CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

No. 462.

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1872.

JONES'S BEARD. JONES was a very good fellow till he wore a beard; he has retained a few excellent qualities since, but has lost more, and gained none. There was a time when, if you asked a favour of him, he shewed energy and alacrity; now he says 'Eh?' in an absent manner, his mind being entangled in his hair. If a man is vain of his eyes, or teeth, or nose, he requires a looking-glass to remind him of his advantages, and in the absence of some reflecting object, his pride may remain in abeyance; but a beard is a perpetual snare; the possessor has only to draw in his chin and glance downwards, and there it always is. I suspect that even holy hermits, who deemed that they had got rid of all vanity when they parted finally from mirrors, combs, and soap, sometimes gave the enemy an opening below their chins.

Now some men take a morbid pride in very coarse and ugly hair, simply because of the interest they have had in its growth. They plant a weed, ' and water it because they have planted it.' But Jones's beard was undoubtedly a very fine vegetable of its kind; soft, thick, black, and glossy, and he had a right to admire it in moderation. It was his excessive interest in it that we complained of; he was always stroking it, brushing it, petting it; he even talked to it, for when he deigned a response to any question which was put to him, it was to his beard that he spoke, not his interlocutor.

PRICE 1d.

jewellers profited likewise; so did the young men presiding over 'toilet saloons; for when Jones went to have his hair cut, instead of stammering with shame at having obtained civility on false pretences, when his operator, with a heart throbbing high with hope of a three-halfpenny commission, inquired blandly whether he required anything to-day, he replied stoutly: 'Yes, a large bottle of Brilliantine.' Thus Jones's beard may claim the same defence which is urged in favour of other institutions; it made good for trade.

But certainly the photographers got most out of it, especially the Parisian, for Jones had an idea that there was something in French air or French chemicals which brought out the peculiar softness and delicacy of his pet; and as he was in some mysterious business or profession, the exact nature of which I could never make out, but which caused him to be interested in all sorts of foreign railways, canals, and manufactories; and as, whatever part of the world he was bound for, it was incumbent upon him to spend a day or two in Paris, both going and returning, at other people's expense, there were few messieurs of the camera resident in that centre of civilisation who had not focussed him.

When the war broke out between France and Germany, Jones was a violent partisan of the former country. He looked upon the conduct of Bismark, Moltke, & Co. in blocking up the approaches to his favourite capital as a personal offence, a wanton interference with the comfort This weakness of Jones's for his chin-tail was a and pleasure of a man who had never offended great boon to photographers; he was always having them. I do not think that he suffered much in it taken. There were three large sun-pictures over pocket, for his business took him to Italy at that the mantel-piece in his dining-room, representing time; but he had to make unpleasant sea-voyages, as many different views of the beard-a profile, a and have his beard limned by artists who did not three-quarter, and a full, and their frames were give him full satisfaction, and he hated everything gorgeous. His wife wore a representation of the Teutonic, from flutes to sausages, with the hate beard in a massive brooch at her neck, and two of a franc-tireur. Directly Paris was once more smaller photographs of it in bracelets; while a open, he hastened thither; but his stay was a short glittering gewgaw with a pearl cross upon it, which one. His favourite atelier was a wreck, and the hung on her breast like an Order, proved, when principal photographers were all hard at work opened, to contain a fourth likeness of the same taking the ruins. So the shareholders, or whoever interesting object. Thus carvers, gilders, and paid for his apartments at the Grand Hôtel, his

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breakfast at the Café Anglais, his dinners at Philippe's, his stalls at the theatres, got off cheaply that time, and he started promptly to look after his, hers, or their interests in Belgium. He came to a place where the railway had not been repaired after a strategical demolition, and he was obliged to travel like our grandfathers; like the fathers of some of us (worse luck). Where the diligence was unearthed from, is a mystery; but there it was, ready to supply the missing link, and after a tedious number of hours, it jolted at 11 P.M. into the town where passengers could take the train again. Here there was an examination of passports; and for about the fifth time since leaving Paris, Jones was shut up in a pen, like a bullock, with his bundle of rugs in one hand, a bag, which grew heavier every moment, in the other, and an umbrella, which insisted upon assaulting his neighbours, who would not take its pokes philosophically, under his arm. Bullocks have only got their horns and tails to look after, and they are used to carry them; foreign officials should remember this, and not treat people who cannot travel without hatboxes and such small extras, in so drover-like a fashion; it is inconsiderate.

and they left him to reflect on his latter end, or go to sleep at his choice.

