CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

THE COMING OBELISK.

For more than fifty years we have heard of projects
for bringing to England the prostrate obelisk
lying on the sandy shore of Egypt at Alexandria,
and popularly known as Cleopatra’s Needle. Every
successive scheme of this kind has come to nothing.
When the French army quitted Egypt in 1801, the
British officers, wishing to have some memorial of
the victories of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, claimed
the prostrate obelisk as a spoil of war, and formed
a plan for bringing it to England. A ship was
obtained, a mode of stowage planned, and a jetty
built between the obelisk and the beach. The
Earl of Cavan, in command of the troops, headed
the scheme; Major Bryce, of the Royal Engineers,
worked out on paper the details of the operation;
while officers and men alike subscribed a certain
number of days’ pay to meet the expenses. The
obelisk was to be introduced into the ship through
the stern port, and placed on blocks of timber
lying over the keel. But difficulties of various
kinds arose and the scheme was abandoned.

Eighteen years afterwards the Pacha of Egypt,
Mehemet Ali, presented the prostrate obelisk to
the Prince Regent; the British government accepted
the gift, but took no steps towards utilising
it, being deterred by an estimate of ten thousand
pounds as the probable cost of bringing the
monolith to England. Thirty-three more years
passed; the Crystal Palace Company was organising
its plan for the costly structure and grounds at
Sydenham; and a question was started whether
Cleopatra’s Needle would form an attraction to
the place. Men rubbed up their reading to ascertain
how the ancients managed to remove such
ponderous masses as this. It is certain that the
stone must have been quarried in Upper Egypt,
and conveyed somehow down to Thebes, Alexandria,
and other places in that classic land.
Pliny describes a prostrate obelisk which was
moved to a distance by digging a canal under it,
placing two heavily laden barges on the canal, and
unloading them until they were light enough to
rise and lift the obelisk off the ground; it was then
floated down the Nile on the barges, and landed
and set up by the aid of a vast number of men
with capstans and other apparatus. A plan was
suggested to the Crystal Palace Company for
bringing Cleopatra’s Needle to England on a raft;
but the idea was relinquished. Subsequently there
were several projects for importing the obelisk;
but they also fell through, after not a little eager
expectation and talk. Thus, from one cause or
other, the famed obelisk was left undisturbed,
and what may be deemed British property still
lies in a kind of buried state among the sands
on the coast of Egypt. Luckily, it has not
suffered injury by delay in removal. The stone
is of a hard texture, and its entombment has been
rather an advantage than otherwise. Although
first and last there has been much said about
Cleopatra’s Needle, we shall attempt to give some
account of it and of a freshly conceived plan for
bringing it to England.

The ancient Egyptians excelled in the art of
erecting magnificent temples, pyramids, obelisks,
and other works in stone, all of which, or the ruins
of them, fell into the hands of successive conquerors—Persians,
Greeks, Romans, Arabs, and
finally the Turks. Among the long roll of monarchs
of the ancient Egyptians, one stands out
conspicuously for grandeur of character and the
splendour of his reign. That was Thothmes III.,
who flourished fourteen hundred and forty-four
years before the commencement of our era, that is
to say, three thousand three hundred and twenty
years ago. He ordered to be executed two obelisks
of gigantic dimensions for the City of On, or City
of the Sun, the name of which was changed by
the Greeks to Heliopolis, a word signifying the
same thing. During the lifetime of Thothmes, the
obelisks were cut out of the quarries of Elephantiné,
which consist of the rose-coloured granite of
Syene, or Es-souan. These obelisks were to be set
up in front of the Temple of the Sun, and in however
mistaken a way, must be viewed as a pious
tribute to the Almighty, personified in the Sun as
the author of Light and Heat, the fructifier and
sustainer of animal and vegetable existence.

{226}

The preparation of the two obelisks was the
work of years. Before their completion, Thothmes
III. had passed away; and the honour of setting
them up in their appointed place belonged to one
of his successors, Rameses II., familiarly known to
us as Sesostris. We can fancy the imposing ceremonies
which took place in erecting the obelisks
in front of the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis.
Both obelisks were inscribed with hieroglyphics,
signifying that they were erected to the god Ra,
or the Rising Sun, and to Tum, or the Setting
Sun, which identify them with the most ancient
and perhaps most poetical superstition in the
world. To these hieroglyphics were added others
by Rameses II., commemorative of certain military
conquests.

And where is now Heliopolis, the City of the
Sun, at which these grand obelisks were set up and
venerated by the ancient rulers of the country?
It is extinct. As in many other old Egyptian
cities, its dwellings, built of unburnt bricks, have
long since crumbled into heaps of dust. Its
splendid monuments are destroyed or dispersed.
When the Romans took possession of the country,
the two obelisks that had been erected by Rameses
II. in honour of the Sun were removed by the
celebrated Cleopatra to grace the Cæsarium at
Alexandria about the year 40. There, near the
shore, they were set up. One of them remains
where it was placed, and is a well-known landmark.
The other fell, from what cause is unknown,
and there it has lain till our times.

Such in brief is the history of Cleopatra’s Needle.
It is upwards of three thousand three hundred
years old; and whether standing or lying, it has
been at Alexandria for at least eighteen hundred
and thirty years. How along with its fellow it
was transported from Heliopolis to Alexandria,
can no more be known than how the Pyramids
were built. Doubtless, there would be an enormous
expenditure of human toil; but at the time
that was not regarded. Unfortunate beings captured
in battle were condemned to slavery, and
if they perished in dragging huge stones, no one
cared. If Cleopatra’s Needle could speak, it
would tell of cruelties of which we can form no
adequate conception.

The two obelisks were nearly of the same
dimensions; and standing in their original position
in front of the Temple of the Sun, they must
have had a most imposing appearance. The
prostrate obelisk, square in form, measures sixty-eight
and a half feet long, six feet eleven inches
wide on each side at the base, tapering to four
feet nine inches near the summit, whence it
narrows to a pyramidal point called the pyramidion.

We may have a pretty good idea of its appearance
from that of the Luxor obelisk, set up on a
pedestal in the Place de la Concorde at Paris,
which is the same shape, and measures seventy-two
feet three inches in height, exclusive of the
pedestal of fifteen feet, and weighs five hundred
thousand pounds. The cost of removing this obelisk
from Luxor, near Thebes, to Paris, was about
two millions of francs, or eighty thousand pounds.
It is a handsome monolith, of reddish Syenite,
but unfortunately it is damaged near the top,
and suffers from the bad taste exhibited in the
pedestal on which it was erected in 1836. In
Rome there are a number of obelisks of different
sizes that had been brought from Egypt by the
Romans. Europe may be said to have come in for
a fair share of these ancient monuments. There
is room, however, for one more—Cleopatra’s
Needle, which, had matters been managed rightly,
should long since have been brought to England
and set up in the metropolis.

This brings us to the project now set on foot
by Mr Erasmus Wilson, an eminent surgeon in
London, and who has munificently undertaken to
be at the entire cost of bringing the obelisk from
Alexandria. The idea of doing so arose, as Mr
Wilson explains in a letter to a friend, in having
had a communication from General Sir James
Alexander, C.B. ‘He, Sir James, recounted that
he had paid a visit to the prostrate obelisk at
Alexandria in the spring of 1875, with the view
of ascertaining its state of preservation and the
possibility of bringing it to London; that he
stripped it of its covering of sand, and found the
column uninjured, and that he felt assured that
its transit might be safely accomplished; that all
that was needed were the means of defraying the
cost, and the determination to bring the undertaking
to a successful issue; that he contemplated
for this object to obtain the interest of the city of
London and the government; but that, although
he had secured the co-operation of the Metropolitan
Board of Works for a site on the Thames
Embankment, he had made no substantial progress.’
Mr Wilson goes on to explain what he did
in the circumstances. ‘On the 7th of December,
I had a conversation with Sir James Alexander.
He was very anxious to succeed in his object, and
he mentioned a plan proposed by Mr John Dixon,
C.E., whom I promised to see. At my interview
with him, I listened to his plan. He explained
the position of the monolith, within a few yards
of the sea, and the ease with which it could be
inclosed in a cylinder, rolled into the water, towed
to the harbour for the purpose of putting on to it
a keel, a rudder, and a deck, and then ballasting it
to a proper depth of flotation. The process required
care, nicety, and judgment, but was evidently
sound and practicable.’ The professional advice
Mr Wilson received helped to confirm this opinion,
and he finally resolved to enter into a contract for
the safe transport of the monolith. Mr Dixon was
willing to limit the cost to eight thousand pounds;
but to leave no room for failure, it was agreed he
should receive ten thousand pounds on the safe
erection of the obelisk on the Thames Embankment
within a specified period. A contract was
entered into on this basis; Mr Dixon undertaking
all risks.

{227}

We gather from Mr Wilson’s letter that he had
serious misgivings as to the success of a public
subscription, and that after all it was a shabby
kind of proceeding, unworthy of so great an object.
In short, feeling he could afford the outlay, he
took the matter in hand personally, and the
element of expense was therefore at an end.
Any other difficulty was removed by Mr Dixon
receiving the concurrence of the government and
of the Khedive of Egypt. ‘I have,’ says Mr
Wilson, ‘the assurance from Mr Dixon that the
cylinder ship with its precious freight may be
expected to float into the Thames in July next.’

So far as we can understand the proposed plan,
Cleopatra’s Needle is to be fixed by cross divisions
or diaphragms of wood in a cylindrical vessel
of malleable iron plates. There will be seven
diaphragms, and consequently nine water-tight
compartments. For safety, the obelisk will be
inclosed in wood, and well packed, a little below
the central level of the vessel, which will be closed
at both ends. When completed with the obelisk
inside, the vessel will be about ninety-five feet in
length and fifteen feet across. After being rolled
into the sea, and towed to the harbour, it will be
ballasted, and be provided with a keel, deck, sail,
and rudder. For these operations, manholes will
have been left in the cylinder. These holes will
be opened, so that access may be obtained to all
the compartments. There will be no part into
which a man may not enter if necessary, until the
cylinder is finally sealed up for floating.

When made thoroughly ship-shape and sea-worthy,
then the vessel with its precious freight
will set off on its voyage, under the charge of two
or three skilled mariners, for whom a small cabin
on deck will be provided. It will be towed the
whole way by a steam-tug; the sail being simply
for steadying the cylinder. The steam-tug, or
with whatever other assistance that may be necessary,
will tow the vessel up the Thames, and lay it
alongside a convenient part of the Embankment.
Where its precise site is to be has not, we believe,
been determined. By the agency of hydraulic
power, there will be no serious difficulty in raising
it to an erect position on its assigned pedestal.
There will, we think, be a concurrence of opinion,
that no site would be so universally acceptable as
on some conspicuous point of the Thames Embankment,
where the effect towards the river would be
particularly striking. What more fitting place of
permanent repose than the banks of the ‘Silent
Highway’ for the ancient symbol of contemplative
veneration, the Divine Architect of the Universe,
Ra and Tum?

