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Presented by

CAPTAIN & MRS. McGRiooa PHILLIPS

(DOROTHY UNA RATCLIP/E)

, rk

'To

THE gross proceeds from the sale of the SEA-MICROCOSM (price 10s.)

will be given to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, a

society which provides and maintains lifeboats round the

five thousand miles of coast of the British Isles. It

gives rewards for all rescues from shipwrecks,

it compensates those injured in its service,

and gives pensions to the widows and

dependentchildrenoflifeboatmen.

It has already given rewards

for the rescue of over

61,000 lives since it

was founded in

1824

SEA-MtCROCOSM

Edited by

DOROTHY UNA RATCLIFFE

You will never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself floweth in your veins,
till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the stars" — TRAHERNE

The Microcosm Office

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Contents

COVER DESIGN

MORNING

THE POETRY OF THE SEA

MAISIE'S SONG

WINTER ON THE COAST (Water-colour)

CATALINA OF THE GOLDEN ISLE

SEA PIECES FROM THE JAPANESE

THE ATLANTIC (Lina Cut)

GULLS IN THE TOWN

THE HILLS AND THE SEA

THE SEA BRIDAL

SAILS DRYING (Woodcut)

OUR WESTERN SEA

BEATA SOLITUDO

MINIATURE (LORD NELSON)

LETTER TO LADY HAMILTON

ON THE QUAY

THE SPANISH LADY (One-act Comedy)

THE "GREAT HARRY" (Water-colour)

LOST ATLANTIS

SPEECH

SKYE

THE STARFISH (Pen and Ink Drawing)

ON SHIPBOARD

IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES

PRAYER FOR LITTLE SAILING BOATS

"SEA SWALLOW" (Pen and Ink Drawing)

A MAKER OF SHIPS

FROM JAMAICA

A COTTAGE ON TRISTAN (Photograph)

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

THE FAIR HAVEN

Cecile Walton
William Ken
W.J.Halliday
Gordon Bottomley
George Graham
Dorothy Una Ratcliffe
S. Matthewman
Nora Wright
Lady Margaret Sackville
J. Fairfax-Blakeborough
Alberta Vickridge
Fred Lawson
Lady Gregory
Wilfred Rowland Childe

Lord Nelson
Wilfrid Gibson
Dorothy Una Ratcliffe
W. L. Wyttie
Denis Botterill
Arnold Hodson
Geoffrey Woledge
Albert Wainwright
Lascelles Abercrombie
Matthew Botterill
Dorothy Una Ratcliffe
Jeffrey Leighton
W. Leighton
Frank Cundall
J. Walker Bartlet
J. Walker Bartlet
Wilfred Rowland Childe

Page

8-12

13-14

15
17-21

26-31

32-34

37"38

41-44

45
46-66

67
69

70-73

74
75
77

78-81
82
83

85
86

89-98
99

Morning

<^
By WILLIAM KERR

UT of grey spaces of the cloud-dim west,
Rank upon rank, the charging breakers came
To shout and fall in foam on the shaken strand
While the trumpeting wind cried glory and despair.
The starless night went by, the clamour, the fear.
— Above the mountains stands the steady sun,
Level and golden sleep the happy sands
And every rain-wet pebble takes the light.

The deep that called to the height, the everlasting
Moving world of waters has swayed and returned.
Morning is silent between the sea and the sky.
Children are running to build up again
The unforgotten castles of yesterday,
And inland birds are singing in the fields.

The Poetry of the Sea

By W. J. HALLIDAY

UR earliest poets, singing their Northumbrian songs, looked at the
'sea with Viking fortitude and primitive alarm. To them it was a
grim, inexorable being. But they could not resist its appeal.
"Beowulf," the first great English epic, is full of sea pictures, and so
strongly did it touch the poet's imagination that there are eleven different
words used for the sea, each expressing some significant aspect, and
besides, many secondary words dealing with the tossing of the waves,
their fierce onset, their upswelling, and their ceaseless billowing. In the
early English lyrics such as "The Seafarer," "Andreas," and "Elene," the
sea is painted as a malevolent power, always dark, always troubled,
greedy, and insatiable. Storm and tempest are its prevailing mood, and
dire distress is the lot of him who would seek to explore the deeps. Caedmon
the Yorkshire poet, is more contemplative. The sea is still austere, but not
necessarily hostile. But Caedmon was a monk, and wrote, not in the light
of experience, but as one who had leisurely watched the rolling of the waves
from the cloistered security of the Whitby cliffs.

It is a far cry from Caedmon to the days of Good Queen Bess, but refer-
ence will be made at a later stage to those ballads and songs which tradition
has assigned to the intervening centuries.

Our maritime supremacy was assured in Elizabeth's day and the
exploits of Drake, Frobisher, Raleigh, Gilbert, and the other seadogs of
the period brought to our land a freedom of movement and thought,
a gaiety of outlook, and a joyousness that find their fullest expression in the
wonderful outburst of Elizabethan song. But it is a curious fact that our
greatest poets of the day failed to take advantage of this source of inspira-
tion. When England was in a lyric, holiday mood, full of the fine frenzy
of love-making and of wit, she did not turn to the sea for inspiration.
There is a remarkable paucity of poems dealing with the sea in the days of
Merrie England. Love, chivalry, patriotism, spring blossoms and ripening
fruit, wind and sun and shower, all these have their meed of homage and

THE POETRY OF THE SEA

devotion, but the sea, whence in a measure sprang so much of this joy of
life, is sullenly ignored. Even to Drayton, singing of the Virginian Voyage,
the supreme moment is when land is in sight —

In kenning of the shore
(Thanks to God first be given)
O you, the happiest men
Be frolic then.
Let cannons roar
Frighting the wide heaven.

Even the love of discovery, which meant courage to face the perils of
the sea, even the thrill of gazing, like stout Cortez, with eagle eye on new-
discovered oceans, found no echo in the poet's heart, and it was left to
Hakluyt to recount in indifferent prose, the glories of maritime adventure.
There is one glorious exception. Shakespeare, probably never out of
England, has given us in the "Tempest" a wonderful panorama of a storm
at sea and a remarkable eulogy of our seafaring men. But, on the whole,
reference to the sea is merely incidental in the poetry of the period. The
inheritance, however, was not lost, and later poets have sung of the heroic
deeds of this time with fervour and delight.

The Romantic Revival revived poetic interest in the sea, but there is
still the Old English insistence on its unconquerable spirit. Byron's
stanzas, well known as they are, will repay partial quotation —

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unkneird, uncoffirfd, and unknown.

THE POETRY OF THE SEA

Coleridge, in the "Ancient Mariner/' takes us in imagination from Torrid
seas to Arctic ice, but the main interest is in the mariner himself. Shelley,
so fond of the changing aspects of nature, so ethereal in his contemplation
of the mysterious forces of the universe, has little to say directly of the
sea. It is only the background to emotion, a quite transparent pathetic
fallacy. Its moods are therefore various, "Calm as a cradled child in dream-
less slumber bound" or "The tempest-winged chariots of the Ocean."
Alas! this frail ethereal spirit, this ineffectual angel, was finally to perish,
miserably swallowed up by the unrepentant sea. Wordsworth did not like
the sea. He prefers "the tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss" or, if he
must have the sea, "a sea that could not cease to smile."

At a later period, Barry Cornwall fearlessly expressed his passion for
the sea, and Tennyson, John Masefield, Kipling, Robert Bridges, Miss
Fox-Smith, never forgetful of windjammer and square-rigged coaster,
have felt the fascination of the sea, and have, perhaps unconsciously,
introduced the note of modernity, comfort, and ease. Their sea has repre-
sented an escape from the pressure of the land, "where youth grows pale,
and spectre-thin and dies," and where, "getting and spending, we lay
waste our powers."

But if comparatively little has been written in the grand manner about
the sea, our literature is rich in sea songs and ballads. Many of our earliest
sea ballads have all the freshness of the salt sea foam and the simplicity
and naivet£ of life afloat. One thinks at once of "Sir Patrick Spens,"
"Andrew Barton," "Henry Martin," "Admiral Benbow," and a host of
others. The earliest sea song of all dates from the fifteenth century. Obscure
as passages of it are, some of its expressions are still extant. The first three
stanzas will give an indication of the general style.

Men may leve all gamy s
That saylen to Seynt Jamys;
For many a man hit gramys,
When they begyn to sayle.

THE POETRY OF THE SEA

For when they have take the see,
At Sandwyche, or at Wynchylsee,
At Brystow, or where that hit bee,
Theyr hens begyn tofayle.

Anone the mastyr commaundeth fast
To hys shyp-men in all the hast,
To dresse hem sone about the mast,
Theyr takelyng to make.

The exploits of the buccaneers who plied their honourably-disreputable
trade on the Spanish Main, if they failed to stimulate the imagination
of our greatest poets, were sung in a hundred songs and ballads written
by meaner hands. Such were the ballads of "Sir Francis Drake/3 "The
Spanish Armada/' "Sir Walter Raleigh," "The Earl of Essex," and "The
Fight at Malago." All these ballads have the tang of the forecastle about
them, and are true to type. They were written by men who knew at first-
hand the glamour of the sea, "the good, strong sea," as Conrad calls it,
"the salt, bitter sea that could whisper to you and roar at you, and knock
your breath out of you."

In the eighteenth century Jack Tar found a staunch champion in Charles
Dibdin, whose songs, breathing perhaps a little of the vulgarity of
"Roderick Random," are nevertheless faithful songs of the sea. And in true
succession follow Gay ("Black-eyed Susan"), Cowper ("The Loss of the
'Royal George5 "), Campbell ("Battle of the Baltic"), Cunningham ("A Wet
Sheet and a Flowing Sea"), Henley, and others.

But, besides these, there are the songs that belong to the sailors them-
selves. Many are traditional folk-songs, and have never been reduced to
writing. Others, forebitters and chanties, belong to pre-steam days when
sailing was not the sophisticated calling it is to-day. Forebitters, so called
because the sailors sang them on the forebitts, a stage consisting of a con-
struction of timber near the foremast, through which passed most of the
principal ropes, were songs sung without accompaniment, sentimental

THE POETRY OF THE SEA

in tone, and often of great length. Chanties were sung as the sailors
worked, and so were not found in the Royal Navy, where silence is
insisted on. Forebitters and chanties were the staple fare of the forecastle,
and even the best of the landmen's songs — Dibdin's "Tom Bowling," for
example — only found belated favour afloat. With the passing of the old-
time sailor has passed also the tradition of the sea chanty. Sailors may be
as musical as ever, but they have to indulge their passion for song in a less
romantic way to-day. Our modern writers of sea songs will continue to
produce excellent verses, but they will never recapture the spirit of the old
forebitter and chanty. They belong to a day that is dead. But if the mode is
different, the fascination is the same. Whenever the call, whatever the
cause, there will be always those who go down to the sea in ships, careless
of the toils, the hardships, and the dangers, allured by the magic
"Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."

(To M. H.-G.)

By GORDON BOTTOMLEY

A.LIVAL, Oreval, Askival,
I have awaited your cloudy heights
By the wide waters that wander
And rise and wander and fall.
Full of the sky's strange lights,
Among the isles that ponder
The ways of Bride still.

I have looked for you, Oreval,
Allival, Oreval, Askival,
Between slow-towering hills
Of water when the blue boat
Plunged between dark waters
Where the Isle of Jewels floats
And the birds of Bride call.

One of your spirit's daughters

Told me your lovely names,

Oreval, Allival, Askival,

And I cannot forget you since.

I have sailed among blue cold flames

About your feet, I have lain 'twixt the wings

Of the Isle of Wings behind you

Yet my feet will never find you,

Allival, Askival, Oreval,

Your heights I cannot know.

The beings who live with you

And take their life from your growth

Know more of the truth

Of the magical Isles and the ways of them;

MAISIE'S SONG

But I too have my days of them,

And across the interval

Of time and the urging seas

I look for the shining heights,

Askival, Oreval, Allival,

Hidden afar to the knees.

And I know I shall not know them

Or have them for mine in peace;

Yet in life and in dream below them

My longing goes up in flights

To Allival .... Oreval . .

Askival

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I i

WINTER ON THE COAST

water-colour drawing by
GEORGE GRAHAM R.I. R.O.I.

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Catalina of the Golden Isle

By DOROTHY UNA RATCLIFFE

*O matter where you go on Majorca, "the golden isle" of the poets of
antiquity, you will be enchanted. Seller, in a valley of the sun,
Pollenza and its azure mountains and bay, Alcudia and its amber-
coloured Roman walls, Palma, with its almost perfect cathedral, each in
its different way will delight you; but there is one spot of such simple
beauty that, in spite of the lures of other places, will remain for us always
as one of the few perfect places on this earth. It is the little port of Andraitx,
on the sunset side of the island, the home of Catalina.

As you leave the tiny township of Andraitx, take the road which leads
south-west through a few miles of orangeries and almond orchards to the
sea. On your left are hills covered with maquis and Aleppo pines, over-
looking the port of Andraitx — a cluster of golden houses fringing a bay
which is land-locked save for a narrow neck of sea facing the west. Across
the west of the bay there is a long breakwater with a tiny, very beautifully
constructed lighthouse at its seaward end — one of the smallest and certainly
the prettiest lighthouse we have ever seen, looking like a mother-of-pearl
toy at sundown.

