VI Mary Routledge
I have often come in contact with old people living in the villages close by the sea and far away from the bustle of railroads and large towns, who lament the good times gone by when they used to look forward to the homecoming and the passing to and fro of the bonny sailor lads, who were always expected to lift the monotony from their dull, uneventful lives by strange stories and rollicking habits. The villagers for the most part lived under a kind of despotism. The Lord of the Manor and the parson dominated them, and fashioned their politics, their religion, and even their social lives. The rule was to keep within the limits of their own little community when they wanted a wife or a husband, but if at any time their affections travelled outside this sanctified boundary, the two potentates were assiduous in their warnings that if the new comer in any way transgressed the unwritten code of laws that were framed in order that the estate might be kept free from contamination they would have to leave it peremptorily. Ranters, Wesleyans, and other Nonconformists were regarded as heretics. A religious test was practised, and those who openly avowed their dissent from the established form of worship were frankly told that there was a strong aversion to having that manner of person about the place, and that any attempt at proselytising would be met by immediate expulsion. That was the state of things existent in a certain country village no further back than the middle of the last century, when, as though Providence had pre-arranged it, a man who at one time had been a sailor came to live there. He was tall and well-made, with broad shoulders, and he walked with a sort of military tread. He had a broad forehead, firmly set lips, and altogether he was good to look on. No one could come in contact with him without being impressed with his strength of character. His wife was an equally fine-looking person, with pronounced intellectual capacity. They were both evangelical Wesleyans. Their family consisted of five sons and two daughters, a fine wholesome brood, who were all quite young, the eldest being about fifteen. The children were reared and trained with great care, and without distinction of sexes: they were all taught to do housework. Family worship was held morning and night. If the father was unavoidably absent, the mother took the service, and if both were absent, the eldest of the family, either son or daughter, took it. The house was a hive of industry and religious fervour; everything about it was neat and spotlessly clean. Soon after their arrival the parson made a call on them, and of course the father and mother were asked what their faith was. This being quickly settled, the man of holy orders intimated that the parents would be expected to attend the parish church each Sunday with their family. They of course reminded him that they were Wesleyan Methodists, but that would not prevent them attending his church in the mornings. “In the afternoon and evenings I have been accustomed to conduct a service myself either in the open air or in my own or someone else’s home,” said the placid-looking father. The parson gazed at him with apoplectic surprise, and hinted that he hoped he would not continue his mission work there, as Nonconformity was not approved by the owner of the village, and, he might add, by himself either.
“I fear I must disregard your request,” said Mr Burnside, “and do what my conscience and judgement demand of me.”
The cleric took his leave, with the intimation that Squire Humbert would no doubt call and have a talk with him about spiritual and other matters. Burnside was not long in discovering that many of the villagers were quite illiterate, and but little above the standard of heathen. He resolved to throw his soul into the work of evangelizing them at all costs. The first visit Mr Humbert paid him left no doubt as to that gentleman’s wishes. He spoke of the disturbing influence lay Methodist preachers were having all over the country, and said that he had decided no such sensational work should be permitted on his estate. Burnside did not deem it prudent to enter into controversy, but determined that nothing should deter him from carrying out the work that God had sent him to do. The circumstances were so discouraging that no ordinary man would have persisted in going on with it. He was scoffed at, hooted, and at times both men and women were so enraged that they threatened a personal attack; but there was something about his physical appearance and his firm though gentle manner that cowed even the most violent of those who were opposed to his religious teaching. They felt he would stand no nonsense of that kind. He had not been long in the locality before a spirit of strong revival came over the place. Some of the worst men and women in the countryside were converted, and ardently tried to influence others for good. They were raw, crude, and uneducated, but there was a power behind them that made their influence irresistible. People came from far and near to hear this strange gospel of pity preached and to witness such an unexpected revolution. Strong men and women were smitten with its force, until any one of them who had shown ill-natured and violent dislike to even listening to the simple message of the lay preacher, eagerly threw their doors open to him in order that he might hold services in their homes. He urged them to attend the parish church in the mornings, as there was only one service on the Sundays, and none during the week. Most of his own family did this, while the others went with him to the chapels he was appointed to preach at. He knew the squire and the parson were feeling full of wrath, and that they believed him to be a mistaken instrument for evil, and that the whole parish was thrown into revolt by his wild advocacy of a sacrilegious creed, and that it must be put a stop to or he would have to leave the village.
