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. 115.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, MARCH 13, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




THE MONARCH OF AFRICAN MOUNTAINS.


To those who associate the name of the great African continent only
with visions of the steaming mangrove swamps of the west coast, the
luxuriant flower-carpets and grasses of the south, the trackless
sand-wastes of the north, and the undulating thirsty plains of ‘the
Bush,’ whose idea of Africa, indeed, may be summed up in three
words—sun, savages, and fever—to such, we say, it may be difficult to
accept the knowledge that snow-capped mountains exist in the very heart
of this dry and heat-engirdled land. But yet, there have been for ages,
strange tales of a wonderful mountain-mass in the tropical centre,
whose summit was perpetually covered with a mysterious substance which
the natives called ‘white salt.’ Now, as perpetual snow under the
equator was known only in Central America—nowhere else do mountains in
the tropics reach the snow-line—there did exist for ages incredulity
as to the existence of this alleged African Mont Blanc or Chimborazo.
The legend referring to it must have been known to the early Portuguese
travellers at least three centuries ago, for the Portuguese were at
Mombasa in the sixteenth century, and as Mombasa is within one hundred
and eighty miles of the mountain, and is the coast-limit of the
trade-route between it and the sea, they must have heard the stories of
the native and Arab traders. Others believed this Kilima-Njaro[1] to be
merely the legendary ‘Mountains of the Moon.’

The earliest authentic record of ‘discovery’ by a European is that
of Rebmann, a German missionary, who, on the 11th of May 1848, first
sighted the wonderful snowy dome. Baron Von der Decken, another German,
actually reached Kilima-Njaro in 1861, and stayed on its slopes for
some three months. On a second visit, Von der Decken ascended to a
height of ten thousand five hundred feet, although he did not reach
the snow. He was followed, in 1871, by an English missionary, the Rev.
Charles New, who made two journeys to Chaga—the native name for the
inhabited belt between three and seven thousand feet above the sea,
stretching round the mountain—and on the second occasion was robbed
and ill-used by Mandara, a native chief. Mr Joseph Thomson, after
making the journey _Through Masai-land_, of which he has published so
interesting an account, arrived at Kilima-Njaro in 1883. He journeyed
nearly all round the base of the mountain, but did not ascend more than
nine thousand feet. He also was robbed by Mandara.

It was reserved for Mr H. H. Johnston, F.R.G.S., to penetrate the
mysteries of the ‘Monarch of African Mountains,’ and to record his
experiences in a most interesting book, _The Kilima-Njaro Expedition_
(London: Kegan Paul). Mr Johnston’s experiences on the Congo qualified
him for African exploration; while his services to science in other
parts of the world, pointed him out as well equipped for the search
into and observation of the natural history of the locality, selected
for exploration by a joint-committee of the British Association and the
Royal Society. To solve the many interesting problems surrounding the
fauna and flora of this African alpine region, was the task delegated
to Mr Johnston. He left London in March 1884, and in due course
arrived at Zanzibar, where he was assisted by Sir John Kirk in getting
together a band of porters, servants, and guides. After some delay at
Mombasa, caused by a sharp attack of fever, Mr Johnston plunged into
the wilderness at the head of his long band of porters, carrying loads
of domestic necessaries, provisions, water, and ‘trade’ goods. The long
tramp inland was a weary one, for it was through a hot and thirsty
land, which sorely tried the endurance of the party.

The first glimpse of Kilima-Njaro was obtained long before the party
reached its base. And here it may be proper to explain that this name
is given to the whole mountain-mass, which consists of two huge peaks
and a number of smaller ones, just below the third parallel south of
the equator. The highest of the peaks is called Kibô, is eighteen
thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea, and
is always covered with snow on the top, and occasionally down to the
altitude of fourteen thousand feet. This is, so far as is at present
known, the highest mountain in Africa. The twin-peak, Kimawenzi, is
sixteen thousand two hundred and fifty feet high, and although above
the snow-line, is not continuously snow-clad. The whole mass is of
volcanic origin, and the two peaks are the craters of extinct volcanoes.

