Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 723

'He went out to find your father, for he said he must see him at once. I offered to go; but Sir Herbert would not hear of that. – How splendidly you sang in that duet, Lady Dillworth! Your voice came out in perfection.'

'Why did he want to see my father?' she asks impatiently.

'Sir Herbert did not say; but something appears to have annoyed him very much. I never saw him more put out, though he gave no explanation.'

Katie changes the subject abruptly.

'Is it very stormy at sea to-night, Captain Reeves? I mean, is there any danger to ships?'

'I should think there is. We haven't had such a storm as this since last winter. Every roar of the wind only makes me congratulate myself on being in such snug quarters. There's a wonderful difference between this fairy scene, with its music and mirth and its galaxy of youth and beauty, and what one would meet with out on the wild billows to-night. – What a charming evening you have given us, Lady Dillworth!'

Katie can hardly keep herself from stamping her little foot with impatience, as she looks up at Walter's self-satisfied face, beaming with enjoyment; and then she watches the smile with which he presently bends down to whisper something to Miss Delmere. Liddy responds with a flash of her bright blue eyes, and a heightened colour springs to her cheek as she makes room for Walter beside her. Never has she looked better than on this evening; the quaint antiquated costume contrasts capitally with her fair laughing face. At last the charade comes to an end; there is a subdued murmur of applause as everybody says how cleverly it has all been done. They make wild guesses at the word, and Walter has at last to explain the secret. Lady Dillworth listens to the comments of her guests with an abstracted air; and when the last carriage drives away, she summons the footman and inquires whether Sir Herbert has returned.

Hunter is an old servant of the Admiral's, and has followed his master's fortunes in various places and homes, and was with him when the first Lady Dillworth died; so he knows his ways, and sees more than perhaps his employers give him credit for. He turns a grave face towards his mistress, as he replies: 'Yes, my Lady. Master came in just when the acting was over; and when he saw the company wasn't gone, he told me to tell your Ladyship he was very tired, and would go to bed at once, instead of going back to the drawing-room.'

'Very tired, did he say?'

'Yes, my Lady; and he looked weary-like.'

'That will do, Hunter. We want breakfast very early to-morrow morning, as Miss Delmere is going away by the first train.'

Then Katie goes up to her boudoir. The fire is still burning brightly, and the lamp is throwing a soft light through the curtained room. Still in her fancy dress, the stomacher flashing with jewels, she seats herself in the arm-chair; and there, while the warmth steals over her, she covers her face with her hands, and thinks bitterly, confusedly – the loud shrieking of the wind and the fury of the cruel storm keeping up a wild accompaniment to her musings.

She wonders what she had better do. Shall she rouse her husband from his slumbers, and tell him all, or shall she wait till events call forth a confession? Never has she felt such a poor, mean, despicable coward. She hates herself for her irresolution; and all the time her fancy pictures up the surging whirlpools, the jagged rocks, the dashing waves, the yawning gulfs, and the drowning men with their despairing eyes, ever calling for the help that does not come!

REMINISCENCES OF QUEBEC

For the following reminiscences connected with the stay of one of the British regiments at Quebec during the winter of 1870-71, we are indebted to an officer of the garrison. He writes as follows:

Until the close of 1871, Quebec was a fortress occupied by British troops; but before the winter set in, the Orontes and other store-ships carried away the troops and their possessions, and the stronghold passed for ever away from the rule of Great Britain.

Quebec, the principal fortress of Canada, also known as the 'Gibraltar of the West,' is built upon the strip of land projecting into the confluence of the St Lawrence and St Charles rivers. Originally a French settlement, it afterwards became one of the colonies of Great Britain, and has continued to be so until the present date.