A great day for the metropolis will be that on
which this vastly interesting monolith is stuck
upright in English ground! We can shew some
minor works of art of perhaps as great antiquity,
such as the stone axes of the pre-historic period,
but nothing to compare with the product of
Egyptian civilisation something like four thousand
years ago. Trusting that no untoward accident
may occur to derange the plans for the maritime
transport of this interesting object, there cannot
but be a universal feeling of satisfaction at the
gracious manner in which Mr Wilson has organised
a scheme for effecting what has baffled everybody
since the beginning of the present century. When
there is so much begging of money for all sorts of
objects, the heartiness of his spontaneous generosity
will be frankly acknowledged.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XVIII.—MARIAN’S GENEROSITY.

Marian was, I believe, genuinely disappointed at
Lilian’s decision to leave Fairview and retire with
her aunt to some cottage home.

‘It will look so!’ she ejaculated again and again;
which words perhaps best expressed her sentiments
upon the point. ‘People might think I had not
been inclined to behave handsomely towards you,
you know; but I’m sure no one could offer more
fairly than I do. There’s the run of the place,
and a carriage to ride out in, and your keep, and
all that; besides two hundred a year to spend as
you please. I had only two hundred a year to do
everything with, you know, before Pa died. And
if that isn’t enough—well, I shouldn’t perhaps
mind saying’——

‘It would be a great deal more than enough,’
murmured poor Lilian. ‘Only I must be with my
dear aunt wherever she is, and she prefers having
a home of her own, however humble.—Do you
not, auntie?’

Mrs Tipper was very decided upon that point;
and Marian did not object. ‘Auntie’ was quite
welcome to consult her own taste in the matter.
Indeed Marian was more ready to fall in with the
little lady’s desire to leave Fairview than it was
under the circumstances quite polite to do.

‘But for you, dear, it is altogether different,’
she went on to urge. ‘You are young, and have
been brought up like a lady; and it really seems
quite cruel for you to be going to live at a cottage,
when there’s such a home as this offered you.’

‘I should prefer being with my aunt,’ repeated
Lilian, with flushed cheeks, turning her eyes, full
of tears, lovingly towards the little lady, who
nodded and smiled as though to say: ‘Do not fear
my being wounded by anything that is said, my
dear. I shall only be troubled when you are.’

‘You haven’t tried it yet, dear,’ sagely returned
Marian; ‘and you don’t know what it is to live
like poor people. Think better of it; and I will
have a distang-gay lady to go about with us; and
we will fill the place with company, and have lots
of gaieties. Do, pray, think what you will be
giving up, before you make up your mind.’

But she found that Lilian was not to be tempted;
and Marian was at length brought to see that
her arguments were of no avail. So I think she
satisfied herself with the reflection that she had
done all that could be expected of her, only stipulating
that Lilian should acknowledge her generosity
to ‘people,’ as she indefinitely termed the
Fairview world.

‘It is only fair that it should be made known
that I was ready to act generously, you know.’

Lilian promised that it should be made known.
Moreover, when at length matters were finally{228}
settled, Marian begged Lilian to take anything
which she had a fancy for with her.

‘I mean, of course, the things that have
been given to you, you know,’ she said a little
hurriedly, as though afraid that her generosity
might be interpreted too literally; adding, with a
little laugh: ‘If you took everything you fancied,
there would be nothing left at Fairview, I expect!
But there; just say what is yours, and I will take
your word for it!’ she ejaculated, in another outburst
of good-nature.

If it had been left to Lilian, very little would
have been taken from Fairview. But it was not left
to her; and Mrs Tipper and I were more business-like,
and did not hesitate to secure for Lilian
not a few valuables. That little lady recollected
a great many things which had been named by Mr
Farrar as gifts to his child. Fortunately for her,
he had been in the habit of talking about any new
purchases which he made to add to the glories of
Fairview, as presents to Lilian. In fact, had we
kept strictly to the letter of Marian’s offer, and
taken whatever had been given to Lilian, we
might have carried away nearly everything the
house contained. As it was, we did not scruple
to claim a great deal. Her mother’s jewellery; a
nice little collection of pictures; the grand piano,
which had been a birthday present; and an endless
assortment of valuables, even to a new silver
dinner-service. For the last, we were indebted to
Saunders, who reminded Mrs Tipper and Lilian
that Mr Farrar had mentioned at the dinner-table
having ordered the new pattern expressly for his
daughter, by-and-by, naming the cost. Poor Mr
Farrar! it is pitiful to reflect how glad we were
to avail ourselves of his little ostentatious speeches,
for the benefit of his child.

But in spite of herself, Marian began to look very
grave and anxious as one thing after another was
eagerly named by the servants as ‘Miss Lilian’s.’
They had got scent of what was going on, and
were eager to give evidence of this or that having
been given to her. She had made up her mind
to be generous, and strove hard with herself. But
when it came to be a question of a set of diamonds,
she could control herself no longer, nervously
questioning as to the evidence of its having
been a gift to Lilian’s mother. Was the inscription
inside the case—’To my dear Wife, on
our wedding-day’—sufficient to make the diamonds
Lilian’s; and would Lilian mind repeating his
exact words when her father put them into her
hands on her last birthday.

‘Of course I only want what is right; but she
wasn’t his wife, you know; so it couldn’t be their
wedding-day,’ anxiously ejaculated Marian, her
eyes dwelling fondly upon the jewels in their open
cases.

Fortunately for us, Lilian fled at the first words,
and we had Robert Wentworth to help us, so we
battled courageously for the diamonds, and at
length gained the day. Marian was obliged to
yield, though she did so with a sigh over ‘Pa’s
extravagance.’ ‘He never gave diamonds to Ma!
Why, Lilian will have quite a large fortune to
take away, with one thing and another!’ Then,
in reply to some allusion from Mr Wentworth
about the fortune Lilian was leaving, he was
sharply reminded that it was not hers to leave.
‘People seem to forget that it’s only my rights,
and if it were not for my generosity things would
be very different for Lilian.’ For she was, I think,
beginning to feel that her generosity was not
sufficiently recognised, and it required some little
encouragement in the way of being appreciated to
keep it alive.

Meanwhile, Mrs Tipper and I were quietly at
work in search of a cottage. We succeeded beyond
our expectations; being fortunate enough to secure
a pretty little place on the outskirts of a neighbouring
village, at a very moderate rent, Robert
Wentworth giving us material assistance in the negotiations.
Having overcome the dear little woman’s
scruples about accepting half of my fifty pounds
as my share towards the first three months’ housekeeping,
we gave ourselves up to the business
of furnishing; and in this also Robert Wentworth
was of much assistance to us, though I do not
think that any one besides myself attributed it
to anything warmer than friendship. Becky and
I and a couple of work-people were busily engaged
from morning till night in arranging and making
ready, in order that no time might be lost in getting
away from Fairview before Marian’s good-nature
altogether collapsed. Lilian was becoming very
anxious to take her departure; and it was evident
that to Mrs Tipper herself the change would be
a very welcome one.

‘To tell the truth, my dear, it will be a real
blessing to me to live in a small house and be able
to go into my own kitchen again,’ she confided to
me. ‘You and the dear child will be the company
in the parlour; and I shall make the puddings and
pies, and know what’s in them!’ she ejaculated,
enjoying her little jest.

Of course I did not mean to be idle, though I
agreed that the dear little lady should reign
supreme in the kitchen. Becky was to be our
factotum; and very proud she was of the position,
making it very evident that Fairview had altogether
lost its attractions for her now. We began
to plume ourselves upon having quite a little
model home, where nothing but love and peace
would be admitted. Ah me! it was as well we
should think so!

It was a very pretty, if somewhat fantastically
built cottage, which had been erected for an ornamental
lodge at the entrance of a fine estate, the
property of an old but impoverished family, which
had been brought to the hammer, and sold in
separate portions. The house itself—a fine old
place, built in one of the Tudor reigns—stood on
an eminence some two miles distant, and had been
taken on lease by some benevolent lady, for the
purpose of making a Home for girls who had suffered
imprisonment, with a view to prevent their
further degradation.

Our cottage was situated just out of the village,
which lay in the hollow at the foot of the hill, on
the side of which stood the house which I have
mentioned as being visible from one part of the
Fairview grounds, and which I so coveted for my
married life with Philip. A little to the left, at
the back of our cottage, still stood a portion of
the fine old woods as they had been for many a
generation of the A—— family. The land on the
other side of what had once been the avenue,
had been turned into hop-fields and so forth. In
front of the cottage, the space had been so much
encroached upon that what had once been a fine
private road was now but a narrow lane. Branching
from that lane, on the right was the village, and{229}
on the left another lane leading to a field, through
which there was a right of way to the railway
station; and from the stile of that field ran two
paths, the lane I have mentioned passing the
cottage and on to the village; and another lane
at right angles with it, leading through the woods.

There was some little talk of my house soon
being in the market, said the work-people, to whom
I was curious enough to put a few questions about
it. The lease was expiring, it seemed, and the
present residents did not intend to renew it. This
was news indeed. If, by good fortune, Philip
arrived in time to secure it, how delightful it
would be; the two others I most cared for in the
world living so near us! How delightful to be
able to shew my appreciation of the kindness I
had received in some better way than by words!
Then I pleased myself with another pretty picture
of the future, in which Lilian and Robert Wentworth
were the principal figures.

That Lilian would very long remain as depressed
as she now was, I did not believe; her mind was
a too healthy one for that. Indeed the reaction
had already set in. After the first shock was got
over, she was, I think, not a little astonished at
the comparatively small amount of regret she
suffered on account of the loss of her lover. It
might be that she was beginning to realise the
fact that her love for him had never really been
what she had imagined it. In one point she was
mistaken. She believed that he also had deceived
himself, and was firmly persuaded that he did not
love her and never had.

I knew that Arthur Trafford was in truth
suffering the keenest misery in his efforts to tear
himself away from her. He loved her better than
all the world, except himself; and although he
had not sufficient manliness and moral courage to
make an effort in the right direction, I was glad
to see he had the grace to be heartily ashamed of
the part he was playing. I could not help being
a little amused by Mrs Tipper’s mild suggestions,
in the midst of his wild ravings against his miserable
fate. Indeed her very practical advice about
looking for work, and never blaming Fate or
giving up hope as long as he had youth and
strength and his two hands to use, was not the
lightest punishment he had just now to bear,
Lilian being present, sitting white and silent with
downcast eyes. I think he was almost driven to
the verge of entreating her to share his poverty
and challenge fortune with him; but he did not get
beyond the verge. Marian silently watched with
keen eyes and heightened colour, and it was not
difficult to read her thoughts. She still found
her position at Fairview a somewhat anomalous
one; and would continue to find it so as long as
Lilian remained there; the latter being treated as
mistress, and she herself as much as possible
ignored by the servants.

