THE passage from the romantic to the realistic, from thechimerical to the actual, from the child's poeticinterpretation of life to life's practical version of itself,is too gradual to be noticed while the process is going on.
It is only in the retrospect we see the change. There isstill, for yet another stage, the same and even greaterreceptivity, - delight in new experiences, in gratifiedcuriosity, in sensuous enjoyment, in the exercise of growingfaculties. But the belief in the impossible and the bliss ofignorance are seen, when looking back, to have assumed almostabruptly a cruder state of maturer dulness. Between thepublic schoolboy and the child there is an essentialdifference; and this in a boy's case is largely due, I fancy,to the diminished influence of woman, and the increasedinfluence of men.
With me, certainly, the rough usage I was ere long to undergomaterially modified my view of things in general. In 1838,when I was eleven years old, my uncle, Henry Keppel, thefuture Admiral of the Fleet, but then a dashing youngcommander, took me (as he mentions in his Autobiography) tothe Naval Academy at Gosport. The very afternoon of myadmittance - as an illustration of the above remarks - I hadthree fights with three different boys. After that the 'newboy' was left to his own devices, - QUA 'new boy,' that is;as an ordinary small boy, I had my share. I have spoken ofthe starvation at Dr. Pinkney's; here it was the terriblebullying that left its impress on me - literally its mark,for I still bear the scar upon my hand.
Most boys, I presume, know the toy called a whirligig, madeby stringing a button on a loop of thread, the twisting anduntwisting of which by approaching and separating the handscauses the button to revolve. Upon this design, and bysubstituting a jagged disk of slate for the button, thesenior 'Bull-dogs' (we were all called 'Burney's bull-dogs')constructed a very simple instrument of torture. One big boyspun the whirligig, while another held the small boy's palmtill the sharp slate-edge gashed it. The wound was severe.
For many years a long white cicatrice recorded the fact in myright hand. The ordeal was, I fancy, unique - a prerogativeof the naval 'bull-dogs.' The other torture was, in thosedays, not unknown to public schools. It was to hold a boy'sback and breech as near to a hot fire as his clothes wouldbear without burning. I have an indistinct recollection of aboy at one of our largest public schools being thus exposed,and left tied to chairs while his companions were at church.
When church was over the boy was found - roasted.
By the advice of a chum I submitted to the scorching withouta howl, and thus obtained immunity, and admission to theroasting guild for the future. What, however, served mebest, in all matters of this kind, was that as soon as I wastwelve years old my name was entered on the books of the'Britannia,' then flag-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, and thoughI remained at the Academy, I always wore the uniform of avolunteer of the first class, now called a naval cadet. Theuniform was respected, and the wearer shared the benefit.
During the winter of 1839-40 I joined H.M.S. 'Blonde,' a 46-gun frigate commanded by Captain Bouchier, afterwards SirThomas, whose portrait is now in the National PortraitGallery. He had seen much service, and had been flag-captainto Nelson's Hardy. In the middle of that winter we sailedfor China, where troubles had arisen anent the opium trade.
What would the cadet of the present day think of thetreatment we small boys had to put up with sixty or seventyyears ago? Promotion depended almost entirely on interest.
The service was entered at twelve or thirteen. After twoyears at sea, if the boy passed his examination, he mountedthe white patch, and became a midshipman. At the end of fouryears more he had to pass a double examination, - one forseamanship before a board of captains, and another fornavigation at the Naval College. He then became a master'smate, and had to serve for three years as such before he waseligible for promotion to a lieutenancy. Unless an officerhad family interest he often stuck there, and as often had toserve under one more favoured, who was not born when hehimself was getting stale.
Naturally enough these old hands were jealous of thefortunate youngsters, and, unless exceptionally amiable,would show them little mercy.
We left Portsmouth in December 1839. It was bitter winter.
The day we sailed, such was the severity of the gale andsnowstorm, that we had to put back and anchor at St. Helensin the Isle of Wight. The next night we were at sea. Ithappened to be my middle watch. I had to turn out of myhammock at twelve to walk the deck till four in the morning.