'There is but one Quebec, and its beautiful scenery,' remarked a valued friend to the writer, as one autumn afternoon we scanned the view from the Levis Cliffs, and watched the 'Fall fleet' preparing to depart for England ere winter had closed the St Lawrence. 'The scenic beauty of Quebec,' says an old writer, 'has been the theme of general eulogy.' The majestic appearance of Cape Diamond, surmounted by fortifications; the cupolas and minarets, like those of an eastern city, blazing and sparkling in the sun; the loveliness of the panorama, the noble river like a sheet of purest silver, in which one hundred vessels may ride with safety; the graceful meandering of the river St Charles before it finds its way into the St Lawrence; the numerous village spires scattered around; the fertile fields clothed with innumerable cottages, the abodes of a rich and moral peasantry; the distant Falls of Montmorenci; the rich park-like scenery of Levis; the lovely Isle of Orleans; and more distant still the frowning Cape Tourment, and the lofty range of purple mountains of the most picturesque forms, which bound the prospect, unite to make a coup d'œil which without exaggeration is scarcely to be surpassed in any part of the world.

In the winter-time there is much more leisure for the merchants than in summer, as the St Lawrence from the end of December until the end of April is one vast ice-field, isolating Quebec from water-commerce, but giving full employment to numbers of 'ice-men' to saw out great oblong masses of clear bright ice to fill the ice-houses with this much-needed summer luxury. The ice and snow are also turned to account in the fashionable amusements of snow-shoeing, tobogganing, skating, sleigh-driving, &c. Snow-shoeing is capital exercise, but somewhat trying at the commencement; for with a pair of snow-shoes fastened to the feet, the beginner is rather apt to find himself immersed in a snow-drift, and it is a difficult matter to get upon his legs again. This pastime, however, is so well known in theory that we pass to the more favourite one of tobogganing. The toboggan or Indian sleigh – one or two thin planks neatly curled round at one end – is drawn over the snow to the top of a hill. The passengers sit down, carefully 'tucking in' all articles of dress; a slight push is given, and away glides the toboggan at the rate of from twenty to thirty miles an hour. Starting is easy enough; but to descend to the desired spot is not so easy as might appear at first sight, and requires some skill in steering; for if that important matter be unskilfully performed, the toboggan, like a boat, gets 'broadside on' to the hill, twists and turns, shooting out its passengers, who rarely escape some hard knocks. If, however, the steering is successful, the tourists have, in school-boy phrase, a 'jolly ride,' and glide along the level ground at the foot of the slope for a considerable distance. There is, of course, the bother of pulling the toboggan up to the top of the hill; but such effect has the exhilarating dryness of the atmosphere upon one's spirits, and such is the charm of the amusement, that this labour is cheerfully undertaken.

One favourite run was down the citadel glacis, through a gap in a fence and into a closed yard at the base; another, also from the glacis, but running in the direction of the Plains of Abraham. The former being the most dangerous slide, was the favourite one, and many hard blows were given and received. One young gentleman met his fate in the form of a deep cut across his knee, by being tossed out of the toboggan among some scrap-iron and old stove-pipes hidden under the snow. Much sympathy was felt for him, for the wound took a long while to heal, and prevented him tobogganing more that winter. Another gentleman coming down the slide by moonlight with two young ladies in his toboggan, in place of steering through the fence, steered into it, and his face came in contact with a post; unluckily for him, the post was the hardest, and he escaped with a broken jaw, and the ladies with more or less bruises. There was a laughable upset on another occasion. A lady, said to be at least forty (also 'fat and fair'), with a friend of the opposite sex, tempted fortune in a toboggan; but as they approached the gap above mentioned she lost her nerve, and threw herself out as the toboggan was rushing down the steepest part of the slide. In less time than the reader will take to peruse this incident, she was on her head in the snow, and her feet, incased in very black boots, in the air; she then tumbled across the slide; the toboggan with its remaining occupant flew lightly over her, and then this frisky matron and her friend rolled like a pair of frolicksome lambkins to the foot of the slope, the toboggan of course arriving before them.

Skating at Quebec is chiefly carried on at the Rink, a large building about one hundred and seventy feet long and seventy wide, the earth-floor of which is flooded. The ice is carefully swept daily; and each evening the rink-keeper 'dusts' it with just enough water to fill up the cuts made in it by the skaters; so that each morning finds a fresh field of glittering smooth ice. The wooden shed does three duties – namely, keeps out the heat of spring, keeps off the snow, and keeps in the cold of winter; so that skating can often be had at the Rink and nowhere else.

