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      "body": "All these busy figures between\r\n         decks, dimly seen bending at their work in smoke and fire, are as nothing to the figures that shall do work here of another\r\n         kind in smoke and fire, that day. These steam-worked engines alongside, helping the ship by travelling to and fro, and wafting\r\n         tons of iron plates about, as though they were so many leaves of trees, would be rent limb from limb if they stood by her\r\n         for a minute then. To think that this Achilles, monstrous compound of iron tank and oaken chest, can ever swim or roll! To\r\n         think that any force of wind and wave could ever break her! To think that wherever I see a glowing red-hot iron point thrust\r\n         out of her side from within – as I do now, there, and there, and there! – and two watching men on a stage without, with bared\r\n         arms and sledge-hammers, strike at it fiercely, and repeat their blows until it is black and flat, I see a rivet being driven\r\n         home, of which there are many in every iron plate, and thousands upon thousands in the ship! To think that the difficulty\r\n         I experience in appreciating the ship’s size when I am on board, arises from her being a series of iron tanks and oaken chests,\r\n         so that internally she is ever finishing and ever beginning, and half of her might be smashed, and yet the remaining half\r\n         suffice and be sound. Then, to go over the side again and down among the ooze and wet to the bottom of the dock, in the depths\r\n         <?pagebreak number=\"36\"??>of the subterranean forest of dog-shores and stays that hold her up, and to see the immense mass bulging out against the upper\r\n         light, and tapering down towards me, is, with great pains and much clambering, to arrive at an impossibility of realising\r\n         that this is a ship at all, and to become possessed by the fancy that it is an enormous immovable edifice set up in an ancient\r\n         amphitheatre (say, that at Verona), and almost filling it! Yet what would even these things be, without the tributary workshops\r\n         and the mechanical powers for piercing the iron plates – four inches and a half thick – for rivets, shaping them under hydraulic\r\n         pressure to the finest tapering turns of the ship’s lines, and paring them away, with knives shaped like the beaks of strong\r\n         and cruel birds, to the nicest requirements of the design! These machines of tremendous force, so easily directed by one attentive\r\n         face and presiding hand, seem to me to have in them something of the retiring character of the Yard. ‘Obedient monster, please\r\n         to bite this mass of iron through and through, at equal distances, where these regular chalk-marks are, all round.’ Monster\r\n         looks at its work, and lifting its ponderous head, replies, ‘I don’t particularly want to do it; but if it must be done—!’\r\n         The solid metal wriggles out, hot from the monster’s crunching tooth, and it <em>is</em>done. ‘Dutiful monster, observe this other mass of iron. It is required to be pared away, according to this delicately lessening\r\n         and arbitrary line, which please to look at.’ Monster (who has been in a reverie) brings down its blunt head, and, much in\r\n         the manner of Doctor Johnson, closely looks along the line – very closely, being somewhat near-sighted. ‘I don’t particularly\r\n         want to do it; but if it must be done—!’ <?pagebreak number=\"37\"??>Monster takes another near-sighted look, takes aim, and the tortured piece writhes off, and falls, a hot tight-twisted snake,\r\n         among the ashes. The making of the rivets is merely a pretty round game, played by a man and a boy, who put red-hot barley\r\n         sugar in a Pope Joan board, and immediately rivets fall out of window; but the tone of the great machines is the tone of the\r\n         great Yard and the great country: ‘We don’t particularly want to do it; but if it must be done—!’\r\n\n<p id=\"nig0000118\">How such a prodigious mass as the Achilles can ever be held by such comparatively little anchors as those intended for her\r\n         and lying near her here, is a mystery of seamanship which I will refer to the wise boy. For my own part, I should as soon\r\n         have thought of tethering an elephant to a tent-peg, or the larger hippopotamus in the Zoological Gardens to my shirt-pin.\r\n         Yonder in the river, alongside a hulk, lie two of this ship’s hollow iron masts. <em>They</em>are large enough for the eye, I find, and so are all her other appliances. I wonder why only her anchors look small.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000119\">I have no present time to think about it, for I am going to see the workshops where they make all the oars used in the British\r\n         Navy. </p>",
