Chapter V: Part 5

O dear! dear! it rained worse than ever!—Drip, drip, drip—patter, patter, patter. Little bits of spongy cloud kept scudding overhead, sometimes black and sometimes grey, sometimes dropping a good drenching shower, and sometimes only a drizzling sheet of spray. The roads were soft and miry, with little pools of water here and there, through which the horses and carts passed with a splashing sound. Mary sighed. She thought of her aunt’s beautiful garden and meadow, of the games of play with her cousins, of the swing under the boughs of the mulberry tree, of the pet lamb and the little dog, and little Johnny trotting about and enjoying it all; and then she looked out into the gloomy rain. How vexatious! “Rain, rain, go away!” the lips of the little maiden pouted, and presently she began to cry.

“Swe-et!—swe-et!” said the little bird, from his golden cage, and then he broke out into song:—

“Oh! Foolish little maid to pray
The fruitful rain to go away.
Showers as well as sunbeams fall,
From that deep Soul which loveth all;
Dark or bright, the Heavens are full
Of mercies—sweet and beautiful.”

“Ah, little bird! is that you, dearest?” said Mary; “I did not mean to ask anything improper. I know the rain is very beautiful; but then so much of it, you know—and just at this time, too, when we are invited to auntie’s! O! really, little bird, it is very, very——”

But the little bird would not hear more. He drowned her voice with loud carollings, and he kept on singing all the day, while the rain fell and pattered against the window-panes. All the day long it rained without ceasing. When the evening came, it held up for awhile, but the sky was still dark and lowering. Mary retired to her bed-room for the night, and placed her little bird on the dressing-table near the window; and when she had said her evening prayer, and lain down on her pillow with a quiet heart, the little creature gave one long-drawn note of song, and a calm sleep came over both bird and child. Once during the night, the veil of clouds parted for a moment, and a glowing little star sent a ray of its beauty into the room; but the darkness folded over it again, and when the morning came and Mary got up, it rained. Again! Still disappointment! Little Johnny, at the breakfast-table, kept on asking why he did not go to auntie’s; and it required a good deal of talking and coaxing to keep him from crying about it.

Just as breakfast was over, who should ride up to the door but Thomas, auntie’s groom, mounted on a beautiful bay mare, but splashed up to the very saddle-girths, with mud and mire. Thomas brought a letter to Mary’s mamma, to say that the visit of the children would better be put off for a few days. At present, the lawn was soddened with water, and all the paths were wet and muddy. As the children wanted to amuse themselves out of doors, they must wait not only till the weather was fine, but also till the ground was dry. Now, to the ears of poor Mary and little Johnny, this sounded like a putting off of the invitation altogether. Johnny cried about it sadly, and Mary, partly out of love to him, and partly from her own disappointment, felt much inclined to cry too. She ran up to her bed-room, and tried to drive back the tears, by thinking of something bright and cheerful; but it was very difficult, for the pattering of the rain went on, and as the drops broke and melted on the window, they ran down it like tears. The furniture of the room was clammy and unpleasant to the touch, and now and then a big rain-drop fell down the chimney into the fire-place, and sounded on the bright fender. Altogether, it was very dismal. Mary looked up to her little bird; his round bright eye twinkled as bright and happy as ever. She remembered what he had said about the skies being always full of beauty, and she knew that it was true; but still she did long for the sunshine, and she could not help talking to her little pet about it:—“Oh, when will the sunshine come, my pretty bird? when will the sunshine come?”

“Swe-et! swe-et?” said the bird:—

“When the troubled breast is still,
And duty guides and shapes the will;—
When holy feelings upward stray,
And meet the love of Heaven mid-way—
In the heart without guile
The sweet sunbeams shall smile,
And joy all around,
Like music-drops, sound.”

“Ah, little bird, you talk just like the fairy!—She speaks to me about the inward sunshine; but, dear little bird, I want to know when the outward sunshine will come?”

The bird was silent. Presently it hopped out of its cage—perched upon her finger—kissed her on the lips—and passed its little bill up and down her cheek, in such a fondling way, that she felt tears of love and tenderness in her eyes. She caressed the little bird, and thought no more of the rain; and she made up her mind, that happen what might, rain or sunshine, disappointment or not, she would leave off her murmuring. So, with a calm bright countenance, she went about all her duties; and little Johnny, touched by her kindness, and amused by her playfulness, grew quite content to have the promised visit to auntie’s put off for a little while.

The whole week continued showery. Some days there were several hours of sunshine, which seemed to give promise of brighter weather; then came an hour of rain, which drenched the gardens and the roads, and made play out-of-doors impossible. But now, it had no effect on the temper of little Mary. She would have liked fine weather better than wet, a great deal better indeed; but she was gradually learning to bear disappointment; the inward sunshine was brightening in her heart. One day, when there had been a good many intervals of sunshine, and the showers had passed over quickly, she was playing with little Johnny in the parlour, when she suddenly heard her bird singing loudly, and calling to her with his “swe-et! swe-et!”

