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Martin tation of Meath by the late Charles Stewart Parnell [q.v.], who thereby entered the House of Commons for the first time.

 MARTIN, JONATHAN (1715–1737), organist, born in 1715, was chorister of the Chapel Royal under Dr. Croft. He studied the organ under Roseingrave, and played in his place frequently at St. George's, Hanover Square, and also acted as deputy for Weldon at the Chapel Royal. On 21 June 1736 Martin was admitted organist to the Chapel Royal in the place of Weldon, whose post of composer fell to William Boyce [q. v.] Martin was also organist to the Earl of Oxford (Daily Journal). Shortly before his death he gave a concert at the Stationers' Hall, where was present 'nearly every person in London that pretended to any skill in music, and where, though he had scarcely strength to sit upright, he played two voluntaries on the organ, showing fine invention and masterly hand'. Martin died of consumption on 4 April 1737, and was buried in the west cloister of Westminster Abbey. An inscription for his tomb was written by Vincent Bourne, and is included in his volume of 'Miscellaneous Poems,' 1772, p. 335. The only known composition by Martin is the song in 'Tamerlane,' 'To thee, O gentle sleep.'

 MARTIN, JONATHAN (1782–1838), incendiary, brother of John Martin the painter, and William Martin, 'natural philosopher,' both of whom are separately noticed, was born at Highside House, near Hexham, Northumberland, in 1782, and was an apprentice to a tanner. In 1804 he went to London and, falling into the hands of a press-gang, was obliged to serve in the navy for about six years. Here his eccentricity was first noticed; he had wonderful dreams, and, according to his own account, met with many extraordinary adventures. In 1810 he commenced working as a farm labourer, joined the Wesleyan methodist connexion, and developed a strong antipathy to the church of England. The laxity of the clergy in going to parties, balls, and plays greatly offended him, and he marked his resentment by interrupting the services in various churches, and contradicting the preachers' assertions. In 1817, while Edward Legge, bishop of Oxford, was holding a confirmation at Stockton for the Bishop of Durham, Martin threatened to shoot the bishop. He was arrested and tried, when he was reported to be insane, and was confined in lunatic asylums in West Auckland and Gateshead successively. From the latter he succeeded in escaping on 17 June 1820, and after his recapture released himself for a second time on 1 July. Again working as a tanner he employed his evenings in preaching, and according to his own narrative was the means of converting several hundred persons. Being excluded from the society of the Wesleyan methodists for his intemperate zeal, he joined the primitive methodists, but was soon forbidden the use of their chapels. In 1826 he compiled and printed his biography at Lincoln, and he sought to make a living by hawking the book about the country; a third edition of five thousand copies appeared in 1828.

On 1 Feb. 1829 Martin secreted himself in York Minster, and late that night, after setting fire to the woodwork in the choir, made his escape through a window. At seven o'clock on the morning of 2 Feb. smoke was seen issuing from the roof, and immediate efforts were made to control the fire, but it was not got under until late in the afternoon. The roof of the central aisle was entirely destroyed from the lantern tower to the east window, a space of 131 feet in length. In the interior, from the organ screen to the altar screen, all the tabernacle work, the stalls, galleries, bishop's throne, and pulpit were entirely consumed. On 6 Feb. Martin was apprehended; he was tried at York Castle, his counsel being Henry (afterwards Lord) Brougham, on 31 March 1829, when he was declared not guilty on the ground of insanity. He was confined in St. Luke's Hospital, London, where he died on 3 June 1838. He was twice married and left issue.


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Martin   MARTIN, JOSIAH (1683–1747), quaker, was born near London in 1683. He became a good classical scholar, and is spoken of by Gough, the translator of Madame Guyon's Life, 1772, as a man whose memory is esteemed for 'learning, humility, and fervent piety.' He died unmarried, 18 Dec. 1747, in the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn, and was buried in the Friends' burial-ground, Bunhill Fields. He left the proceeds of his library of four thousand volumes to be divided among nephews and nieces. Joseph Besse [q. v.] was his executor.

Martin's name is best known in connection with 'A Letter from one of the People called Quakers to Francis de Voltaire, occasioned by his Remarks on that People in his Letters concerning the English Nation,' London, 1741. It was twice reprinted, London and Dublin, and translated into French. It is a temperate and scholarly treatise, and was in much favour at the time.

Of his other works the chief are: 1. 'A Vindication of Women's Preaching, as well from Holy Scripture and Antient Writings as from the Paraphrase and Notes of the Judicious John Locke, wherein the Observations of B[enjamin] C[oole] on the said Paraphrase. . . and the Arguments in his Book entitled "Reflections," &c, are fullv considered,' London, 1717. 2. 'The Great Case of Tithes truly stated ... by Anthony Pearson [q. v.]. . . to which is added a Defence of some other Principles held by the People call'd Quakers. . .,' London, 1730. 3. 'A Letter concerning the Origin, Reason, and Foundation of the Law of Tithes in England,' 1732. He also edited, with an 'Apologetic Preface,' comprising more than half the book, and containing many additional letters from Fénelon and Madame Guyon, 'The Archbishop of Cambray's Dissertation on Pure Love, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Lady for whose sake he was banish'd from Court,' London, 1735.

 MARTIN, LEOPOLD CHARLES (1817–1889), miscellaneous writer, born on 6 Dec. 1817, was second son of John Martin (1789–1854) [q. v.], painter, and godson of Leopold, afterwards first king of the Belgians. He became an excellent French and German scholar, an artist of no mean skill, and an authority on costume and numismatics. In 1836 Lord Melbourne presented him to a clerkship in the stationery office, which he held for many years. He died in London on 8 Jan. 1889. His wife was the sister of Sir John Tenniel of 'Punch.'

With his elder brother Charles (1810–1906) he published in 1842 two 4to volumes entitled respectively 'Civil Costumes of England, from the Conquest to George III' (61 plates, drawn from ancient manuscripts and tapestries, illuminated in gold and colours), and 'Dresses worn at her Majesty's Bal Costumé, May 1842.' He wrote also a useful little book called 'Contributions to English Literature by the Civil Servants of the Crown and East India Company from 1794 to 1863,' 12mo, London, 1865. In conjunction with Charles Trübner he issued in 1862 an elaborate work on 'The Current Gold and Silver Coins of all Countries,' 8vo, 2nd edit. 1863, the plates of which were drawn by him. Martin was likewise author of handbooks to 'Cardiff' and 'Swansea and Gower,' 1879. Just before his death he had commenced to contribute to the 'Newcastle Weekly Chronicle' a series of 'Reminiscences' of his father, the first of which appeared in the number for 5 Jan. 1889.

 MARTIN, MARTIN (d. 1719), author, born in the Island of Skye, became factor to the Laird of Macleod and, mainly at the request of Sir Robert Sibbald [q. v.] the antiquary, travelled over the western islands of Scotland, collecting information regarding the condition and habits of the islanders. In 1697 he contributed a shortpaper on the subject to the Royal Society's 'Philosophical Proceedings,' xix. 727. This was elaborated and published, with a map, in London in 1703, under the title of 'A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland.' It has been wrongly stated (, notes, infra) that for this work Martin was made a fellow of the Royal Society. Several editions of the book were published, and it has been reprinted, the last reprint being issued in Glasgow in 1884. On 29 May 1697, in company with the minister of Harris, he sailed in an open boat to St. Kilda, and in the following

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Martin year appeared his 'Voyage to St. Kilda,' describing the island and its inhabitants. It reached a fourth edition in 1753, and it too has been reprinted (, Voyages, &c.) In the 'Philosophical Transactions,' xxv. 2469, there is a second paper by him on 'A Relation of a Deaf and Dumb Person who recovered his Speech and Hearing after a Violent Fever,' 'Martinus Martin, Scoto-Britannus,' entered Leyden University March 1710, and graduated M.D. there (, Index of Leyden Students, p. 65). He died in London in 1719.

