Chapter III: Act III (1)

Before the doors are open a servant in livery enters the room, in which the company are seated, and puts up a placard with the following notice:—

“GREAT ATTRACTION FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!!

Mr. Alonzo Napoleon Smith, of the Boundless Prairie, America,
begs to announce that he will exhibit his unrivalled

WAX-WORK FIGURES.
_Admission free. Children half-price._
N.B.—NO MONEY RETURNED WITHOUT IT’S BAD.”

Prior to the opening of the doors Berlinda takes her seat among the audience.

The door opens. A row of figures, covered over with sheets, stand on rout seats round the room. One or two reclining figures in the foreground. Overture on the violin, “How doth the little busy bee,” by Roderigo Pipkins, the meandering musician.

A servant in livery then enters, and uncovers the wax-work figures, revealing—

JOAN OF ARC, represented by _Miss Florence Edwards_.
QUEEN OF NIGHT _Miss Emily Cathcart_.
FIELD MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON _Master Alec Boyce_.
RICHARD III. _Master Walter Stanley_.

_Lay Figures, &c., &c._

_Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith, as Lecturer._

Ladies and Gentlemen, at the request of the Universe, seconded by the United States of America, I have brought my caravan from the Boundless Prairie, in order to raise the tone of the fine arts in your country, and to devote the proceeds of the entertainment to the liquidation of your national debt. No, no! not a word of thanks, I beg. Such an audience as this before me fills me with awe, and I speak with authority when I say that had I not a dash of Minerva’s wisdom my nervous system would hardly stand the ordeal.

I will not trouble you with an account of how I collected the information which will be contained in my brief lecture. Suffice it to say that a friend having presented me with a copy of the Bodleian Library, and having taken apartments in the British Museum for some time past, not to mention the fact of a visit to the Alexandrian Library prior to the late disastrous fire, has posted me up in the points which will be brought under your notice. But as Homer very beautifully says in his last little work, we have—

“Ad referendum in loco, viva voce summum bonum videlicet.”

Let our business be to show the product of the busy bee, namely, these “neatly spread” wax figures.

And first let me call your attention to Joan of Arc.

(Joan of Arc moves her head, and raises her hand _mechanically_).

Much mystery attaches to the young person now before us. It is supposed that she was called Joan _d’Arc_, because we are in the dark as to her birthplace, unless we accept the idea that she came from Arcadia. She suffered much from nightmare, and fancied she was riding over France as its victoress. Consequently she adopted men’s clothes. It is well to observe too that she cut off her hair before she arrived at _Chinon_. She headed an army, so the tale goes, of 7,000 men; and with the strength of her arms the foe was defeated. After which she came to ruin (Rouen), that is to say she was burnt there.

Virtue and manliness always succeed in the long run, however, and her successes have been immortalized in Paris by a gorgeous tombstone, entitled the Arc de Triomphe!

The next figure I shall introduce is one of a paragorical nature. The Queen of Night, represented by a daughter of Eve. Unseen she spreads her mantle over the earth, and thus acts the part of a_n_ _it_inerant angel. The umbrella in her hand is also an emblematic figure, representing the pernicious influences which attend upon her, and is called the deadly nightshade. In the absence of any further proofs of the authenticity of this character there will be an interval of a minute, during which the band will play.—_Exit._

Roderigo Pipkins immediately strikes up, but suddenly leaves off, takes out the ringlet from his pocket, and waves it before the audience. Berlinda hides her face in her pocket handkerchief.

_Roderigo advancing, and whispering to Berlinda_—

“Berlinda is it you dear? do you love me now as then?
O! wilt thou be my bride, love, and not fly oft again?
You will? Then come up quickly—Smith will come ere long;
He’ll be puzzled when he reckons, you’re another figurant!”

_Berlinda stands on a pedestal beside the wax figures, and Roderigo covers her with a sheet._

_Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith._

I shall now briefly introduce another well-known character—Field Marshal the late Duke of Wellington—he will be easily recognized from the fact of his nasal probus being the most prominent feature of his face. I will not go all over his history. You remember all about Magna Charta, and the formation of a body called the Chartists. You know how the Spanish Armada was defeated in Trafalgar Bay, and how Wellington cheered on his men, saying, “I’ll be your leader.” You remember that little affair with the Duchess of Salisbury at the ball at Brussels, and how the Duke was made a knight of the Garter. Having brought the history thus far up to the eve of Waterloo, let us confine our attention to that event. And first, I notice it was not a _bootless_ expedition, for ever since that event Wellington and Blucher boots have become an institution of your free and enlightened country. Second, it is a popular fallacy to suppose that His Grace was in any way connected with the trade of a hatter. When he said “Up boys and (h)at ’em,” he merely wished his men to give the foe a bonneting! Moral from the life. He earned a glorious reputation as the Iron Duke, and his monument overlooking Hyde Park is the finest bit of _irony_ extant.

