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21 Reprinted Pieces by Charles Dickens
Scanned and proofed by David Price
ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Reprinted Pieces
THE LONG VOYAGE
WHEN the wind is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against
the dark windows, I love to sit by the fire, thinking of what I
have read in books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a
strong fascination for my mind from my earliest childhood; and I
wonder it should have come to pass that I never have been round the
world, never have been shipwrecked, ice-environed, tomahawked, or
eaten.
Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year's Eve, I
find incidents of travel rise around me from all the latitudes and
longitudes of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but
appear and vanish as they will - 'come like shadows, so depart.'
Columbus, alone upon the sea with his disaffected crew, looks over
the waste of waters from his high station on the poop of his ship,
and sees the first uncertain glimmer of the light, 'rising and
falling with the waves, like a torch in the bark of some
fisherman,' which is the shining star of a new world. Bruce is
caged in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall
often startle him out of his sleep at home when years have passed
away. Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland journey -
would that it had been his last! - lies perishing of hunger with
his brave companions: each emaciated figure stretched upon its
miserable bed without the power to rise: all, dividing the weary
days between their prayers, their remembrances of the dear ones at
home, and conversation on the pleasures of eating; the last-named
topic being ever present to them, likewise, in their dreams. All
the African travellers, wayworn, solitary and sad, submit
themselves again to drunken, murderous, man-selling despots, of the
lowest order of humanity; and Mungo Park, fainting under a tree and
succoured by a woman, gratefully remembers how his Good Samaritan
has always come to him in woman's shape, the wide world over.
A shadow on the wall in which my mind's eye can discern some traces
of a rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearful story of travel
derived from that unpromising narrator of such stories, a
parliamentary blue-book. A convict is its chief figure, and this
man escapes with other prisoners from a penal settlement. It is an
island, and they seize a boat, and get to the main land. Their way
is by a rugged and precipitous sea-shore, and they have no earthly
hope of ultimate escape, for the party of soldiers despatched by an
easier course to cut them off, must inevitably arrive at their
distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by any hazard
they survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they all must have
foreseen, besets them early in their course. Some of the party die
and are eaten; some are murdered by the rest and eaten. This one
awful creature eats his fill, and sustains his strength, and lives
on to be recaptured and taken back. The unrelateable experiences
through which he has passed have been so tremendous, that he is not
hanged as he might be, but goes back to his old chained-gang work.
A little time, and he tempts one other prisoner away, seizes
another boat, and flies once more - necessarily in the old hopeless
direction, for he can take no other. He is soon cut off, and met
by the pursuing party face to face, upon the beach. He is alone.
In his former journey he acquired an inappeasable relish for his
dreadful food. He urged the new man away, expressly to kill him
and eat him. In the pockets on one side of his coarse convict-
dress, are portions of the man's body, on which he is regaling; in
the pockets on the other side is an untouched store of salted pork
(stolen before he left the island) for which he has no appetite.
He is taken back, and he is hanged. But I shall never see that
sea-beach on the wall or in the fire, without him, solitary
monster, eating as he prowls along, while the sea rages and rises
at him.
Captain Bligh (a worse man to be entrusted with arbitrary power
there could scarcely be) is handed over the side of the Bounty, and
turned adrift on the wide ocean in an open boat, by order of
Fletcher Christian, one of his officers, at this very minute.
Another flash of my fire, and 'Thursday October Christian,' five-
and-twenty years of age, son of the dead and gone Fletcher by a
savage mother, leaps aboard His Majesty's ship Briton, hove-to off
Pitcairn's Island; says his simple grace before eating, in good
English; and knows that a pretty little animal on board is called a
dog, because in his childhood he had heard of such strange
creatures from his father and the other mutineers, grown grey under
the shade of the bread-fruit trees, speaking of their lost country
far away.
See the Halsewell, East Indiaman outward bound, driving madly on a
January night towards the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of
Purbeck! The captain's two dear daughters are aboard, and five
other ladies. The ship has been driving many hours, has seven feet
water in her hold, and her mainmast has been cut away. The
description of her loss, familiar to me from my early boyhood,
seems to be read aloud as she rushes to her destiny.
'About two in the morning of Friday the sixth of January, the ship
still driving, and approaching very fast to the shore, Mr. Henry
Meriton, the second mate, went again into the cuddy, where the
captain then was. Another conversation taking place, Captain
Pierce expressed extreme anxiety for the preservation of his
beloved daughters, and earnestly asked the officer if he could
devise any method of saving them. On his answering with great
concern, that he feared it would be impossible, but that their only
chance would be to wait for morning, the captain lifted up his
hands in silent and distressful ejaculation.
'At this dreadful moment, the ship struck, with such violence as to
dash the heads of those standing in the cuddy against the deck
above them, and the shock was accompanied by a shriek of horror
that burst at one instant from every quarter of the ship.