Martin's 'Description of the Western Islands ' was given to Dr. Johnson to read by his father, and roused the doctor's interest in Scotland, which afterwards resulted in the famous tour. Although Johnson was interested in the work and took it with him to the highlands, he had a poor opinion of its literary merits. 'No man,' he said, 'now writes so ill as Martin's account of the Hebrides is written.'

 MARTIN, MARY LETITIA (1815–1850), novelist, generally called Mrs. Bell Martin, and known also as the ‘Princess of Connemara,’ was the only child of Thomas Barnewall Martin of Ballinahinch Castle, co. Galway, M.P. for the county, and was born there on 28 Aug. 1815. Richard Martin (1754–1834) [q. v.] was her grandfather. For her sake her father, in an ill-advised moment, broke the entail, mortgaged his large estates to the extent of 200,000l. to the Law Life Assurance Society, and further burdened himself with the debts of his father and grandfather, liabilities dating as far back as 1775. He died 23 April 1847, and the heavily charged estates passed on his death to Mary. She had always devoted her energies to improving the condition of her father's tenantry, hence her popular title of the ‘Princess of Connemara.’ During the great famine, when the tenants ceased to pay rent, the Martins had spent large sums on food and clothing for the people, and had given continuous work to some hundreds of labourers. On 14 Sept. 1847 she married a poor man, Arthur Gonne Bell of Brookside, co. Mayo, who assumed by royal license the surname and arms of Martin. About the time of her marriage Mary borrowed further large sums of money, with which to relieve her tenantry, both from private sources and from the Law Life Assurance Company, and when she was unable to pay the instalments of her father's mortgages, the society insisted on the observance of the bond. The property was among the first brought into the Encumbered Estates Court. Out of an estate of nearly two hundred thousand acres not a single rood remained to Mrs. Martin, who became comparatively a pauper. She retired to Fontaine L'Evêque in Belgium, and there helped to support herself by her pen. Determined to seek a better fortune in the New World, she was prematurely confined on board ship, and died 7 Nov. 1850, only ten days after reaching New York. Her husband lived until 1883.

Her chief literary work is ‘Julia Howard, a Romance,’ 1850, which gives something of her own experience. The scene is partly laid in the west of Ireland, and the hero, through no fault of his own, loses his estates, and becomes a soldier of fortune. Although the tale has little merit, the descriptions of the wild scenery of Connemara and the characters of the Irish peasants are truthful and picturesque. Another fair novel is entitled ‘St. Etienne, a Tale of the Vendean War.’ She contributed largely to the ‘Encyclopédie des Gens du Monde’ and other French periodicals.

 MARTIN, MATTHEW (1748–1838), naturalist and philanthropist, born in 1748 in Somerset, was engaged in trade at Exeter. He was a member of the Bath Philosophical Society, and in early life devoted some attention to natural history, publishing 'The Aurelian's Vade-mecum; containing an English Catalogue of Plant' affording nourishment to Butterflies, Hawkmoths, and Moths in the state of Caterpillar,' 12mo, Exeter, 1785, and 'Observations on Marine Vermes, Insects, &c.,' fasc. 1, 4to, Exeter, 1786. Later on he obtained the post of secretary to a commission for adjusting St. Domingo claims, and settled in a house adjoining Poets' Corner, Westminster. About 1796 he began 'an enquiry into the circumstances of beggars in the metropolis,' and joined the 'Society for Bettering the Condition ... of the Poor,' of which he acted for a time as secretary. Martin proposed a plan for a systematic inquiry into the nature and extent of mendicity in London, and in 1800 obtained a grant of 1,000l. from the treasury in two instalments. His report, in the form of a 'Letter to Lord Pelham on the State of Mendicity in the Metropolis,' was published in 1803, and reissued by the society in 1811.


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Martin To his efforts was partly due the institution, in January 1805, of the Bath Society for the Investigation and Relief of Occasional Distress.

In 1812 Martin appears to have engaged in a further inquiry, supported in part by a government grant and in part by subscriptions. To further the project Martin issued 'An Appeal to Public benevolence for the Relief of Beggars,' 1812.

He died at Blackheath, aged 90, on 20 Nov. 1838 (Gent. Mag. 1839, pt. i. p. 104). His wife died 9 Aug. 1827, aged 73 (ib. 1827, pt, ii. p. 282).

 MARTIN, PETER JOHN (1786–1860), geologist, was born in 1786 at Pulborough, Sussex, where his father, Peter Patrick Martin, a native of Scotland, was a practitioner of medicine. He was chiefly educated by his father and an elder brother, and studied medicine, first at the United Hospital, as it then was, of Guy's and St. Thomas's, and afterwards at Edinburgh. Father and sons alike had literary tastes, and the former ultimately retired from practice and resided in Paris, where he died at the age of ninety. Martin as a boy had written in a periodical called 'The Preceptor.' As he became older his love for literature suffered no check by the growth of an enthusiasm for science. At Edinburgh his mind had been directed to geology. On settling down at Pulborough as M.R.C.S. to join his father in practice he devoted himself more especially to the study of the neighbouring district, and contributed several papers to the publications of the Geological Society, of which he was elected a fellow in 1833, and to the 'Philosophical Magazine.' He was hardly less interested in the archæology of Sussex. An account of a British settlement and walled tumulus near Pulborough was contributed by him to the 'Sussex Archæological Collections' (ix. 109), and a paper on 'The Stane Street Causeway' (ib. xi. 127). In 1833-4 he delivered three lectures, afterwards published, to the Philosophical and Literary Society of Chichester, on 'A Parallel between Shakespeare and Scott, and the Kindred Nature of their Genius.' He was also a musician and an enthusiastic gardener, writing often under the signature of 'P. P.' in the 'Gardener's Chronicle,' chiefly between 1841 and 1845. He was very successful in his profession, and was generally respected and trusted as a friend and adviser in matters other than medical. In 1821 he married Mary, daughter of Adam and Eliza Watson of Dunbar, and died on 13 May 1860, after an illness of some duration, leaving a family of three daughters and one son, who was an M.D. of Cambridge and physician to St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Martin's geological writings consist of a series of papers 'On the Anticlinal Line of the London and Hampshire Basins,' published in the Philosophical Magazine for 1829, 1851, 1856, and 1857, the longest, that of 1851, being mainly a paper read before the Geological Society in 1840, and unaccountably mislaid by its officials till 1848. Three communications on Sussex geology were also published by that society in 1834, 1842, and 1856. But Martin's most important work was a separately published 'Geological Memoir on a part of Western Sussex, with some Observations upon Chalk Basins, the Weald Denudation and Outliers by Protrusion,' a thin quarto volume, with a map and four plates, 1828.

As a geologist Martin belonged to the school whose motto was 'catastrophe and cataclysm,' and these ideas so far pervade his writings that they are now rarely consulted. He was, however, right, though he went a little too far in insisting that the tertiary 'basins' of London and Hampshire were not originally separated, but that the severance was the result of subsequent earth-movements. To these movements he attributed, in common with W. Hopkins, the valleys of the Weald, That these are fractures in any proper sense of the word few would now venture to assert with Martin, but the course of the streams may have been directed to some extent, and their action facilitated, by lines of weakness due to the upheaval of the district. Judicious remarks are often scattered through his writings, but his strength as a geologist seems to have lain in the direction of accurate observation rather than of inductive reasoning.

 MARTIN, RICHARD (1534–1617), master of the mint and lord mayor of London, was born in 1534. He adopted the business of a goldsmith, and in 1594 is mentioned as one of the goldsmiths to Queen Elizabeth (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1591-4 p. 559, 1603-10 p. 574). In 1559-60 he was appointed warden of the mint, and held


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was right; the war vessels approaching were the Asiatic Squadron of the United States Navy, and while the vessels are drawing closer to Larry and the Yankee tar, we will take a brief look at the noble craft which were so soon to engage in a battle to become world famous in history.

The fighting ships were seven in number, consisting of four cruisers, the Olympia, Baltimore, Boston, and Raleigh, and three gunboats, the Concord, Petrel, and McCulloch. Added to these were two large vessels, the Nansham, and the Zafiro, carrying between them 10,000 tons of coal for the fleet's use.