At a first glimpse the inn of this little port did not look too promising,
but, entering it, we found everything clean and deserted. Andraitx had not
yet awakened from its afternoon siesta; a few fishermen sat mending nets
in the sun, a few sailors lounged near the ships moored alongside the quay.

We mounted the blue-tiled steps of the inn, and found ourselves in a
clean but shadowy and bare room. The shutters were drawn against the
sun. From there we descended a few steps into a long white dining-room,
also shadowy; then Catalina appeared.

She stood and looked at us. She was a slim girl of about thirteen; her
coarse dark hair was held back from her cheeks by a blue slide, and she
wore ear-rings with some blue stone — perhaps lapis — in them. Her face was
oval and thin, her eyes dark and tilted slightly, her nose something like a
tired puppy's, and her mouth wide and large. She looked at us anxiously.

CATALINA OF THE GOLDEN ISLE

We wanted rooms; we wanted tea; we wanted water for washing; we
were full of wants.

The rooms appeared a reasonable request. Following Catalina up a
tiled staircase, we found ourselves in a quaint suite, a large shadowy
sitting-room facing north-east. Later, from its window, we saw the Plough,
and Arcturus blazing like an orange beacon on the crest of one of the
mountains. This sitting-room led into a second one, and from it, later we
saw Jupiter setting. On the walls were pictures of the Mother and Child,
and a rush mat sparsely covered the blue-tiled Mallorcan floor. From
these sitting-rooms, three bedrooms went off to the north, north-east,
and south. We could take our choice. Each room held three beds, so we
could not complain that we were cramped for accommodation at Andraitx.
The only thing that we lacked were hooks on which to hang our clothes; we
had long ago given up the idea of asking for cupboards or chests of drawers
in a Balearic Fonda. However, we used the spare beds for our clothes, and
put a couple of books in each of the sitting-rooms, and a camera, so as to
make them appear homelike, then, in murderous Spanish, we explained to
Catalina about tea.

Catalina frowned for several moments, then she suddenly grasped the
idea, and informed us that three years ago some English ladies had had
tea there. For proof, she showed us a Times Literary Supplement which
had once been their property. We unpacked, and then whilst we were investi-
gating a door which led from the second sitting-room in a south-westerly
direction, Catalina came and told us tea was ready, served in the long
whitewashed dining-room. Before she led us down to tea, she showed
us through the door, up some steep steps on to the flat roof. From thence
we could see below us the little town asleep in the afternoon sun, the violet
mountains to the north-east, the lapis bay to the west, and the mother-of-
pearl light-tower; and away, delphinium-blue to the horizon, slightly
ruffled, the Mediterranean.

Catalina watched us while we had tea, then, after asking us about supper,
she disappeared to make the beds.

CATALINA OF THE GOLDEN ISLE

During supper the far door of the dining-room opened, and Catalina
appeared, carrying in her arms a great girl of three years old. She brought
the heavy child to me — Margareta — beautiful she was, as beautiful as
Catalina was plain. Margereta had big amber-coloured eyes, with jet curly
lashes almost half an inch long, sun-kissed skin, not sallow like little
Catalina's, and the most adorable pout of a mouth. She promptly tried to
sleep by curling herself up on my knee. Catalina looked anxious, then
picked her up and disappeared through the doorway. Between each course,
which she served very expeditiously, Catalina brought through a little
sister or brother and put them to bed— five in all— then she stood by and
inquired about our orders for the morrow. At eleven o'clock, she was
struggling up the stairs with a tin of hot water.

"Catalina, you should be in bed yourself by now; you are not so much
older than Sevilla" (a ten-year-old sister).

Catalina's frown relaxed, and she bade us "Buenas noches."

Next morning we heard her about at six o'clock, washing the tiled floors
in the two sitting-rooms of our commodious suite. Outside a bird stirred,
and before seven we could hear many women's voices singing Mallorcan
songs.

By eight o'clock, the little square before the Fonda was full of
fishermen, who were sitting on the ground in rows mending the long nets
that had been spread out to dry against the next night's fishing. Everyone
seemed to be singing, even the prisoned canaries in wicker cages against
the house walls; everyone sang save Catalina, and Catalina had no time for
singing. Somewhere at the back of the Fonda, Catalina's mother and father
worked, but visitors were the sole care of Catalina.

We made a resolution at breakfast that we would somehow or other
make Catalina smile; laughter was not in that little serious soul, but surely
before our visit to this Mallorcan Paradise ended, we could win a smile
from her.

CATALINA OF THE GOLDEN ISLE

Our Spanish would have made a Spanish grimalkin laugh, but it only
made Catalina more anxious to help us. My attempts to sing a lovely
Mallorcan folk-song ended in a despairing shrug of her narrow shoulders.
Even my essays at the intricate steps of the Toccata, at which I asked her
help, only brought forth a small, "I cannot dance, I cannot sing."

Every time we saw lovely Margareta, she made a bee-line for us; every
time Sevilla passed she flashed a bright smile through her long, almond-
shaped eyes, and Juan, close-cropped Juan, giggled in response to ques-
tions, while Pedro and Antonio listened with spellbound grins to our
adventures into their language; all of them responded, save only Catalina.

We returned at the end of the day after a long tramp to find Catalina
in the backyard, her arms bared to the elbows, taking down the washing
from a line which was stretched from the back of the Fonda to a
neighbour's doorway.

Margareta saw us, gurgled, made a dash towards us, and held up her
exquisite saucy face to be kissed. Sevilla sidled forward; Juan, Pedro,
and Antonio smirked; only Catalina waited until we came up, then, with
a slight frown between her brows, inquired about our next meal.

At supper time, the same procession began.

"You can't put the children to bed and serve supper, too, Catalina, so
give me Margareta; I'll put her to bed."

Margareta beamed at the idea, but Catalina followed us into the high
white bedroom where all the children slept. I bade her sit down; for a
minute she obeyed, then rose and came towards the bed as I was undressing
Margareta too thoroughly. Seeing that I understood that the petticoat was
not to come off, she went for Sevilla, but she superintended everything,
bade the children say their prayers, then went kitchenwards and brought

up our coffee.

* * * *

Next day we had arranged to take a car to a pass in the mountains,
leave it and tramp back. The driver was late but that was a small matter.

CATALINA OF THE GOLDEN ISLE

Catalina stood waiting with the rugs, to see us off, and to take instructions
about tea and supper.

We got in.

"Catalina/' I said, "jump in!" and before Catalina quite realised what
was happening, we had lifted her into the front seat and were away. Hatless,
her ear-rings jingling in the little breeze, we careered through the village.
Some children waved and, looking back at one of them, she waved, aye,
and actually smiled! For a few blessed hours, through no fault of her own
conscientious soul, Catalina was free to be a little girl of thirteen.

We passed through other villages. All the children knew Catalina, all the
children called out to her, and Catalina, the child, waved back and smiled
at them.

She and the car left us high up among the piney heights, overlooking the
long mountainous inland of Dragonera, which is crowned with a light-
tower; and as we made our way down through the mountains, we thought of
the child, her hair blowing in the wind, her ear-rings dancing, her eyes
smiling, calling to the children in the villages which she would pass on her
way home.

"Dios!" said the neighbours on our return, "if it had been Margareta to
go on the car, or Sevilla, or Juan, or Antonio, or Pedro; but Catalina!
What could anyone see in Catalina to be taking her for a drive? Well, the
English do strange things, but Catalina must not have her head turned,
for who else will ever ask her to go?"

And when we left — the pity that such perfect days must end — Catalina
stood at the Fonda door, waving us away, tears and frowns battling with
a new-born smile for mastery on her puckered face.

"Come back again," she called.

And if we do, what will the weeks, the months, the years have done to
Catalina? For us she will always remain a little girl of thirteen, a sweet
silent thing among the singing fishermen, the singing women, and the
singing canaries.

Sea-pieces from the Japanese

By S. MATTHEWMAN

S the wave in the darkness flows
To the shores of Sumi Bay,
In secret my dream-thought goes
To my love at the close of day.

Fujiwara no Toshiyuki.
II

0 waves of the sea.

By harsh winds you are driven
Until in the end

On hard rocks you are riven;
But alas, over me

Harsher winds are awaking
And helpless I wend,

On a harder heart breaking.

Minamote no Shigeyuki.

Ill

1 think of a boat that is lost,

Yet her form once again I see
Ghostly among the islands
In the morning mist, dream-tossed,
In the bay of Akashi.

Kakinomoto Hitomaru.

O cranes above the bay

Of Fukiu,
Why fly you not away

Into the blue
Of that far heaven known only to you?

Fujiwara no Kiy omasa.

)/ It

THE ATLANTIC

lino cut by
NORA WRIGHT

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Gulls in the Town

By LADY MARGARET SACKVILLE

OH! what are you doing
White wings, in the square
Like flecks of salt foam
On the soot-laden air?

Where all the grey houses
Stand glum as can be,

Their eyes on the street

And their backs to the sea.

As you drift in the whirligig

Dance of the snows,
Do their shutters half lift

In a welcome morose?

Do they hear you and wonder,
When your cries sharp and thin

Imperiously voicing
The sea rushes in?

Or bitterly hiss

Through their lips of hard stone:
"Let the gulls mind their business

And leave us alone!"

The Hills and the Sea

THEIR INFLUENCE ON CAPTAIN COOK
By J. FAIRFAX-BLAKEBOROUGH M.C.

INCE the Yorkshire celebrations of the bi-centenary of Captain
James Cook, I have walked over the Cleveland Hills from Hutton
Lowcross to Great Ayton. One passes through the yard of the farm at
which Cook's father was hind, and along the hillside road James himself
travelled daily to the little school (now a museum dedicated to his memory)
in Ayton village. Ayton is sometimes spoken of as "Canny Yatton unner
Roseberry," and those who are familiar with that part of Yorkshire will
know that the bridle-path I followed from Hutton to Ayton takes one past
the base of Cleveland's landmark — Roseberry. From its summit — sadly
seared by mining operations — one may see on a clear day the sea on one
hand, the ruins of Guisborough Priory on the other, and the smoke of
Tees-side hanging like a pall below.

To one Cleveland bred and born, these hills, and this Roseberry of ours,
draw us back like a magnet, time and time again. We know just what we
are to see, the picture is more than indelibly imprinted on our minds — it is
a loved cameo in our hearts, an ever fresh inspiration to our souls. We are
hill-folk, we Clevelanders— or Clifflanders — which is the more accurate
rendering of the word. But we are also sea-folk. All our "wicks" and
"wykes" — our Runswicks and Ravenswykes — tell of the days of the
Vikings. They came, these hardy Vikings, they braved the seas, they
married our girls, and the Norse blood "nicked" (as we say in connection
with horse-breeding) in perfect unison. The hill-folk and sea-folk produced
a type in many respects, in many peculiarities and idiosyncrasies, distinct
and obvious to-day, despite the introduction of generations of alien blood.
So powerful, so deep, so permanent is the influence of the hills, and that of
the sea, that the prepotency of Danish and moorland blood remains active
and true, exotics notwithstanding.

Students of psychology are not slow to realise that the everlasting hills,
the wide expanses of wind-swept moorland, the wild ravines overhung

THE HILLS AND THE SEA

with noble, if grim thousand-ton boulders, play no small part in the
formation of character, outlook, and mentality of those who live amidst
such grandeur. Even the very moorland sheep possess an independence,
a hardiness, a resourcefulness, a hatred of confinement within limited
bounds, and an intelligence greater than their bigger, fatter, more com-
placent and tractable kind in the vale. It could hardly be otherwise than
that the hill-folk, their flocks and rocks, and the creatures of the wild which
live around them, should be marked by a certain grimness and stolidity,
that they should be thinkers rather than talkers, tireless in energy, of
boundless courage, undaunted by hardships, and with fewer demands on
life than the more artificial, superficial, and shallow people of the vale.

"I will lift mine eyes to the hills," sang the Psalmist, and then he added,
"from thence cometh my strength."

Byron, speaking more particularly of affection for the hills, told us how
those possessing such love —

Hail in each crag a friend's familiar facey
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.

It was under the shadow of the Cleveland Hills, and almost by the side
of the road leading to the sea, that Captain James Cook was born. When
his parents moved from Marton to the hind's house almost at the foot of
Roseberry, they transplanted James into what to a boy with his imagination
must have been a veritable fairyland. He had seen Roseberry every day of
his life, for it is only a few short miles from Marton, and, on clear days,
deceives one — as hills often do deceive — into believing one has only to
cross a few fields as the crow flies to come into close contact and com-
munion. When he left Marton for Airyholm Farm, Cleveland's mountain
became almost his own — an intimate personal possession, to climb at will,
and on its peak to build castles, transcendently higher than itself. From
that peak he would see away in the distance the blue sea just as an early
writer saw it, and be impressed as was that chronicler,* who wrote —

*British Museum MS., Cott Lab. Int. F.VI.

THE HILLS AND THE SEA

"There you may see a vewe the like whereof I never saw, or
thinke that any traveller hath scene any comparalle unto 't, albeit
I have shewed yt to divers who have paste through a greate part of
the world, both by sea and land. The vale, rivers, greate and small,
swellinge hills and mountaynes, pastures and meadowes, cornfields,
parte of the Bishopricke of Durham, with the new porte of Tease
lately found to be safe, and the sea replenyshed with shippes, and
a most pleasant flatt coaste, subjecte to no inundation or hazarde,
make the country happy if the people had the grace to make use of
their owne happiness."

