Newton Forster. Фредерик Марриет

ton Forster

      Prefatory Note

      Newton Forster, or the Merchant Service, first appeared in the Metropolitan Magazine, 1832. It is one of the novels which specially suggests a comparison between Marryat and Smollett, both authors having described acts of impressment with vigour and indignation.

      Jeffrey, of the Edinburgh Review, wrote to Mrs Marryat, January 1832:–

      "That I have read it [Newton Forster] all through in the week I have to finish the preparation of our Scotch Reform Bill (if you will forgive me for mentioning such a thing) is proof enough, I think, that my opinion is very favourable. It is certainly very entertaining, which I take to be the first virtue of a work of this description; but it is interesting as well as entertaining, and not only shows great power of invention, but a very amiable nature and a kind heart."

      The Editor quoted on page 23 is presumably Marryat himself. At least the footnote occurs in the first edition, and was probably reprinted from the magazine, where the identity of editor and author was not so patent.

      It is here printed from the first edition, in three volumes; motto: Honesty is the best policy. James Cochrane & Co., 1832.1

      R.B.J.

      Newton Forster;

      OR,

      The Merchant Service

* * * * *

      Chapter I

      "And what is this new book the whole world makes such a rout about? –Oh! 'tis out of all plumb, my lord,–quite an irregular thing; not one of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket–Excellent critic!

      "Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world–though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most tormenting!"–Sterne.

      What authors in general may feel upon the subject I know not, but I have discovered, since I so rashly took up my pen, that there are three portions of a novel which are extremely difficult to arrange to the satisfaction of a fastidious public.

      The first is the beginning, the second the middle, and the third is the end.

      The painter who, in times of yore, exposed his canvas to universal criticism, and found, to his mortification, that there was not a particle of his composition which had not been pronounced defective by one pseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than I have experienced from the unsolicited remarks of "d–d good-natured friends."

      "I like your first and second volume," said a tall, long-chinned, short-sighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if her eyes were magnifying glasses, and she was obtaining the true focus of vision, "but you fall off in your last, which is all about that nasty line-of-battle ship."

      "I don't like your plot, sir," bawls out in a stentorian voice an elderly gentleman; "I don't like your plot, sir," repeated he with an air of authority, which he had long assumed, from supposing because people would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, that they were incontrovertible—"there is nothing but death."

      "Death, my dear sir," replied I, as if I was hailing the lookout man at the mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; "is not death, sir, a true picture of human life?"

      "Ay, ay," growled he, either not hearing or not taking; "it's all very well, but—there's too much killing in it."

      "In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and you must also allow something for professional feeling—''tis my occupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice, whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit–"

      "It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it. Otherwise," continued this hypercritic, softening a little, "some of the chapters are amusing, and, on the whole, it may be said to be rather—that is—not unpleasantly written."

      "I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out something intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.

      "Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Peego; I think the second and third volumes are by far the most readable" exclaimed another thing, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling half way between her seat and the carpet.

      "If I might presume upon my long standing in the service, Captain–," said a pompous general officer, whose back appeared to have been fished with the kitchen poker—"if I might venture to offer you advice," continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one side, "it would be not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I consider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you have strangely committed yourself."

      "It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."

      "You wrote the book, sir," replied he, sharply; "I can assure you that I should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."

      "Indeed, sir!" replied I, with assumed alarm.

      I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as he walked away.

      But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined to exclaim, with the expiring Lion in the fable–

      A midshipman—yes, reader, a midshipman—who had formerly belonged to my ship and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me, and, with a supercilious air, observed—

      "I have read your book, and—there are one or two good things in it."

      Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was deteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the opinion before.

      Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation "O that mine adversary had written a book!" To be snarled at, and bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault because their intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take my resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has passed through the ordeal of the Reviews—keep your room for the month after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father confessors—guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow the suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary consciences. If your work is denounced and to be released at once from your sufferings by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to inflict the coup de grace?

      The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary to a writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal personage to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of the qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and its necessary concomitants, &c, &c." That such preparation ought to be made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to these rules, the public would never be troubled with any production of mine. It would be too tedious a journey in perspective for my wayward intellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I should abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a journey of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble hand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for my whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea—but ideas are hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific. To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter without having the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to be constructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen in despair; but t is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Ant, it seems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.

      I remember when the "King's Own" was finished, I was as happy as a pedestrian who had accomplished his thousand miles in a thousand hours. My voluntary slavery was over, and I was emancipated. Where was I then? I recollect; within two days' sail of the Lizard, returning home, after a six weeks' cruise to discover

1

Thompson has been changed to Johnson and, in another place, Robinson to Robertson, in order to let the same characters act under one name throughout the book.