Approached from the south-east, the mountain has the appearance of
lonely isolation, and presents a truly remarkable spectacle, with its
peaks towering to the clouds and its glittering snow-caps. It is worth
while giving in Mr Johnston’s words his emotions on first gaining
sight of the goal of his desires: ‘With the falling temperature of the
small-hours, a brisk wind arose from the heated plain, and swept the
clouds from off the sky, all except the mass which obstinately clung to
Kilima-Njaro. Feverish and overtired, I could not sleep, and sat and
watched the heavens, waiting for the dawn. A hundred men were snoring
around me, and the night was anything but silent, for the hyenas were
laughing hideously in the gloom outside our circle of expiring embers.
At five o’clock I awoke my servant Virapan, and whilst he was making
my morning coffee I dropped into a doze, from which at dawn he roused
me and pointed to the horizon, where in the north-west a strange sight
was to be seen. “Laputa,” I exclaimed; and as Virapan, though he had
read _Robinson Crusoe_ and the _Arabian Nights_ in his native tongue,
had never heard of _Gulliver’s Travels_, I proceeded to enlighten him
as to the famous suspended island of Swift’s imagining, and explained
my exclamation by pointing to the now visible Kilima-Njaro, which, with
its two peaks of Kibô and Kimawenzi, and the parent mass of mountain,
rose high above a level line of cloud, and thus completely severed in
appearance from the earth beneath, resembled so strangely the magnetic
island of Laputa.’

It was not until the thirteenth day after leaving Mombasa, that the
party entered the state of Mosi, ruled over by the chief Mandara,
already mentioned. This little kingdom is of about the same area as
London, and is on the lower slope of the mountain, between three and
four thousand feet above the sea. Splendid views are obtained from
it over the plains below, and its condition is anything but one of
savagery. The agriculture is of a high order, and the people, although
nearly naked, are both intelligent and industrious. The fields are well
intersected by artificial water-courses, led from the mountain-streams
higher up, and ‘the air is musical with the murmur of trickling
rivulets and the tinkling bells of the flocks and herds.’ Wherever the
ground is not in cultivation, it is covered with brilliantly coloured
wild flowers of numberless known and unknown species; the hum of bees
is suggestive of endless stores of honey; and the flow of milk is
guaranteed by the innumerable herds of mild-eyed kine cropping the rich
pasture.

Finding that the feuds between the Mosi people and the other mountain
tribes were a bar to his progress through Mandara’s country, Mr
Johnston withdrew, and negotiated treaties of peace and commerce with
one of the rival potentates whose territory extended nearer the summit.
Before doing this, however, he had to retire to a place called Taveita,
through which he had passed on his way to Mandara’s. Of this place he
says: ‘From the day of my first arrival up to the time of my final
departure, it seemed to me one of the loveliest spots on the earth’s
surface.’

Taveita is the sort of trade centre of the district, and is ruled over
by a senate of notables, called the ‘Wazēē,’ or elders, who preserve
law and order, and arbitrate in disputes between the resident natives
and the nomadic traders. Its population is about six thousand.

From Taveita, Mr Johnston negotiated with the chief of Maranū state
rather larger than Middlesex, on the south-eastern flank of the
mountain. After many preliminaries and much exchanging of presents, he
was at length admitted into this kingdom, and had positively to crawl
into it through the defensive stockades, which it seems the custom in
this country for the separate peoples to erect around their domains.
Between the kingdom of Maranū and the summit of Kibô, there lay no
opposing tribe, so that, having obtained guides, Mr Johnston was, after
a little delay, enabled to continue his journey to the snow.

The route crossed a fine river, and lay at first through a smiling
and fertile country, with signs of cultivation and flourishing
banana-groves up to an altitude of five thousand five hundred feet.
Shortly after that, cultivation ceased, and a heathy district was
reached, with grassy knolls and numerous small streams of running
water. The ascent was very gradual, and the first night was spent in
camp at six thousand five hundred feet. Leaving this, a dense forest
was reached at seven thousand feet; then a district of uplands thickly
covered with moss and ferns, studded with short gnarled trees, and
teeming with begonias and sweet-scented flowering shrubs, but with few
signs of animal life. At nine thousand feet, the region was clear of
forests, and merely covered with grass; but higher up, the woodland
began again, and water became very abundant. The third camp was formed
at ten thousand feet, and here the party encountered a terrific
thunderstorm and rainfall. It was succeeded by a fair and serene
morning, leaving the two snow-peaks in full view against a cloudless
blue sky. At this point Mr Johnston resided nearly a month, actively
prosecuting his collecting and observing, and preparing for the final
ascent. Then, one day, with three followers only, he started for great
Kibô.

