in the night, or let them hear through the angry roar the signalguns
of a ship in distress, and these men spring up into activity
so dauntless, so valiant, and heroic, that the world cannot surpass
it. Cavillers may object that they chiefly live upon the salvage
of valuable cargoes. So they do, and God knows it is no great
living that they get out of the deadly risks they run. But put
that hope of gain aside. Let these rough fellows be asked, in any
storm, who volunteers for the life-boat to save some perishing
souls, as poor and empty-handed as themselves, whose lives the
perfection of human reason does not rate at the value of a farthing
Page 17
Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
each; and that boat will be manned, as surely and as cheerfully, as
if a thousand pounds were told down on the weather-beaten pier.
For this, and for the recollection of their comrades whom we have
known, whom the raging sea has engulfed before their children’s
eyes in such brave efforts, whom the secret sand has buried, we
hold the boatmen of our watering-place in our love and honour, and
are tender of the fame they well deserve.
So many children are brought down to our watering-place that, when
they are not out of doors, as they usually are in fine weather, it
is wonderful where they are put: the whole village seeming much too
small to hold them under cover. In the afternoons, you see no end
of salt and sandy little boots drying on upper window-sills. At
bathing-time in the morning, the little bay re-echoes with every
shrill variety of shriek and splash – after which, if the weather
be at all fresh, the sands teem with small blue mottled legs. The
sands are the children’s great resort. They cluster there, like
ants: so busy burying their particular friends, and making castles
with infinite labour which the next tide overthrows, that it is
curious to consider how their play, to the music of the sea,
foreshadows the realities of their after lives.
It is curious, too, to observe a natural ease of approach that
there seems to be between the children and the boatmen. They
mutually make acquaintance, and take individual likings, without
any help. You will come upon one of those slow heavy fellows
sitting down patiently mending a little ship for a mite of a boy,
whom he could crush to death by throwing his lightest pair of
trousers on him. You will be sensible of the oddest contrast
between the smooth little creature, and the rough man who seems to
be carved out of hard-grained wood – between the delicate hand
expectantly held out, and the immense thumb and finger that can
hardly feel the rigging of thread they mend – between the small
voice and the gruff growl – and yet there is a natural propriety in
the companionship: always to be noted in confidence between a child
and a person who has any merit of reality and genuineness: which is
admirably pleasant.
We have a preventive station at our watering-place, and much the
same thing may be observed – in a lesser degree, because of their
official character – of the coast blockade; a steady, trusty, wellconditioned,
well-conducted set of men, with no misgiving about
looking you full in the face, and with a quiet thorough-going way
of passing along to their duty at night, carrying huge sou’-wester
clothing in reserve, that is fraught with all good prepossession.
They are handy fellows – neat about their houses – industrious at
gardening – would get on with their wives, one thinks, in a desert
island – and people it, too, soon.
As to the naval officer of the station, with his hearty fresh face,
and his blue eye that has pierced all kinds of weather, it warms
our hearts when he comes into church on a Sunday, with that bright
mixture of blue coat, buff waistcoat, black neck-kerchief, and gold
epaulette, that is associated in the minds of all Englishmen with
brave, unpretending, cordial, national service. We like to look at
him in his Sunday state; and if we were First Lord (really