Let us now turn to the figure of Richard III. A bad figure, as you will see; and we learn on the very face of our subject that though deformities may be put behind one’s back they are not therefore altogether out of sight. Richard was Duke of Gloster, and it is generally admitted that it was not the cheese for him to seize the crown in such mighty haste. As you are aware, one of the main features of his reign was the introduction of the pillo(w)ry, by which he smothered the two little princes in the Tower.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must draw my entertainment to a close—

ROD. (_aside_). Now screw thy courage to the sticking place.
Here goes!
Ladies and gentlemen, I hope I don’t behave—

A. N. SMITH. Silence, slave!

ROD. Good sir, I crave permission just to say
Before this worthy audience goes away,
There’s still one figure more to show—

A. N. SMITH (_in surprise_). No!

ROD. Indeed there is—one worth her weight in gold.
Berlinda, Roderigo’s bride, behold!

(_Uncovers the figure and leads BERLINDA to the audience._)

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve played our little game—
We’re satisfied (aint we, Berlinda?) we hope you are the same.
And now as all the parts of our charade you’ve heard,
It only rests with you to say the word.

[_Exit._

The applause was deafening; never did the drawing-room echo back such clapping of hands and hearty bravos as it did that Christmas Eve; the doors were closed, but long and loud shouts for Alonzo Napoleon Smith were raised, and they had again to be opened, for the performers to come in and make their bows to the audience. Roderigo led in Berlinda, Richard the Third came arm in arm with Joan of Arc, the Duke of Wellington chaperoned the Queen of Night, and the livery servant brought in the meandering musician’s fiddle!

And then came the puzzling part of the affair, to try and find out the word. One guessed “Audience,” awe-die-hence; another “Entertainment,” enter-tàen-ment; a third “Overlooking;” and others the most absurd and improbable words possible, and words which were never introduced into the charade at all. At last one sharp boy, who had been taking notes between the acts, stumbled upon the right word, and it was ⸺.[2]

A question now arose as to whether there should be any more charades, or whether the rooms should be cleared again for more general fun. The set entertainments carried the day, however, and after an interval for refreshment, and a little variety in the way of some songs by some of the young ladies, the loud bell of the town crier was heard in the hall, and Master Willie Cathcart, who represented that institution, announced—“O yes! O yes! O yes! a great Reform Debate and Demonstration will take place in this place on Christmas Eve, of which all persons interested in the great questions of the day will be pleased to take notice. God save the Queen.” In double-quick time the company fell into position, and then came

THE GREAT REFORM DEBATE AND DEMONSTRATION.

The demonstration came first, and consisted of a procession all round the drawing-room. “See, the Conquering Hero comes,” was struck up on the piano, and Tom Martin accompanied it on the violin, but having forgotten to get his instrument in tune with the piano beforehand, played excruciatingly as he headed the procession. Then came Edward Barnes—

Clenching in his hand, as in a vice,
A banner with the strange device,
“Here we are again!”

A motley crew of reformers followed, some with flags, and some with rosettes; one boy had some pieces of paper, and was chanting a parody on Tennyson’s lines, “Sweet and low.” The first verse ran thus:—

“Bright and Lowe, Bright and Lowe,
Members of high degree;
Lowe, Lowe, spout and blow,
But Bright’s got the better of thee.”

Last of all, arm in arm, came the reform agitators. The cheering that greeted them was loud and long, and when they had elbowed their way through the crowd, which was purposely arranged so as to make it difficult, they ascended the platform, which had been reared on the spot lately occupied by the wax figures. And then, by one of those transformations which are so easy in fiction and on the stage, the scene was changed from Hyde Park to the House of Commons, represented by the platform. Charlie Stanley took the chair as Speaker of the House, and to the right and left of the table, in places marked “ministerial” and “opposition,” the members arranged themselves. This arrangement was not on the ground of political opinion, but it was deemed desirable that, when any cries of “oh!” or “order!” were to be introduced, it would be better for those on one side of the speaker to cry down those on the other side. It was not a full house; only four honourable gentlemen appeared on the platform beside the Speaker, and they were Messrs. Walter Stanley, Alec Boyce, Arthur Mortram, and Oswald Layton. Edward Barnes having carefully arranged his banner so that the motto should appear above the head of the Speaker, acted as Usher, or Master of the Ceremonies, and not being very familiar with the proceedings in the House of Commons, commenced by crying “Silence in the Court,” which immediately produced an uproar. However, this was soon put down, and then the Speaker rose and said—

GENTLEMEN,

I think you will agree with me, it would be quite beside the mark
For us to sift the question of the riots in Hyde Park,
Or even bring that _railing_ accusation up again,
Which most suppose was settled then by might and _Mayne_.
We will not name the _Bright_ ideas in fashion long ago,
Nor condescend to thoughts that may be anything like _Lowe_.
Reform debates are very sober things, but still
They don’t go on successfully without a _Mill_.
Stick therefore to your points, and let us hope you’ll bring,
For all who are inclined _to roam_, a _Whalley-ping_.
We meet to-night to take the young idea by storm,
And quote the latest standard for reform.
We vote for Boyhood suffrage—that’s our motto,
We want no Dull uns’ cave, or hole, or grotto,
But urge that all our boys should boldly take their stand,
And in a solemn League go hand in hand,
And try to put down all the wrong that rules
In play-grounds, workshops, cricket-fields, or schools.
“Reform, complete and genuine Reform,” that is our maxim,
No bribery or corruption, or £7 rate to tax him;
But let each boy, who has a good opinion he can quote,
Be free to use, as best he can, his vote.
Now, Gentlemen, the weighty question lies with you,
Sift well its points, and show us something new.
Don’t fear, in studying the welfare of a lad,
To say of shuffling measures, “_Dis really_ is too bad.”
Don’t fear the Opposition, and to each who axes,
Say “Every one for all, and bother taxes.”— (_Cheers._)