When Burnside was having a stroll one morning with a little fellow of four years old, who was chattering to him about his services, Squire Humbert came upon them, stopped, and snappishly asked what he meant by disturbing the whole district with such ranting nonsense.
“I tell you,” said he, “it must cease, or I will ask you to leave the place.”
Burnside withered him with a gaze that betrayed his feelings, and began:
“Sir, you may ask me to leave the village, but you may not ask me to cease serving my God in the way I choose. Now, sir, listen. You have been accustomed to talk to your village servants in a way that is insufferable. I am not one of them, and if I were I should resent your doing so to me. I must ask you to carry out your threat, and when I get your communication I shall give you my definite answer. Meanwhile never you attempt to insult me or make an attack upon my religion again. And bear in mind that I refuse to allow you to be the controller of it. Good morning.”
The dignified “Lord God the Squire” gasped with suppressed fury, but that which he wished to utter was unutterable, and he rode off in the direction of his hall. Burnside told his wife what had transpired. She commended him for the manner in which he had treated it, though both she and the family were filled with concern lest the threat of turning them out of their home should be carried out. It made an everlasting impression on all the family, but especially so on the little fellow who heard all that was said. He never got over the cruel, senseless stab, and I have reason to believe it lives with him still. Burnside regarded the whole thing with contempt, and continued his religious services as though nothing had happened. Mr Logan, the parson, not long after called to see him, and Burnside drew him into discussion on Theology. He was a great student of Bishop Butler’s “Analogy,” and was familiar with the writings of other theologians. The parson was amazed at the plain man’s strong logical instincts, the keen fluency of his talk, and the fulness of his knowledge, and so enjoyed the conversation that he asked if he might hope to have a further opportunity of having another discussion. “Come any day you like except Sundays,” said the unconventional old sailor, “and I may assure you it will give me great pleasure.” They parted with feelings of growing respect for each other. The parson evidently made some weighty communication to Mr Humbert, as that gentleman’s attitude towards Burnside soon underwent a marked change, and this was shown by his commencing to chat whenever they met. It was not long before they were on the most cordial terms. The squire found that Burnside was not only a powerful religionist but a strong personality. His reading was very wide, and his knowledge and conversational gifts made him an attractive man to come in contact with. Humbert had evidently seen it to be unwise to meddle with his religion any more, and his friendship for him soon became apparent, for instead of carrying out the threat of putting him off his estate, he offered him a better house to live in, with a large plot of ground attached to it. The offer was gratefully accepted, but this did not in any way interfere with the steady progress of the propaganda, and in a few years the character of the men and women who would have thrown him into the sea when he first came amongst them changed from hatred into affection. Gambling, drunkenness, wife-beating, profanity, all had disappeared.
As soon as his sons were old enough they left the district, and ere long some of them were heard of in the metropolis of England, and had succeeded in carving out distinguished careers for themselves. Two of them gladdened the old man’s heart by choosing the sea as a profession, but no discrimination in point of affection was ever shown, though when he heard the hoarse moaning of the wind on troubled nights, he never failed to put in a supplementary prayer for his two seafarers. He had passed through the dangers himself, and had a steadfast belief that close communion with God was a strong safeguard against disaster. The homecoming of these sailor lads, who frequently brought friends with them, was a great joy to the Burnsides, and also to those of the villagers with whom they associated. Both lads were very sailorly, and it was well known that they never failed to make things hum with mirth and mischief, as soon as they had taken their bearings and found the coast clear of “squires” and “parsons.” It was a pretty sight to see their two sisters rush out of the house as soon as their brothers were seen in the distance crossing the long stretch of moor and run to meet and fondly greet them. This had been one of the fundamental points in their training, that they were to be affectionate to each other, and lengthened separation did not diminish the well instilled habit. But the joy of the young people’s meeting was only second to that of seeing their reunion with their parents, and great were Mrs Burnside’s bewildering exploits of cookery. The first night was generally spent in telling queer stories of their skippers, mates and shipmates, whilst the father sat smiling placidly and obviously living over again his youthful days when he also was a sailor lad relating the same kind of stories in the same old way. The girls asked all sorts of questions, and the merry babble was kept up until Mrs Burnside reminded her husband that it was long past the usual time for prayers, and that they had better postpone the narrative until the morrow. A chapter suitable for the occasion was given out, and they read verse and verse about until they reached the end of the lesson. Then they knelt round the table and listened to the tremulous tones of their father’s prayer. When he had finished they all repeated after him the Lord’s Prayer and then rose. At one of these reunited gatherings one of the brothers had been restless, and persisted in nudging his sisters and