Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/365

 354 ONCE  A

whither bound,  my  lad?”  and  a man  caught  hold  I of  Crossbones  by  the  shoulder. Crossbones went as red  as  fire,  and  didn’t  know  which  way  to  look, but he  said,  very  sheepishly,  “Oh,  nowhere  par- ticular,” and was  in  a great  hurry  to  be  off. But the stranger  was  evidently  not  in  a hurry,  and turning to  us,  he  said,  “Servant,  young  gentlemen; schoolmates of  Ned’s,  I expect: I’m  his  father.” How we  all  stared  at  him  and  each  other,  you may fancy. Here was  a man  with  a red  face, dressed in  blue  pilot  cloth,  calling  himself  Cross- bones’ father. No daggers,  nor  pistols,  nor  banners, nor boots,  nor  red  legs,  nor  brass  helmets. There was the  smell  of  rum  about  him,  it  is  true,  so strong  that  I was  obliged  to  pull  out  my  pocket- handkerchief and  pretend  to  blow  my  nose,  as  he talked  to  us,  but  not  a sign  of  the  gunpowder.

Still we  all  felt,  as  appeared  afterwards  on comparing  notes,  that  these  things  might  admit  of explanation,  and  that  matters  might  turn  out better than  they  looked; so  when  Crossbones’ father said  to  him,  “Ned,  mayhap  these  young gents would  like  to  have  a look  at  the  little craft,” we  jumped  at  the  proposal,  and  eagerly followed him  down  to  the  pier. We couldn’t talk, we  were  in  such  a state  of  expectation,  and so not  one  word  was  said  until  Croesbones’  father led the  w ay  on  board  a small  sloop,  rather  larger than an  ordinary  fishing  smack,  with  a big  number 15 on  the  sail,  and  which  I supposed  must  be  a kind  of  captain’s  boat  to  the  Blue  Blazer. But no sooner  were  we  well  on  board,  than  Calomel  gave a long whistle,  and  then  caught  me  such  a slap on the  back  as  nearly  choked  me:  “It  isn’t  a pirate,  but  a pilot,”  says  he. And so  it  was. Crossbones’ father  was  very  kind  to  us; gave  us biscuit  and  rum  (which  made  us  very  ill  after- wards), and  did  all  he  could  to  amuse  us: but nothing could  change  the  horrid  fact  of  his  being a quiet, respectable,  seafaring  man.

Crossbones wouldn’t  go  ashore  with  us; he  told me afterwards  that  he  couldn’t  have  stood  our chaff: but I was  so  sorry  for  him,  that,  before  I left,  I said  to  him,  “Crossbones,  what  made  you tell us  those  confounded  yarns?”

“Well,” he  said,  “when  I first  went  to  Mac’s I’d been  so  long  in  the  middle  of  Yorkshire,  that I didn’t know  the  difference  between  a pilot  and a pirate, and  I thought  my  father  was  one. And when I heard  from  the  book  about  pirates,  I made up what  I thought  sounded  best.”

“But about  the  three  watches,  and  the  guns and pistols,  Crossbones?”

“Well, then,” said Crossbones,  irritably,  “what did Calomel  brag  in  that  way  for? I wasn’t going to  be  beaten  by  him.”

Next half,  Crossbones,  from  one  cause  or another,  had  about  twenty  fights  with  different fellows, and  pirates  went  a good  deal  out  of fashion. C. P.  William.

YOUNG FRANCE.

The study  of  modern  France  is  not  only  an interesting,  but  a useful  study  for  us  in  these British islands. There is  hardly  a mistake  we might  have  made  that  France  has  not  made  for  us; hardly an  error  in  social,  political,  or  moral

WEEK, [Oorownt  29, 1859.

science that  she  has  not  plunged  into  neck- deep, so  that  by  watching  her  we  may  know what to  avoid. The faults  and  shortcomings  of France  are  more  directly  applicable  to  us  than  we think,  but  are,  unluckily  for  Frenchmen,  less evident to  themselves  than  is  easily  conceivable. Setting aside  the  question  of  religion  (which  is  too grave  not  to  be  treated  by  itself  alone),  there  are in almost  all  the  other  questions  that  bear  upon  a man’s  moral  and  social  condition,  differences  be- tween an Englishman  and  a Frenchman  that  it  can- not be uninteresting  for  us  to  study.

But before  undertaking  to  examine  the  French of modern  France,  it  should  be  premised  that France is  the  only  European  country  where  two diametrically opposite  types  are  to  be  found  of  the same race. The animal  classed  by  science  as dating  from  “before”  or  “after”  the  Flood,  is scarcely  of  more  radically  different  structure  than is the  Frenchman  who  dates  from  before  or  after the Revolution  of  ’89 — *93,  which  is  his  Deluge. He is,  up  to  1780,  a totally  antagonistic  creature to what  he  becomes  after  1790;  and  what  will sound strange  to  English  “liberal ” ears,  he  is  far less unlike  a “true  Briton ” in  his  former  than  in his  latter  stage.

Agriculture, education,  health,  marriage,  respect for or  disdain  of  individual  freedom, — all  these are points  curious  to  examine  in  a comparison  in- stituted between the  two  races  and  between the natives  of  the  same  country  at  different periods. Now, with  education,  for  instance,  let us take  an  English  boy  and  a French  one,  and  a French  boy  before  and  after  the  Revolution.

It has  been  propounded  that  donkeys  and  post- boys never die,  but  only  pass  into  some  “other and better ” state  by  a mysterious  process  of  transi- tion no mortal  was  ever  witness  to. An ingenious American author  has  paralleled  this  assertion  by the  declaration  that  no  French  “boy ” ever  existed. Any one  who  has  long  inhabited  France  will  in- stantaneously agree with  him. When the  small biped which  in  other  lands  is  called  a baby  (and really  is  one)  is  put  into  short-clothes,  in  France, a little old  man  the  more  is  added  to  the  commu- nity, but of  a “boy ” there  is  absolutely  no  trace. We will  take  him  in  the  higher  ranks:

A nursery-maid neither  leaves  him  nor  plays with him,  but  only  watches  lest  he  play  too  much! and mounts  a lynx-like  guard  upon  the  purity  of the  poor  little  fellow’s  vestments. A rent or  stain upon his  ridiculously  costly  frock  is  a fault  over which French  mothers  lament,  so  that  the  boys who ought,  in  the  course  of  time  and  nature,  to be  one  day  men,  pass  from  babyhood  to  boy- hood, with undeveloped  muscles,  strong  nervous sensibilities, and  fine  unspoiled  clothes  I They have not  “played”  too  much! Heaven help  them! Nor do  they  ever  do  so; for  this  is  one  of  the French mother’s  greatest  pre-occupations,  and when, the  nursery-maid  being  set  aside,  the “mamma ” comes into  play,  the  leading-strings that were  of  softer  texture  for  the  toddling  infant, are only  of  ruder  material  for  the  boy — there  is the  only  difference — but  from  the  leading-strings he is  not  to  escape; never  will  escape,  if  the ideal of  French  education  could  be  attained.

“Submission, Dauphin? ’tis a mere  French