Mr. ALEC BOYCE _rose and said_—

I take it that this point is ceded,
Namely, that Universal Boyhood Suffrage is needed.
I fear—(_Opposition, hear! hear!_)
I fear the subject is too vast for me to hold in hand,
So just upon one point I take my stand.
The point, in fine, is this; it’s plain and clear as day,
Reform is greatly needed with our boys at play;
I take it that in this debate the use is,
To “let fly” at our popular abuses.
Now what is it we see in almost every school?
Why right is the exception, wrong the rule.

Mr. WALTER STANLEY (_interrupting_).

I think, if, Mr. Speaker, I might make so bold,
The honourable member should be told—

SPEAKER.

Hold!
My duty is to take down several pegs
Whoever spars at any member when he’s on his legs.

Mr. ALEC BOYCE _resumes_.

The thread of my discourse is tangled; what I want to say
Is this, that boys are often awfully unfair in play,
Trench on the rights of youngsters, tease and frighten,
Make heavier the burdens which they ought to lighten,
Turn bullies, fag the weakest, and, in short,
Do many things which members of a play-ground never ought.
I know a school, not many hundred miles from here,
Where practices prevail which at the least are queer.
For instance, I have sometimes heard a boy declare,
With all the bombast of a champion’s air,
That he was best man in the school; and he would prove his right
By calling any trembling unfledged urchin out to fight;
Now fighting, gentlemen, is not to be applauded, and I say
That he’s the better man who does not fight, but runs away.

(_Opposition, Nay!_)

Neigh as you will, ay, even till you’re _hoarse_,
(_A racy_ bit of humour comes of _course_,)
I’ll say _nae mair_, but still, if fight he must, I hope
You’ll recommend his joining Garibaldi or the Pope.
And in that self-same school an evil still prevails,
Of settling disputes by means of heads and tails.
I hold it, Sir, unparliamentary for us to toss in air
The likeness of our sovereign lady fair,
And make her settle, whether or not she chooses,
Such points as “Heads I win, and tails he loses.”
I move, therefore, as one important clause in our reforming rules,
Leave fighting for the Pope, and “tossing” for his bulls.
Time will not now permit, or I would seek to show
How many more important measures we might take in tow,
And change _in toto_ many evil things which sway
The conduct of Young England when at play.
But as the hour advances, I feel, Sir, it is meet
That I should—er—hem! er—take my seat.

(_Satirical cries of “Hear, hear,” from the Opposition, and immense
applause from Arthur Mortram, the other member on the Ministerial
bench._)

Mr. WALTER STANLEY.

I rise in some surprise, to tell my noble friend,
Who brought his speech to such a cheery end,
That however much he is inclined to tax his mind,
Great faults in play-ground practices to find,
I have no hesitation, er—hem! in declaring,
That while in some degree his feeling sharing,
I cannot be in ignorance of the fact how much he lacked
A forcible expression of his views, and, did I chose,
I think I should be justified in saying
He made foul statements on fair playing.
He stated in a most decisive way—

Mr. ALEC BOYCE.

Allow me just to say—

Mr. WALTER STANLEY.

Eh?

Mr. ALEC BOYCE.

I wish to say in explanation, and for fear—

Mr. OSWALD LAYTON.

Hear! hear!

Mr. ARTHUR MORTRAM.

I rise to order, Mr. Speaker, and should like to know—

CHORUS.

Oh! oh!

Mr. SPEAKER, _in a passion_.

Chair, gentlemen! To wonder now at Balaam’s ass were weak,
It seems the custom for such animals to speak.

Mr. WALTER STANLEY _resumes_.

The point I wish to touch upon, if not amiss, is simply this—
An evil very great prevails, on which some folks are often joking,
I mean in sober seriousness the evil habit some boys have of smoking.
I cannot walk in London through a street
Unless some little rag-a-muffin boys I meet,
Smoking their pipes; or if young gentlemen they are,
Perhaps they sport a penny pickwick, or cigar.
I fear that many honourable members will get warm
At hearing that this habit needs a great reform.
I will not say a word about the habit as indulged by men,
Or raise the question of the “Counterblast” again;
Let each man please himself who’s old enough to know
Whether it’s good or bad, respectable or low.
But if there is a thing that makes me sad,
Or drives me into desperation, nearly mad,
It is to see behind a great cigar
A youngster who, if his good pa and ma
Knew what the little fellow was about,
Would quickly put their tempers, and his smoking, out.
But arguments are needed; it will not take me long
To find a backer to my statement that tobacco smoking’s wrong.
And first—If I’d a puppy, and I wanted all to know
That I could stop his growth and keep him low,
In very early dog days I’d begin
To dose the little fellow well with gin;
And if I wished to enervate a boy,
The fire and vigour of his life destroy,
And all his brightness and his briskness mar,
I’d daily give the little fellow a cigar.
Second—To keep my dog respectable, I’d make him stay at home,
He’d lose his character were he with other dogs to roam;
He’d learn to fight and quarrel, bite and bark—

Mr. A. MORTRAM.