It was, I think, some little relief to us all when
the cottage was declared ready for occupation.
Mrs Tipper and I contrived to spare Lilian the
leave-takings and final wrench of separation from
the home she had always been taught to consider
her own. We invited her to go to look at the
progress of our work; and once there, we hinted
that she might just as well remain at the cottage.
There need be no returning to Fairview unless
she desired it. As we had hoped, Lilian was
only too glad to avail herself of the suggestion;
unconsciously shewing how much she had
dreaded a parting scene. So we three took tea
together in the little parlour, which was to serve
as dining-room. Our drawing-room, as we jestingly
called it, on the other side of the house, was left
unfinished, for Lilian and me to arrange, according
to our own taste—in truth to afford some occupation
for the former’s hands and thoughts, and to
leave no time for dwelling upon bygones, at anyrate
for a while. Mrs Tipper and Becky had contrived
to make it appear quite a festive occasion;
the tea-table being spread with all sorts of little
home-made dainties, which we felt bound to make
a demonstration of enjoying, and I verily believe
did enjoy a great deal more than we were conscious
of doing, so pleasant was the contrast to the meals
we had latterly partaken at Fairview. We could
now freely shew our thoughts to each other, and
that itself was no slight boon, after being obliged
to pick and choose our words, as we had been in
Marian’s presence.

Afterwards I left Lilian with Mrs Tipper; I
knew that she would put aside her own feelings in
her desire to please the dear little mistress of the
cottage, by shewing an interest in the arrangements
which had been made, &c. And I had to set
forth for Fairview again, in order to make the
best excuses I could for Lilian’s non-return.

I found Marian very much inclined to take
offence at the method of quitting Fairview. Of
course she would have sent Lilian in the carriage
in a proper way; and she ought to have been
allowed to shew people what her feeling in the
matter was. ‘Going off in that way makes it
look as though I had not been inclined to treat
Lilian handsomely; and I call it very unfair
towards me!’

I intimated that Mrs Tipper and I had hoped to
spare Lilian’s feelings in leaving the home she
had been taught to consider her own.

‘But I think my feelings ought to have been
consulted too, Miss Haddon. It’s all very well
to talk of Lilian’s feelings; but it is not fair to let
people think I don’t want to do right,’ she repeated,
walking to and fro amidst her gorgeous surroundings.
‘Of course they will think so now she has
gone off in that way, and all my generosity goes
for nothing! Besides, I was not prepared to be
left alone in this sudden way, the servants all as
upstart and impertinent as ever they can be. And
I haven’t been able to engage a lady-companion
yet.’

In truth, Miss Farrar—I suppose I must give
her the name now—had found well-born ladies
(she had made it a sine qua non that the lady she
sought should be well-born as well as everything
else that was desirable in a companion) were
either at a premium just then, or they did not
incline towards Fairview, for she had not as yet
succeeded in finding one after her own heart. In
her difficulty, she extended the olive-branch to me;
beginning by a little pointedly reminding me that
the burden was already heavy enough upon Mrs
Tipper’s shoulders, and opining that I should no
doubt be glad of something to do.

‘I shouldn’t mind paying you a pound a week
till I got suited; and,’ she was good enough to
add, ‘we don’t know but what a permanent
engagement might come about, if we get on
together.’

I declined with as good a grace as I could,{230}
politely but very decidedly; and then went upstairs
to label the boxes and parcels which were to
be sent down to the cottage, and make sundry
other arrangements for a final flitting.

THE JUNGLE AND ITS INHABITANTS.

In an interesting volume on the Large and Small
Game of Bengal,[1] Captain J. H. Baldwin presents us
with a peculiarly striking picture of field-sports
pursued in the ample game-preserves of India.
The tiger, the tyrant of the Indian jungle, has,
as is due, the precedence over his feebler or less
dreaded congeners. Skirting the base of the
Himalayan range, extending east and west for
many hundreds of miles, is a tract of land covered
with jungle, called the Terai; this is his chosen
home. Cradled in the long feathery grass of the
jungle, he gambols about in his infancy playful as
a kitten, and usually attains when full grown the
length of nine or nine and a half feet. Wild hogs,
deer, and all the larger species of game, are his
usual prey; but sometimes a pair of tigers will
take up their abode within a mile of a village,
sallying out from their lair every three or four
days to pull down a bullock or a buffalo, always
selecting the fattest in the herd. The strength of
their muscular fore-arms is enormous. Captain
Baldwin says: ‘I remember in Assam a tiger in
the dead of night leaping over a fence nearly five
feet high, seizing one of the largest oxen, and again
leaping back, dragging the bullock after him across
several fields and over two hedges.’

In his old age, when his teeth become worn, he
not infrequently becomes a man-eater; and such
is the devastation he then occasions, that whole
villages are sometimes deserted, and extensive
districts laid waste from dread of these feline
scourges. In these disastrous circumstances the
advent of an English sportsman with his rifle
and elephants is hailed as a godsend by the
whole neighbourhood.

A tiger when brought to bay often ‘spits’ exactly
like a cat. Contrary to the received opinion, tigers
seldom roar; but at night the forests resound with
the hideous din of their cries, which resemble the
caterwauling of a whole squadron of gigantic Tom-cats.
In making a charge the tiger utters a series
of short vicious coughing growls, as trying to the
nerves as the most terrific roar. Tiger-hunting,
even from elephant-back, is always accompanied
with danger. One day when Captain Baldwin and
a friend were out beating the bush for tigers, one
of his beaters, a fine young man, ‘foolishly crept
forward to try and discover the actual spot where
the tiger was hiding. He must have approached
within a few feet of the animal, for it struck but
one blow without moving or exposing its body,
and dashed the unfortunate man with great violence
to the bottom of a stony ravine.’ He was
rescued at once, but died the same evening, his
skull having been fractured by the blow from the
tiger’s paw.

In tiger-shooting, when you discharge your
piece, whether you hit or miss you must not
move, but standing perfectly still, keep your eye
on the animal and put in a fresh cartridge.
Many lamentable accidents have occurred from
sportsmen going rashly up to fallen tigers, erroneously
supposing them to be dead. One or two
stones should always be thrown first, to see what
power of mischief is left in him, for it is quite
possible that he may require another ball as a
quietus.

A tiger cannot climb trees, but he can spring
to a considerable height, and this should be
remembered in shooting them from what are
called machāns, a sort of framework of poles
resting on the higher branches of a tree. An
officer, some years ago, in Central India got into a
tree which overhung a water-course to watch for
tigers. He was a considerable way up the tree,
but he did not advert to the fact that the high
bank of the ravine behind him was almost on a
level with him. In no long time a tiger came to
drink, and he fired at and hit it, but failed to kill
it; when the enraged brute rushed up the bank
to the higher ground behind, and springing upon
him, dragged him out of the tree, and bit and
tore him so frightfully that he died very soon
after he was rescued.

Powerful and ferocious as the tiger is, he is
afraid of the wild-dog. A pack of these ravenous
creatures, finding strength in their union, will set
upon, kill, and devour a tiger.

In the opinion of some old Indian sportsmen,
the panther is even more to be dreaded than the
tiger. He is a large, powerful, thoroughly ferocious
brute. In old age he also sometimes takes
to man-eating, but not so often as the tiger
does. Our author, however, gives an instance
‘of one in Gwalior who had devoured over fifty
human beings, and was the terror of the whole
district.’ One evening Captain Baldwin, along
with a friend, was perched in a tree in an open
part of the jungle, near the carcase of a cow,
which had been killed as was supposed by a tiger.
The body was covered with birds of prey struggling
and fighting over it like so many feathered
demons, when suddenly a great commotion occurred
among the noisy diners-out, and with a whish-h-h
of their heavy wings they left their dainty fare,
and flew into the trees close by, making way as it
appeared for their betters, for very soon a huge
brute approached the carcase, and began to tear
and gnaw at the flesh. ‘A tiger!’ whispered
the captain to his companion. ‘No; a very
large panther,’ answered the other, firing as he
spoke, but not killing the animal. In a minute
he recovered himself, and springing up, made
straight for the tree. It was an ugly situation,
for although a tiger cannot climb a tree, a panther
can, as well as a cat. As he approached, another
shot was fired at him, which passed between his
fore-legs, and he paused and looked up. ‘Never,’
says our author, ‘shall I forget the devilish
expression of that terrible countenance.’ An
awful moment of suspense followed, during which
Captain Baldwin contrived to give him his quietus.

The leopard resembles the panther, but is
smaller, and altogether a less formidable animal.
It never attacks man, and rarely shews fight
unless brought to bay, when, like all the felidæ,
it is more or less dangerous. The lynx, which is
smaller than the leopard, is a rare animal; and the{231}
cheetah or hunting leopard is also comparatively
seldom met with in a wild state.

The bear, which we are accustomed to associate
with cold countries, such as the north of Europe
and North America, is also very frequently met
with in the very hottest parts of India. Here,
as in colder countries, he is a sagacious animal,
and varies his carnivorous diet with berries, sugar-cane,
honey, and every kind of insect he can get at.
It is a mistake to suppose that they hug their
victim to death; they draw him towards them
with their paws, and bite him on the face or arm.
A bear’s paw, from the huge curved claws with
which it is garnished, is a very terrible weapon.
They almost invariably strike a man in the face;
and Captain Baldwin tells us of a native named
Dhun Singh, ‘who was a most enthusiastic follower
of the chase, and always joined our shooting-party
in the hot-weather months, and who was, by a
single blow from the fore-paw of a bear, disfigured
for life in an instant, and left senseless on the
field. He was afterwards such an awful object that
I never could look at him without shuddering.’

The striped hyena is a native of India. He is an
ugly cowardly brute, with an indescribably hideous
cry. Goats, sheep, dogs, or a young child who has
strayed from home, are his favourite prey. He
never shews fight, but slinks away from the
hunter’s presence, much after the fashion of the
wolf, who is also credited with a large amount
of child-slaughter. A fearful loss of life is
caused in this way in some districts by these
brutes; and in common with the rest of the
Indian carnivora, government offers a price for
their destruction. The wild-dog is lighter in
colour and taller than the jackal. It is a gaunt,
ungainly, ravenous creature, of wonderful speed
and endurance. If once a pack get upon the track
of any animal, its fate is sealed. They even attack
tigers and bears, and as often as not get the best
of it. In some parts of the jungle, the wild buffalo
are very abundant; they are always found in herds,
which sometimes consist of eighteen or twenty,
but oftener only of five or seven. The bull is
much larger than the cow, and when old is always
dangerous.