At the most impressionable age then, such were the influences which
came to bear upon James Cook — the everlasting hills on three sides of him,
the vast open moorlands stretching as far as the eye could focus, and below
him from Roseberry-way, the luring, mysterious, mighty deep — and its
unknown, unexplored beyond. Hills and sea did more than awaken
romance and poetry in this child of humble parentage, they did more than
transform poetry into something concrete and active — they conjointly laid
the superstructure of a width of vision, and of an impelling ambition which
was to make him a benefactor to succeeding generations of those who go
down to the sea in ships.

James Cook did much more than add unknown lands to the map of the
world; he stands out as what may be termed "a scientist of the sea." It
was his charts, his system of navigation, which made him the really great
man he was. The discovery of new lands may be described as more or less
incidents in his wonderful career — achievements coming as the first-fruits
of his powers and prowess as one who more than any before him had solved
the secrets of the deep, and of hitherto unexplored rivers emptying them-
selves into the ocean. Discovery, and the attendant honour and glory
attendant upon it, were the climax — albeit a satisfactory and triumphant
climax — rather than the goal at which he aimed in his voyages. If one
diagnoses James Cook's mind aright, he was a theorist who sought oppor-
tunity to prove his theories, and found them in voyages of discovery. To

THE HILLS AND THE SEA

him the improvement in navigation, in making new and revising existing
maps of known waters, and the improvement of the conditions under
which sea-faring men lived aboard ship during their protracted voyages,
were all the main objective of his life. One gathers something of this in
Cook's own journal. After he had been thirty-four years at sea, and after
he had completely circumnavigated the globe in or near the Antartic
Circle, he thus commented on his voyage of three years and sixteen days —

"It doth not become me to say how far the principal objects of our
voyage have been obtained. Though it hath not abounded with remarkable
events, nor been diversified by sudden transitions of fortune, though my
relation of it has been more employed in tracing our course by sea than in
recording our observations on shore, this, perhaps, is a circumstance from
which the curious reader may infer that the purposes for which we were
sent into the Southern Hemisphere were diligently and effectually pur-
sued. Had we found out a continent there we might have been better
enabled to gratify curiosity; but we hope our not having found it, after all
our persevering researches, will leave less room for future speculations
about unknown worlds remaining to be explored."

There is a saying in the Northern counties, "Them what's born ti be
hung '11 niver be drowned." The burden of this is not that there is any
preference, the apothegm rather connoting the pre-destination less crypti-
cally conveyed in another Northern terse bit of philosophy: "What hez ti
be will be!" Perhaps after all the latter is more in the nature of fatalism
than pre-destination. Maybe the two aspects of life — pre-destination and
fatalism — are much the same when applied to the mysterious agencies
which shape careers, and stand at the wheel of destiny. This is not the place
to analyse either thesis, but it may be argued that no matter where Captain
Cook had been born, regardless of his inspiring early environment, he
would have risen above those surroundings, to achievement as a circum-
navigator, surveyor, chart maker, explorer, astronomer, botanist, and close
observer of men and manners. Let us concede that this might have been so,
that he would have become what he did become, and that he would have

THE HILLS AND THE SEA

discovered that destiny which shaped his ends had he never come under
the influence of the everlasting hills, or gazed with boyish eyes and boyish
longing from those same hills to the distant azure seas. But I have endea-
voured to show the type of man the hills and mountains produce, their
inevitable effect upon character, outlook, and attitude towards life in all
its varying phases. Surely this inherent influence, quickened and renewed
again and again by close contact, played a part in the make-up of Captain
James Cook, and added a width of outlook, a tenacity of purpose, a dignity,
determination and stolidity to his character, all of which were necessary to
the accomplishment and fullness of that which was within him? He himself
said in the introduction to his book —

". . > the public will, I hope, consider me as a plain man, zealously
exerting himself in the service of his country and determined to give the
best account he is able of his proceedings."

Sir Walter Besant, in his Cook monograph, sums up the outstanding
characteristics of our Yorkshire hero's life thus —

"He was hard to endure, true to carry out his mission, perfectly
loyal and single-minded, he was fearless, he was hot-tempered and
impatient, he was self-reliant, he asked none of his subordinates for
help or advice, he was temperate and strong, and of simple tastes,
he was born to a hard life, and he never murmured however hard
things proved. And, like all men born to be great, when he began
to rise, with each step he assumed, as if it belonged to him, the
dignity of his new rank. A plain man, those who knew him say, but
of good manners."

One can read into all this without affectation the towering hills of the
Cliff-land which gave him birth, and the sea beyond which undeniably
beckoned to him from afar — beckoned him to discover the Society Islands,
to make it known that New Zealand consisted of two islands, and to give
New Zealand and Australia to his country, to discover New Caledonia,
the Sandwich Islands, to explore the North American Coast, to make the
ways plain across the seas and along unknown or little known coasts. For

THE HILLS AND THE SEA

all this there was no title, but his King granted Cook's family a coat of

arms with shield —

Azure, between two polar stars Or, a sphere on the plane of the
meridian, showing the Pacific Ocean, his track thereon marked by
red lines. And for crest, on a wreath of the colours, is an arm bowed,
in the uniform of a Captain of the Royal Navy. In the hand is the
Union Jack on a staff proper. The arm is encircled by a wreath of
palm and laurel.

The Sea Bridal

By ALBERTA VICKRIDGE

troth and tryst," he said, and so he went.
She heard the loud surf grieve along the bay,
"Keep troth," and bowed her head and spoke assent.

"Here, love, we'll tryst, three years hence and a day."
So he to wild ports in a wilder land

Sailed far beyond the sunset's arch of flame,
And in her parents' cot above the strand

She dwelt in patience, but no message came.
And in the first year after he was gone

She saw a younger sister made a bride,
And bore her taunts. "You pine; your cheek is wan;

Your dreams are vain." She smiled for secret pride.
"Keep troth." The loud sea-breakers, noon and night,

Rang in her ears with one unending song.
No message came, yet still her eyes were bright.

"Two summers and a day; it is not long."

Time sped; she saw a second girl espoused —

A wench who, sipping at the thronged church-door
The merry bridewine, mocked, "Your heart has housed

Delusions!" She was silent as before.
"Keep troth . . ." Afar she heard, by night and noon,

The long sea-breakers crying from the bay,
And smiled for pride. "Beneath the appointed moon

We'll tryst, love, come a twelvemonth and a day . . ."

And in the third and ultimate year was wed

Her youngest sister. On the marriage-eve
This gentlest playmate leaned above her bed

And clasped her close, and whispered, "Do not grieve
For fictions: heal your heart and dwell no more

THE SEA BRIDAL

With dreams that blind the brain and eyes with mist.
And let him be forgot." Sobs caught and tore

Her throat, and passed. She said, "I keep his tryst."
But he to dim ports in a dimmer land

Had fared beyond the sunset's arch of flame.
Three years were gone, and, grey across the sand,

The trysting-day, so long awaited, came.

At earliest cockcrow and at windy noon

She listened to the loud surf all that day,
And when the twilight brought the appointed moon

Descended, lonely, to the lonely bay.
Her sisters knew the hour. Above the tide

Three village wives kept watch, and twain had come
To flout a heart too faithful, and deride,

But one for pity and for grief was dumb.
And twain who watched above the haunted cove

Have sworn that no man came, but one has said
That there a lover trysted with his love

And kept a vow. The deep gave up its dead.

He rose, a sea-ghost, from the shivering sea

(Young lovers tell the tale with bated breath),
"Lo, sweetheart, dare you plight your troth with me?

Springs love so deep that it dares mate with death?"
The loud surf moaned along the sorrowing shore,

"Keep troth . . ." He glimmered in her sight, a wraith
Thin as the sea-wrack. Anguish shook and tore

Her breast, and passed. She answered, "I keep faith."
"O, cold," he said, "your bridal, and shall be

For you no gladdening of flesh and bone,
Despair and darkness, doom and agony

Shall be your wedding-guests, and these alone."

THE SEA BRIDAL

She answered, "Ay, I know Love's harsher name,

The only name that I have called him by;
And yet, though happier brides may mock, I claim

That few, for love's sake, shall do more than I."
"Be warned, stand back," he said, "for like the sea

My lips are chill; death strikes where I have kissed.
Then, sweetheart, dare you plight your troth with me?"

She sobbed, and said, "Beloved, I keep tryst."

All spectral, shimmering like the spark-filled tide

In face and limb with faint unearthly sheen,
He beckoned, and she saw, but wild and wide

The ranks of sullen breakers rolled between.
A pace, and round her feet the wave ran cold;

Another, and it drenched her to the knee.
It smote her breast, it took her in its hold;

She gave her living body to the sea.
And twain who followed to the breakers' edge

Have sworn she died, self-slain, in heart's despair,
But one avers that she redeemed love's pledge,

And found in death a wild sea-bridal there.

^iiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmiiiiiimiiiiiim

SAILS DRYING, MARSEILLES

woodcut by
FRED LAWSON

^miimimmillllllllllimiilimilllimilimimmilllimilim

Our Western Sea

By LADY GREGORY

Star of the Sea, that is the best star. There was a Saint that saw
the Blessed Virgin nine hundred years before she was born, and he
put up a little chapel and was praying ever after that God would
send her. And when she came they called her the Star of the Sea."

That is what I was told by some poor dweller in a village on our lonely
Western coast. And that "this is a very blessed place, being as it is between
two blessed wells. No thunder falls on it. If there is thunder it is very little
and does no injury."

It is a very quiet place. The hills around are stern and grey, rock moun-
tains, rock terraces, the shadow of rock on rock. The rock roses are white,
the pale seapinks are covered with salt spray; there is a wonderful stillness.
No wild bees hive here, and no birds sing. The white gulls are silent in the
air. A heron startled by a stone let fall flaps softly away.

"This is a very holy place," the people say. "There was a Saint living for
seven years in a cleft in the mountain beyond; no one in it but himself and
a mouse. I don't know in the world what did the dear man get for food
through all that time. The well he blessed is there beyond in the west.
Many a one I saw go to sleep there that had tender eyes, or even a scum
on them, and they would get reprieve."

I was told of an old midwife "that helped all the women in the parish and
is helping them yet, and she eighty-six years old. I was often with the
women when she used to come in and the first thing she would ask was,
'What way is the tide?' For with a change in the tide there would be a
change in the sickness. The tide to be coming in, the sickness would be
worse, and in the ebbing it would lessen. And if there was a spring tide in
at the full she would be happy, for the woman would have no sickness
at all."

I myself went sometimes to see that old midwife and she said to me with
other wise words, "The best present anyone can get is a baby without
deformity. And you should bring him up well and teach him 'Our Father';

OUR WESTERN SEA

and to bless himself, and to ask the Father to bless him. And before he
would go to bed he should be brought to give the hand to the father and
mother. And not to let him learn to go pelting stones, for if once he will
take up a stone to pelt, you'll never stop him after."

And I was told "Sometimes a light will come on the sea before the boats
to guide them to the land. And my own brother told me one day he was out
and a storm came on of a sudden, and the sail of the boat was let down as
quick and as well as if two men were in it. Some neighbour or friend it
must have been that did that for him. Those that go down to the sea after
the tide going out, to cut the weed, often hear under the sand the sound of
the milk being churned. There's some didn't believe it till they heard it
themselves."

An old man living on that coast said to me, "I'll tell you a story, my lady,
that is a true story and a story that is as old as myself. It is a story of a man
who went beyond the hopes of God.

"This man now was in a hard shift and he had but a heap of potatoes
between himself and death. So he took and made divides of the potatoes,
sixty-five divides he made, that would give him a meal every day until the
new ones would come in. And then he took notice that he came short of
one meal in the measurement, and that a person would want to keep a rag
for a sore foot. So he said he would eat no meal the first day. And if he
didn't, he died in the night.

"That is how he went beyond the hopes of God, that is good for the
night till morning. And why wouldn't He be good to give him the last
meal if he lived to eat it?"

And I was told "There was a beggar boy used to be here that was very
simple like and had no health, and if he would walk as much as a few
perches it is likely he would fall on the road. And he dreamed twice that he
went to Saint Brigit's blessed well upon the cliffs, and that he found his
health there. So he set out to go to the well, and when he came to it he fell
in and he was drowned. Very simple he was and innocent and without
sin. It is likely it is in Heaven he is at this time."

Beata Solitudo

(FOR D. U. R.)

By WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE

I LOVE the lonely fields that lean upon
The sea at twilight, when the dusk's winds blow,
When the pale sea-mist creeps up from below
Over small eyebright widowed of the sun,
And folds the cliffs in silence and in peace;
While far, far, far below the lapping sound
Of crystal waves is heard, deep underground
In basalt caves, sunken eternities.
O darkening fields, what is your beauty to me?
You have known loneliness and found it good,
You are clasped close to the warm night's deep breast:
The joy of this serenity pierces through me —
O divine darkness, O sweet solitude,
The bitter song of the sea and the infinite rest! . .

HjiiiiiiHiiiiiiimiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiE

NELSON

from a miniature in the collection of

H. SUTCLIFFE SMITH ESQ.

= =

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A v'

uH^v*U^

*-^

»-/

TRANSCRIPTION OF THE LETTER FROM NELSON TO LADY HAMILTON,

REPRODUCED BY COURTESY OF
H. SUTCLIFFE SMITH ESQ. OF INGERTHORPE GRANGE

Victory Spithead Aug. 18th 1805

I am my beloved and dearest Emma this moment anchored, and as the
post will not go out until! 8 o'clock and you not get the letter till 11 or 12
o'clock tomorrow I have ordered a Post Office express to tell you of my
arrival. I hope we shall be out of Quarantine tomorrow, when I shall fly to
dear dear Merton. You must my Emma believe all I would say and fancy
what I think, but I suppose this letter will be cut open smoaked and
perhaps read. I have not heard from My Own Emma since last April by
Abbe Campbell but I trust my Emma is all which her Nelson wishes her to
be. I have brought home no honors for my country, only a most faithful
servant, nor any riches that the administration took care to give to others,
but I have brought home a most faithful and honorable and bcloving
heart to my Emma and My Dear dear Horatia, May Heaven bless you,
the boat is waiting and I must finish, This day two years and three months
I left you. God send us as happy a meeting as our parting was sorrowful.
Ever for ever yours

NELSON & BRONTE
Kindest regards to Mrs. Cadogan Charlotte and all our friends with you.

On the Quay

By WILFRID GIBSON

Ql TIFLED all day by suffocating fluff
^That filled the humming mill — at sunset free,
She sauntered downward to the windy quay
To clear her breathing of the choking stuff,
And rid her nostrils of the reek of jute.
Her senses of the droning of the mill:
And she rejoiced to hear the eager hoot
Of the incoming whalers; and to fill
Her lungs with briny savors; and to see
The bearded salt-encrusted venturers
Whose hearts had dared the sheer immensity
Of the whales' playground; and whose life, to hers-
Tied to a rattling loom through all her days
In a sick humid smothering atmosphere —
Seemed life indeed, in shattering bright ways
Of wind-sheared shivering waters, tossing clear
To limitless horizons . ,s . * *';

And to-night,

Sparkling, aware and eager-eyed, she saw
The still blue eyes of a young whaler light
As he looked into hers; and sudden awe
Filled her young heart, as though the very sea,
Darkling and dangerous, claimed her for its bride,
And salt tumultuous waters thunderously
Crashed drowning over her, tide after tide.

The Spanish Lady*

(A Comedy in One Act)
By DOROTHY UNA RATCLIFFE

Characters

HARRY MORGAN - High Admiral of all English

Buccaneers.

A SPANISH LADY.

JOB BUCKLE - Morgan's Yorkshire Servant.

NOBBLES - Another Servant.

TIME About the middle of the Seventeenth Century.

SCENE The Admiral's Cabin on board his finest ship — one of a fleet of
thirty — anchored somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. The cabin is
oak panelled and the ceiling is oak beamed.
Down right, a finely carved cabinet serves as a sideboard, and
against the wall, farther up stage, an old arm-chair.
Up right, a door leading aft to the galley.
Centre back, a doorway revealing a dark passage leading to the
AdmiraTs cabin; other cabin doors are suggested by flashes of
amber light when a door opens.

Up left, a porthole through which the moonlight streams. Below
this porthole is a large treasure chest; on the wall hang some
finely-engraved Spanish pistols.

On the wall down-left, contemporary charts of the Atlantic and
the Caribbean Sea.

Right centre, a heavy square table, and at the left side a
carved chair. Above the table a richly-worked brass lamp hangs
from a chain throwing a golden light in a circle round the table.
Rush matting covers the floor.

* Application for the right of performing this play should be made to
Samuel French, 26 Southampton Street, Strand, London W C 2

THE SPANISH LADY

JOB

NOBBLES
JOB

NOBBLES

Enter Job.

He is a most unwashed-looking scoundrel; matted hair, unshaven
face, gold rings in his ears, and he wears a very faded bottle-blue
coat. He walks towards the table, pulls a soiled duster from one of
his pockets and wipes the table top with it, singing in a low,
lugubrious tone:

"If few we have amongst us,

Our hearts are very great;
And each will have more plunder
And each will have more plate."

Enter Nobbles, a red-haired lad, completely under the thumb of
Job. His opinions are Job's, and he would not be tolerated a day
on a buccaneer ship without JoVs protection. He carries two silver
candlesticks which he places on the table, then goes to the cabinet,
takes out a flint and tinder and, in a leisurely manner, lights the
two candles.

(watching him) Buccaneering isn't what it used to be.

Theer's some folk 'at allus praises bygone times an' blames
t'present days.

Well, I'm not one of 'em. It isn't in my nature to grumble.
I've got a disposition 'at takes things as they coom, but I'll
tell you straight, Nobbles, if I had a son, I wouldn't put him
to buccaneering.

Wouldn't you?

Nay, it's got no future. Whya, when I first joined up, we had
at least one good sack a week, and each man got enough loot
to keep hissen rum-drunk in Port Royal for a month.

Well, theer's not so much drinking these days; it seems to be
going out of fashion, as you might say.

THE SPANISH LADY

JOB I can remember times when a dozen buccaneers would be

lying on this 'ere cabin floor as drunk as lords.

NOBBLES Eh! what a sight.

JOB And no questions asked next day if a few pieces of eight or

Spanish doubloons wur missing — but it's against orders to get
drunk save on land to-day. Get on with your job, Nobbles.

NOBBLES Aye (goes to the cabinet, gets out some knives and forks, elegantly
shaped, and gives them a rub over with a piece of rough leather.)

JOB (sitting on the treasure chest) There's too many orders and

regulations to-day. When I first joined up, t'ony rules a
buccaneer had to remember wur, "Stick to your partner, fair
shares of all loot 'cording to rank, an' t'devil take t'hindmost,
O!" To-day, theer's confabulations, conferences, white flags,
committees and sich-like ridiculousnesses. Loot, not words,
is my motto!

NOBBLES I suppose it's what t' Admiral Harry Morgan would call im-
proved organisation an' better discipline.

JOB "Better discipline!" Nowt of sort; summat quite different will

be t'downfall of all of us.

NOBBLES What do you mean, Job?

JOB (darkly) Too much bloody bowing is bad for buccaneering.

It's manners what's going to be the ruination of our leaders.
Wheer's that blasted altar doth?

NOBBLES It's in yon cabinet.

JOB (with disgust) I've to put a lace tablecloth on for that bit of

Spanish haughtiness what we took prisoner two days ago.
Lace tablecloth for her! By gow! if I were t' Admiral, I'd learn
her; I'd put her in her place!

THE SPANISH LADY

NOBBLES (with admiration) Aye, you would an' all.

JOB (with disgust) Lace tablecloth! "What she's been accustomed

to," says Admiral Harry Morgan. It's weak-minded, treating
women prisoners wi' sich politeness.

NOBBLES They take advantage of it, doant they?

JOB If this kind of thing goes on, we shall be forbidden to sack

convents next.

(He goes to the cabinet and brings out a beautiful white altar
cloth.)

NOBBLES Where did yon coom from?

JOB (placing it on the table) We took this along with all that gowd

communion plate when we looted t'church at San Romanic.
I got nowt theer save a girt crucifix; it wur a gowd 'un. As you
know, Nobbles, I'm a decent God-fearing Puritan. I sold the
Papist toy for an old song, or rather for a tot of old rum. You
know me well enow, Nobbles, to know I wouldn't keep sich
a superstitious gewgaw by me.

(He goes to the treasure chest near the door, and begins taking out
some gold plate.)

NOBBLES Gosh! t'table will look fit for a banquet wiv all that gowd plate
set out.

JOB Aye, our owd pewter pots and pans isn't good enough to enter-

tain her Spanish leddyship. Nay! she's to drink her Opporto
out of a gowd cup criss-crossed wi' rubies and sapphires.

NOBBLES Whativer's coom ower t' Admiral?

JOB (groaning) Marry! it's a terrible come-down to see him so

polite, him, the finest buccaneer in all Caribbean waters.

NOBBLES That it is, but as t'French say, "Cherchez la trouble."

THE SPANISH LADY

JOB It was her haughtiness that took him all of a sudden. She wur

one of two score women prisoners we took at San Romanio.
When we got 'em on board, all t'others began flip-flopping
about t'decks, screaming and tearing their hair, begging for
mercy like so many screeching macaws, and at the far end of
the poop there stood her Spanish leddyship looking at 'em,
her hie red mouth curled up scornful-like.

NOBBLES She's a cool one.

JOB Then Harry Morgan spots her and looks her straight in the

eyes, and he says, very sharp, "As High Admiral of the
Buccaneer Fleet, I have the first choice of the women
prisoners," and, without so much as glancing at the squawking
macaws on the deck, he walks up to her, and he says, very
quiet and steady-like, "I claim you."

NOBBLES How did she take it? She'd have summat to say to that!

JOB Not her! She tilted her chin up and looked straight back at

him, then she nodded same as if he wur being presented to
her at the court of a king.

NOBBLES An' after that no one dare lay a finger on her or her diamond
cross and her long diamond ear-rings, worth t'Lord alone
knows how many doubloons.

JOB By gow! not after t' Admiral chose her. I watched her as she

swept down t'deck, picking her way daintily among t'other
weeping females, an' says she, "Where is my cabin?"

NOBBLES An' two officers had to turn out so she could have a cabin all
to hersen.

JOB Aye, an' she's still rigged out in her fine gown, t'same as when

she wur captured returning from t'Governor's ball last night.
Afore you could say "knife," she wur asking for hot water
an' Castilian soap. Castilian soap!

THE SPANISH LADY

NOBBLES The impudence of her asking Job Buckle for soap!

JOB Sure enow, Harry Morgan follows her down, shows her yon

cabin, then she says, looking like the Queen of Sheba, "To
whom shall I give my orders?" An' he yells fur me an* says,
"Job, carry out all this lady's instructions."

NOBBLES Well, it's a queer business, an' I've niver seen t' Admiral so
soft wiv a woman afore.

JOB What I'm feared of is lest this softness should spread through

t'whole Fleet. Next thing they'll be issuing orders telling us
not to shoot nuns, then they'll tell us to take no women
prisoners, (with disgust) Buccaneering's not what it used to be.
(They hear brusque footsteps in the passage.) Whist!

NOBBLES It's him!

They both suddenly become intensely occupied with the table, and
cease talking.

Harry Morgan enters and stands for a moment in the doorway
surveying the lamplit and moonlit cabin. He is tall and sturdily
built, between forty and fifty years of age, and might get stout as
he gets older. His well-cut dark blue coat with its full skirt and
large pockets hides this tendency. His hair just clears his shoulders
and is beginning to turn grey. He has a square, weathered face,
direct shrewd blue eyes, short straight nose, firm mouth, and a
grim chin. His manner is genial and he laughs readily, showing
his perfect, strong teeth. He does not wear ear-rings, and he has
evidently taken some trouble in arranging his cravat and the
rttffles at his wrists, as he occasionally looks at them. He has
a way of standing with his legs apart, of throwing back his
shoulders, and slightly narrowing his eyes when listening to others
speaking. A genial self-confident person, he speaks with a very
slight Welsh accent when he is stirred.

THE SPANISH LADY

JOB (with great deference) Hope all is to your liking. Sir?

MORGAN (entering) Seats look rather uninviting to a lady. Bring up some
cushions.

JOB Cushions!

MORGAN Aye! cushions, damn you, and look sharp!

JOB Where will I find cushions, Sir?

NOBBLES (diffidently) 'Scuse me, Sir, but we took some cushions t'day
we sacked Don Christoval's palace. They wur cushions covered
wi' some pictures of half-dressed ladies, goblins I think Don
ChristovaTs steward called 'em. Shall I fetch 'em?
Morgan nods and Nobbles disappears. Morgan then takes a sheet
of paper out of his pocket and spreads it on the table, smiling;
then he reads aloud:

"Most beautiful lady . . . ."
He looks up and smiles at Job.

JOB (obsequiously) Begging your pardon, Sir, but are you making

a song about her? In my spare moments, I write a bit of poetry
myself, so I'm naturally interested.

MORGAN You do, do you? Well, let's have one of your verses.
JOB This 'ere's my buccaneer's song, begging your pardon, Sir.

Morgan's eyes are on the paper, while Job sings apprehensively.
"If few we have amongst us,

Our hearts are very great.
And each will have more plunder

And each will have more plate.
We ... ."

MORGAN (stopping him) Thank you, I like the tune, (overlooking the table)
Where's the wine and where's that dish of pineapples from
Bermuda I told you to put on the table? Why the hell can't you
remember orders?
Job disappears rapidly.

THE SPANISH LADY

MORGAN (glances after him amusedly, then he reads aloud)

"Most beautiful lady, shall ever again
I meet such a foe from bellicose Spain?"

NOBBLES (re-enters) Here's them goblin cushions, Sir.

MORGAN (putting the cushions all in a bunch in one corner)
". . such a foe from bellicose Spain."

JOB (re-enters with a dish of fruit and a flagon of wine. He places

them on the table, then overlooks the Admirafs paper) "Bellicose
Spain." That's good, Sir. "Bellicose" is a grand word, if you'll
pardon the liberty, Sir.

