Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 723

The other settler is said to have been skating alone one moonlight night; and while contemplating the reflection of the firmament in the clear ice, and the vast dark mass of forest surrounding the lake and stretching away in the background, he suddenly discovered, to his horror, that the adjacent bank was lined with a pack of wolves. He at once 'made tracks' for home, followed by these animals; but the skater kept ahead, and one by one the pack tailed off; two or three of the foremost, however, kept up the chase; but when they attempted to close with the skater, by adroitly turning aside he allowed them to pass him. And after a few unsuccessful and vicious attempts on the part of the wolves, he succeeded in reaching his log-hut in safety.

The cold during the winter of 1870-71 was often extreme, the thermometer ranging as low as forty degrees below zero. Upon two days the writer had the pleasure of witnessing the beautiful phenomenon called silver-thaw – that is, the trees and shrubs encircled with ice-crystal, the glitter of which on the twigs and branches in the sunlight is wonderfully beautiful. Occasionally the St Lawrence is entirely frozen over opposite Quebec, and ice boats (on skates) are popular, and the bark glides along at a pace that depends upon the wind and quantity of sail carried. Sleighing was much in fashion; and it is agreeable enough rushing through the extremely cold but dry atmosphere with a pretty young lady nestling against you as you fly along the noiseless track to the music of the sleigh bells, which the law requires each horse to carry on its harness.

Practical jokes are not unknown at Quebec, and several silly ones without wit or purpose were perpetrated that winter; but one of a special and decidedly original character played upon the Control Department, may be worth recording. The Control Department – at the head of which was Deputy-Controller Martindale – was intrusted with the providing of fuel, food, ammunition, bedding, transport, &c. for the British troops, and for some reason or another that branch of the department at Quebec is said to have been somewhat unpopular in the garrison.

On the 23d and 24th February the following advertisement appeared in the columns of the principal French paper, l'Evénement:1 'Chats! Chats! Chats! 5 °Chats sont demandés pour donner la chasse aux Rats et Souris qui infestent les Magasins du Gouvernement. Toute personne qui apportera un Chat au Bureau du Député-Contrôleur Martindale, entre 11 heures et midi un jour quelconque jusqu'au 28 du courant, recevra en retour un Dollar (1 $) par Chat. – Par ordre,

D. C. Martindale, Député-Contrôleur.

Quebec, 23 Fév. 1871 – 3f.'

The powers of advertising were in this instance wonderfully exemplified, for at least eight hundred cats were duly brought to the Bureau; but the unfortunate cat-merchants did not receive a dollar. Some, being of a speculative turn, had bought up a number of their neighbours' cats at prices varying between ten cents and twenty-five cents each; and what with the ire of the cat-merchants at the hoax, the astonishment and indignation of the Control officers, and the caterwauling of the pussies brought in boxes, baskets, bags, &c., the scene was one which will long be remembered in Quebec. On Sunday, 26th February (according to a local custom of treating government advertisements), the doors of the churches in the country districts round Quebec had the 'cat advertisement' duly posted up, so that on Monday the 27th a bountiful supply of mousers was brought from suburban districts to complete the Control catastrophe.

Of course very strict inquiries were made, with a view of ascertaining the author of the hoax; but that individual has not yet presented himself to public notice, and judiciously made use of the post-office to carry the letter to the Evénement respecting the insertion of the advertisement. We also understand the editor of the Evénement was politely requested to render his account for the advertisements to the Control Department. There is, we believe, an old proverb, 'A cat may look at a king;' but many of the inhabitants of the Quebec suburbs did not like to look at cats for some time afterwards.