The dense thick bush and tall reeds and grass
which surround the jheels or solitary jungle lakes,
are a favourite resort of buffalo. There they feed
on the rich herbage, and approach the water by
long tunnels in the grass and reeds. The extreme
danger of encountering these creatures is graphically
described by Captain Baldwin, who one
evening, accompanied by a native, went down to
one of these jungle lakes, and hearing something
move in the long grass, had the temerity to
enter a tunnel. Up to his ankles in mud, and
with scarcely room to move or turn, he was
straining his eyes to discover the game, when
there was a sudden crash through the brushwood,
and before he could bring his rifle into position,
‘I was hurled,’ he says, ‘to the ground with
astonishing quickness by a tremendous butt on
the right shoulder, followed by a pair of huge
knees on my chest, crushing me down. The
buffalo then commenced butting me with his huge
head. I was covered with foam from his vile
mouth: most luckily the ground was very soft, or
I must have been killed. I had fallen on my
back, but managed, by clutching the root of a
small tree, to draw myself from under him; but
as I did so and turned over, he struck me a terrible
blow on the back with his foot, breaking two ribs;
and then I was powerless, and imagined all hope
of escape to be over. He gave me a bad wound on
the left arm, another dangerous one under the
arm-pit, a third on the hip—all with his horns;
and then I found myself lifted off the ground and
thrown a tremendous somersault in the air.’

Stunned and bleeding, our unfortunate sportsman
was pitched upon his head, and landed
behind a low thorn-bush at the edge of the
lake. More dead than alive, he had yet sufficient
presence of mind to remain perfectly still. A few
yards off he could see his shaggy foe, sniffing
all over the scene of the late tragedy. Satisfied
with his victory, the buffalo then raised his head,
listened intently for a few minutes, and to the
inexpressible relief of his victim, trotted off in
another direction. Faint and dizzy, but feeling
that he must make an effort to escape, Captain
Baldwin rose, staggered about thirty paces and then
fell over in a dead-faint. When he revived a little
he found his Hindu servant, who had been far too
terrified even to try to help him in his hour of
need, crying over him, and trying to bind up his
bleeding arm. In a moment he remembered all
that had happened; and motioning to the man to
be silent, he got him to help him to his feet, and
with his assistance, staggered fifty yards farther,
when exhausted nature again gave way, and he
fell to the ground, able only to murmur in a faint
voice: ‘Water; bring me water!’ The Hindu
ran down to the lake with his master’s hat, which
he filled with water, and having given him a little
to drink, poured the rest of it over his head. He
then cut his linen coat into strips, dipped them in
water, and with them bound up the wounds as
well as he could. ‘Now,’ said his master, ‘put
your rifle at full cock on the ground beside me,
and run for assistance as fast as you can.’

He obeyed, and the captain in this almost
helpless state was left alone. Night was beginning
to fall; and he could hear from time to time some
animal moving behind him through the undergrowth
of matted creepers and reeds; but he was
too much exhausted either for curiosity or fear,
and at last, through sheer weakness, fell into a
doze, from which he was awakened by the glare
of torches. A brother-officer, after a long search,
had found him; and although it was many weeks
before he could move hand or foot, he got at last
all right again, and was as dashing a sportsman as
before; only he ever afterwards took care to give
a buffalo bull as wide a berth as possible—in
which prudent precaution he is imitated even by
the tiger. This latter tyrant of the jungle, red
with the slaughter of scores of buffalo cows, is
careful to treat with profound respect the grizzled
patriarchs of the herd.

Wild elephants, which were once abundant in
the dense forests at the foot of the Himalaya, are
still plentiful in Assam and Burmah, where many
are yearly caught and tamed for the use of the
government. Elephant-shooting is prohibited,
except when a wild elephant becomes dangerous,
and is transformed from a peaceable denizen of
the forest into the morose, sullen, and savage
brute known as ‘a rogue elephant.’ The Indian
rhinoceros is plentiful in Assam and in the Bootan
jungles, and resembles an immense pig, with a
long horn curving backwards at the end of the{232}
snout. If unmolested, it is harmless; but if
assailed, it will make a furious charge, when its
long horn is an ugly weapon to encounter.

Wild hogs are very plentiful all through the
scrub and brush jungle. Old males are armed
with large semicircular tusks nine inches long. A
more formidable antagonist than a wild boar with
these tremendous weapons in full play need not
be wished for. There is no cowardice about
him; he is game to the backbone, and will fight
to the last, and sell his life dear. ‘Sportsmen have
frequently been mauled,’ Captain Baldwin says,
‘in encounters with wild boars; and a European
in the Customs Department near Jhansi many
years ago lost his life, so fearfully was he gored
by a hog which he had wounded.’ The flesh of
the wild boar roasted and eaten cold is delicious.

Passing over the various species of deer, each
of which our author describes, we come to the
Himalayan chamois and the thar, which frequent
the rocky fastnesses of the Himalaya, and the hunting
of which is quite as hazardous an amusement
as hunting chamois among the mountains of Switzerland.
As among the European Alps, so among
the Himalayan Alps is the sportsman not only
rewarded by the fascination of the sport itself, but
by the surpassingly beautiful scenery amid which it
is pursued. Above him rise the magnificent hills,
dazzling in snowy grandeur, cleaving the skies
with peaks which tower nine thousand feet higher
than the highest mountain in Europe; below
him in the distance spreads a varied and splendid
landscape of hill, forest, and river, with distant
plains luxuriant with ripening crops, shading
beneath his feet into shaggy stretches of woodland,
penetrated by deep, well-nigh inaccessible chasms
and glens, abysses of pine, and precipices, and
foaming torrents, such as Salvator Rosa would
have loved to paint. Huge rugged crags tower like
vast cathedrals above the giant trees, their crests
covered with gentian and stone-crop; while round
their base cling dark green clumps of rhododendrons,
all ablaze with scarlet beauty, their blossoms
shining like points of flame against the foliage of
the splendid walnuts, and apricots behind, whose
fruit at certain seasons literally strews the ground.

Camp-life in such a spot is beyond all things
enjoyable. The atmosphere is clear and exhilarating;
a sparkling streamlet gurgles across the little
meadow in which your tent is pitched, diffusing a
pleasant freshness around; radiant butterflies hover
above the water, or alight like living gems upon
the long fronds of the magnificent coronets which
crown the giant tree-ferns. The ravine behind you,
dark with forest, is vocal with the mellow notes of
unfamiliar songsters. The eye, as you gaze, loses
itself in a stupendous panorama of mountain peaks,
rocky ridges, winding valleys, glittering streams,
populous plains, and pathless fever-haunted jungles;
while nearer, on the verge of the wood, a herd of
ravine deer are feeding; lazily you watch them
while you sip your coffee, all unconscious of the
close proximity of a splendid wild blue sheep,
which is gazing intently down at you from its
bushy covert. Did you move? The motion was so
slight as scarcely to be perceptible to yourself; but
the startled creature rushes like an arrow down the
grassy slope, and threading the ravine, rejoins the
herd of its companions, to whom it immediately
imparts the intelligence of your whereabouts, and
in a moment they all make off, gliding shadow-like
and swift along the precipitous mountain
side.

India presents a wide field for the researches of
the ornithologist, and is the native home of many
of our feathered favourites, such as the peacock.
This lovely bird, superb in its native forests, is
accounted sacred by the Hindus. It delights in
patches of jungle by the side of rivers, where on
moonlight nights its shrill discordant cry may be
often heard swelling the savage concert. The red
jungle-fowl is very like the bantam in appearance,
but its plumage is more brilliant, and like its
confrères of the poultry-yard, it is very pugnacious.

There are six different kinds of pheasants in the
Himalaya, most of them excellent for the table,
and all of them more or less beautiful. There are
also many varieties of partridge. The quail, which
is always fat, is a bonne bouche fit for an epicure.
Captain Baldwin says of it: ‘A quail-pie or a
quail-currie is a dish for a king.’ There are four
varieties of grouse, the largest of which is the
sand-grouse, a very fine bird; but the monarch of
Indian game-birds is the bustard. ‘It is,’ our
author says, ‘in my opinion the king of game-birds;
and the value of its feathers, its excellence
as a bird for the table, and last, though not least,
the very great difficulty of shooting it, render it a
prize to be much coveted.’ The oobara is a small
species of bustard; and to a certain extent a migratory
bird. The floriken, one of the finest of Indian
game-birds, has beautiful black and white plumage,
and its flesh when cooked is peculiarly rich and
delicate. There are two varieties of it; and several
kinds of plover, which, however, are not abundant.

Different species of crane abound, as do wood-cock
and snipe. Of the latter, as many as fifty or
sixty couples are sometimes bagged in a day in a
rice-field or by the edge of a swamp.

On the lakes and jheels in the north of India,
below the Himalaya, thousands of wild-fowl
congregate about the beginning of October on
their way south. On the jungle swamps and lakes
wild ducks of various kinds abound; wild geese are
also common, as are several varieties of the shielsdrake.
In company with these migratory wild-fowl
arrives the flamingo, a very beautiful bird,
with brilliant rose-coloured feathers. It has, however,
little except its beauty to recommend it, for
when cooked, the universal verdict of the mess-table
was, ‘that it was a very poor bird.’ During
the cold season the bittern is plentiful in Northern
India, and unlike the flamingo, is very good eating.
On the banks of large rivers the curlew is sometimes
found, and several kinds of green pigeons
abound.

From birds, Captain Baldwin suddenly skips
back to beasts, and gives us a sketch of the
Indian hare. Of this little creature there are two
varieties; and they seem to have as hard lines of
it (especially in the neighbourhood of barracks)
as their well-known congeners have at home.
With a passing glance at this four-footed martyr,
we bid adieu to a book which is well fitted to
inspire not only a love of sport, but of natural
history. Nowhere can this interesting science be
studied to greater advantage than in these wide-spreading
Himalayan jungles, where mountain
torrents gurgling down the beautiful ravines,
temper the air to delicious coolness; where great
trees grow stately as masts, making a pleasant
twilight with their lustrous unfamiliar foliage;{233}
where gorgeous flowers bespangle the greenery,
and round the overhanging boughs our hothouse
ferns cling with ample stems and giant fronds,
forming bowers through which lovely bright-hued
birds flit, and multitudes of insects find shelter,
filling the otherwise silent noon of the tropics
with their shrill incessant hum.

FOOTNOTES:

SUNSHINE AND CLOUD.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART I.—SUNSHINE.

CHAPTER IV.—MISS ANGELA FAITHFUL.