MORGAN (reading) "I am your captive, fair merciless jailor." What have
you got to say to that! Come on, out with it!

JOB (repeating falteringly) "I am your captive, fair merciless jailor."

There's "sailor" and "tailor," both good rhymes, Sir, but
'scuse me, Sir, I wouldn't tell her you was her captive. It'll
give her ideas out of all keeping wi' her rightful position on
this ship.

NOBBLES (echoing) It will an' all, Sir.

MORGAN (narrowing his eyes and looking first at one, then at the other) It
will, will it? And what exactly is the lady's position on this
ship? Answer me, and don't stand there shivering as if you
had the fever! Out with it!

JOB You'll 'scuse me, Sir, but, in my opinion, it might be time she
was taught that she's nowt but loot an' that you're High
Admiral of all buccaneers in these waters and not

MORGAN Well, not ?

JOB Well, Sir — not a guitar-playing caballero hanging about her

husband's patio.

THE SPANISH LADY

MORGAN (ironically) Well, I'm pleased to have your observations, Job
Buckle. Now tell Dona Antonia that dinner will be served
shortly, and ask her to do me the honour of joining me, then —
both of you go to blazes!

NOBBLES Aye, aye, Sir! (Exit.)

JOB (sullenly) I'll tell her all right, but last time I spoke to her she

fairly insulted me.

MORGAN Insulted you?

JOB Aye, Sir, she asked me— me what wur reared in Whitby,

t'cleanest, most ship-shape town in t'North Country — to wash
my hands afore knocking on her cabin door!
(Job walks slowly to the door, steps into the passage, and knocks
loudly on the next cabin door, then he calls out) Admiral Morgan
says you're to coom out at once.

The door opens and there appears a most beautiful Spanish lady.
She walks into the passage, then stands for a moment in the
Admirafs cabin doorway. She is tall and lithe and very graceful,
and carries her head a little to one side, as if she were listening.
Her small oval face is a clear olive, her dark hair is dressed after
the manner of Velazquez's ladies. Her eyes are dark and finely
lashed, her brows high and arched and delicately pencilled. Her
mouth is sensitive but firm, and is naturally as red as a Poinsettia.
She is dressed in silver and blue brocade. A large diamond cross
hangs below her waist and long diamond ear-rings from her ears.
She carries a silver and mother-of-pearl fan, using it with great
proficiency.

THE LADY (in response to Morgan's bow) Buenas Tardes, Senor. (She
curtsies and a little scornful smile plays round her red lips.)
Morgan goes to the door and leads her to the chair left of table,
R.C. She sits down and arranges her full brocade skirts, then
glances at the table and springs to her feet.

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY (pointing with her fan to the gold plate) Madre de Dios! What
is this? Plate belonging to the Monastery of San Romanic!
Surely, as a daughter of Holy Mother Church, you would not
offend me by using such sacred objects for sacrilegious pur-
poses. I am greatly shocked at your impiety, Buccaneer!

MORGAN (stoutly) I see no reason why these cups and plates should not
be put to a useful purpose, and, too, I object to your applying
the word "impiety" to myself.

THE LADY (proudly) Bah! I forgot that you were a Protestant. I withdraw
"impiety" and refer instead to your lamentable lack of courtesy.

MORGAN (narrowing his eyes) I object to that, too. Before I ran away to
sea, I was reared in a highly-respectable Welsh village, and
there learned from my estimable mother the respect due to
ladies of your virtue, rank, and beauty.

THE LADY Well, the least I can say is that, under the circumstances, your
hospitality is extremely tactless.

Tactless?

MORGAN
THE LADY

MORGAN

JOB

(angrily; pointing with her fan to the table, then closing it with
a sharp click) This plate was presented to the Jesuits by my
husband as a thank-offering for his recovery from a severe
attack of ague. The presence of it on your table is, therefore,
extremely painful to me, and I suggest that you ask your still
unwashed servant to remove it.

(watching her quietly) Under the circumstances, it shall be
removed, (calling out impatiently) Job, Job, you spawn of the
devil, remove this gold trash and bring back the pewter we
took at the sack of the Castle of Careno.

(removing the plate, mutters under his breath) There's no
pleasing some people.

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY And this cloth! Has this not been stolen from some High
Altar? (turning to Morgan) It is an unpardonable insult to ask
me to dine with you off such a doth. I am greatly annoyed
and would prefer to dine alone.

JOB (in a low voice) Let her starve, Sir. That will bring her pride

down a bit.

MORGAN (to Job) That will do; take the cloth away, damn you! and get
on with serving dinner, or supper, or whatever the infernal
meal is that the cook decides to send up this evening.
The lady walks daintily up and down the cabin fanning herself
quickly.

MORGAN (faces her, and she stops walking) We must have this out, Dona
Antonia. Do you realise that you are making me — hitherto the
most rigid disciplinarian — a laughing stock on my own ship?

THE LADY (demurely) Dios Mio! I can see nothing to laugh at in you.
In your own profession I gather you are quite an important
person. In the somewhat unusual conditions under which you
have constrained me to become your guest, perhaps an intro-
duction to my host might not be out of place.

MORGAN (after a pause) Like many another lad, the sea called your host,
Dona Antonia. I ran away from home in my early teens. Our
ship was captured; I was sold as a slave and worked for a while
in the Barbadoes. I watched my chance and escaped to Jamaica,
and then joined the Buccaneers. After that, fair guest, I
planned and led some successful expeditions, and am to-day
High Admiral of all the English Buccaneers. Before I die,
I shall be Governor of Jamaica. Sir Henry Morgan — and
one day a certain beautiful lady of Spain will gladly grace
my receptions.

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY Bravo! Before your explanation, I had not a very clear estimate
of the social distinctions between buccaneer and — buccaneer.

MORGAN (dryly) Now, perhaps, you have a better idea of my position
on this ship, but you still seem to have an entirely erroneous
idea of your own. (goes to her) Do you realise what your fate
would have been if / had not claimed you as my prisoner of
war?

THE LADY (suppressing a yawn with her fan) Uf ! (wearily) I suppose
I should have had to share a cabin with one of those hysterical
women of San Romanio.

MORGAN Share a cabin! (he puts his hand on her shoulder and grips her
securely) By Heavens! You entirely fail to grasp the position
of a woman prisoner on board a buccaneer frigate.

THE LADY (removing his hand from her shoulder) With the exception of
your tactlessness about the dining table, I have, so far, no
complaint to make as to my treatment on your ship. Of course,
I regret this enforced absence from my husband. He is an
oldish man, and at times suffers severely from gout. If he
should have an attack whilst I am away, he will miss me
greatly, (rises.)

MORGAN (dryly) Well, he will have to go on missing you. Sit down,
Dona Antonia, we might as well settle this matter once and
for all. (goes right and brings chair in front of table, where he
sits) Are you following me? You are my prisoner and there is
no earthly reason why I should not treat you according to
our rules of war. All's fair in our buccaneering wars or for
the matter of that in our buccaneering loves. (He gazes at her
across a corner of the table?)

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY (quietly) All may be fair, but all may not be expedient. Buc-
caneer, (looking at him squarely) There is one very good
reason why you will not treat me according to your rules of
war.

MORGAN Let's hear it then. I am in no mood to be trifled with!

THE LADY Because you are in love with me, Buccaneer, and being in love
with me, you desire that I should be in love with you.

MORGAN Confound you! (goes left but returns to her side).

THE LADY You fell in love with me the moment you claimed me as your
prisoner, and you will not willingly risk spoiling our so far
pleasant relations by keeping one of your rules and breaking
one of mine.

MORGAN Your rules?

THE LADY Yes, Amigo Mio, my rules. This game you must play according
to my rules. It is against my rules to capture a woman and
keep her by force. Women such as I love only when they are
free. Is a buccaneer able to understand that?

MORGAN Are you suggesting that I should let you return to your
husband?

THE LADY (raising her brows) And why not?

MORGAN (sarcastically) My method with husbands of beautiful ladies
does not allow me to give them back their wives. (Sits on the
edge of the table close to her) No! They drop blindfold from
a plank's end.

THE LADY Virgin santissima! With me that would be a very false move.
I could not possibly consent to have a lover who treated my
husband so inconsiderately.

THE SPANISH LADY

MORGAN (bending over her) Am I dreaming, or did you actually use the
words "lover" and "husband" in one and the same sentence?
(She nods) Then, Madam, you've very improper, nay, immoral
ideas on this subject.

THE LADY (yawning daintily) Pray excuse me, I'm so hungry.

MORGAN (intently) Please attend to what I am saying. There is no
disgrace attached to you if you are forced to be mine as my
prisoner of war — even an English old maid could make no
valid objection to that — but calmly to suggest that you would
consent to my becoming your lover, your husband living, and
you not on board my ship (with indignation), it is against every
principle instilled into me in my youth by my excellent mother.

THE LADY Dios te orga! Please to be reasonable. If you hold me here as
your prisoner, all the world will point at Don Diego, my
husband, and will say, "There goes the man whose wife was —
shall we say — detained by Harry Morgan, Admiral of the
Buccaneers!" but if you visit his house as his guest

MORGAN (amazed) His guest!

THE LADY Yes, his guest, but I am always delighted to receive my hus-
band's guests.

MORGAN (indignantly) Madam, your ideas on these matters are out-
rageous! You would actually allow me to visit at your husband's
house knowing that I should come in the hope of being your
lover?

THE LADY Providing you won my love, Buccaneer. According to my
mother's upbringing (may her soul rest in peace) it is prefer-
able to give oneself to a man one loves than to be taken by a
man one does not love.

THE SPANISH LADY

MORGAN The deuce take me! Shall I ever understand women! Well,
the seas carry us to strange races — and I suppose yours is one
point of view.
(A knock is heard.)

THE LADY Entra.

(Job enters.)

MORGAN But why the devil should I come a-calling on Don Diego in
order to put up with your whims and vagaries, when I have
you here to do as I please with?

JOB (to Morgan) Here's everything I think, Sir.

(He sets the dishes on the table)

MORGAN (to Job) What? Be damned and get out of here!
(Exit Job in surprised confusion)

Anyway, Pll have one kiss from you, something in advance.
(He leans towards her. She rises and whips a tiny revolver out
of her breast and points it at him. Morgan laughs, goes towards
her, and, catching her wrist, examines the little pocket revolver,
then points it towards the floor)

MORGAN (merrily) No use bluffing, Beautiful Lady. (She puts the
revolver back in her breast) You know, and I know, that you
are safe on this frigate only whilst I am in control, and you
won't attempt to get rid of me for your own lovely sake.

THE LADY (smiling sweetly and nodding) Si, Si, quite true. (She sits on the
other chair at the table) Shall we begin? I'm very hungry.
(mockingly) What a pity that you should be so shocked at
some of my ideas, but you must remember my upbringing.
I was not educated in a virtuous English village. No! After
leaving the Convent of Santa Teresa, I was married (with
a little laugh) and thrown into the manifold temptations of the
Royal Court at Madrid.

THE SPANISH LADY

MORGAN (watching her) My dear lady, I make every allowance for you,
but — to suggest that I should call and make a fuss of your
husband

THE LADY (arranging her curls with her jewelled fingers) Well, I cannot
possibly have a lover unless he makes himself agreeable to my
husband. According to my rules, my husband is my natural
protector, and, as such, must receive every consideration.

MORGAN (raising his voice slightly) In my country, when a man falls in
love with another man's wife, he honestly tries to blow her
husband's brains out.

THE LADY (eating) A very crude practice, Buccaneer. In my country, a
lady would not dream of taking a lover who made himself so
objectionable to her husband.

MORGAN (amazed at her) 'Struth! (shaking his head and going up left)
These convent-bred women!

THE LADY (after drinking) And speaking of convents, I wish you would
desist from placing priests and nuns in front of your attacking
armies. It makes matters very awkward for our Spanish
Generals. You place them in a dilemma. As good soldiers, they
must fire; as good Catholics, they are thereby committing a
mortal sin. It makes it very difficult for them.

MORGAN (earnestly) I have already given orders that no more nuns are
to be shot, (ironically') Anything else you would like doing?

THE LADY (plaintively) Si, if you seek my favour, tell your cut-throats to
abstain from looting churches and from kidnapping helpless
old priests for ransom.

THE SPANISH LADY

MORGAN (bringing his fist down on the table) Look you! This fooling
must cease, (pushing table) You're my prisoner of war,
and I want you more than I've wanted anything since I saw
my first bird's nest in an Aberglellenan lane, and, what's
more, I'm going to have you, Beautiful Lady, (she rises) You
can kiss me of your own accord, but, whether you choose to

or not

(He leans towards her, an arm outstretched to draw her towards
him.)

THE LADY (rising) Please be careful! My gown! This brocade was im-
ported from Paris. (She escapes into the middle of the cabin,
taking the small pistol from her breast and pointing it at her
temple. The curls hang so thickly on one side, so she tries the
pistol at the other temple.) Caramba! I will not outlive the
disgrace of being kissed by a man whom I have had no time
to wish to kiss.

MORGAN (walks towards her and quietly takes the pistol from her un-
resisting hand. Smiling at her) Your pistol is safer in my
keeping, Dona Antonia. These toys sometimes go off by
accident.

