1886 ***





[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 114.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, MARCH 6, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




COCAINE.


A new discovery in medicine, which has established its claim to general
utility, is as much a matter for congratulation on the part of the
general public as on the part of the members of that profession whose
duty it is to use it. The stir in the world which Simpson’s grand
discovery of chloroform excited is still well remembered, and upon
reflection, persons even now could not fail to be impressed with the
incalculable amount of relief from suffering of which the drug is the
source, if they were to pay a visit to one of our large hospitals and
judge for themselves. It is true that chloroform has some drawbacks;
it is even true that indirectly, if not directly fatal results have
followed its use; but what good thing is free from all blemish, and
how, ‘in this best of all possible worlds,’ can we expect everything to
be as we should wish?

The discovery of ether, it should be remembered, afforded surgeons the
opportunity in after-years of making a choice between the two drugs.
Fortunately, in this connection the effects of each are different in
certain particulars, so that, in a given number of cases, the use of
ether is advisable, and chloroform is to be avoided. The explanation of
this can be readily understood. The effect of chloroform is to depress
the action of the heart. In cases of an overdose of this drug, the
heart is paralysed; and when death occurs during its administration,
there need not necessarily have been more than a very small dose given;
but owing to some undiscovered weakness of the heart, which the drug
unfortunately becomes the means of rendering manifest, sudden stoppage
of the organ takes place, with, of course, death as a consequence. On
the other hand, ether has exactly the opposite effect. The heart’s
action is stimulated during its administration, and the contractions
of the organ are rendered more vigorous. Thus, whenever there is any
suspected weakness of the heart in patients to whom an anæsthetic is
about to be administered, there is no hesitation on the part of the
surgeon in using ether, which under these circumstances is certainly
the safest drug to employ.

But apart from these considerations, all drugs which possess the
property of producing what is called general anæsthesia, are associated
with certain discomforts, certain inconveniences which materially
detract from their usefulness. It is not necessary here to specify the
nature of these, for the knowledge of them has almost become common
property, so that there are persons who would preferably endure the
suffering of an operation than submit to the administration of an
anæsthetic, the after-effects of which, perhaps, previous experience
has taught them to be careful to avoid. Surely, then, under these
circumstances, it must be a matter of extreme comfort for the public
to know that a drug has been discovered whose property is such as to
enable the surgeon in many cases to dispense with either ether or
chloroform during the performance of an operation. This is the new
discovery which agreeably startled the world of medicine towards the
end of the year 1884. The drug in question is called Cocaine, from
Coca—though sometimes also written cucaine and cuca—and it possesses
the remarkable property of causing local anæsthesia when applied to a
mucous membrane, of which more anon. The plant from which this alkaloid
is derived is _Erythroxylon coca_, which is largely cultivated in the
warm valleys of the eastern slopes of the Andes, between five and
six thousand feet above the level of the sea, where almost the only
variation of the climate is from wet to dry, where frost is unknown,
and where it rains more or less every month in the year.

A few details with reference to this remarkable plant may not here
be out of place. It is described as a ‘shrub from four to six feet
high, branches straight and alternate, leaves in form and size like
tea-leaves, flowers, with a small yellowish white corolla, ten stamens,
and three pistils. In raising the plant from the seed, the sowing is
commenced in December and January, when the rain begins, and continues
until April. The seeds are spread on the surface of the soil in a
small nursery or raising-ground, over which there is generally a
thatch-roof. At the end of about fourteen days, they come up, the
young plants being continually watered and protected from the sun. At
the end of eighteen months, the plants yield their first harvest, and
continue to yield for upwards of forty years. The first harvest, the
leaves are picked very carefully one by one, to avoid disturbing the
roots of the young tender plants. Gathering takes place three times,
and even four times in the year. The most abundant harvest takes place
in March, immediately after the rains. With plenty of watering, forty
days suffice to cover the plants with leaves afresh. It is necessary to
weed the ground very carefully, especially while the plants are young.
The harvest is gathered by women and children. The greatest care is
required in the drying of the leaves; for too much sun causes them to
dry up and lose their flavour; while, if packed up moist, they become
fetid. They are generally exposed to the sun in thin layers.’ Such
is, in brief, the account of the plant whose alkaloid, cocaine, has
attained so marked a popularity within the short space of a few months.

Although the plant has only recently become known to us, its virtues
have long been recognised by the natives of that part of the world in
which it grows. It is stated that in 1583 the Indians consumed one
hundred thousand ‘cestos’ of coca, worth 2½ dollars each in Guzco, and
four dollars in Potosi. In 1591 an excise of five per cent. was imposed
on coca; and in 1746 and 1750, this duty yielded eight hundred and
fifteen hundred dollars respectively, from Caravaya alone. Between 1785
and 1795, the coca traffic was calculated at 1,207,436 dollars in the
Peruvian vice-royalty, and including that of Buenos Ayres, 2,641,478
dollars. The coca trade is a government monopoly in Bolivia, the state
reserving the right of purchasing from the growers and reselling to the
consumer. This right is generally farmed out to the highest bidder.
The proximate annual produce of coca in Peru is about fifteen million
pounds, the average yield being about eight hundred pounds an acre.
More than ten million pounds are produced annually in Bolivia; so that
the annual yield of coca throughout South America, including Peru,
Bolivia, Ecuador, and Pasto, may be estimated at thirty million pounds.

It is scarcely pleasant news for us to learn that the natives who
cultivate the coca-plant themselves absorb so much of the products of
their own cultivation. We have here, doubtless, the explanation of the
costliness of cocaine and the scarcity of the drug in England. This
can hardly be otherwise, it is to be feared, for some time to come,
when we remember that the reliance upon the extraordinary virtues of
the coca-leaf amongst the Peruvian Indians is so strong, that in the
Huanuco province they believe that if a dying man can taste a leaf
placed upon his tongue, it is a sure sign of his future happiness! When
Weston the pedestrian was performing his feats of endurance in England,
it was noticed that from time to time he placed something in his mouth,
which he afterwards chewed. For long he refused to divulge what the
nature of this substance was, but at last he acknowledged that he
always provided himself with some coca-leaves; and he added, that the
chewing of these gave him strength, and enabled him more easily to
accomplish his allotted task.

In the states above referred to, the natives are accustomed to use the
leaves largely for the purpose of allaying hunger. Now, the sense of
hunger takes origin in the nerves of the stomach, and it is evident
that if these nerves are rendered incapable of exercising their
functions, the sensations to which they give rise must decline and
remain temporarily in abeyance. This is precisely what takes place
when coca-leaves are eaten. Their effect is to paralyse for the time
being the sensitive ends of the nerves of the stomach, and to establish
practically a condition of local anæsthesia within the interior of that
organ. The sensation of hunger, of course, under such circumstances
becomes impossible; and the native, after eating a few leaves, goes on
his way rejoicing, with the same sensations as if he had partaken of a
hearty repast.

Although cocaine has been known for a good many years, and has from
time to time formed the subject of inquiry amongst distinguished
British and continental savants, including the veteran Sir R.
Christison, it was reserved for Dr Carl Koller of Vienna to demonstrate
the practical use to which its marvellous property could be put.
It occurred to this gentleman that the drug might be of use in the
department of diseases of the eye. With this object in view, he
experimented upon the eyes of animals, applying the drug in solution
of a certain strength, and carefully noting the results. He found that
in the course of a few moments, after the drug had been instilled
several times into the conjunctival sac of an animal, the organ
became insensible; that he was able to touch the cornea—the front
part of the eye, which is endowed with extreme sensibility—with a pin
without the least flinching on the part of the animal. Experimenting
further, he ascertained that the insensibility was not confined to
the superficial parts of the eye, but that it extended throughout the
corneal substance, even to the structures within the ocular globe, and
thus the fact so far of the utility of the drug for operative purposes
came to be established. Then he turned his attention to cases in which
the eye was the seat of disease, and the cornea acutely inflamed and
painful, and he found that much relief from the symptoms was obtained
by the use of the drug. Soon after this, he commenced to employ cocaine
in operations performed upon the eyes of patients. The results were
highly satisfactory; and since then, cataracts have been operated on,
squinting eyes put straight, foreign bodies upon the cornea removed
painlessly and with ease, under the influence of the drug. In cataract
especially, cocaine is of great value; this operation can be performed
by its means without the slightest sensation of pain, and yet the
patient is fully conscious, and is of course able to follow during its
performance the precise instructions of the surgeon.

Now, to an outside observer, cocaine is apt to produce impressions
somewhat akin to the marvellous. Here is a description which a writer
gives in a recent number of the _St James’s Gazette_. A camel-hair
brush is dipped into a small bottle containing a fluid as transparent
as water. With the brush so charged, the part—let us say a portion of
the tongue—is painted several times. After an interval of about a dozen
minutes, another brush is taken, but in this instance a glass one, and
dipped into a bottle, the fumes, colour, and label of which establish
its contents as fuming nitric acid. The tongue is freely brushed with
the acid, great care being observed in so doing, and submits to the
procedure without the slightest recoil indicative of pain.

Such is cocaine, and such is its effect upon every mucous membrane. We
have referred to its utility in the practice of ophthalmic surgeons;
but it is not only in this department of the healing art that cocaine
has been found useful; it can be employed whenever an operation upon
any mucous membrane has to be performed. The drug has been used in
the extraction and stopping of teeth; and results, nothing less than
startling in their completeness, have been obtained with cocaine in
all branches of medicine and surgery, bringing relief to thousands
of sufferers, and—it is true to remark—more than that, unqualified
gratification to the physician or surgeon in charge. Even that
immemorial bugbear, sea-sickness, has often fled before the influence
of cocaine.

One word more. In the present prosaic condition of the world, when the
surfeit of new discoveries seems to have bred in this connection the
familiarity which produces the conventional contempt, it is refreshing
to draw attention to a discovery which has surpassed the ordinary
standard of greatness sufficiently to enable it to figure as a wonder
of the age. Cocaine flashed like a meteor before the eyes of the
medical world, but, unlike a meteor, its impressions have proved to be
enduring; while it is destined in the future to occupy a high position
in the estimation of those whom duty requires to combat the ravages of
disease.




IN ALL SHADES.

BY GRANT ALLEN,

AUTHOR OF ‘BABYLON,’ ‘STRANGE STORIES,’ ETC. ETC.


CHAPTER XII.