FRENCH FISHER-FOLK

They live by themselves and to themselves, these French fisher-folk; an amphibious race, as completely cut off from the shore-staying population as any caste of Hindustan. The quaint village that they inhabit consists of half a score of steep and narrow lanes, and as many airless courts or alleys, clinging to the cliff as limpets anchor to a rock, and topped by the weather-beaten spire of a church, dedicated of course to St Peter. Hard by there may be a town rich and populous; but its wide streets and display of plate-glass are not envied by the piscatorial clan outside. They have shops of their own, where sails and shawls, ropes and ornaments, high surf-boots and gaudy gown-pieces, jostle one another in picturesque profusion. From the upper windows of the private dwellings project gaffs and booms, whence dangle, for drying purposes, wet suits of dark-blue pilot cloth and dripping pea-coats. Everywhere prevails an ancient and fish-like smell, struggling with the wholesome scent of hot pitch simmering for the manufacture of tarpaulins and waterproofs. Half the houses are draped in nets, some newly tanned to toughen them, others whose long chain of corks is still silvered with herring-scales. The very children are carving boats out of lumps of dark wreck-wood, or holding a mock auction for tiny crabs and spiked sea-urchins. The whole atmosphere of the place has a briny and Neptunian savour about it, and is redolent of the ocean.

A word now as to the fishers themselves; as proud, self-reliant, and independent a race as those hardy Norsemen from whom ethnologists believe them to descend by no fictitious pedigree. Of the purity of their blood there can be little doubt, since the fish-maiden who mates with any but a fisherman is considered to have lost caste; precisely as the gipsy girl who marries a Busné is deemed to be a deserter from the tribe. Marrying among themselves then, it is not surprising that there should be an odd sort of family likeness among them, with one marked type of face and form, or rather two, for the men, curiously enough, are utterly unlike the women. Your French fisher is scarcely ever above the middle height, a compact thick-set little merman, with crisply curling hair, gold rings in his ears, and a brown honest face, the unfailing good-humour of which is enhanced by the gleam of the strong white teeth between the parted lips.

The good looks of the women of this aquatic stock have passed into a proverb; but theirs is no buxom style of peasant comeliness. Half the drawing-rooms of London or Paris might be ransacked before an artist could find as worthy models of aristocratic beauty as that of scores of these young fish-girls, reared in the midst of creels and shrimp-nets and lobster-traps. Their tall slight figures, clear bright complexions, and delicate clean-cut features, not seldom of the Greek mould, contrast with the sun-burnt sturdiness of husband, brother, and betrothed; while the small hands and small feet combine to give to their owners an air of somewhat languid elegance, apparently quite out of keeping with a rough life and the duties of a workaday world.

Work, however – hard and trying work, makes up the staple existence of French fisher-folks, as of French landsmen. In the shrimp-catching season, it must indeed be wild weather which scares the girls who ply this branch of industry, with bare bronzed feet and dexterously wielded net, among the breakers. Others, a few years older, may be seen staggering under weighty baskets of oysters, or assisting at the trimming and sorting the many truck-loads of fish freighted for far-away Paris. The married women have their household cares, never shirked, for no children are better tended than these water-babies, that are destined from the cradle to live by net and line; while the widows – under government authority – board the English steam-packets, and enjoy the sole right of trundling off the portmanteaus of English travellers to their hotel.

The men, the real bread-winners of the community, enter well provided into the field of their hereditary labour. The big Boulogne luggers, strongly manned, and superior in tonnage and number to those which any other French port sends forth, are known throughout the Channel, and beyond it. They need to be large and roomy, since they scorn to be cooped within the contracted limits of the narrow seas, but sail away year after year to bleak Norway and savage Iceland; and their skippers, during the herring-fishery, are as familiar with the Scottish coast as with that of their native Picardy. It is requisite too that they should be strong and fit to 'keep,' in nautical parlance, the sea; for Boulogne, lying just where the Channel broadens out to meet the Atlantic, is exposed to the full force of the resistless south-west gale, that once drove Philip II.'s boasted Armada northward to wreck and ruin.

These south-west gales, with the abrupt changes of weather due to the neighbourhood of the fickle Atlantic, constitute the romance, or compose the stumbling-block of the fisherman's life. His calling may seem an easy and even an enviable one, to those who on summer mornings watch the fishing fleet glide out of harbour; the red-brown sails gilded by the welcome sunshine and filled by the balmy breeze, the nets festooned, the lines on the reel; keg and bait-can and windlass, harmonising well with the groups of seafaring men and lads lounging about on board; too many, as the novice thinks, for the navigation of the craft. But at any moment, with short warning, the blue sea may become leaden-hued, and the sky ragged with torn clouds and veiled with flying scud, and the howling storm may drive the fishers far from home, to beat about as best they may for days and nights, and at length to land and sell their fish (heedfully preserved in ice) at Dunkirk, Ostend, Flushing, or even some English harbour perhaps a hundred and fifty miles away.

