplation of the retiring miner was
interrupted by Captain Jan saying--"I'll go first, sir, to catch you if
you should fall."  This remark reminded me of many stories I had heard
of men "falling away from the ladders;" of beams breaking and letting
them tumble into awful gulfs; of stones giving way and coming down the
shafts like grape or cannon-shot, and the like.  However, I stepped on
the ladder and prepared to follow my guide into the regions of
unchanging night!  A few fathoms' descent brought us into twilight and
to a small platform on which the foot of the first ladder rested.
Through a hole in this the head of the second ladder appeared.

Here we lighted the candles, for the next ladder--a longer one, 50 feet
or so--would have landed us in midnight darkness.  Half way down it, I
looked up and saw the hole at the top like a large white star.  At the
foot I looked up again, the star was gone, and I felt that we were at
last in a region where, (from the time of creation), sunlight had never
shone.  Down, down, ever _downwards_, was the uppermost idea in my mind
for some time after that.  Other thoughts there were, of course, but
that one of never-ending descent outweighed them all for a time.  As we
got lower the temperature increased; then perspiration broke out.  Never
having practised on the treadmill, my muscles ere long began to feel the
unwonted exercise, and I thought to myself, "If you are in this state so
soon, what will you be when you get to the bottom, and how will you get
up again?"

At this point we reached the foot of another ladder, and Captain Jan
said, "We'll walk a bit in the level here and then go down the
pump-shaft."  The change of posture and action in the level we had now
entered was agreeable, but the path was not a good one.  It was an old,
low, and irregular level, with a rugged floor full of holes with water
in them, and with projections in the roof that rendered frequent
stooping necessary.  The difficulty of one's progress in such places is
that, while you are looking out for your head, you stumble into the
holes, and when the holes claim attention you run your head against the
roof; but, thanks to the miner's hat, no evil follows.

We were now in a region of profound _silence_!  When we paused for a
minute to rest, it felt as if the silence of the tomb itself had
surrounded us--for not the faintest echo reached us from the world
above, and the miners at work below us were still far down out of
ear-shot.  In a few seconds we came to a yawning hole in the path,
bridged by a single plank.  Captain Jan crossed.  "How deep is it?"  I
asked, preparing to follow.  "About 60 feet," said he, "it's a winze,
and goes down to the next level!"

I held my breath and crossed with caution.

"Are there many winzes, Captain Jan?"

"Yes, dozens of 'em.  There are nigh 40 miles of levels and lots of
winzes everywhere!"

The possibility of anything happening to Captain Jan, and my light
getting blown out occurred to me, but I said nothing.  When we had
walked a quarter of a mile in this level, we came to the point where it
entered the pump-shaft.  The shaft itself was narrow--about 8 or 10 feet
in diameter--but everything in it was ponderous and gigantic.  The
engine that drove the pump was 70 horse power; the pump-rod was a
succession of wooden beams, each like the ridge-pole of a house, jointed
together--a rugged affair, with iron bolts, and nuts, and projections at
the joints.  In this shaft the kibbles were worked.  These kibbles are
iron buckets by which ore is conveyed to the surface.  Two are worked
together by a chain--one going up full while the other comes down empty.
Both are free to clatter about the shaft and bang against each other in
passing, but they are prevented from damaging the pump-rod by a wooden
partition.  Between this partition and the pump was the ladder we had
now to descend, with just space for a man to pass.

Captain Jan got upon it, and as he did so the pump went up, (a sweep of
10 or 12 feet), with a deep watery gurgle, as if a giant were being
throttled.  As I got upon the ladder the pump came down with another
gurgle, close to my shoulder in passing.  To avoid this I kept close to
the planks on the other side, but at that moment I heard a noise as if
of distant thunder.  "It's only the kibbles," said Captain Jan.

Up came one and down went the other, passing each other with a dire
crash, not far from where we stood, and causing me to shrink into the
smallest possible space.  "There's no danger," said the Captain
encouragingly, "if you only keep cool and hold on."  Water was coursing
freely down the shaft and spirting over us in fine spray, so that, ere
long, we were as wet and dirty as any miner in Botallack.  At last we
reached the 120 fathom level, 720 feet from "grass."

Here the Captain told me men were at work not far off and he wished to
visit them.  "Would I wait where I was until he returned?"