THE LADY (sitting on the edge of the treasure chest and fastening the silk
ribbons on her shoes) Keep it if you like, Buccaneer (with a mis-
chievous smile). It isn't loaded. My husband gave it to me as
a birthday present, but he begged me not to fire it as he said
I should more likely hurt myself than anyone else. Yet it's a
fascinating thing made by a noted Italian goldsmith-armourer
and the green stones in the handle are finely cut emeralds.

MORGAN

(examines the emeralds, then slips the pistol into his pocket. He
sighs unconsciously) What am I to do with you, you beautiful
creature?

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY (readily) Send me back to my husband with a demand for
ransom — a big ransom.

MORGAN (interested) Not a bad idea. On this point our ideas seem to
agree. What would he pay?

THE LADY You won't get paid. Dios! No. Don Diego might not consider
me worth a big ransom, but you will demand it and then come
and parley with him. He is a very saving man. After some con-
fabulations, you will generously forgo the ransom, and he
will be so overjoyed at keeping his coffers intact that you will
be welcome at his house at any time, especially if you tell him
some of your amusing anecdotes about your early adventures
in the Barbadoes. Don Diego loves a good story.

MORGAN And then?

THE LADY Then, then you must help me to rebuild the Convent at San
Romanic which you burned; after that you must restore that
gold plate to the Monastery of

MORGAN (frowning) God! Would you like me to turn my back on the
whole of my fleet? You are making things excessively difficult.
Up to now I have always been noted for my rigid discipline.
My treatment of you in itself will bring me dangerously near
to contempt in the mind of the meanest of my men.

THE LADY (proudly) As High Admiral of all the English Buccaneers, you
ought to be able to do as you like.

MORGAN Confound you! And now I ought to steel myself against you,
my adorable prisoner (holds her by her wrists).

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY Anyway, if you have not the courage to take a line of your own
on your own ship, you can never hope to win my love. I adore
courage. It was for his courage entirely (he is not nearly so
good-looking as you are) that I married my husband, though
he was more than twice my age, and it will be because of his
courage that I choose my lover — if ever I do choose one.

MORGAN It needs some courage to let you go.

THE LADY (for the first time dropping her beautiful eyes) Yes, I know.

MORGAN And if I do let you, what guarantee have I that I shall ever
see you again?

THE LADY (solemnly) I swear upon this cross given to me as a wedding
gift by His Majesty our King, that if ever I take a lover, it
shall be no man save you, Harry Morgan. Will you not leave
it at that?

MORGAN (he kisses her hand long and passionately — ruefully) The devil!
And yet — yet I care for you too much to keep you. (Throwing
back his shoulders— goes centre back) Job! Job!
During the few moments that elapse before Job enters, Morgan
watches the lady, who, with her eyes on her cross, is playing
nervously with it. Job enters.

Job, tell Captain Pritchard to lower the long boat, and to take
an armed escort of six men with him. He is to take this lady
ashore and conduct her safely to her home.

JOB Sir!

MORGAN Look sharp! (Exit Job.)

(turning to Dona Antonio) And so it's goodbye, Beautiful Lady;
you are free.

THE SPANISH LADY

THE LADY (in a low voice) No adios, sino hasta la vista, Senor. (She rises
and goes to the table, and, lifting her glass, raises it to him)
To our next meeting, Buccaneer.

MORGAN (he fills his glass) My regime hangs by a very slender thread
(he raises his glass to her). To our next meeting (drinks). May
you treat your prisoner as well as I have treated mine.
In reply, she gives him a lovely smile.

THE LADY (softly) My cloak and mantilla.

(She goes slowly to her own cabin.)
Job enters.

JOB (puzzled — to Morgan) The Captain is lowering the long boat

now, Sir.

(Morgan stands watching the lady's door, the wineglass still in
his hand.)

JOB (after a pause — quietly) Perhaps she's better off our hands,

Sir. She doant carry on as she ought; not like t'other women,
no tears, no pleadings, nowt.

MORGAN (abstractedly) Eh? No pleadings — No

JOB She'd upset all discipline, Sir (a pause) I doant believe she

even knows what t'word means.

MORGAN (again abstractedly) I'm sure she doesn't.

(The lady appears cloaked and with her mantilla falling about
her shoulders.)

THE LADY I am waiting — Buccaneer!

MORGAN (looks at her hard, then goes to meet her in the doorway, kisses
her hand, and says abruptly") Come! (he leads her down the long
passage).

THE SPANISH LADY

JOB (goes to door up right, and calls) Nobbles!

A short pause and Nobbles enters anxiously.

NOBBLES (iii the doorway) What's up?
JOB TAdmiral! He's let her go!

NOBBLES (astounded) What!

JOB (slowly comes into the lamplight — with gloomy conviction} All

I can say is — buccaneering's not what it used to be!

CURTAIN

giiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiimiiiiimiimm

"THE GREAT HARRY"

water-colour drawing by
W. L. WYLLIE

Reproduced by courtesy of Dr. R. L. ROBINSON, MINEHEAD, SOMERSET

iimiiiiimiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiHiH

Lost Atlantis

By DENIS BOTTERILL

HE waves creep across the flat sands
Castled with my memories,
And smooth the rough contours of good and ill alike.

Here the salt water slips into an open wound,
Almost forgotten, and now
Pulsing again with the vivid ache of yesterday.

There rears the ambitious tower I had made
Consecrate to a Lady's beauty;
Now crumbling to the onslaught of the sea.

(She did not need that worldly dedication,
But in pity for the builder
Destroys it with Herself, and beautifully.)

Now there is nothing but a waste of waters
Over this lost Atlantis of my youth.

Sleep on, dead city, for even I

Cannot recall your streets, your people,
Or even the songs of your forgotten laureate.

Speech

By His EXCELLENCY ARNOLD HODSON, C.M.G.

To the children of the Colony of the Falkland Islands and its Dependencies

in the Town Hall, Stanley.

Delivered before the performance of his Play, " The Troubles of Santa Claus"

DEAR GIRLS AND BOYS

If this had been an ordinary party I should have begun my speech by
saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen/' but I feel sure if I had done this you
would have been annoyed, as it seems much too formal.

I will not hide from you the fact that there is Black Magic about, so I
know you will be kind and lenient if the sprites and hobgoblins use their
powers and make me forget all the nice things I wish to tell you, and I am
also frightened of the Magic Tune!

You are all aware that we have asked a very famous person to visit our
party this afternoon, namely, Santa Claus, but I cannot tell you how my
eyes have been opened since I asked this gentleman to come here. I always
thought that he was a kind and placid individual, but I must inform you
that this is not the case. I imagine he is getting old, and having so many
places to go to at this time of the year it makes him irritable. You have no
idea the worry he has caused me. My hair is turning grey. As you know,
Governors are not paid overtime like so many other people are. Personally,
I think it is a great shame. That is why they are so punctual in closing their
offices, but lately I have had to forgo this rule! Nearly every night, long
after midnight, I have been telephoning to the Wireless Station in con-
nection with our visitor. Mr. Mercer and Mr. Lanning, I am sure, will
soon go on strike, as Santa Claus is quite an impossible person to deal
with. I am not going to tell you all the things he has done, but I will just
relate a few of them. First of all, a few days ago, we wirelessed down to the
South Pole to get into communication with his staff. After trying for two or
three nights in succession, we finally received a message from his private
secretary to the effect that he was playing a prolonged game of croquet with

SPEECH

the penguins and could not possibly pay any attention to us until the game
was finished. They must take a long time over their games down there if it
takes three days to finish a game of croquet! Then, when this game came
to an end, we were informed he had gone for a picnic with the sea-elephants
and no one knew when he would return.

I then got rather annoyed and said if he did not reply at once I would
report him to the Superior Court of the Fairies, who would probably
punish him very severely for disappointing all the little boys and girls in
this Colony.

He then replied, evidently frightened at last, that he would come if
proper arrangements were made to receive him. I told him we would do
everything in our power to meet his wishes in this respect. He then sent
a message, a rather peremptory one, I thought, demanding a salute of 100
cannons, and the services of the Chief Constable, Mr. Sullivan, to be
continually night and day at his disposal to protect him from the wizard,
Zachariah Fee. He went on to say he must have a plentiful supply of
penguin eggs, not the ordinary gentoo or rocky penguin, but King Penguin
eggs, which, as you know, are to be found only in the neighbourhood of
the South Pole.

With regard to the salute, I told him it was quite impossible for us to
fire off 100 cannons, as I myself only had a salute of seventeen, and that
I thought he should be content with half this number, namely, eight and
a half. We wrangled over this matter for several days until at last he con-
descended to come if I would give him four and a quarter cannons loaded
up to the muzzle to make an extra large bang. I agreed to this, as I believe
all our gunners are insured and if the cannons burst, as they probably will,
and blow them to pieces, their widows and children will be well provided
for.

I could not go on arguing with him about the penguin eggs, so I am
afraid I told a tarradiddle and said we would supply them. I will let you
into a little secret and tell you what I have done, but you must promise
faithfully not to tell anyone. I have got a lot of gentoo penguin eggs and

SPEECH

painted them to look like King Penguin eggs. I only hope he will not
discover it!

I really thought everything was settled, but just before coming down
here this afternoon, I received a cable to say that the Wizard of the South
Pole, that wicked, detestable, and cunning Zachariah Fee, about whom
you all know, had escaped from his ice chamber, and that Santa Glaus was
terrified, and went in fear of his life. I wired imploring the latter
to come here quickly. I said we would send out our launch, the
"Penguin," fully armed to blow Mr. Zachariah Fee to pieces the
moment he appeared on the horizon. Santa Glaus thanked me for this and
then nearly broke my heart by saying it had been reported to him the
Town Hall was warmed by central heating and that it was beneath his
dignity to enter any room unless he could descend by a chimney full of
smuts. So the position now is very critical as I do not know who will arrive
first, Zachariah Fee or Santa Glaus, and when the latter does come and
sees there is no chimney, he may pass on as he is such a touchy individual,
but I am tempting him — he is sure to be hungry after such a long journey —
by putting a large, blown, King Penguin egg outside the front door with
a stuffed King Penguin beside it. These I have borrowed from the Museum,
and I really believe if he is once persuaded to alight, we shall then probably
be able to catch and bring him upstairs. I am afraid the Government will
have to pay a large bill for all the wireless messages, and also for the hire
of the reindeer we are providing him with from South Georgia to draw
his chariot, and it will probably mean a supplementary estimate which the
Secretary of State may object to — but still we will not grumble at this,
will we, if he actually turns up?

When I look around and see so many charming young ladies present,
I regret more than I can say that I have forgotten one thing, and that
a very important thing, i.e. a large bunch of mistletoe!

You will notice that, although I told you the hour to come, I did not
mention anything about the time you should go. I did this with a purpose,
as I want you to stop as long as ever you like so that you may thoroughly

SPEECH

enjoy yourselves. You will, however, have to be very nice to the members
of the two bands in order that they do not get tired and go off too soon.
I use up a lot of wind talking, but they use far more blowing down their
long instruments, and you have no idea how lowering and weakening it is!
Now, in conclusion, let me remind you that "Christmas comes but once
a year, and when it comes it brings good cheer," and my most sincere
hope is that your cup of happiness will be so full this evening that it will
overflow and make other people happy, too.

Skye— An Ode

Imitated from the Latin of Samuel Johnson.

(To M. B.)
By GEOFFREY WOLEDGE

KYE, in your winding lochs shut from the sea,
With white streams hanging from your black ramparts,
How sweet is your green bay
To sea-drenched mariners.

These misty wrinkled cliffs enclose no care,
But wall the home of peace from the sea's storms;
Nor in the quiet hours
Does grief or anger hide.

But not to wander on the peaked Coolins,
Where the clouds stoop, nor to the caves to flee,
Nor swing with the blue waves
Can comfort the sick mind.

For human strength is small, nor is it given
To man to still command a quiet mind,

As boast the subtle rest

Of stoics over-bold.

O King supreme, alone thou canst control
The boiling breast, alone at thy command
The tides of passion flow,
And at thy bidding ebb.

diiiiimiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiimiiiimiimmimiiiiiiiim

THE STARFISH

pen and ink drawing by
ALBERT WAINWRIGHT

:n Illinium in mi iiiiiiiiiiiiiiimniiiiii minium illinium m in minium i

On Shipboard

By LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE

MIDSEA— midnight—
And a half-moon's light
Insisting gently

Through hazes of the lower air;
Uncertainly and faintly
With a pearly glamour everywhere
Sleeking the great black motion
Of the perpetually marching ocean;
Touching with silvery grey
Inquisitive delicacy
The hissing ghost of spray
The prow puts sturdily by
In its bluff onward way;
And hard to say
As in the region of a dream
If on the deck, under the steady sails
That tower into disappearing height,
Shadow it is that falls, or gleam:
Gleam that like dusk of shadow veils,
Or shadow that can blanch like light.

In the Outer Hebrides

A QUEST
By MATTHEW BOTEERILL

UR guide books and cruising books are singularly silent about the
I Outer Isles or speak disparagingly of them. One fancies them as
flat, uninteresting, windswept bogs, at the mercy of Atlantic gales.
Actually, one sees them from Skye as a fascinating mountain chain,
its head in the North Atlantic and its tail two degrees nearer the equator.

