After all, it is this fun which is the living element in Marryat’s work. Wit, or humour of the highest class, he cannot be said to have possessed, though he was by no means destitute of the sympathy which is inseparable from all true humour. The sketch of the mate, Martin, in “Midshipman Easy,” is a sufficient defence against the charge of want of feeling, if, indeed, it had ever been made. Many who have had a more visible anxiety to be pathetic than Marryat have failed to draw so touching a figure as this slight outline of the melancholy officer, in whom the disappointments of years have crushed all hope, without hardening or souring him. “No, no,” said the mate, when his acting order as lieutenant was brought him as he lay wounded in his hammock, “I knew very well that I never should be made. If it is not confirmed, I may live; but if it is, I am sure to die.” And die he does, because hope deferred has dried up the spring of life within him. In the character of Mr. Chucks kindness and fun are mingled. He is respectable in spite of his absurdities, and lovable because of them. In the Dominie in “Jacob Faithful” there is an effort to produce a second Mr. Chucks, but it is not successful. He is too plainly a reminiscence of another Dominie—a fairly well-done copy, but only a copy. For the most part the fun of Marryat belongs to the grotesque order. This, unquestionably, is not the highest. But what is not the highest may yet be genuine, and that Marryat’s fun, as the world has now recognized for half a century, undoubtedly is. His gallery of “figures of fun” is a long one. Peter Simple in the days before Terence O’Brien made a man of him; Jack Easy before he had been converted from a belief in the equality of all men; in a rougher way his father; Mr. Muddle; and, above all, Mr. Chucks, have an intrinsic comic vis. The fun which they make, or which goes on about them, is never mere horse-play. They are not mannikins of the stamp of Smollett’s Pallet, created only to be knocked about, and to make grimaces, but possible, and even probable, human beings—a little distorted, a little exaggerated, put frequently into such positions as are more fit for farce than comedy, but not on that account ceasing to be real.
“Mr. Smallsole’s violence made Mr. Biggs violent, which made the boatswain’s mate violent—and the captain of the forecastle violent also; all which is practically exemplified by philosophy in the laws of motion, communicated from one body to another; and as Mr. Smallsole swore, so did the boatswain swear. Also the boatswain’s mate, the captain of the forecastle, and all the men—showing the force of example.
“Mr. Smallsole came forward.
“‘Damnation, Mr. Biggs, what the devil are you about? Can’t you move here?’
“‘As much as we can, sir,’ replied the boatswain, ‘lumbered as the forecastle is with idlers.’ And here Mr. Biggs looked at our hero and Mesty, who were standing against the bulwark.
“‘What are you doing here, sir?’ cried Mr. Smallsole to our hero.
“‘Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Jack.
“‘Then I’ll give you something to do, sir. Go up to the mast-head, and wait there till I call you down. Come, sir, I’ll show you the way,’ continued the master, walking aft. Jack followed till they were on the quarter-deck.
“‘Now, sir, up to the maintop gallant mast-head; perch yourself upon the cross-trees—up with you.’