On the morning when the _Severn_ was to reach Trinidad, everybody
was up betimes and eagerly looking for the expected land. Nora and
Marian went up on deck before breakfast, and there found Dr Whitaker,
opera-glass in hand, scanning the horizon for the first sight of his
native island. ‘I haven’t seen it or my dear father,’ he said to
Marian, ‘for nearly ten years, and I can’t tell you how anxious I am
once more to see him. I wonder whether he’ll have altered much! But
there—ten years is a long time. After ten years, one’s pictures of
home and friends begin to get terribly indefinite. Still, I shall know
him—I’m sure I shall know him. He’ll be on the wharf to welcome us in,
and I’m sure I shall recognise his dear old face again.’

‘Your father’s very well known in the island, the captain tells me,’
Marian said, anxious to show some interest in what interested him so
much. ‘I believe he was very influential in helping to get slavery
abolished.’

‘He was,’ the young doctor answered, kindling up afresh with his
ever-ready enthusiasm—‘he was; very influential. Mr Wilberforce
considered that my father, Robert Whitaker, was one of his most
powerful coloured supporters in any of the colonies. I’m proud of my
father, Mrs Hawthorn—proud of the part he bore in the great revolution
which freed my race. I’m proud to think that I’m the son of such a man
as Robert Whitaker.’

‘Now, then, ladies,’ the captain put in drily, coming upon them
suddenly from behind; ‘breakfast’s ready, and you won’t sight Trinidad,
I take it, for at least another fifty minutes. Plenty of time to get
your breakfast quietly and comfortably, and pack your traps up, before
you come in sight of the Port-o’-Spain lighthouse.’

After breakfast, they all hurried up on deck once more, and soon the
gray peaks and rocky sierras of Trinidad began to heave in sight
straight in front of them. Slowly the land drew closer and closer, till
at last the port and town lay full in sight before them. Dr Whitaker
was overflowing with excitement as they reached the wharf. ‘In ten
minutes,’ he cried to Marian—‘in ten minutes, I shall see my dear
father.’

It was a strange and motley scene, ever fresh and interesting to the
new-comer from Europe, that first glimpse of tropical life from the
crowded deck of an ocean steamer. The _Severn_ stood off, waiting for
the gangways to be lowered on board, but close up to the high wooden
pier of the lively, bustling, little harbour. In front lay the busy
wharf, all alive with a teeming swarm of black faces—men in light
and ragged jackets, women in thin white muslins and scarlet turbans,
children barefooted and half naked, lying sprawling idly in the very
eye of the sun. Behind, white houses with green venetian blinds;
waving palm-trees; tall hills; a blazing pale blue sky; a great haze
of light and shimmer and glare and fervour. All round, boats full
of noisy negroes, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, laughing, and
showing their big teeth every second anew in boisterous merriment. A
general pervading sense of bustle and life, all meaningless and all
ineffectual; much noise and little labour; a ceaseless chattering,
as of monkeys in a menagerie; a purposeless running up and down on
the pier and ’longshore with wonderful gesticulations; a babel of
inarticulate sounds and cries and shouting and giggling. Nothing of it
all clearly visible as an individual fact at first; only a confused
mass of heads and faces and bandanas and dresses, out of which, as
the early hubbub of arrival subsided a little, there stood forth
prominently a single foremost figure—the figure of a big, heavy, oily,
fat, dark mulatto, gray-haired and smooth-faced, dressed in a dirty
white linen suit, and waving his soiled silk pocket-handkerchief
ostentatiously before the eyes of the assembled passengers. A supple,
vulgar, oleaginous man altogether, with an astonishing air of conceited
self-importance, and a profound consciousness of the admiring eyes of
the whole surrounding negro populace.

‘How d’ye do, captain?’ he shouted aloud in a clear but thick and
slightly negro voice, mouthing his words with much volubility in the
true semi-articulate African fashion. ‘Glad to see de _Severn_ has come
in puncshual to her time as usual. Good ship, de _Severn_; neber minds
storms or nuffin.—Well, sah, who have you got on board? I’ve come down
to meet de doctor and Mr Hawtorn. Trinidad is proud to welcome back
her children to her shores agin. Got ’em on board, captain?—got ’em on
board, sah?’

‘All right, Bobby,’ the captain answered, with easy familiarity. ‘Been
having a pull at the mainsheet this morning?—Ah, I thought so. I
thought you’d taken a cargo of rum aboard. Ah, you sly dog! You’ve got
the look of it.’

‘Massa Bobby, him doan’t let de rum spile in him cellar,’ a ragged fat
negress standing by shouted out in a stentorian voice. ‘Him know de way
to keep him from spilin’, so pour him down him own troat in time—eh,
Massa Bobby?’

‘Rum,’ the oily mulatto responded cheerfully, but with great dignity,
raising his fat brown hand impressively before him—‘rum is de staple
produck an’ chief commercial commodity of de great an’ flourishin’
island of Trinidad. To drink a moderate quantity of rum every mornin’
before brekfuss is de best way of encouragin’ de principal manufacture
of dis island. I do my duty in dat respeck, I flatter myself, as
faithfully as any pusson in de whole of Trinidad, not exceptin’ His
Excellency de governor, who ought to set de best example to de entire
community. As de recognised representative of de coloured people of dis
colony, I feel bound to teach dem to encourage de manufacture of rum
by my own pussonal example an’ earnest endeavour.’ And he threw back
his greasy neck playfully in a pantomimic representation of the art of
drinking off a good glassful of rum-and-water.

The negroes behind laughed immoderately at this sally of the man
addressed as Bobby, and cheered him on with loud vociferations.
‘Evidently,’ Edward said to Nora, with a face of some disgust, ‘this
creature is the chartered buffoon and chief jester to the whole of
Trinidad. They all seem to recognise him and laugh at him, and I see
even the captain himself knows him well of old, evidently.’

‘Bless your soul, yes,’ the captain said, overhearing the remark.
‘Everybody in the island knows Bobby. Good-natured old man, but
conceited as a peacock, and foolish too.—Everybody knows you here,’
raising his voice; ‘don’t they, Bobby?’

The gray-haired mulatto took off his broad-brimmed Panama hat and
bowed profoundly. ‘I flatter myself,’ he said, looking round about him
complacently on the crowd of negroes, ‘dere isn’t a better known man in
de whole great an’ flourishin’ island of Trinidad dan Bobby Whitaker.’

Edward and Marian started suddenly, and even Nora gave a little
shiver of surprise and disappointment. ‘Whitaker,’ Edward repeated
slowly—‘Whitaker—Bobby Whitaker!—You don’t mean to tell us, surely,
captain, that that man’s our Dr Whitaker’s father!’

‘Yes, I do,’ the captain answered, smiling grimly. ‘That’s his
father.—Dr Whitaker! hi, you, sir; where have you got to? Don’t you
see?—there’s your father.’

Edward turned at once to seek for him, full of a sudden unspoken
compassion. He had not far to seek. A little way off, standing
irresolutely by the gunwale, with a strange terrified look in his
handsome large eyes, and a painful twitching nervously evident at
the trembling corners of his full mouth, Dr Whitaker gazed intently
and speechlessly at the fat mulatto in the white linen suit. It was
clear that the old man did not yet recognise his son; but the son
had recognised his father instantaneously and unhesitatingly, as he
stood there playing the buffoon in broad daylight before the whole
assembled ship’s company. Edward looked at the poor young fellow
with profound commiseration. Never in his life before had he seen
shame and humiliation more legibly written on a man’s very limbs and
features. The unhappy young mulatto, thunderstruck by the blow, had
collapsed entirely. It was too terrible for him. Coming in, fresh from
his English education, full of youthful hopes and vivid enthusiasms,
proud of the father he had more than half forgotten, and anxious to
meet once more that ideal picture he had carried away with him of the
liberator of Trinidad—here he was met, on the very threshold of his
native island, by this horrible living contradiction of all his fervent
fancies and imaginings. The Robert Whitaker he had once known faded
away as if by magic into absolute nonentity, and that voluble, greasy,
self-satisfied, buffoonish old brown man was the only thing left that
he could now possibly call ‘my father.’

Edward pitied him far too earnestly to obtrude just then upon his shame
and sorrow. But the poor mulatto, meeting his eyes accidentally for a
single second, turned upon him such a mutely appealing look of profound
anguish, that Edward moved over slowly toward the grim captain and
whispered to him in a low undertone: ‘Don’t speak to that man Whitaker
again, I beg of you. Don’t you see his poor son there’s dying of shame
for him?’

The captain stared back at him with the same curious half-sardonic look
that Marian had more than once noticed upon his impassive features.
‘Dying of shame!’ he answered, smiling carelessly. ‘Ho, ho, ho! that’s
a good one! Dying of shame is he, for poor old Bobby! Why, sooner
or later, you know, he’ll have to get used to him. Besides, I tell
you, whether you talk to him or whether you don’t, old Bobby’ll go on
talking about himself as long as there’s anybody left anywhere about
who’ll stand and listen to him.—You just hark there to what he’s saying
now. What’s he up to next, I wonder?’

‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen,’ the old mulatto was proceeding aloud,
addressing now in a set speech the laughing passengers on board the
_Severn_, ‘I’m de Honourable Robert Whitaker, commonly called Bobby
Whitaker, de leadin’ member of de coloured party in dis island. Along
wit my lamented friend Mr Wilberforce, an’ de British parliament, I
was de chief instrument in procurin’ de abolition of slavery an’ de
freedom of de slaves troughout de whole English possessions. Millions
of my fellow-men were moanin’ an’ groanin’ in a painful bondage. I
have a heart dat cannot witstand de appeal of misery. I laboured for
dem; I toiled for dem; I bore de brunt of de battle; an’ in de end
I conquered—I conquered. Wit de aid of my friend Mr Wilberforce, by
superhuman exertions, I succeeded in passin’ de grand act of slavery
emancipation. You behold in me de leadin’ actor in dat famous great
an’ impressive drama. I’m an ole man now; but I have prospered in dis
world, as de just always do, says de Psalmist, an’ I shall be glad
to see any of you whenever you choose at my own residence, an’ to
offer you in confidence a glass of de excellent staple produck of dis
island—I allude to de wine of de country, de admirable beverage known
as rum!’

There was another peal of foolish laughter from the crowd of negroes at
this one ancient threadbare joke, and a faint titter from the sillier
passengers on board the _Severn_. Edward looked over appealingly at the
old buffoon; but the mulatto misunderstood his look of deprecation, and
bowed once more profoundly, with immense importance, straight at him,
like a sovereign acknowledging the plaudits of his subjects.

