THE SAILOR’S SECRET.
In the year—let me see—but no matter about the date—my father and mother died of a typhus fever, leaving me to the care of an only relative, and uncle, by my father’s side. His name was Box, as my name is Box. I was a babby in long clothes at that time, not even so much as christened; so uncle, taking the hint, I suppose, from the lid of his sea-chest, had me called Bellophron Box. Bellophron being the name of the ship of which he was sailing-master.
I sha’n’t say anything about my education; though I was brought up in
A FIRST RATE BOARDING-SCHOOL.
It’s not much to boast of; but as soon as I could bear the weight of a cockade and a dirk, uncle got me a berth as midshipman on board his own ship. So there I was, Mr. Bellophron Box. I didn’t like the sea or the service, being continually disgusted at the partiality shown towards me, for in less than a month I was put over the heads of all my superior officers. You may stare—but it’s true; for I was mast-headed for a week at a stretch. When we put into port, Captain —— called me into his cabin, and politely informed me that if I chose to go on shore, and should find it inconvenient to return, no impertinent inquiries should be made after me. I availed myself of the hint, and exactly one year and two months after setting foot on board the Bellophron, I was Master Bellophron Box again.
Well, now for my story. There was one Tom Johnson on board, a fok’sell man, as they called him, who was very kind to me; he tried to teach me to turn a quid, and generously helped me to drink my grog. As I was unmercifully quizzed in the cockpit, I grew more partial to the society of Tom than to that of my brother middies. Tom always addressed me,’Sir,’ and they named me Puddinghead; till at last we might be called friends. During many a night-watch, when I have sneaked away for a snooze among the hen-coops, has Tom saved me from detection, and the consequent pleasant occupation of carrying about a bucket of water on the end of a capstan bar.
I had been on board about a month—perhaps two—when the order came down from the Admiralty, for the men to cut off their tails. Lord, what a scene was there! I wonder it didn’t cause a mutiny! I think it would have done so, but half the crew were laid up with colds in their heads, from the suddenness of the change, though an extra allowance of rum was served out to rub them with to prevent such consequences; but the purser not giving any definite directions, whether the application was to be external or internal, the liquor, I regret to say, for the honour of the British navy, was applied much lower down. For some weeks the men seemed half-crazed, and were almost as unmanageable as ships that had lost their rudders. Well, so they had! It was a melancholy sight to see piles of beautiful tails with little labels tied to them, like the instructions on a physic-bottle; each directed to some favoured relative or sweetheart of the curtailed seamen. What a strange appearance must Portsmouth, and Falmouth, and Plymouth, and all the other mouths that are filled with sea-stores, have presented, when the precious remembrances were distributed! I wish some artist would consider it; for I think it’s a shame that there should be no record of such an interesting circumstance.
One night, shortly after this visitation, it blew great guns. Large black clouds, like chimney-sweepers’ feather-beds, scudded over our heads, and the rain came pouring down like—like winking. Tom had been promoted, and was sent up aloft to reef a sail, when one of the horses giving way, down came Tom Johnson, and snap went a leg and an arm. I was ordered to see him carried below, an office which I readily performed, for I liked the man—and they don’t allow umbrellas in the navy.
“What’s the matter?” said the surgeon.
“Nothing particular, sir; on’y Tom’s broke his legs and his arms by a fall from the yard,” replied a seaman.
Tom groaned, as though he did consider it something very particular.
He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter, the ship pitching and tossing about as she did. I sat down beside his berth, holding on as well as I could. The wind howled through the rigging, making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an hour. Tom groaned most pitiably. I looked at him, and if I were to live for a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face. His lips were blue, and—no matter, I’m not clever at portrait painting: but imagine an old-fashioned Saracen’s Head—not the fine handsome fellow they have stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809—and you have Tom’s phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter’s palette. I was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, “Why T-o-o-m!”
“It’s all up, sir,” says he; “I must go; I feel it.”
“Don’t be foolish,” I replied; “Don’t die till I call the surgeon.” It was a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.
“No, no; don’t call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he’s done all he can, sir. But it’s here—it’s here!” and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or the back of his head, I couldn’t make out which.
I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.
“Mr. Box,” groaned Tom, “I’ve a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,”
“Indeed, Tom,” I replied; “hadn’t you better confess the mur—” murder, I was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom’s situation.
The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends. As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued—
“Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I’m sartin as how I should soon be easier.”
“Of course,” said I, “of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray your confidence.”
“Then come, come here,” gasped the suffering wretch; “give us your hand, sir.”
I instinctively shrunk back with horror!
“Don’t be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse,” and then his Saracen’s Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled the Belle Sauvage.
I couldn’t resist the appeal; so placing my hand in his, Tom put it over his shoulder, and, with a ghastly smile, said, “Pull it out, sir!”
“Pull what out?”
“My secret, Mr. Box; it’s hurting on me!”
I thought that he had grown delirious; so, in order to soothe him as much as possible, I forced my hand under his shirt-collar, and what do you think I found? Why, a PIGTAIL—his pigtail, which he had contrived to conceal between his shirt and his skin, when the barbarous order of the Admiralty had been put into execution.
A NAUTICAL TALE.
SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.
No. II.
You say you would find
But one, and one only,
Who’d feel without you
That the revel was lonely:
That when you were near,
Time ever was fleetest,
And deem your loved voice
Of all music the sweetest.
Who would own her heart thine,
Though a monarch beset it,
And love on unchanged—
Don’t you wish you may get it?
You say you would rove
Where the bud cannot wither;
Where Araby’s perfumes
Each breeze wafteth thither.
Where the lute hath no string
That can waken a sorrow;
Where the soft twilight blends
With the dawn of the morrow;
Where joy kindles joy,
Ere you learn to forget it,
And care never comes—
Don’t you wish you may get it?
“SYLLABLES WHICH BREATHE OF THE SWEET SOUTH.”
JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his flummery of no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go to Schaff-hausen, to try the Cant-on.
MARRIAGE AND CHRISTENING EXTRAORDINARY.
We beg to congratulate Lord John Russell on his approaching union with Lady Fanny Elliot. His lordship is such a persevering votary of Hymen, that we think he should be named “Union-Jack.”
OMINOUS.
LORD PALMERSTON, on his road to Windsor, narrowly escaped being upset by a gentleman in a gig. We have been privately informed that the party with whom he came in collision was—Sir Robert Peel.