The largest of the ships was the Olympia, which was also the flagship. She was a fine specimen of the protected cruiser, of 5800 tons, and carrying twenty-eight guns of good size. Her commander was Captain C. V. Gridley, and her executive officer

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Rh Lieutenant C. P. Rees. It may be worth remembering that the Olympia was the only ship which was protected by armor, and that armor was merely a band of four-inch steel around her turret guns—quite in contrast to numerous other armored vessels that carry steel plates about them from twelve to twenty inches thick.

Next in size to the flagship came the cruiser Baltimore, of 4400 tons, and carrying fourteen guns. She was commanded by Captain M. N. Dyer, with Lieutenant-Commander J. B. Biggs as executive officer.

The third on the list of cruisers was the long and low-lying Boston, of 3000 tons, and ready to fight with ten splendid guns. Captain Frank Wildes was her commander, and Lieutenant J. A. Norris her executive officer.

The quartette of cruisers came to an end with the Raleigh, of about the same tonnage as the Boston, and mounting eleven guns, only one of large size. The Raleigh had just come all the way from New York to join the squadron, and was commanded by Captain J. B. Coughlan, with Lieutenant Frederic Singer as executive officer.

Of the gunboats, the Concord took the lead. She

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186 was a stanch three-master of 1700 tons, carrying eight guns and rifles, and was commanded by Captain Asa Walker.

Next to the Concord came the tiny but sprightly Petrel, of only 900 tons, and carrying but four guns. Her commander was Captain E. P. Wood. The Petrel looked almost too small to take part in a great battle, yet later on we will see her giving the best possible account of herself.

The last on the list of the fleet was the gunboat McCulloch, which was not, strictly speaking, a fighting craft, but a revenue cutter, used for carrying despatches from one boat to another and to shore. The McCulloch carried four light pieces, principally for defence, and was commanded by Captain Hobson, of the Revenue Marine Service.

And now what had brought this squadron out in the middle of the South China Sea, to the great wonder and astonishment—not to say thankfulness—of Larry and his down-east friend? In order to answer that question we shall have to take a dip into history—a brief dip, and one that I trust will not tire even such of my boy readers as desire a story to move along "lively like."

We have already learned how the battleship

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Rh Maine was blown up in the harbor of Havana, Cuba, and also something of the condition of affairs in that ill-fated isle at that time: how the Spanish authorities had tried in vain for three years to put down the rebellion which was raging in every quarter, and how many American citizens were suffering because of this conflict. American capital amounting to millions of dollars was invested in Cuba, and this was rapidly being lost through the confiscation and destruction of property.

Yet the American nation could stand the loss of property without waging war, hopeful that in the end Spain would make matters right. What worried the people was the cruelty practised by the Spanish authorities against the insurgents, and when in the halls of Congress it was openly declared that through Spanish misrule tens of thousands of Cuban men, women, and children were actually starving to death, the people everywhere cried out that this must stop, and if no other civilized nation would take a hand, the United States must step in alone and do the work.

The climax of resentment against Spain came when the Maine went down carrying two hundred and fifty-three of our gallant officers and

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188 sailors with her. The harbor of Havana was still supposed to be a friendly one, yet the vessel had gone to her total destruction there, although Spain denied that she was in any way to blame. I may as well add here that the Maine and her equipment cost the nation four millions of dollars.

The cry for war against Spain came from every quarter, yet the wiser heads said that we must go slowly, must be perfectly sure of what we were doing, so that other nations might have no cause to find fault with us when the opening blow was struck. A court of inquiry was organized to learn the absolute truth concerning the Maine, and at the same time Congress took up the question of assisting the Cubans by sending them relief ships loaded with food and clothing.

While Larry was sailing the dreary wastes of the mighty Pacific, the climax was reached. The court of inquiry found that the Maine had been blown up from the outside, probably by some sunken mine, fired by electricity. As the battleship had been given her place in the harbor by the Spanish harbor-master, the fact was evident that this official had placed her directly over the mine in question; so that Spain was responsible for the loss of our ship

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Rh and our sailors, no matter if the mine had been fired without direct orders from headquarters.

The way was now clear for what was to follow. Directly after the findings of the court of inquiry had been made public, President McKinley sent an address to Congress citing the condition of affairs in Cuba, adding that Spain had lost control, and that not even the ships of a friendly nation were safe in her harbors, and recommending that immediate action be taken.

Action was taken by our Congress declaring that the people of Cuba were, and of a right ought to be, free and independent, and Spain was given a certain length of time in which to withdraw all her military and other forces from the island. At the same time it was avowed that the United States had no thought of taking Cuba for her own, but that she would protect the Cubans until they were capable of doing for themselves. Spain was given a set time in which to answer our ultimatum, as it was called, but instead of sending an answer she gave to our minister his passport, a virtual order to leave her domains, and this was equivalent to a declaration of war.

In the mean time, in anticipation of a conflict, the

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190 navy had been active, adding a number of vessels to the list, and getting everything in readiness for a struggle, which people felt must take place largely upon the water. On April 21, when negotiations were broken off, the first of our fleets sailed for Cuba, and Havana was blockaded, the first aggressive movement of the war. Following this came the President's call for 125,000 men to serve as volunteers in the United States Army, and later still, another call for 75,000 additional soldiers. All became bustle and excitement at once, and from every city, town, and village the brave soldier lads marched away, to gather at their respective State camps until mustered into the regular service of Uncle Sam.

When the news of the destruction of the Maine was flashed around the world by cable and telegraph, Commodore George Dewey, commanding the Asiatic Squadron, felt that war was close at hand, and to be prepared for whatever might come he began to gather around him in the bay of Hong Kong all his available vessels, and have them put in proper fighting trim. The men under him numbered not quite 1700, all brave and hardy to the core, as representative a lot of fighting seamen as could be found anywhere, as later events proved.

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Rh Immediately after the war broke out the squadron was asked to leave Hong Kong, that being a neutral port, and took its way to Mirs Bay, some thirty miles away. At this place word was received by the commodore that he must find a Spanish fleet which was located somewhere in the Philippines and engage it. This meant a big battle, providing the Spanish ships could be found, not an easy task when it is considered that the islands number over a thousand, and that sheltered harbors are even more numerous. To find the fleet, and to be fully prepared to give it battle wherever and whenever found, was a task requiring a large amount of sagacity and wisdom.

The ships left Mirs Bay on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 27th day of April, the Olympia leading the van, with Commodore Dewey and Captain Gridley upon the bridge, the former viewing with a pleased eye his small but solid-looking squadron, every vessel of which shone forth stern and threatening in her war-paint of dark color.

"They ought to win out in a battle, captain," remarked the commodore, quietly. He was not a man of many words.

"They will win out, commodore," answered the captain of the Olympia, emphatically, "if only we

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192 can catch sight of Admiral Montojo and his ships. It's my opinion the Spaniards will keep out of sight if it's possible for them to do so. Montojo will live in hope that matters will be squared up at home before we have a chance to smash him."

"Don't be too sure of it, Gridley; Montojo is as honest a fighter as the Spanish navy possesses. If we do come to an engagement, make up your mind that he will fight to the last deck."

The destination of the fleet was the island of Luzon, that being the most important of the Spanish holdings in the Philippines. It was the commodore's determination to search all the bays and harbors of this island first, and if the Spanish warships were not found, to then proceed to the next territory.

Once out into the China Sea, the squadron proceeded slowly; for while the larger ships could breast the waves with impunity, the tiny Petrel was nearly engulfed, and the two coal-boats labored along under a strain that was actually perilous.

Ever since the ships had been called together, gun and other drills had kept the men in perfect condition, but now, on the first night out, the commodore resolved to put his command to another test. The majority of the hands had retired for the night when the

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Rh signalled forth the command, "Prepare for action!"

What a hurry and bustle ensued! Men came rolling from their hammocks and ran, but partly-dressed, to their stations, bugles sounded over the waters, there came the rattle of chains and the rumble of heavy machinery, and in two minutes could be seen the dancing red and white light signals from this and that boat: "We are ready for action."