winking at them when his parent had reached his most impressive periods and was oblivious of everything but his communion with God. The scamp was taken aside by the younger sister, who was a strong-minded little damsel with fixed ideas, and she sharply reproved him for his irreverence; and the elder sister, who had a keen sense of humour as well as fixed opinions, was so thankful that the boys had been brought safely back to them, she commenced to make the most comical excuses for their erring brother’s buoyant indiscretion. The young man’s contrition was signified by his taking hold of his sisters, waltzing them round the room, and then proceeding to stand on his head and dangling his legs in the air. This threw them into fits of laughter, and though it was against the rules of the home, the joyous chatter was resumed and continued until long past the regulated time for going to bed. When I hear people ridiculing religion and its forms, I think of those simple days of village methodism with a throbbing of the heart.
There were coteries in this small out-of-the-way place as there are in large towns and cities, and perhaps the exclusiveness was even more pronounced there than in the larger centres. The fisher people were a class by themselves, with whom the squire’s employés thought it beneath their dignity to be on regular visiting terms. They married and intermarried amongst themselves, while Mr Humbert’s servants were a mixed class. Some had intellectual ambitions and rare musical talents, and others had not; and it was amongst the former that the Burnsides found something in common. Their home gathered up all the more cultured part of the population. But apart from that, every young and old person in the village was known to the others. The well was situated a good distance from the cottages, and the girls of the village generally had to carry the water to their homes either because there were no sons or because they were employed elsewhere; but if any of them were about, the lassie with the burden was always offered help, and rarely refused it. When the two young sailors came home they made a point of insisting on carrying water for any young girl they by chance saw at the fountain, hence they increased their popularity and were sought after for that reason as well as for the fact of their being rollicking sailors. In fact, it seemed as though the little circle were of one family. The day following the home-coming from any given voyage was spent in formally calling upon their friends, and in the evening all the young people gathered up at their home to have tea, and afterwards dancing, singing, talking, and all kinds of games. Of course the sailors were called upon to do some step-dancing, and so the happy days and evenings sped on until the time came to prepare to set off on a long voyage. Then for several days previous to their departure the house was full each afternoon of voluntary helpers, washing, making shirts, knitting stockings, and making all kinds of underclothing. Things were kept moving in such a lively way when these young seafarers were about, that a feeling of desolation depressed the whole village for many days after they had left it.
Yet amid all the simple charm of the people and the natural beauty of the place there came a period of sorrowing and grief. The motherless daughter of an official of the Lord of the Manor, a beautiful girl who was the idol of her family and loved by everybody, fell a victim to the villainy of her father’s assistant to whom she was engaged to be married; he betrayed her and then left the village, and no one could trace his whereabouts. When her condition became apparent, her father alone failed to realize her true state until he received a note from his master to have her removed from his estate, and with brutal severity the squire insisted that she should never be allowed to stain the purity of his grounds by her presence again, nor could he permit any intercourse whatever between her and any of his servants either male or female, direct or indirect. The father was brokenhearted, and indeed the whole community were stricken with grief for her and for him. She was removed to a town a few miles away and then gave birth to a male child. The father in his thoughtless anger left her to the callous mercy of an inexperienced person, and through want of proper care consumption set in, and the shadow of doom swiftly encompassed her. A burning remorse was charring her to pieces. She craved the forgiveness of her parent, and longed to see the home she had been ruthlessly turned away from. This desire was intensified by a passion to feel the thrilling of the sea winds that came from the moaning ocean. What insufferable cruelty to refuse the appeal of a sweet girl who had been wronged, and who was passing from earth and would soon be put to rest in a grave within easy reach of the springy links and glossy sands where so many days of her joyous girlhood had been spent in innocent and jovial scenes! A last appeal was made to the hard old squire, who, to do him justice, believed he was an instrument in the hands of divine Providence to enforce the cultivation and carrying out of high ideals. Human fallibility was not sanctioned on his demesne outside his own personality or household. The poor, grief-stricken girl wrote to him hoping that her wishes might become known to his wife and touch her to have compassion, and her plan succeeded, for on receipt of her letter permission was given to have her brought home. Here is the simple, pleading request:
“Sir,—I ask you for pity’s sake to forgive me and allow a poor girl who is humbly and bitterly penitent, wrecked in body and soul, to be taken from here to her father’s home so that she may seek forgiveness of him before she is called to appear before her God. I have only a few weeks at the most left to me, and then I shall pass from the scene of conflict and grief into that long sleep which never endeth.