One evening in the fourth week of our hero’s stay
in town, he took up a book while he was waiting
for his chop, and a card fell on the floor. This
card he discovered was to admit the bearer to a
ball about to be held in the neighbourhood. When
the landlady appeared, he asked if the card belonged
to her. She said she had been looking
everywhere for that card; they had had some to
dispose of, and they had sold all but this one; a
customer had wanted it, but as she could not find
it, he had procured one elsewhere. Would Mr
Webb like to buy it himself?

Mr Webb thanked her, but declined.

‘Oh, well,’ said she, ‘it will be of no use now to
us, as the ball begins at nine o’clock this evening.
Perhaps you will accept this ticket, and make use
of it?’

This, after a little consideration, Isaac was happy
to do. It would pass away a few hours, and it
would lead to no expense, as he observed that the
ticket included refreshments. He did not suppose
he should dance; he never had done such a thing,
but there was no telling, if once his blood was up.
So at eight o’clock Isaac donned a clean paper
collar, took his well-tried friends, his gray thread
gloves, and walked leisurely to the place of entertainment.
He arrived there about nine; and on
presenting himself and his ticket, he was directed
to the Master of the Ceremonies, a dapper little man
with a short dress coat and very tight pumps, who
did not seem capable of standing still for a minute.
He received Isaac’s name and ticket, and danced
off with him to the ballroom; and throwing open
the door, announced in a very shrill voice, ‘Isaac
Webb, Esquire, ladies and gentlemen.’

The ladies and gentlemen addressed consisted
of an antique female in black silk mittens, and
two youths elegantly attired in suits from Moses’s
establishment, one of whom was whistling a ‘fast’
tune, and the other sauntering about with his
hands in his pockets. Each of them seemed
particularly careful to give the mittened lady a
wide berth, thus testifying to all whom it might
or might not concern that they were not all
members of the same party. Now these persons
were evidently not au fait with the usages of
polite society; for of course they ought not to
have been in their places at the time named on
their tickets, but should have been there at half-past
nine at the earliest. But here they were,
listening to the tuning and consequent grating
of two violins and a harp, placed on a small platform
at one end of the ballroom. A violoncello
was also expected (so the Master of the Ceremonies
in a whisper through the door informed the company),
but had not yet arrived.

In the course of the next quarter of an hour
several more squires and dames were announced;
and the arrivals kept on increasing until half-past
nine, by which time (the violoncello having put
in an appearance and all things being ready) the
Master of the Ceremonies (Mr Hoppe by name)
opened the ball by the announcement of a polka.
That individual seemed to take a particular interest
in Isaac; perhaps on account of his countrified
appearance, for Mr Batfid’s productions had
not been designed or intended for a ballroom; or
perhaps because he was a complete stranger. At
all events, he now suggested that Isaac should lead
out the antique lady, to whom Mr Hoppe would
be happy to introduce him, and polk with her.
But Isaac declined the honour, saying that he ‘was
much obliged, but that he would wait a bit;’ so
the lady and himself were among the few who
kept their seats.

Almost immediately afterwards the door was
opened, and Miss Faithful and her niece Miss
Angela Faithful, were announced. Miss Faithful
looked about fifty-five or sixty years of age; she
was tall and slight, and had evidently been a
beauty in her day. Such was her niece now;
there could be no two opinions about it. Even
Isaac, who had no great appreciation of feminine
charms, was sensible of it the instant she entered
the room. She was tall, and her figure was beautifully
shaped; she had dark hair and eyes, a brilliant
complexion, and features almost faultless.
Moreover, she was dressed quietly, but in excellent
taste. Before Miss Angela Faithful had been
in the room many minutes, Isaac became aware
of a peculiar sensation wholly unknown to him.
Unqualified admiration it certainly was; but anything
more? Well, he could hardly tell. He
certainly felt interested in her, and desirous of a
better acquaintance. But he did not know how
this was to be done. Of course the most natural
and proper thing to do was to obtain an introduction,
and ask her to dance; but for the first
time in his life Isaac Webb did not feel unlimited
confidence in his own powers. And the
feeling was reasonable; for to attempt to dance
in public without having learned either a step or
a figure, is, to say the least, a hazardous and serious
undertaking.

The two ladies did not remain alone many
minutes, for while Isaac was observing them (at
all events one of them), a young man advanced,
with whom they were probably acquainted, for
he took a seat beside them, and at the next dance—a
quadrille—walked off with Miss Angela on
his arm to join the set. Isaac watched them take
their places, and watched her through every figure
of the (to him) incomprehensible dance; and when
it was ended, his eyes followed her round the
room and back to her seat. Her partner then left
her; but his place was almost immediately filled
by a lean young man with yellow hair, who was
brought up and introduced by Mr Hoppe. Again
Isaac watched her take her place by her partner—this
time in a waltz; and as he put his arm round
her waist, and she placed her hand on his shoulder,
Isaac thought he should like to be in a similar
position; and as the yellow young man did not
excel in the mazy dance, Isaac fancied he could{234}
make quite as good a performance of it. But he
let the next dance begin; and towards the end of
it he made his way to Mr Hoppe, and requested
the favour of an introduction to Miss Faithful.

‘Do you mean the old lady?’ asked the Master
of the Ceremonies; ‘because if you do, I warn you
she is as deaf as a beetle, and if you talk so as to
make her hear, you will have all the people in
the room stand still to listen to you.’

‘I mean the young lady,’ said Isaac; ‘and just
tell me,’ he added, ‘the proper thing to say when
you ask a person to dance.’

‘We commonly say,’ replied Mr Hoppe: ‘”May
I have the honour of dancing this quadrille with
you, if you are not engaged?” But gentlemen
may vary it according to taste.’

‘All right; of course,’ returned Isaac. Whereupon
they walked to where Miss Angela Faithful,
just left by her last partner, was sitting. Mr
Hoppe went through the introduction; and Isaac,
who, to tell the truth, felt very ill at ease, repeated
the formula given him by the Master of the Ceremonies.
Angela looked at her list of engagements,
hoping to find she was bespoken for this dance,
without remembering the fact; but such was not
the case; so with a whispered ‘With pleasure,’ she
took his arm, and they stood up in a polka.

When the dance commenced, Isaac never felt so
uncomfortable in his life. Where to put his feet
he didn’t know, and where to turn he didn’t know.
If he turned one way, it was evidently contrary to
his partner’s expectations, for they pulled different
ways; if he turned another, he ran a-muck into
another couple; and this on one occasion was
nearly attended with serious consequences; and
it was only by tearing a rent in his partner’s
dress that he was able to save himself a sprawl
upon the chalked floor. To the spectators the performance
was very diverting. To see this long
clumsy yokel floundering about with so handsome
and graceful a girl and so good a dancer, put one
in mind, as a gentleman remarked to his neighbour,
of the Beauty and the Beast. At length,
after two or three turns round the room, Isaac was
obliged to give in; not indeed through any feeling
that he was making an exhibition of himself (for
of that he was wholly unconscious), but from sheer
inability to keep his footing any longer. With
his head in a whirl, he conducted his partner to a
seat and fell into one himself. At the end of a
few minutes, she retired from the ballroom to
get the rent in her dress made whole; and when
she was gone, Isaac sought out Mr Hoppe, and
asked him if he could tell him who the lady was
and whence she came.

Mr Hoppe could only inform him that she lived
somewhere in Holloway with her deaf aunt, her
present chaperon; that her father and mother
were dead; and that the only relative she had
nearer than the aforesaid aunt, that he knew of,
was a brother living abroad.

Isaac hinted about money.

‘Oh,’ said the little man, rather amused, ‘she
is not badly off in that respect; for she has a nice
little bit from her mother, and considerable expectations
from her aunt, I have heard.’

O Isaac, you are a deep dog! But you had no
idea that on the other side of the canvas partition
by which you were standing were a pair of ears,
intently taking in every word that passed—the
possessor of those ears being Miss Angela Faithful.
No, Isaac; you simply thought that here was the
very object you were in quest of, and that you
must pursue the subject further.

CHAPTER V.—OUR HERO IS FULFILLING HIS
DESTINY.

In a few minutes after the foregoing conversation,
the fair subject of it returned to the ballroom
somewhat flushed, thereby heightening the effect
of her charms, as Isaac acutely observed. She
returned to her original seat beside her aunt, and
in lieu of conversation smiled once or twice upon
that lady. It was indeed of no use to talk, as Mr
Hoppe had remarked, and the usual medium of
communication—a slate and pencil—had been
forgotten and left at home.

Isaac arose from his seat in order to obtain a
better view of his charmer; for as certain reptiles
are said to be influenced by dulcet sounds, so was
that wily creature Isaac Webb under the spell of
female beauty. And not merely beauty. ‘A nice
little bit’ from a mother, and ‘considerable
expectations’ from an aunt, formed a most delightful
tout ensemble and subject for reflection. So
he stood and watched her for a few minutes with
his hands in his pockets, and nervously balancing
himself first on one leg and then on the other,
until at length he began to flutter himself, as it
were, towards his siren; just as a sombre moth
beats about a strong light ere it offers itself up,
a willing victim, on the pyre of its own supineness.
Besides, Isaac was the more attracted towards
her by reason of the furtive glances which the
young lady cast in his direction; for although
she was surrounded by a number of young men—other
moths of varied hue—still their attentions
did not seem to satisfy her; and so it happened
that Isaac finally took unto himself what appeared
to be (even to his unsophisticated mind) a half-bashful,
yet a wholly meaning and appealing
glance, and joined the circle of admiring swains.
He speedily, with Miss Angela’s co-operation,
found himself near her, and when opportunity
offered, volunteered to conduct her to the refreshment
buffet—an invitation that was promptly
accepted; so he in triumph led her off, to the no
small surprise and vexation of his jealous rivals.
Arrived at the buffet, he handed, with the most
feeble attempt at graceful politeness, such comestibles
and beverages as his fair partner would
partake of, with no further mishap than the breakage
of a wine-glass and the imperilling of a large
glass epergne by collision with his elbow, and the
consequent vibration of the structure to its very
foundation. The light repast now under discussion
brought to his recollection the more important
one of supper; and our hero, who had become
quite a gallant by this time, broached the subject
to his companion, assuring her with all the warmth
of which he was capable that ‘he was certain
he wouldn’t be able to swallow a morsel unless
she was by him to give his food a relish,’ and
as he beautifully expressed himself in metaphor,
‘sharpen his appetite like a strop does a razor.’

How could any young lady take upon herself
the responsibility of a hungry gentleman’s enforced
fast? Angela felt that she could not, so promised
to accompany Isaac to supper; reminding him,
moreover, that he must engage her for the dance
immediately preceding that gastronomic event.{235}
This her admirer pledged himself to do; swallowing
with a gulp the fears that would intrude themselves
as to what the effect of the dance would be
upon his appetite. All he hoped was that it
wouldn’t be a waltz, a polka, or a schottische;
and in this frame of mind he returned with his
partner to the ballroom.

