Peter Simple; and, The Three Cutters, Vol. 1-2

by Frederick Marryat

His former tenant had indeed shown but little respect for the property. Besides taking all he could out of the land without putting anything into it, he fitted up the drawing-room of the manor (which in its brightest days had been known in the village as the "Room of Thousand Columns," from an effect produced by mirrors set in the panels of folding doors, reflecting trellised pillars,) with rows of beds, which he let out to tramps at twopence a night!

Of these latter years on the farm we can gather some distinctly pleasant impressions. Marryat was evidently a good master at all times. He delighted to arrange for festivities in the servants' hall, but he was also very tolerant to poachers, and considered it his first duty to find work for his men when times were bad. His model pigsties and cottages were unpopular, but he loved his animals and understood them. The chief merit of his lazy and somewhat asinine pony Dumpling consisted in his talent for standing still. Upon this patient beast the captain would occasionally sally forth to shoot, assisting his natural short-sightedness by a curious "invention of his own;"—a plain piece of crystal surrounded by a strip of whalebone, hanging in front of his right eye from the brim of his "shocking bad hat." He was a careless dresser, but scrupulously clean; no smoker, but very fond of snuff. He had a fancy for pure white china which had to be procured from the Continent.

Cordial invitations from friends seldom drew him from his self-imposed labours, and it appears that, in spite of his son's debts and other domestic troubles, he led a fairly contented existence among his dogs and his children. To the latter, though occasionally passionate, he was "a most indulgent father and friend." He never locked anything away from them, or shut them out of any room in the house. Though severe on falsehood and cowardice, he was indifferent to mischief, and one is certainly driven to pity for the governess who was summoned to look after them. His methods in this connection were original. "He kept a quantity of small articles for presents in his secretary; and at the termination of each week the children and governess, armed with a report of their general behaviour, were ushered with much solemnity into the library to render up an account. Those who had behaved well during the preceding seven days received a prize, because they had been so good; and those who had behaved ill also received one, in hopes that they would never be naughty again: the governess was also presented with a gift, that her criticism on the justice of the transaction might be disarmed." The father was not a strict disciplinarian, and it is related that when a little one had made "a large rent in a new frock," for which she expected punishment from her governess, and ran to him for advice, he "took hold of the rent and tore off the whole lower part of the skirt," saying, "Tell her I did it."

The sons were seldom at home, but in spite of a certain constitutional wildness and lack of prudence, they were evidently a gallant couple, delighting their father's heart. Frederick, the eldest, became a distinguished officer, after conquering a strong propensity to practical joking, and was much regretted in the service when wrecked at the age of twenty-seven. He was last seen "upbraiding, in his jocular manner, some people who were frightened, when a sea swept over the ship and took him with it." Frank was entered upon the roll of the navy at the tender age of three, and presented to the Port Admiral of Plymouth in full costume. The officer patted him on the head, saying "Well, you're a fine little fellow," to which the youngster replied, "and you're a fine old cock, too."

He became a cultivated and bold traveller, beloved by his friends, and not unknown to fame. He only survived his father a few years, and died at the age of twenty-eight.

Marryat now began his charming series of stories for children, a work to which he turned for a practical reason that sounds strangely from his impulsive lips:—

"I have lately taken to a different style of writing, that is, for young people. My former productions, like all novels, have had their day, and for the present, at least, will sell no more; but it is not so with the juveniles; they have an annual demand, and become a little income to me; which I infinitely prefer to receiving any sum in a mass, which very soon disappears somehow or other." Save for a little tendency to preachment, these volumes, particularly Masterman Ready, and The Children of the New Forest, are admirably suited to their purpose from the genuine childlikeness of their conception and treatment.

Meanwhile Marryat's health was rapidly giving way, and almost his last appearance before the public was in 1847, when he addressed a pathetic, but fairly dignified letter to the First Lord of the Admiralty, as a protest against some affront, which he suspected, to his professional career. The exact circumstances of the case cannot be now discovered, but it may be readily conjectured that the formalism of official courtesy did not match with the Captain's taste, and that the necessity for self-control on his own part had irritated his resentment. The First Lord expressed his regret at having wounded a distinguished officer, and bestowed on him a good service pension.

It may be said that the pension came too late, if indeed it would at any time have been particularly serviceable. Marryat was now engaged in that melancholy chase for health which generally augurs the beginning of the end. He had ruptured two blood vessels, and was in great danger from the constitutional weakness which had first attacked him as a young lieutenant in the West Indies. He moved to his mother's house in order to consult the London doctors. A mild climate was recommended, and he went down to Hastings, where the news of his son's death destroyed his own chances of recovery. After about a month's trial of Brighton, he came back to the London doctors who told him that "in six months he would be numbered with his forefathers."

He went home to Langham to die. Through the summer of 1848 he lingered on, "in the 'room of a thousand columns,' with the mimic sky, and birds, and flowers, above and around him, where he chose to lie upon a mattress, placed on the ground, and there, almost in darkness, often in pain, and without occupation, he lay—cheerful and uncomplaining, and at times even humorous." His daughters frequently read aloud to him, and he always asked for fresh flowers. At the last he became delirious, though continuing to dictate pages of talk and reflection. On the morning of August 9th, 1848, he expired in perfect quiet.