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      "body": "I had seen the sheaved corn carrying in the golden fields as I came down to the\r\n         river; and the rosy farmer, watching his labouring-men in the saddle on his cob, had told me how he had reaped his two hundred\r\n         and sixty acres of long-strawed corn last week, and how a better week’s work he had never done in all his days. Peace and\r\n         abundance were on the country-side in beautiful forms and beautiful colours, and the harvest seemed even to be sailing out\r\n         to grace the never-reaped sea in the yellow-laden barges that mellowed the distance.\r\n\n<p id=\"nig0000114\">It was on this occasion that the Spirit of the Fort, directing his remarks to a certain floating iron battery <?pagebreak number=\"33\"??>lately lying in that reach of the river, enriched my mind with his opinions on naval architecture, and informed me that he\r\n         would like to be an engineer. I found him up to everything that is done in the contracting line by Messrs. Peto and Brassey\r\n         – cunning in the article of concrete – mellow in the matter of iron – great on the subject of gunnery. When he spoke of pile-driving\r\n         and sluice-making, he left me not a leg to stand on, and I can never sufficiently acknowledge his forbearance with me in my\r\n         disabled state. While he thus discoursed, he several times directed his eyes to one distant quarter of the landscape, and\r\n         spoke with vague mysterious awe of ‘the Yard.’ Pondering his lessons after we had parted, I bethought me that the Yard was\r\n         one of our large public Dockyards, and that it lay hidden among the crops down in the dip behind the windmills, as if it modestly\r\n         kept itself out of view in peaceful times, and sought to trouble no man. Taken with this modesty on the part of the Yard,\r\n         I resolved to improve the Yard’s acquaintance.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000115\">My good opinion of the Yard’s retiring character was not dashed by nearer approach. It resounded with the noise of hammers\r\n         beating upon iron; and the great sheds or slips under which the mighty men-of-war are built, loomed business-like when contemplated\r\n         from the opposite side of the river. For all that, however, the Yard made no display, but kept itself snug under hill-sides\r\n         of cornfields, hop-gardens, and orchards; its great chimneys smoking with a quiet – almost a lazy – air, like giants smoking\r\n         tobacco; and the great Shears moored off it, looking meekly and inoffensively out of proportion, like the Giraffe of the machinery\r\n         creation. The store of cannon on the <?pagebreak number=\"34\"??>neighbouring gun-wharf, had an innocent toy-like appearance, and the one red-coated sentry on duty over them was a mere toy\r\n         figure, with a clock-work movement. As the hot sunlight sparkled on him he might have passed for the identical little man\r\n         who had the little gun, and whose bullets they were made of lead, lead, lead.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000116\">Crossing the river and landing at the Stairs, where a drift of chips and weed had been trying to land before me and had not\r\n         succeeded, but had got into a corner instead, I found the very street posts to be cannon, and the architectural ornaments\r\n         to be shells. And so I came to the Yard, which was shut up tight and strong with great folded gates, like an enormous patent\r\n         safe. These gates devouring me, I became digested into the Yard; and it had, at first, a clean-swept holiday air, as if it\r\n         had given over work until next war-time. Though indeed a quantity of hemp for rope was tumbling out of store-houses, even\r\n         there, which would hardly be lying like so much hay on the white stones if the Yard were as placid as it pretended.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000117\">Ding, Clash, Dong, B<span class=\"small-caps\">ANG,</span>Boom, Rattle, Clash, B<span class=\"small-caps\">ANG,</span>Clink, B<span class=\"small-caps\">ANG,</span>Dong, B<span class=\"small-caps\">ANG,</span>Clatter, <span class=\"small-caps\">BANG BANG</span>BANG! What on earth is this! This is, or soon will be, the Achilles, iron armour-plated ship. Twelve hundred men are working\r\n         at her now; twelve hundred men working on stages over her sides, over her bows, over her stern, under her keel, between her\r\n         decks, down in her hold, within her and without, crawling and creeping into the finest curves of her lines wherever it is\r\n         possible for men to twist. Twelve hundred hammerers, measurers, caulkers, armourers, forgers, smiths, shipwrights; twelve\r\n         hundred dingers, clashers, dongers, rattlers, clinkers, bangers bangers <?pagebreak number=\"35\"??>bangers! Yet all this stupendous uproar around the rising Achilles is as nothing to the reverberations with which the perfected\r\n         Achilles shall resound upon the dreadful day when the full work is in hand for which this is but note of preparation – the\r\n         day when the scuppers that are now fitting like great dry thirsty conduit-pipes, shall run red. </p>",
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      "body": "\n<h1 class=\"chapter-title\" id=\"nig0000110\"><?pagebreak number=\"30\"??>Chatham Dockyard</h1>\n<p class=\"noindent\" id=\"nig0000111\">There are some small out-of-the-way landing-places on the Thames and the Medway, where I do much of my summer idling. Running\r\n         water is favourable to day-dreams, and a strong tidal river is the best of running water for mine. I like to watch the great\r\n         ships standing out to sea or coming home richly laden, the active little steam-tugs confidently puffing with them to and from\r\n         the sea-horizon, the fleet of barges that seem to have plucked their brown and russet sails from the ripe trees in the landscape,\r\n         the heavy old colliers, light in ballast, floundering down before the tide, the light screw barks and schooners imperiously\r\n         holding a straight course while the others patiently tack and go about, the yachts with their tiny hulls and great white sheets\r\n         of canvas, the little sailing-boats bobbing to and fro on their errands of pleasure or business, and – as it is the nature\r\n         of little people to do – making a prodigious fuss about their small affairs. Watching these objects, I still am under no obligation\r\n         to think about them, or even so much as to see them, unless it perfectly suits my humour. As little am I obliged to hear the\r\n         plash and flop of the tide, the ripple at my feet, the clinking windlass afar off, or the humming steam-ship paddles further\r\n         away yet. These, with the creaking little jetty on which I sit, and the gaunt high-water marks and low-water marks in the\r\n         mud, and the broken causeway, and the broken bank, and <?pagebreak number=\"31\"??