‘I have been looking for you, Angela; will you
sing a song?’

Isaac turned round, and recognised in the
speaker the young man who had been Angela’s
partner in her first dance that evening. He bowed
slightly to her companion as he paused for her
reply.

‘With the orchestral accompaniment?’ she asked.

‘Certainly, if you prefer it,’ he answered; ‘but a
piano has been brought in, and your voice may
possibly feel more at home with that.’

‘But I do not like to be the first to begin,’ she
urged diffidently.

‘Oh, never mind about that; there is no one
here can do it better, I’ll engage; and if it will
add to your courage, I will play the accompaniment,
or turn over the leaves for you, whichever
you like.’

‘O no; you must accompany me. But it was
the merest chance that I brought any songs with
me.’ With that, she bowed to her late partner,
took the young gentleman’s arm, and walked over
to the piano.

In a few minutes her voice rose above the chat
and murmur of the ballroom, and the purity of
its tone and the unaffected and pleasing manner
of the singer, enforced silence even among those
who were not music-lovers. Among these Isaac
might certainly be included; for beyond the performances
on a harmonium in Dambourne End
church on Sundays and an occasional German band
or barrel organ on week-days, his opportunities of
hearing music had been exceedingly limited. But
perhaps it was this very ignorance of the subject
that caused him now to drink in with the greatest
delight—an almost exaggerated delight—every note
and every word that fell from the charming songstress’s
lips. The composition itself was of no
particular merit; it was simply a melodious
English ballad; but the voice and manner of the
singer, assisted by the tasteful execution of the
accompaniment, seemed to fascinate all present,
and a unanimous burst of applause at the conclusion
testified to their appreciation of the performance.

And now dance and song followed each other
in quick succession, and Isaac was unable to get
near Angela, or even to catch her eye, for she
had been so much sought after, and had joined in
almost every dance. She was indeed the belle of
the evening; and many eyes other than those of
Isaac followed her as she threaded the intricacies
of the Lancers or Caledonians, or was whirled
along by her partner in the giddy waltz or
polka.

As for Isaac, he had, to his great comfort,
remained quite unnoticed, except on one or two
occasions, when his fascinated gaze had led him
from his vantage-ground against the wall, and he
had found himself among the dancers. On each
of these occasions he had suffered much, having
been severely jostled by one couple, his favourite
corns trodden on by a second, and himself finally
sent back with a bound to his former position
against the wall by a third. Nor did he obtain
sympathy from any of them—nothing but scowls.

CHAPTER VI.—A PRESSING INVITATION.

At length Mr Hoppe, in obedience to a previous
request from Isaac, came to inform him that at
the conclusion of the next dance—a quadrille—there
would be an adjournment for supper. Our
hero took this opportunity of asking about the
gentleman by whom Angela’s song was accompanied.

‘I can give you no account at all, sir,’ said the
Master of the Ceremonies; ‘though there are not
many gents in this neighbourhood that I have not
some knowledge of.’

Isaac meanwhile looked about for Angela, and
soon discovered her sitting with her aunt and the
unknown gentleman.

‘You come to claim your engagement,’ she said,
as she rose and took his arm.

‘You look tired,’ remarked Isaac, feeling he
must say something, and the fact of her looking
tired and flushed having struck him first. ‘Besides,’
he thought, ‘women like to be told they
look tired.’

‘Do you think so?’ she replied with a slight
blush, as they walked round the room. ‘I should
scarcely have thought you would have noticed it;
but I am rather tired,’ she continued, ‘as I have
been dancing a great deal; and besides that, I
feel excited as well, for I have had a very unexpected
pleasure to-day. My dear brother, who has
been abroad for some years, returned to London
to-day without giving us any notice of his coming.
He arrived at our house a very short time before
we started here, and as he would not hear of my
giving up the ball, he came too.’

‘Was it your brother who played for you when
you sang?’ asked Isaac.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It is an old song we learned
together many years ago; and as he is a very ready
player, it was no trouble to him to accompany
me.’

While they thus conversed, the quadrille had
been formed, and now the dance was just about to
begin.

‘Shall you mind very much if we do not dance
this time?’ inquired Angela of her companion.

‘Not at all,’ answered Isaac, much relieved;
‘not if I may talk to you instead,’ he added shyly.

He had committed himself now to a task far
more difficult to him than even dancing a quadrille;
for of what topics to choose as conversation
with the fair creature by his side, he had not the
slightest idea. So they walked on in awkward
silence.

‘Would you mind making me known to your
brother?’ Isaac at length asked.

‘I will with pleasure,’ she returned; and seeing
him approach in their direction, she caught his
arm, and introduced him to Mr Webb as her
brother Herbert, from abroad.

‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr
Webb,’ said he. And then, after a pause, and
with an almost imperceptible glance at Isaac’s
clothes and general appearance, he continued:
‘If it is not a rude question, are you a resident in
London, or merely making a short stay in it?’

Isaac hated to be questioned; but he must
answer; there was no help for it. ‘I am staying{236}
for a time here,’ he said vaguely, ‘but my regular
home is in the country.’

‘Staying with friends, I suppose?’ pursued Mr
Faithful, not at all abashed.

‘No,’ answered Isaac; ‘I am staying at a coffee-house.’

‘You must find it dull sometimes,’ said his
irrepressible questioner; ‘but I presume you have
friends in the neighbourhood, or some business to
occupy your time and attention?’

Isaac thought it might save further questioning
if he gave a little voluntary information.

‘I am staying in London for a few weeks for a
little change,’ he replied. ‘I have no friends here,
nor any particular business; but I am used to
being much alone, so that I do not find it dull.’

‘That will not, I hope, prevent me improving
my acquaintance with you. I am at present staying
with my aunt; in fact, I only arrived in
London this afternoon, so have had no time to
seek other lodging, even if I do so at all. But
speaking in my aunt’s name as well as in my own,
I hope you will favour us with a call. You will
excuse my card, for I have not one with me; but
I daresay aunt has her case in her pocket, as she
seldom used to go anywhere without it.—Do you
mind feeling for it, Angela?’

She presently returned with a card, to which
her brother added his name. ‘We shall be glad
to see you at any time,’ he said, handing it to
Isaac; ‘but possibly the evening may suit you
better than any other time, and if so, you will be
more likely to find me in.’

Really, notwithstanding his questions at the
commencement of their conversation, he was, Isaac
considered, a very agreeable person; for he had
given him the very opportunity he sought, the
difficulty of obtaining which had exercised his
mind during his sojourn by the ballroom wall.
He did not consider it singular in the least that
Herbert Faithful should have pressed such an
invitation upon him, a total stranger. No; he
was evidently a man of quick discernment, and
had at once probed through, with his mind’s eye,
a portion of the crust of Isaac’s reserve, and had
discovered some of the precious metal beneath.

Any further conversation at the time was prevented
by a general move towards the supper-room;
and Herbert, asking his two companions to
wait for him, presently brought up the aunt, and
the four went into the supper-room together.
During the meal, Herbert made himself particularly
agreeable; so much so, that Isaac threw
off a little more of the crust of his reserve, even
going so far as to mention Dambourne End, and to
give out a slight glimmer of his own importance in
that place as a landowner. The supper, after the
manner of such entertainments, was not a protracted
one, and passed off, so far as our party
was concerned, with no further contre-temps than
was occasioned by Isaac, in the exuberance of his
feelings, inadvertently tilting his chair so that he
came in contact with the back-comb of a middle-aged
lady who was sitting back to back with him,
thereby forcing that useful ornament into her
scalp. A loud scream was the result; but the
lady was more startled than hurt, and after
apologies more or less awkward from Isaac, she
regained her composure and her appetite, and
harmony was restored.

After supper, Angela danced but once, and after
singing a duet with her brother, came with him to
Isaac to say good-night. He accompanied them
and their aunt to their cab; and after promising
to call upon them very soon, they drove off, and
he returned to the ballroom. But the place was
now without any interest for him; so after wondering
within himself that his heart should have
been so easily and speedily reached, and with a
new and indescribable feeling of loneliness upon
him, he bade Mr Hoppe good-night, after an
ineffectual attempt on that individual’s part to get
at Isaac’s habitation and business; and having
made no other acquaintance whatever in the room,
he obtained his hat and departed to his coffee-house.

A MEDIUM’S CORRESPONDENTS.

The Americans usually plume themselves upon
being the ‘smartest’ people under the sun; but as
an acute writer observes, the very admiration they
bestow upon shrewdness shews that the quality
is really rare among them. Your ideal American,
spry as a fox, supple as an eel, ‘cute as a weasel,
would have a bad time of it if his countrymen
generally were equally spry, supple, and cunning.
Charlatans and impostors can only thrive in a
credulous community, and in no country in the
world do the pestilent creatures ply such a profitable
trade as in the Great Republic. In almost every
newspaper and popular periodical published in
America, wizards, fortune-tellers, clairvoyants, and
seeresses ‘born with a veil,’ advertise their readiness
to supply psychometrical, phrenological, and
planetary readings, or solve all difficulties relating
to business, love, trouble, and disease, for some
fifty cents or so; while mediums of every variety
offer their services to any one requiring spiritual
help—and willing to pay for it.

One of these tricksters, practising in New York,
lately came to grief in a curious way. Prudently
dispensing with the paraphernalia usually affected
by the craft, Medium Flint adopted a simpler and
less risky method of swindling, merely undertaking
for a fee of two dollars to act as a medium
of communication between his patrons and their
friends in the spirit-world. Any one desirous of
obtaining news or advice from that mysterious
debatable land had only to send him a letter
addressed to a spirit and securely fastened; unless
that were done, it would not be answered; Flint’s
agency being only efficient when his mind was
blank and passive to both questions and answers,
and delivering in his own handwriting simply and
precisely what was dictated to him by the spirit
communicating. Of course the recipients of these
proxy-written spirit-replies never doubted their
genuineness, especially as they came accompanied
with their own epistles with their covers intact.

Unfortunately for himself, Mr Flint gave his
wife—’a spiritualist herself, but not of the same
kind as her husband’—good cause to leave his
house; and the abused lady carried away with her
not only the little apparatus by whose aid he
unsealed the communications of his dupes, but the
book in which the rascal copied them and the
answers he manufactured; and to make matters
worse for the unlucky medium, Mrs Flint thought
proper to publish a selection from his correspondence,
‘to warn people against quack spiritualists,’
and serve for the entertainment of all not{237}
concerned. It serves to shew too how widespread
the belief in spiritualism is in the States; for
Flint’s customers are of all grades, from the humble
individual whose highest ambition is to occupy a
clerk’s stool, to an ambassador-elect, anxious to
settle a doubtful point respecting his pedigree,
before leaving his country to represent it at the
Court of St James.