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I shall be happy to see any of you—you, sah, or
you—at my own estate, Whitaker Hall, in dis island, whenever you find
it convenient to visit me. You have on board my son, Dr Whitaker, de
future leader of de coloured party in de Council of Trinidad; an’ you
have no doubt succeeded in makin’ his acquaintance in de course of your
voyage from de shores of England. Dr Whitaker, of de University of
Edinburgh, after pursuin’ his studies’——

The poor young man gave an audible groan, and turned away, in his
poignant disgrace, to the very furthest end of the vessel. It was
terrible enough to have all his hopes dashed and falsified in this
awful fashion; but to be humiliated and shamed by name before the
staring eyes of all his fellow-passengers, that last straw was more
than his poor bursting heart could possibly endure. He walked away,
broken and tottering, and leaned over the opposite side of the vessel,
letting the hot tears trickle unreproved down his dusky cheeks into the
ocean below.

At that very moment, before the man they called Bobby Whitaker could
finish his sentence, a tall white man, of handsome and imposing
presence, walked out quietly from among the knot of people behind
the negroes, and laid his hand with a commanding air on the fat old
mulatto’s broad shoulder. Bobby Whitaker turned round suddenly and
listened with attention to something that the white man whispered
gently but firmly at his astonished ear. Then his lower jaw dropped in
surprise, and he fell behind, abashed for a second, into the confused
background of laughing negroes. Partly from his childish recollections,
but partly, too, by the aid of the photographs, Edward immediately
recognised the tall white man. ‘Marian, Marian!’ he cried, waving his
hand in welcome towards the new-comer, ‘it’s my father, my father!’

And even as he spoke, a pang of pain ran through him as he thought
of the difference between the two first greetings. He couldn’t help
feeling proud in his heart of hearts of the very look and bearing of
his own father—tall, erect, with his handsome, clear-cut face and full
white beard, the exact type of a self-respecting and respected English
gentleman; and yet, the mere reflex of his own pride and satisfaction
revealed to him at once the bitter poignancy of Dr Whitaker’s
unspeakable disappointment. As the two men stood there on the wharf
side by side, in quiet conversation, James Hawthorn with his grave,
severe, earnest expression, and Bobby Whitaker with his greasy, vulgar,
negro joviality speaking out from every crease in his fat chin and
every sparkle of his small pig’s eyes, the contrast between them was so
vast and so apparent, that it seemed to make the old mulatto’s natural
vulgarity and coarseness of fibre more obvious and more unmistakable
than ever to all beholders.

In a minute more, a gangway was hastily lowered from the wharf on to
the deck; and the first man that came down it, pushed in front of a
great crowd of eager, grinning, and elbowing negroes—mostly in search
of small jobs among the passengers—was Bobby Whitaker. The moment
he reached the deck, he seemed to take possession of it and of all
the passengers by pure instinct, as if he were father to the whole
shipload of them. The captain, the crew, and the other authorities
were effaced instantly. Bobby Whitaker, with easy, greasy geniality,
stood bowing and waving his hand on every side, in an access of
universal graciousness towards the entire company. ‘My son!’ he said,
looking round him inquiringly—‘my son, Dr Whitaker, of de Edinburgh
University—where is he?—where is he? My dear boy! Let him come forward
and embrace his fader!’

Dr Whitaker, in spite of his humiliation, had all a mulatto’s impulsive
affectionateness. Ashamed and abashed as he was, he yet rushed forward
with unaffected emotion to take his father’s outstretched hand. But
old Bobby had no idea of getting over this important meeting in such
a simple and undemonstrative manner; for him, it was a magnificent
opportunity for theatrical display, on no account to be thrown away
before the faces of so many distinguished European strangers. Holding
his son for a second at arm’s length, in the centre of a little circle
that quickly gathered around the oddly matched pair, he surveyed the
young doctor with a piercing glance from head to foot, sticking his
neck a little on one side with critical severity, and then, bursting
into a broad grin of oily delight, he exclaimed, in a loud, stagey
soliloquy: ‘My son, my son, my own dear son, Wilberforce Clarkson
Whitaker! De inheritor of de tree names most intimately bound up wit
de great revolution I have had de pride and de honour of effectin’ for
unborn millions of my African bredderin’. My son, my son! We receive
you wit transport! Welcome to Trinidad—welcome to Trinidad!’




SHOT-FIRING IN COAL-MINES: AN IMPROVED METHOD.


Shot-firing or blasting in coal-mines is a subject which has for
many years engaged the attention of mining experts and scientists,
in consequence of the disastrous explosions which have so frequently
resulted therefrom; but the discovering of an agent or the devising
of a method by which the operation would be attended with perfect
safety, has hitherto remained a problem too difficult to solve. At a
very remote date in mining history, the use of explosives for blasting
purposes was altogether unknown, and the various minerals, &c., were
obtained from the bowels of the earth by means of hammer and wedge.
Large quantities of these products were not then required, and the
laborious and primitive method adopted for procuring them was fully
equal to supplying the demand. But as time rolled on, mining produce
became in much greater request, and means had to be devised which would
enable mine-owners to meet the growing requirements of commerce and
civilisation. Gunpowder was consequently utilised for this purpose,
being first employed on the continent in 1620; and in the same year it
was introduced into England as a blasting agent by some German miners
brought over by Prince Rupert, and who employed it at the copper mine
at Ecton in Staffordshire. Gradually it came into general use as a
means of rapidly developing the mineral resources of the earth; and by
its use, the output of our coal-mines has been increased by more than
fifty per cent.

To its employment for obtaining coal, however, there were some great
objections, both from a pecuniary and hygienic point of view. Large
quantities of coal were converted into ‘slack,’ or a semi-pulverised
state, in some cases to the extent of twenty-five per cent., and
therefore great loss was sustained by the colliery proprietor, the
marketable value of slack being very small. Again, the explosion of
gunpowder is always attended with the formation of immense volumes of
sulphuretted hydrogen, carbonic anhydride, and other gases, which are
so deleterious to health, that, for a considerable space of time after
a charge has been fired, the miners cannot work in that vicinity. Where
large quantities of this substance are daily used, these noxious gases
contaminate the air passing through the mine to such an extent that in
the course of time they exercise an injurious effect on the health of
the workmen.

Under these circumstances it was very desirable that other agents
should be employed; but it is only within the last thirty years
that other explosive substances have been submitted to mine-owners.
The first of these was gun-cotton, which was invented by Professor
Schönbein in 1846. It was not, however, until some years after its
discovery that it came into use as a mining agent, such serious
explosions attending its manufacture and storing, immediately after
its introduction to the world, that no one would have more to do with
so deadly an explosive. Eventually, however, it was ascertained how
to render it safer, and it came into extensive use as a mining agent.
Though it burns harmlessly away when simply ignited, yet, when fired
by means of a detonator, as is done for mining purposes, it possesses
some six times the explosive power of gunpowder; and its combustion
in this way is so complete that no noxious gases are given off. It
can be used either in the form of yarn or in a compressed block.
When used in the former state, it is the opinion of many that its
combustion is too rapid, and that it is thereby prevented doing its
full amount of effective work. It bursts the minerals asunder with
great force; but it lacks the cutting property which is essential to
the performance of good work. The compressed cotton is free from these
defects. It possesses all the force of yarn cotton; and in consequence
of its slower combustion, it cuts in such a way as to make the block
of mineral ready for the next charge. This latter is a great advantage
to the workman, and hence the gun-cotton used for mining purposes is
generally in a compressed state. By the use of this agent, mining of
all descriptions was immensely facilitated, and the dangerous operation
of ‘tamping,’ or filling the shot-hole with brick or coal dust rammed
hard, was rendered unnecessary.

At a somewhat later period, nitro-glycerine attracted much attention,
the first to attempt its use as an explosive agent being Alfred Nobel,
a Swedish engineer, in 1864. So far as explosive power was concerned,
it was all that could be desired, possessing ten times the force
of gunpowder, and therefore being of nearly double the strength of
gun-cotton. On the other hand, it was open to most serious objections.
The danger of its exploding from concussion was very great, and many
dreadful accidents have thus been caused by it. The liquid also, when
poured into a shot-hole, has frequently run into some unknown crevice,
and when fired, has produced an explosion under the very feet of the
miners. To obviate this in some degree, cartridges have been employed;
but in whatever light it is viewed, nitro-glycerine is a most perilous
explosive.

To remove many of the dangers associated with the use of
nitro-glycerine, particularly those of concussion, Mr Nobel invented
dynamite, which was tried and approved as a mining agent at Merstham
in 1868. When properly prepared, it constitutes one of the safest,
most convenient, and most powerful explosives applicable to industrial
purposes. It burns without explosion when placed in a fire or brought
into contact with a lighted match. If struck with a hammer on an
anvil, the portion struck takes fire without igniting the dynamite
around it; and if packed with moderate care, it may be transported by
road, railway, or canal with little danger of an explosion either from
heat, sparks, friction, concussion, or collision. Such conditions of
safety, however, entirely depend upon dynamite being properly made.
If the _Kieselguhr_ or porous infusorial earth, of which it contains
about twenty-five per cent., be not properly dried and prepared,
so as not only to absorb but to permanently hold in absorption the
nitro-glycerine mixed with it, exudation is apt to take place; and
if this only occurs to the extent of a thin greasy layer over the
surface, there are present all the dangers of nitro-glycerine pure and
simple. It is of a pasty consistence, and thus possesses the advantage
that, whilst being very little less powerful as an explosive than
nitro-glycerine, bore-holes can be filled with it without the dangers
attending that liquid, and no cartridge case is required.

Since the introduction of dynamite, several other nitro-compounds
have been brought forward as blasting agents, such, for instance, as
dualine, lithofracteur, blasting gelatine, and gelatine-dynamite. With
the exception of the two last named, however, they have not found
much favour as mining agents in this country, and their use is mainly
confined to the continent.