"That is as it should be," said the commodore. He was greatly pleased, and felt more confident than ever of the men under him.

It was on the day following that the lookout in the foretop announced a strange object in sight.

"It looks like an upturned boat with two men clinging to it," he called down to the officer of the deck. "It's almost dead ahead."

Powerful glasses were turned upon the object, and Larry and Striker were made out long before they themselves knew that they were seen.

As the Olympia was steaming for the unfortunates there was no need to give directions to change her course. When it was seen that they were waving frantically with their hands and with a jacket, the

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194 commodore turned to the captain and ordered that a small gun be fired, "Just to let the poor chaps know we intend to pick them up," he said.

And that is how Larry Russell chanced to fall in with the Asiatic Squadron of the United States Navy, just previous to the wonderful engagement of which I am about to relate.

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was not long before the great engines of the Olympia came to a stop, the flagship slowed up, and from the starboard side a small boat was lowered, manned by a petty officer and a dozen bronzed jackies, as man-o'-war men are familiarly termed. The oars were straight up in the air, but at the word of command they fell into the ocean's brine, and the boat set off for the unfortunates.

"Boat ahoy!" shouted Striker, feebly, for previous cries had exhausted his wind. "You jest about come in the nick o' time. We was thinkin' very seriously o' engagin' rooms in Davy Jones' locker afore ye hove in sight."

A smile went the rounds of the sailors, but not a word was said, as it would have been against the rule. "Steady, men! a stroke more," commanded the petty officer, and the small boat slowed up and sheered alongside of the upturned Treasure, "Are you two able to climb in?" he went on.

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Martin emigrated to Canada in 1833 and founded a family there.

Martin was widely known for his love of animals and for his readiness in duelling. In spite of considerable opposition from such men as Canning and Peel, he succeeded in carrying into law an act ‘to prevent the cruel and improper treatment of cattle’ (3 Geo. IV, cap. 71), ‘the first modern enactment in Great Britain for protecting the rights of animals;’ it received the royal assent on 22 July 1822, and was amended in 1835. While in London he brought before the magistrates every case which he thought to come within its provisions. He was one of the founders of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (1824), and his half-length portrait, the gift of Mrs. Ratcliffe Chambers, hangs in the society's board-room in Jermyn Street, London. He laboured strenuously to abolish the punishment of death for forgery, and brought in a bill to allow counsel to prisoners charged with capital crimes. His own account of his duels with ‘Fighting Fitzgerald’ and with Eustace Stowell are printed in Sir Jonah Barrington's ‘Personal Sketches’ (1869), ii. 264–73, 296–8. His benevolence was unbounded, and his memory is still revered in Galway. He is said to have been the original of Godfrey O'Malley, uncle of the hero in Lever's ‘Charles O'Malley.’ He twice declined an offer of a peerage.

Martin's only surviving son by his first wife,, of Ballinahinch, who sat for Galway county from 1832 to 1847, broke the entail for the sake of his only child, Mary Letitia Martin [q. v.], and the property was mortgaged to the Law Life Assurance Society. In the famine years the rents were not paid, and he died on 23 April 1847 of famine fever, caught when visiting his tenants in the Clifden workhouse. The insurance society soon took possession, and the estates, said then to consist of 197,000 acres, were sold under the Encumbered Estates Act for very inadequate prices.

Martin's eldest daughter by his second wife, (1801–1891), was born in London on 5 July 1801, and died at Dublin on 12 Jan. 1891. When staying in Paris with John Banim and his wife, she wrote a tale entitled ‘Canvassing,’ which was appended to Michael Banim's novel of ‘The Mayor of Windgap,’ 1835. Emboldened by the success of this venture, she published in 1848 a novel called ‘The Changeling, a Tale of the Year '47.’ Miss Martin was an accomplished linguist, and had travelled much in Europe and America.  MARTIN, ROBERT MONTGOMERY (1803?–1808), historical writer and statistician, is said to have been born in co. Tyrone, Ireland, about 1803, and to have been one of a very large and respectable family, he himself refers to his having studied medicine, but where does not appear, and a careful search renders it probable that he took no diploma. About 1820 he went out to Ceylon, where he ' lived under the patronage of Sir Hardinge Giffard, his father's friend,' exploring the island thoroughly, according to his own account ; thence he travelled to the Cape of Good Hope, where he arrived in June 1823, and joined the expedition of his majesty's ships Leven and Barracouta to Delagoa Bay in a temporary capacity as assistant surgeon, serving as such and as botanist and naturalist 'on the coasts of Africa, Madagascar, and the South-Eastern Islands.' On 10 Nov. 1824 he left it at Mombassa, and by way of Mauritius made his way back to the Cape. Later he went to New South Wales, and returned to India about the end of 1 828, to reside there for over a year before his return to England in 1830. Much of this time must have been spent in the preparation of his great work, 'The History of the British Colonies,' for in 1831 it was completed, and although 'unknown to and unknowing an individual,' he obtained an introduction to the king, and on showing his book, received the king's permission to dedicate it to him. But owing to the unwillingness of any publisher to undertake it, it did not appear till 1834. Meanwhile he had been busily occupied with other literary work. Lord Wellesley entrusted him with the preparation of his papers for publication. For some months in 1833-4 he was engaged on the 'Taxation of the British Empire,' working chiefly in the library of the House of Commons. He next turned to the records of the India House, and brought out his' History of the Antiquities of Eastern India' in 1838. In the same year he was assigned an office in Downing Street, and in the course of a year brought out his work on the 'Statistics of the Colonies,' compiled from official sources, but without official aid. In 1840 he founded and for two years edited the 'Colonial Magazine.' According to his own account in 1840


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196 "I reckon I am," answered the Yankee sailor. "Larry, how is it?"

For answer the youth slid from the keel of the Treasure, and grasped the gunwale of the Olympia's small boat. Willing hands helped him on board, and Striker followed.

"You have done us a great service," murmured Larry. "I was afraid we were gone."

"You look played out," smiled the officer detailed to bring the pair in. "How did you chance to be wrecked?"

"It's a long story, sir. We were on board of the Columbia, a three-master bound from Honolulu to Hong Kong, and went overboard during a storm. We struck an island first and found that boat, and then set out to make Luzon—"

"And the plagued craft went to pieces on us," finished up Striker. "Am I right? is that the Asiatic Squadron under Commodore Dewey?"

"It is."

"Then I reckon as two Americans, born and bred, we've fallen into jest about the right hands. It was a welcome sight to see the glorious stars and stripes, I can tell you that, sir. When I made you out to be warships, I was afraid we had run next to a lot of

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Rh Chinese or Japanese craft. I ain't got no use for thet sort o' critter, sir."

"You might have done worse, man, than to fall in with the Chinese or Japanese," laughed the petty officer, after he had given the necessary orders to take the small boat back to the warship. Supposing you had fallen in with Admiral Montojo's fleet?"

"Montojo? Who is he?"

"The Spanish admiral, in command of their men-o'-war in these waters."

Both Striker and Larry looked puzzled for a moment, then a quick flash lit up the boy's dark eyes.

"Has war been declared between the United States and Spain, sir?" he ejaculated.

"It has."

"By the jumpin' Christopher, ye don't tell me!" roared Striker, his mouth open in amazement. "Real, genuine, live war?"

"Well, we calculate to make it real, genuine, live war, if we can find Montojo's fleet," laughed the officer, much amused by the tall Yankee's manner.

"And are ye on his trail?"

"I presume that is what you would call it, my man. And I don't know but that you'll have to go with us, under the circumstances," went on the officer.

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 he had then for ten years been continuously employed in the study of colonial questions, and had in that time 'printed and published fifty thousand volumes on India and the colonies, at a cost of 10,000l., without aid from the government or any individual,'

On 5 Dec. 1837 he presented a petition to the House of Commons for an amended colonial administrative department, and in 1839, as a member of the court of the East India Company, he was active in promoting the appointment of the commission which sat in 1840 upon the East Indian trade. Martin was a prominent witness. In 1843 he worked in Ireland on his 'Ireland and the Union.'

