FOOTNOTES:
[2] See article, 'A Child's Toy,' in No. 418.
FOOD OF THE ARCTIC REGIONS—FRANKLIN'S EXPEDITION.
A certain class of reasoners have argued themselves into the belief that, setting all other considerations aside, Sir John Franklin and his companions must have necessarily perished ere now from lack of food. When the four years, or so, of provisions he took out with him for the large crews of the vessels were all consumed, how, say they, would it be possible for so great a number of men to obtain food sufficient to support life in those awfully desolate regions? Let us examine the question a little.
Men in very cold climates certainly require a much larger amount of gross animal food than in southern latitudes—varying, of course, with their particular physical constitutions. Now, let us grant—though we do not positively admit it—that, however the provisions taken from England may have been economised, they have, nevertheless, all been consumed a couple of years ago, with the exception of a small quantity of preserved meats, vegetables, lemon-juice, &c. kept in reserve for the sick, or as a resource in the last extremity. As to spirits, we have the testimony of all arctic explorers, that their regular supply and use, so far from being beneficial, is directly the reverse—weakening the constitution, and predisposing it to scurvy and other diseases; and that, consequently, spirits should not be given at all, except on extraordinary occasions, or as a medicine. Sir John Ross, in his search of the North-West Passage in 1829, and following years, early stopped the issue of spirits to his men, and with a most beneficial result. Therefore, the entire consumption of the stock of spirits on board Sir John Franklin's ships must not be regarded as a deficiency of any serious moment.
We shall then presume, that for upwards of two years the adventurers have been wholly dependent on wild animals, birds, and fish for their support. Here it becomes an essential element of consideration to form some approximate idea of the particular locality in which the missing expedition is probably frozen. Captain Penny tracked it up Wellington Strait and thence into Victoria Channel—a newly-discovered lake or sea of unknown extent, which reaches, for anything that can be demonstrated to the contrary, to the pole. It has long been noticed, that the mere latitude in the arctic regions is far from being a certain indication of the degree of cold which might naturally be expected from a nearer approach to the pole. For instance, cold is more intense in some parts of latitude 60 degrees than in 70 or 77 degrees; but this varies very much in different districts of the coast, and in different seasons; and we may remark in passing, that whenever there is a particularly mild winter in Britain, it is the reverse in the arctic regions; and so vice versâ. The astonishment of Captain Penny on discovering the new polar sea in question was heightened by the fact, that it possessed a much warmer climate than more southern latitudes, and that it swarmed with fish, while its shores were enlivened with animals and flocks of birds. Moreover, trees were actually floating about: how they got there, and whence they came, is a mysterious and deeply-interesting problem. Somewhere in this sea Sir John Franklin's ships are undoubtedly at this moment. We say the ships are; for we do not for one moment believe that they have been sunk or annihilated. It is not very likely that any icebergs of great magnitude would be tossing about this inland sea in the summer season—in winter its waters would be frozen—and in navigating it, the ships would, under their experienced and judicious commander, pursue their unknown way with extreme caution and prudence. It is more probable that they were at length fast frozen up in some inlet, or that small floating fields of ice have conglomerated around them, and bound them in icy fetters to the mainland. Or it may be that Franklin sailed slowly along this mystic polar sea, until he reached its extremity and could get no farther; and that extremity would actually seem to be towards the Siberian coasts. One thing is quite certain—namely, that so far as Captain Penny's people were able to penetrate the channel—several hundred miles—there was no indication whatever that up to that point Franklin had met with any serious calamity, or that he had suffered from a fatal deficiency of the necessaries of life.
Wherever his exact position may be, there is every reason to suppose that the country around him produces a supply of food at least equal to any other part of the arctic regions; and probably much more than equal, owing to the greater mildness of the climate. But we will only base our opinion on the fair average supply of food obtainable in the arctic regions generally; and now let us see what result we shall fairly arrive at.