Whilst all the explosives mentioned in this article are more or less
suited to blasting in mines, so far as their propulsive force is
concerned, yet the use of each and all is attended with great danger
in a coal-mine, and for the following reason: coal, being of vegetable
or organic origin, is constantly giving off numerous gases, the most
dangerous of which, under ordinary circumstances, is methylic hydride
or marsh-gas, known in mining districts as fire-damp. It is of an
inflammable nature; and when it becomes mixed with from seven to ten
times its volume of air, it is highly explosive. It was the presence
of this gas in coal-mines that gave rise to the researches of Humphry
Davy and George Stephenson, and which resulted in the production
of two kinds of safety-lamp, differing but little from each other
in construction. As a mark of distinction for his invention, the
first-named gentleman received the honour of knighthood. Explosive as
is methylic hydride when mixed with air in the proportions stated,
it becomes infinitely more so when the air contains a proportion of
coal-dust. A very small percentage of fire-damp when mixed with air
and coal-dust is sufficient to cause a disastrous explosion. In all
dry coal-mines there is a considerable quantity of coal-dust (coal in
a state of impalpable powder) lying about, and a certain proportion
of it is always floating in the air through the workings of the mine.
Now, when explosives are used, no matter how they are ignited, their
combustion is always attended with the formation of a mass of flame,
and consequently there is always great danger of an explosion of
fire-damp taking place. Especially is this the case with gunpowder,
which, requiring to be used in large quantities to produce the desired
effect, is accompanied with much flame at the moment of its ignition.
Gun-cotton being a much more powerful explosive than powder, can be
used in far smaller proportions, and therefore to a certain extent
possesses an advantage over it, inasmuch as its combustion is not
attended with so great a mass of flame; thus to some extent, though
only very slightly, reducing the danger of an explosion of fire-damp.
In addition to showing flame at the moment of its ignition, dynamite
possesses the drawback, that the _Kieselguhr_ is liable to become
incandescent, and whilst in this state, to be blown about by the force
of the explosion of the blasting charge, and so fire any gas or mixture
of gas and coal-dust which may be in the vicinity.

But great as is the danger always attending blasting in coal-mines,
it becomes immeasurably greater in the case of a blown-out shot—that
is, a shot which blows out the tamping, and does not bring down the
coal—for the flame then issues unobstructed from the bore-hole, and
extending for some distance, is free to ignite any inflammable mixture
with which it may come in contact. To blown-out shots or charges is due
the majority of colliery explosions. Before a shot is fired in a seam
of coal, a portion of the latter is hewn away at the top to a depth of
four or five feet, and is continued down one side, near the bore-hole,
so as to decrease the resistance to be overcome by the explosive. If
the shot-hole has been properly drilled, the blasting agent does its
work; but if the hole has been drilled into the ‘fast’—that is, if it
has been bored farther into the seam than the cavity produced by hewing
out a portion of the coal extends—a blown-out shot is the result; for
the charge of explosive is in such a case placed in the solid bed of
coal, and the resistance, consequently, being too great to be overcome,
the ramming with which the shot has been fixed in its place is forced
out, an outlet being thus formed, through which the propulsive power of
the explosive issues without bringing down any of the coal.

From what has been said, it will be seen that the great desideratum of
mine-owners has been the discovery of an agent whose propulsive power
could be utilised without any attendant flame, or the devising of a
method by which the ordinary explosives could be rendered harmless in
this respect—that is, that their flame could be extinguished at the
moment of its formation. Mining experts, scientists, and others have
for years been endeavouring to solve this problem, but without success.
At last, however, an invention has been brought forward which leaves
but little doubt that all difficulties have now been overcome, and
that so soon as the appliance is in general use, colliery explosions
resulting from shot-firing will be at an end, and the dreadful loss of
life and limb with which they are too frequently attended will be a
thing of the past.

The invention, which has been patented, is introduced by Mr Miles
Settle, managing director of the Madeley Coal and Iron Company,
Staffordshire. The explosive used is gelatine-dynamite (a chemical
combination of gun-wood and nitro-glycerine), three ounces of which
are equal in explosive power to a pound of gunpowder. It is of a straw
colour, and about the consistence of soap. The design of the patent is
to inclose the charge of gelatine-dynamite in a tin case or any other
material, not necessarily waterproof, and to insert this in a larger
case of oiled paper, india-rubber, tin, or anything that is waterproof.
Projections from the sides and ends of the inner case keep it in such a
position that when the outer vessel is filled with water, the cartridge
case is completely surrounded with fluid. A detonator is fixed to
the explosive, and this is in turn connected with a magneto-electric
machine. When the outer case has been so secured as to prevent the
escape of the water, the whole is inserted in the shot-hole, and is
fixed there by ramming, as for an ordinary powder shot. The operator
then retires to a safe distance and fires the charge by electricity.
No flame accompanies its explosion, as at the moment of its formation
it is extinguished by the water surrounding the cartridge. In addition
to this, the water causes the gelatine-dynamite to exert its power
equally in all directions, and it also absorbs the gases formed by
the combustion of the explosive, so rendering it possible for men to
commence working at the coal immediately after the discharging of the
shot. Moreover, the coal dislodged by this method contains a minimum
of slack, and there is therefore a great saving to the colliery
proprietor in this respect.

The cartridge has recently been put to some very severe tests in some
of the most fiery coal-mines in North Staffordshire; in fact, shots
have been fired with this explosive in mines which are so gaseous
that blasting is strictly prohibited in them, and the coal has to be
obtained by the expensive and ancient method of hammer and wedge. In
some of these fiery mines, blown-out shots have actually occurred; and
all the experts who were present at the time expressed a unanimous
opinion that had such a circumstance happened in the ordinary method
of blasting, a disastrous explosion would inevitably have been the
result. To prove the safety with which one of these cartridges can
be fired, they have been exploded in bags of coal-dust, and not the
slightest vestige of flame has attended their combustion. Gunpowder has
been exploded under similar circumstances, with the result that the
coal-dust instantly became ignited, and shot into the air for several
yards like one sheet of flame.

All the experts who have witnessed the experiments, both on the surface
and down in the mine, have expressed their perfect satisfaction with
the invention in every way, and have stated their belief that it can
be used with entire safety in the most fiery mines. The government
Inspector of Mines for North Staffordshire, who has been present at
some of the experiments, has announced that he is prepared to report
to the Home Office that the appliance possesses the element of safety
which is claimed for it.

A magneto-electric machine is used to fire the shot in preference to
an electric battery, as the former is considered much the safer of the
two. With a magneto-electric machine, the current, as is well known, is
generated by friction, and it can therefore be broken simultaneously
with the firing of the shot; whilst in an electric battery it is
generated for the most part by means of strong acids, and cannot be
broken without disconnecting one of the wires from the battery. It is
just possible, therefore, that as the current is continuous in the
last-named machine, the two wires might still remain so close together
after the discharging of a shot as to allow a spark to pass between
them, which in a very fiery mine would certainly cause an explosion.

Looking at the construction of Mr Settle’s patent and at the very
severe tests to which it has been subjected, there seems every reason
to believe that at last has been solved the difficult problem of
shot-firing with safety in coal-mines, and that henceforth explosions
arising from this cause will be unknown. Such disasters are among the
most dreadful calamities which can overtake a community; and only those
who have been eye-witnesses of the widespread sorrow and suffering they
entail—whole villages and districts being in a moment plunged into
mourning, and dozens of children rendered fatherless or orphans—can
form an adequate idea of the boon which the ‘water-cartridge’ promises
to be to the mining population. That the highest expectations
concerning it may be fully realised, is the devout wish of all who are
connected with the management or working of our collieries, and who
are so frequently called upon to witness some of the saddest and most
heartrending spectacles that it is possible for humanity to gaze upon.




THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.

A LEGEND OF NORTH CEYLON.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.


CHAP. I.—THE PÚSÁRI’S ADVENTURE.

Buried in the depths of the great Thorokádú jungle lay the little
village of Pandiyán. Half-a-dozen low, round, mud-huts with conical
roofs, thatched with rice-straw, each with its _pandál_ or workshed,
granary, and cooking-pot stand, composed the village. A strong
stake-fence surrounded each hut, intended as much to keep off the
village cattle as a protection from the wild beasts which infested the
surrounding jungle. On two sides of the village the jungle rose like a
wall; on the third side lay the village tank. Along the _bund_ or dam
grew a number of giant marúthú trees, with their spreading, twisted
roots in the water, and their long branches hanging gracefully over it.
The placid surface of the tank, with its dark background of jungle,
looked like a plate of burnished silver, and lay clear and unruffled
save by the splash of some water-bird fishing, or the movements of a
slowly swimming crocodile. On the top of the dam, under a gigantic
tree, and overlooking the village, stood a little temple. It was a
small mud-hut, painted in vertical stripes of red and white. A rudely
hewn stone idol, smeared with oil and coarse paint, and representing
Púliya the jungle-god, stood on a niche at the farther end. A rough
slab of stone, on which lay withered offerings of flowers; an iron
trident stuck in the ground before the door; a dirty brass lamp, and a
bell, comprised the rest of the sacred furniture and utensils. Through
a gap in the wall of jungle, on the other side of the village, could
be seen the rice-fields irrigated by the tank, an expanse of emerald
green. Picturesque watch-huts and stacks of last season’s straw stood
here and there in the fields.

It was late in the afternoon and very hot. To the shade of a group of
huge dense-foliaged tamarind trees that stood in the centre of the
village all the animal population of Pandiyán appeared to have come.
Black mud-covered buffaloes all standing and staring stupidly; dwarf
village cattle wandering restlessly about, pestered by swarms of
flies; mangy, gaunt, pariah dogs snarling viciously at each other; and
long-legged, skinny fowls—all had sought protection from the burning
rays of the sun under the shady trees.

At one end of the village, nearest to the little temple, stood a hut,
round the door of which was congregated nearly the whole population of
the village. More than a score of persons, men, women, and children,
stood round an object in their midst, all talking excitedly to each
other and everybody at once. It was a buffalo they were looking at, and
the interest and excitement they showed arose from its having sustained
a severe injury. There was a gaping wound on its hind-leg, its hock
sinew having been cut through. The great ungainly brute, though so
seriously hurt, stood patient and quiet, looking about with a heavy
stupid air.

Among the crowd surrounding the buffalo was a young girl, whose light
colour, clean bright clothes, and profusion of jewellery, showed her
to be of superior caste and position to the others. She was Vallee,
the daughter of Ráman Ummiyan, the _púsári_ or village priest of
Pandiyán. She was a handsome girl, about fifteen years old; tall,
slender, and graceful, with regular features; large dark eyes, finely
arched eyebrows, and small sensitive mouth. She was engaged in washing
the blood and dirt from the buffalo’s wound. It was evident, from the
remarks addressed to her by the bystanders, condoling with her or
offering advice, that her father was the owner of the wounded animal.