"What!" said I, "wait in a draughty level with an extinguishable candle
close to the main shaft, with 30 or 40 miles of levels around, and no
end of winzes?  No, no, Captain Jan, go on; I'll stick to you _now_
through thick and thin like your own shadow!"

With one of his benignant smiles the captain resumed his progress.  In a
few minutes I heard the clink of hammers, and, soon after, came to a
singular cavern.  It was a place where the lode had been very wide and
rich.  Years before it had been all cut away from level to level,
leaving a void space so high and deep that the rays of our candles were
lost in obscurity.  We walked through it in mid-air, as it were,
supported on cross beams with planks laid thereon.  Beyond this we came
to a spot where a number of miners were at work in various places and
positions.

One, a big, broad-shouldered man named Dan, was seated on a wooden box
hammering at the rock with tremendous energy.  With him Captain Jan
conversed a few minutes on the appearance of the lode, and then
whispered to me, "A good specimen of a man that, sir, and he's got an
uncommon large family,"--then, turning to the man--"I say, Dan, you've
got a biggish family, haven't you?"

"Iss, a'w iss, Cap'n Jan, I've a braave lot o' child'n."

"How many have you had altogether, Dan?"

"I've had seventeen, sur, but ten of 'em's gone dead--only seven left.
My brother Jim, though, he's had more than me."

After a few more words we left this man, and, in another place, found
this brother Jim, working in the roof of the level with several others.
They had cut so high up in a slanting direction that they appeared to be
in another chamber, which was brilliantly lighted with their candles.
Jim, stripped naked to the waist, stood on the end of a plank, hammering
violently.  Looking up into his curious burrow, Captain Jan
shouted--"Hallo!  Jim!"

"Hallo, Captain Jan."

"Here's a gentleman wants to know how many children you've had."

"How many child'n, say 'ee?  Why, I've had nineteen, sur, but there's
eleven of 'em gone dead.  Seven of 'em did come in three years and a
half--_three doubles and a single_--but there's only eight of 'em alive
now!"

I afterwards found that, although this man and his brother were
exceptions, the miners generally had very large families.

While we were talking, a number of shots were heard going off in various
directions.  This was explained by Captain Jan.  All the forenoon the
miners employ their time in boring and charging the blast-holes.  About
mid-day they fire them and then hasten to a clear part of the mine to
eat luncheon and smoke their pipes while the gunpowder smoke clears
away.  This it does very slowly, taking sometimes more than an hour to
clear sufficiently so as to let the men resume work.

Immediately after the shots were heard, the men began to assemble.  They
emerged from the gloom on all sides like red hobgoblins--wet and
perspiring.  Some walked out of darkness from either end of the level;
some stalked out from diverging levels; others slid, feet first, from
holes in the roof and sides, and some rose, head-foremost, from yawning
gulfs in the floor.  They all saluted Captain Jan as they came up, and
each stuck his candle against the wall and sat down on a heap of wet
rubbish, to lunch.  Some had Cornish pasty, and others a species of
heavy cake--so heavy that the fact of their being able to carry it at
all said much for their digestive organs--but most of them ate plain
bread, and all of them drank water which had been carried down from the
realms of light in little canteens.  Frugal though the fare was, it
sufficed to brace them for the rest of the day's work.

After a short talk with these men Captain Jan and I continued our
descent of the ladders--down we went, ever downwards, until at last we
reached the very bottom of that part of the mine--1230 feet below the
surface.

Here we found only two men at work, with whom Captain Jan conversed for
a time while we rested, and then proceeded to ascend "to grass" by the
same ladder-ways.  If I felt that the descent was like never getting to
the bottom, much more did the ascent seem like never getting to the top!

I may remark here that the bottom which we had reached was not the
bottom under the sea.  At another time Captain Jan took me to that
submarine cavern where, as I have said, no sound ever reaches the ear
from the world above.  There is, however, a level close under the sea
where the roar of Ocean is distinctly heard.  It is in a part of
Botallack Mine named Wheal Cock.  It was very rich in copper ore, and
the miners worked at the roof of it so vigorously, that they began to
fear it would give way.  One of them, therefore, in order to ascertain
what thickness of solid rock still lay between them and the sea, bored a
small hole upwards, and advanced about three feet or so before the water
rushed in.  Of course they had a wooden plug ready and stopped up the
hole.  But, as it was dangerous to cut away any more of the roof, they
were finally obliged unwillingly to forsake that part of the mine.