The conscription, that relentless leech which claims its tithe of the blood and manhood of all continental nations, in due course takes toll of the fishers. The maritime population, however, supplies the navy, not the army with recruits. It is not until flagship and frigate are manned, that the overplus of unlucky drawers in that state lottery of which the prizes are exemption, get drafted into the ranks. These young sailors find military life a bitter pill to swallow. The writer of these lines has before his eyes a letter from a conscript to his mother in the fishing village, and in which the young defender of his country describes last year's autumn manœuvres in Touraine, the Little War as he calls it, from a soldier's point of view. There is not a spark of martial ardour or professional pride in this simple document. All the lad knows is that he is marched and countermarched about vast sandy plains from dawn till dark, wet, hungry, and footsore; and how difficult it is at the halting-place to collect an armful of brushwood, by whose cheerful blaze he may warm his stiff fingers and cook his solitary pannikin of soldier's soup.

As might be expected, in a community which more resembles an overgrown family than the mere members of a trade, there exists among these people an unusual amount of charity and rough good-nature. The neighbourly virtues shine brightly amid their darksome lanes and stifling courts, and a helping hand is freely held out to those whom some disaster has crippled in the struggle for existence. Bold and self-assertive as their bearing may be, there are no Jacobins, no partisans of the Red faction among these French fishers. They are pious also in their way, seldom failing to attend en masse at the church of St Nicholas or the cathedral of Notre-Dame, before they set out on a distant cruise.

Once and again in early summer, a fisher's picnic will be organised, when in long carts roofed over with green boughs, Piscator and his female relatives, from the grizzled grandmother to the lisping little maiden, who in her lace-cap and scarlet petticoat looks scarcely larger than a doll, go merrily jolting off to dine beneath the oaks of the forest. In their quiet way, they are fond of pleasure, holding in summer dancing assemblies, where all the merry-making is at an end by half-past nine, and which are as decorous, if less ceremonious, as any ball can be. They are patrons of the theatre too, giving a preference to sentimental dramas, and shedding simple tears over the fictitious sorrows of a stage heroine; while in ecclesiastical processions the brightest patches of colour, artistically arranged, are those which are produced by the red kirtles, the blue or yellow shawls, and the snowy caps of the sailor-maidens.

The gay holiday attire, frequently copied, on the occasion of a fancy dress-ball, by Parisian ladies of the loftiest rank, with all its adjuncts of rich colour and spotless lace; the ear-rings and cross of yellow gold, the silver rings, trim slippers, and coquettish headgear of these French mermaidens; no doubt lends a piquancy to their beauty which might otherwise be lacking. Sometimes an exceptionally lovely fisher-girl may be tempted by a brilliant proposal of marriage, and leaves her clan to become a viscountess, or it may be a marchioness, for mercenary marriages are not universal in France. But such incongruous unions seldom end very happily; for the mermaiden is, alas! entirely uneducated, and proves at best too rough a diamond to appear to advantage in a golden setting.

EMERGENCIES

Accidents of various kinds are continually occurring in which the spectator is suddenly called upon to do his best to save life or relieve suffering without the aid of skilled advice or scientific appliances. A body has been drawn from the water in an insensible condition, and thus far a rescue has been effected; but the scene may be more or less distant, not only from the residence of the nearest doctor, but from any house; and unless the by-stander is able to apply prompt means to restore respiration and warmth, a life may yet be lost. Again, a lady's dress is in flames, or it may be fire has broken out in a bedroom – accidents which, if immediate steps be not taken, may end fatally to life and property, long before the arrival of the physician or fire-brigade. One's own life too may be placed in such instant jeopardy that it can only be preserved by active and intelligent exertions on our own part. Situations of this kind attend the sailor, soldier, and traveller as 'permanent risks;' while in the city or field, and even in the security of home, dangers of different kinds confront us which are best described by the word emergencies.