‘It is no use, child,’ said an old man who had been examining the
wound. ‘He will never plough again. The sinew is cut through, and he
will be lame for life.’

‘Ap-pah! What will my father say when he comes home?’ exclaimed Vallee.

‘Ah, there will be a breaking of pots then, no doubt,’ replied the old
man.—‘Where was the beast found?’ he added.

‘Suriyan found him standing in the river helpless this afternoon, and
drove him home on three legs,’ replied Vallee.

‘Perhaps he cut himself on the sharp rocks in the river,’ suggested a
bystander.

‘No, no!’ said the old man. ‘The cut was made by a knife; and we would
not have to go far to find the owner of the knife,’ he added, muttering.

‘You are right enough, father,’ whispered the other, who had overheard
the old man’s remark. ‘We know very well who did this, and the púsári
will know too! There will be trouble when he comes home.—Ah, here he
comes!’

As he spoke, a man emerged from the jungle and entered the village,
and seeing the crowd, walked hastily towards it. It was Ráman Ummiyan,
the village priest. He was a tall, spare man, clad in a single yellow
garment. Several strings of sacred beads encircled his neck; and his
forehead, breast, and shoulders were smeared with consecrated ashes.
His face indicated a man of strong passions. His keen, close-set eyes;
deeply lined forehead; thin, sensitive nostrils; hard, straight mouth,
and other strongly marked features, showed him to be of an irritable,
quarrelsome disposition. As he advanced, the little crowd round the
wounded buffalo opened and made way for him.

‘What is this? What is the matter with it?’ he exclaimed as he glanced
at the animal.

‘See! father,’ replied Vallee, pointing to the wound. ‘Suriyan found it
at the river, and has just driven it here.’

For a moment the púsári bent and looked at the wound; then he burst
into a furious rage. Striking the end of his stick heavily on the
ground, he exclaimed passionately: ‘It is Iyan Elúvan who has done
this!’

The púsári and the man he spoke of were fellow-villagers and deadly
enemies. The feud between them had arisen from a quarrel about a field
which both men claimed. On going to law, the púsári had won the case,
and the other consequently hated him with a deep and deadly hatred.
Iyan Elúvan was a man of a cruel, malignant, cunning nature, and never
lost an opportunity of injuring or harassing his enemy. The quarrel was
now some years old, but his hatred was just as bitter as ever. Many a
time had the púsári had cause to regret having incurred his neighbour’s
ill-will. He was not equal to him in audacity and cunning, and was also
a much poorer man. He had brought many actions against his enemy; but
the latter’s keener brain and longer purse had almost always enabled
him to get the better of his adversary. The object of each man was to
drive the other out of the village; but the interests of both of them
in the village were too great to permit either to leave, so they lived
on within a stone’s-throw of one another, deadly enemies, always on the
watch to injure each other in every possible way.

‘Ah, ah!’ shouted the púsári, gesticulating furiously with his stick.
‘I will have vengeance for it! I swear by Púliya I will not rest till
I have repaid him with interest, though it cost me my last rupee!—How
long,’ he continued, turning fiercely to the villagers, who stood round
silent but sympathising—‘how long are we to bear with this man? He is
a wild beast, as cruel and dangerous as the fiercest brute in these
jungles. He will stand at nothing to gratify his hate. He has robbed
me and slandered me, and brought false cases against me; and now, see
the brutal way he has injured this poor brute of mine! He will try
to murder me next. But I will have vengeance; I will complain to the
headman!’

‘Not much use in that, _iya_’ [a term of respect], remarked the old man
who had before spoken.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the púsári passionately, ‘he will bribe the headman as
usual, no doubt. But I will outbid him! The múdliya shall have my last
ricepot ere I be balked of my vengeance!’ So saying, he strode into his
house, muttering curses and threats.

Vallee, after a short time, followed him in. ‘The rice is ready,
father,’ she said. ‘Shall I serve it?’

‘No!’ replied her father sternly. ‘I will neither eat nor drink till I
have seen to this matter. I shall go at once to Mánkúlam and see the
múdliya.’

‘Father!’ said Vallee hesitatingly, ‘perhaps Iyan did not do this;
perhaps’——

‘You’re a fool, child!’ returned the púsári sharply. ‘Who but he could
have done it?’

‘Valan told me’—— began Vallee timidly.

Her father interrupted her with an angry exclamation. ‘Did I not order
you never to speak to him? Have you dared to listen to the brother of
my bitterest enemy?’ and he raised his hand threateningly. ‘Now listen,
daughter! If you ever speak to Valan or listen to him or have aught to
do with him again, I will beat you as I would a dog; I swear to you I
will.—Now, hearken to my words and obey!’ And with a threatening look
and a suggestive shake of his stick, the púsári stalked out. After
another look in silence at the wounded buffalo, he left the village and
strode off in the direction of Mánkúlam, leaving Vallee crouching in a
corner of the hut with her hands over her face and sobbing aloud.

Valan Elúvan, of whom they had been speaking, was the younger brother
of the púsári’s enemy, and was Vallee’s lover. He was a man of a very
different nature from his brother, being open-hearted, generous, and
good-natured. Nevertheless, the púsári hated him almost as much as he
did his brother. The understanding between Valan and Vallee had only
recently been come to. For a long time, Valan had watched and admired
the graceful maiden; but owing to the bad feeling between the two
families, had not ventured to speak to her. One day, however, seeing
her in difficulties with a troublesome cow she was trying to milk, he
went to her assistance. She thanked him shyly, but with such evident
pleasure at his attention, that he was emboldened to speak to her
again, when he met her one day going to a neighbouring village. After
that, they frequently found occasion to meet alone, and gradually
their acquaintance grew to intimacy, and finally ripened to love.
Unfortunately, her father discovered accidentally what was going on,
and sternly forbade Vallee ever to speak to her lover again. Since
then, she had only had one opportunity of seeing Valan. This fresh
outrage on the part of Iyan Elúvan, she knew but too well, finally
extinguished all chance of her father ever accepting Valan as her
lover; so, crouching in the dark hut, she gave vent to her grief.

Meanwhile, the púsári was striding along the jungle-path leading to
Mánkúlam, his mouth full of curses, and his heart full of hatred and
thoughts of vengeance. The path was narrow and winding, leading now
along sandy torrent-beds, then through lofty forest or thorny jungle.
The village was three miles distant, and it was now evening, so he
walked as fast as he could, finding some vent for his feelings in the
violent exercise. When he had walked two-thirds of the way, he arrived
at a broad river. It was now nearly dry, it being the hot season, and
was merely a wide reach of deep sand, with shallow pools here and
there under the high banks. The púsári had crossed the river and had
just entered the jungle on the other side, when he suddenly uttered a
curse and stopped short. Coming along the path towards him, and alone,
was a man. It was his enemy, Iyan Elúvan! He was a broad-shouldered,
big-headed man, with a round face, out of which looked two little
pig-like, cunning eyes. A slight contraction of one side of his face
causing him to show his teeth, gave him a peculiar, sinister, sneering
expression. He had been at work cutting fence-sticks, for he was
carrying his _katti_ or jungle-knife over his shoulder.

On catching sight of each other, the two men stopped and looked at one
another. The púsári’s face worked with passion, his eyes glittered,
and the veins stood out on his forehead. The other had a mocking, evil
smile on his face, which seemed to irritate his enemy beyond endurance.
Suddenly the púsári grasped his heavy iron-shod stick and made two
steps forward. In an instant Iyan swung round his jungle-knife and
stood on the defensive, while his sneering smile gave place to a look
of concentrated hate. For a few moments they stood glaring at each
other, and then the púsári slowly stepped to one side and motioned
to the other to pass on, which he did, keeping an eye on his foe,
however, and passing out of reach of him. As soon as he had gone by,
the púsári resumed his journey, his rencontre with his enemy having
added fresh fuel to the fire of evil passions blazing in his heart.
Iyan watched him till he had gone some distance, and then, after a few
moments’ hesitation, turned and followed, keeping him in sight, but
remaining a long way behind.

A walk of a mile further brought the púsári to the village of Mánkúlam,
with Iyan following in the distance. It was rather a large village,
consisting of about a score of huts, scattered about a wide open spot
in the jungle, with a tank on one side, and rice-fields stretching
beyond it. On the outskirts of the village was a house larger and more
pretentious than any of the others, and boasting a dense plantain
grove, growing close to the hut, and a few cocoa-nut palms. This was
the residence of the múdliya, or headman of the district. On entering
the inclosure through the rude stile or gap in the fence, the púsári
paused for a moment, for the place seemed deserted, no one being in
sight. He heard, however, the sound of voices inside the hut, so,
stepping forward, with a loud unceremonious ‘Salaam, múdliya!’ he
entered the hut. Seeing his enemy enter the headman’s house, Iyan came
cautiously forward, but paused irresolutely at the gate. A glance round
showed him that the people of the house were all indoors, so, sneaking
into the inclosure, he crept stealthily through the grove of plantain
trees till he got close to the door of the hut, when he crouched down
under the eaves. From his hiding-place he could hear all that was said
in the hut.

‘What do you want?’ he heard a wheezy, unpleasant voice say, and he
knew it was the headman who spoke. The tone in which the question was
asked was harsh and unfriendly, and an ugly smile passed over the
listener’s face as he noted it.

‘I am come to lodge a complaint against Iyan Elúvan,’ replied the
púsári shortly.

‘I thought so,’ wheezed the headman. ‘You are as quarrelsome as a
wanderoo he-monkey. Do you think I have nothing to do but to listen to
your fools’ quarrels?’

‘You will listen readily enough,’ retorted the púsári angrily, ‘when
Iyan Elúvan comes with his hands full of rupees!’

‘What!’ exclaimed the headman, wheezing and choking with wrath, ‘do you
charge me, the múdliya of Mánkúlam, with receiving bribes?’

‘Ay, I do,’ replied the púsári sternly. ‘All the villages know it.
Many a time have I brought just complaints to you, and you would not
hear them. When Iyan threw a dead dog into my well; when he set fire
to my straw stack; and when, by manthiram’ [magical arts], ‘he caused
my cattle to fall ill, why did you not inquire into the complaints I
made—why? but because your granary was bursting with the rice that Iyan
gave you as hush-money!’

‘Get out of my house!’ screamed the headman huskily—‘get out, I say!’