His energy was rewarded in January 1844 by his appointment to the office of treasurer of the newly acquired island of Hongkong, where he was also a member of the legislative council. Here he preferred to pursue his literary labours, rather to the neglect of his official duties, and his health was unsatisfactory. In May 1845 he differed from the governor on the question of raising a revenue from opium, and, being refused six months' leave, resigned in July 1845. In his reports he insisted that Hongkong was as a British colony doomed to failure.

After making several unsuccessful efforts to induce the secretary of state to reinstate him, Martin appears to have settled down to a literary life near London. But in 1851 he went to Jamaica on a mission to report on the affairs of two mining companies operating in that colony. He was one of the original members of the East India Association, founded in 1866. He died at Wellesley Lodge, Sutton, Surrey, on 6 Sept. 1868.

His chief works were:
 * 1) 'The History of the British Colonies,' 5 vols., completed in 1831 (but not published till 1834).
 * 2) 'Political, Commercial, and Financial Condition of the Anglo-Eastern Empire,' 1832.
 * 3) 'British Relations with the Chinese Empire,' 1832.
 * 4) 'Analysis of the Parliamentary Evidence on the China Trade,' 1832.
 * 5) 'Ireland as it was, is, and ought to be,' 1833.
 * 6) 'Past and Present State of the Tea Trade,' 1833.
 * 7) 'East and West India Sugar Duties,' 1833.
 * 8) 'Poor Laws for Ireland, a Measure of Justice for England,' 1833.
 * 9) 'Taxation of the British Empire,' 1833-4.
 * 10) 'Analysis of Parliamentary Evidence on the Handloom Weavers,' 1834-5.
 * 11) 'The Marquis of Wellesley's Indian Despatches,' 5 vols. 1830.
 * 12) 'Analysis of the Bible' (afterwards translated into' the Chinese), 1836.
 * 13) 'The British Colonial Library,' 10 vols, (a new edition of the 'History of the British Colonies'), 1837.
 * 14) 'The Colonial Policy of the British Empire,' pt. i. Government, 1837.
 * 15) 'History of the Antiquities of Eastern India,' 3 vols. 1838.
 * 16) 'The Statistics of the British Colonies,' 1839.
 * 17) 'The Marquis of Wellesley's Spanish Despatches,' 1840.
 * 18) 'The Monetary System of British India,' 1841.
 * 19) 'Ireland before and after the Union,' 1844; 2nd edit, in 1848.
 * 20) 'Steam Navigation with Australia,' 1847.
 * 21) 'China, Political, Commercial, and Social,' 2 vols. 1847.
 * 22) 'Free Trade in Sugar,' 1848.
 * 23) 'The Hudson's Bay Territories and Vancouver's Island,' 1849.
 * 24) 'The Indian Empire '(richly illustrated), 5 vols. 1857.
 * 25) 'The Rise and ^Progress of the Indian Mutiny,' 1859.
 * 26) 'Sovereigns of the Coorg' (pamphlet), 1867.

MARTIN, SAMUEL (1817–1878), congregational minister, the son of William Martin, a shipwright, was born at Woolwich, 28 April 1817. He received in youth religious instruction from the Rev. Thomas James of Salem Chapel, Woolwich. But in 1829 he went to London to be trained as an architect, and while living in 1832 in the family of Mr. Sutor, one of the partners in the firm of his employers, joined the established church. In September 1835 he threw up his profession and returned to Woolwich. After pursuing his studies in classics and theology he applied, in March 1836, to the London Missionary Society (congregationalist) for work in India, and entered Western College, Exeter, in the following August. In December 1838 he was appointed to a station at Chittúr in Madras, but in the following February the directors of the society decided that he was physically unfit for foreign work, and he accepted the charge of Highbury Chapel, Cheltenham. During the three years of his ministry there the congregation was increased fourfold, and a large debt discharged. In 1841 the Metropolitan Chapel Building Association built a new chapel in Westminster on the site of the old hospital, and in the following year Martin accepted the pastorate. His eloquence and steady devotion to his work attracted a large congregation, and he speedily became one of the leading ministers among the congregationalists. In 1855 he declined an invitation to the Pitt Street Church, Sydney, New South Wales. In 1862 he was elected chairman of the Congregational Union. The next year the rapid increase of the congregations made it necessary to rebuild the chapel and provide sittings


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198 There was no time to say more, for the small boat was now once more beside the flagship. The craft was attached to the davit-ropes and swung up and in, and a moment later Larry and Striker stood upon the main deck, confronted by Commodore Dewey and Captain Gridley. Finding themselves in the presence of the two commanders, Striker immediately saluted in true naval style, and Larry followed suit, not a little awed by finding himself confronted by so much marine pomp, for the commodore believed in thoroughness in naval appearance as well as in efficacy. On looking at the Yankee, the commodore's face showed a slight trace of surprise.

"Hullo, my man! I think I've seen you before," he said.

"That you have, commodore," replied the Yankee tar, much pleased at even a partial recognition. "I was sayin' to myself, in coming over in the gig, that if this was Commodore Dewey's squadron, an' the commodore himself was with the fleet, he wouldn't forget Luke Striker, as served under him on board of the Pensacola, in European waters, about twelve years ago. I was gunner's mate at that time, and when coal bunker No. 3 took fire—" Striker paused.

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 for nearly three thousand people. In the increased work which such a congregation involved he was successively assisted by the Rev. E. Cecil and the Rev. A. D. Spong; and in 1876, owing to his failing health, the Rev. H. Simon became his co-pastor. He died on 6 July 1878, at the age of 61.

In the social regeneration of a neighbourhood which in 1842 was one of the worst in London, he worked steadily and successfully, and established, in addition to large and successful day-schools, a school for the reformation of criminals. He took an active part in the management of Westminster Hospital from 1845 to 1872. As a nonconformist he was consistent, but never polemical; and the communion plate which he presented to the hospital in 1869 is inscribed with his 'earnest prayers for the unity of all Christians,' His breadth of views, deep power of sympathy, and unswerving uprightness, gained him many friends outside his own denomination, among whom may be mentioned Thomas Campbell the poet and Dean Stanley. Though his preaching attracted large congregations, his style was singularly quiet and simple. In October 1839 he married Mary, daughter of John Trice of Tunbridge Wells, who, after a life devoted to aiding her husband's work, died in 1880.

Besides numerous sermons, lectures, and addresses, he wrote 'Discourses to Youth,' 1843 (other edits. with slightly altered titles), and he edited in 1851 a volume of essays on the Great Exhibition, called 'The Useful Arts: their Birth and Development.' The essay which he himself contributed attracted sufficient attention to be included in 1860 by the university of Calcutta in its volume of 'Selections from Standard English Authors.' In 1863 he published the 'Extra Work of a London Pastor,' which contained essays on criminal reform.

MARTIN, SAMUEL (1801–1883), baron of the exchequer, son of Samuel Martin of Culmore, Newtown Limavady, co. Londonderry, was born in 1801. He graduated B.A. at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1821, proceeded M.A. in 1832, and received the honorary degree of LL.D. from the same university on 2 Sept. 1857. He entered Gray's Inn in 1821, and in 1826 the Middle Temple, where he was called to the bar on 29 Jan. 1830, having for the previous two years practised as a special pleader. He was a pupil and an intimate friend of Sir [q. v.], afterwards lord chief baron of the exchequer, with whom he went the northern circuit, where he rapidly acquired an extensive practice in mercantile cases. In Easter term 1843 he was made queen's counsel, and in 1847 was returned to parliament in the liberal interest for Pontefract, and made his maiden speech on the Crown and Government Security Bill of 1848. On 6 Nov. 1860 he succeeded Baron Rolfe in the court of exchequer, was created serjeant-at-law the following day, and was knighted on the 13th. At the bar Martin had distinguished himself by the lucidity and force with which he presented his points to the jury, and by the tact and temper with which he conducted an argument. On the bench he was soon recognised as a judge of unusual strength. A thorough adept in the refinements of special pleading and the intricate procedure then in vogue, he was nevertheless far from being a pedantic stickler for forms, but sought as far as possible to prevent their being wrested to purposes of injustice. His vast knowledge of business and the vigour of his understanding enabled him to master the essential points of a case with marvellous celerity, and his judgments were models of terseness and precision. As a criminal judge he did not shrink from imposing heavy sentences when demanded by justice, but his natural kindness of heart induced him not unfrequently to endeavour to obtain their mitigation. After a quarter of a century of honourable public life Martin retired from the bench, amid the universal regret of the bar, on 26 Jan. 1874. On 2 Feb. following he was sworn of the privy council; but owing to his increasing deafness, the cause of his retirement from the bench, he took no part in the proceedings of the judicial committee.