The first consideration that strikes us, is the fact that all over these icy regions isolated tribes of natives are to be met with; and they do not exist in a starved and almost famished condition, like the miserable dwellers in Terra del Fuego, but in absolute abundance—such as it is. When Sir John Ross's ship was frozen up during the remarkably severe winter of 1829-30, in latitude 69 degrees 58 minutes, and longitude 90 degrees, he made the following remarks concerning a tribe of Esquimaux in his vicinity, which we quote as being peculiarly applicable to our view of the subject:—'It was for philosophers to interest themselves in speculating on a horde so small and so secluded, occupying so apparently hopeless a country—so barren, so wild, and so repulsive, and yet enjoying the most perfect vigour, the most well-fed health, and all else that here constitutes not merely wealth, but the opulence of luxury, since they were as amply furnished with provisions as with every other thing that could be here necessary to their wants.'
'Yes,' exclaims our friend the reasoner, 'but the constitution of an Esquimaux is peculiarly adapted to the climate and food: what he enjoys would poison a European; and he also possesses skill to capture wild animals and fish, which the civilised man cannot exercise.' Is this true? We answer to the first objection: only partially true; and the second, we utterly deny. The constitution of vigorous men—and all Franklin's crew were fine, picked young fellows—has a marvellous adaptability. It is incredible how soon a man becomes reconciled to, and healthful under, a totally different diet from that to which he has been all his life accustomed, so long as that change is suitable to his new home. We ourselves have personally experienced this to some extent, and were quite amazed at the rapid and easy way in which nature enabled us to enjoy and thrive on food at which our stomach would have revolted in England or any southern land. In every country in the world, 'from Indus to the pole,' the food eaten by the natives is that which is incomparably best suited to the climate. In the frozen regions, and every cold country, the best of all nourishment is that which contains a large proportion of fat and oil. In Britain, we read with disgust of the Greenlander eagerly swallowing whale-oil and blubber; but in his country, it is precisely what is best adapted to sustain vital energy. Europeans in the position of Franklin's crew would become acclimatised, and gradually accustomed to the food of the natives, even before their own provisions were exhausted; and after that, we may be very sure their appetites would lose all delicacy, and they would necessarily and easily conform to the usages, as regards food, of the natives around them. We may strengthen our opinion by the direct and decisive testimony of Sir John Boss himself, who says: 'I have little doubt, indeed, that many of the unhappy men who have perished from wintering in these climates, and whose histories are well known, might have been saved had they conformed, as is so generally prudent, to the usages and the experience of the natives.' Undoubtedly they might!
Secondly, as to the Europeans being unable to capture the beasts, birds, and fishes so dexterously as the natives, we have reason to know that the reverse is the case. It is true that the latter know the habits and haunts of wild creatures by long experience, and also know the best way to capture some of them; but a very little communication with natives enables the European to learn the secret; and he soon far excels his simple instructors in the art, being aided by vastly superior reasoning faculties, and also by incomparably better appliances for the chase. Firearms for shooting beasts and birds, and seines for catching fish, render the Esquimaux spears, and arrows, and traps mere children's toys in comparison. Moreover, a ship is never frozen up many weeks, before some wandering tribe is sure to visit it; and all navigators have found the natives a mild, friendly, grateful people, with fewer vices than almost any other savages in the World. They will thankfully barter as many salmon as will feed a ship's crew one day for a file or two, or needles, or a tin-canister, or piece of old iron-hoop, or any trifling article of hardware; and so long as the vessel remains, they and other tribes of their kindred will frequently visit it, and bring animals and fish to barter for what is literally almost valueless to European adventurers.