Walk! I could not stand. Blinded with snow, drenched by theseas, frozen with cold, home sick and sea sick beyonddescription, my opinion of the Royal Navy - as a profession -was, in the course of these four hours, seriously subverted.
Long before the watch ended. I was reeling about more asleepthan awake; every now and then brought to my senses bybreaking my shins against the carronade slides; or, if I satdown upon one of them to rest, by a playful whack with arope's end from one of the crusty old mates aforesaid, whoperhaps anticipated in my poor little personality thearrogance of a possible commanding officer. Oh! those cruelnight watches! But the hard training must have been a usefultonic too. One got accustomed to it by degrees; and hence,indifferent to exposure, to bad food, to kicks and cuffs, tocalls of duty, to subordination, and to all that constitutesdiscipline.
Luckily for me, the midshipman of my watch, Jack Johnson, wasa trump, and a smart officer to boot. He was six years olderthan I, and, though thoroughly good-natured, was formidableenough from his strength and determination to have his willrespected. He became my patron and protector. Rightly, orwrongly I am afraid, he always took my part, made excuses forme to the officer of our watch if I were caught napping underthe half-deck, or otherwise neglecting my duty. Sometimes hewould even take the blame for this upon himself, and give mea 'wigging' in private, which was my severest punishment. Hetaught me the ropes, and explained the elements ofseamanship. If it was very cold at night he would make mewear his own comforter, and, in short, took care of me inevery possible way. Poor Jack! I never had a better friend;and I loved him then, God knows. He was one of those whoseadvancement depended on himself. I doubt whether he wouldever have been promoted but for an accident which I shallspeak of presently.
When we got into warm latitudes we were taught not only toknot and splice, but to take in and set the mizzen royal.
There were four of us boys, and in all weathers at last wewere practised aloft until we were as active and as smart asany of the ship's lads, even in dirty weather or in suddensqualls.
We had a capital naval instructor for lessons in navigation,and the quartermaster of the watch taught us how to handlethe wheel and con.
These quartermasters - there was one to each of the threewatches - were picked men who had been captains of tops orboatswains' mates. They were much older than any of thecrew. Our three in the 'Blonde' had all seen service in theFrench and Spanish wars. One, a tall, handsome old fellow,had been a smuggler; and many a fight with, or narrow escapefrom, the coast-guard he had to tell of. The other two hadbeen badly wounded. Old Jimmy Bartlett of my watch had ahole in his chest half an inch deep from a boarding pike. Hehad also lost a finger, and a bullet had passed through hischeek. One of his fights was in the 'Amethyst' frigate when,under Sir Michael Seymour, she captured the 'Niemen' in 1809.
Often in the calm tropical nights, when the helm could takecare of itself almost, he would spin me a yarn about hotactions, cutting-outs, press-gangings, and perils which hehad gone through, or - what was all one to me - had invented.
From England to China round the Cape was a long voyage beforethere was a steamer in the Navy. It is impossible todescribe the charm of one's first acquaintance with tropicalvegetation after the tedious monotony unbroken by any eventbut an occasional flogging or a man overboard. The islandsseemed afloat in an atmosphere of blue; their jungles rootingin the water's edge. The strange birds in the daytime, theflocks of parrots, the din of every kind of life, the flyingfoxes at night, the fragrant and spicy odours, captivate thesenses. How delicious, too, the fresh fruits brought off bythe Malays in their scooped-out logs, one's first taste ofbananas, juicy shaddocks, mangoes, and custard apples - aftermonths of salt junk, disgusting salt pork, and biscuit alldust and weevils. The water is so crystal-clear it seems asthough one could lay one's hands on strange coloured fish andcoral beds at any depth. This, indeed, was 'kissing the lipsof unexpected change.' It was a first kiss moreover. Thetropics now have ceased to remind me even of this spell ofnovelty and wonder.