“Ah! my pretty one! I am coming! Darling has got something to say to me!”

She hurried up to her room, and the bird sang:—

“See where hope and beauty glow,
Dancing down the bending bow.”

She opened the window, and looked out over the landscape. There was a most lovely rainbow in the skies. It arched over a broad heaven, and the green earth beneath it sent up a grateful fragrance, and all the flowers looked up lovingly at the rainbow, and gave it smile for smile. Water-drops twinkled like stars among the green leaves of the gently waving trees; and, as the sunbeams glistened on the gilt vane of the distant church-spire, it gleamed in the air like a tongue of golden flame. What a chirping from the green boughs and the hedge-rows! The lark in the sky sent messages of love down to the linnet in the brushwood, and the robin on the thorn. The breeze sprung up, and sang through the leafy boughs of the Poplar and the Elm, and light and music mingled together, as if nature had clustered her beauties and joys for a service of thanksgiving. Far and wide, and upward, spread the various melody. It seemed as if every voice had wings, fluttering with delight, and bearing away into the blue air the silent gratitude of the flowers, and the prayers of all beautiful though voiceless things. Mary sat at the window, and with cheek resting on her hand, she looked over the beautiful scene. The beauty-drops all around trickled to the very roots of her affections; her heart throbbed, her eyes glistened, and the breathing of her bosom heaved it as gently as if the waves of some soft music-stream were flowing there. She saw that all was good—storm and calm, rain and sunshine, summer and winter—all was good; and her young spirit hallowed it, and rested in a sabbath of calm. Presently the rainbow melted away, the clouds fell to the horizon, and the sun spread his bright beams over a broad, blue sky. Mary put on her little straw-hat, and went down into the garden. Near the steps was a large flower-pot, with a rose-tree in it. It was half-blown; the rain-drops were glistening in its leaves; its fragrance was passing into the air, and making it delicious and sweet; its blushing tints were exquisitely lovely; the mere looking at the rainbow seemed to have increased its beauty. Mary took the flower in her hand—smelled it—kissed its leaves—and then a pulse of music throbbed at her heart, and the little maiden sang:—

“I dream of my Rose when the spirits of light
Dance on the beautiful margins of night,
And the mists of the morning unclose;
When at murmuring eve, the angel of rest
Foldeth us lovingly close to her breast,
Then I think of my own pretty Rose.

Beautiful world, that so well can impart
The lessons of loveliness fit for the heart!
A stream of sweet tenderness flows
From bird and from flower—from streamlet and sky—
From beauty below and from beauty on high,
And the smiles of my own pretty Rose.”

“Ah! Miss Mary!” said a voice, “I am always glad to hear you sing, and particularly such a happy, thankful song as that.”

Mary started, for she did not know that any one was by to hear her sing. She turned, and saw the farmer’s wife, one of their nearest neighbours, who had come in silently by the garden-wicket, with a milk-pail in her hand, which she was going to take into the kitchen.

“We are going to have a change of weather at last, Miss!”

“Are we?” said Mary. “How do you know that?”

“The wind that is blowing now has dried up a good deal of wet already, and my husband says, that if it goes on blowing in the night, it will be quite dry under foot by to-morrow morning.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mary, “for Johnny and I have been engaged, for some time past, to go to my aunt’s; but the rain has prevented us. To-morrow, you think there is a chance for us, do you?”

“I have no doubt of it, my dear; but if you like, I will give you a signal of fair weather early in the morning. You know my boy Jem minds his father’s sheep on those downs yonder. He plays the flageolet pretty well, and he always takes it with him to amuse himself when he is alone on the hills. When the wind is blowing from the quarter where it is now, you can hear him very plainly, as you sometimes have, no doubt. I will tell him to play to-morrow morning, about six o’clock; and if you can hear him, you may be sure that the wind is in the dry quarter, and may reckon on a fine day.”

“Thank you!” said Mary, “let it be so, if you please. Tell him to play loud and well.”

That day passed in happy, tranquil beauty. A fresh breeze swept over the hills and leas, and sang through the boughs all the evening long; and when the little maiden went to bed, its murmuring hushed her to slumber. Pleasant was her sleep, and beautiful and innocent her dreams! Tick, tick, tick! went the clock upon the stair-case, and the wind went on whistling and sighing through all the night hours. At five o’clock in the morning, the light shone strong into the bed-chamber, and every cock in the neighbourhood was crowing. The little maiden turned over on her pillow; but she still slept. Six o’clock! and not awake yet? Suddenly the little bird fluttered his wings, and gave a long shake of his music at the very top of his voice. Then he sang:—

“What! my maiden—sleeping still?
Hark! the music on the hill!”

Mary awoke, and the first sounds she heard after the calling of her bird, were the notes of a flageolet from the downs. She got up and dressed, drew up the blind of her window and looked out—and, oh! what a clear, dry, beautiful, fresh, sparkling morning!

