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- 13805
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.278Z
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- 13743
- text
- not all the concessions of Earl Spencer, as First lord of the
Admiralty, nor the threats and entreaties of Lord Bridport, the Admiral
of the Fleet—no, nor his gracious Majesty’s plenary pardon in
prospective, could prevail upon the Spithead mutineers (when at last
fairly lashed up to the mark) to succumb, until deserted by their own
mess-mates, and a handful was left in the breach.
Therefore, Mad Jack! you did right, and no one else could have
acquitted himself better. By your crafty simplicity, good-natured
daring, and off-handed air (as if nothing was happening) you perhaps
quelled a very serious affair in the bud, and prevented the disgrace to
the American Navy of a tragical mutiny, growing out of whiskers,
soap-suds, and razors. Think of it, if future historians should devote
a long chapter to the great _Rebellion of the Beards_ on board the
United States ship Neversink. Why, through all time thereafter, barbers
would cut down their spiralised poles, and substitute miniature
main-masts for the emblems of their calling.
And here is ample scope for some pregnant instruction, how that events
of vast magnitude in our man-of-war world may originate in the pettiest
of trifles. But that is an old theme; we waive it, and proceed.
On the morning following, though it was not a regular shaving day, the
gun-deck barbers were observed to have their shops open, their
match-tub accommodations in readiness, and their razors displayed. With
their brushes, raising a mighty lather in their tin pots, they stood
eyeing the passing throng of seamen, silently inviting them to walk in
and be served. In addition to their usual implements, they now
flourished at intervals a huge pair of sheep-shears, by way of more
forcibly reminding the men of the edict which that day must be obeyed,
or woe betide them.
For some hours the seamen paced to and fro in no very good humour,
vowing not to sacrifice a hair. Beforehand, they denounced that man who
should abase himself by compliance. But habituation to discipline is
magical; and ere long an old forecastle-man was discovered elevated
upon a match-tub, while, with a malicious grin, his barber—a fellow
who, from his merciless rasping, was called Blue-Skin—seized him by his
long beard, and at one fell stroke cut it off and tossed it out of the
port-hole behind him. This forecastle-man was ever afterwards known by
a significant title—in the main equivalent to that name of reproach
fastened upon that Athenian who, in Alexander’s time, previous to which
all the Greeks sported beards, first submitted to the deprivation of
his own. But, spite of all the contempt hurled on our forecastle-man,
so prudent an example was soon followed; presently all the barbers were
busy.
Sad sight! at which any one but a barber or a Tartar would have wept!
Beards three years old; _goatees_ that would have graced a Chamois of
the Alps; _imperials_ that Count D’Orsay would have envied; and
_love-curls_ and man-of-war ringlets that would have measured, inch for
inch, with the longest tresses of The Fair One with the Golden
Locks—all went by the board! Captain Claret! how can you rest in your
hammock! by this brown beard which now waves from my chin—the
illustrious successor to that first, young, vigorous beard I yielded to
your tyranny—by this manly beard, I swear, it was barbarous!
My noble captain, Jack Chase, was indignant. Not even all the special
favours he had received from Captain Claret, and the plenary pardon
extended to him for his desertion into the Peruvian service, could
restrain the expression of his feelings. But in his cooler moments,
Jack was a wise man; he at last deemed it but wisdom to succumb.
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