The band of the Rifles often played at the Rink, which was sometimes lighted up at night by gas; and visitors to Quebec had capital opportunities of seeing its young ladies exhibit their skill in the execution of sundry intricate skating-figures. Some years ago, there was a fancy-dress ball on the Quebec rink, and we have extracted a portion of its description from one of the local papers of that date: 'The bugle sounded at nine o'clock, and the motley crowd of skaters rushed on the ice, over which they dashed in high glee, their spirits stirred to the utmost by the enlivening music and the cheering presence of hundreds of ladies and gentlemen. Over the glittering floor sped dozens of flying figures, circling, skimming, wheeling, and intermingling with a new swiftness, the bright and varied colours, the rich and grotesque costumes succeeding each other, or combining with bewildering rapidity and effect. The gentlemen, in addition to the usual characters, introduced some novelties: an owl, a monkey, a monster bottle, a tailor at work, a boy on horseback – all capital representations and by good skaters. Among the ladies were representations of "Night" and "Morning," a vivandière, a habitant's wife, and other characters that appeared to advantage. The skaters presented both a varied and brilliant appearance, their parts being well sustained as to costume and deportment, and their movements on the ice being characterised by that grace and skill of movement bred of long practice. The dances included quadrilles, waltzes, galops, &c.'

That this elegant accomplishment can be turned to use is proved by a legend of two settlers in the Far West who saved their lives by the aid of a pair of skates. One had been captured by Indians, who did not intend to let him live long; but amongst his baggage was a pair of skates. The Indians' curiosity was excited, and the white man was desired to explain their use; he led his captors to the edge of a wide lake, where the smooth ice stretched away as far as the eye could see, and put on the skates. Exciting the laughter of his captors by tumbling about in a clumsy manner, he at length contrived to get a hundred yards from them without arousing their suspicion, when he skated away as fast as he could, and finally escaped.

The other settler is said to have been skating alone one moonlight night; and while contemplating the reflection of the firmament in the clear ice, and the vast dark mass of forest surrounding the lake and stretching away in the background, he suddenly discovered, to his horror, that the adjacent bank was lined with a pack of wolves. He at once 'made tracks' for home, followed by these animals; but the skater kept ahead, and one by one the pack tailed off; two or three of the foremost, however, kept up the chase; but when they attempted to close with the skater, by adroitly turning aside he allowed them to pass him. And after a few unsuccessful and vicious attempts on the part of the wolves, he succeeded in reaching his log-hut in safety.

The cold during the winter of 1870-71 was often extreme, the thermometer ranging as low as forty degrees below zero. Upon two days the writer had the pleasure of witnessing the beautiful phenomenon called silver-thaw – that is, the trees and shrubs encircled with ice-crystal, the glitter of which on the twigs and branches in the sunlight is wonderfully beautiful. Occasionally the St Lawrence is entirely frozen over opposite Quebec, and ice boats (on skates) are popular, and the bark glides along at a pace that depends upon the wind and quantity of sail carried. Sleighing was much in fashion; and it is agreeable enough rushing through the extremely cold but dry atmosphere with a pretty young lady nestling against you as you fly along the noiseless track to the music of the sleigh bells, which the law requires each horse to carry on its harness.

Practical jokes are not unknown at Quebec, and several silly ones without wit or purpose were perpetrated that winter; but one of a special and decidedly original character played upon the Control Department, may be worth recording. The Control Department – at the head of which was Deputy-Controller Martindale – was intrusted with the providing of fuel, food, ammunition, bedding, transport, &c. for the British troops, and for some reason or another that branch of the department at Quebec is said to have been somewhat unpopular in the garrison.

On the 23d and 24th February the following advertisement appeared in the columns of the principal French paper, l'Evénement:[1 - Cats! Cats! Cats! 5 °Cats are required to capture the rats and mice that are infesting the Government Magazines. Whoever shall bring a cat to Deputy-Controller Martindale's office between 11 and 12 o'clock on any day up till the 28th inst., shall receive one dollar per cat. By order, &c.] 'Chats! Chats! Chats! 5 °Chats sont demandés pour donner la chasse aux Rats et Souris qui infestent les Magasins du Gouvernement. Toute personne qui apportera un Chat au Bureau du Député-Contrôleur Martindale, entre 11 heures et midi un jour quelconque jusqu'au 28 du courant, recevra en retour un Dollar (1 $) par Chat. – Par ordre,

D. C. Martindale, Député-Contrôleur.

Quebec, 23 Fév. 1871 – 3f.'