Martin was an excellent judge of horse-flesh, took throughout life a keen interest in the turf, and in 1874 was elected an honorary member of the Jockey Club. He died at his rooms, 132 Piccadilly, on 9 Jan. 1883.

Martin married, on 28 Aug. 1838, Fanny, eldest daughter of Sir Frederick Pollock, by whom he had issue a daughter, Frances Arabella, now Lady Macnaghten. Lady Martin died in 1874.


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Rh "Yes, yes, I remember you now, Striker. You took the place of the hoseman who was off duty, and crawled into the bunker at the risk of your life. I haven't forgotten that brave deed, and I'm glad, at this late day, to do you a service," and the commodore took the tar's hand and shook it heartily. "So you've been wrecked, and this lad with you? You both look worn, and those wet clothes are not as comfortable as dry ones will be." The commodore turned to Captain Gridley: "Captain, will you have them taken care of? and then I'll talk to them in my cabin. We will resume our course," and the commodore turned away.

In a minute more Larry and Striker had been turned over to a sergeant of marines, who took them below to the clothing lockers, and managed to fit them out in the uniforms of ordinary seamen. While this was going on, word was passed to the big galley, and by the time the pair were ready for it a steaming dinner awaited them in the mess-room. It is doubtless unnecessary to say that to the repast thus afforded, the boy and his down-east friend did ample justice. Indeed, Striker declared that never had victuals tasted better, and ate so much of the rice pudding and drank such a quantity of the black

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200 coffee that he found it necessary to let out one catch in the belt about his waist.

The officer of marines detailed to look after them was a whole-souled fellow, and as they ate, he readily gave them all the information at his command respecting the cruiser and her destination. Both Larry and Striker listened with keen interest.

"You see," went on the sergeant, in the course of his talk, "we are really going to do more than smash the Spanish fleet, or take a try at it. Spain owns the Philippines, and as she has chosen to go to war, why, it's no more than right that we should endeavor to capture the islands."

"But will that be fair?" questioned Larry. "I thought the trouble was all on account of Cuba."

"So it is; but in war one side lays hands on everything it can find belonging to the other," laughed the sergeant, who rejoiced in the peculiar name of Joe Joster. "If we can do the trick, we'll bottle up that Spanish fleet first, then capture the Philippines, and then go for the Caroline Islands."

"Bottling up that fleet may not be sech an easy task," observed Striker, helping himself to another bowl of coffee, the fourth. "How many ships do ye calculate this here Admiral What's-his-name has?"

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Martin MARTIN, SARAH (1791–1843), prison visitor, born June 1791 at Caistor, near Great Yarmouth, was daughter of a small tradesman in the village. Early deprived of both parents, the child was placed under the care of a widowed grandmother, who earned a living by glove-making. Sarah attended the village school, and from the age of twelve procured from a circulating library and read with avidity the works of the chief English writers. Between fourteen and fifteen years of age she was sent by her grandmother to learn dressmaking at the neighbouring town of Great Yarmouth, and subsequently followed that occupation for many years. A sermon heard in her nineteenth year in a Yarmouth meeting-house gave a religious turn to her literary recreations; she read many theological books, and by 1811 had committed great part of the Bible to memory. She became a Sunday-school teacher, and in 1815 began to visit Yarmouth workhouse, where no religious teaching had previously been attempted. In 1819 she obtained permission to visit a woman committed to Yarmouth Gaol (the old Tolhouse) for cruelty to her child. The condition of the place was deplorable. It was long known as the worst ventilated and most defective prison in the kingdom. Into two underground dungeons or pits, commonly termed 'The Hold,' or common prison, men and women were indiscriminately thrust. Little discipline was exerted by the authorities, and the prisoners' vicious and depraved companions were allowed free access to them. Sanitary arrangements were wholly wanting. There was no chaplain nor religious instruction, and the inmates remained unemployed (, Account of Prisons, p. 808). This gaol Miss Martin undertook, in spite of the rebuffs of the authorities, to systematically visit and reform. She soon devoted one day at least in each week to scripture-reading, besides giving instruction in reading and writing, and conducting morning and afternoon service. At first she read sermons from printed books, but soon composed them herself, and often delivered them without notes. In 1831, after twelve years' labour, she was relieved of the afternoon service by one of the parochial clergy. Sympathetic friends placed funds at Miss Martin's disposal to further her work. She devoted special attention to the employment of the female prisoners in needlework, &c., and found useful work for men not sentenced to hard labour. Articles thus made were sold at their full value for the benefit of discharged prisoners, or to the poor at a reduction.

The children in the workhouse were meanwhile brought under her special care, and when in 1838 a new workhouse was erected and a schoolmaster and schoolmistress appointed to do her work there, she devoted two nights each week to a school for factory girls, held in the vestry of St. Nicholas Church. In 1826 the death of her grandmother put Miss Martin in possession of between 200l. and 300l., producing an income of 10l. or 12l. a year, but until December 1838 she still depended partly on dressmaking for her livelihood. Subsequently she devoted her whole time to philanthropic work, the prospects of which were brightened by the appointment of a new gaol governor, who inaugurated a greatly improved system of management. In 1841, at the entreaties of her friends, she accepted an offer of a yearly payment of 12l. In April 1843 her health, which had hitherto been very good, broke down, and she died 15 Oct. 1843. A simple headstone, bearing a brief inscription by herself, marks her grave at the side of her grandmother in the churchyard of Caistor. On the Sunday afternoon following her death a sermon on Job xix. 25, 26, which she had herself prepared, was read to the inmates of the gaol in accordance with her request. A stained-glass window was placed to her memory, by public subscription, in the north aisle of St. Nicholas Church, Great Yarmouth, and it is proposed also to commemorate her in the restored Tolhouse.

The inspector of prisons in his reports during the years 1835-44 bore testimony to the success of her work. Bishop Stanley, in giving his contribution to the Sarah Martin memorial window, said, 'I would canonize Sarah Martin if I could,' Although in person small and unattractive, she exerted a very potent influence over the rough, the ignorant, and the vicious. During her illness she wrote eight short lyrics, full of tender feeling, to which she gave the title 'The Sick Room,' and these, with other original poetry which she wrote earlier, were published as 'Selections from the Poetical Remains of Sarah Martin,' Yarmouth, 1845, 8vo. 'They are the poems of one whose time was devoted to the action of poetry rather than to the writing of it' (Edinb. Review). Her 'Scripture Place Book,' neatly written in a thick quarto volume, four columns on a page, remains in manuscript. In the Yarmouth Public Library are her manuscript 'Poetical Remains,' the 'Prison School Journal,' 1836, two volumes giving details of expenditure (gifts of money, clothing, &c), 1823-41, and the 'Employment for the Destitute Journal,' 1839-41. Her Bible is in the possession of Mrs. Danby-Palmer. Various manuscripts remain with the Religious Tract Society.


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Rh "Montojo has not less than eight or ten."

"And we have how many?"

"Seven, all told."

Striker shook his head. "That don't figure right—exceptin' our ships outclass 'em. Everything else being ekel, it stands to reason the side with the most ships has got the best show. Ain't that accordin' to 'rithmetic, Larry?"

