Newton Forster Part 1

Newton Forster.

by Captain Frederick Marryat.

VOLUME ONE

CHAPTER ONE.

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 compa.s.ses, 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 canva.s.s to universal criticism, and found to his mortification that there was not a particle of his composition which had not been p.r.o.nounced defective by one pseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than I have experienced from the _unsolicited_ remarks of "d.a.m.ned good-natured friends."

"I like your first and second volume," said a tall, long-chinned, short-sighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if her eyes were magnifying gla.s.ses, 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 s.h.i.+p."

"I don't like your plot, sir," brawls 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 a.s.sumed, 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 look-out 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 hyper-critic, 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 collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.

"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Pegoo; I think the second and third volumes are by far the most _readable_," exclaimed _another thing_, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling halfway 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 a.s.sure you, that I should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."

"Indeed, sir," replied I, with a.s.sumed 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 mids.h.i.+pman--yes, reader, a mids.h.i.+pman--who had formerly belonged to my s.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sed 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 mult.i.tude, who blindly follow the suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary consciences. If your work is denounced and d.a.m.ned, 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, etcetera, etcetera." 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 prospective 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 Antaeus, 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 emanc.i.p.ated. 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 s.h.i.+p's company. If being sent to sea has been p.r.o.nounced by the officers and men to be _transportation_, being the captain of the s.h.i.+p 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 sprung 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 ha, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWO.

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 cras.h.i.+ng, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.

FALCONER.