‘I’ll have justice,’ shouted the púsári fiercely. ‘I am a poor man, and
cannot bribe you; but I swear by Púliya-deva that I will have justice.
I will make you both suffer for this. You shall pay for that buffalo
that Iyan has lamed to the last hair on his tail. It shall be an evil
day for you that you refused me justice. Look to yourself, múdliya;
look to yourself, I say!’

‘Leave my house, you madman!’ exclaimed the headman in a voice scarcely
articulate with rage.

A moment later, Iyan, from his hiding-place, saw his enemy burst out
of the house almost beside himself with rage, his eyes ablaze, his
lips drawn back in a grin of fury, and his whole frame trembling with
excitement. He watched him stride across the inclosure and make for
the path leading to Pandiyán, swinging his arms and gesticulating like
one demented. Just as the púsári disappeared, a little boy came out
of the hut, and Iyan heard him uttering exclamations of excitement
and astonishment. He could also hear the voice of the headman inside
wheezing out threats and curses. Presently, the little boy went out at
the gate and disappeared in the village, and Iyan rose to leave his
hiding-place. As he did so, he saw lying in the path a knife, which
he at once knew must have been dropped by the púsári as he rushed out
of the hut. Picking it up, Iyan crept back into his hiding-place, and
crouching down, examined it long and earnestly, feeling its edge, and
making motions with it in the air. Suddenly, an idea seemed to strike
him. He looked up hastily and around with a scared, startled air, and
then felt the edge of the knife again with his thumb slowly while he
gazed earnestly in the direction of the door of the hut. Presently, an
evil, cruel smile curled his lips and sent a baleful gleam into his
little eyes. Muttering to himself, ‘Yes; I’ll do it; the suspicion is
sure to fall on him!’ he rose slowly, glanced round again, to assure
himself that no one was watching him, and then, with a rapid, silent
step, entered the hut.

Meanwhile, the púsári was hurrying along in the direction of his
village, cursing and raving. The injury done him by his enemy, and
the refusal of the headman to give him justice, had angered him to
the verge of madness. As he strode furiously along swinging his heavy
stick, and grasping at the air with his other hand, as if he was in
imagination tearing his enemy to pieces, he was quite oblivious of
all surroundings, and only conscious of his wrongs and desire for
vengeance. Blind with rage, he hurried on, heedless of where he was
going.

By this time, the sun had sunk and night was rapidly coming on.
Gradually the path grew less and less distinct, and the surrounding
forest more gloomy and fearful. Suddenly, the púsári stopped and looked
about him. Being unable to see his way, he had at last come to his
senses. All that was visible of the path now was a dim white streak
before him. For a few moments he stood looking round. Even in that
faint light the path seemed strange to him, and he peered about in vain
for some familiar object by which he could ascertain his position. He
soon satisfied himself he was not in the well-known path between the
two villages, but was following some game-track; however, he felt sure
he was going in the right direction, so went on, instead of turning
back to look for the lost path. Every now and then he stopped to
listen, hoping to hear the distant barking of dogs or lowing of cattle
at Pandiyán; but he only heard the sharp barking cry of deer in the
jungle and the dismal hooting of a pair of owls. It grew darker and
darker, and the path worse and worse. Soon it was so dark that he could
not see his hand before his face. He tried to feel his way with his
stick, but nevertheless stumbled against the trees and over roots and
stones. More than once he stopped and shouted long and loudly; but no
answer came but the mocking hooting of the owls. The púsári was a brave
man; but the dense darkness, the loneliness and silence of the jungle,
were beginning to shake his nerves.

Suddenly, just as he was about to give up in despair the attempt to
find his way, a brilliant light appeared in the jungle ahead of him.
Uttering an ejaculation of surprise, pleasure, and relief, the púsári
pressed towards it. A few moments later he was standing, with open
eyes and startled expression, gazing at a scene such as he had never
before looked on. Before him stretched a long narrow bazaar of houses,
shops, and sheds, huddled irregularly together. Close behind them, and
overhanging them, rose the jungle like a wall of ebony, densely dark.
Above, stretched a sky of inky blackness, starless and cloudless.
The whole bazaar was ablaze with light from numerous fires, torches,
and lamps. It was crowded with people, men, women, and children, all
apparently busily engaged in buying and selling and other occupations.
But they were people such as the púsári had never before seen—black,
lean, ungainly, with thin evil faces, and long black hair flowing
wildly over their necks and shoulders. He noticed, too, that their
feet and hands resembled more the claws of wild beasts than human
appendages. But the strangest thing of all was that, though the bazaar
appeared to his eyes to be full of bustle and noise, and all the people
to be talking, wrangling, singing, and laughing, he could not hear a
sound! Could he have shut his eyes, he might have fancied himself alone
in the jungle again.

For some moments the púsári stood staring before him, bewildered at
the sight. To come suddenly upon a large village that he had never
heard of, close to his own, filled him with speechless amazement He
rubbed his eyes and felt his ears, thinking his senses must be playing
him false. Suddenly his heart stood still, and he gasped with horror.
He had realised where he was—it was an enchanted or magic village of
_pisásis_ or demons that he had intruded on! As the full horror of his
situation, alone among demons in the depths of the jungle at midnight,
burst upon him, the púsári turned to flee. To his intense surprise
and terror, on turning, he found behind him, not the jungle, as he
expected, but another part of the bazaar! Rows of huts and shops,
crowded so closely together that there was no way through them into the
forest beyond, barred his way. After a moment’s hesitation, he plucked
up courage, and muttering prayers and charms, started off to walk
through the bazaar. Grasping his stick firmly, he walked boldly on,
showing no outward sign of fear, but with deadly terror at his heart.

The bazaar seemed to lengthen before him as he went. He walked on
and on, but it seemed to have no end. He turned aside into several
by-lanes, but they only led into others. He looked in vain for any gap
between the huts by which he could escape into the jungle. As he went,
he passed through crowds of demon-folk. They took no notice of him,
but he felt they were all watching him with their gleaming red eyes.
To the púsári, everything around him seemed to be alive. The boughs
of the trees waved above him threateningly like weird skinny hands
and arms; hideous faces peered out at him from all sorts of strange,
unlikely places. Even the rice mortars and pots lying about, and the
articles being hawked about or lying exposed on the stalls, seemed to
assume grotesquely human faces and figures and to watch him stealthily.
Numbers of strange, vicious-looking cattle, and gaunt, evil-faced dogs
wandered about, and the púsári noticed them leering at him and each
other with a human sort of expression which showed him what they were.
Rows of fowls of queer shape were perched on the roofs of the huts, and
watched him as he passed with heads knowingly on one side.

Many a strange sight did the púsári see as he walked along. The shops
were full of curious and extraordinary things such as he had never seen
exposed for sale. He passed at one place a party of pisásis engaged in
beating drums of strange shape with drumsticks of bones. Soon after,
he came to a part of the bazaar where a furious quarrel appeared
to be raging. In a dark corner he caught sight of a large party of
she-pisásis, who appeared to be engaged in some horrible rite. More
than once he thought he saw the mock-animals wandering about the bazaar
talking to the keepers of the shops and to each other. It seemed to
the púsári that he had been walking for hours, yet the bazaar appeared
to be as interminable as ever. He walked on as in a dream, for, in
spite of the apparent bustle and excitement around him, he could hear
nothing. Stupefied by his fearful position, he walked on mechanically,
having now lost the sense of fear, and feeling only a sort of vague
wonder.

And now a raging thirst seized on the púsári. He had been on foot all
day in the sun, and all the afternoon his mouth had been hot and bitter
with curses. He had drunk nothing for many hours. As he walked along,
the craving for water grew stronger and stronger, till he could bear it
no longer. He realised vaguely the peril he ran in accepting anything
from the hand of a pisási, nevertheless he stopped and looked about, in
the hope of finding something to drink. Near at hand was a small shop
presided over by a hideous old she-pisási. Undeterred by the horrible
aspect of the red-eyed, wrinkled, old hag, the púsári approached her
with the intention of asking for a drink of water. As he did so, he
felt conscious that all the pisásis had suddenly stood still and were
watching him. The she-pisási’s shop contained some strange things.
On one side lay a huge rock python cut into lengths, each of which
was wriggling about as if full of life. On the other side lay a young
crocodile apparently dead; but as the púsári approached, it turned
its head and looked slily at him with its cold yellow eye. Over the
old hag’s head hung a crate full of live snakes, that writhed about
and thrust their heads through the withes. Strings of dead bats, and
baskets full of loathsome reptiles and creeping creatures, filled the
shop. In front of her stood a hollow gourd full of water.

‘Mother! I am thirsty,’ said the púsári as he pointed to the water. But
though he said the words, he did not hear his own voice. The old hag
looked fixedly at him for a moment, and then raising the gourd, gave
it to him. He raised it to his lips, and drank long and eagerly. As he
put the empty vessel down, he felt everything reel and swim about him.
Gazing wildly round, he grasped at the air two or three times for some
support, and then fell to the ground motionless and senseless.




AN EVERY-DAY OCCURRENCE.


There are in all our lives episodes which we should be glad to forget;
of which we are so much ashamed, that we scarcely dare to think of
them, and when we do, find ourselves hurriedly muttering the words
we imagine we ought to have said, or making audible apologies for
our conduct to the air; and yet these are not always episodes which
necessarily involve a tangible sense of wrong done either to ourselves
or to others. Some such episode in a commonplace life, such as must
have fallen to the lot of many men, we would here reveal.

Once upon a time—to commence in an orthodox fashion—a man and a maid
lived and loved. On the woman’s part the affection was as pure and
generous as ever filled the breast of a maiden; on the man’s, as warm
as his nature permitted. His love did not absorb his whole soul, it
rather permeated his mind and coloured his being. Like most men of his
not uncommon stamp, his affection once given, was given for ever. His
was not a jubilant nature, nor did his feelings lie near the surface,
and his manner was undemonstrative. The girl was clear-sighted enough
to see that what love there was, was pure and true, and she made up
for its scarcity with the overflowings of her sympathetic nature. She
idealised rather than condoned. She gave in such measure that she could
not perceive how little she was receiving in return; or if she noticed
it, her consciousness of its worth seemed to her a full equivalent. He
was an artist; and circumstances forced the lovers to wait, and at the
same time kept them apart. A couple of days once a month, and a week
now and again, was the limit of the time they could spend together.
This, of course, prevented them getting that intimate knowledge of each
other’s personality which both recognised as an essential adjunct to
the happiness of married life, though they did their best to obviate
it by long letters, giving full details of daily events and of the
society in which they moved. The remedy was an imperfect one. Strive
as they might, the sketches were crude, and the letters had a tendency
to become stereotyped. We only mention these details to show that they
tried to be perfectly honest with each other.

