It was a splendid morning in the leafy month of June—though down by the East India Docks “leafy” is scarcely the adjective which one would naturally select to qualify any month of the whole twelve. It was the morning on which Jack Tarpey, mariner, led Polly Andrews, spinster, to the altar. There is no altar in a Registrar’s Office, consequently the expression which I have used must be regarded as somewhat figurative. But an altar is by no means essential to the civil ceremony, and Jack and Poll were as much married as if they had been united by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, assisted by all the “Honourable and Reverends” in the service of the Church of England, as by law established. There, in a small parlour near the Commercial Road, Jack and Poll were made man and wife, or, to put it in the forcible language of the former, “had tied a knot with their lips as they couldn’t undo with their teeth.” The bride was accompanied by a lady friend—for, alas! she was an orphan—while the bridegroom was accompanied by his “shipmet,” young Joey Copper, who was selected to discharge the onerous duties devolving upon him, for a reason which may also be given in Jack’s own words: “Why,” he said, “do I ’ave Joey for my best man? Stan’ by, mate, an’ I’ll tell ye. I ’ave’s Joey for my best man because he is the best man in all this ’ere blessed world. That’s why I ’ave’s Joey, d’ye see?” It may be taken for granted that they saw; because no one, having once asked the question, thought of putting it a second time.

Breakfast was provided at the residence of the landlord of the bridegroom, a house of public entertainment, at the corner of one of the somewhat melancholy streets abutting on the East India Docks. The sign of the house was the “Tartar Frigate,” and mine host had obligingly set apart his back parlour for the entertainment of Jack and his party, now increased by an addition of two other “shipmets.” The landlord of the “Tartar Frigate” was not, perhaps, a Gunter, but he understood the tastes of his patrons, and gave them what he called “a greasy and substawnshul set out.” There was a fine round of boiled beef, with carrots, boiled potatoes, and suet dumplings of great weight and sappiness. Following this there was a liberal dish of plum-duff; and to wind up with, there was half a Dutch cheese and pats of butter, about the composition of which, the less said here or elsewhere the better. The more solid part of the repast having been removed, all hands were piped to hot grog; a fiddler was introduced into the apartment, and all was jollity and dancing, until some difference of opinion arose between Jack’s male guests, as to which of the three should claim Poll’s lady friend as a partner. Jack, like the gallant and honest fellow that he was, stopped all disputes by announcing that there was to be no quarrel on his wedding-day, and that the proceedings, so far as he was concerned, were at an end. Then the punctilious tar paid the reckoning, and conveyed his wife to the apartments which she had engaged for them in Belt Alley, E.

A life on the Ocean Wave is regarded by some as the most jolly and enjoyable of all possible lives. But it must be admitted that the Ocean Wave is a relentless master, and has no more regard for the tender feelings of the mariner, and those who are dear to him, than the whale that swallowed Jonah. Jack and Poll had not been married three weeks, before his ship—The Promise of the May—was ready for sea, and Jack was ordered to join. Now I would call to my aid that which is not permitted to the Unvarnished writer—the lyre of the poet. For how shall I attune my harsh prose to the music of their sighs, the liquid measure of their tears?

It came, that final, that inevitable scene.

They stood on the quay, his arms round her waist, her head on his manly shoulder.

“Good-bye, lass,” he whispered, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Goo—goo—good-bye,” she said, in an agony of sobbing.

“You’ll always think o’ me, Poll?”“Aw—aw—always,” she cried, shaken with emotion.

“An’ you’ll always be true to me?”

“Aw—aw—always,” she moaned.

“Kiss me, lass.”

Their lips met in a fervent salute. Then he was led away to his ship by Joey Copper, his best man; and she, in a half fainting, half hysterical state, was conducted back to her apartments by her faithful female companion.

It was a splendid morning in the leafy month of August—for Samuel Taylor Coleridge to the contrary, I cannot conceive why June should be held to form a monopoly of leafiness—and Billy Bunting of the Avalanche was proceeding along Lantern Lane, close to the Docks, when he beheld a female in distress. A hulking tramp with designs upon her purse, had compelled the lady to stop, and she was crying in vain to the great brick wall on either side, to help her. To “bear down upon” them, to call upon the villain to “belay there;” to knock him senseless in the roadway, and to offer his assistance to beauty in distress—to do all this, was, as is well-known to those conversant with the literature of the Rolling Deep—the work of a moment.

Billy loved a pretty face, and it was a pretty-one, of that plump and red kind so admired by sailors, which through tears looked up at Billy now. Giving the prostrate form of the tramp a kick, he gallantly offered his arm to the maiden, saying,—

“I must tow you out of the way of that skulking land-shark, my beauty.”

She, nothing displeased, took the offered arm; and declared that she was “so obliged she couldn’t tell.”

“An’ wot’s yer name, my pretty poppet?”

“Polly,” she replied, with a blush that enhanced her many charms.