"I suppose it is, Luke; but then our brave American tars—"

"Will do the trick," finished Sergeant Joster. "That is what we are playing on. Roughly estimated, I think the two fleets carry about the same number of guns and the same number of men, although some think the Dons have more men than we have. But if we Americans keep up our reputation, we have nothing to fear, though, of course, the scrag won't be exactly a picnic."

"That officer in the small boat said we might have to remain on board of the Olympia," said Larry. "If that is so, we are bound to take part in whatever occurs, whether we want to or not."

"I should think any American lad would be glad to take part," rejoined the sergeant, quickly. "If we defeat that fleet, it will be a great glory to us, and

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202 if we don't—well, a man can die but once, you know."

"I am willing enough to stay," answered the boy. "But I should like to know what has become of the Columbia," he added soberly, as he thought of the sturdy schooner staggering under the hurricane and struck by lightning, with Captain Ponsberry, Grandon, Mr. Wells, and his other friends aboard.

"Yes, lad, I'd like to know that myself," put in Striker. "And I should like to meet that furiner again. It's a pity he ain't a Spaniard, and on board one of them ships we're after."

Sergeant Joster was curious to hear their story, and as they had been treated so well by the marine, they did not hesitate to tell him.

"You are lucky dogs to escape being drowned," he said, when they had concluded. "Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have gone down. That Olan Oleson ought to be strung up on a yard-arm, and he would be on most vessels. In the navy a man would be shot for a good deal less than he's done."

"The Columbia is going to remain in Hong Kong for several weeks—that is, if she got there at all," said Larry. "Perhaps the fleet will go back before that time."

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Rh "There is no telling where we are to go to, lad. The Spaniards may lead us a long chase, and the commodore is not one to give up until he has accomplished his mission."

"You are right there," said Striker, nodding vigorously, as he swallowed his last mouthful of pudding. "I knowed him as a captain before he came out here, and he is just the commander for the work they cut out for him in these parts." He turned to Larry. "How is it—full?"

"Yes, and waiting for you."

"Then we won't keep the commodore waitin'—'tain't manners nohow. Jest show the way, sergeant, and we'll be on your heels."

In a few minutes more they were at the after-cabin of the Olympia. Here they had to wait a quarter of an hour, for Commodore Dewey was in consultation with several other officers. At length the officers took their departure, and they were told to go in.

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found Commodore Dewey a well-built and well-preserved man of sixty, with black, piercing eyes, and hair and mustache which had once been dark but which were now tinged with gray. The face was a stern but kind one, and the boy had not been in the commander's presence more than a few minutes before he felt at home in spite of the difference in their respective positions.

As the commodore, afterwards admiral, is to play such an important part in the future course of our story, it will not be amiss to ascertain a few facts concerning his past career,—a career full of dash, fire, "I will," and patriotism.

The future commander of the seas was born in the town of Montpelier, Vermont, on December 26, 1837. He was the son of Doctor Julius Dewey, a man who fought his own way into the world, first by teaching school to earn enough to take a course

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Rh in medicine, and then by earnest efforts to help not only himself but those around him. The doctor was the founder of the Christ Episcopal Church of Montpelier, and a man of deep religious convictions.

When George Dewey was but five years old he lost his mother, as tender and true a parent as ever boy had, and henceforth his companions of the household were his sister Mary, two years his junior, and his father. He lived in a modest cottage on a side street, and the Onion River swept through the fields in the back. It is on record that George Dewey, barefooted and ofttimes hatless, loved to play in and around that stream, and who knows but that there his first naval battles were fought, with rude wooden boats of his own jackknife designing?

When the proper time came the boy was sent to the village school, a bare enough place, with stiff wooden benches and rough desks, upon more than one of which he surreptitiously carved the initials G. D., and received for this what was considered, in those days of the ever-present birch rod, his just reward.

Whether it be a good or bad trait, it is said that

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206 the schoolboy was of rather a quick temper, and if anything went wrong he was for settling the dispute with his fists, and it is further related that he was generally victorious in his battles. Thus was the man's natural fighting nature shown from the start, but lest some of my young readers take this as a justification to "pitch in" at the slightest provocation, let me add that George Dewey was never known to fight unless he was positive in his own mind that he was in the right.

From his home school, the lad was sent, at the age of fifteen, to a Military Academy at Norwich, in his native State. Here he was for the first time brought into contact with things military, and he had not been at the Academy long before he wrote home that he should like to go to either West Point or Annapolis, with a preference for Annapolis. This communication caused his father much worry, for the doctor had hoped that the boy would take up the study of either medicine, the law, or the ministry. But the parent believed in letting his son choose his own future, and so he consented to George's wishes.

To get into either West Point or Annapolis is, as most boys must know, no easy matter,

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Rh ments being made either by United States senators or by the President. For a long while the lad tried in vain, but at last he was chosen as alternate to another boy. The other boy, when the time came, failed to appear for examination, and George Dewey was duly appointed.

At the Naval Academy it was found that the boy made a bright student, but that he had brought his old-time quickness of temper with him. There was a line drawn between the boys from the South and those from the North, and George was singled out as a butt for the Southern boys' jokes. It can be imagined that he stood this only for a short while. The battles that followed were short, sharp, and decisive, and after that the newcomer was left alone, although before the class graduated many of those who had been his enemies became Dewey's warmest friends.

The graduation at the Naval Academy was a trying affair, how trying my young readers will understand when I state that only fourteen out of a class of over sixty received their diplomas. Of those who passed George Dewey stood fifth—showing that he could do something else besides taking his own part.

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208 As a midshipman the young man was assigned to the Wabash, and spent two years cruising in the Mediterranean, visiting at the same time many places of interest, including the Holy Land. He returned to Annapolis, to receive his final examination, in which he won third place, and then returned to his native home.

When Dewey was twenty-three years old the great Civil War broke out, and he was assigned a lieutenancy on board of the steam sloop Mississippi, of the West Gulf Squadron, a noble fleet of vessels commanded by Admiral Farragut. The first work of the fleet was to attempt to reach New Orleans by running past the formidable batteries near the entrance to the Mississippi River, and then by engaging the fleet beyond. This was a tremendous task, and for seven days our young lieutenant was subjected to the hottest kind of fire, which, as it was afterwards stated, he endured like a veteran. He himself is reported to have told a fellow-officer that he never enjoyed anything so much in his life. It was during this engagement that, as executive officer, he gave the quick commands which enabled the Mississippi to fire a broadside into the ram Manassas and sink her. A year later found

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Rh Dewey again on the great river, and this time his craft ran aground directly in front of the Port Hudson battery and had to be abandoned. The task of getting the sailors off in safety under a galling fire was a perilous one, but the brave lieutenant commander remained aboard until no one but his captain and himself were left.

After the loss of the Mississippi, the future admiral was assigned to one of Farragut's gunboats, and fought at Donaldsonville, and from there he took part in the bombardment of Fort Fisher, acting as lieutenant on the Colorado, and it was here that he aided so vigorously in a rush in shore to silence a part of the enemy's works that he gained a special mention for bravery.

It was in 1870 that he received his first command as captain of the Narragansett. He was now a married man, having one son; and two years later the one great cloud of his life came, in the loss of his beloved wife. From the Narragansett the captain was transferred to serve on the United States Lighthouse Board, an exacting office which he filled to the satisfaction of all. From here he went to the Asiatic Squadron, and received full command of the Dolphin, one of the first vessels

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210 belonging to what has since been known as the famous White Squadron, because during the times of peace these great ships are all painted pure white. When war is declared, every warship is painted some dark color, usually a brown-green or gray or black.

Leaving the Dolphin, the energetic captain next took charge of the Pensacola, the flagship of the European Squadron, and it was on this vessel that Striker served under him. Never was a captain more beloved by his men than was Dewey, although he was strict and made every one under him "toe the mark." One thing he could not abide, and that was sullenness. An anecdote which is vouched for will not come amiss, to show the character of the commander as well as to illustrate the strictness of discipline on board of a man-o'-war.

