“Where once proud Murray held the festive board.
*****
But where are now the festive board,
The martial throng, and midnight song?
Ah! ivy binds the mouldering walls,
And ruin reigns in Bothwell’s halls.
O, deep and long have slumbered now
The cares that knit the soldier’s brow,
The lovely grace, the manly power,
In gilded hall and lady’s bower;
The tears that fell from beauty’s eye,
The broken heart, the bitter sigh,
E’en deadly feuds have passed away,
Still thou art lovely in decay.”
But see, our river has left both beauty and romance far behind it. It has entered the city—the city of merchant princes, the city of a thousand palaces; it bears itself more steadily now, for hath not Queen Commerce deigned to welcome it, and entrusted to it the floating wealth of half a nation? The river is in no hurry to leave this fair city.
“My noble queen,” it seems to say, “I am at your service. I come from the far-off hills to obey your high behests. My ambition is fulfilled, do with me as you will.”
But soon as the bustle and din of the city are led behind, soon as the grand old hills begin to appear on the right, and glimpses of green on the southern banks, lo! the tide comes up to welcome the noble river; and so the Clyde falls silently and imperceptibly into the mighty Atlantic. Yet scarcely is the lurid and smoky atmosphere that hangs pall-like over the town exchanged for the purer, clearer air beyond, hardly have the waters from the distant mountains begun to mingle with ocean’s brine, ere the noise of ten thousand hammers seems to rend the very sky.
Clang, clang, clang, clang—surely the ancient god Vulcan has reappeared, and taken up his abode by the banks of the river. Clang, clang, clang. See yonder is the Iona, churning the water into foam with her swift-revolving paddles. She has over a thousand passengers on board; they are bound for the Highlands, bent on pleasure. But this terrible noise and din of hammers—they will have three long miles of it before they can even converse in comfort. Clang, clang, clang—it is no music to them. Nay, but to many it is.
It is music to the merchant prince, for yonder lordly ship, when she is launched from the slips, will sail far over the sea, and bring him back wealth from many a foreign shore. It is music to the naval officer; it tells him his ship is preparing, that ere long she will be ready for sea, that his white flag will be unfurled to the breeze, and that he will walk her decks—her proud commander.
And it is music—merry music to the ears of two individuals at least, who are destined to play a very prominent part in this story. They are standing on the quarter-deck of a half-completed ship, while clang, clang, clang, go the hammers outside and inside.
The younger of the two—he can be but little over twenty-three—with folded arms, is leaning carelessly against the bulwarks. Although there is a thoughtful look upon his handsome face, there is a smile as well, a smile of pleasure. He is taller by many inches than his companion, though by no means better “built,” as sailors call it. This companion has a bold, brown, weather-beaten face, the lower half of it buried in a beard that is slightly tinged with grey; his eyes are clear and honest,—eyes that you can tell at a glance would not flinch to meet even death itself. He stands bold, erect, firm. Both are dressed well, but there is a marked difference in the style of their attire. The garments of the elder pronounce him at once just what he is,—one who has been “down to the sea in ships.” The younger is dressed in the fashionable attire of an English gentleman. To say more were needless. A minute observer, however, might have noticed that there was a slight air of négligé about him, if only in the unbuttoned coat or the faultless hat pushed back off the brow.
“And so you tell me,” said the younger, “that the work still goes bravely on?”
“Ay, that it does,” said his companion; “there have been rumours of a strike for higher wages among the men of other yards, but none, I am proud to say, in this.”