“An’ yer t’other name is—”

“Smith,” she replied, coyly.

“H’m. Wot d’ye think of Bunting as a name—come now?”

“Sweetly bee-utiful,” she murmured.

“That’s my name.”

“No!” she exclaimed in a tone that betokened a delighted surprise.

Those who make long voyages must needs put up with short courtships, and Billy Bunting had not been many days acquainted with Miss Smith before she had promised to be his, and the marriage was duly solemnised at the Little Bethel, Lancington St., by Mr. Morth, the esteemed pastor of that conventicle. They spent the day at Gravesend, enjoying its natural and artificial beauties, including the Rosherville Gardens, where they were almost as happy as the advertisements of that pleasaunce would lead one to suppose. And then they returned to their humble lodging in Belt Alley, E.

Alas! for the brevity of human happiness. Poor Polly Andrews was no sooner married to her Jack Tarpey than the Promise of the May was ordered on a twelve months’ voyage. And Polly Smith has been but a brief fortnight the adored wife of Billy Bunting when the Avalanche is ready to go sailing about the world for a similar period. But, cheer up, brave hearts! Courage, dear souls!

“There’s a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloft
To keep watch o’er the life of poor Jack.”

And the little Cherub who, from that elevated position, is solicitous concerning the well-being of poor Jack, will no doubt exhibit an equal solicitude in the case of poor Billy Bunting. But it is useless to preach philosophy to breaking hearts. It was a sad scene that which took place on the quay as Polly bid her Bill adieu. She could but hope; he could but hope, and a year after all is only three hundred and sixty-five miserable little days. It will soon be over.

But the Avalanche was not to be a year out of port.

And here comes the interesting part of this strange narrative.

At the beginning of September, in the year of which I am writing, a very violent and lasting gale burst over certain Northern latitudes. And nowhere was that gale felt more severely than in the Bay of Biscay. Many lives were lost in that ill-omened water—for why it should be called a “Bay” while the Adriatic is called a “Sea,” I have never since the happy days of boyhood been able to discover. The waves rose mountains high, the wind blew a hurricane, and everything that out-lived the first fury of the elements scudded along under bare poles. That everything did not out-live the first fury of the elements will appear presently.

One of the vessels encountering that memorable storm was the Avalanche. She encountered it, and overcame it, but with considerable loss to herself. Her mainmast had been snapped in two like a brittle twig. Her canvas was in shreds, part of her bulwarks was swept away, and the pumps were continually at work, to lessen the volume of water that half filled her hold. Though all was calm now, she could not move.

“There she lay” several days, “in the Bay of Biscay O!” At last the inevitable “sail in sight appeared.” It was a sail however that promised no assistance. For when examined through the glass it appeared to be a raft, with a solitary human being on board. There was much speculation as it bore down upon them; at last the raft touched the Avalanche, and its sole occupant, worn out with hunger, thirst, anxiety, and fear, was helped up the side of the Avalanche, and fell upon the deck in a faint that looked uncommonly like death. Unremitting attention and a judicious administration of rum brought him to; and when he was sufficiently restored he informed his rescuers that his name was Jack Tarpey, of the Promise of the May; which doomed vessel having encountered the late gales in the Bay succumbed to the last and worst, and went down with all hands, save three who had taken to the raft, His two companions had died of cold and exhaustion. He alone survived of all the crew.

Billy Bunting was a tender-hearted fellow, and “took to” this shipwrecked mariner. They became indeed such chums that Jack bade fair to forget the excellent Joey Copper: now no more. At last relief came to the Avalanche, and the disabled vessel was assisted on her homeward way. As the days sped on, the friendship between Jack and Billy increased. They had a bond of sympathy in common. Both had married Polls, and both these Polls lived in Belt Alley, E.

“She’s that fond o’ me, Jack—bless her,” Billy would say.

“Ah, she do love me, Bill—bless ’er old ’art,” Jack would reply.

It was a long and weary business getting the Avalanche into dock. And it was a long and weary time before Bill and Jack were allowed to go ashore—for Jack had joined the crew of the Avalanche. But the day of emancipation did eventually arrive. And more exultant mariners never left a ship. Neither of these happy-go-lucky sons of Neptune could remember the number of his house in Belt Alley, but each could swear to the external appearance of it. So they chartered a four-wheeler, and as they drove down the alley each had his eye on the window.

“Stop!” shouted Bill, “that’s my ’ouse.”

“An’ mine,” echoed Jack, thinking that affairs were now culminating towards a coincidence. A blind was pulled suddenly down, and cabby thought he heard boys practising with a pistol in the back-yard. The mariners heard nothing. They were both knocking at the same door. There was no answer. They knocked again. Still no answer. They broke the door down. On the floor lay a plump, red-faced girl, shot through the heart, a pistol in her hand. Both exclaimed at the same moment,—

“Polly!”

On searching her boxes, they found that she had piously preserved copies of the certificates of her marriage to each—together with vouchers for two other unions since contracted.