An important consideration, is the variety of food obtainable in the arctic regions. We need not particularly classify the creatures found in the two seasons of summer and winter, but may enumerate the principal together. Of animals fit for food are musk-oxen, bears, reindeer, hares, foxes, &c. Of fish, there is considerable variety, salmon and trout being the chief and never-failing supply. Of birds, there are ducks, geese, cranes, ptarmigan, grouse, plovers, partridges, sand-larks, shear-waters, gannets, gulls, mollemokes, dovekies, and a score of other species. We personally know that the flesh of bears, reindeer, and some of the other animals, is most excellent: we have partaken of them with hearty relish. As to foxes, Ross informs us that, although his men did not like them at first, they eventually preferred fox-flesh to any other meat! And as to such birds as gannets and shear-waters, which are generally condemned as unpalatable, on account of their fishy taste, we would observe that the rancid flavour exists only in the fat. Separate it, and, as we ourselves can testify, the flesh of these birds is little inferior to that of the domestic pigeon, when either boiled or roasted. The majority of the creatures named may be captured in considerable numbers, in their several seasons, with only ordinary skill. But necessity sharpens the faculties of men to an inconceivable degree; and when the life of a crew depends on their success in the chase, they will speedily become expert hunters. It is true that the wild animals habitually existing in a small tract of country may soon be thinned, if not altogether exterminated; but bears, foxes, &c. continue to visit it with little average diminution in numbers. The fish never fail. The quantity of salmon is said to be immense, and they can be preserved in stock a very long period by being simply buried in snow-pits. The birds also regularly make their periodical appearance. Besides, parties of hunters would be despatched to scour the country at considerable distances, and their skill and success would improve with each coming season. In regard to fuel, the Esquimaux plan of burning the oil and blubber of seals, the fat of bears, &c. would be quite effective. In the brief but fervid summer season, every inch of ground is covered with intensely green verdure, and even with flowers; and there is a great variety of wild plants, including abundance of Angelica, sorrel, and scurvy-grass, also lichens and mosses, all of antiscorbutic qualities. We have ourselves seen the Laplanders eat great quantities of the sorrel-grass; and the Nordlanders told us that they boiled it in lieu of greens at table. These vegetables might be gathered each summer, and preserved for winter use.
We repeat, that since the poor, ignorant natives live in rude abundance, and lack nothing for mere animal enjoyment of life, it is impossible to doubt that Europeans, who in intelligence and resources are a superior race of beings, can fail to participate equally in all things which the Creator has provided for the support of man in this extremity of the habitable globe; also let it be borne in mind, that half-a-dozen Esquimaux devour almost as much food every day as will suffice for a ship's crew. Sir John Ross declares, that if they only ate moderately, any given district would support 'double their number, and with scarcely the hazard of want.' He says that an Esquimaux eats twenty pounds of flesh and oil a day, and, in fact, never ceases from devouring until compelled to desist from sheer repletion. Speaking of one meal taken in their company, we have this edifying observation:—'While we found that one salmon and half of another were more than enough for all us English, these voracious animals (the Esquimaux) had devoured two each. At this rate of feeding, it is not wonderful that their whole time is occupied in procuring food: each man had eaten fourteen pounds of this raw salmon, and it was probably but a luncheon after all, of a superfluous meal for the sake of our society!.... The glutton bear—scandalised as it may be by its name—might even be deemed a creature of moderate appetite in comparison: with their human reason in addition, these people, could they always command the means, would doubtless outrival a glutton and a boa-constrictor together.'
Finally, we expressly deny that the Esquimaux can or do bear extreme cold and privations better than Englishmen who have been a season or two in their country. Arctic explorers testify that the natives always appeared to suffer from cold quite as much as Europeans; and what little we have ourselves seen of northern countries, induces us to give ample credence to this.
The conclusion, then, at which we arrive is this: that under such experienced and energetic leaders as Sir John Franklin and his chief officers, the gallant crews of the missing expedition have not perished for lack of food, and will be enabled, if God so wills, to support life for years to come. Great, indeed, their sufferings must be; for civilised men do not merely eat to sleep, and sleep to eat, like the Esquimaux; but they will be upheld under every suffering by a firm conviction that their countrymen are making almost superhuman exertions to rescue them from their fearful isolation. What the final issue will be, is known only to Him who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and can, if He deems meet, provide a way of deliverance when hope itself has died in every breast. Our individual opinion is, that it is not improbable the lost crews will, sooner or later, achieve their own deliverance by arriving at some coast whence they may be taken off, even as Ross was, after sojourning during four years of unparalleled severity. But it is the bounden duty of our country never to relax its efforts to save Franklin, until there is an absolute certainty that all further human exertions are in vain.