I was attracted there by the magic of a name — "Hecla." Though but
2,000 ft. high, a mountain with a name so suggestive of Northern solitudes
must be worth ascending, and one clear day found me at the summit enjoy-
ing the view from that vantage point. Pale-green lagoons alternating with
deep-blue ones; the first, sea water on shallow sands, the second, fresh
water. The land, of minor importance and only serving to separate the
waters, seemed an intrusion, anyway, in the boundless expanse of Atlantic.
The western side of the Islands is fringed with tracts of sand gleaming
golden in the sunlight.

To the southward the view was partly closed by ranges of hills, and about
five miles off, above an intervening ridge, was visible the fissured summit
of another mountain still higher than Hecla.

Surely those fissures must be gullies on a cliff face, and if that were so,
there I might find the hidden treasure which had brought me to the Isles
— but the lower part of the hill was tantalisingly hidden.

A winter passed between that interesting discovery and my attempt, and
I gathered information.

The chart calls my treasure mountain Ben More (the Great Hill), a name
it shares with dozens of others up North. Our possible lines of approach
were —

(1) Cross-country; clearly impossible, for besides three mountain ascents,
the country is intersected by lochs and bogs.

(2) By Glen Hellisdale, but there was no road or path to this, and
apparently no anchorage at the seaward end.

IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES

(3) A possible line of approach from the westward was ruled out as it
involved over 25 miles' walk.

(4) By Loch Eynort.

The Sailing Directory was pessimistic — "Loch Eynort cannot be said
to afford good anchorage, . . the Upper Loch is seldom visited as it
entails a 10-foot passage."

If a yacht must be left untended whilst her crew are mountaineering a
secure anchorage is essential. Could we but navigate that 10-foot passage,
a vast network of inner sea-lochs eats into the very foundations of our
treasure mountain. Where there is sea water at low-water time, there
"Molly" (my 10-ton yawl) can navigate at high water, and once inside the
neck no summer gale could disturb her.

Behold then "Molly," leaving the refuge of Canna on a very misty
morning, picking up Ushinish Light (S. Uist) as the mists dissipated,
passing the foot of Glen Hellisdale, which afforded a fairy view of our
treasure mountain, peeping blackly through wreaths of mist like the head
of a wounded warrior swathed in bandages, and, as the wind fails, powering
gingerly into L. Eynort. The dangers of the Outer Loch are readily avoided
in clear weather. We lay a course which would clear everything handsomely
and Lo! not half a mile ahead and directly on the bowsprit, a horrid group
of rocks showing their ugly tops where the chart said 16 fathoms. The
glasses revealed our "rocks" had fins and the half of a curved tail above
water and were, moreover, on the move.

We held our course. One of these three giant fish crossed our bows, much
too close for comfort. Another leisurely swam alongside, keeping pace.
I could have touched its tail, of which about 18 inches was above water,
without letting go the tiller; its head was nearly abreast the mainmast. The
monster was over 20 feet long and almost touched "Molly's" sides. We
were glad to be quit of such dangerous company. Later I was told on the
mainland that it would be a basking shark and quite harmless. It was easier
to believe on the mainland. So to a temporary anchorage about 1J miles

IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES

within the loch. It was perfectly secure, save for a gentle roll working round
from the south, but in an east wind would be a gyrating hell!

After dinner some of us went out sounding in the punt. It was a beauti-
ful calm evening and nearly low-water time. A boatload of natives had
appeared from those mysterious inner waters and were apathetically
watching a steam drifter stealing their daily bread, one mile within the
Loch instead of three miles out. We found the way. The last of the ebb was
running briskly through the 10-foot passage as we went in. In half an hour
we returned and found the new flood equally brisk in the narrow. Next
morning "Molly" wormed her way through on the early flood. The tide
raced us through the narrow. We rounded up to the eastward, avoiding
some patches of weed-covered rock. Within was no perceptible tide, and
"Molly" drifted through weed long enough to reach the surface, finding
perfect anchorage in an almost circular basin. One could winter there in
comfort! The bos'n and I were rowed ashore, and we had gone but a few
yards when we found ourselves cut off by an arm of the sea too wide to
swim, and which would have meant a great walk to circumvent. The punt
was still within hail and the bos'n got in to help to find a way through by
water. I waited 20 minutes alone. Not exactly alone, for this inner arm
swarmed with seals as curious about me as I of them. The punt arrived and
put us across. We hoped there would be no more watery obstructions, and
struck out for a col which would afford a view into the remote Glen
Hellisdale and of our crags — if they existed. The ascent to this col was so
laborious one wondered if any reward could be adequate. The col was
reached but the lonely glen revealed no crags.

Hecla was not visible from this col and therefore this col could not be
the one we had seen from Hecla. We climbed and climbed up the wide
ridge and by and by Hecla's summit peered above the opposite ridge; still
no cliff— a cow could have strolled into Glen Hellisdale at this point.
I began to think that we had been the victims of mirage on Hecla the
previous year. The summit cairn of Ben More was but a few yards from us
when we came to a precipice — one pace further would have meant a crash

80 .* ;,

IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES

into Hellisdale hundreds of feet below. The treble joy of lunch, a pipe,
and the prospect of my quest. The bos'n not being a rock cumber could
not share the latter, but both of us were astounded at the view. It seemed
but a few miles away to the north-westward lay a group of islands —
St. Kilda. Impossible to imagine that strip of water as 40 miles of stormy
Atlantic. It was calm enough, or seemed so, but even now the Golden Sands
carried a ceaseless fret of white lace-edging from the breaking swell.

We were seated vertically over one of the gullies, so I had not dreamed
them. Our route had brought us from the south-east. The cliffs trended
direct east and downward, so that the last gully, about half a mile away,
was very short. I strolled to it and slithered down the scree. Its foot gave
on to a terrace traversing the bottom of the cliffs to a spot hundreds of feet
below our lunch place. I looked at the second gully — perhaps here lay my
treasure? I climbed into it — a pitch higher would perhaps afford a better
view? I got up that. I had no pal, no rope, and no nails, and should have
now turned back. Instead I was tempted to see what was beyond the next
difficulty. It was stiff, but I got over it, and then, realising how much more
difficult the descent would prove, saw I was committed to finish the
ascent! Boots off and round the neck, handhold, foothold, traverse, pitch
after pitch — oh! the joy of it. Tackled with a will it was proving less diffi-
cult. The top was but two or three paces off when I made my discovery —
my quest was won!

I had found rock climbing in the Outer Hebrides!

Prayer for Little Sailing Boats

By DOROTHY UNA RATCLIFFE

'ORD of all the little boats

That go down to the sea,
Protect them all, and too protect
My bonnie boat for me;
When waves run steeply during gales,
Look to their gear, their masts, their sails.

Steer them thro* the sullen fog

From the moaning bell,
When for hours they pitch, becalmed

In the endless swell;
Keep them off the shoaling places,
Guide them thro* the strongest races.

Help them plot a fearless course,

On a heaven-lent chart,
Give them, when their days are done,

Harbourage in Your heart;
Guard well their sailors for the sake
Of Him who sailed a treacherous lake.

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiimiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiim

"SEA SWALLOW"

(38-ton yawl of Charles and Dorothy Una Ratcliffe)
pen and ink drawing by
JEFFREY LEIGHTON

—

aiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiim

A Maker of Ships

By W. LEIGHTON

IT was years since he left the Navy, which, when he served, sailed,
not steamed. Since then his only thoughts were of ships and the
sea. He had occupied himself making and re-rigging models of
old timers.

Old age and infirmity had come only too soon, and many earnest
prayers had risen to the Great Captain that just one more spell below
might be granted. He was now finishing what had been a battered three-
decker. Even as it was completed, this, his masterpiece, he felt a touch
on the shoulder, and, turning, was confronted by a naval captain of
a bygone age.

"Owing to you, my friend," said the captain, "we come from Oblivion
to Life. From the shadows we have watched with what loving care you have
made us. It was our whispers that reached you when in doubt, and it
has surely been love, not gain, that kept those tired fingers working long,
long after their spell was done. Our voyages have been your voyages,
for you have sailed with us in spirit. May the winds blow fair, and may
you make the same Haven that we sail for."

As he listened the old maker of ships heard the fiddle on the capstan,
the shanty, and tramp of feet as the anchor came apeak. The old workshop
seemed filled with smoke in the midst of which lay his model on a sea
of her own. Sails were set, and the farewell salute fired.

Strings of flags broke out, and

but the maker of ships was dead.

From Jamaica

Collected by FRANK CUNDALL F.S.A.

Small boat keep near shore.

<£S*
Nebber mek you sail too big for you ship.

«£^t
Sailor draw rope an' say, "Keep wha' you got."

*£S*
Fish a deep water no know how fish a riber-side feel

Riddle me this, riddle me that,
Sheet spread wid money no one can count?

Answer — De stars in de sky.

Riddle me this, riddle me that,

Me fader had a ting in him yard what shine a king

kitchen door.

Answer — De moon.

A COTTAGE ON TRISTAN DA CUNHA

photograph by
J. WALKER BARTLET

^iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiimiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim

A Visit to Tristan da Cunha

By J. WALKER BARTLET

PTT^RISTAN DA CUNHA is the most isolated and the farthest flung
outpost of the British Empire. It lies midway between South America
and South Africa, and was discovered by a Portuguese admiral
named Tristan da Cunha in 1506. Possession was formally taken by Great
Britain in 1816, when troops from the Transport "Falmouth" were landed.
Napoleon Bonaparte had just been imprisoned on the Island of St. Helena,
the nearest inhabited land some 1,300 miles to the north, and it was deemed
wise at that time to have a detachment of artillery situated at Tristan. Upon
the troops being withdrawn some five years later, the British Government
granted permission to Corporal William Glass, a native of Kelso, Scotland,
and two or three other seamen, who had become attached to their island
home, to remain behind. This they did and were later joined by men from
whaling vessels. Occasionally mutineers were placed ashore from these
ships. Sometimes seamen were landed at their own request, and occasionally
a shipwreck would augment the population.

The Island, which rises to a height of nearly 8,000 feet, is volcanic in
origin. Its water supply is always plentiful. This water supply culminates in
a wonderful stream, the source of which is a crater lake on the summit of
the mountain. There it enters the rock and reappears on a plateau at an
altitude of some 3,000 feet, where it again enters the mountain side and
discharges itself near the settlement through which it plashes to the sea.
It has a never-failing supply of about 250 gallons of water per minute.
With the necessary machinery, the stream could easily be harnessed
to supply all the power necessary on the Island, and electricity would be no
longer a dream of the imagination.

Corporal Glass, and another of the seamen, were married men, and until
the advent of five coloured women brought from St. Helena by the Captain
of a Norwegian whaler, their wives were the only women on the Island.
This gallant Captain, anticipating a reward of buried treasure, sailed into
Tristan with five coloured ladies from St. Helena. History does not relate

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

whether the golden doubloons and pieces of eight reported left on the
Island by that picturesque pirate Jonathan Lambert were ever located
and a share delivered to the enterprising skipper, but it does report that
each dusky damsel was wooed and won, and from this small beginning
the present population has descended.

Tristan is quite out of the way of passing vessels, and I was fortunate
in being on the "Empress of France" when she called there some little
time ago. It was a dull February Saturday, and on the morrow the
ship was due off the Island. Everyone was aware that unless the Clerk of
the Weather proved exceedingly kind no communication could be estab-
lished, and the ship would have to steam on her way to Cape Town.

It had been very foggy for a couple of days before our arrival, but it
cleared up wonderfully when the Island hove in sight, which it did about
6 o'clock the next morning. It was soon apparent that the inhabitants slept
with one eye open. They were evidently expecting us, and as soon as we
were spotted the men folk set out in their boats to intercept us. Dressed in
multi-coloured garb, they bent to their oars with a will and were soon
alongside. They came shyly aboard and their first request was that a
medical man should be allowed to land. To this the Captain agreed and
made arrangements for one of the ship's doctors to give the necessary
attention to two minor cases of sickness.

The utter loneliness of the Island and how it affects the people is
what strikes one most. They appear very healthy, although the children
never play — they don't know how to. The men who arrived on board
early were given a good breakfast, after which they were sent to fetch their
womenfolk and children. In the meantime, we were introduced to the
resident Missionary, the Rev. R. A. C. Pooley (who was attached to the
Diocese of Liverpool), and his assistant, Mr. Lindsay. They had both been
on the Island for a year. The loneliness of their existence was beginning to
tell on them, and they were delighted beyond measure to have someone
to talk to about the great outside world. Mr. Lindsay was asked if the
Islanders knew that the S.S. "Empress of France" would call at Tristan,

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

and replying in the negative said that one of the men, Henry Green
had a premonition of a surprise call from a ship and had kept a
constant vigil. He stated that almost without exception some of the
Islanders had a presentiment when a vessel was to put in to Tristan,
and that this previous warning seldom failed to materialise. When Green
sighted the vessel he awakened the village by a joyful cry of "Sail Ho!"
Soon every inhabitant was dressed and on their way to the beach. We
were informed that we were the first ship to call for nearly a year, and
they were deeply thankful to see us. Almost the entire village must have
returned with the boats. The women and children were conducted
around the ship, shyly returning the greetings of the passengers and
marvelling at the luxury of the liner.