This occurred some thirty years before my visit, yet when I went to see
the place, I found the wooden plug still hard and fast in the hole and
quite immoveable.  As I stood and listened I could well understand the
anxiety of the miners, for at the upward rush of each wave, I could hear
the rattle of the boulders overhead, like monster cannon balls, and a
repetition of the thunder when the waves retreated.

On our way up the ladders we stopped several times to rest.  At such
times Captain Jan related various anecdotes illustrative of mining life.

"This is a place," said he, on one occasion, "which reminds me of a man
who was always ready to go in for dangerous work.  His name was Old
Maggot.  He was not really old, but he had a son named after himself,
and his friends had to distinguish him from the young Maggot."

So saying, Captain Jan trimmed his candle with nature's own pair of
snuffers--the finger and thumb--and proceeded as follows:

"Some time ago the miners in Botallack came to an old deserted mine that
was full of water--this is what miners call a `_house of water_.'  The
ore there was rich, but the men were afraid to work it lest they should
come suddenly on the old mine and break a hole through to it--in other
words `_hole to that house of water_.'  They stopped working at last,
and no one seemed willing to run the risk of driving the hole and
letting out the water.  In this difficulty they appealed to Old Maggot,
who at once agreed to do it.  The old mine was about three-quarters of a
mile back from the sea-shore, but at that time it could only be got at
by entering the _adit_ level from the shore.  It was through this level
that the water would have to escape.  At the mouth of it a number of men
assembled to see Old Maggot go in.  In he went, alone, with a bunch of
candles, and, as he walked along, he stuck a lighted candle every here
and there against the wall to light him out,--for he expected to have to
run for it.

"When he came to the place, the water was spirting out everywhere.  But
Old Maggot didn't mind.  He grasped his hammer and borer and began.  The
work was done sooner than he had expected!  Suddenly the rock gave way
and the water burst upon him, putting out his candle and turning him
heels over head.  He jumped up and tried to run, but the flood rose on
him, carried him off his legs, swept him right through the level, and
hurled him through the adit-mouth at last, upon the sea-shore!  He was
stunned a little, but soon recovered, and, beyond a few bruises and a
wetting, was nothing the worse of his adventure.

"_That_," said Captain Jan, pointing to the rock beside us, "was the
place where Old Maggot holed to the house of water, and _this_ was the
level through which he was washed and through part of which I will now
conduct you."

Accordingly, we traversed the level, and, coming to another shaft,
continued our upward progress.

While we were slowly toiling up, step by step, we were suddenly arrested
by the sound of voices singing in the far distance above us.  The music
was slow and solemn.  Coming as it did so unexpectedly in such a strange
place, it sounded quite magical and inexpressibly sweet.

"Miners descending to work," said my guide, as we listened.  The air was
familiar to me, and, as it grew louder and louder, I recognised that
beautiful tune called "French," to which we are accustomed to sing the
121st Psalm, "I to the hills will lift mine eyes."  Gradually the men
came down to us.  We stood on one side.  As they passed they ceased
singing and nodded to Captain Jan.  There were five or six stout fellows
and a boy.  The latter was as active as his companions, and his treble
voice mingled tunefully with theirs as they continued the descent, and
resumed the psalm, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their
steps.  We watched until their lights disappeared, and then resumed our
upward way, while the sweet strains grew fainter and fainter, until they
were gradually lost in the depths below.  The pleasant memory of that
psalm still remained with me, when I emerged from the ladder-shaft of
Botallack mine, and--after having been five hours underground--once more
drank in, (with a new and intensified power of appreciation), the fresh
air of heaven and the blessed influences of green fields and sunshine.

To many a weird and curious part of the great mine did the obliging
Captain Jan lead me, but perhaps the most interesting part was the
lowest depth under the sea, to which my wife accompanied us.  This part
is reached by the Boscawen shaft, a sloping one which the men descend in
an iron car or gig.  The car is let down and hauled up by an iron rope.
Once this rope broke, the car flew to the bottom, was dashed against the
rock, and all the men--eight in number--were killed.