It requires very exceptional nerves or long habit to be able to enjoy a good night's repose when you are going to be shot at daybreak, and it is not many people who get the chance of practising often. Jones was not a coward, but his rest was certainly broken. He thought of his wife and his children, and himself. Would his beard be properly trimmed before he was consigned to the grave? His morbid imagination pictured that ornament in a tangled, dirty condition, and he groaned aloud. Then his position was uncomfortable, and the rope which bound his arms hurt him, so that altogether he had a very bad time; and yet he would have liked to protract it when the drums outside went rub, rub, r-r-r-r-r-rub. But his time had come; he was made to get up, and placed in the midst of a party of soldiers whose chassepots looked more bloodthirsty than usual.

C'est une erreur. Je ne suis pas Brultout; je suis Jones,' was the poor fellow's last appeal. But the officer turned his back, shrugged his shoulders, and said 'Bah!' and the party stepped out into the gray, dusky daylight. They had not far to go Jones surged in due course up to the gate of exit,-down one street, through a gateway, sharp to where two officials stood behind a bar. One of the right into the moat beneath the face of a these examined his passport, the other his physiog- redoubt. They placed him close against the wall; nomy. The former was satisfied, and returned him and then, shaking off the misty feeling of conthe document with a bow; the latter, harder to fusion and unreality which had stolen over his please, cried 'Halt!' as he walked off. Jones, who faculties, he appealed to the corporal of the party had not received a military education, took no to send word of his death to his family in England, notice, and was moving calmly on, when he was telling him that his address would be found in the arrested by a gendarme, who said something short pocket-book which had been taken from him. and sharp, but quite unintelligible, and headed The corporal made out his meaning, and promised. him back to the facial inspector, who looked at him again and again, glancing alternately from his face to a photograph he held in his hand. Then he shewed the photograph to his companion, then to the gendarme. All seemed to come to the same conclusion; and the result was that Jones was marched off to a neighbouring guard-room, where there were several French soldiers and an officer. The photograph was again shewn, and compared with Jones, and then the officer questioned the latter violently. Now Jones could understand French when it was spoken slowly, and make himself understood in that tongue when his listener was patient and intelligent; but of the torrent of words poured into his ear on this occasion he could make no more than if he had been a Babel brick-There is no cicerone like you, colonel.' layer.

Il avait quelque erreur. Je suis Anglais. Je suis en règle. J'écriverais aux "Times!" J'apporterais une action pour emprisonnement faux, si vous ne me demisserais pas à l'instant,' was all he could say in reply; and then the photograph to which he owed his arrest was held in his face, and he recognised his beloved beard. 'Oui; très vrai, c'est moi. Apres?' he cried indignantly.

The officer was still more indignant, and said in distinct tones, which were intelligible enough this time: 'You confess that you are the ruffian Brultout. Well, then, ruffian Brultout, you will be shot to-morrow morning at daybreak.'

In vain did Jones plead his personal identity, and declare that he had no connection with any other firm, and never heard the name of Brultout before. He was bidden to hold his tongue; his arms were tied behind his back, he was pushed down on a mattress, a cloak was thrown over him,

They were proceeding to bandage his eyes, when a voice from the top of the ditch inquired who was going to be executed.

A famous Communist, colonel,' replied the corporal-Brultout. He was captured last night at the station.'

Jones, looking up anxiously, saw a grizzled French officer on horseback; and by his side, also mounted, a well-known face-that of Peters, special correspondent of the Morning News, to wit.

Go on with your duty,' said the colonel. 'I wish we could shoot all the murderous dogs with one volley. You are in luck, friend Peters; this will do capitally for one of your graphic letters.'

'I am indeed,' said the journalist cheerfully.

'You cold-blooded brute!' shouted Jones, in English. Think of the dinners we have eaten together, Peters; and put in a word for a fellow, if you can.'

Why, who is that?' cried Peters. 'Don't shoot, you others.-I say, colonel, there is some mistake here. Jones has nothing Socialistic about him but his beard. I have known him from the cradle, and a more harmless innocent never renounced razors.'

"Tell him that I love the French, except the Communists; that I hate the Germans; that I have subscribed three times to the sick and wounded fund,' added Jones.

But these extra suggestions were needless. The colonel had asked Peters to breakfast, and was too polite to refuse his guest the life of a perfectly innocent friend and countryman. Jones was marched back; the gendarme who arrested him sent for; explanations entered into. No doubt

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that the photograph_represented Jones; no doubt
that it was sold as Brultout's-indeed, it had his
name printed on the back; no doubt some one
ought to be shot. Jones suggested the photog-
rapher as a fitting victim; and had he been handy,
it is quite possible that he might have met with
the punishment due to one who had played such a
scurvy trick on an old and good customer as
to strike off copies of his negative, and sell them
as likenesses of one of the leading Communists.
But he was in Paris, and safe.