Oh! happy day! Now, Johnny, my dear, we shall go to auntie’s, and play in the meadow and garden through the bright sunny hours. Up! up! and be stirring every one! Get the breakfast over in a twinkling, and out with the pony chaise! Now they are off! Johnny and Mary, side by side, and one of her fond arms around him.

Auntie’s was an exceedingly nice place to go to. She had an excellent house, and beautiful grounds attached to it. There was a lawn and shrubbery, and flower-beds, and fountain, a dog and a peacock, and, oh! such a beautiful little pet lamb! Cousins Julia and George wove a garland of flowers and gave it to Johnny, who put it round the lamb’s neck. Mary got a basin of milk from the kitchen, and the gentle little creature lapped it from her hand.

Thus, sometimes out of doors, sometimes in, sometimes in the greenhouse and shrubbery, sometimes in the paddock,—sometimes playing with the dog, sometimes with the lamb, and always with each other, the happy children flew on the wings of golden hours to the evening of the day.

While the chaise was being got ready to take them home, Mary wandered alone for a moment or two into a retired part of the garden, and while there, she carelessly, and without thinking of what she did, rubbed the magic ring upon her finger.

The fairy instantly appeared.

“What, Fairy! have you come back again? I was not thinking of you. I did not know that I had rubbed the ring. I did not intend to trouble you.”

“I know you did not; but I have come for all that. Mary, my child, I am very happy indeed, to find that you have attended so well to my little bird, and that you have grown so patient and spiritual. I have come now to say that the time has arrived when we fairies must have our gifts returned to us. Give me that little ring from your finger.”

The little maiden obeyed, and put the ring into the fairy’s hand.

“Good, my child! what I am now going to say to you will, I fear, be rather painful. It is this:—by the time you get home you will find I have taken away the beautiful magic bird. You remember that it was but a loan until my return?”

“Oh, dear Fairy! don’t! don’t! Pray don’t take it away,” cried the child, bursting into tears.

“Hush, my pretty one! Remember you are not, and never will be, without the teaching of beautiful things. Has not every bird in the skies a voice for you? Do not the rainbows speak of love and beauty? Do not your own roses breathe sweet affection on you? And the wind, and the rain, and the stars, and the trees, have they not already been teachers of wisdom to you? My darling, you are not forgotten! ‘Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth forth knowledge’ for you and for all that are willing to learn.”

The fairy vanished. Mary bowed her head and dried up her tears. She went into the house, kissed her aunt and cousins affectionately, and went home with Johnny in the pony chaise.

Her after life was something like this experience of her youth. It had its rainy season and its disappointments; it had its rainbow of hope and beauty; it had its winds and its storms; its sunshine and its calms; and it had, too, a still small voice within it singing like a magic bird. By listening to what it said and obeying it, she made it on the whole a life of happiness and beauty.

The Electric Telegraph.

Most wondrous specimen of art,
With Nature’s laws combined,
Thou actest an enchanter’s part,
Unrivalled in its kind.

United, at a moment’s date
Two distant spots we see;
Whilst time and space, annihilate,
Are set at nought by thee.

The fabled wonders, which of old
Our childhood loved to read,
Have scarcely equal wonders told,
To match thy light’ning speed.

The waive of the magician’s wand
Bade distant scenes appear;—
Whilst far off lands, at thy command,
Obediently hear.

O’er miles and miles the message flies;
Yet scarcely it is said—
When lo!—the listener replies
Before a moment’s fled.

When shall thy new-found influence cease?—
How far will it extend?—
Shall not its curious powers increase?—
Remotest nations blend.

Yet enemies thou needs’t must find—
True merit raises spite—
Then think of all the foes combined
With which thou’lt have to fight:

Ambassadors—who’ll be sent back
From every foreign nation—
With secretaries at their back,
All dying of vexation.

The post-office destroyed will be—
For where’s the use of writing?—
While answers will come back to us
While queries we’re inditing.

Let’s have a talk, then, quite at ease,
And gossip while we may;
Let’s chat awhile with the Chinese,
And jest with Paraguay.

We’ll ask a riddle in Peru—
Tell tales in Ispahan,—
Just speak a word in Timbuctoo—
And whisper in Japan.

As round the world thy influence rolls,
For one, I shall not wonder
To find, through thee, the very poles
Cannot be kept asunder.

Juvenile Day at the Hall.

An old English Hall is one of the finest and most noble of mansions. Our country abounds with them; and happy may be, I will not say is, he who possesses one. Old Leckford Hall, in Suffolk, and Helmingham Hall, in the same place, have ever commanded my veneration; but there is one, which now shall be nameless, that I used, in my youth, to love to pay a visit to.

