Of the three children’s stories which remain—“The Settlers,” “The Children of the New Forest,” and “The Little Savage”—the second is most likely to be interesting to children, and the last is, in part at least, the most original. There is something rather gruesome in the picture of the child born on a desert island, and growing up by the side of a ruffian who bullies him. The natural savagery of the human animal is developed in him unchecked, and Marryat has shown some power in the scenes in which the boy discovers the helplessness of his companion, who has been blinded by a flash of lightning, and then turns on him with cool ferocity. But the promise of the beginning is not kept. “The Little Savage” becomes didactic—full of repetitions—and ends by being more than a little tiresome. On the whole, after all, “The Children” is better. Our old friends, the Cavaliers and Roundheads, are less new than “The Little Savage,” but they last out more briskly. It is a child’s story of merit—nothing more—and the historical erudition of it, if somewhat shallow, is on a level with that of more pretentious books. “The Privateersman” has a certain interest as being the last of Marryat’s sea stories, and as a picture, or at least a rough sketch, of the strange old privateer life of which “The Voyages and Cruises of Commodore Walker” is almost our only record from the inside. It is not a pleasant book, or a strong. Moreover, Marryat puts his hero in the very most ignoble position any hero was ever in. It may be safely laid down as a rule that under no conditions ought a gentleman to desert a woman in a forest full of Red American Indians. It is one of those things which a gentleman cannot do. Now the hero of “The Privateersman” does it—and the deduction is obvious. The story has touches which remind one of “Colonel Jack,” but it is too clearly a book written simply to fill space in a magazine. Marryat’s fun had gone when he wrote it for Harrison Ainsworth and The New Monthly Magazine. “Valerie,” a species of Japhet in petticoats, is not even all Marryat’s, and was, in any case, written when he was slowly dying.
CHAPTER X.
The weakness which proved fatal to Marryat had shown itself while he was still a young lieutenant in the West Indies. He had then been invalided home for rupture of a blood vessel in the lungs, and a military doctor “also certified to his tendency to ‘hæmoptysis,’ and prophesied that, without great care, ‘the most dangerous and perhaps fatal results’ would be the consequence” of rashness. The danger had passed at that time—had probably been avoided by the use of care—and for many years Marryat had to all appearance been a very robust man. He was of the best possible height and build for strength. He was some five feet ten inches high, with broad deep chest, and his muscular force was exceptionally great. His portrait, as far as it can be judged of from the engraving prefixed to “Frank Mildmay,” gives the impression of a man of boundless energy, open-faced, alert, and keen-eyed. He was black-haired with blue eyes, and his beard grew so thick and so fast that he was compelled to shave twice a day. When he came to Langham, in 1843, his strength was apparently still unbroken, and he might appear sure of long years of health and capacity for work. But it is clear that there was more appearance than reality in his strength. When a man has turned fifty he begins to suffer for the unwisdom of former years. Marryat, unfortunately, had never given himself any quarter. He had spared himself no burden a man can lay upon his strength. He had played and worked to excess, had lived in a whirl of nervous excitement, had spent beyond his means in constitution as well as in purse. If he had not spent his summer while it was May—at least he had run through it far too soon. Langham, which might have given him rest, was only the scene of more nervous excitement, more strenuous work. In 1847 the end began. In August of that year he speaks, in a letter to his sister, of having recently ruptured two blood vessels. The following letter shows that the accident occurred in London, but Marryat returned to Langham, and remained there till the want of medical advice likely to inspire more confidence than a country doctor’s drove him to London again. He remained at his mother’s house at Wimbledon for two months, and from it wrote to Lord Auckland, then at the Admiralty, on December 14th.
“My Lord,—When I had the honour of an audience with you, in July last, your lordship’s reception was so mortifying to me that, from excitement and annoyance, after I left you I ruptured a blood vessel, which has now for nearly five months laid me on a bed of sickness.
“I will pass over much that irritated and vexed me, and refer to one point only. When I pointed out to your lordship the repeated marks of approbation awarded to Captain Chads—and the neglect with which my applications had been received by the Admiralty during so long a period of application—your reply was ‘That you could not admit such parallels to be drawn, as Captain Chads was a highly distinguished officer,’ thereby implying that my claims were not to be considered in the same light.
“I trust to be able to prove to your lordship that I was justified in pointing out the difference in the treatment of Captain Chads and myself. The fact is that there are no two officers who have so completely run neck and neck in the service, if I may use the expression. If your lordship will be pleased to examine our respective services, previous to the Burmah War, I trust that you will admit that mine have been as creditable as those of that officer; and I may here take the liberty of pointing out to your lordship that Sir G. Cockburn thought proper to make a special mention relative to both our services, and of which your lordship may not be aware.
“During the Burmah War Captain Chads and I both held the command of a very large force for several months—both were promoted on the same day, and both received the honour of the Order of the Bath—and, on the thanks of Government being voted in the House of Commons to the officers, and on Sir Joseph York, who was a great friend of Captain Chads, proposing that he should be particularly mentioned by name, Sir G. Cockburn rose and said that it would be the height of injustice to mention that officer without mentioning me.
“I trust the above statement will satisfy your lordship that I was not so much to blame when I drew the comparison between our respective treatment—Captain Chads having hoisted his commodore’s pennant in India, having been since appointed to the Excellent, and lately received the good service pension; while I have applied in vain for employment, and have met with a reception which I have not deserved.