The powers of advertising were in this instance wonderfully exemplified, for at least eight hundred cats were duly brought to the Bureau; but the unfortunate cat-merchants did not receive a dollar. Some, being of a speculative turn, had bought up a number of their neighbours' cats at prices varying between ten cents and twenty-five cents each; and what with the ire of the cat-merchants at the hoax, the astonishment and indignation of the Control officers, and the caterwauling of the pussies brought in boxes, baskets, bags, &c., the scene was one which will long be remembered in Quebec. On Sunday, 26th February (according to a local custom of treating government advertisements), the doors of the churches in the country districts round Quebec had the 'cat advertisement' duly posted up, so that on Monday the 27th a bountiful supply of mousers was brought from suburban districts to complete the Control catastrophe.

Of course very strict inquiries were made, with a view of ascertaining the author of the hoax; but that individual has not yet presented himself to public notice, and judiciously made use of the post-office to carry the letter to the Evénement respecting the insertion of the advertisement. We also understand the editor of the Evénement was politely requested to render his account for the advertisements to the Control Department. There is, we believe, an old proverb, 'A cat may look at a king;' but many of the inhabitants of the Quebec suburbs did not like to look at cats for some time afterwards.

FRENCH FISHER-FOLK

They live by themselves and to themselves, these French fisher-folk; an amphibious race, as completely cut off from the shore-staying population as any caste of Hindustan. The quaint village that they inhabit consists of half a score of steep and narrow lanes, and as many airless courts or alleys, clinging to the cliff as limpets anchor to a rock, and topped by the weather-beaten spire of a church, dedicated of course to St Peter. Hard by there may be a town rich and populous; but its wide streets and display of plate-glass are not envied by the piscatorial clan outside. They have shops of their own, where sails and shawls, ropes and ornaments, high surf-boots and gaudy gown-pieces, jostle one another in picturesque profusion. From the upper windows of the private dwellings project gaffs and booms, whence dangle, for drying purposes, wet suits of dark-blue pilot cloth and dripping pea-coats. Everywhere prevails an ancient and fish-like smell, struggling with the wholesome scent of hot pitch simmering for the manufacture of tarpaulins and waterproofs. Half the houses are draped in nets, some newly tanned to toughen them, others whose long chain of corks is still silvered with herring-scales. The very children are carving boats out of lumps of dark wreck-wood, or holding a mock auction for tiny crabs and spiked sea-urchins. The whole atmosphere of the place has a briny and Neptunian savour about it, and is redolent of the ocean.

A word now as to the fishers themselves; as proud, self-reliant, and independent a race as those hardy Norsemen from whom ethnologists believe them to descend by no fictitious pedigree. Of the purity of their blood there can be little doubt, since the fish-maiden who mates with any but a fisherman is considered to have lost caste; precisely as the gipsy girl who marries a Busné is deemed to be a deserter from the tribe. Marrying among themselves then, it is not surprising that there should be an odd sort of family likeness among them, with one marked type of face and form, or rather two, for the men, curiously enough, are utterly unlike the women. Your French fisher is scarcely ever above the middle height, a compact thick-set little merman, with crisply curling hair, gold rings in his ears, and a brown honest face, the unfailing good-humour of which is enhanced by the gleam of the strong white teeth between the parted lips.

The good looks of the women of this aquatic stock have passed into a proverb; but theirs is no buxom style of peasant comeliness. Half the drawing-rooms of London or Paris might be ransacked before an artist could find as worthy models of aristocratic beauty as that of scores of these young fish-girls, reared in the midst of creels and shrimp-nets and lobster-traps. Their tall slight figures, clear bright complexions, and delicate clean-cut features, not seldom of the Greek mould, contrast with the sun-burnt sturdiness of husband, brother, and betrothed; while the small hands and small feet combine to give to their owners an air of somewhat languid elegance, apparently quite out of keeping with a rough life and the duties of a workaday world.