The said hall stood in a secluded situation, deeply embowered. On three sides it was surrounded by a park, on the fourth by meadows, edged by the river. Close by, on one side of the house, was a thick grove of lofty trees, along the verge of which runs one of the principal avenues to it through the park. It is an irregular building of great antiquity, probably erected about the termination of feudal warfare, when defence became no longer to be an object in a country mansion. Many circumstances in the interior of the house, however, seemed appropriate to feudal times. The hall is very spacious, floored with stones and lighted by large transoms that are closed with casements. Its walls are hung with old military accoutrements, that have long been left a prey to the rust. At one end of the hall is a range of coats of mail and helmets, and there is on every side abundance of old-fashioned pistols and guns, many of them with matchlocks. Immediately below the cornice hangs a row of leathern jerkins, made in the form of a shirt, supposed to have been worn as armour by the vassals. A large oak table, reaching nearly from one end of the room to the other, might have feasted the whole neighbourhood, and an appendage to one end of it made it answer, at other times, for the old game of shuffle-board. The rest of the furniture is in a suitable style, particularly an aged chair of curious workmanship, an old carved chest, a grave-looking old ebony cabinet inlaid with precious stones, while the walls were hung with noble pieces of tapestry, representing the hunting of Diana, and other strange subjects of sylvan classicality.

The entrance into the hall was by a lofty porch, but there was a winding stair at one side of it, that led from the front door to a quadrangle within. At the other it opened into a gloomy staircase, by which you ascended to the first-floor, and, passing the doors of some bed-chambers, entered a narrow gallery, which extends along the back part of the house from one end to the other, and looks upon an old garden, with high walls all round it, and having niches for medallions, in which the busts of the twelve Cæsars appear in all their naked-necked and unadorned beauty. The gallery is hung with portraits, chiefly in the Spanish dresses of the sixteenth century. In one of the bed-chambers, which you pass in going towards the gallery, is a bedstead hung with blue furniture, which time has now made dingy and thread-bare. The other bed-rooms sympathise with this, and the whole brought back to me the glory of former days.

The hall of the country squire was usually the scene of hospitality. At the upper end was placed the _orsille_, or high table, a little elevated above the floor, and here the master of the mansion presided, with an authority, if not a state, which almost equalled that of the potent Baron. The table was divided into upper and lower messes by a high salt-cellar, and the rank and consequence of the visitors were marked by the situation of their seats above and below the salt-cellar; a custom which not only distinguished the relative dignity of the guests, but extended likewise to the freemen; the wine frequently circulating only above the salt-cellar, and the dishes below it being of a coarser kind than those near the head of the table.

Such was an old hall in ancient times. And such remains the old hall to which I have alluded, with this difference, that the people, the manners, and the customs have changed. The old hall is now tenanted by a gentleman of birth and fortune, who is also the spiritual guide of the scattered flocks of his somewhat extensive domain. He is, indeed, the “Good Shepherd of the Sheep,” and the sheep love him and follow him. It is his delight to make all cheerful about him, and nothing affords him greater pleasure than to give a grand treat at the hall to the young people, especially the children of the villagers round him. Once a year he has what he calls a “Juvenile Day at the Hall.” He invites both rich and poor, and mingles them together for their mutual good—deeming nothing to be more delightful than the text of scripture, “rich and poor meet together, for the Lord is the maker of them all.”

It was a beautiful day in the latter end of June, that the “Juvenile Day at the Hall” took place. The day was ushered in by the jingle of the three bells of the little church or chapel close to the hall, and within its precincts. A flag was placed upon the little tower, and festoons of flowers were tastefully arranged in the avenue that led from the church to the mansion. Presently was seen the village schoolmaster, an old cripple with a very white head, and with his “four-and-twenty free boys” in their blue jackets and cord contrivances, and looking all fresh and rosy. Then came the schoolmistress, with her “clear-starched” cap, neat muslin apron, and demure demeanour, with her “twenty-four girls” in “russet brown.”

The boys had their traps, bats, and balls, their kites, their stumps and wicket-markers, and were ready for “hog-over hie,” “prisoners’-base,” “stay-out,” or any other delightful game. And the girls were ready for a dance, or a romp, as the occasion might require—or for a roll down the slope, or for “hunt-the-slipper,” or “honey-pots,” or any other exhilirating game. Within the hall were the juveniles of higher stamp—there were the good clergyman’s sons and daughters, three of the former and four of the latter; there were also the sons and daughters of the mayor of the Town; and of the half-pay captains in the valley. Then there were the apothecary’s two daughters, so proud that their father’s occupation disgusted them; and the steward’s two sons, fine, noble looking youths, so humble, that they looked more like gentlemen, than any other persons. However, pride soon met with a fall, for the apothecary’s two daughters had a roll down the slope without stopping, a ride on the ponies, and a dance with the village-school dux—that is the boy who could do “fluxions;” and long before night, the poor and the rich, the rustic and the genteel, mingled in the most delightful harmony imaginable. The good old rector, who was all joy to see young people so happy, often found the tears coming into his eyes, and all seemed to share his sympathy.

It would be tedious for me to mention all the “noble sports” and funny entertainments the young ones amused themselves with during this happy, jolly day—from the drawing of a crooked stick for a plough, to the noble game of cricket; or hand-kites arose in various directions, or tired groups of boys exhausted their games on the great meadow. But it was a crowning joy to find the whole assembled at nightfall, just as the sun descended to his rest, to partake of a sumptuous entertainment, finished well by rich, old black-currant wine, and other innocent drinks. To hear the shouts—the hearty shouts of the youngsters—to see the beautiful rosy cheeks of the village girls, and the freshened looks of those, whose false education had made them lack-a-dasical! All were free, and hearty, and joyous, and when the “Hymn of Praise” was sung after supper, it appeared to old Peter Parley as the most delightful thing of all.