Flint warned his patrons of the necessity of
putting their questions briefly, clearly, and distinctly,
‘the mixed kind defeating the object of
the investigation.’ The hint was thrown away
upon most of them. A young lady signing herself
‘Miss Fany Crosby,’ with a confusing contempt
for the rules of spelling and punctuation, thus
addressed her dear mother: ‘Can you tell me if
I will be developed the time you told me I Wold
thrue Mr Foster if not tell me When if you can
Will I be a good Medium Will I wright impressnoley
or Makonakley Will I be a seeking
Medium Will I ever see you the same as eny
spiret While in the body can all of our dear
Spiret Friends controle me When I am developed
as Will I be controled by a Guid to home
they will Dicktate will Ida alwayse Treate me
as she does now will she Mary and do well
will Dear Mattei Ever have Meny children. Will
they be Gurls or Boys where can I Find Some of
Aunt Rachels Boys is she with you and is she
hapy is Gand Mother on your sid yet will Liddia
out live Harry Can she Be developed as a Medium
Will I ever be welthy can Amandy be a Medium
how long shall we stay in this house will I go into
the country this Summer to Liddias is Ida going
to Die soon.’

Miss ‘Fany’ is but one of many aspirants to the
doubtful honours of mediumship, who, anxious as
they may be to receive an affirmative answer to
the question, ‘Shall I become a medium?’ are
not prepared to accept it as a full equivalent for
their two dollars. A would-be clairvoyant writes
to his father: ‘I would like to know how you are.
What have they done with your property in Bray?
Will I ever get any portion of it? Please give me
advice on business matters. Give me all the help
you can.’ Another affectionate son asks his father
for ‘points’ in the patent business. Nathan Crane
is desired to instruct his nephew whether it were
best to sell his business or hold on. Fred Felton
wants his brother to tell him if his partner may
be trusted, and if the firm would do wisely to
decline giving credit to customers; while a gentleman
‘engaged in making Nature’s Hair Restorer,’
entreats Brother William to give his personal
attention to the matter, and inform him what
is the best plan to adopt to make the Restorer
pay a profit very soon; although he betrays a sad
want of faith in the virtues of that article, by pestering
a number of denizens of the spirit-world for
recipes for the manufacture of hair restoratives,
in the expectation of obtaining valuable information
at a trifling cost; like a litigant who asks the
shade of Daniel Webster for legal assistance concerning
certain lawsuits; as if it were likely that
even a disembodied lawyer would give professional
advice gratis!

A lady sends a loving greeting to her departed
cousin Phœbe, fully believing the lost one watches
over her, and asks: ‘Can you see mamma and I in
our daily life here? Can you see my dear loved
George? How long before he will be free from
the unlawful bond now entangling and oppressing
him? Will Georgie return to me this autumn?
How soon will we be wedded?’ A widower propounds
a few ‘live questions’ to his dead ‘wife in
heaven,’ and wants to know if she is happy; if she
can come back to earth, or desires to do so; if
dear little baby is with her; and if she can find
any medium in Philadelphia through whom he
could communicate with her. Another widower,
not without hope of finding consolation for his
loss, wishes his lamented wife to tell him if he
had better sell his business and go to Europe with
his patent rails, or remain where he is and marry
Miss Boyd. Jealousy is not supposed to exist in
the spirit-world, or Camilla Stick would scarcely
invite her defunct husband to enlighten her as to
the intentions of a certain gentleman by informing
her whether Mr W—— loves her and will marry
her, or whether he rather inclines to ‘Cora,’ and
will visit that damsel when he goes to Philadelphia.
Less excuse for his inquisitiveness respecting
other folk’s feelings has Mr Key, who writes
to his brother: ‘Can you tell me if my niece
Marie will recover and be a well and strong
girl; and who she is in love with? What are
my prospects in New York, and had I better
remain here, or go home to my father? Also if
my tickets in the Louisville lottery will gain me
a prize, and what do you think of cotton declining?
Will Mr Zoborowski do anything for me,
and does he really like me? Does my sister
feel sorry for what she has done? Will Anna
Zoborowski marry a foreigner? Does she love any
other person? Does Alexander love Marie? and
does Alores love Anna? Good-bye, my dear
brother. Can you give me the names of some
friends in the spirit-world?’ The credulity demonstrated
in these and such other ridiculous
questions almost exceeds belief. And this in a
country boasting of its education and its shrewdness!

AN IRISH MISTAKE.

For more than twenty years it has been my
custom to recruit myself every autumn with a
walking tour of over a month’s duration. By this
means I have seen more of these islands than any
one of my acquaintance, and have had peeps into
the inner life of the people such as few tourists
obtain.

In doing this, I never overstrained myself, as is
now too often the fashion. I walked just so far as
I pleased, and rested when nature or my inclination
gave me the hint. Sometimes my journeys
were made in the cool of the evening, sometimes
in the early morning; often I slept in the cabin of
some labourer, and not once or twice, but a dozen
times, have been forced to make my lodging under
the lee of some friendly hay-rick.

One of these autumns, over ten, and less than
twenty years ago, I made the west of Ireland the
field of my operations. Starting from Galway, in
a little less than three weeks’ time I beheld the
broad waters of Corrib, Mask, and Conn—had lost
myself in the wildernesses under the shadow of
Croagh Patrick—and looked with awe at the bold
headlands of Mayo, against which the restless
Atlantic beats with a ceaseless roar.

By the evening of the twenty-first day, I found{238}
myself at Ballina, my mind full of indecision as to
how I should occupy the week or ten days I had
yet to spare. To go back over the same ground, I
looked on as a waste of time; to plunge inland was
to doom myself to days of weary trudging through
rather uninteresting country. After deliberation,
I decided to head for Sligo, feeling sure that the
beauties of Lough Gill would well repay me my
long walk thither.

Next morning I was up early, and, knapsack on
back and stick in hand, started off on my journey.

For the first mile or two, the road was level and
easy; but presently its character changed, and the
country around grew poor and wild. It seemed a
land drenched with constant showers, and beat
upon by constant gales. There was nothing to
charm me in anything I saw, so I hurried on.

After ten hours’ almost constant walking, the
country began to improve, and presently I found
myself in the little village of Ballysadare. Here I
halted, for, as may be expected, I was both tired
and hungry.

A good dinner, however, soon made a wonderful
change in me for the better. There were still a
couple of hours to pass before dark, and how
better could I employ them than by attempting to
cover in an easy way the five miles yet between me
and Sligo? Once there, I could make up by a
day’s idleness for this day of extra exertion. So,
after a short rest, I shouldered my knapsack,
grasped my stick, and started off again.

Once clear of the village, the country began
rapidly to improve, and the scenery at one or two
spots was so pleasant, that I was tempted to loiter.
I was not more than half the way, when I suddenly
wakened to the fact that night was beginning to
fall about me fast.

‘I cannot reach Sligo now before dark; that’s
certain,’ I muttered, as I hoisted my knapsack an
inch or two higher, and began to cover the ground
at my best rate. ‘However, the sooner I get there
the better.’

Presently, I reached a spot where four roads met,
and while I stood doubtful which to take, a gig
driven by some one singing in a loud key overtook
me. At sight of my lonely figure, the gig was
halted suddenly, and the driver ceased his song.

‘Ah, thin, may I ask, is your honour goin’ my
way?’ said a full round voice. ‘It’s myself that’s
mighty fond of company o’ nights about here.’

‘I don’t know what your way may be,’ I replied.
‘I wish to go to Sligo.’

‘Ah, thin, an’ it’s that same Sligo, the weary be
on it, that I’d be afther goin’ to myself,’ answered
the driver. ‘But your honour looks tired—manin’
no offince—an’ perhaps you’d take a lift in the
gig?’

‘Thank you; I will take a lift,’ I replied, as I
stepped forward and sprang quickly to the seat.
‘The truth is, I feel rather tired, as you say.’

‘An’ has your honour walked far?’ asked the
driver, as the gig rolled on towards the town.

‘I’ve walked from Ballina since morning,’ I
replied quietly.

‘From Ballina! There, now, the Lord save us!’
cried the man, as he half turned in his seat and
gazed at me in astonishment. ‘Why, that’s a day’s
work for the best horse in the masther’s stables.’

‘Your master must keep good horses, if I may
judge by the one before us,’ I answered.

‘The best in all the county, your honour,
though I say it. There isn’t a gossoon in the
three baronies but knows that.’

‘Your master’s a bit of a sportsman, then?’

‘Yes, your honour; an’ if he’d stick to that, it’s
himself’d be the best liked man from Ballina to
Ballyshannon. You wouldn’t find a better rider
or a warmer heart in a day’s march. But thim
politics has been his ruin with the people.’

‘Oh, ah; I have heard that Sligo is rather a hot
place during elections,’ I replied. ‘But surely the
people don’t turn upon their friends at such a
time?’

‘They’d turn upon their own father, if he wint
agin them,’ replied the driver solemnly. ‘See
now, here I am, drivin’ the masther’s own gig to
town just be way of a blin’, ye see, while he’s got
to slip down the strame in Jimmy Sheridan’s bit
of a boat. Ah, thim politics, thim politics!’

‘Oh, then, there’s an election about to take
place, I presume?’

‘Thrue for ye, your honour, thrue for ye,’ replied
the man dolefully. ‘There nivir was such a
ruction in Sligo before, in the mimiry of man.
Two lawyers a-fightin’ like divils to see who’s to
be mimbir.’

‘Then I’m just in time to see the fun.’

‘Fun, your honour?’ echoed the man. ‘It’s
not meself that’id object to a bit of a scrimmage
now an’ agin. But it’s murther your honour’ll
see before it’s all over, or my name isn’t Michael
O’Connor. Whist now! Did ye hear nothin’
behin’ that hedge there?’

At this moment we were about the middle of a
rather lonesome stretch of the road, one side of
which was bounded by a high thin hedge. The
dusk of the evening was fast giving way to the
gloom of night.

‘I—ah—yes, surely there is something moving
there,’ I replied. ‘It’s some animal, most likely.’

‘Down in the sate! down, for your life!’ cried
the driver, as in his terror he brought the horse
to a halt. ‘I’——

His speech was cut short by a couple of loud
reports. A lance-like line of fire gushed from the
hedge, and one if not two bullets whizzed close
past my ear.

As I sprang to my feet in the gig, the driver
slid down to the mat, and lay there in a heap,
moaning. ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked, as I strove to
get the reins out of his palsied hands.

‘I’m kilt, kilt intirely!’ he moaned.

