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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780935526448 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 03/01/1998 |
| Series: | Classics of Naval Fiction , #3 |
| Edition description: | REPRINT |
| Pages: | 342 |
| Sales rank: | 981,761 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.03(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Newton Forster or the Merchant Service
By Frederick Marryat
McBooks Press, Inc.
Copyright © 1998 McBooks PressAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-935526-44-8
CHAPTER 1
"And what is this new book the whole world makes such a rout about? — Oh! 'tis out of all plumb, my lord, — quite an irregular thing; not one of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket. — Excellent critic!
"Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world — though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most tormenting!"
STERNE.
WHAT authors in general may feel upon the subject I know not, but I have discovered, since I so rashly took up my pen, that there are three portions of a novel which are extremely difficult to arrange to the satisfaction of a fastidious public.
The first is the beginning, the second the middle, and the third is the end.
The painter who, in times of yore, exposed his canvas to universal criticism, and found, to his mortification, that there was not a particle of his composition which had not been pronounced defective by one pseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than I have experienced from the unsolicited remarks of "d — d good — natured friends."
"I like your first and second volume," said a tall, long-chinned, shortsighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if her eyes were magnifying glasses, and she was obtaining the true focus of vision, "but you fall off in your last, which is all about that nasty line-of-battle ship."
"I don't like your plot, sir," bawls out in a stentorian voice an elderly gentleman; "I don't like your plot, sir" repeated he with an air of authority, which he had long assumed, from supposing because people would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, that they were incontrovertible —" there is nothing but death."
"Death, my dear sir," replied I, as if I was hailing the lookout man at the mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; "is not death, sir, a true picture of human life?"
"Ay, ay," growled he, either not hearing or not taking; "it's all very well, but — there's too much killing in it."
"In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and you must also allow something for professional feeling —"tis my occupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice, whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit —"
"It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it. Otherwise," continued this hypercritic, softening a little, "some of the chapters are amusing, and, on the whole, it may be said to be rather — that is — not unpleasantly written."
"I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out something intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and collarbones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.
"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Peego; I think the second and third volumes are by far the most readable," exclaimed another thing, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling half way between her seat and the carpet.
"If I might presume upon my long standing in the service, Captain ----," said a pompous general officer, whose back appeared to have been fished with the kitchen poker —" if I might venture to offer you advice," continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one side, "it would be not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I consider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you have strangely committed yourself."
"It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."
"You wrote the book, sir," replied he, sharply; "I can assure you that I should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."
"Indeed, sir!" replied I, with assumed alarm.
I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as he walked away.
But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined to exclaim, with the expiring Lion in the fable —
A midshipman — yes, reader, a midshipman — who had formerly belonged to my ship and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me, and, with a supercilious air, observed —
"I have read your book, and — there are one or two good things in it."
Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was deteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the opinion before.
Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation "O that mine adversary had written a book!" To be snarled at, and bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault because their intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take my resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has passed through the ordeal of the Reviews — keep your room for the month after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father confessors — guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow the suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary consciences. If your work is denounced and damned, still you will be the gainer; for is it not better to be released at once from your sufferings by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to inflict the coup de grace?
The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary to a writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal personage to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of the qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and its necessary concomitants, &c., &c." That such preparation ought to be made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to these rules, the public would never be troubled with any production of mine. It would be too tedious a journey in perspective for my wayward intellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I should abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a journey of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble hand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for my whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea — but ideas are hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific. To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter without having the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to be constructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen in despair; but it is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Antæus, it seems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.
I remember when the "King's Own" was finished, I was as happy as a pedestrian who had accomplished his thousand miles in a thousand hours. My voluntary slavery was over, and I was emancipated. Where was I then? I recollect; within two days' sail of the Lizard, returning home, after a six weeks' cruise to discover a rock in the Atlantic, which never existed except in the terrified or intoxicated noddle of some master of a merchant vessel. It was about half-past five in the evening, and I was alone in my after-cabin, quite alone, as the captain of a man-of-war must be, even when in presence of his ship's company. If being sent to sea has been pronounced by the officers and men to be transportation, being the captain of the ship may truly be designated as solitary confinement.
I could not send for any one to whom I could impart the intelligence — there was no one whom I could expect to sympathise with me, or to whom I could pour out the abundance of my joy; for that the service prohibited. What could I do? Why, I could dance; so I sprang from my chair, and singing the tune, commenced a quadrille movement, — Tal de ral la, tal de ral la, lity, lity, lity, liddle-um, tal de ral la, tal —
"Three bells, sir," cried the first lieutenant, who had opened my door unperceived by me, and showed evident surprise at my motions; "shall we beat to quarters?" — "Certainly, Mr B — —," replied I, and he disappeared. But this interruption produced only a temporary cessation: I was in the height of "Cavalier seul," when his head popped into the cabin —
"All present, and sober, sir," reported he, with a demure smile.
"Except the captain, I presume you are thinking," replied I.
"Oh! no, indeed, sir; I observed that you were very merry."
"I am, Mr B — —, but not with wine; mine is a sort of intellectual intoxication not provided for in the Articles of War."
"A what! sir?"
"Oh! something that you'll never get drunk upon, as you never look into a book — beat a retreat."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the first lieutenant; and he disappeared.