The pressing question in any emergency is of course, 'What is to be done?' Unhappily, the answer is not always at hand. We are often altogether unprepared to act, or we act in such a way as only to increase the danger. The most humane onlooker in a case of partial drowning may at the same time be the most helpless. While in any of the frequent casualties to children – such as choking, scalding, &c. – the tenderest mother may but contribute to the calamity, either by the use of wrong means or the inability to apply right ones. How common this is in respect of many kinds of accidents, and how many of those cases returned 'fatal' might have had a happier issue had the spectator but known 'what to do.'

The terse advice supposed to meet every species of emergency is to 'keep cool.' We admit its force, and agree that it cannot be too frequently insisted upon. Without presence of mind, neither the zeal of self-interest nor the solicitude of affection itself can act with effect. In some instances even, special skill and knowledge may be paralysed by an access of nervousness and its consequent confusion of mind. Again there occur many grave situations in which tact and self-possession are all that are necessary to avert serious calamity. The following anecdote illustrative of this went the round of the newspapers shortly after the disastrous fire in Brooklyn Theatre. Some stage-properties suddenly took fire during a performance before a crowded audience at a certain European theatre. The usual panic ensued. A well-known actor aware that the danger was not serious, and dreading the result of a sudden rush from the house, coolly stepped in front of the curtain, and in calm tones announced that his Majesty the Emperor, who then occupied the imperial box, had been robbed of some valuable jewels, and that any one attempting to leave the theatre would be immediately arrested. The threat would of itself have been useless, but the fact and manner of its delivery conveyed an assurance of safety to the excited people which no direct appeal to their reason could have done. They resumed their places; the fire was subdued; and not till next day did they learn the real peril they had escaped by the timely ruse of the great actor. How terrible a contrast that unhappy and unchecked panic which led to the loss of life at Brooklyn!

The effects of panic and confusion have sometimes their amusing side. We have seen ordinarily sane people casting crockery and other brittle ware into the street from a height of several stories —to save it from fire; and there occurs a passage in one of Hood's witty ballads which seems to prove the incident by no means a rare one:

Only see how she throws out her chaney,Her basins and tea-pots and all;The most brittle of her goods – or any;But they all break in breaking their fall.

But while a jest may be pardonable in such a case, this losing one's head too often takes place in circumstances involving loss of life or property. An excited pitying crowd, for example, is gathered round a person struck in the street with apoplexy. An alarm has been given, and a curious gaping group has come to witness a case of suicide by hanging. A concourse of people stand before a house from which issue the first symptoms of a fire. In such cases the spectators are usually nerveless and purposeless: the danger to life or property is in the exact ratio of the number of onlookers. How curious and instructive to note the change which comes over the scene on the arrival of a single sensible and self-possessed person. One of the idle sympathisers of the apoplectic patient suddenly frees the neck and chest; a second goes sanely in search of temporary appliances; a third runs zealously for a doctor, and the remainder go about their business. One stroke of a knife and the would-be suicide has been placed in the hands of a few of the more intelligent by-standers for resuscitation. The precise locality of the fire has been reached, and the fire either extinguished promptly with the means at hand, or kept under until the arrival of the fire-engines which have been at once sent for.

Now, what is the real source of this exceptional self-possession – so all-important in an emergency? Is it not, after all, the quiet confidence begot of knowing what is best and proper to be done under given circumstances? It is quite true, no doubt, that presence of mind is a moral quality more or less independent of technical knowledge, but in a plain practical way it is directly its result. To become familiar with difficulties is to divest them of their character as such, and to enable us to act with all the coolness and precision exercised in ordinary events. To a surgeon, an accident is a 'case,' not an 'emergency;' while even an abstract knowledge of 'what to do' arms the mind of the non-professional against excitement or confusion. The possession of one little fact, the recollection of some read or heard of device or remedy, is often, sufficient to steady the mind and enable it to act effectively. How frequently some half-forgotten item of surgical knowledge, some stray prescription, or some plan casually recommended ever so long ago, is the means, here and there, of eluding the fatal possibilities of an emergency.

