Contents:
The Long Voyage
The Begging-Letter Writer
A Child's Dream of a Star
Our English Watering-Place
Our French Watering-Place
Bill-Sticking
Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son
Lying Awake
The Ghost of Art
Out of Town
Out of the Season
A Poor Man's Tale of a Patent
The Noble Savage
A Flight
The Detective Police
Three Detective Anecdotes
On Duty with Inspector Field
Down with the Tide
A Walk in a Workhouse
Prince Bull: A Fairy Tale
A Plated Article
Our Honourable Friend
Our School
Our Vestry
Our Bore
A Monument of French Folly
THE LONG VOYAGE
WHEN the wind is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against
the dark windows, I love to sit by the fire, thinking of what I
have read in books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a
strong fascination for my mind from my earliest childhood; and I
wonder it should have come to pass that I never have been round the
world, never have been shipwrecked, ice-environed, tomahawked, or
eaten.
Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year's Eve, I
find incidents of travel rise around me from all the latitudes and
longitudes of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but
appear and vanish as they will - 'come like shadows, so depart.'
Columbus, alone upon the sea with his disaffected crew, looks over
the waste of waters from his high station on the poop of his ship,
and sees the first uncertain glimmer of the light, 'rising and
falling with the waves, like a torch in the bark of some
fisherman,' which is the shining star of a new world. Bruce is
caged in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall
often startle him out of his sleep at home when years have passed
away. Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland journey -
would that it had been his last! - lies perishing of hunger with
his brave companions: each emaciated figure stretched upon its
miserable bed without the power to rise: all, dividing the weary
days between their prayers, their remembrances of the dear ones at
home, and conversation on the pleasures of eating; the last-named
topic being ever present to them, likewise, in their dreams. All
the African travellers, wayworn, solitary and sad, submit
themselves again to drunken, murderous, man-selling despots, of the
lowest order of humanity; and Mungo Park, fainting under a tree and
succoured by a woman, gratefully remembers how his Good Samaritan
has always come to him in woman's shape, the wide world over.
A shadow on the wall in which my mind's eye can discern some traces
of a rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearful story of travel
derived from that unpromising narrator of such stories, a
parliamentary blue-book. A convict is its chief figure, and this
man escapes with other prisoners from a penal settlement. It is an
island, and they seize a boat, and get to the main land. Their way
is by a rugged and precipitous sea-shore, and they have no earthly
hope of ultimate escape, for the party of soldiers despatched by an
easier course to cut them off, must inevitably arrive at their
distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by any hazard
they survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they all must have
foreseen, besets them early in their course.