And I also beat a retreat to my sofa; and as I threw myself upon it, mentally vowed that, for two months at the least, I never would take up a pen. But we seldom make a vow which we do not eventually break; and the reason is obvious. We vow only when hurried into excesses; we are alarmed at the dominion which has been acquired over us by our feelings, or by our habits. Checked for a time by an adherence to our resolutions, they gradually recover their former strength, until they again break forth, and we yield to their overpowering influence. A few days after I had made the resolution, I found myself, like the sailor, rewarding it by writing more indefatigably than ever.
So now, reader, you may understand that I continue to write, as Tony Lumpkin says, not to please my good — natured friends, "but because I can't bear to disappoint myself;" for that which I commenced as an amusement, and continued as a drudgery, has ended in becoming a confirmed habit.
So much for the overture. Now let us draw up the curtain, and our actors shall appear upon the stage.
CHAPTER 2 "Boldly I venture on a naval scene,
Nor fear the critics' frown, the pedants' spleen.
Sons of the ocean, we their rules disdain.
Hark! — a shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock.
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair — while yet another stroke
With deep convulsion rends the solid oak,
Till like the mine in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length, asunder torn, her frame divides,
And crushing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides."
FALCONER.
IT was in the dreary month of fog, misanthropy, and suicide — the month during which Heaven receives a scantier tribute of gratitude from discontented man — during which the sun rises, but shines not — gives forth an unwilling light, but glads us not with his cheerful rays — during which large tallow candles assist the merchant to calculate his gains or to philosophise over his losses — in short, it was one evening in the month of November of the year 17 — —, that Edward Forster, who had served many years in his Majesty's navy, was seated in a snug armchair, in a snug parlour, in a snug cottage to which he had retired upon his half-pay, in consequence of a severe wound which had, for many years, healed but to break out again each succeeding spring.
The locality of the cottage was not exactly so snug as it has been described in itself and its interior; for it was situated on a hill which terminated at a short distance in a precipitous cliff, beetling over that portion of the Atlantic which lashes the shores of Cumberland under the sub-denomination of the Irish Sea. But Forster had been all his early life a sailor, and still felt the same pleasure in listening to the moaning and whistling of the wind, as it rattled the shutters of his cottage (like some importunate who would gain admittance), as he used to experience when, lying in his hammock, he was awakened by the howling of the blast, and shrouding himself in his blankets to resume his nap, rejoiced that he was not exposed to its fury.
His finances did not allow him to indulge in luxuries, and the distillation of the country was substituted for wine. With his feet upon the fender and his glass of whiskey-toddy at his side, he had been led into a train of thought by the book which he had been reading, some passage of which had recalled to his memory scenes that had long passed away — the scenes of youth and hope — the happy castle-building of the fresh in heart, invariably overthrown by time and disappointment. The night was tempestuous; the rain now pattered loud, then ceased as if it had fed the wind, which renewed its violence, and forced its way through every crevice. The carpet of his little room occasionally rose from the floor, swelled up by the insidious entrance of the searching blast; the solitary candle, which from neglect had not only elongated its wick to an unusual extent, but had formed a sort of mushroom top, was every moment in danger of extinction, while the chintz curtains of the window waved solemnly to and fro. But the deep reverie of Edward Forster was suddenly disturbed by the report of a gun, swept to leeward by the impetuosity of the gale, which hurled it with violence against the door and front windows of his cottage, for some moments causing them to vibrate with the concussion. Forster started up, dropping his book upon the hearth, and jerking the table with his elbow, so as to dash out the larger proportion of the contents of his tumbler. The sooty coronal of the wick also fell with the shock, and the candle, relieved from its burden, poured forth a brighter gleam.
"Lord ha' mercy, Mr Forster; did you hear that noise?" cried the old housekeeper (the only inhabitant of the cottage except himself), as she bolted into the room, holding her apron in both hands.
"I did, indeed, Mrs Beazely," replied Forster; "it's the signal of a vessel in distress, and she must be on a dead lee-shore. Give me my hat!" and draining off the remainder in his tumbler, while the old lady reached his hat off a peg in the passage, he darted out from the door of his tenement.
The door, which faced to seaward, flew open with violence, as Forster disappeared in the darkness of the night.
The old housekeeper, on whom had devolved the task of securing it, found it no easy matter; and the rain, blown in by the sweeping gale, proved an effectual and unwelcome shower-bath to one who complained bitterly of the rheumatics. At last her object was accomplished, and she repaired to the parlour to re-light the candle which had been extinguished, and await the return of her master. After sundry ejaculations and sundry wonders, she took possession of his arm-chair, poked the fire, and helped herself to a glass of whiskey-toddy. As soon as her clothes and her tumbler were again dry, she announced by loud snores that she was in a happy state of oblivion; in which we shall leave her, to follow the motions of Edward Forster.
It was about seven o'clock in the evening when Forster thus exposed himself to the inclemency of the weather. But a few weeks before how beautiful were the evenings at this hour; the sun disappearing beyond the distant wave, and leaving a portion of his glory behind him, until the stars, in obedience to the divine fiat, were lighted up to "shine by night;" the sea rippling on the sand, or pouring into the crevices of the rocks, changing its hue, as daylight slowly disappeared, to the more sombre colours it reflected, from azure to each deeper tint of grey, until darkness closed in, and its extent was scarcely to be defined by the horizontal line.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Newton Forster or the Merchant Service by Frederick Marryat. Copyright © 1998 McBooks Press. Excerpted by permission of McBooks Press, Inc..
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