Work, however – hard and trying work, makes up the staple existence of French fisher-folks, as of French landsmen. In the shrimp-catching season, it must indeed be wild weather which scares the girls who ply this branch of industry, with bare bronzed feet and dexterously wielded net, among the breakers. Others, a few years older, may be seen staggering under weighty baskets of oysters, or assisting at the trimming and sorting the many truck-loads of fish freighted for far-away Paris. The married women have their household cares, never shirked, for no children are better tended than these water-babies, that are destined from the cradle to live by net and line; while the widows – under government authority – board the English steam-packets, and enjoy the sole right of trundling off the portmanteaus of English travellers to their hotel.

The men, the real bread-winners of the community, enter well provided into the field of their hereditary labour. The big Boulogne luggers, strongly manned, and superior in tonnage and number to those which any other French port sends forth, are known throughout the Channel, and beyond it. They need to be large and roomy, since they scorn to be cooped within the contracted limits of the narrow seas, but sail away year after year to bleak Norway and savage Iceland; and their skippers, during the herring-fishery, are as familiar with the Scottish coast as with that of their native Picardy. It is requisite too that they should be strong and fit to 'keep,' in nautical parlance, the sea; for Boulogne, lying just where the Channel broadens out to meet the Atlantic, is exposed to the full force of the resistless south-west gale, that once drove Philip II.'s boasted Armada northward to wreck and ruin.

These south-west gales, with the abrupt changes of weather due to the neighbourhood of the fickle Atlantic, constitute the romance, or compose the stumbling-block of the fisherman's life. His calling may seem an easy and even an enviable one, to those who on summer mornings watch the fishing fleet glide out of harbour; the red-brown sails gilded by the welcome sunshine and filled by the balmy breeze, the nets festooned, the lines on the reel; keg and bait-can and windlass, harmonising well with the groups of seafaring men and lads lounging about on board; too many, as the novice thinks, for the navigation of the craft. But at any moment, with short warning, the blue sea may become leaden-hued, and the sky ragged with torn clouds and veiled with flying scud, and the howling storm may drive the fishers far from home, to beat about as best they may for days and nights, and at length to land and sell their fish (heedfully preserved in ice) at Dunkirk, Ostend, Flushing, or even some English harbour perhaps a hundred and fifty miles away.

The conscription, that relentless leech which claims its tithe of the blood and manhood of all continental nations, in due course takes toll of the fishers. The maritime population, however, supplies the navy, not the army with recruits. It is not until flagship and frigate are manned, that the overplus of unlucky drawers in that state lottery of which the prizes are exemption, get drafted into the ranks. These young sailors find military life a bitter pill to swallow. The writer of these lines has before his eyes a letter from a conscript to his mother in the fishing village, and in which the young defender of his country describes last year's autumn manœuvres in Touraine, the Little War as he calls it, from a soldier's point of view. There is not a spark of martial ardour or professional pride in this simple document. All the lad knows is that he is marched and countermarched about vast sandy plains from dawn till dark, wet, hungry, and footsore; and how difficult it is at the halting-place to collect an armful of brushwood, by whose cheerful blaze he may warm his stiff fingers and cook his solitary pannikin of soldier's soup.

As might be expected, in a community which more resembles an overgrown family than the mere members of a trade, there exists among these people an unusual amount of charity and rough good-nature. The neighbourly virtues shine brightly amid their darksome lanes and stifling courts, and a helping hand is freely held out to those whom some disaster has crippled in the struggle for existence. Bold and self-assertive as their bearing may be, there are no Jacobins, no partisans of the Red faction among these French fishers. They are pious also in their way, seldom failing to attend en masse at the church of St Nicholas or the cathedral of Notre-Dame, before they set out on a distant cruise.

Once and again in early summer, a fisher's picnic will be organised, when in long carts roofed over with green boughs, Piscator and his female relatives, from the grizzled grandmother to the lisping little maiden, who in her lace-cap and scarlet petticoat looks scarcely larger than a doll, go merrily jolting off to dine beneath the oaks of the forest. In their quiet way, they are fond of pleasure, holding in summer dancing assemblies, where all the merry-making is at an end by half-past nine, and which are as decorous, if less ceremonious, as any ball can be. They are patrons of the theatre too, giving a preference to sentimental dramas, and shedding simple tears over the fictitious sorrows of a stage heroine; while in ecclesiastical processions the brightest patches of colour, artistically arranged, are those which are produced by the red kirtles, the blue or yellow shawls, and the snowy caps of the sailor-maidens.