In 1865 the Prince and Princess of Wales descended this shaft, and
Captain Jan was their amiable, not to say eccentric, guide.  The Captain
was particularly enthusiastic in praise of the Princess.  He said that
she was a "fine intelligent young lady; that she asked no end of
questions, would not rest until she understood everything, and
afterwards undertook to explain it all to her less-informed companions."
A somewhat amusing incident occurred while they were underground.

When about to begin his duty as guide it suddenly flashed across the
mind of poor Captain Jan that, in the excitement of the occasion, he had
forgotten to take gloves with him.  He was about to lead the Princess by
the hand over the rugged floors of the levels.  To offer to do so
without gloves was not to be thought of.  To procure gloves 200 fathoms
below the sea was impossible.  To borrow from the Prince or the Duke of
Sutherland, who were of the party, was out of the question.  What was he
to do?  Suddenly he remembered that he had a newspaper in his pocket.
In desperation he wrapped his right hand in a piece of this, and, thus
covered, held it out to the Princess.  She, innocently supposing that
the paper was held up to be looked at, attempted to read.  This
compelled Captain Jan to explain himself, whereupon she burst into a
hearty fit of laughter, and, flinging away the paper, took the ungloved
hand of the loyal but bashful miner.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE LAND OF THE VIKINGS.

To this romantic land of mountain and flood I paid four visits at
various times.  These were meant as holiday and fishing rambles, but
were also utilised to gather material for future books.

Norway, as every one knows, was the land of the ancient Vikings--those
grand old rascally freebooters--whose indomitable pluck carried them in
their open galleys, (little better than big boats), all round the coasts
of Europe, across the unknown sea to Iceland, and even to the shores of
America itself, before the other nations dreamed of such a continent,
and long before Columbus was born; who possessed a literature long
before we did; whose blood we Britons carry in our veins; and from whom
we have inherited many of our best laws, much of our nautical
enterprise, and not a little of our mischief and pugnacity.

Norway, too, is the land where Liberty once found refuge in distress,--
that much abused goddess, whom, since the fall of Adam and Eve, License
has been endeavouring to defame, and Tyranny to murder, but who is still
alive and kicking--ay, and will continue to kick and flourish in spite
of all her enemies!  Liberty found a home, and a rough welcome, strange
to say, among those pagans of the North, at a time when she was banished
from every other spot, even from the so-called Christian states in
Europe.

No wonder that that grand old country with its towering snow-clad
mountains, its mighty fords, its lonesome glens and its historical
memories should be styled "_gamle Norge_" (old Norway--as we speak of
old England), with feelings of affection by its energetic and now
peaceful inhabitants.

I was privileged to go to Norway as one of a yachting party.  There were
twelve of us altogether, three ladies, three gentlemen, and a crew of
six sailors.  Our object was to see the land and take what of amusement,
discomfort, or otherwise might chance to come in our way.  We had a
rough passage over, and were very sick, sailors included! except the
captain, an old Scotch highlander who may be described as a compound of
obstinacy and gutta-percha.  It took us four days to cross.  We studied
the Norse language till we became sea-sick, wished for land till we got
well, then resumed the study of Norse until we sighted the outlying
islands and finally cast anchor in the quaint old city and port of
Bergen.

Now, it is well to admit at once that some of us were poor linguists;
but it is only just to add that we could not be expected to learn much
of any language in four days during intervals of internal derangement!
However, it is curious to observe how very small an amount of Norse will
suffice for ordinary travellers--especially for Scotchmen.  The Danish
language is the vernacular tongue of Norway and there is a strong
affinity between Danish, (or Norse), and broad Scotch.  Roughly
speaking, I should say that a mixture of three words of Norse to two of
broad Scotch, with a powerful emphasis and a strong infusion of
impudence, will carry you from the Naze to the North Cape in perfect
comfort.

Bergen is a most interesting city, and our party had many small
adventures in it, which, however, I will not touch on here.  But one
scene--the fish-market--must not be passed over.

There must certainly be something in the atmosphere of a fish-market
which tends to call forth the mental and physical energies of mankind,
(perhaps I should rather say of _womankind_), and which calls forth a
tremendous flow of abusive language.  Billingsgate is notorious, but I
think that the Bergen fish-market beats it hollow.  One or two phases of
the national character are there displayed in perfection.  It is the
Billingsgate of Norway--the spot where Norse females are roused to a
pitch of frenzy that is not equalled, I believe, in any other country.