“I am, yours obediently,
“Mary Routledge.”
The day following the receipt of this letter Mary was brought home, and the good Mrs Humbert engaged a nurse to look after her. Mr Logan, the parson, was sent for, and he administered what he regarded as a passport into heaven. He pronounced a stern reproof, and then impressed on her the idea of the great sin she had committed, and in the good old ecclesiastical style admonished her to say her prayers and read her Bible night and morning, and if she did that there might yet be hope for pardon. The girl did not think the prescription comforting enough, so after a few days’ misery she asked for Mr Burnside. She had heard him both pray and preach in days gone by, and the impressions made then came back to her vividly. On entering the little home he chatted with her in his accustomed cheery way, never even hinting at her great sorrow, and then he asked if she would like him to pray with her before he went. She said: “Oh, yes, that is one of the reasons I sent for you; and if you could make it convenient I would like you to come often.” Mr Burnside acquiesced, and before leaving his little friend he joked with her judiciously until she laughed so heartily that a casual looker-on would have thought she had neither mental nor physical trouble, but as she said to him: “You make me forget all my affliction.” “That is exactly what I should like to do,” said her bright companion, “and I think we are making some progress.”
His visits were always a joy to both of them, and after paying several she called out to him one day when he entered her room, “I have found God. I know now the plan of salvation that you have been so anxious for me to see, and though I deeply regret to leave you and all those who have been so considerately kind to me, I am anxious that my Master should claim me soon and take me to dwell amid the silent glory of a last long dream. I am now prepared to meet Him. My last dying request is very sacred. It touches me so keenly I feel some doubt as to whether I can approach it without giving you a mistaken thought of what I really do mean. It is this: may I ask you to give an eye to my child when I am gone, and should you detect that he is not being cared for, or trained properly, will you use your influence in having this done? Perhaps one of the lads (meaning his sons) when they get on will take an interest in him for the sake of his mother to whom they were so kind and gentle in other days. Ah, what memories of sweetness I have gathered up since I was laid aside; and these lines, which I committed to memory long ago, have sometimes come to me:
But ’tis done—all words are idle;
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.”
She then assured Mr Burnside that she was quite resigned. He listened to her gentle musings, only interjecting a word now and then in order that the current of thought should not be stranded. But his heart was full of grief, and when he stooped to kiss her brow and say “good-night” the tears were dropping from his eyes.
“Ah,” said she, “I know the sorrow you have for me, and your distress pains me, but after all I am only passing to the shadows a few years before you, and when you come I shall see you.” And then she whispered softly, “I should like, if it be possible and my boy lives, that his mother’s shame be kept from him. You, I’m sure, will try to prevent this.”
He promised that her dying injunction, so far as he could arrange it, would be strictly observed, and then he went out into the mystic night.
They did not commune together again, for the Omnipotent had willed that she should pass through the valley before the long beams of light had been drawn from the dawn. The little colony was cast into gloom, and neither the chilly, puritanic doctrine of the Lord of the Manor, nor the mechanical piety of his adjutant, the rector, could stay the anger that permeated even the dullest of the inhabitants, who believed that a crime had been committed in the name of righteousness. The indignation of the female portion of the Burnside family was well subdued, not because of any cantish false delicacy, but in order that their own lads might not be encouraged to say or do anything rash. They left the father to communicate the news of Mary Routledge’s illness to them. He had prayed for her on the first night they were at home; this gave them the first intimation of the tragedy, but the ghastly character of it was learnt from outside, and they never either forgave or forgot the wicked perpetrators.