For some two thousand feet higher, vegetation is abundant; and even
at twelve thousand six hundred feet the party struck a pretty little
stream, on the banks of which were patches of level greensward and
abundance of gay flowers, while the spoor of buffaloes was also
observed. Strange sessile thistles, five feet in circumference, were
noticed; and an extraordinary lobelia, between three and four feet in
height, with bright-blue blossoms, as also other remarkable plants.
Bees and wasps were still to be seen at this high altitude, and bright
little sunbirds darting about. But beyond thirteen thousand feet,
vegetation was seen only in dwarfed patches, and the ground became
covered with boulders, lying in confused masses, with occasional huge
slabs of rock, singularly marked like tortoise-shells. At thirteen
thousand six hundred feet, the last resident bird was noticed—a species
of stonechat—although high-soaring kites and great-billed ravens were
seen even higher up. At fourteen thousand one hundred and seventeen
feet, the Zanzibari followers were thoroughly done up, and began to
show unmistakable signs of fear of the ‘bogey’ of the mountain, so they
were left to prepare a sleeping-place for the night, while Mr Johnston
continued the ascent alone.

At fifteen thousand one hundred and fifty feet he reached the central
connecting ridge of Kilima-Njaro, and could see part of both sides. The
‘Monarch,’ however, was veiled in clouds. What followed cannot better
be given than in the adventurer’s own words: ‘At length—and it was so
sudden and so fleeting, that I had no time to fully take in the majesty
of the snowy dome of Kibô—the clouds parted, and I looked on a blaze
of snow so blinding white under the brief flicker of sunlight, that I
could see little detail. Since sunrise that morning I had caught no
glimpse of Kibô, and now it was suddenly presented to me with unusual
and startling nearness.... Knowing now the direction of my goal, I rose
from the clammy stones, and clutching my sketch-book with benumbed
hands, began once more to ascend westwards. Seeing but a few yards in
front of me, choked with mist, I made but slow progress; nevertheless,
I continually mounted along a gently sloping, hummocky ridge, where the
spaces in between the masses of rock were filled with fine yellowish
sand. The slabs of rock were so slippery with the drizzling mist, that
I very often nearly lost my footing, and I thought with a shudder what
a sprained ankle would mean here.

‘At length, after a rather steeper ascent than usual up the now
smoother and sharper ridge, I suddenly encountered snow lying at my
very feet, and nearly plunged headlong into a great rift filled with
snow, that here seemed to cut across the ridge and interrupt it. The
dense mist cleared a little in a partial manner, and I then saw to
my left the black rock sloping gently to an awful gulf of snow, so
vast and deep that its limits were concealed by fog. Above me a line
of snow was just discernible, and altogether the prospect was such a
gloomy one, with its all-surrounding curtain of sombre cloud, and its
uninhabited wastes of snow and rock, that my heart sank within me at
my loneliness.... Turning momentarily northwards, I rounded the rift
of snow, and once more dragged myself, now breathless and panting, and
with aching limbs, along the slippery ridge of bare rock, which went
ever mounting upwards.... The feeling that overcame me when I sat and
gasped for breath on the wet and slippery rocks at this great height,
was one of overwhelming isolation. I felt as if I should never more
regain the force to move, and must remain and die amid this horrid
solitude of stones and snow. Then I took some brandy-and-water from my
flask, and a little courage came back to me. I was miserably cold,
the driving mist having wetted me to the skin. Yet the temperature
recorded here was above the freezing-point, being thirty-five degrees
Fahrenheit.... The mercury rose to 183.8. This observation, when
properly computed, and with the correction added for the temperature of
the intermediate air, gives a height of sixteen thousand three hundred
and fifteen feet as the highest point I attained on Kilima-Njaro.’

When he returned to the camping-place, Mr Johnston found that his
three followers had deserted him, being thoroughly terrified, and
certain that the white man had perished on the lonely heights. With
much difficulty he made his way to the station on the lower ground,
where the great body of his attendants had remained; and in due course
the whole party arrived safely again at Taveita. From there a new
route was taken, by way of Lake Jipé, to the coast at Pangani, where
the followers were paid off. An English mission afforded Mr Johnston
shelter until he could get a passage on an Arab _dau_ to Zanzibar,
where he caught the mail-steamer; and in little more than six weeks
after getting his last glimpse of the snow-peaks of Kilima-Njaro, from
the shores of Lake Jipé, the gallant explorer was in London once more.