I wish those who read Peter Parley’s Annual would encourage these kind of mysteries. I mean those hundreds of rich persons who can give the “children of the poor” a treat in such a manner. Our good Queen Victoria has set us an example in this particular, which all would do well to follow, and poor old Peter says, in consequence:—“God bless the Queen of England.”

God bless the Queen of England and happy may she reign,
Through many years of peaceful strength, our freedom to maintain;
May virtue be the brightest gem to sparkle in her crown,
A loyal people’s ardent love the safeguard of her throne.

Something about Ships and Shipping.

The launch of a “first-rate” man-of-war is one of the finest sights in the world, as it exhibits the triumph of mechanical genius, and the wonderful perseverance of man. The building of such a ship is a work of great skill, labour, and assiduity, and no country possesses these qualities in greater proportion than Englishmen. It may be interesting to my young friends, were I to explain, in brief, the methods used in the construction of a ship, that when they see a mighty castle floating on the seas, such as the Duke of Wellington, carrying one hundred and thirty-one guns, they may know something about the means taken to produce such gigantic effects.

In building large ships, a good ship-yard is essential. It must be a place to which the tide flows daily, and containing a good depth of water, with plenty of room, so that the ship, when launched, may not run a-ground. The most celebrated ship-yards for the building of men-of-war in England, are those of Chatham, Plymouth, Pembroke, and Portsmouth, and in these places the building of ships is performed on a very grand scale, and very large numbers of workmen are employed.

The first thing done in ship-building, is, what is called “laying down the stocks.” The stocks are large masses of timber, higher at one end than at the other, forming what is called an inclined plane, which is carried out into the water some distance, to allow the vessel to be so far immersed, before she leaves their support, as nearly to float her. The ship is supported in an upright position on the stocks or ways by strong pieces of timber, called the cradle, which can be just seen in the picture of the launch, jutting out under the stern of the ship. The cradle is not fixed to the stocks, but moves loosely upon them, and when the ship is to be launched, slides down the ways with the ship, and falls to pieces when she reaches the water.

The first thing done when the stocks are built, is the laying down of that part of the ship called the keel. This is laid down in the middle of the stocks, and is supported by pieces of wood placed across the said stocks. On the top of the keel branch out, on each side, long, bent, square timbers, called the ribs, which, at the lower poop in the middle of the ship, form nearly a quarter of a circle on each side, and are afterwards carried nearly upright. Upon these timbers, when they cross the keel, is laid, in the same direction as the keel, another long square timber, called the kelson. The keel and kelson are fastened together, at every place where the floor timbers cross them, by iron bolts passed through all. That portion of the ribs which touches and crosses the keel is called the “floor timbers;” upon the kelson are the steps of the masts.

The ribs are divided into several parts, which are called futtocks. To the ribs the planking is nailed, and bolted through them; after which the seams are caulked. This is done by forcing oakum, saturated in tar or pitch, into the spaces between the planks, when a good coat of tar is laid over the whole. That part of the ship which is always under water is covered with thin sheets of copper. This is done to prevent the attack of a destructive little animal called the wood-worm, which eats its way into and through the planks, making holes nearly an inch in diameter. These holes would, by admitting the water into the hold of the ship, soon sink her, as it is impossible to stop the ravages of these insects while the ship is at sea. The worm attacks every part that is below the water-line in such immense numbers, that every plank in the bottom of a vessel that has not the protection of copper has been found full of them on her arrival into port.

The ribs of the ship are of a bent form. Of course no tree would be large enough to form them of one piece; they are, therefore, made in different lengths, each length being called a futtock; and they are distinguished as first, second, or third futtock, according to their position in the ship. These are joined together with great exactness: if not joined properly the vessel would soon tumble to pieces, for, when on a heavy sea, a ship is very much strained in various directions, and the creaking noise the timbers make is so dreadful, that inexperienced persons think the ship is going to pieces.

A great deal also depends on the position in which these ribs are placed, not only for the purpose of containing her cargo, but to enable the ship to sail well. Now, if the broadest part be placed too near the stern or after-part of the vessel, which is towards you in the drawing of the launch, she will not pass through the water so swiftly as she would if it were nearer to her bow, or the fore-part of the ship.

In the after-part of the ship is the captain’s cabin; the poop is directly over it; and here is the quarter-deck; the middle of the upper deck is called the waist or gangway, and beyond that (forward) the fore-castle. These are all the divisions of the upper-deck, which is largest in the ship, and, in some of our great men-of-war, is three hundred feet long—the depth of hold being from fifty to sixty, and the breadth fifty-five feet.