>the broken stakes and piles leaning forward as if they were vain of their personal appearance and looking for their reflection\r\n         in the water, will melt into any train of fancy. Equally adaptable to any purpose or to none, are the pasturing sheep and\r\n         kine upon the marshes, the gulls that wheel and dip around me, the crows (well out of gunshot) going home from the rich harvest-fields,\r\n         the heron that has been out a-fishing and looks as melancholy, up there in the sky, as if it hadn’t agreed with him. Everything\r\n         within the range of the senses will, by the aid of the running water, lend itself to everything beyond that range, and work\r\n         into a drowsy whole, not unlike a kind of tune, but for which there is no exact definition.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000112\">One of these landing-places is near an old fort (I can see the Nore Light from it with my pocket-glass), from which fort mysteriously\r\n         emerges a boy, to whom I am much indebted for additions to my scanty stock of knowledge. He is a young boy, with an intelligent\r\n         face burnt to a dust colour by the summer sun, and with crisp hair of the same hue. He is a boy in whom I have perceived nothing\r\n         incompatible with habits of studious inquiry and meditation, unless an evanescent black eye (I was delicate of inquiring how\r\n         occasioned) should be so considered. To him am I indebted for ability to identify a Custom-house boat at any distance, and\r\n         for acquaintance with all the forms and ceremonies observed by a homeward-bound Indiaman coming up the river, when the Custom-house\r\n         officers go aboard her. But for him, I might never have heard of ‘the dumb-ague,’ respecting which malady I am now learned.\r\n         Had I never sat at his feet, I might have finished my mortal career and never known that when I see a white horse on a barge’s\r\n         <?pagebreak number=\"32\"??>sail, that barge is a lime barge. For precious secrets in reference to beer, am I likewise beholden to him, involving warning\r\n         against the beer of a certain establishment, by reason of its having turned sour through failure in point of demand: though\r\n         my young sage is not of the opinion that similar deterioration has befallen the ale. He has also enlightened me touching the\r\n         mushrooms of the marshes, and has gently reproved my ignorance in having supposed them to be impregnated with salt. His manner\r\n         of imparting information, is thoughtful, and appropriate to the scene. As he reclines beside me, he pitches into the river,\r\n         a little stone or piece of grit, and then delivers himself oracularly, as though he spoke out of the centre of the spreading\r\n         circle that it makes in the water. He never improves my mind without observing this formula.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000113\">With the wise boy – whom I know by no other name than the Spirit of the Fort – I recently consorted on a breezy day when the\r\n         river leaped about us and was full of life. </p>",
      "title": "[Literature] Charles Dickens:  Night Walks #13/43",
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      "body": "The lights were turned out while the sparks died out, and it appeared to\r\n         me as if the whole play – ship, donkey, men and women, divine little creature, and all – were a wonderful firework that had\r\n         gone off, and left nothing but dust and darkness behind it.\r\n\n<p id=\"nig0000104\">It was late when I got out into the streets, and there was no moon, and there were no stars, and the rain fell heavily. When\r\n         I emerged from the dispersing crowd, the ghost and the baron had an ugly look in my remembrance; I felt unspeakably forlorn;\r\n         and now, for the first time, my little bed and the dear familiar faces came before me, and touched my heart. By daylight,\r\n         I had never thought of the grief at home. I had never thought of my mother. I had never thought of anything but adapting myself\r\n         to the circumstances in which I found myself, and going to seek my fortune.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000105\">For a boy who could do nothing but cry, and run about, saying, ‘O I am lost!’ to think of going into the army was, I felt\r\n         sensible, out of the question. I abandoned the idea of asking my way to the barracks – or rather the idea abandoned me – and\r\n         ran about, until I found a watch<?pagebreak number=\"29\"??>man in his box. It is amazing to me, now, that he should have been sober; but I am inclined to think he was too feeble to\r\n         get drunk.