“It is their nature too.”

Mr. WALTER STANLEY.

(The Doctor’s quite beside the mark.)
And when a boy likes smoke, he’s sure to try and find
Some other smoky fellows suited to his mind,
And very soon his native goodness they’ll destroy,
And he will soon become a bacca-nalian boy.
Third. If my pup has been and gone and done what is not right,
’Tis pitiful to see him slinking home at night;
His ears are back, his tail is down, his eyes
Have lost their merriment, and don’t look wise,
And while he suffers justly his disgrace,
He throws a gloom and coldness through the place.
So with a boy who smokes, or acts in any sort
His better sense and conscience seek to thwart,
He soon grows sly and underhanded in his ways,
He spoils his future in his early days;
He apes the man, and when he comes to man’s estate,
The love of boyish recollections turns to hate.
If any one, I care not who he is, is careless as a lad,
Dishonourable, sly, or mean, he’s sure to “turn out bad.”
And he who does a foolish thing, like smoking, let me say,
At once should give it up—it’ll give it him some day.
So, gentlemen, I beg you take this smoking citadel by storm,
And vote for anti-bacca in your measures of Reform.

Mr. A. MORTRAM.

I think the honourable gentleman who just now spoke
In such a piping tone of boys not consuming their own smoke
Should bear in mind in what direction he would cast his pearls,
Our movement takes in boys but not excludes the girls.

(_Cheers in the Ladies’ gallery._)

And therefore his ideas are narrow, unless he meant to try
And show that it was equally injurious for girls to pipe their eye.
The subject of my speech is—to be brief—

Mr. OSWALD LAYTON—That’s a relief.

Mr. ALEC BOYCE—Chair! chair!

Mr. ARTHUR MORTRAM.

Gentlemen, forbear! The sentence I began
Is this. The subject of my speech is “slang;”
We need Reform, a radical reform; we ought to teach
The Saxon, Lindley Murray parts of speech,
Use sparingly flash words imported from abroad,
Not always echoing the late Artemus Ward.
We want to root out words that pass as English in the town,
Learn lessons from, not imitate, a Sketchley’s “Mrs. Brown.”
We ought to cry down common phrases such as these—
“It’s all my eye,” I’m certain that is “not the cheese.”
’Twere better for a boy or girl to sit quite still and dumb
Than call their Father “Governor,” or Mother “Mum.”
Some call their fellows “bloke,” or “thing,” or “cove,”
Appeal to Jingo, Gimini, and George, and Jove;
Are “awfully” delighted, or “hideously” pleased,
Are suited “all to pieces,” or “villanously” teased.
If any man is tipsy they say he’s “screwed,” or “tight;”
Is any one ill-dressed? then he’s a “horrid fright;”
If one’s removed, he’s “mizzled,” “hooked it,” or else “cut;”
If any one is crazy, then he’s “off his nut;”
If appetite is bad, a man is “off his chump;”
Who pays for anything, must first “shell out,” or “stump.”
And so on—I might give a hundred sayings more,
But you would think me green, or p’raps a “bore.”
Yet, gentlemen, I cannot take my seat until I stoutly say
These slang expressions spoil the converse of our day.
They make young people flippant, loose in thought and speech,
And not worse English than worse morals do they teach,
For serious subjects have their slang expressions, but I dare
Not quote them here, so, Mr. Speaker, I forbear.
Yet ere I take my seat, I trust, my honourable friends, you will
Bring in the measure I propose in your forthcoming Bill.

Mr. OSWALD LAYTON.

Mr. Speaker, gentlemen, a certain sage
Was pleased to call our present time the iron age;
I will not argue on that point, but let it pass,
It seems to me the present is the age of brass.
At borrowed phrases the last speaker made a shy
In borrowed jokes allow me to reply—
Well, that the speech last heard was sound, it cannot be denied,
Grant that, and then it will be found, it’s little else beside.
The speech, no doubt, will be immortal of our friend,
For he who hears it, hears it to no end.

(_Mr. W. Stanley, hear! hear!_)

We must admit, though, that his speeches have great weight,
We’ve found it hard to bear them oft of late;
And also that his arguments are quite profound
For not a bit can anybody see the ground.
“Some say his wit’s refined, thus is explained
The seeming mystery—his wit is strained—
No wonder, therefore, the debate falls dead
Beneath such close and constant fire of lead.”
I will not occupy the meeting very long,
I wish to ask one question,—Am I right or wrong?
Each gentleman _exposed_ the faults he had been chiding,
Would it not be better, Sir, to give those faults a _hiding_?
I think we have been nibbling at our subject all the night
Instead of saying all we ought to say outright.
I say, Let every boy and girl throughout the land
On radical reform come boldly out and stand;
Fight against wrong in every shape and dress,
Gain for our slighted cause a sound redress;
Be manly, womanly, in everything they do,
And keep the true and blessed ends of life in view;
Succour the weak, be kind to foe and friend,
Tell old men it is not too late to mend;
Take children tempted into wrong and sin,
And seek for better ends their hearts to win;
And show through life’s dull day, and cloud, and storm,
The peace and shelter found beneath Reform!

