Newton Forster; Or, The Merchant Service, page 1
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Newton Forster, or the Merchant Service, by Captain Marryat.
________________________________________________________________________
Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848.He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself towriting. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which areamong the very best of English literature, and some of which are stillin print.
Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in hisstories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, henever knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literarygenius.
"Newton Forster" was published in 1832, the third book to flow fromMarryat's pen. It was the first of his nautical books in which the herois not in the Royal Navy.
This e-text was transcribed in 1998 by Nick Hodson, and was reformattedin 2003.
________________________________________________________________________
NEWTON FORSTER, OR THE MERCHANT SERVICE, BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.
VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER ONE.
And what is this _new_ book the whole world makes such a rout about?-- Oh! 'tis out of all plumb, my lord,--quite an irregular thing; not one of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket.--Excellent critic!
Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world--though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most tormenting! STERNE.
What authors in general may feel upon the subject I know not, but I havediscovered, since I so rashly took up my pen, that there are threeportions of a novel which are extremely difficult to arrange to thesatisfaction of a fastidious public.
The first is the beginning, the second the middle, and the third is theend.
The painter who, in times of yore, exposed his canvass to universalcriticism, and found to his mortification that there was not a particleof his composition which had not been pronounced defective by onepseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than Ihave experienced from the _unsolicited_ remarks of "damned good-naturedfriends."
"I like your first and second volume," said a tall, long-chinned,short-sighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if hereyes were magnifying glasses, and she was obtaining the true focus ofvision, "but you fall off in your last, which is all about that _nasty_line-of-battle ship."
"I don't like your plot, sir," brawls out in a stentorian voice anelderly gentleman; "I don't like your plot, sir," repeated he with anair of authority, which he had long assumed, from supposing becausepeople would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, thatthey were incontrovertible--"there is nothing but death."
"Death, my dear sir," replied I, as if I was hailing the look-out man atthe mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; "isnot death, sir, a true picture of human life?"
"Ay, ay," growled he, either not hearing or not _taking_; "it's all verywell, but--there's too much killing in it."
"In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and youmust also allow something for professional feeling--`'Tis myoccupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice,whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit--"
"It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it.Otherwise," continued this hyper-critic, softening a little, "some ofthe chapters are amusing, and on the whole, it may be said to berather--that is--not unpleasantly written."
"I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out_something_ intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades andcollar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.
"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Pegoo; I thinkthe second and third volumes are by far the most _readable_," exclaimed_another thing_, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling halfwaybetween her seat and the carpet.
"If I might presume upon my long-standing in the service, Captain ---,"said a pompous general officer,--whose back appeared to have been_fished_ with the kitchen poker--"If I might venture to offer youadvice," continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on oneside, "it would be, not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: Iconsider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you havestrangely committed yourself."
"It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."
"You wrote the book, sir," replied he, sharply; "I can assure you, thatI should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."
"Indeed, sir," replied I, with assumed alarm.
I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as hewalked away.
But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined toexclaim with the expiring Lion in the fable--
A midshipman--yes, reader, a midshipman--who had formerly belonged to myship, and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me, and witha supercilious air, observed--
"I have read your book, and--there are _one_ or _two_ good things init."
Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admiralsand captains afloat! I have often heard that the service wasdeteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to theopinion before.
Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation"O that mine adversary had _written a book_!" To be snarled at, andbow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault, because theirintellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, takemy resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work haspassed through the ordeal of the Reviews.--Keep your room for the monthafter your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father confessors--guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow thesuggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literaryconsciences. If your work is denounced and damned, still you will bethe gainer; for is it not better to be released at once from yoursufferings, by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worriedpiecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, toinflict the _coup de grace_?
The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary toa writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal personageto the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of thequalities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, andits necessary concomitants, etcetera, etcetera." That such preparationought to be made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence tothese rules, the public would never be troubled with any production ofmine. It would be too tedious a journey in prospective for my waywardintellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, Ishould abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not ajourney of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramblehand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; formy whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea--but ideasare hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific.To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plotwhen I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter withouthaving the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to beconstructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen indespair; but it is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Antaeus, itseems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.
I remember when the "King's Own" was finished, I was as happy as apedestrian who had accomplished his thousand miles in a thousand hours.My voluntary slavery was over, and I was emancipated. Where was I then?I recollect; within two days' sail of the Lizard, returning home, aftera six weeks' cruise to discover a rock in the Atlantic, which neverexisted except in the terrified or intoxicated noddle of some master ofa merchant vessel. It was about half-past five in the evening, and Iwas alone in my after-cabin, quite alone, as the captain of a man-of-warmust be, even when in presence of his ship's company. If being sent tosea has been pronounced by the officers and men to be _transportation_,being the captain of the ship may truly be designated as _solitaryconfinement_.
I could not send for any one to whom I could impart the intelligence--there was no one whom I could expect to sympathise with me, or to whom Icould pour out the abundance of my joy; for that the service prohibited.What could I do? Why I could dance; so I sprung from my chair, andsinging the tune, commenced a Quadrille movement,--"Tal de ral la, talde ral la, lity, lity, lity, liddle-um, tal de ral ha, tal--"
"Three bells, sir," cried the first lieutenant, who had opened my doorunperceived by me, and showed evident surprise at my motions; "shall webeat to quarters?"--"Certainly, Mr B---," replied I; and hedisappeared. But this interruption produced only a temporary cessation:I was in the height of "Cavalier seul," when his head popped into thecabin--
"All present, and sober, sir," reported he, with a demure smile.
"Except the captain, I presume you are thinking," replied I.
"Oh! no indeed, sir; I observed that you were very merry."
"I am, Mr B---, but not with wine; mine is a sort of intellectualintoxication not provided for in the Articles of War."
"A what! sir?"
"Oh! something that you'll never get drunk upon, as you never look intoa book--beat a retreat."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the first-lieutenant; and he disappeared.
And I also beat
So now, reader, you may understand that I continue to write, as TonyLumpkin says--not to please my good-natured friends, "but because Ican't bear to disappoint myself;" for that which I commenced as anamusement, and continued as a drudgery, has ended in becoming a_confirmed habit_.
So much for the overture. Now let us draw up the curtain, and ouractors shall appear upon the stage.