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000106\">This venerable man took me to the nearest watch-house; – I say he took me, but in fact I took him, for when I think of us\r\n         in the rain, I recollect that we must have made a composition, like a vignette of Infancy leading Age. He had a dreadful cough,\r\n         and was obliged to lean against a wall, whenever it came on. We got at last to the watch-house, a warm and drowsy sort of\r\n         place embellished with great-coats and rattles hanging up. When a paralytic messenger had been sent to make inquiries about\r\n         me, I fell asleep by the fire, and awoke no more until my eyes opened on my father’s face. This is literally and exactly how\r\n         I went astray. They used to say I was an odd child, and I suppose I was. I am an odd man perhaps.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000107\">Shade of Somebody, forgive me for the disquiet I must have caused thee! When I stand beneath the Lion, even now, I see thee\r\n         rushing up and down, refusing to be comforted. I have gone astray since, many times, and farther afield. May I therein have\r\n         given less disquiet to others, than herein I gave to thee!\r\n</p>\n",
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      "body": "Then, I pictured to myself the being called upon to come down on the stage and receive the donkey.\r\n         <?pagebreak number=\"26\"??>I thought how all the people would shriek when they saw it had fallen to a little fellow like me. How should I lead him out\r\n         – for of course he wouldn’t go? If he began to bray, what should I do? If he kicked, what would become of me? Suppose he backed\r\n         into the stage-door, and stuck there, with me upon him? For I felt that if I won him, the comic actor would have me on his\r\n         back, the moment he could touch me. Then if I got him out of the theatre, what was I to do with him? How was I to feed him?\r\n         Where was I to stable him? It was bad enough to have gone astray by myself, but to go astray with a donkey, too, was a calamity\r\n         more tremendous than I could bear to contemplate.\r\n\n<p id=\"nig0000101\">These apprehensions took away all my pleasure in the first piece. When the ship came on – a real man-of-war she was called\r\n         in the bills – and rolled prodigiously in a very heavy sea, I couldn’t, even in the terrors of the storm, forget the donkey.\r\n         It was awful to see the sailors pitching about, with telescopes and speaking trumpets (they looked very tall indeed aboard\r\n         the man-of-war), and it was awful to suspect the pilot of treachery, though impossible to avoid it, for when he cried – ‘We\r\n         are lost! To the raft, to the raft! A thunderbolt has struck the main-mast!’ – I myself saw him take the main-mast out of\r\n         its socket and drop it overboard; but even these impressive circumstances paled before my dread of the donkey. Even, when\r\n         the good sailor (and he was very good) came to good fortune, and the bad sailor (and he was very bad) threw himself into the\r\n         ocean from the summit of a curious rock, presenting something of the appearance of a pair of steps, I saw the dreadful donkey\r\n         through my <?pagebreak number=\"27\"??>tears.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000102\">At last the time came when the fiddlers struck up the comic song, and the dreaded animal, with new shoes on, as I inferred\r\n         from the noise they made, came clattering in with the comic actor on his back. He was dressed out with ribbons (I mean the\r\n         donkey was) and as he persisted in turning his tail to the audience, the comedian got off him, turned about, and sitting with\r\n         his face that way, sang the song three times, amid thunders of applause. All this time, I was fearfully agitated; and when\r\n         two pale people, a good deal splashed with the mud of the streets, were invited out of the pit to superintend the drawing\r\n         of the lottery, and were received with a round of laughter from everybody else, I could have begged and prayed them to have\r\n         mercy on me, and not draw number forty-seven.\r\n</p>\n<p id=\"nig0000103\">But, I was soon put out of my pain now, for a gentleman behind me, in a flannel jacket and a yellow neck-kerchief, who had\r\n         eaten two fried soles and all his pockets-full of nuts before the storm began to rage, answered to the winning number, and\r\n         went down to take possession of the prize. This gentleman had appeared to know the donkey, rather, from the moment of his\r\n         entrance, and had taken a great interest in his proceedings; driving him to himself, if I use an intelligible phrase, and\r\n         saying, almost in my ear, when he made any mistake, ‘Kum up, you precious Moke. Kum up!’ He was thrown by the donkey on first\r\n         mounting him, to the great delight of the audience (including myself), but rode him off with great skill afterwards, and soon\r\n         returned to his seat quite calm. Calmed myself by the immense relief I had sustained, I enjoyed the rest of the performance\r\n         very much indeed. I remem<?pagebreak number=\"28\"??>ber there were a good many dances, some in fetters and some in roses, and one by a most divine little creature, who made the\r\n         object of my affections look but commonplace. In the concluding drama, she re-appeared as a boy (in arms, mostly), and was\r\n         fought for, several times. I rather think a Baron wanted to drown her, and was on various occasions prevented by the comedian,\r\n         a ghost, a Newfoundland dog, and a church bell. I only remember beyond this, that I wondered where the Baron expected to go\r\n         to, and that he went there in a shower of sparks. </p>",
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