(_Loud cheers_)

The Speaker vacates the chair and comes to the front of the platform—

MR. MERRY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, it is proposed that we should now go
into a Committee of the whole house.

You’ve listened patiently to all that has been spoken—
You listen still, and so we take it as a token
That you approve the measures that we think are needed,
And which, we fear, by many folks are scarcely heeded;
So, you who would enroll yourselves beneath our banner,
Will signify it in the usual manner.

The Government and the Opposition, everybody in the room, and the servants who were crowding round the door, held up their hands immediately, and the Bill was carried amid such enthusiasm as is rarely seen even in the House. And as the speakers came down from the platform, headed by Tom Martin, who played “We won’t go home till morning,” (no doubt under the impression that that best expressed the habits of Members of Parliament,) they were cheered all the way to the refreshment room, where they amicably settled their political differences over lemonade and sherry.

* * * * *

How fast time flies when the evening is being merrily spent! Who would have thought it was supper-time already? But so it was, and the lads and lasses were fast pairing off for that event, when a loud rat-tat was heard at the door.

“What, fresh arrivals at this time of night!” said one or two. “I wonder who it can be!”

“It is a surprise of some sort or other,” said Ada Martin; “I am quite sure it is. I can tell it by the twinkle in Mr. Merry’s eye.”

Rat-tat, again and again, at the door.

“I can’t bear this suspense any longer,” said Emily Cathcart; “I must peep.” But the door was closed, and a firm hand on the outside kept it fast.

“I say it’s a Punch and Judy,” said one.

“No; I say it’s Christy’s Minstrels,” said another.

“I believe it’s fireworks, to go off on the lawn,” said Arthur Mortram.

And in the midst of the speculations the doors were thrown open, and the visitors were announced:

Mr. W. H. G. KINGSTON.
Mr. R. M. BALLANTYNE.
Mr. EDWIN HODDER.
Mrs. MONA BICKERSTAFFE.
Mr. SIDNEY DARYL.
Mr. R. HOPE MONCRIEFF.
COUSIN CYNTHA.

As each name was announced a buzz of welcome was heard, for every name was associated with bright and happy recollections, and every one in the room felt (as every child in the land feels) that the authors of the tales which had been their delight for years could not be other than their friends. So there was a great deal of hand-shaking, and many a kind and cheery word given to the youngsters, and then Old Merry said:

“Let us give one good hearty cheer of welcome to our friends, and then off to supper. And when that is over we will have our chairs brought round the fire, and I may promise you, on behalf of my good friends here, that each in turn will spin you a Christmas yarn. Now, hip! hip!”—and if the visitors had not been thoroughly accustomed to youngsters they would have been stunned and staggered at the “hurrah!” which burst from every lip.

The fund of conversation which the new arrivals furnished for the supper table was unlimited; but anxiety was so great to be back again in the drawing-room, that the time usually allowed on such occasions for refreshment was very much curtailed.

The chandeliers glistened and the fires burnt as they only do on Christmas Eve. A large ring, with double rows of seats, was made all round the room, and then the stories commenced. We will give them in the order in which they came, and omit the occasional interruptions which attended, and the questions and criticisms which followed, every story.

[2] As some of our young friends may like to guess out the word for themselves, it is withheld, but will be published in the January number of “Merry and Wise.”

FROZEN UP; OR, MY POLAR EXPERIENCES.

_By WILLIAM HENRY KINGSTON, Author of “Peter the Whaler,” “Washed Ashore,” &c., &c._