Mr. Lindsay told us that it never freezes and he went on to tell of the
pests of the Island, namely, rats, dogs, and flies. The government of the
Island, he informed us, was managed by a Home Parliament consisting
of the heads of each house, who met when necessity demanded and decided
any point that affected the community. He laughingly remarked, "We are
all Socialists and we don't have much trouble with our foreign policy."
Within the village there is practically no crime, and the only punishment
that has been resorted to so far is the reduction of the better type of rations
for a given period. The Islanders themselves are of a peaceful and love-
able disposition. Like all rock dwellers, their faces are stolid and some-
what wistful, and they take their pleasures gravely, although they have
a decided sense of humour in their make-up. The adults laughed very
heartily at some of our jokes, but once a joke had been appreciated their
faces immediately became immobile again. They meet bad luck and hard
times with an almost Oriental fatalism, and say it is the will of God.

The children seldom smile, and even the sight of toys did not bring
smiles to their faces. Only 20 per cent, of their elders can read and
write. In a general way they look upon education as a right that should be
extended to all, but the difficulty has been in procuring the means for this
education.

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

When we went ashore we found the houses were very primitive, re-
minding one forcibly of the crofts in the Scottish Highlands. They are
framed of rude stones and thatched with grass and mosses. In many cases
there are small gardens in front enclosed by rough dry-packed stone walls.
The early settlers had built such homes and the succeeding generations
just "carrying on" have shown little progress. In some ways the Islanders
appear to have sleepy minds with a minimum of initiative. Even the dogs
appeared to us to be indifferent to the presence of strangers, and when dis-
turbed hardly looked up and I did not hear one bark.

The Scout movement has taken a firm hold and the Tristan troop has
thirteen members, a number which will shortly be augmented to seventeen,
as there are four Cubs about to qualify as full-fledged Scouts. A great
impetus was given to the Scout movement when Scout Marr visited the
Island with Shackleton on the "Quest" and presented a troop flag specially
sent out by the Chief Scout for the Tristan group.

Food is sometimes a problem, and the stores from the mainland are
supplemented by mutton, fish, and potatoes, also eggs from the penguins
and mollyhawks, which abound on the adjacent islands of Inaccessible and
Nightingale. The Islanders visit the latter place regularly, and last season
they collected 37,000 penguin and 14,000 mollyhawk eggs. The former are
the despair of the housewives as they will not boil hard, so that hard boiled
penguin eggs are unknown to their menus. In September and October
the penguins are so numerous that movement on the Island becomes diffi-
cult. Every available spot on the tussock-covered Island has its quota of
eggs or young.

The flowers grown by the inhabitants about their homes present a really
beautiful sight, giving a very good indication of the possibilities in the
direction of crop raising. The soil is fair and quite good crops could be
produced if the people would show some initiative and industry in that
direction. Everything, of course, must be done without outside help and
with little advice. They must from within their own ranks supply the
initiative, formulate the plans, and assume the direction of their own

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

enterprises, and when one realises that only seven of the inhabitants have
ever left the Island, quick progress is perhaps too much to expect. Corn is
unknown on the Island. Their main crop to-day is potatoes which thrive
exceedingly well. They have a few cattle, but those we saw were of rather
poor quality, while their sheep are reared principally for the wool. They
spin their own yarn which they make into quite serviceable clothing.

Tea is a luxury, and when supplies are low it is kept specially for birth-
day celebrations and holidays. An Islander specially celebrates three
birthdays in his life, namely, at the ages of one, twenty-one, and fifty.
Birthday greetings are given in the form of a kiss and a slap— a kiss for
love and a slap for the hard knocks of life.

Money is unknown to these folk, most of the trading being by barter.
No stamps are used on the Island, and mail which is forwarded from
Tristan simply bears the impression of a circular rubber stamp marked
"Tristan da Cunha." When it is delivered, payment of the ordinary postal
charge has to be made before acceptance can be allowed. There is no
double charge made which is general with unstamped mail.

The lamps in the houses are fuelled with oil obtained from sea elephants,
and Mr. Lindsay informed us that he had shot one only the week prior to
the visit of the liner, which measured 14 feet. He had also bagged larger
ones of 16 and 19 feet.

Whales which had left the vicinity of the Island for some fifty years
are now returning, and sometimes can be seen in shoals from August to
October. Fishing is extremely good, mackerel in season, bass, mullet, and
snook predominating. Sharks abound, and peculiarly enough whilst the
Missionary was describing the blue shark, which is their most common
variety, there was an excited hubbub on the deck outside. An enterprising
cook had baited a large hook with the customary piece of salt pork and
proceeded to angle for sharks. He had not to wait long for a bite and
was presently hauling on board a young shark, a wicked and repulsive look-
ing fish. It was soon despatched and cut up, and bone and tooth souvenirs
carried off by the exultant angler and his mates.

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

It was at this time that five shore boat loads, consisting of over 100 men,
women, and children, were received on board. It is quite exceptional for
women or children to leave the Island. Very few of them had ever boarded
a vessel before. The Island boats, wonderfully constructed of wood
covered with canvas, and painted in bright colours, which had been
helping the more cumbrous ship's boats to land the 19 tons of stores and
gifts, were now returning with the wives and families of the Islanders.
The children often run about with bare feet and their hair is seldom cut,
but when they came to visit us they were dressed in their Sunday finery
and they all wore stockings and footwear, although their feet were some-
times bound in rags or skins. They came in for a large share of attention
and were soon loaded down with toys and gifts by the passengers.

Everyone was amazed at the comfort which modern ocean travel to-day
demands. One fair Islander, accompanied by her little daughter aged three,
was being shown around the ship and she was invited to enter the elevator
to ascend to the next deck. When the lift began to move the lady was over-
come by a spasm of giggling and could not be induced to leave the lift until
it had made several journeys up and down. Even the three-year old
laughed and it was the first time I had seen a smile on the face of a child.
They were all invited to stay for lunch and about 70 Islanders sat down for
the first time at tables covered with snow-white linen and gleaming silver.

Meanwhile, a few of us were taken ashore by the Missionary. Huge
floating beds of kelp and seaweed grew in the waters around the Island,
extending therefrom about one-third of a mile out to sea. The kelp is
firmly rooted and is difficult to get through. However, the way was well
known to the Islanders and we landed in safety. We saw the interiors of the
dwellings with their crude furnishings; saw all the little gardens and
potato plots, and gained some idea of their strenuous and, judged by
modern standards, rude mode of living. The houses are built on the only
flat piece of ground on the Island, under the lea of a huge rock which
soars nearly 8,000 feet and descends sheer into the sea. Its summit is
generally covered with snow. The Settlement is called Edinburgh and

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

is situated on the north coast of Tristan in Falmouth Bay. There are 33
families on the Island and the population is 149. Their races are English,
Scottish, Irish, American, and Italian. Each family is proud of its race.
The family names are Glass, Green, Swain, Rogers, Hagan, Cotton,
Riley, and Lavarello.

The little Church of St. Mary's, built by the Islanders themselves, is
an eloquent monument to their deep-seated sense of religion, and the
Spartan-like interior showed many a sign of the loving care bestowed on
the building. They have regular Church services, Matins and Evensong
daily. On Sundays they have the usual four services. The weather being very
bad at times often prevents elderly people from attending the services, but
the younger inhabitants go out in all weathers. They are at present build-
ing a school-house, which is half completed and they are very short of
wood. There are no large trees on the Island and most of the wood they get
drifts into Inaccessible Island from the north. The trip to Inaccessible
Island, however, is very dangerous and can only be made on occasion, so
the inhabitants go up the mountain twice a week for what wood they can
get there, 3,000 feet and sometimes 5,000 feet above sea level. They hope
to finish the school in about a month. When finished it will measure 13
feet in length by 1 1 feet 9 inches in width. The walls in some places are
five feet thick at the base, on account of the strength necessary to resist the
winds.

We had noticed earlier in the day that the Union Jack was proudly
flying in honour of our visit, and it was found that Henry Green was the
proud possessor of the tallest flagstaff on the Island. Henry Green is one
of the prominent men of Tristan. He is 65 years of age, the father of seven
children, most of them married. The Union Jack flying over his house was
presented to him by the British Government in recognition of bravery
displayed in the saving of seven lives when a sailing ship was wrecked in
1921. The flag was brought to the Island in 1926 by the "Discovery". In
September of the same year Green again saved the lives of eleven Tristan-
ites whose canvas boats sank when on a trip to Inaccessible Island.

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

Inaccessible Island, distant about 20 miles S.W. from the parent Island
of Tristan da Cunha, has achieved fame by introducing to natural history
a small flightless rail (Atlantisea Roger si)^ named after its discoverer, the
late Rev. R. M. C. Rogers, who preceded the Rev. R. A. C. Pooley, the
present Resident Chaplain. This diminutive rail is found on Inaccessible
Island and, I believe, nowhere else. Two specimens were procured by
Mr. Rogers, which since 1923 have adorned the British Museum. Mr.
Lindsay, after great difficulty, procured a nest with two birds and three
eggs. He kindly presented Captain Griffiths with one specimen of the bird
and one egg. I was also most fortunate in having one egg presented to me.
In 1873 a visit was made to Inaccessible Island on the "Challenger" to try
to procure a specimen of this bird, and again as late as 1922, Sir Ernest
Shackleton, on his way home from the South Atlantic on the "Quest"
made a similar attempt, but unfortunately neither of these endeavours
were successful, and I believe that these are the only specimens to be found
in the world to-day, Mr. Lindsay informed me that he was using his influence
to impress upon the Islanders the importance of taking all steps to preserve
this rarest of birds.

Rats are very numerous on Tristan. They were unknown in the early
days of the Settlement, but, after the wreck of a sailing ship, they suddenly
appeared and multiplied both in size and number, and to-day they are
the worst pest the Islanders have to contend with. Potatoes (the staple
crop), in particular, suffer from their onslaughts. At an organised Island
hunt about a month ago, 550 were killed in one afternoon. They reach
a size unknown in England, and, I am told, measure from 9 to 12 inches
in length. Rat traps are required very badly. The rats at night are just like
an army on the move. They abound in the attics of the houses and the noise
amongst the cans and stores would make one think they were having a
football match.

Wild cats are also numerous on Tristan and do considerable damage to
chickens. Fortunately neither of these pests has so far reached

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

Inaccessible Island. If they did, I am afraid it would spell destruction to
Atlantisea Roger si, as the little fellow, being flightless, burrows and makes
his home beneath the stone rubble and debris of the Island.

At the time of Mr. Pooley's arrival on the Island, dogs had been des-
troying the sheep. A meeting of the Home Parliament was called, when it
was agreed that no family would be allowed to keep more than one dog.
There were over 100 on the Island and they were getting very wild and
ferocious, and had destroyed over 100 sheep the previous year. A battue
commenced and some 70 dogs were slaughtered, so that they have more
sheep now than ever before. They have also four hogs and plenty of
poultry, including some 250 geese. They have an abundance of cranberries
which in season are very plentiful. Apple trees are also plentiful, although
the rats eat a lot of the fruit.

On the way back to the boats, the party made a halt at the stores landed,
and Mr. Lindsay was chaffed as to whether the S.S. "Empress of France"
had brought sufficient supplies to last until the next ship arrived. He
replied that there was a shortage of canvas, which was required for the
boats; in fact, he said the last Government mail bag had been requisitioned
to repair the hull of a damaged boat. He hoped the Postmaster-General
would not prosecute. On our return to the vessel all the spare timber and
a bolt of good canvas was added to the already large contribution made by
the ship.

Soon after our return ,sailinghour had arrived, and therewas no recourse
but to up anchor and away. The Islanders from their picturesque canvas
boats, led by Mr. Pooley and Air. Lindsay, gave us God-speed and a salvo
of cheers, and so we bid them adieu and steamed away, leaving Tristan da
Cunha under its heavy pall of clouds. Are they happy, these children of
the sea, in their terrible isolation, far removed from outside help and out-
side advice. They are intelligent but long suffering and pathetically patient.
They have few thoughts outside their own habitation — that kelp-bound
spot of land in its magic circle of blue ocean. As far as one can judge from

A VISIT TO TRISTAN DA CUNHA

outward appearances the answer would be in the affirmative. Expression
was given to this feeling when the Union Government of South Africa,
in 1907, offered to place each family on a plot of land. The unanimous
answer given by these Islanders at that time was, "We will never leave
Tristan."

The Fair Haven

By WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE

THE sea is bitter, whatsoever men
May feign of her — but O maternal Earth,
Faint-pencilled headlands and the shadowy lines
Of sea-towns fuming amid glittering mist
With all their roofs and spars — the sudden sweep
Of welcoming harbours sacrosanct and gray,
The gesture of our Mother beckoning home!
Then up the long steep street the children cry,
The wind-vanes turning in the winds of even
Flash molten silver in the sun's clear eye,
The hunched roofs burn i* the sunset, all the sky
Becomes one calm Assumption where great clouds
Float up and disappear milk-white as pearl
In the pure blueness of that infinite beauty.
Dove-wings, gull-wings, white wings of innocence,
The benison of even over the town,
While one by one the guardian lamps creep out —
O Earth, my mother, nursing happy towns!

THE NORTH COUNTRY PRESS
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