[We give the above as a paper on the food of the arctic regions, and can only hope that our correspondent's cheering views as to the fate of the missing expedition may prove to be correct.—ED.]
THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE.
On a cold evening in January—one of those dark and gloomy evenings which fill one with sadness—there sat watching by the bed of a sick man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and two pretty children—a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. The exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness: everything announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty. A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature. His historical works had won for him a European celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labour.
An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to be intended for the use of this poor family, shewed that his wife and daughter—this gentle child whose large dark eyes were so full of sadness—endeavoured by the work of their hands to make up for the unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother, taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her children into the adjoining room, which served both as antechamber and dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously colouring some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and raising her tearful eyes towards heaven, she seemed to be thanking the Almighty, and in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children.
Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the invalid. 'Just the same, doctor,' said Mme G——.
The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments attentively on the sleeper, whilst the poor wife fixed her eyes on the doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.
'Is there no hope, doctor?' she asked in a choking voice, as she conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause she said: 'There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many obligations you have already laid me under!'
'Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist,' replied the young doctor.
'I must then renounce this desire,' said Mme G—— sighing.
The next morning Henry—so the little boy was called—having assisted his mother and his sister Marie in their household labours, dressed himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out.
'Go, my child,' said his mother; 'go and breathe a little fresh air: your continual work is injurious to you.'
The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps towards the drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was breakfasting alone with his wife, when Henry entered.
'There, my dear,' He said to her, as he perceived Henry; 'there is the cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to do me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish to say to me?'
'Sir, my father is very ill—the doctor fears that he may die: poor mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would you, sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray, sir, do not refuse me!' said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on the artist.
'Impossible, Henry—impossible!' replied the painter. 'I am paid three thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at present to finish.'
'But, my dear,' interposed his wife, 'it seems to me that this portrait would take you but little time: think of the poor mother, whose husband will so soon be lost to her for ever.'
'It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the Louvre in a fortnight, for I cannot miss the Exposition this year. But stay, my little friend, I will give you the address of several of my pupils: tell them I sent you, and you will certainly find some one of them who will do what you wish. Good-morning, Henry!'
'Good-by, my little friend,' added the lady. 'I hope you may be successful.' The boy took his leave with a bursting heart.
Henry wandered through the gardens of the Luxembourg, debating with himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he held in his hand. Fearing that his new efforts might be equally unsuccessful, he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh refusals, when he was accosted by a boy of his own age, his fellow-student at the drawing-school. Jules proposed that they should walk together; then observing Henry's sadness, he asked him the cause. Henry told him of his mother's desire; their master's refusal to take the portrait; and of his own dislike to apply to those young artists, who were strangers to him.
'Come with me,' cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. 'My sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our father and mother died when we were both very young. She is so kind and so fond of me that I am very sure she will not refuse.'
The two boys traversed the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the merry, joyous face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other. When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de l'Ouest, and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth storey of which Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him. He tapped gaily at a little door, which a young servant opened: he passed through the antechamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of Emily d'Orbe, the sister of Jules.
She appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated cultivation and amiability. Her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in front, and fastened up behind à l'antique: but she wore no ribbon, no ornament—nothing but what was necessary. The furniture of the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally simple: a little divan, some chairs and two arm-chairs covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest form; two engravings, the 'Spasimo di Sicilia' and the 'Three Maries,' alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows, not for ornament, but to moderate the light, according to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, on which rested some unfinished portraits, and a large painting representing Anna Boleyn embracing her daughter before going to execution.