You ask for a yarn, my friends. I’ll spin you one with all my heart. You are all agreed that Christmas is a merry time. It ought to be so with you who have many kind friends around you, a warm, blazing fire, plenty of roast beef and plum-pudding, and other satisfactory things; and good houses, and warm clothing, and numberless other blessings, spiritual as well as temporal. But, I say boys, that should not allow us to forget that there are thousands of our fellow-creatures, and of our fellow-countrymen, too, who are perhaps at this moment starving and freezing—dying of cold and hunger. Those who have never suffered themselves are apt not to think of the sufferings to which others are exposed. I, however, can never forget a winter I spent—where do you think? In Scotland. Oh, no. Shetland? Further north. Iceland? Further north still. At the North Pole, or, at least, not far off it. I went to sea in the old “Grampus,” Greenland whaler, from Hull, for a summer trip, hoping to be back with my friends by the end of October. The old “Grampus” was barque-rigged, 350 tons burden, carried six whale-boats, three hung up on each side, and a crew of fifty men, all told—consisting of harpooners, boat-steerers, line-managers, coopers, carpenters, foremast-men, landsmen, and apprentices. Each man was to have a share in the profits on every whale caught, so that all were interested. The ship was very strongly built, with ice-knees to withstand the pressure of the ice. When I examined her, and observed that her bows were one mass of wood, I thought that nothing could harm her. I little knew, at that time, the tremendous power of masses of ice when grinding together, though no storm is raging over head, and the sea beneath may seem calm as a mill-pond. Our courses, that is our lower sails, were differently shaped to those of an ordinary merchantman, being narrow at the foot, and fitted with booms, so that they would swing round of themselves when, as was often the case, a few hands only were left on board to work the ship. But an important feature in our ship, in common with other whalers, by which she might be known at a distance, was the “crow’s nest” at her maintop-gallant-mast head. It was like a big cask, and contained a seat, and a place for a telescope, a speaking-trumpet, a flag, and a few other articles. Here an officer was stationed, when whales were supposed to be near, to watch for their appearance. Our boats were different to those in general use aboard trading vessels, the stem and stern were alike, and were about twenty-six feet long. Each carried six whale-lines, of 120 fathoms in length, and harpoons and lances, an axe for cutting the line should it foul, and many other articles. The boats pulled from four to six oars. The captain, or one of the mates, acted as harpooner, the boat-steerer ranked next to him, and the line-manager took the third place. The crew were formed into divisions according to the number of boats, and thus each division consisted of a harpooner, boat-steerer, line-manager, and four or five rowers. The harpooner had command, and when in pursuit pulled the bow oar. I looked forward, with great delight, to the cruise. To see a real, palpable iceberg—not a mere painted one in a panorama—and huge living whales caught, was, I thought, worth going all round the world for, and would amply repay me for any danger I might have to overcome during the short summer trip I expected to make. Captain Blowhard, the master of the “Grampus,” was a relative of my mother, and had offered to take me as a supernumerary in his own cabin. If I liked a sea life I was to continue in it as a profession, but if not, I was to return on shore and learn to wield a pen or a yard measure, instead of a harpoon or a sword. The full complement of our crew, including some of our best men, was to be made up at Lerwick, in Shetland, where we called to take them on board. We remained three days in the Sound, off the chief of those treeless but highly picturesque islands, and, I must say, that a more hospitable, kind-hearted, pleasant-mannered people I never met. They have, however, one grievous cause of complaint. The map-makers will persist in putting their group of islands up in an out-of-the-way corner of the maps, so that a very large proportion of the human race do not know where they are really to be found. In spite of this, however, they are a tolerably happy and contented community. Away we sailed on our voyage, which was anything but a smooth one, for we were tumbled and tossed about by the big waves in a manner which I thought must shake even our stout ship to pieces. They did not, however; and, towards the end of April, our captain showed me our position on the map, not far from Davis Straits. The next morning, going on deck, the sky very blue, the sea tolerably smooth, and the sun shining brightly, though the air was unusually keen, I saw close to us, towering up high above the masts of the ship, a white, floating mountain—an iceberg—pure as alabaster. Curiously shaped peaks formed the upper part, which seemed to rest on a base of arches, forming the mouths of caverns, of the most delicate blue tint. The peaks glittered brightly in the sunbeams, and every instant seemed to change their shape, either as the berg moved slowly round, or we passed by. I exclaimed that I had never seen anything so magnificent. “Wait a bit, youngster, you’ll see stranger sights than that before long,” observed Sam Grummet, our first mate, who had followed the fortunes of Captain Blowhard for the best part of his life. I had one shipmate of about my own age, “Jack;” he had another name, but he was never called anything but Jack. He and I soon became fast friends, though he was before the mast and I was in the cabin. Then there was Sandy Dow, a boat-steerer, a true-hearted and an honest Shetlander. He took an interest in me from the first; not a mere fancy, but because I was young, thoughtless, and inexperienced, and he earnestly wished to do me good. A few days passed away after we got among icebergs, and we were in hourly expectation of making the ice. Even in calm weather it requires great vigilance to discover an opening into which the ship may sail, but when blowing hard, as it did when we entered Davis Straits, it was a very anxious time. The danger was, however, chiefly from the washing pieces of ice, which are often large masses just even with the water. An experienced hand was stationed at each yard-arm throughout the night to look out for them. My wonder was, as I saw the men up there, that they did not drop asleep and fall off, as I am sure that I should have done. At length, a collection of sheets of ice appeared one morning ahead of us, with passages between them, into which no sooner did we run than we found the sea smooth as a mill-pond. Gaily we glided along, sometimes through narrow lanes, at other times across broad lakes bordered by ice. Our crow’s nest, and boats, and gear, were got ready, the first being occupied during the day by a look-out, for any moment whales might appear, and the boats would start in chase. We were at this time sailing along the coast of Greenland, and, although we were from twelve to twenty miles off it, so lofty are the mountains, and so pure the atmosphere, that often it appeared as if we were close under them. Indeed, when we at length stood in for the land, it seemed as if it was actually drawing back from us, so long did we sail on and yet seemed to be getting no nearer. I remembered the story of some of the old navigators who, in consequence of this, thought the country was an enchanted one, and rather than venture on it put about and made the best of their way home again.