'Many of the seamen, who had been remarkably inattentive and remiss
in their duty during great part of the storm, now poured upon deck,
where no exertions of the officers could keep them, while their
assistance might have been useful. They had actually skulked in
their hammocks, leaving the working of the pumps and other
necessary labours to the officers of the ship, and the soldiers,
who had made uncommon exertions. Roused by a sense of their
danger, the same seamen, at this moment, in frantic exclamations,
demanded of heaven and their fellow-sufferers that succour which
their own efforts, timely made, might possibly have procured.
'The ship continued to beat on the rocks; and soon bilging, fell
with her broadside towards the shore. When she struck, a number of
the men climbed up the ensign-staff, under an apprehension of her
immediately going to pieces.
'Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered to these unhappy beings the
best advice which could be given; he recommended that all should
come to the side of the ship lying lowest on the rocks, and singly
to take the opportunities which might then offer, of escaping to
the shore.
'Having thus provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safety
of the desponding crew, he returned to the round-house, where, by
this time, all the passengers and most of the officers had
assembled. The latter were employed in offering consolation to the
unfortunate ladies; and, with unparalleled magnanimity, suffering
their compassion for the fair and amiable companions of their
misfortunes to prevail over the sense of their own danger.
'In this charitable work of comfort, Mr. Meriton now joined, by
assurances of his opinion, that, the ship would hold together till
the morning, when all would be safe. Captain Pierce, observing one
of the young gentlemen loud in his exclamations of terror, and
frequently cry that the ship was parting, cheerfully bid him be
quiet, remarking that though the ship should go to pieces, he would
not, but would be safe enough.
'It is difficult to convey a correct idea of the scene of this
deplorable catastrophe, without describing the place where it
happened. The Haleswell struck on the rocks at a part of the shore
where the cliff is of vast height, and rises almost perpendicular
from its base. But at this particular spot, the foot of the cliff
is excavated into a cavern of ten or twelve yards in depth, and of
breadth equal to the length of a large ship. The sides of the
cavern are so nearly upright, as to be of extremely difficult
access; and the bottom is strewed with sharp and uneven rocks,
which seem, by some convulsion of the earth, to have been detached
from its roof.
'The ship lay with her broadside opposite to the mouth of this
cavern, with her whole length stretched almost from side to side of
it. But when she struck, it was too dark for the unfortunate
persons on board to discover the real magnitude of the danger, and
the extreme horror of such a situation.
'In addition to the company already in the round-house, they had
admitted three black women and two soldiers' wives; who, with the
husband of one of them, had been allowed to come in, though the
seamen, who had tumultuously demanded entrance to get the lights,
had been opposed and kept out by Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, the
third and fifth mates. The numbers there were, therefore, now
increased to near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a chair, a cot, or
some other moveable, with a daughter on each side, whom he
alternately pressed to his affectionate breast. The rest of the
melancholy assembly were seated on the deck, which was strewed with
musical instruments, and the wreck of furniture and other articles.
'Here also Mr. Meriton, after having cut several wax-candles in
pieces, and stuck them up in various parts of the round-house, and
lighted up all the glass lanthorns he could find, took his seat,
intending to wait the approach of dawn; and then assist the
partners of his dangers to escape. But, observing that the poor
ladies appeared parched and exhausted, he brought a basket of
oranges and prevailed on some of them to refresh themselves by
sucking a little of the juice. At this time they were all
tolerably composed, except Miss Mansel, who was in hysteric fits on
the floor of the deck of the round-house.
'But on Mr. Meriton's return to the company, he perceived a
considerable alteration in the appearance of the ship; the sides
were visibly giving way; the deck seemed to be lifting, and he
discovered other strong indications that she could not hold much
longer together. On this account, he attempted to go forward to
look out, but immediately saw that the ship had separated in the
middle, and that the forepart having changed its position, lay
rather further out towards the sea. In such an emergency, when the
next moment might plunge him into eternity, he determined to seize
the present opportunity, and follow the example of the crew and the
soldiers, who were now quitting the ship in numbers, and making
their way to the shore, though quite ignorant of its nature and
description.
'Among other expedients, the ensign-staff had been unshipped, and
attempted to be laid between the ship's side and some of the rocks,
but without success, for it snapped asunder before it reached them.
However, by the light of a lanthorn, which a seaman handed through
the skylight of the round-house to the deck, Mr. Meriton discovered
a spar which appeared to be laid from the ship's side to the rocks,
and on this spar he resolved to attempt his escape.