Although attaining the highest altitude yet reached by man in Africa,
Mr Johnston did not complete the conquest of Kilima-Njaro. But he
reached within two thousand feet of the summit; and having shown the
way, it will be odd if some of the adventurous spirits among alpine
climbers do not essay the task of peering into the hidden depths of
the crater of Kibô. Be this as it may, the expedition has resulted in
the acquisition of a vast amount of valuable information about the
geography, the fauna, and flora of this strange district, where in two
days you can ascend from equatorial heat to arctic cold. Even in the
plains, the temperature is, for six months in the year, quite bearable,
and in some parts delightful. The extreme fertility of the mountain
slopes, the abundance of game, the stores of ivory to be obtained from
the vast herds of elephants, the rare and beautiful skins—in short, all
the known riches of animal and vegetable production, and the supposed
existence of mineral deposits, such as copper and nitrate of soda,
point to this district as destined to play an important part in the
future of Africa.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Pronounced Killy-manjāhro, and meaning ‘The Mountain of the Demon
of Cold.’




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER XIII.

‘Father, father,’ Dr Whitaker whispered in a low voice, ‘let us go
aside a little—down into my cabin or somewhere—away from this crowd
here. I am so glad, so happy to be back with you again; so delighted to
be home once more, dear, dear father. But don’t you see, everybody is
looking at us and observing us!’

The old mulatto glanced around him with an oily glance of profound
self-satisfaction. Yes, undoubtedly; he was the exact centre of an
admiring audience. It was just such a house as he loved to play to.
He turned once more to his trembling son, whose sturdy knees were
almost giving way feebly beneath him, and redoubled the ardour of
his paternal demonstrativeness. ‘My son, my son, my own dear boy!’
he said once more; and then, stepping back two paces and opening his
arms effusively, he ran forward quickly with short mincing steps, and
pressed the astonished doctor with profound warmth to his swelling
bosom. There was an expansiveness and a gushing effusion about the
action which made the spectators titter audibly; and the titter cut
the poor young mulatto keenly to the heart with a sense of his utter
helplessness and ridiculousness in this absurd situation. He wondered
to himself when the humiliating scene would ever be finished. But the
old man was not satisfied yet. Releasing his son once more from his
fat grasp, he placed his two big hands akimbo on his hips, puckered up
his eyebrows as if searching for some possible flaw in a horse or in a
woman’s figure—he was a noted connoisseur in either—and held his head
pushed jauntily forward, staring once more at his son with his small
pig’s eyes from top to toe. At last, satisfied apparently with his
close scrutiny, and prepared to acknowledge that it was all very good,
he seized the young doctor quickly by the shoulders, and kissing him
with a loud smack on either cheek, proceeded to slobber him piecemeal
all over the face, exactly like a nine-months’-old baby. Dr Whitaker’s
cheeks tingled and burned, so that even through that dusky skin,
Edward, who stood a little distance off, commiserating him, could see
the hot blood rushing to his face by the deepened and darkened colour
in the very centre.

Presently, old Bobby seemed to be sufficiently sated with this
particular form of theatrical entertainment, and turned round
pleasantly to the remainder of the company. ‘My son,’ he said, not
without a real touch of heart-felt, paternal pride, as he glanced
towards the gentlemanly looking and well-dressed young doctor, ‘your
fellow-passengers! Introduce me! Which is de son of my ole and valued
friend, de Honourable James Hawtorn, of Wagwater?’

Dr Whitaker, glad to divert attention from himself on any excuse, waved
his hand quietly towards Edward.

‘How do you do, Mr Whitaker?’ Edward said, in as low and quiet a tone
as possible, anxious as he was to disappoint the little gaping crowd of
amused spectators. ‘We have all derived a great deal of pleasure from
your son’s society on our way across. His music has been the staple
entertainment of the whole voyage. We have appreciated it immensely.’