The gay holiday attire, frequently copied, on the occasion of a fancy dress-ball, by Parisian ladies of the loftiest rank, with all its adjuncts of rich colour and spotless lace; the ear-rings and cross of yellow gold, the silver rings, trim slippers, and coquettish headgear of these French mermaidens; no doubt lends a piquancy to their beauty which might otherwise be lacking. Sometimes an exceptionally lovely fisher-girl may be tempted by a brilliant proposal of marriage, and leaves her clan to become a viscountess, or it may be a marchioness, for mercenary marriages are not universal in France. But such incongruous unions seldom end very happily; for the mermaiden is, alas! entirely uneducated, and proves at best too rough a diamond to appear to advantage in a golden setting.

EMERGENCIES

Accidents of various kinds are continually occurring in which the spectator is suddenly called upon to do his best to save life or relieve suffering without the aid of skilled advice or scientific appliances. A body has been drawn from the water in an insensible condition, and thus far a rescue has been effected; but the scene may be more or less distant, not only from the residence of the nearest doctor, but from any house; and unless the by-stander is able to apply prompt means to restore respiration and warmth, a life may yet be lost. Again, a lady's dress is in flames, or it may be fire has broken out in a bedroom – accidents which, if immediate steps be not taken, may end fatally to life and property, long before the arrival of the physician or fire-brigade. One's own life too may be placed in such instant jeopardy that it can only be preserved by active and intelligent exertions on our own part. Situations of this kind attend the sailor, soldier, and traveller as 'permanent risks;' while in the city or field, and even in the security of home, dangers of different kinds confront us which are best described by the word emergencies.

The pressing question in any emergency is of course, 'What is to be done?' Unhappily, the answer is not always at hand. We are often altogether unprepared to act, or we act in such a way as only to increase the danger. The most humane onlooker in a case of partial drowning may at the same time be the most helpless. While in any of the frequent casualties to children – such as choking, scalding, &c. – the tenderest mother may but contribute to the calamity, either by the use of wrong means or the inability to apply right ones. How common this is in respect of many kinds of accidents, and how many of those cases returned 'fatal' might have had a happier issue had the spectator but known 'what to do.'

The terse advice supposed to meet every species of emergency is to 'keep cool.' We admit its force, and agree that it cannot be too frequently insisted upon. Without presence of mind, neither the zeal of self-interest nor the solicitude of affection itself can act with effect. In some instances even, special skill and knowledge may be paralysed by an access of nervousness and its consequent confusion of mind. Again there occur many grave situations in which tact and self-possession are all that are necessary to avert serious calamity. The following anecdote illustrative of this went the round of the newspapers shortly after the disastrous fire in Brooklyn Theatre. Some stage-properties suddenly took fire during a performance before a crowded audience at a certain European theatre. The usual panic ensued. A well-known actor aware that the danger was not serious, and dreading the result of a sudden rush from the house, coolly stepped in front of the curtain, and in calm tones announced that his Majesty the Emperor, who then occupied the imperial box, had been robbed of some valuable jewels, and that any one attempting to leave the theatre would be immediately arrested. The threat would of itself have been useless, but the fact and manner of its delivery conveyed an assurance of safety to the excited people which no direct appeal to their reason could have done. They resumed their places; the fire was subdued; and not till next day did they learn the real peril they had escaped by the timely ruse of the great actor. How terrible a contrast that unhappy and unchecked panic which led to the loss of life at Brooklyn!

The effects of panic and confusion have sometimes their amusing side. We have seen ordinarily sane people casting crockery and other brittle ware into the street from a height of several stories —to save it from fire; and there occurs a passage in one of Hood's witty ballads which seems to prove the incident by no means a rare one:

Only see how she throws out her chaney,
Her basins and tea-pots and all;
The most brittle of her goods – or any;
But they all break in breaking their fall.