The next deck is the main-deck, and immediately under the captain’s cabin is the admiral’s state cabin. In the fore-part of the ship is the galley or cook’s room, and near to it the sick bay. These are the principal divisions of the main-deck. A portion of this deck, in front of the admiral’s cabin, is commonly called the half-deck.

Under the admiral’s cabin is the ward-room, where the lieutenants and other commissioned officers mess. This is on the middle deck. In the after-part is the gun-room, where the mates, some of the midshipmen, the assistant masters, and assistant surgeon, and the ship’s clerks mess.

The following are in the hold:—1. The boatswain’s and carpenter’s store-room; 2. The powder magazine; 3. The tanks and water-casks; 4. The shot-well; 5. The pump-well; 6. The provision-stores; 7. The spirit-room; 8. The bread-room. The after-magazine is situated under the front of the great gun-room. Thus the ship is now described so far as her hull is concerned, and now I will say a few words about getting in the masts.

When this is to be accomplished, which is rather a formidable job, the ship is first taken alongside of a shear-hulk, or into a dry dock, by the side of which are erected shears. A very fine specimen of the latter machinery is to be seen in Woolwich Dock-yard. The shear-hulk is a large, strongly-built vessel, and well moored by strong chains in a convenient spot on the water, where any ship can approach her. This vessel is fitted with a strong, perpendicular mast; and two others, called the shears, fixed on pivots or hinges to strong frame-work on the deck. The upper ends, meeting in a point, are suspended by strong latches from the mast-head in a slanting direction, leaning to such a distance over the side of the hulk, as to hold the mast to be fixed in the ship alongside her directly over the holes in the deck; when they are lowered into their places, and fixed tight with wedges—of course it is only the lower masts that require the adoption of this method to fix them in their places—and when their great length and consequent weight are considered, it is very certain none better could be used.

The length of the main-mast in a large, first-rate ship, is about one hundred and eighty feet from the keel to the top; the main-top-mast is sixty feet; above it the main-top-gallant-mast, forty-four feet, being altogether about two hundred and sixty feet, from which, if we deduct fifty-two feet, the depth of the hull, we have left two hundred and eight feet, the height of the main-mast above the deck. In light winds, royal and sky-sail-masts are set, which will add from thirty to forty feet to its height.

Large men-of-war, such as the one I have described, will carry a great number of hands; they frequently amount to a thousand, of which two hundred are marines; yet, although a ship is thus thronged with people, the admirable order and regularity with which everything is conducted, preserves her from many of the disasters to which smaller ships with fewer hands are liable.

It has been ascertained that the actual weight of a seventy-four gun-ship, including the hull, rigging, guns, stores, officers and men, together with six-months’ provisions, amounts to two thousand eight-hundred _tons_, and the quantity of water displaced when the ship is afloat is equal to about one hundred thousand cubic feet.

The stowage of large ships is admirable. The live-stock often forms a considerable item in a ship’s stowage. It is generally for the use of the officers, and consists of cows, sheep, pigs, and poultry. The latter, and sheep, are stowed away upon the main-deck, under the waist, between the guns; and the pigs in that part of the ship called the manger, on the lower or gun-deck; the cows are kept in boxes or stalls; the sheep in pens, in one or two tiers; and the poultry in hen-coops. The whole are under the charge of the butcher and poulterer.

I could tell you a great deal more about ships and shipping, but space prevents me doing so; and as a great many of our ships are now engaged in the war against Russia, it will not be out of place to hope that our brave sailors may not be “savagely slaughtered” by the Russians, and that the Great Bear may have his claws clipped before we have done with him.

Manufacture of Ropes.

Hemp is a plant belonging to the same species as the moss and nettle, and the quantity used in Great Britain is prodigious. Latterly a large quantity has been grown in Ireland, and one of the chief objects of the Irish Industrial Exhibition of last year was to promote the indigenous growth of Flax and Hemp. An acre of land in Ireland produces on an average thirty-six or thirty-eight stone of hemp, and the season for sowing it extends from the 25th of March, to the 15th of June.

What the muscles and sinews are to the human frame, and what wings are to birds, ropes and sails are to ships. Their manufacture is at all times of the greatest consequence to our country, and the celerity with which they can be produced, is one of the wonders of this mechanical age.

The materiel for a great deal of our cordage comes from Russia, and more than a million of pounds, of which sixty-three make a ton, are annually imported to this country; their value is estimated at something more than half-a-million sterling. It comes over in large bundles weighing nearly a ton each, which are separated into heads or layers, each containing twelve or fourteen pounds of hemp.

The qualities of good hemp are a long, fine, and thin fibre, free from woody particles, and possessed of strength and toughness. The first process it undergoes is that called heckling. This is performed in the following manner:—On the surface of a small bench before him, each heckeller has before him a stand on which are situated, point upwards, a number of sharp steel spikes, sixty or seventy in number—these constitute what is technically called the “heckle.” The workman then taking a head or layer of the hemp in his hand, strikes it on the points of the heckle and draws it between the spikes, repeating the operation several times with each head, by which the fibres are straightened, and the thicker ones split by the sharp points of the wires, and all the loose fragments are loosened and fall to the ground.