As the season advanced, the days gradually increased in length, till the sun itself was visible at midnight, and darkness was banished from our part of the globe. Still, there was a difference, for the night always seemed calmer and more quiet than the day. At length, our ears were gladdened by a shout from the crow’s nest of “A fish, a fish; she spouts, she spouts.” The crew had till then been moving leisurely about, but, in an instant, all were in a state of the greatest excitement. Three boats were sent away in pursuit. No one, by rule, goes in the boats except those who row or steer; but just as Sandy Dow’s boat was shoving off I slipped in, and so eager was everybody to be off that they did not stop to put me on board again. Away we dashed, the water foaming up at our bows. Sandy’s practised eye had marked the spot where the whale had gone down, and well he knew where it would come up again. On we went, and there was a whirling in the waters, and the monster’s back rose gradually out of it, while a column of steam-like vapour ascended into the air.

Our harpooner, who pulled the bow oar, rose from his seat. For an instant he stood with his weapon in hand, then darted it with all his strength against the side of the whale, into which it sunk deeply. We were fast. Downwards plunged the whale, the line flying out with lightning rapidity, making the timber over which it passed smoke with the friction. We had but short time for breathing. “She’ll soon be up again,” observed Sandy. So, indeed, she was, when we again hauled up to her with the line, and three lances were plunged into her sides. The agony made her spring almost out of the water. Then down she went, as if she could thus free herself from her tormentors, but the depths of the ocean are no permanent home for the whale, she must come up to breathe. She soon, therefore, appeared, and again we were at her. As we drew near, I saw a huge body in between us and the bright sun, and instantly afterwards there was a loud flop, and a thick shower of a ruddy liquid descended on our heads. We had reason to be thankful that the whale’s tail did not strike us instead of the water, or there would not have been much left either of the boat or crew to pick up. We backed out of the monster’s way, for she was, in her flurry, twisting and turning, and lashing the water, till she was surrounded by a mass of crimson foam, while our crew cheered lustily at the thought of the prize they had won, for such a whale as we had now killed is worth not much less than five hundred pounds. Meantime one of the other boats had got fast to another whale, a huge monster, which was giving a great deal of trouble. As soon, therefore, as our capture turned over on her side, and showed that she was dead, we stuck a flag into her, and, hauling in our lines, went to the assistance of our shipmates. Fearing that the whale would after all escape them, they closed in on her, to plunge a fresh harpoon into her side. Loud cries for help reached our ears. With one sweep of her tail she had knocked the boat to pieces, and we feared had killed some if not all of the crew. We dashed on with redoubled speed. “Make fast to her, make fast,” shouted the harpooner, whom we met swimming towards us. All the other men whom we saw had secured oars with which to support themselves, and seemed in no way distressed. We accordingly approached the whale. Another harpoon, and a fresh shower of darts, were fixed in her, and not till then would the crew consent to be taken on board. Two poor fellows had, however, been struck by the whale, and must have been instantly killed, for they sank immediately.

But I have not time to give you an account of all the whales we killed. We were unusually successful for the season of the year and that side of the bay. We had now to cross over to the west side, in some of the bays on which coast whales were said to abound. To effect this, we were obliged to pass through the middle ice, a work of great labour and often of danger. The route chosen by our captain was round by the north, across Melville Bay. At first we got on merrily enough, a course of northerly winds having blown the ice to the southward. After a time, however, the favourable wind ceased, and the ice drifting slowly back, we were obliged to commence cutting our way through it. While it moved thus gently, with our ice saws we cut a canal towards the nearest piece of clear water we could see ahead, and towed the ship along it. Then, perhaps, we were able to make sail for an hour or so, once more to find a barrier drawn across our course. Sometimes for a whole day together the crew were sawing and towing, and I heard some of them say that they might have to go on that way for a month. Still they kept their tempers, and worked with a will, in the hopes of getting a full ship at the end. I was awaked, however, one morning, by hearing the captain summoned on deck, and when I followed him there I saw nothing but long faces, and not without good reason. The clouds were flying rapidly overhead from the S.S.W., and the ice was moving along and upheaving in a peculiarly ominous manner. No time was lost in getting out the ice saws to cut a dock into which to tow the ship. This is a work of great labour, but all hands worked with a will, for they well knew that the safety of the ship depended on the speed with which it was accomplished. The ship had just been towed into the dock, when the ice to the southward began to lift and heave more violently than before. I saw the captain, Mr. Grummet, Sandy Dow, and other old hands, looking out anxiously, and I guessed not without good cause. There was a loud rumbling crashing sound, something like thunder, and yet more terrible. Not a single spot of clear water could be seen, but far as the eye could reach towards the south there appeared huge masses of ice rising with their edges uppermost, leaping and overlapping each other, tearing and crushing those below them to pieces. Still on they pressed, mass behind mass, the places of those which rose up in front immediately supplied by others in the rear. The ice surrounding us was in violent commotion. Closer and closer it pressed around. Suddenly, as if pushed towards us by some unseen giant’s hand, a huge floe came gliding on. “A nip, a nip,” cried the crew. Calmly the captain had stood watching the upheaving of the icy sea. He now ordered all hands to bring their bedding and clothes on deck. Some casks of provision had already been got up. These were lowered on to the ice alongside, and rolled to a distance. The crew followed, each man laden with as much as he could carry. Captain Blowhard brought up the rear with his chronometer, compass, sextant, and other nautical instruments and books. He had scarcely got thirty yards from the ship when she was caught between two huge masses of ice, which came sweeping by. Her stout timbers could no more resist the prodigious pressure than could a wicker basket. One moment I looked round, and she stood with her yards and rigging complete; the next, a grinding and crashing sound reached my ears, and when I again looked she was a mass of wreck, her tall masts falling, and her sides literally pressed together till they met.