'Accordingly, lying down upon it, he thrust himself forward;
however, he soon found that it had no communication with the rock;
he reached the end of it, and then slipped off, receiving a very
violent bruise in his fall, and before he could recover his legs,
he was washed off by the surge. He now supported himself by
swimming, until a returning wave dashed him against the back part
of the cavern. Here he laid hold of a small projection in the
rock, but was so much benumbed that he was on the point of quitting
it, when a seaman, who had already gained a footing, extended his
hand, and assisted him until he could secure himself a little on
the rock; from which he clambered on a shelf still higher, and out
of the reach of the surf.
'Mr. Rogers, the third mate, remained with the captain and the
unfortunate ladies and their companions nearly twenty minutes after
Mr. Meriton had quitted the ship. Soon after the latter left the
round-house, the captain asked what was become of him, to which Mr.
Rogers replied, that he was gone on deck to see what could be done.
After this, a heavy sea breaking over the ship, the ladies
exclaimed, "Oh, poor Meriton! he is drowned; had he stayed with us
he would have been safe!" and they all, particularly Miss Mary
Pierce, expressed great concern at the apprehension of his loss.
'The sea was now breaking in at the fore part of the ship, and
reached as far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce gave Mr. Rogers a
nod, and they took a lamp and went together into the stern-gallery,
where, after viewing the rocks for some time, Captain Pierce asked
Mr. Rogers if he thought there was any possibility of saving the
girls; to which he replied, he feared there was none; for they
could only discover the black face of the perpendicular rock, and
not the cavern which afforded shelter to those who escaped. They
then returned to the round-house, where Mr. Rogers hung up the
lamp, and Captain Pierce sat down between his two daughters.
'The sea continuing to break in very fast, Mr. Macmanus, a
midshipman, and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked Mr. Rogers what they
could do to escape. "Follow me," he replied, and they all went
into the stern-gallery, and from thence to the upper-quarter-
gallery on the poop. While there, a very heavy sea fell on board,
and the round-house gave way; Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek at
intervals, as if the water reached them; the noise of the sea at
other times drowning their voices.
'Mr. Brimer had followed him to the poop, where they remained
together about five minutes, when on the breaking of this heavy
sea, they jointly seized a hen-coop. The same wave which proved
fatal to some of those below, carried him and his companion to the
rock, on which they were violently dashed and miserably bruised.
'Here on the rock were twenty-seven men; but it now being low
water, and as they were convinced that on the flowing of the tide
all must be washed off, many attempted to get to the back or the
sides of the cavern, beyond the reach of the returning sea.
Scarcely more than six, besides Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer,
succeeded.
'Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station, was so nearly exhausted, that
had his exertions been protracted only a few minutes longer, he
must have sunk under them. He was now prevented from joining Mr.
Meriton, by at least twenty men between them, none of whom could
move, without the imminent peril of his life.
'They found that a very considerable number of the crew, seamen and
soldiers, and some petty officers, were in the same situation as
themselves, though many who had reached the rocks below, perished
in attempting to ascend. They could yet discern some part of the
ship, and in their dreary station solaced themselves with the hopes
of its remaining entire until day-break; for, in the midst of their
own distress, the sufferings of the females on board affected them
with the most poignant anguish; and every sea that broke inspired
them with terror for their safety.
'But, alas, their apprehensions were too soon realised! Within a
very few minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers gained the rock, an
universal shriek, which long vibrated in their ears, in which the
voice of female distress was lamentably distinguished, announced
the dreadful catastrophe. In a few moments all was hushed, except
the roaring of the winds and the dashing of the waves; the wreck
was buried in the deep, and not an atom of it was ever afterwards
seen.'
The most beautiful and affecting incident I know, associated with a
shipwreck, succeeds this dismal story for a winter night. The
Grosvenor, East Indiaman, homeward bound, goes ashore on the coast
of Caffraria. It is resolved that the officers, passengers, and
crew, in number one hundred and thirty-five souls, shall endeavour
to penetrate on foot, across trackless deserts, infested by wild
beasts and cruel savages, to the Dutch settlements at the Cape of
Good Hope. With this forlorn object before them, they finally
separate into two parties - never more to meet on earth.
There is a solitary child among the passengers - a little boy of
seven years old who has no relation there; and when the first party
is moving away he cries after some member of it who has been kind
to him. The crying of a child might be supposed to be a little
thing to men in such great extremity; but it touches them, and he
is immediately taken into that detachment.
From which time forth, this child is sublimely made a sacred
charge. He is pushed, on a little raft, across broad rivers by the
swimming sailors; they carry him by turns through the deep sand and
long grass (he patiently walking at all other times); they share
with him such putrid fish as they find to eat; they lie down and
wait for him when the rough carpenter, who becomes his especial
friend, lags behind. Beset by lions and tigers, by savages, by
thirst, by hunger, by death in a crowd of ghastly shapes, they
never - O Father of all mankind, thy name be blessed for it! -
forget this child. The captain stops exhausted, and his faithful
coxswain goes back and is seen to sit down by his side, and neither
of the two shall be any more beheld until the great last day; but,
as the rest go on for their lives, they take the child with them.