The fibres now drawn out into long parallel threads, have to undergo the process of twisting. The fibre has to be twisted into yarn, the yarns into rope. A rope consists of several parts, and in most cases, is a twisting within a twisting, being built up by threes. In the subjoined figure we have a ship’s rope or cable. A. B. B. B. shows the three smaller ropes which forms it. C. the three ropes called strands, and dissecting one of these, D. we find it to be composed of a number of threads called yarns, and if we untwist one of the yarns, we arrive finally at the hempen-fibres themselves.

The first stage, therefore, of making hemp into rope, is spinning it into yarn, and this brings us at once to what is technically called the “rope-walk,” a long narrow space of ground, at one end of which is a wheel, three or four feet in diameter, round which a band passes in such a manner as to give rotation to a small number of hooks or whirls disposed round a semicircular frame above the wheel. Each spinner has a bundle of hemp round his waist, the double or bight being in front and the ends crossing each other behind. With his left hand he draws out a few fibres and fastens them on one of the hooks with his right, which holds a piece of thick woollen cloth—he grasps these fibres, a boy then turns the wheel and the spinner walks backwards—the man draws out more and more fibres from his bundle as he recedes, and the twist which is given to them by the rotation of the hooks on the wheel makes each length of fibre entangle itself among those previously drawn out; while the pressure of the right hand regulates the hardness or closeness of the twist. The spinner, by his long practice and skill, is enabled to make any description of yarn, either fine or coarse, by the manner in which he supplies the hemp to the revolving wheel, and can produce with the greatest nicety, any given length of yarn from a given weight of hemp. Each spinner can make about a thousand feet of yarn in about twelve minutes.

This process is in many manufactories performed by machinery, but the hand-made yarn is decidedly the best. When a spinning walk is in full operation, there are twelve spinners at different parts of its length, in three groups, each group being distant three or four hundred feet from the next adjoining, and all the twelve hooks or whirls of the wheel being engaged at once. As the yarns are twisted, they are wound in large bundles upon reels, each reel containing about two-hundred-and-fifty rounds of yarn.

If the hemp should be used for the manufacture of tarred rope—the yarn is now tarred—the reels of yarn are first warped into a haul, that is, the yarns are unwound from the reel and stretched out straight and parallel, and assembled together in a large group, called “a haul,” consisting of between three and four hundred yarns, each a hundred feet long. The haul is dipped into a copper of hot tar, and, being dragged through a grip or gauge, the superfluous tar is squeezed out; by the aid of a capstan the haul is gradually drawn forward until the whole has passed through the tar kettle.

The next process in the formation of a rope is the making of the strand. This may be composed of any number of yarns—in a cable twelve inches in circumference there are eighty yarns in a strand, and in the very largest rope cables three hundred and sixty; however, few if any ropes are now made of the last dimensions, as chain cables have superseded hempen cables of large size; the latter being, in the present day, seldom more than twelve inches in circumference, except for Her Majesty’s navy.

The making of the strand of a rope is now performed by machinery. A frame consisting of a great variety of bobbins, each loaded with yarn and posted upon a pivot so as to rotate easily, occupies one end of the factory; the ends of all these yarns, from twenty to eighty, are made to pass through an equal number of small holes in a convex plate attached to the central machine, and then combined into one close group. This group next passes through a tube, whose diameter is such as to compress the yarns into close contact, and lastly is wound on a large reel attached to the machine. Meanwhile the twist is given to the strand by a remarkable arrangement—the whole of the machinery from the tube to the reel rotates round a horizontal axis, and in so doing imparts a twist to the strand, which is passing round the various wheels. The different arrangements are very beautiful. In the first place each bobbin rotating separately on its axle, gives off just as much yarn as the strand requires, so that all become equally strained by the outer yarns being somewhat longer than the inner. Then the arrangement of the holes in the plate and of the tube bring all the yarns to their proper position in the strand, and lastly by changing the wheels in the machine, the strand becomes more or less hard by twisting at a more or less acute angle. If the strand be drawn more swiftly through, while the machine is revolving with a given velocity, the intensity or closeness of the twist is diminished, if less swiftly then the twist is increased. Such are some of the beautiful results of machinery.

To twist the strands into a rope is called “laying” a rope. In the laying walk a revolving wheel placed near the end is provided with hooks, whereon the three strands to form the rope are fixed. These hooks are made to rotate by the action of the wheel, its prime mover being horse or steam-power. At the other end of the walk all the strands are fixed to one hook, which revolves in an opposite direction to the others. To equalize the hardness of the twist or lay, a conical or rather bee-hived piece of wood called a “top” is inserted between the three strands—groves being cut in the surface of the “top” for their reception. This “top” thus placed prevents the strands from twisting, except in the direction of the smaller end; while a man stationed immediately behind, compresses the rope by a simple piece of apparatus, and causes the twist to become hard and firm. The “top” as the rope closes behind it is slowly urged on from one end to the other—if small it is managed by a top-man, but if large it is supported on a carriage, as in the engraving. No difference exists in making a larger or smaller rope, so far as the principle is concerned. The three strands are twisted round each other in the same manner by an apparatus more or less powerful according to the size of the rope.