While the girl’s life, in her quiet country home, was one that held
little variety in it, it was a part of the man’s stock-in-trade to mix
with society and to observe closely. Whether he liked it or not, he
was compelled to make friends to such an extent as to afford him an
opportunity of gauging character. Unfortunately for the purposes of my
study, he had no sympathy with pessimism or pessimists. He loved the
good and the beautiful for their own sakes, and in his art loved to
dwell on the bright side of human nature, a side which the writer has
found so much easier to meet with than the more sombre colouring we are
constantly told is the predominating one in life. Like most artists, he
was somewhat susceptible, but his susceptibility was on the surface;
the inward depths of his soul had never been stirred save by the gentle
girl who held his heart, and she was such as to inspire a constant and
growing affection rather than a demonstrative passion.

At one of the many houses at which he was a welcome guest, the lover
found a young girl bright, sensuous, beautiful. Unwittingly, he
compared her with the one whose heart he held, and the comparison was
unsatisfactory to him; do what he would, the honesty of his nature
compelled him to allow that this beautiful girl was the superior in a
number of ways to her to whom he had pledged his life. He was caught
in the Circe’s chains of golden hair, and fancied—almost hoped—yet
feared lest, like bonds of cobwebs in the fairy tale, the toils were
too strong for him to break. He could see, too, that the girl regarded
him with a feeling so warm, that a chance spark would rouse it into a
flame of love; and this gave her an interest as dangerous as it was
fascinating. His fancy swerved. Day after day he strove with himself,
and by efforts, too violent to be wise, he kept away from the siren
till his inflamed fancy forced him back to her side.

To the maiden in the country he was partially honest. In his letters he
faithfully told her of his visits, and as far as he could, recorded his
opinions of the girl who had captivated his fancy. Too keen an artist
to be blind to her faults, he dwelt on them in his frequent letters
at unnecessary length. When the lovers met, the girl questioned him
closely about her rival, but only from the interest she felt in all his
friends known and unknown, for her love for him was too pure and strong
to admit of jealousy, and he, with what honesty he could, answered her
questions unreservedly.

Little by little he began to examine himself. Which girl did he really
love? Should he not be doing a wrong to both by not deciding? The
examination was dangerous, because it was not thorough. The premises
were true, but incomplete. Yet we should wrong him if we implied that
he for a moment thought seriously about breaking off his engagement.
Even had he wished, his almost mistaken feelings of honour would have
forbidden it. This constant surface introspection—a kind of examination
which, had not the subject been himself, he would have despised and
avoided—could have but one result—an obliquity of mental vision. He had
a horror of being untrue—untrue to himself as untrue to his lass, and
yet he dreaded causing pain to a bosom so tender and innocent. When
he sat down to write the periodical letters to the girl to whom he
was engaged, he found his phrases becoming more and more general and
guarded. He took pains not to let her know what he felt must wound her,
and the letters grew as unnatural as they had been the reverse; they
were descriptive of the man rather than the reflex of his personality.

The country girl was quick of perception. The letters were more full of
endearing terms than ever; they were longer and told more of his life;
yet between the lines she could see that they were by one whose heart
was not at rest, and that a sense of duty and not of pleasure prompted
the ample details. Their very regularity was painful: it seemed as if
the writer was anxious to act up to the letter of his understanding.
She knew that the letters were often written when he was tired out. Why
did he not put off writing, and taking advantage of her love, let her
exercise her trust in him? Eagerly she scanned the pages to find the
name of her rival, and having found it, would thoughtfully weigh every
word of description, of blame or praise.

When the lovers met, she questioned him more closely than she had ever
done before. He was seemingly as fond as ever; no endearing name, no
accustomed caress, was forgotten. He spoke of himself and his friends
as freely as usual, and all her questions were answered without a
shadow of reserve. Yet the answers were slower, and his manner absent
and thoughtful. For a time she put it down to the absorbing nature of
his pursuits; but little by little, a belief that she was no longer
_dearest_ crept into her heart, and would not be dislodged, try as she
might. She thought she was jealous, and struggled night and day against
a fault she dreaded above all others; then, in a paroxysm of despair,
she allowed herself to be convinced of what she feared, and, loving him
deeply, prepared to make the greatest sacrifice an unselfish woman can
offer. He no longer loved her; it was best he should be free.

When he had been with her last, he had told her that his ensuing
absence must perforce be longer than usual, and this she thought would
be the best time for her purpose.

‘Dear Frank,’ she wrote at the end of a pitiful little letter, ‘I am
going to ask you not to come here next week. This will surprise you,
for in all my other letters I have told you that what I most look
forward to in life is your visits. But I have been thinking, dear, that
it will be best for us to part for ever. I often ask myself if we love
one another as much as we did, and I am afraid we do not. A loveless
married life would be too dreadful to live through, and I dare not risk
it. It is better that the parting should come through me. Do not fancy
that I am reproaching you; I cannot, for to me you are above reproach,
above blame. All I feel is that our affection is colder, so we had
better part. God bless you, Frank; I can never tell you how deeply I
have loved you.—ELSIE.’

Frank was almost stunned by the receipt of this letter. He read it and
re-read it till every word seemed burnt into his brain. That the girl’s
love for him was less, he did not believe; he could read undiminished
affection in the vague phraseology, in the studied carefulness to take
equal blame on herself. That she should be jealous, was out of the
question; long years of experience had taught him that this was totally
foreign to her trustful nature. There was but one conclusion to come
to. She had given him up because she thought his happiness involved.
Yet she wished him to be free; might it not be ungracious to refuse to
accept her gift?

Free! There was a terrible fascination in the sound. Be the bondage
ever so pleasant, be it even preferable to liberty itself, the idea of
freedom is irresistibly alluring. If the same bondage will be chosen
again, there is a delight in the consciousness that it will be your
own untrammelled choice. Frank was aware of a wild exultation when he
realised the fact that he was once more a free agent. In the first
flush of liberty, poor Elsie’s image faded out of sight, and that of
the siren took its place. Now, without wrong, he might follow his
inclinations. He determined to write to Elsie, but knew not what to
say, and put it off till the morrow.

There could be no harm in going to the house of his fascinator; it
was pleasant to think that he might now speak, think, look, without
any mental reservations; there would be no longer any need to watch
his actions, or to force back the words which would tell her that she
exercised a deadly power over him. The girl received him with a winning
smile, yet, when he touched her hand, he did not feel his brain throb
or his blood rush madly through his veins as he had expected. He bore
his part through the evening quietly, and owned that it was a pleasant
one; still, the flavour was not what he had expected. He called to
mind that when he was abroad for the first time, he had been served
with a peculiar dish, which he remembered, and often longed for when
unattainable. After several years, he had visited the same café and
ordered the same dish. The same cook prepared it, and the same waiter
served it, but the taste was not the same; expectation had heightened
the flavour, and the real was inferior to the ideal.

So it was with Frank. Before, when the siren had seemed unattainable,
he had luxuriated in her beauty, admired her grace and genius, and
revelled in her wit; now, when he felt he might call these his own,
his eye began to detect deficiencies. The girl noted his critical
attitude, and chafed at the calmness of his keen, watchful glance.
Where was the open admiration she used to read in his eyes? Piqued at
his indifference, she grew silent and irritable; and when he bade her
farewell, both were conscious that an ideal had been shattered.

He buttoned his overcoat, and prepared for a long walk to the lonely
chambers where he lived the usual careless, comfortless life of a
bachelor whose purse is limited. All the way home he submitted himself
to a deep and critical examination. He felt as if he was sitting by
the ashes of a failing fire which he had no means of replenishing;
the night was coming, and he must sit in the cold. If passion died
out, where was he to look for the sympathy, the respect, the true
friendliness which alone can supply its place in married life? Then he
thought of Elsie. He had made a mistake, but a very common mistake. He
had thought that the excitement of his interest, the enchaining of his
fancy, and the enthralment of his senses, was love, and lo! it was only
passion. He analysed his feelings more deeply yet, and getting below
the surface-currents which are stirred by the winds, saw that the quiet
waters beneath had kept unswervingly on their course.

When he reached his chambers, he sat down by his table and drew paper
and ink towards him. ‘I shall not accept your dismissal, Elsie,’ he
wrote hurriedly in answer to her piteous letter: ‘I should be very
shallow if I could not read the motive which prompted your letter. I
shall come down as usual, and we will talk over it till we understand
each other fully. Till then, you must believe me when I tell you that
I love you all the more for your act of sacrifice, and that I love you
more now than I have ever done before.’

Frank and Elsie have been long married, and are content. There is no
fear of his swerving again; but the event described left its mark on
Frank. He knows now that he was on the verge of committing a grievous
mistake, and one which might have darkened all his future life. For
it is not great events, involving tragedies and tears, that impress
themselves most deeply upon the body of our habits and thoughts; but
the tendency of our life, as in the case before us, is often most
deeply affected by what is no more than ‘an every-day occurrence.’




A NIGHT IN A WELL.


The station of Rawal Pindi, in which the following incident took place,
is a large military cantonment in the Punjab, about a hundred miles
from the Indus at Attock, where the magnificent bridge across the rapid
river now completes the connection by rail between the presidency towns
of Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay with Peshawur our frontier outpost,
which, like a watchful sentinel, stands looking straight into the
gloomy portal of the far-famed Khyber Pass. It was at Rawal Pindi that
the meeting took place between the Viceroy of India, Lord Dufferin, and
the present Ameer of Afghanistan, before whom were then paraded not
only the garrison of Rawal Pindi, or, as it is more generally known
in those parts, by the familiar abbreviation of Pindi—a Punjabi word
signifying a village—but a goodly array of the three arms, artillery,
cavalry, and infantry, drawn from the garrisons of the Punjab and
North-west Provinces of India. In ordinary times, the troops in
garrison at Pindi consist of four or five batteries of royal artillery,
both horse and field; a regiment of British, and one of Indian cavalry;
and one regiment of British, and two of Bengal infantry, with a company
of sappers and miners. The barracks—or, as they are called in India,
the lines—occupied by these troops extend across the Grand Trunk Road
leading to Peshawur, those of the royal artillery being almost, if not
quite on the extreme right, and it is here that the occurrence which
gives the heading to this article took place.