When he entered, little Jules went first to embrace his sister; she tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as she returned to her easel: 'Now, my dear child, let me go on with my painting;' not, however, without addressing a friendly 'Good-morning' to Henry, who she thought had come to play with Jules.
Henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of terror, because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his request. He dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word 'impossible!' and he was going away, when Jules took him by the hand and drew him towards Emily. 'Sister,' he said, 'I have brought my friend Henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to him.'
'Jules,' she replied, 'let me paint; you know I have very little time. You are playing the spoiled child: you abuse my indulgence.'
'Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must really speak to Henry. If you knew how unhappy he is!'
Mlle d'Orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his pale and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued her painting: 'Forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is to be sent to the Exposition, and I have not a moment to lose, because, both for my brother's sake and my own, I wish it to do me credit. But speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that I will not refuse you anything that is in the power of a poor artist.'
Henry, regaining a little courage, told her what he desired: then Jules having related his friend's visit to their master, Henry added: 'But I see very well, mademoiselle, that you cannot do this portrait either, and I am sorry to have disturbed you.'
In the meantime little Jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend's request. Mlle d'Orbe was painting Anna Boleyn: she stopped her work; a struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked affectionately on the children. She, however, soon laid aside her pallett, and casting one glance of regret on her picture: 'I will take your father's portrait,' she said to Henry—'that man of sorrow, and of genius. Your mother's wish shall be fulfilled.'
She had scarcely uttered these words when a lady entered the room. She was young, pretty, and richly dressed. Having announced her name, she asked Mlle d'Orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition that it should be finished in time to be placed in the Exposition.
'It is impossible for me to have this honour, madame,' replied the artist: 'I have a picture to finish, and I have just promised to do a portrait to which I must give all my spare time.'
'You would have been well paid for my portrait, and my name in the catalogue would have made yours known,' added the young countess.
Mlle d'Orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely withdrawn, when taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced her brother, took Henry by the hand, and said to him: 'Bring me to your mother, my child.'
Henry flew rather than walked; Mlle d'Orbe could with difficulty keep up with him. Both ascended to the fifth storey in the house in the Rue Descartes, where this poor family lived. When they reached the door, Henry tapped softly at it. Mme G—— opened it.
'Mamma,' said the boy, trembling with emotion, 'this lady is an artist: she is come to take papa's portrait.' The poor woman, who had not hoped for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her lips the hands of Mlle d'Orbe, and could not find words to express her gratitude.
The portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate man was intense. She resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of art, for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted man, and her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest aspect.
Long sittings fatigued the invalid; so it was resolved to take two each day, and the young artist came regularly twice every day. As by degrees the strength of the sick man declined, the portrait advanced. At length, at the end of twelve days, it was finished: this was about a week before the death of M. G——.
At the same time that she was painting this portrait, Mlle d'Orbe worked with ardour on her large painting, always hoping to have it ready in time. This hope did not fail her until some days before the 1st of February. There was but a week longer to work: and this year she must abandon the idea of sending to the Exposition.
Some artists who had seen her picture had encouraged her very much; she could count, in their opinion, on brilliant success. This she desired with all her heart: first, from that noble thirst of glory which God has implanted in the souls of artists; and, secondly, from the influence it would have on the prospects of her little Jules, whom she loved with a mother's tenderness, and whom she wished to be able to endow with all the treasures of education. This disappointment, these long hours of toil, rendered so vain at the very moment when she looked forward to receive her reward, so depressed the young artist, that she became dangerously ill.
Mlle d'Orbe had very few friends, as she was an orphan, and lived in great retirement; she found herself therefore completely left to the care of her young attendant. When Jules met Henry at the drawing-school he told him of his sister's illness: Henry informed his mother, and Mme G—— immediately hastened to Mlle d'Orbe, whom she found in the delirium of a fever from which she had been suffering for some days. The servant said that her mistress had refused to send for a doctor, pretending that her illness did not signify. Mme G——, terrified at the state of her young friend, went out and soon returned with Dr Raymond.