From three such ropes as these a cable is formed in precisely the same manner, the three being fixed to three revolving hooks at one end, and one at the other, and a travelling top being used to regulate and harden the twist. In the twisting process it is natural that the rope should gradually shorten as it is formed; provision is made for this shortening in the arrangement of the apparatus. The wheels to which the three strands are fixed on three separate hooks is a fixture at one end of the walk, but the other ends of the strands are fastened to a moveable sledge, which is so weighted as to travel gradually up the walk just as fast as the rope diminishes in length.

San Rosalia.

Who has not heard the curious history of San Rosalia, the saint of Palermo, whose name is prefixed to this article? She was, according to the legend, the daughter of William the Good, who reigned in the year 1159. At the age of fifteen she retired to Monte Pelegrino, in order to spend the remainder of her life in religious solitude; and a period of nearly five hundred years elapsed without her ever being heard of. In 1624, a plague, which threatened to depopulate the capital, raged at Palermo. A hermit, whose name is not given in the legend, dreamed that the bones of the saint were on the top of Mount Pelegrino, and that, if they were carried in procession round the walls of the city, the plague would cease. After prayers and supplications, he induced a number of persons to go in procession to the top of the mountain, where the remains of Rosalia were found in a cave. Some say that the body was fresh, and looked as if she had died at the age of fifteen, while others assert that there were only the bones. Which account is the true one Peter Parley does not pretend to inquire; but one thing is certain, that they were carried round the city walls, and the plague greatly ceased. This was accounted as a miracle, and churches were built to her honor. A chapel was erected on the top of the mountain were she was found, and priests appointed to perform divine service.

To facilitate the approach to these sacred relics, the pious and grateful Palermotans, after immense labour, constructed on the face of the mountain a road which is nearly perpendicular, and very dangerous. This, however, by no means operates as a check to the devotion of the hundreds who seek the protection and patronage of the saints.

In the vault beneath the chapel, which has long been the resting-place for her bones, there was an inscription, which differs from the monkish legend. It states her to be the daughter of Count Sinibaldus, who lived at the period when the irruptions of the Saracens were so frequent in Italy, and that Rosalia first retired to a cave on Mount Quesquina, in order to preserve herself from the disciples of Mohammed, and afterwards to Mount Pelegrino, where she died a nun.

The bones of this Saint are now annually carried about the City in a large silver box; and, according to popular belief, she has, several times since her discovery, saved the Sicilians from the plague. Long before the celebration of the festival she becomes the subject of general conversation, and excites the greatest interest. Her triumphal car is made of very great height, and drawn through the principal streets by a number of caparisoned mules, preceded by dragoons with trumpets. On the lower part of the conveyance is an orchestra, and above it is a small temple, in the interior of which are figures of different saints, and, on the top of all, a large statue of San Rosalia. Every side of the carriage is decorated with flowers; and during the ceremony the streets are crowded with people, and the windows, to all of which are balconies, are filled with ladies. At night there is an illumination.

The amusements at this Palermo rejoicing vary each day. One night the Flora gardens are illuminated, on another one of the streets, and, in the day-time, horse-races. The latter, from their peculiarities, are worthy of notice. The horses start from the bottom of the principal street, near the Porto Felice, and run to the Porto Nuovo. They have no riders, but have small bladders fixed on their backs, in which are inserted sharp spikes, serving by the motion to urge them on. The prizes run for are generally small, consisting of from ten to fifteen ounces in dollars, fastened to a board; and the horse that wins is led in procession, with the prize before him.

The illumination of the Madre Chiesa, which is the cathedral church of Palermo, excites the admiration of all travellers. It is here where the box containing the bones of St. Rosalia is deposited. The last ceremony is a grand procession, in which the silver box is carried by the principal citizen. Immense crowds endeavour to get near it to touch it, for they consider it a remedy for all evils.

The approach of the festival produces general joy and happiness; and the people are so attached to the memory of the Saint, that it is supposed that any attempt to suppress her commemoration would be attended with the most serious consequences.

Christmas Day at the Diggings.

Gold is now every man’s business. The earth is yielding it by the hand-full and spade-full. Already nearly fifty millions sterling have been raised by the rude exertions of a part of the population who might have been starving upon six-shillings a-week, in delving and ditching. And it is a wonderful sight to see thousands upon thousands of brisk, brawny, and sturdy men, in their shirt-sleeves washing the productive earth, and rocking the gold to rest in their own pockets—the finest of all kinds of cradling. Boys and girls too even lend their aid. The boys are trained in the digging, and the girls in the washing—the boys find the “pockets” as they are called, and the girls make purses for it. Along the banks of the various creeks, it is delightful to see the throng of men and boys, and girls and women, busy with tin dishes and cradles, making their ounces and half-ounces of “pure, bright, slippery gold” in a-day.