‘Aisy now, aisy there, your honour!’ cried a
voice from behind the hedge just as I had gained
the reins. ‘It’s all a mistake, your honour, all a
mistake!’

‘Give the mare the whip! give the mare the
whip!’ cried the driver, as he strove to crawl
under the seat; ‘we’ll all be murthered!’

Instead of taking his advice, however, I held the
mare steady, while a man pressed through the thin
hedge and stood before us, a yet smoking gun on
his shoulder.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ I asked coolly,
for the new-comer’s coolness affected me. ‘Did
you want to murder a person you never saw
before?’

‘I’m raale downright sorry, your honour,’ replied
the man in just such a tone as he might
have used had he trod upon my toe by accident;
‘but ye see you’re in Wolff O’Neil’s gig, an’ I took
ye for him.—Where’s that fellow Michael?’

{239}

As he said this, the man prodded the driver
with the end of his gun, while I—I actually
laughed outright at the strangeness of the affair.

‘Go away with ye, go away!’ moaned the
driver. ‘Murther! thaves! murther!’

‘Get up with ye, an’ take the reins, you gomeril
you,’ said the man, as he gave Michael another
prod that brought him half out. ‘You’re as big
a coward as my old granny’s pet calf. Get up,
an’ take the reins, or I’ll’——

‘Oh, don’t; there, don’t say nothin’, for the
love of heaven!’ cried the driver, as he scrambled
into his seat again and took the reins in his
shaking hands. ‘I’ll do anythin’ ye till me, on’y
put that gun away.’

‘There,’ replied the man, as he lowered the
gun till its mouth pointed to the ground; ‘will
that plase ye? Now, tell me where’s Squire
O’Neil?’

‘He’s in the town be this,’ replied the driver.
‘O thim politics, thim politics!’

‘Hum; so he’s managed to get past us, after all.
Well, tell him from me, Captain Rock, that if he
votes for the sarjint to-morrow, it’s an ounce of
lead out of this he’ll be after trying to digest.
Now, mind.’

‘I’ll tell him, captain, dear! I’ll tell him,’
replied the driver, as he fingered the reins and
whip nervously. ‘But mayn’t we go on now?
mayn’t we go on?’

‘Yis, whiniver the gentleman plases,’ replied
the man. ‘An’ I’m raale sorry, as I told your
honour, I’m raale sorry at the mistake.’

‘Well, I’m pleased, not sorry,’ I replied, laughing,
‘for if you’d hit me, it wouldn’t have been
at all pleasant. But let me advise you to make
sure of your man next time before firing. Good-night.’

‘Good-night, your honour, good-night,’ cried the
man, as Michael gave the mare the whip, and sent
her along at the top of her speed to the now fast-nearing
lights of the town. In less than a quarter
of an hour we had dashed through the streets, and
halted opposite a large hotel. Here Michael found
his master, as he expected; and here I put up
for the night, very much to the astonishment of
every one. Soon after my arrival, I asked to be
shewn to my room; but it was one o’clock in the
morning before the other guests ceased their noise
and allowed me to go to sleep. Next day I slept
rather late, and might have slept even later, but
that I was rudely shaken out of a pleasant dream
by a wild howl, as of a thousand demons just let
loose. Starting up quickly, and looking out on
the street, I saw that it was filled with a fierce-looking
crowd, out of whose many mouths had
proceeded the yell that wakened me. Dragging
on my clothes, I rushed down to the coffee-room.
There I learned that the people outside had just
accompanied Squire O’Neil back from the polling-place,
where he had been the first to vote for ‘the
sarjint.’ Now that this fact had become generally
known, they were clamorous that he should be
sent out to them, ‘to tear him limb from limb.’
Presently, while their cries rose loud and long,
the squire entered the room—a tall, military-looking
man, with a little of a horsey tone, nose
like a hawk, eyes dark, yet glowing like fire.

‘They don’t seem over-fond of me, I see,’ he
said with a smile, as he bowed to those in the
room, and advanced to one of the windows and
coolly opened it. Waving his hand, the crowd
became instantly silent.

‘Now, don’t be in a hurry, gentlemen,’ he said
in a clear voice that must have been distinctly
heard by every one. ‘You shall have the honour
of my company so soon as my horse can be harnessed,
I assure you.’

‘Eh, what! what does he mean?’ I asked of a
person next me. ‘Surely he will not venture out
among these howling fiends?’

‘That is just what he is going to do,’ replied my
companion. ‘There is no use talking to him. He
has given orders for the mare and gig to be got
ready, and it’s as much as any one’s life is worth
to try to stop him. Wolff by name, and wolf by
nature; he’s enraged at having to steal down here
last night like a thief. Ah, there the fun begins!
Look out!’

As my companion spoke, he griped me by the
arm, and dragged me close against a space between
two windows. Next moment, a shower of stones
crashed through the windows, leaving not a single
inch of glass unbroken. Then, at longer or shorter
intervals, volley followed volley, till the floor of the
room was completely covered with road-metal and
broken glass. Presently, there was a lull in the
storm, and the crowd became all at once as silent
as the grave. In the hush, I could distinctly
hear the grating sound of the opening of some
big door almost under us. I looked inquiringly
at my companion.

‘It’s the entry doors being opened to let the
wolf out,’ he said in reply. ‘Ah, there he is.’

I glanced out of the window, and saw the squire
alone in his gig, a smile on his face, his whole
bearing as cool and unconcerned as if there was
not a single enemy within a thousand miles. Then
I heard the great doors clang to, and as they did
so, the crowd gave vent to a howl of delighted rage.

At the first appearance of the squire in his gig,
the people had swayed back, and left an open space
in front of the hotel. Now they seemed about to
close in on him, and one man in the front stooped
to lift a stone. Quick as lightning, the hand of
the squire went to his breast, and just as the man
stood upright to throw, I heard the sharp crack of
a pistol. The man uttered a wild shriek of pain,
clapped his hands to his cheeks, and plunged into
the crowd. The bullet had entered at one cheek
and gone out at the other, after tearing away a
few teeth in its passage. The man was the very
person who had made the mistake in shooting at
me over-night.

‘A near nick that for our friend,’ said the squire
in his clear voice, while the crowd swayed back a
pace or two. ‘But the next will be nearer still,
and I’ve nearly half-a-dozen still left. Now, will
any of you oblige me by stooping to lift a stone?’

He paused and glanced round, while every man
in the crowd held his breath and stood still as a
statue.

‘No? you won’t oblige me,’ he said presently,
with a sneer. Then fierce as if charging in some
world-famous battle: ‘Out of my way, you
scoundrels! Faugh-a-ballagh!’

At the word, he jerked the reins slightly, and the
mare moved forward at a trot with head erect, and
bearing as proud as if she knew a conqueror sat
behind her. Then, in utter silence, the crowd
swayed to right and left, leaving a wide alley, down
which the squire drove as gaily as if the whole{240}
thing were some pleasant show. When he had
disappeared, the crowd closed to again, utterly
crestfallen. Then for a short time the whole air
was filled with their chattering one to another
like the humming of innumerable bees; and
presently, without a shout, and without a single
stone being thrown, the great mass melted away.

Next morning, at an early hour, I left Sligo as
fast as a covered conveyance could carry me. I
did not care to wait for the slower means of escape
by foot, fearful that next time a mistake was made
with me the shooting might possibly be better
than it was at first.

PROCESSIONARY CATERPILLARS.

‘While out for a walk the other day we came
across a curious incident in natural history. At
Cap Martin, about two miles from Mentone, our
attention was attracted by something by the roadside
which looked at a little distance like a long
thin serpent. At first we thought it best not to go
very near, but curiosity prevailed, and upon closer
inspection we found it was a long line, consisting
of ninety-nine caterpillars, crawling in single file
close after one another. Our curiosity led us to
remove one from the middle, a little distance from
the others, and we found his place was soon filled
up; but he crawled back to them and edged his
way into the line again. Then we removed the
leader: this brought them for a time to a standstill.
After a little while they began to move on, and
then we put the original leader in his proper place,
but this brought them again to a standstill; and
from the way they moved their heads from side to
side, a great deal of talking seemed to be going on,
and they decided their original leader was not fit
to lead, and they chose another, while he had to
make his way into the line lower down. A little
farther on we saw another line of forty-four coming
up in the opposite direction, and we were curious
to see what would happen when they met, imagining
they might perhaps have a fight; but such was
not the case: they joined the others by degrees,
and so made a much longer line and marched on.

‘We have since heard they climb some particular
kind of trees, and make their nests in them,
which has a very injurious effect, and often kills
the trees, unless the branches are cut off which
hold the nests.’

In an interesting little work on Insect Architecture,
published in 1830, mention is made of these
social caterpillars, the construction of their nests,
and their processionary habits. The writer says:
‘It is remarkable that, however far they may
ramble from their nest, they never fail to find their
way back when a shower of rain or nightfall
renders shelter necessary. It requires no great
shrewdness to discover how they effect this; for
by looking closely at their track it will be found
that it is carpeted with silk, no individual moving
an inch without constructing such a pathway both
for the use of his companions and to facilitate his
own return. All these caterpillars, therefore, move
more or less in processional order, each following the
road which the first chance traveller has marked
out with his strip of silk carpeting.’ Further
remarks are made of two species ‘more remarkable
than others in the regularity of their processional
marchings.’ ‘These are found in the south of
Europe, but are not indigenous in Britain. The
one named by Réaumur the Processionary (Cnethocampa
processionea) feeds upon the oak; a brood
dividing, when newly hatched, into one or more
parties of several hundred individuals, which afterwards
unite in constructing a common nest, nearly
two feet long and from four to six inches in
diameter. It is not divided into chambers, but
consists of one large hall, so that it is not necessary
that there should be more openings than one; and
accordingly, when an individual goes out and
carpets a path, the whole colony instinctively
follow in the same track, though, from the immense
population, they are often compelled to march in
parallel files from two to six deep. The procession
is always headed by a single caterpillar; sometimes
the leader is immediately followed by one or
two in single file, and sometimes by two abreast.
A similar procedure is followed by a species of
social caterpillar which feeds on the pine in Savoy
and Languedoc, and their nests are not half the
size of the preceding; they are more worthy of
notice from the strong and excellent quality of
their silk, which Réaumur was of opinion might
be advantageously manufactured. Their nests consist
of more chambers than one, but are furnished
with a main entrance, through which the colonists
conduct their foraging processions.’

The lady whose remarks are recorded above has
since written that the species she observed feeds
upon the pine-trees in the neighbourhood of
Mentone.—S. W. U. in Hardwicke’s Science-Gossip.

THE TOMB AND THE ROSE.

(TRANSLATION, FROM VICTOR HUGO.)

A. J. M.