The invalid was delirious: she unceasingly repeated the words—'portrait,' 'Anna Boleyn,' 'exposition,' 'fortune,' 'disappointed hopes;' which plainly indicated the cause of her illness, and brought tears into the eyes of Mme G——. 'Alas!' she said, 'it is on my account she suffers: I am the cause of her not finishing her picture. Doctor, I am very unfortunate.'
'All may be repaired,' replied the doctor: 'if you will promise to nurse the invalid, I will answer for her recovery.'
In fact, Mme G—— never left the sick-bed of Mlle d'Orbe. The doctor visited her twice in the day, and their united care soon restored the health of the interesting artist.
Mademoiselle was scarcely convalescent when she went to the Exposition of paintings at the Louvre, of which she had heard nothing—the doctor and Mme G—— having, as she thought, avoided touching on a subject which might pain her. She passed alone through the galleries, crowded with distinguished artists and elegantly-dressed ladies, saying to herself that perhaps her picture would have been as good as many which attracted the admiration of the crowd. She was thus walking sadly on, looking at the spot where she had hoped to have seen her Anna Boleyn, when she found herself stopped by a group of artists. They were unanimous in their praises. 'This is the best portrait in the Exposition,' said one. 'A celebrated engraver is about to buy from the artist the right to engrave this portrait for the new edition of the author's works,' said another. 'We are very fortunate in having so faithful a likeness of so distinguished a writer as M. G——.'
At this name Mlle d'Orbe raised her eyes, and recognised her own work! Pale, trembling with emotion, the young artist was obliged to lean on the rail for support; then opening the catalogue, she read her name as if in a dream, and remained for some time to enjoy the pleasure of hearing the praises of her genius.
When the Exposition closed she hastened to Mme G——, and heard that it was Dr Raymond who had conceived the happy idea of sending the portrait to the Louvre. 'My only merit is the separating myself for a time from a picture which is my greatest consolation,' added Mme G——.
From this day the young artist became the friend of the poor widow, whose prospects soon brightened. Through the influence of some of the friends of her lost husband, she obtained a pension from government—a merited but tardy reward! The two ladies lived near each other, and spent their evenings together. Henry and Jules played and studied together. Marie read aloud, while her mother and Mlle d'Orbe worked. Dr Raymond sometimes shared in this pleasant intercourse. He had loved the young artist from the day he had seen her renounce so much to do a generous action; but, an orphan like herself, and with no fortune but his profession, he feared to be rejected if he offered her his hand. It was therefore Mme G—— who charged herself with pleading his suit with the young artist.
Mlle d'Orbe felt a lively gratitude towards the young doctor for the care and solicitude he had shewn during her illness, and for sending her portrait to the Exposition. Thanks to him, she had become known; commissions arrived in numbers, a brilliant future opened before her and Jules. Mme G—— had, then, a favourable answer to give to her young friend, who soon became the husband of the interesting artist whose generous sacrifice had been the foundation of her happiness.
ACCIDENTS AT SEA.
On this subject an interesting return to an order of the House of Commons was lately made by the management of Lloyd's, and has caused some discussion in the public prints. The return applies to the four years ending December 1850; and during this period, it appears that the number of collisions, wrecks, and other accidents at sea, was 13,510; being at the rate of 3377 per annum, 9 per diem, or 1 for every 2¾ hours. Commenting on these details, the Times observes, that 'it must not be understood that every accident implies a total wreck, with the loss of all hands. If a ship carries away any of her important spars, or, on entering her port, strikes heavily against a pier, whereby serious damage is occasioned, the accident is duly registered in this pithy chronicle of Lloyd's. Nevertheless, as we glance up and down the columns, it is no exaggeration to say, that two-thirds of the accidents recorded are of the most serious description. We are unable to say to what degree this register of Lloyd's can be accepted as a fair index to the tragedies which are of such hourly occurrence upon the surface of the ocean. If all were known, we fear that this average of accident or wreck every 2¾ hours would be fearfully increased. The truth must he told. The incapacity of too many of the masters in the British mercantile marine has been the pregnant cause of loss to their owners and death to their crews. Men scarcely competent to take the responsibility of an ordinary day's work, or, if competent, of notoriously intemperate habits, were placed in command of sea-going ships through the parsimony or nepotism of the owners. The result of the educational clauses in the Mercantile Marine Bill of last session, will no doubt be to provide a much larger body of well-trained men, from among whom our shipowners can select the most competent persons for command.'