In front of the lines of each regiment is the quarter-guard belonging
to it, at a distance of two or three hundred yards from the centre
barrack. The men of this guard are turned out and inspected once by
day and once by night by the officer on duty, technically known as the
orderly officer. In rear of the quarter-guard, as has been already
said, are the men’s barracks; and in rear of them the cook-houses and
horse-lines, amongst and behind which are large wells—‘_pucka_ wells,’
as they are called, from being lined for a long way down and about the
surface with brick-work and cement, in distinction from the ordinary
‘_cutcha_ wells,’ which are merely circular holes dug until water is
reached.

The _pucka_ wells in the Pindi cantonments are from twelve to fourteen
feet in diameter, and from thirty to forty feet from the surface to the
water. They are surrounded by low parapets; and from each well extend
long troughs of brick and cement, into which the water drawn from the
well is conducted by channels, for the use of the horses and other
cattle belonging to the artillery or cavalry. The low parapets round
the wells are sufficient protection, at all events in the daytime;
though instances are not unfrequent when accidents have occurred on
a dark night to goats, sheep, and even bullocks straying from their
tethers, especially when a dust-storm has been adding by its turmoil to
the bewilderment of all so unfortunate as to be caught abroad in it,
as the writer has on more than one occasion, when compelled to stand
or sit for hours behind some protecting wall or tree; the darkness in
noonday has been so great that his hand, though held close to his eyes,
was with difficulty discernible. When to such a state of things are
added the roar of the wind and the beating of broken branches of trees,
wisps of straw, and other articles caught up and hurtled along, it may
be easily imagined how dazed and perplexed is the condition of every
creature so exposed. A dust-storm, however, had nothing to say to the
accident with which we have to do.

In rear of the cook-houses, wells, &c., come the mess-house and the
bungalows in which the officers reside, each in its own compound or
inclosure, about eighty or a hundred yards square, and about a quarter
of a mile from the men’s lines.

One night in the cold season of 1866-67, as well as I can remember,
the subaltern on duty at Pindi was Lieutenant Black—as we will call
him—of the Royal Horse Artillery. He was well known in the arm of the
service to which he belonged as a bold and fearless horseman, who had
distinguished himself on many occasions as a race-rider both at home
and abroad. On the evening in question he remained playing billiards in
the mess-house until it was time to visit the quarter-guard in front of
the lines. A little before midnight he mounted his horse at the door of
the mess, and started. It was very dark; but he knew the road well, and
had perfect faith in his horse, a favourite charger; so, immediately on
passing the gate of the mess compound, he set off, as was his custom,
at a smart canter along the straight road leading to the barracks.
He passed through these, and soon reached the guard, which he turned
out, and finding all present and correct, proceeded to return to his
own bungalow, having completed his duty for the day. He rode through
the lines by the way he had come; but then, being in a hurry to get to
bed, he left the main road and took a short-cut across an open space.
Notwithstanding the darkness, the horse was cantering freely on, no
doubt as anxious as his master to reach his comfortable stall, when
all at once Black felt him jump over some obstacle, which he cleared,
and the next moment horse and rider were falling through the air; and
a great splash and crash were the last things of which Black had any
consciousness. After an interval—how long he couldn’t tell—sensation
slowly returned, and he became aware that he was still sitting in his
saddle, but bestriding a dead horse. His legs were in water; and the
hollow reverberation of his voice when he shouted for help, as he did
until he could do so no longer, informed him that he had fallen into
one of the huge wells somewhere in the lines. It was intensely dark;
but he soon became aware that there were other living creatures in the
well, for from its sides came occasional weird rustlings and hissings,
which added considerably to the horror of his situation, by creating a
vague feeling of dread of some unknown danger close at hand.

Slowly the long night passed, and he could plainly hear the gongs of
the different regiments as the hours were struck on them, and the
sentries, as if in mockery, crying the usual ‘All’s well.’ Gradually
day began to dawn, and light to show up above at the mouth of the
well. By degrees, his prison became less dim, and he could see his
surroundings. He was bestriding his dead charger, which lay crumpled
up with a broken neck at the bottom of the well, in which was not more
than three feet of water. Black himself, except for the shock, was
uninjured. His legs were pretty well numbed, from being so long in the
water, but there were no bones broken; and barring the terrible jar to
his system, he was sound in every respect. As the sun arose, he began
to peer about, and again tried to make himself heard above ground.
This caused a renewal of the peculiar rustlings and hissings we have
referred to; and he was now enabled to verify what he had dreaded and
suspected when he first heard them in the dark. All round the sides of
the well were holes, tenanted by snakes, most of them of the deadly
cobra tribe, and many, seemingly, of an extraordinary size. Presently,
like muffled thunder, the morning gun roused the sleepers in the
various barracks, and the loud reveille quickly following it, brought
hope of speedy release to the worn-out watcher.

The _bheesties_ coming to draw water were the first to discover him,
and their loud cries soon surrounded the mouth of the well with
stalwart artillerymen. Drag-ropes were brought from the nearest
battery; and Black, barely able to attach them to his body, was at
length drawn, to all appearance more dead than alive, to upper air,
unable to reply to the eager questionings of those by whom he was
surrounded. He was placed on a hospital litter, and hurried off to
his own bungalow. Under careful treatment, and thanks to a splendid
constitution, he was in a short time again fit for duty.

When recounting the events of the night, Black didn’t forget to mention
his sensations at hearing the hissings all round him, and which the
darkness at first made him think to be closer even than they were. This
at once caused a proposal to be made for a raid upon the inhabitants
of the holes; but he begged that they should not be disturbed, saying
that they could do no harm where they were, and that he couldn’t but
feel deeply grateful for their forbearance in confining themselves to
hissing his first and, he sincerely hoped, his last appearance in a
well.




PERSEPHONÉ.

A LAY OF SPRING.[1]


    Through the dusky halls of Hadës
      Thrills the echo of a voice,
    Full of love, and full of longing:
      ‘Come, and bid my heart rejoice!
    Daughter, all the world is barren,
      While I mourn thy long delay!’
    It is fond Demeter calling
      On her lost Persephoné.

    Sad she leans, the queen of Hadës,
      On the gloomy monarch’s breast,
    When upon her fettered senses
      Falls that wail of Earth distrest;
    And it woos her latent fancy
      With a dream of days gone by—
    And her heart responds in rapture
      To that eager parent-cry!

    Gently from the shadowy circle
      Of his arms she lifts her head,
    And its youthful beauty lightens
      Even the Kingdom of the Dead.
    Half a-dreaming, yet resistless
      To the voice that bids her come,
    Soft she murmurs: ‘Mother calls me;
      Hermes waits to lead me home.’

    ‘Wilt thou leave me? I have loved thee,
      Held thee dear as queenly wife;
    It was Zeus who gave thee to me—
      Life to Death, and Death to Life!’
    Still a-dreaming and bewildered,
      ‘Ah!’ she says, complaining low,
    ‘Hear ye not Demeter calling?
      King and husband, let me go!’

    Lingeringly he yields his darling,
      But she leaves the Shadow-land
    With his spell upon her spirit,
      With his chain upon her hand.
    ‘She will come again,’ he whispers,
      ‘And our union earth must own;
    Young Life drawn from Death’s embraces
      Will return to share his throne!’

           .       .       .       .       .

    Pure and queenly, all immortal,
      Stands she ’neath her native skies:
    Cloud and sunbeam, dew and rainbow,
      Mingle in her lucid eyes:
    Fitful smiles and vivid blushes
      Blend to banish every tear,
    And, like lute, her tender accents
      Fall upon Demeter’s ear:

    ‘Mother, from the heart of Hadës
      I have come again to thee!’—
    Desert wide and boundless welkin,
      Grove and valley, hill and sea,
    All the animate creation,
      All the haunts of listening day,
    Echo with Demeter’s answer:
      ‘Hail, my child Persephoné!’

    Lo! the world awakes to rapture;
      Love rejoices, gods are glad,
    Flowers unfold around her footfalls,
      Youth in virgin garb is clad;
    All the Muses chant a welcome;
      Nymph and Naïad swell the strain;
    Dancing sunbeams, laughing waters,
      Aid the triumph of her train.

    Where she moves, a magic whisper
      Stirs the world to wanton mirth;
    Winter flies before her presence;
      Forms of beauty find new birth;
    Nature’s languid pulses flutter
      With the fervid breath of Spring,
    Zephyrs tell to opening blossoms:
      ‘Eros comes to reign as king!’

    Ah! while life breaks forth in music,
      Emerald hues, and heavenly light,
    Warmth, and love, and fairest promise,
      Still a vision of the night
    Glides athwart the happy Present,
      Vague as harvest hopes in May;
    ’Tis a dream of gloomy Hadës
      Haunts the young Persephoné!

    So, to Mother Earth she falters:
      ‘Though thy daughter, still his wife.
    Zeus decrees in kingly fashion,
      Death shall hold the hand of Life:
    Zeus decrees, and in one circle
      Life and Death doth still combine.
    Though I crown thee with my beauty,
      Though my soul is part of thine,
    Yet the mighty Hadës holds me
      By a power that is divine.

    ‘But, sweet mother, Life can only
      Be withdrawn. It never dies.
    From the heart of sombre Hadës,
      At thy call I will arise.
    Year by year thy eager summons
      Shall have power to break the chain,
    And in all her youthful glory,
      Will thy daughter come again.

    ‘Yet, because his spell must ever
      Lie upon my charmèd soul,
    He, the gloomy Lord of Shadows,
      Shall my wayward will control.
    As I heard thee call, my mother,
      So his call I must obey;
    Even here shall come his mandate,
      And I may not answer nay.
    Ah! when harvest fruits are garnered,
      Mourn thy child Persephoné.’

            JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.

[1] Persephoné, according to the Greek mythology, was the daughter of
Zeus (the Heavens) and Demeter (the Earth). Various legends are related
of her, one of the later and most beautiful being that, when young, she
was carried off by Pluto (ruler of the spirits of the dead), and by him
made Queen of Hadës (the nether world). Her mother, in agony at her
loss, searched for her all over the earth with torches, until at last
she discovered her abode. The gods, moved by the mother’s distress,
sent a messenger to bring Persephoné back, and Pluto consented to let
her go on condition that she returned and spent a portion of every year
with him. From this, Persephoné became among the ancients the symbol of
Spring, her disappearance to the lower world coinciding with winter,
and her reappearance in the upper world bringing back vegetable life
and beauty.

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