There are one or two peculiarities about the Bergen market, too, which
are noteworthy, and which account in some degree for the frantic
excitement that reigns there.  The sellers of the fish, in the first
place, are not women but men.  The pier and fleet of boats beside it
constitute the market-place.  The fishermen row their cargoes of fish
direct from the sea to the pier, and there transact sales.  There is a
stout iron railing along the edge of that pier--a most needful
safeguard--over which the servant girls of the town lean and look down
at the fishermen, who look up at them with a calm serio-comic
"don't-you-wish-you-may-get-it" expression that is deeply impressive.
Bargains, of course, are not easily made, and it is in attempting to
make these that all the hubbub occurs.  The noise is all on the women's
side.  The men, secure in their floating position, and certain of
ultimate success, pay very little attention to the flaxen-haired,
blue-eyed damsels who shout at them like maniacs, waving their arms,
shaking their fists, snapping their fingers, and flourishing their
umbrellas!  They all carry umbrellas--cotton ones--of every colour in
the rainbow, chiefly pink and sky-blue, for Bergen is celebrated as
being the most rainy city in Europe.

The shouting of the girls is not only a safety-valve to their feelings,
but is absolutely necessary in order to attract the attention of the
men.  As 15 or 20 of them usually scream at once, it is only she who
screams loudest and flourishes her umbrella most vigorously that can
obtain a hearing.  The calm unruffled demeanour of the men is as much a
feature in the scene as is the frenzy of the women.

During one of my visits I saw a fisherman there who was the most
interesting specimen of cool impudence I ever encountered.  He wore a
blue coat, knee-breeches, white worsted stockings, and on his head of
long yellow hair a red night-cap with a tall hat on top of all.  When I
discovered him he was looking up with a grave sarcastic expression into
the flushed countenance of a stout, blue-eyed lass who had just eagerly
offered him _syv skillings_ (seven skillings), for a lot of fish.  That
was about 3 and a half pence, the skilling being half a penny.  The man
had declined by look, not by tongue, and the girl began to grow angry.

"Haere du, fiskman," (hear you, fisherman), she cried, "vil du har otte
skillings?"  (will you have eight skillings?)

The fisherman turned away and gazed out to sea.  The girl grew crimson
in the face at this.

"Fiskman, fiskman!" she cried, "vil du har _ni_ (nine) skillings?"

The fisherman kicked out of the way a lobster that was crawling too near
his naked toes, and began to bale out the boat.  The girl now seemed to
become furious.  Her blue eyes flashed like those of a tiger.  She
gasped for breath, while her cotton umbrella flashed over the
fisherman's head like a pink meteor.  Had that umbrella been only a foot
longer the tall black hat would have come to grief undoubtedly.
Suddenly she paused, and in a tone of the deepest solemnity, said--

"Haere du, fiskman, vil du har ti (ten) shillings?"

The rock of Gibraltar is not more unyielding than was that "fiskman."
He took off his hat, removed his night-cap, smoothed his yellow hair,
and wiped his forehead; then, replacing the cap and hat, he thrust both
hands into his coat pockets, turned his back on the entire market, and
began to whistle.

This was too much!  It was past female endurance!  The girl turned
round, scattered the bystanders right and left, and fled as if she had
resolved then and there to dash out her brains on the first post she
met, and so have done with men and fish for ever.  But she was not done
with them yet!  The spell was still upon her.  Ere she had got a dozen
yards away she paused, stood one moment in uncertainty, and then rushing
back forced her way to the old position, and shouted in a tone that
might have moved the hearts even of the dead fish--

"Fiskman, here du, vil du hav tolve?"

"Tolve" (or twelve) skillings was apparently not quite the sum he meant
to take; but he could hold out no longer--he wavered--and the instant
man wavers, woman's victory is gained!  Smiling benignly he handed up
the fish to the girl, and held out his baling dish for the money.

The storm was over!  The girl walked off in triumph with her fish, not a
trace of her late excitement visible, the pink cotton umbrella tucked
under her arm, and her face beaming with the consciousness of having
conquered a "_fiskman_" in fair and open fight!

Steamers ply regularly between the north and south of Norway in summer,
and an excursion in one of these is very enjoyable, not only on account
of the scenery, but because of the opportunity afforded of making the
acquaintance of the people.  I once made a voyage in one of those