These observations called forth a reply from the President of the Seaman's Association, vindicating mariners from the charges so brought against them. A few passages from the letter of this respondent are worth noticing. 'Are British sailors,' he asks, 'really so bad as you represent? If so, then you condemn by implication the seamen of the United States, for they are also Anglo-Saxon. Let me direct your attention to a few facts bearing out this assertion. The desertions from the royal navy in 1846 (see Parliamentary Returns) were 2382; this is about 1 out of every 14 seamen annually. Nearly the whole of these men keep to the United States' service. Again, the desertions from Quebec in consequence of three things—first, low wages; secondly, register-tickets; thirdly, the payment of 1s., exacted from every man on shipment and discharge, to a shipping office, to uphold the Mercantile Marine Act, for which the men receive no value—were upwards of 1400 this season; and about 4000 from all other ports. From American statistics, it is proved that two-thirds of the seamen sailing in ships of the United States are British subjects; and if American ships are preferred to British, it must be because they are manned by our fine spirited tars. A large proportion of their ships are commanded by Englishmen.'
An effort, as is well known, has lately been made to elevate the character of British seamen, by means of registries under the Mercantile Marine Act, and the issuing of tickets, which must be produced by sailors. Our belief is, that much of the legislation on this subject has been injurious; as any law must be which attempts to regulate the bargains of employers and employed. It may be proper for master-mariners to be subjected to some kind of test of ability, but it appears to us that it would be equally beneficial to encourage young men to enter the profession. To pay well is, after all, the true way to get good servants. Why do British sailors desert to the American service? Because they are better paid. And having so deserted, they unfortunately cannot again procure employment under the British flag without producing a register-ticket, which, of course, they cannot do. Thus, picked men are permanently lost to the British navy. Besides offering higher wages, it might have proved extremely advantageous to open nautical schools for youths desirous of going to sea. According to existing arrangements, the sailor—like the French workman with his livret—is considered to be a child not fit to take care of himself; and the law interposes to say he shall do this, and do that, under a penalty for neglect of its provisions. This is to keep sailors in a state of perpetual tutelage; and being at variance with the principles of civil liberty, it is to be feared that the practice can lead to nothing but mischief.
As to wrecks, the cause of the chief disasters seems as often to be imperfect construction of vessels and imperfect stowage, as anything else; while loss of life for the greater part arises from a deficiency of boats, and the means of readily unshipping them. As victims of ill-made, badly-found, and rotten vessels, not to speak of land-sharks and sea-sharks—as the sufferers in life and limb when shippers and brokers may be actually benefiting from casualties—sailors, as a class, merit public sympathy instead of reproach or discouragement.
'VISIT TO AN ENGLISH MONASTERY.'
We have received a letter from the Abbot of Mount St Bernard's, pointing out, in courteous terms, several inaccuracies in the article which appeared with the above title in No. 413 of this Journal. Meat, it seems, is only 'strictly prohibited' to the healthy: it is allowed to the sick and infirm when prescribed by the doctor. Every night before compline the brethren meet to hear some pious lecture read, not to confess their thoughts to the superior. Instead of one meal a day, as stated by our correspondent, the lay-brethren, who are employed chiefly in manual labour, have at least two meals every day during the whole year, excepting fast-days; and the choir-brethren two meals a day during the summer, and one during the winter. To the latter, when they are of a weakly constitution, a collation is allowed in addition. The greatest error of all, however, appears to us to exist in the estimate formed of the abbot, who, judging by his correspondence, is evidently as informed and intelligent a person as is usually met with out of the monastic circle.