Part of the floe had gone underneath her, and then rising, had cast up her cargo and stores, scattering them around, with portions of the deck and bulwarks, and the boats. “I never knew anything happen but what it might be worse,” observed Sandy Dow, as he stood looking at the wreck. “There, see what Providence has done for us. Our good ship is lost, there’s no doubt about that; but the provisions, and stores, and boats are saved, and with their help we may yet see our homes again.” These words roused the drooping spirits of our men, few of whom had before seen so complete a wreck as was our good ship the “Grampus.” All hands were immediately set to work to collect the various articles, and to drag them to that part of the ice which appeared most secure.

Scarcely had the mischief been done than the commotion ceased, in consequence of the wind falling, probably to the southward, and also of the strength of the barriers which had been thrown up outside us. Looking north, there appeared to be one unbroken field of ice, while some thirty miles away we could see a lofty cliff, which showed us our position. That distant sight of land, barren and inhospitable as we knew it to be, somewhat cheered our spirits, as we hoped that, should the ice again break up, we might then at all events find firm footing for our feet. We had no lack of materials for building huts or tents, and these having been erected, and fires lighted, the men were ordered to refresh themselves, and take some rest. In a few hours the men were ready for work, when they commenced constructing sleighs on which to drag our stores to the land. Later in the year we should have been safe where we were, but it would at present have been hazardous to remain, lest the ice should move away to the southward, and break up before we could escape from it. Our boats, too, had received so much damage, that they were incapable of conveying us to any of the Danish settlements before they had received a considerable amount of repair. Though the cape looked so near, we found it a very long journey to get there. Most of the crew made three trips before all the articles we required were conveyed to the spot which had been fixed on for our encampment. We still entertained the hope that other whalers might pass by within sight of the cape, and that we should get on board them. A large quantity of stores and provisions were still left on the ice, which it was supposed we should not require. Week after week, however, passed by, the ice remained firm, and no whaler appeared to take us off. Captain Blowhard began to look very grave. I observed to him that I thought we might make ourselves very comfortable where we were till another season. “You do not know what an arctic winter is, my lad,” he answered. “But it is not that. It is bad enough to lose one’s ship, but I am thinking of those at home who will be mourning us as dead. It is the thought of their grief which makes me sad.” Our good old captain always thought of others more than of himself.

I might spin a very long yarn about all the things that happened to us, but I have not time. The cold of an arctic winter soon began with all its rigour. We had built huts with stones and earth, and parts of the wreck which we had dragged over the ice, but we were very much cramped, and when the cold began in earnest it penetrated into the interior, and we could not keep ourselves warm even with our thick clothing in bed. As soon, however, as the snow fell, the captain ordered ice-huts to be built, the snow serving as mortar. Large slabs of ice were cut out and built up as if they had been blocks of stone, and with them eight huts were formed of the shape of bee-hives. Each hut held from three to five people comfortably. A long passage led to it, with three different slabs, which served as doors; a slab of clear ice was placed on the top to serve as a window. The bed-places were built of snow, covered over thickly with the twigs of a low shrub which grew on the hill side. This, the captain told us, was exactly the fashion of the Esquimaux huts. We had brought several casks of whale’s blubber, and this served us for fuel, and gave us light and warmth; without it we could not have existed. We had a number of shallow metal washhand basins, these were filled with oil, and along one half of the edge of each a row of wicks, made of moss, was arranged; on the opposite side a piece of blubber was hung up, which, as it gradually melted, replenished the basin with oil. This was in imitation of the lamps used by the Esquimaux. One amply warmed each hut. By thus taking a lesson from those we were accustomed to call ignorant savages, we were enabled to exist, and retain our health, when otherwise we must have perished. Our only fear was that the blubber would not hold out till we could make our escape. Our first huts had been built close under the cliff; but, for the convenience of obtaining ice, we had placed those we now occupied at some distance, close to the water, or, rather, where the water would have been had it not been frozen. Our boats, and a good many of our stores, had been left under the cape. One night—now that the winter had begun the night occupied the greater part of the twenty-four hours—we were aroused by a tremendous rushing, thundering sound. I slept in a hut with Mr. Grummet, Sandy Dow, and the youngest mate. They hurriedly put on their clothes and ran out. I followed their example, though I felt almost frozen in an instant by the bitter wind which met us, for a storm was raging. By the twilight which prevails in that region during night, we could see huge pieces of the cliff and masses of snow come tumbling down in quick succession, one after the other. It was a perfect avalanche, and in a few minutes the whole spot where our summer huts had stood, and where our stores and boats now were, was completely overwhelmed. Some of the men even ran away from our present abode, thinking that that also would be overwhelmed, but the captain shouted to them to stand fast, as he was sure that the falling cliff would not reach us, nor did it.