Jones was liberated, and got his luggage. He
likewise received an invitation to breakfast from
the kind colonel. Peters was thoughtful on the
occasion; and the compatriot whom he had been
the means of saving from conical bullets, asked
him why.

'Of course, old fellow, it's for the best,' he explained; 'but I so much wished to be present at a military execution, and I cannot help feeling the disappointment. It would have made such excellent copy!'

'But surely the real story will do as well?' suggested Jones.

Peters shook his head. Some fellow's motherin-law has been foisted on the public in like manner for a petroleuse, and he has written to complain of it to all the papers. If I told the simple truth about you, I should be accused of plagiarism; and my editor would say: "Peters is losing his originality; we must look about for a younger man.' No; I gave way to the moment's impulse, and saved you. There is no use in regretting it.' But he sighed.

MEMORY.

boudoir, called 'the room of a thousand columns,' with mimic sky and birds and flowers; and, supposing he had a taste for farming, which cost him a thousand pounds a year, but more particularly for inundating his best acres with water to make 'a decoy' for ducks, and when that (for a marvel) succeeded, and was in full working order, with all expenses paid, he drained it off again. Supposing he had done all this, and a great many more things equally astounding and contradictory, should we not say that this was a very remarkable man, who might well merit a biography, even without his being one of the best novelists of England, and the most popular of all, save one?

And yet, the human wonder we have been describing did wear that laurel also, for he was no other than the author of Peter Simple-Captain Marryat!

How it is we have waited for a quarter of a century for his biography, is quite inexplicable to us, though his daughter, who edits the volumes now before us,* suggests that his friends were unwilling or incapable, and his children were too young.' That no literary man was found to undertake such a labour of love, at a time when the materials for it were ready to his hand, is deplorable; for, necessarily, during so great a lapse of time, such are difficult to procure; yet, nevertheless, the bare facts of our great naval humorist's life, as here narrated, are so remarkable, as to give an interest to it independent of adjuncts that to most memoirs would be indispensable.

Captain Marryat (who had no less than fourteen brothers and sisters) was born in 1792, and was the second son of Joseph Marryat, a member of parliament, and chairman for the committee of Lloyd's. It is a curious illustration of the ignorance of schoolmasters as to the real endowments of the boys under their charge-any intelligence outside that of the power of acquiring Latin and Greek being apparently set down by them as of no account that Babbage and Marryat, who were at school together, were set down by their pedagogue as dunces. This disesteem seems in the latter's case to have been mutual, for he hated pedagogues so heartily, that he would never abide with them, but was always for 'running away to sea.' On the last occasion, when his father, with much trouble, had pursued and caught him, he despatched young Hopeful back to school in the carriage, but when it arrived at its destination the vehicle was found to be empty-Marryat having contrived to open the door and jump out whilst it was in motion. He was subsequently discovered, sitting with much complacency at the theatre, in company with his younger brothers, whom he was treating with the money with which his parents had sent him back to school.' After this, no further opposition was made to the wishes of the young gentleman, who was accordingly, at the age of fourteen, appointed as midshipman to H.M.S. Impérieuse, Captain Lord Cochrane. To read the tale of his life on seaboard is a romance in itself; it reintroduces us to all the old-world life of our navy, with its glorious acts of valour, its social tyrannies, its blunders of mismanagement, its wonders of execution. The vessel was sent to sea before she was prepared to do so. The admiral of the port was one who

A RESUSCITATED SUPPOSING that one was to hear of any gentleman having begun his career by running half-a-dozen times away from school until the age of fourteen, when he joined the British navy; and of this naval officer so distinguishing himself by valour in battle, and especially in saving the lives of others from drowning at the imminent risk of his own, that he received no less than twenty-six certificates of merit in the same number of years. Supposing, again, that this brave man should have invented the code of flag-signals, including the cipher for secret correspondence that has been adopted in the merchant service, and that is now generally used by the British, French, and American navies; that this ingenious personage was also so accomplished a draughtsman, that he not only illustrated books and drew the most popular political caricatures, but was so excellent a hand at a likeness that one sketch of his, at least (that of the dead Napoleon), was engraved in more than one country, and acknowledged to be the best of its class. Supposing, again, that this salt-water Crichton, upon giving up the sea, and settling at home, should hang the walls of his London house with skins of animals (that smelled very unpleasantly, and were full of abominable insects, but neither of which facts he would believe), contrasting strangely with the most gorgeous furniture, and then should make a present of the latter to a poor artist, into whose little doorway scarcely one of the armchairs could be got; and, again, supposing that this naval hero could not breakfast comfortably except the table equipage was of white china, only *Life and Letters of Captain Marryat. By his to be procured abroad, and had built himself a Daughter. Bentley.