The carpenter dies of poisonous berries eaten in starvation; and
the steward, succeeding to the command of the party, succeeds to
the sacred guardianship of the child.
God knows all he does for the poor baby; how he cheerfully carries
him in his arms when he himself is weak and ill; how he feeds him
when he himself is griped with want; how he folds his ragged jacket
round him, lays his little worn face with a woman's tenderness upon
his sunburnt breast, soothes him in his sufferings, sings to him as
he limps along, unmindful of his own parched and bleeding feet.
Divided for a few days from the rest, they dig a grave in the sand
and bury their good friend the cooper - these two companions alone
in the wilderness - and then the time comes when they both are ill,
and beg their wretched partners in despair, reduced and few in
number now, to wait by them one day. They wait by them one day,
they wait by them two days. On the morning of the third, they move
very softly about, in making their preparations for the resumption
of their journey; for, the child is sleeping by the fire, and it is
agreed with one consent that he shall not be disturbed until the
last moment. The moment comes, the fire is dying - and the child
is dead.
His faithful friend, the steward, lingers but a little while behind
him. His grief is great, he staggers on for a few days, lies down
in the desert, and dies. But he shall be re-united in his immortal
spirit - who can doubt it! - with the child, when he and the poor
carpenter shall be raised up with the words, 'Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.'
As I recall the dispersal and disappearance of nearly all the
participators in this once famous shipwreck (a mere handful being
recovered at last), and the legends that were long afterwards
revived from time to time among the English officers at the Cape,
of a white woman with an infant, said to have been seen weeping
outside a savage hut far in the interior, who was whisperingly
associated with the remembrance of the missing ladies saved from
the wrecked vessel, and who was often sought but never found,
thoughts of another kind of travel came into my mind.
Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly summoned from home, who
travelled a vast distance, and could never return. Thoughts of
this unhappy wayfarer in the depths of his sorrow, in the
bitterness of his anguish, in the helplessness of his self-
reproach, in the desperation of his desire to set right what he had
left wrong, and do what he had left undone.
For, there were many, many things he had neglected. Little matters
while he was at home and surrounded by them, but things of mighty
moment when he was at an immeasurable distance. There were many
many blessings that he had inadequately felt, there were many
trivial injuries that he had not forgiven, there was love that he
had but poorly returned, there was friendship that he had too
lightly prized: there were a million kind words that he might have
spoken, a million kind looks that he might have given, uncountable
slight easy deeds in which he might have been most truly great and
good. O for a day (he would exclaim), for but one day to make
amends! But the sun never shone upon that happy day, and out of
his remote captivity he never came.
Why does this traveller's fate obscure, on New Year's Eve, the
other histories of travellers with which my mind was filled but
now, and cast a solemn shadow over me! Must I one day make his
journey? Even so. Who shall say, that I may not then be tortured
by such late regrets: that I may not then look from my exile on my
empty place and undone work? I stand upon a sea-shore, where the
waves are years. They break and fall, and I may little heed them;
but, with every wave the sea is rising, and I know that it will
float me on this traveller's voyage at last.
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER
THE amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful
purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the
Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions
of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable
harm he does to the deserving, - dirtying the stream of true
benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with
inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the
true currency we have always among us, - he is more worthy of
Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who are
sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent
there long ago.
I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen
receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been
made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any
one of the great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence.
I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has
besieged my door at all hours of the day and night; he has fought
my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in;
he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at
provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours;
he has written to me from immense distances, when I have been out
of England. He has fallen sick; he has died and been buried; he
has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory
scene: he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his
idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has
wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in; a pound to set him up in
life for ever; a pair of boots to take him to the coast of China; a
hat to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has
frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence.
He has had such openings at Liverpool - posts of great trust and
confidence in merchants' houses, which nothing but seven-and-
sixpence was wanting to him to secure - that I wonder he is not
Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment.
The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a
most astounding nature. He has had two children who have never
grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who
have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food;
who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose,
has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a
disinfectant); who have never changed in the least degree through
fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering
woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an
interesting situation through the same long period, and has never
been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has
never cared for himself; HE could have perished - he would rather,
in short - but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband,
and a father, - to write begging letters when he looked at her?
(He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an
answer to this question.)
He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his
brother has done to him would have broken anybody else's heart.
His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the
money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum and
left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to
the tune of hundreds a-year, if he would have consented to write
letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible
with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit
his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a
spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don't
know, but he has never taken it out. The broker's man has grown
grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.
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