The hearts of the two sailors were sorely touched by the tale of suffering and treatment of the poor girl whom they were accustomed to regard in the light of a sister when they were boys at school, and though a few years of rough sea life had rubbed the finer edges off their early training, they still retained a strong affection for the girls who were their favourites, and as she was one of them, their affection and their grief for her was never concealed. The fulness of their pleasures had been marred by this great affliction, but as they would have made any sacrifice in order that their sympathy might be known to her, they steadfastly observed an attitude of conduct that well-nigh approached piety; and after she had been “put away” and their father told them of her last dying message, they resolved that if spared to reach a position, and her boy was alive, and those who had charge of him were agreeable that he should become a sailor, either one or the other would undertake his training. Meanwhile the child was left as a legacy to the grandfather, but incredible though it may appear, he was not allowed to bring it to the estate during the sanctified lifetime of Mr Humbert.
The young men had reached the limit of their period ashore; it was only fourteen days, but that was all that could be spared, as the vessels they were to sail in were nearly at the fitting-out stage. The night before they had to depart a tea-party was given by a distinguished old lady, who was known for her great kindness to needy people in the district, and to wayfarers who passed by her house. She owned a large adjoining estate, and managed it herself with consummate skill. She was very fond of the two lads, so that they were invited to the party, and, truth to say, it was really in their honour it was given. Nearly the whole of the young people round about were there, but the tragic death of their young friend prevented a full outburst of joyous revelry, though they arranged their mode of amusement to suit the occasion. The hostess was charming to everybody, but especially to the sailors. Her exhortations that they should be careful not to slip when they were climbing all over the rigging and yards, and to be sure not to get washed off the jib-boom, as she had heard of so many others being, and to keep ropes tied round them when the sea was coming aboard, so that they might not be washed overboard, were absurd and laughable, but tender. Of course the young men, in the true orthodox fashion of sailors, on being pressed by her and the young guests, male and female, told a few stories of their adventures that created both admiration and sensation; then by request they sang a few sea songs that were much appreciated. And when the regulation hour came for closing the proceedings the time had slipped away too quickly. A request was made to their hostess for an extension of time, and with a goodness that always characterized her it was granted for one hour longer, part of which was used by an appeal made by the sailor lads to be allowed to correspond with her two granddaughters, who were young ladies of prepossessing appearance. After some delicate negotiations and many assurances of honourable intentions, they were told that, provided their letters were confined to a history of their movements and their doings, and without any foolishness, they might write twice a voyage to the girls and to herself. “But,” said she, “there must be no proposals of marriage until you have both reached the head of your profession.” This condition was gratefully agreed to, and when the young men joined the party again there were many inquiries and many hints as to the nature of the conference with their hostess, but the secret was only divulged to the two who were directly interested, and then the jovial gathering formed themselves into a ring, sang “Auld lang syne,” and added “Will they no come back again?” which was specially intended to apply to the sailors. These formalities having been completed, the young mariners proceeded to say their farewells, and kissed and cuddled with astonishing rapidity first one girl and then the others until all had shared the ebullition of their rugged endearment. The male portion of the assembly viewed this form of emphasizing good-bye with sheepish amazement. They would have been stupefied with shame if any one had seen them walking even with a girl, although the enterprising seafarers had done their best to assure them that it was the only true style of showing genuine goodwill.
Long before dawn the following morning the lads were tramping over a wild expanse of common towards a seaport, and they carried on their shoulders as fine a kit as ever went into a vessel’s forecastle. All the things that had happened during their stay, especially the incidents of the last night, were talked of amongst the villagers for many a long day after the sailors had left the district and travelled to the southern hemisphere. Yes, and many an eloquent petition was sent up from the familiar cottage homes that knew them so well for their safe-keeping and speedy return. This phase of sailor life existed in the country places, and to some extent in the smaller seaport towns bordering on the country, in the middle of the last century. It is always pleasant to think of the innocent, robust enjoyment these better class seamen planned out for themselves, aided of course by their rural friends. They were sought after and loved by everybody. What balderdash has been spoken and written about poor Jack everlastingly misconducting himself! Assuredly the Christian virtues did not take complete hold of all of them, and no one will deny that a large percentage were wayward and took a lot of steering. But compare them with other classes of men, and I do not think they would take a second place.