But old Bobby was not to be put off with private conversation aside in
a gentle undertone. He was accustomed to living his life in public,
and he wasn’t going to be balked of his wonted entertainment. ‘Yes,
Mr Hawtorn,’ he answered in a loud voice, ‘you are right, sah. De
taste for music an’ de taste for beauty in de ladies are two tastes
dat are seldom wantin’ to de sons or de grandsons of Africa, however
far removed from de original negro.’ (As he spoke, he glanced back
with a touch of contempt and an infinite superiority of manner at
the pure-blooded blacks, who were now busily engaged in picking up
portmanteaus from the deck, and squabbling with one another as to which
was to carry the buckras’ luggage. Your mulatto, however dark, always
in a good-humoured, tolerant way, utterly despises his coal-black
brethren.) ‘Bote dose tastes are highly developed in my own pusson.
Bote no doubt my son, Wilberforce Clarkson Whitaker, is liable to
inherit from his fader’s family. In de exercise of de second, I cannot
fail to perceive dat dis lady beside you must be Mrs Hawtorn. Sah’—with
a sidelong leer of his fat eyes—‘I congratulate you mos’ sincerely on
your own taste in female beauty. A very nice, fresh-lookin’ young lady,
Mrs Hawtorn.’

Marian’s face grew fiery red; and Edward hardly knew whether to laugh
off the awkward compliment, or to draw himself up and stroll away, as
though the conversation had reached its natural ending.

‘And de odder young lady,’ Bobby went on, quite unconscious of the
effect he had produced—‘de odder young lady? Your sister, now, or Mrs
Hawtorn’s?’

‘This is Miss Dupuy of Orange Grove,’ Edward answered hesitatingly;
for he hardly knew what remark old Bobby might next venture upon. And
indeed, as a matter of fact, the old mulatto’s conversation, even in
the presence of ladies, was not at all times restrained by all those
artificial rules of decorum imposed on most of us by what appeared to
him a ridiculously strait-laced and puritanical white conventionality.

But Edward’s answer seemed to have an extraordinary effect in sobering
and toning down the old man’s exuberant volubility; he pulled off his
hat with a respectful bow, and said in a lower and more polite voice:
‘I have de honour of knowing Miss Dupuy’s fader; I am proud to make
Miss Dupuy’s acquaintance.’

‘Here, Bobby!’ the captain called out from a little forward—‘you
come here, say. The first-officer wants to introduce you’—with a
wink at Edward—‘to His Excellency the Peruvian ambassador.—Look
here, Mr Hawthorn; don’t you let Bobby talk too long to your ladies,
sir. He sometimes blurts out something, you know, that ladies ain’t
exactly accustomed to. We seafaring men are a bit rough on occasion
ourselves, certainly; but we know how to behave for all that before the
women.—Bobby, don’t; you’d better be careful.’

‘Thank you,’ Edward said, and again felt his heart smitten with a sort
of remorse for poor Dr Whitaker. That quick, sensitive, enthusiastic
young man to be tied down for life to such a father! It was too
terrible. In fact, it was a tragedy.

‘Splendid take-down for that stuck-up, young brown doctor,’ the English
officer exclaimed aside in a whisper to Edward. ‘Shake a little of the
confounded conceit out of him, I should say. He wanted taking down a
peg.—Screaming farce, isn’t he, the old father?’

‘I never saw a more pitiable or pitiful scene in my whole life,’ Edward
answered earnestly. ‘Poor fellow, I’m profoundly sorry for him; he
looks absolutely broken-hearted.’

The young officer gazed at him in mute astonishment. ‘Can’t see a joke,
that fellow Hawthorn,’ he thought to himself. ‘Had all the fun worked
out of him, I suppose, over there at Cambridge. Awful prig! Quite
devoid of the sense of humour. Sorry for his poor wife; she’ll have a
dull life of it.—Never saw such an amusing old fool in all my days as
that ridiculous, fat old nigger fellow!’

Meanwhile, James Hawthorn had been standing on the wharf, waiting for
the first crush of negroes and hangers-on to work itself off, and
looking for an easy opportunity to come aboard in order to meet his son
and daughter. By-and-by the crush subsided, and the old man stepped on
to the gangway and made his way down upon the deck.

In a moment, Edward was wringing his hand fervently, and father and son
had exchanged one single kiss of recognition in that half-shamefaced,
hasty fashion in which men of our race usually get through that very
un-English ceremony of greeting.

‘Father, father,’ Edward said, ‘I am so thankful to see you once more;
so anxious to see my dear mother.’