AMERICAN HOMAGE TO SHAKSPEARE AND MRS COWDEN CLARKE.
There is a work to which many of our readers are probably strangers, but which has roused the enthusiasm of the New World. It is a work of immense labour, which in writing and correcting proofs occupied its author sixteen years. This author is a lady, and the production on which she bestowed so much unwearied patience and perseverance, during a space of time equivalent in most cases to an entire literary life, is a Concordance to Shakspeare. 'Her work,' says Mr Webster, the American Secretary of State, 'is a perfect wonder, surprisingly full and accurate, and exhibiting proof of unexampled labour and patience. She has treasured up every word of Shakspeare, as if he were her lover, and she were his.' But Mr Webster and his countrymen were not satisfied even with such generous praise: they determined to present Mrs Clarke with an enduring testimonial of their gratitude and respect; and, accordingly, the ceremony has recently been performed by Mr Abbot Laurence, the American minister. The list of subscribers, we are told, 'contains names from Maine to Mexico. Even the far, far west, Wisconsin, Michigan, and Illinois, have contributed; whilst Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Maryland, Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and South Carolina, swell the list of the most distinguished American literati, embracing a fair sprinkling of fair ladies. There is even a subscriber from the shores of the Pacific.' The testimonial is an elaborately carved library chair, bearing on the top rail a mask of Shakspeare, copied in ivory from the Stratford bust, wreathed with oak-leaves and laurel, and shaded by the wings of two of 'Avon's swans.' Although an elegant and costly gift, however, in itself, there is attached to this testimonial a meaning and a value which we trust will make its due impression in the native land of Shakspeare—in that mother-country to which the eyes of her western descendants are thus turned in the lofty sympathy which binds together throughout the whole world the children and worshippers of genius.
TO WORDSWORTH.
The voice of Nature in her changeful moods
Breathes o'er the solemn waters as they flow,
And 'mid the wavings of the ancient woods
Murmurs, now filled with joy, now sad and low.
Thou gentle poet, she hath tuned thy mind
To deep accordance with the harmony
That floats above the mountain summits free—
A concert of Creation on the wind.
And thy calm strains are breathed as though the dove
And nightingale had given thee for thy dower
The soul of music and the heart of love;
And with a holy, tranquillising power
They fall upon the spirit, like a gleam
Of quiet star-light on a troubled stream.
M.A. Hoare.
INTELLECT DEVELOPED BY LABOUR.
Are labour and self-culture irreconcilable to each other? In the first place, we have seen that a man, in the midst of labour, may and ought to give himself to the most important improvements, that he may cultivate his sense of justice, his benevolence, and the desire of perfection. Toil is the school for these high principles; and we have here a strong presumption that, in other respects, it does not necessarily blight the soul. Next, we have seen that the most fruitful sources of truth and wisdom are not books, precious as they are, but experience and observation; and these belong to all conditions. It is another important consideration, that almost all labour demands intellectual activity, and is best carried on by those who invigorate their minds; so that the two interests, toil and self-culture, are friends to each other. It is mind, after all, which does the work of the world, so that the more there is of mind, the more work will be accomplished. A man, in proportion as he is intelligent, makes a given force accomplish a greater task; makes skill take the place of muscle, and with less labour, gives a better product. Make men intelligent, and they become inventive; they find shorter processes. Their knowledge of nature helps them to turn its laws to account, to understand the substances on which they work, and to seize on useful hints, which experience continually furnishes. It is among workmen that some of the most useful machines have been contrived. Spread education, and as the history of this country shews, there will be no bounds to useful invention.—Channing.
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