Norman and Kenneth Burnside worked, saved, and studied very hard, and rapidly rose in their profession. They had no sooner got their extra master’s certificates than they were offered and accepted the command of handsome square-rigged vessels employed in the Eastern trade, and both of them became famous for making quick passages. The old lady who had been their friend so long became impressed with the idea of their reaching great heights, and was quite frank in stating that she was proud to see the speedy advancement of two boys that had been reared within sight of her home. She indicated to some of her closest friends that she had no misgiving now about giving her granddaughters in marriage to the young sailors, and this interesting confession was made known to them by some unknown agent. They arrived in England within a month of each other, and were quietly married. The venerable lady settled a considerable sum on her granddaughters, and no lack of instructions were omitted as to its purpose. The sailors said it was very good of the old girl to do this for her young relatives, but they each reminded their wives that they did not marry them for money. After a brief holiday the brothers rejoined their respective ships, and sailed, one from Liverpool to Australia, and the other from London to Calcutta, and little did they expect when they parted that it would be nearly two decades before they were to meet again.
Many years after, two vessels were racing down the China seas, one of them a new barque heavily sparred and very crank, and the other a large, full-rigged ship. Both were rushed through the sea at great speed. The full-rigger, with Norman Burnside in command, drew ahead of the barque and lost sight of her in the darkness. Between ten and eleven at night the second officer was on the poop chatting with the captain; the sky was cloudless, not a speck to be seen, and the wind strong and steady; every stitch of canvas was set, when all of a sudden the captain ceased conversing with the officer, told him that a white squall was close upon them, and to call all hands to shorten sail. They had only got a portion of it in when the squall struck her, and everything had to be let fly. During the few minutes it lasted it was terrific; many of the sails were torn to shreds, the masts were heavily strained, and the vessel herself was well-nigh doomed. Nothing was seen or heard of the barque after that night, but the fears of those aboard the full-rigger were great lest trouble should have come to her. When they arrived in London an account was sent to them of the loss of their companion in the China Seas. The paragraph stated that the vessel was struck by a white squall, thrown on her beam ends and literally capsized; the captain was Norman’s brother. He was on deck at the time and tried to get down into the cabin to rescue his wife, but the rush of water prevented him. She was drowned almost before his eyes, and her body went down with the vessel. Some of the crew who were aft managed with the assistance of the captain to get the gig disentangled from the wreck, but he refused to save himself and had to be dragged into the boat by force. Others of the crew clung to floating spars, and were either killed or drowned, and only one survived until succour came. The day following the casualty, those that took to the boat were picked up. A day later a passing vessel saw some wreckage ahead, and as they drew towards it they discovered a boy clinging to a spar which was being tossed about by the motion of the sea. The vessel was at once hove to and a boat went to his rescue. The only clothing he had on was a light flannel shirt and a pair of drawers. The poor little fellow had tried to lash himself to the spar with a piece of rope. When they got close to where he was his feeble voice whispered from it a few words of touching thanks; and then, as though a supernatural force had been given him, he said in a tone that seemed to have been flashed from another world: “It is too late. I am about to pass on to where my mother is. I feel my stomach is chafed through.” His face, it was said, wore a spiritual air, and his eyes had an expression of quiet, resigned sadness. They cast off the rope that bound him to the spar, took him gently from it and placed his disembowelled body in the boat. His remains were sewn up in a hammock, heavy weights were put at his feet, and at the dead hour of the night the mourners, with uncovered heads bowed in hallowed manifestation of pity, listened to the harrowing words that came throbbing from the captain’s lips as substituted for the written funeral service. When he had finished, orders were whispered to lower the body in silence down the side of the vessel, and then the waters covered him over. Many weeks elapsed before it was known that it was Mary Routledge’s boy.
Nothing could exceed the genuine sympathy that was shown to the poor distracted Kenneth Burnside, but all attempts at consolation were received by him with a sad smile that conveyed the idea of an unhealing wound. He lived the life of a recluse and never went to sea again.