There is really little excuse for ignorance of the means and methods required to meet ordinary cases, seeing that information in abundance is to be had at trifling cost and with little trouble. There are surgical and medical works, published at almost nominal prices, the expressed aim of which is to instruct the public what steps to take in most kinds of accidents, in the absence of professional assistance. There are works also which, treating mainly of household matters, contain valuable hints to parents and others on the subject of accidents to children, as also of fires to person and property; while here and there in our serial literature may be found useful advice on such special kinds of emergencies as the bolting of horses, capsizing of boats, bites by poisonous snakes, &c. But above all, to those who care to remember what they read, the columns of the daily newspapers afford much sound instruction in every species of untoward event. In spite, however, of the ease with which people might inform themselves, and in spite of frequently bitter experience, there is a very general apathy regarding such matters. In upper and middle class families, a certain amount of interest is no doubt evinced, and books of reference are found in their libraries; but the practical importance of knowing their contents, and so forearming against contingencies, is by no means widely recognised. It is scarcely surprising then to find the masses so indifferent, and as a consequence so helpless to assist themselves or each other in any unusual situation.

The idea of giving the subject some place in the common school course is one, we think, worthy of consideration. Physical education receives a fair share of encouragement in the higher class of schools; and some of the exercises enjoined, such as running, climbing, swimming, and rowing, are direct provisions against accidents by field or water; while all of them, by giving a degree of confidence to the mind, are of the greatest value as a training to meet emergencies generally. Physiology too is gradually making good its claim to the attention of teachers; and the instruction in Domestic Economy prescribed for girls comprises hints how to act in what may be called household emergencies. All this is very satisfactory; and were some pains taken in addition to point out to pupils of both sexes the commoner dangers by which life is beset, and were they told in a plain practical way how these are best averted, we believe the case would be very fairly met. To the skilled teacher, a short series of lessons of this kind would not necessarily be any great tax upon his time, but would rather form one of the most interesting of those 'asides' to which he properly resorts as an occasional relief to the tedium of school-routine.

To children of a larger growth, we can only repeat that the means of informing themselves are not beyond reach. There are, of course, now and then such combinations of circumstances as no knowledge or training can provide for, just as there are many accidents which no human foresight can prevent. Leaving these out of the question, however, few of us pass through life without having at one time or other to exercise our intelligence and knowledge to preserve either our own life or property, or the life or property of others in circumstances where these may be exercised successfully. Our interest and duty alike enjoin us to take reasonable pains to forearm ourselves, and the neglect to do so is clearly culpable. But we may have occasion by and by to present our readers with a few practical hints on the subject of 'What to do in Emergencies.'

THE TRADE IN ARTIFICIAL EYES

On this subject, the New York Sun gives some amusing particulars: 'Between eight and ten thousand eyes are sold annually in the United States. An eye-maker gives one in one hundred and twenty-five as the proportion of one-eyed people. Computing the population of the country at forty-two millions, this rate gives three hundred and thirty-six thousand as the number of persons with only one eye in the Republic. Consequently, while ten thousand people supply their optical deficiency with an artificial eye, two hundred and twenty-six thousand go without. In proportion to the population, the eye-maker said, there are more one-eyed people in Paterson, New Jersey, than any other town in this or any other country. All towns that have many foundries and factories, and whose air is impregnated with soot and smoke, count their one-eyed inhabitants by the score; but Paterson is ahead of the rest. The eye-maker knew of the three proprietors of a single foundry there each losing an eye. Pittsburg comes next. In this city one-eyed folks abound in the neighbourhood of manufacturing establishments. Once he had four patients from near a foundry in West Eleventh Street alone. Not only the foul atmosphere destroys the sight, but flying pieces of metal burn out the eyes of the workmen. An importer who sells one thousand five hundred eyes annually sends one-third to Canada; Chicago takes three hundred; and Cincinnati more than St Louis. New Orleans, Nashville, and other towns west and south buy the remainder. The colour for eyes most in demand is what is known as "Irish blue," a peculiarly light azure that predominates in Ireland. The average cost of an eye is ten dollars. He sells comparatively few eyes in this city, as New Yorkers prefer to have their eyes made to order.'