While in command of the Dolphin, the lieutenant came to Dewey and told him that there was a paymaster's assistant on board who had refused to obey a certain order given to him, his reason being that it was outside of his line of duty. The black eyes of the commander snapped fire.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"On the main-deck, sir."

"Have you tried argument with him?"

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Rh "I have, sir, for ten minutes."

The commander said no more, but stalked to the quarter mentioned, where he found the man sulking against the mast. Going up quietly, he caught the fellow by the shoulder.

"You have refused to obey such-and-such an order," he said, mentioning the order in question.

"It ain't in my line of duty," grumbled the paymaster's assistant.

Again the eyes of the commander flashed fire, but he kept his temper. "I have been in the navy for twenty-six years, and have made naval affairs the study of my life. I tell you that it is the duty of every man to obey the orders of his superior officers. Do you intend to obey?"

The eyes of the man dropped, and he shifted his feet uneasily. "It ain't in the line of my duty—I didn't enlist for it," he muttered doggedly.

Without waiting a moment. Captain Dewey turned to the corporal standing by.

"Call the guard," he said briefly. "Order them to load with ball."

The necessary orders were given, there was a scurry of feet and a clicking of rifles, and a line of marines were drawn up on one side of the deck,

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212 while the man who would not obey orders was marched to the other.

"In refusing to obey orders you are guilty of mutiny," said the commander, sternly. "The penalty of mutiny on the high seas is death. If that order is not obeyed inside of five minutes, I will order the marines to fire upon you."

The man turned white and began to tremble. Dewey calmly took out his watch and counted off the minutes, "One—two—three—four—"

"Stop—don't shoot—I'll obey!" cried the sullen one, and rushed off to do as bidden. It took him a week to get over his fright, but in the end there was no better hand on board of that ship, nor one that thought any more of the "old man," as a commander is familiarly termed.

After a term upon the Dolphin, Dewey returned to the Lighthouse Board and was connected with the Pacific Coast Survey. It was at this time that he was promoted to be a commodore. On the first of the year which was to see the breaking out of our war with Spain, the commodore was assigned once more to the Asiatic Squadron, and he made, as my readers already know, the Olympia his flagship.

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Rh And now, with this rather long, but, I trust, interesting introduction, we will join him in his cabin, where he is interviewing Larry and our downeast friend, Striker.

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Kipps came to reflect upon his afternoon's work he had his first inkling of certain comprehensive incompatibilities lying about the course of true love in his particular case. He had felt without understanding the incongruity between the announcement he had failed to make and the circle of ideas of his Aunt and Uncle. It was this rather than the want of a specific intention that had silenced him, the perception that when he travelled from Folkestone to New Romney he travelled from an atmosphere where his engagement to Helen was sane and excellent to an atmosphere where it was only to be regarded with incredulous suspicion. Coupled and associated with this jar was his sense of the altered behaviour of Sid Pornick, the evident shock to that ancient alliance caused by the fact of his enrichment, the touch of hostility in his "You'll soon be swelled too big to speak to a poor mechanic like me." Kipps was unprepared for the unpleasant truth; that the path of social advancement is and must be strewn with broken friendships.

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260 This first protrusion of that fact caused a painful confusion in his mind. It was speedily to protrude in a far more serious fashion in relation to the "hands" from the Emporium, and Chitterlow.

From the day at Lympne Castle his relations with Helen had entered upon a new footing. He had prayed for Helen as good souls pray for Heaven, with as little understanding of what it was he prayed for. And now that period of standing humbly in the shadows before the shrine was over, and the Goddess, her veil of mystery flung aside, had come down to him and taken hold of him, a good, strong, firm hold, and walked by his side.… She liked him. What was singular was that very soon she had kissed him thrice, whimsically upon the brow, and he had never kissed her at all. He could not analyse his feelings, only he knew the world was wonderfully changed about them, but the truth was that, though he still worshipped and feared her, though his pride in his engagement was ridiculously vast, he loved her now no more. That subtle something woven of the most delicate strands of self-love and tenderness and desire, had vanished imperceptibly; and was gone now for ever. But that she did not suspect in him, nor as a matter of fact did he.

She took him in hand in perfect good faith. She told him things about his accent, she told him things about his bearing, about his costume and his way of looking at things. She thrust the blade of her intelligence into the tenderest corners of Kipps' secret

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CH. V, she slashed his most intimate pride to bleeding tatters. He sought very diligently to anticipate some at least of these informing thrusts by making great use of Coote. But the unanticipated made a brave number.…

She found his simple willingness a very lovable thing.

Indeed she liked him more and more. There was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory—she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness—she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"—she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo—much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins—"Who is Buggins?" said Helen—vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow.

Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together.

They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate—at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them—when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw

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262 hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character—no doubt for some forthcoming play.

"What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny.

"'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting.

Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement.

"About that play," he said.

"'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen.

"It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you—Strong."

"That's aw right," said Kipps.

"You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a

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CH. V trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?"

"Right you are," said Kipps.

"To-night?"

"At eight."

And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.…

There was a silence between our lovers for a space.

"That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow."

"Is he—a friend of yours?"

"In a way.… You see—I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together."

He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile.

"What is he?"

"'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays."

"And sells them?"

"Partly."

"Whom to?"

"Different people. Shares he sells.… It's all right, reely—I meant to tell you about him before."

Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of

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264 Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence.

She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now."

The explanation began.…

The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone.

Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine!

There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red.

"Have you seen one of his plays?"

"'E's tole me about one."

"But on the stage."

"No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming.…"

"Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me."

And of course Kipps promised. "Oo—no!"

They went on their way in silence.

"One can't know everybody," said Helen in general.

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CH. V "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added.

Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London—soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here."

It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects.

"We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own."

All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor—there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves—but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say

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266 "contre temps," you must say "contraytom," when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath—rather like a startled kitten—and then aspirate with vigour.

Said Kipps one day, "As 'e?—I should say, ah—Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?"

"Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb."

"I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?"

"Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's has when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's as. As for instance one says 'e—I mean he—He has. But one says 'as he has.'"

"I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'"

"No, if you are asking a question you say has 'e—I mean he—'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity.

"I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. Has 'e? Has 'e as. Yes."

"If you remember about having."

"Oo I will," said Kipps.

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CH. V Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I do." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure.

He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken

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268 some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning.

She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I do like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people In trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.… And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children—she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently—about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity.

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CH. V They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.…

In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own."

"But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps.

"There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and—lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.…

Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab—penny a minute while he goes—how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all.

That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's

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270. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course—this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing—until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal.

When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening

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CH. V papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and naïve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the Bookman said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney—she often called him Sidney—she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.… Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing.

Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp?

"It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it." …

So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were,

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272 presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable—a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now—well. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that."

"He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham.

"That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid."

The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had

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CH. V been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do.

"But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?"

"Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules."

"Calling and all that?"

"Precisely," said Coote.

Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner—when I'm alone 'ere."

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274 Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should change, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing—easy dress. That is what I should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness—and poor."

He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind.

And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as chic, and appreciating the music highly, "That's—puff—a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal.

The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward—I mean awkward.

"I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps.

"You could give them a hint," said Coote.

"'Ow?"

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CH. V "Oh!—the occasion will suggest something."

The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce.

"It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. He was smoking a common briar pipe!

Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident their wonder was at an end.

"He's all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps.

"'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?"

"All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?"

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276 "You going t' Boologne?"

"Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet."

"I shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps.

There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them.

"I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?"

Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said.

"She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you."

It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "Did she?" he answered.

Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe.

"Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed.

(Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.)

Kipps became aware of Coote at hand.

Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said.

"I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot.

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CH. V "But you've got your friends," said Coote.

"Oh! we don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand.

"Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce.

Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat.

Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone.

"Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked.

Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension.

"I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on now."

Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said.

"Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve.

For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away.

Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd.

For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked

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278 abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was awful Cheek!"

Kipps made no reply.…

The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was.

But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety.

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