There were tears standing in both their eyes as his father answered:
‘My boy, my boy! I’ve denied myself this pleasure for years; and
now—now it’s come, it’s almost too much for me.’

There was a moment’s pause, and then Mr Hawthorn turned to Marian. ‘My
daughter,’ he said, kissing her with a fatherly kiss, ‘we know you, and
love you already, from Edward’s letters; and we’ll do our best, as far
as we can, to make you happy.’

There was another pause, and then the father said again: ‘You didn’t
get my telegram, Edward?’

‘Yes, father, I got it; but not till we were on the very point of
starting. The steamer was actually under weigh, and we couldn’t have
stopped even if we had wished to. There was nothing for it but to come
on as we were, in spite of it.’

‘Oh, Mr Hawthorn, there’s papa!’ Nora cried excitedly. ‘There he is,
coming down the gangway.’ And as she spoke, Mr Dupuy’s portly form was
seen advancing towards them with slow deliberateness.

For a second, he gazed about him curiously, looking for Nora; then,
as he saw her, he walked over towards her in his leisurely, dawdling,
West Indian fashion. Nora darted forward and flung her arms impulsively
around him. ‘So you’ve come, Nora,’ the old gentleman said quietly,
disembarrassing himself with elephantine gracefulness from her close
embrace—‘so you’ve come, after all, in spite of my telegram!—How was
this, my dear? How was this, tell me?’

‘Yes, papa,’ Nora answered, a little abashed at his serene manner. ‘The
telegram was too late—it was thrown on board after we’d started. But
we’ve got out all safe, you see.—And Marian—you know—Marian Ord—Mrs
Hawthorn that is now—she’s taken great care of me; and, except for the
hurricane, we’ve had such a delightful voyage!’

Mr Dupuy drew himself up to his stateliest eminence and looked straight
across at Marian Hawthorn with stiff politeness. ‘I didn’t know it was
to Mrs Hawthorn, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘that I was to be indebted for
your safe arrival here in Trinidad. It was very good of Mrs Hawthorn,
I don’t doubt, to bring you out to us and act as your chaperon. I
am much obliged to Mrs Hawthorn for her kind attention and care of
you on the voyage. I must thank Mrs Hawthorn very sincerely for the
trouble she may have been put to on your account.—Good-morning, Mrs
Hawthorn!—Good-morning, Mr Hawthorn! Your son, I suppose? Ah, so I
imagined.—Good-morning, good-morning.’ He raised his hat with formal
courtesy to Marian, and bowed slightly to the son and father. Then
he drew Nora’s arm carefully in his, and was just about to walk her
immediately off the steamer, when Nora burst from him in the utmost
amazement and rushed up to kiss Marian. ‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘I don’t
think you understand. This is Marian Ord, don’t you know? General Ord’s
daughter, that I’ve written to you about so often. She’s my dearest
friend, and now she’s married to Mr Edward Hawthorn—this is he—and Aunt
Harriet gave me in charge to her to come across with; and I _must_ just
say good-bye to her before I leave her.—Thank you, dear, thank you both
so much for all your kindness. Not, of course, that it matters about
saying good-bye to you, for you and we will be such very, very near
neighbours, and of course we’ll see a great deal of one another.—Won’t
we, papa? We shall be near neighbours, and see a great deal of Marian
always, now she’s come here to live—won’t we?’

Mr Dupuy bowed again very stiffly. ‘We shall be very near neighbours,
undoubtedly,’ he answered with unruffled politeness; ‘and I shall hope
to take an early opportunity of paying my respects to—to your friend,
General Ord’s daughter.—I am much obliged, once more, to Mrs Hawthorn
for her well-meant attentions. Good-morning.—This way, Nora, my dear.
This way to the Orange Grove carriage.’

‘Father,’ Edward exclaimed, in doubt and dismay, looking straight down
into his father’s eyes, ‘what does it all mean? Explain it all to
us. I’m utterly bewildered. Why did you telegraph to us not to come?
And why did Nora Dupuy’s father telegraph to her, too, an identical
message?’

Mr Hawthorn drew a deep breath and looked back at him with a face full
of consternation and pity. ‘He telegraphed to her, too, did he?’ he
muttered half to himself in slow reflection. ‘He telegraphed to prevent
her from coming out in the _Severn_! I might have guessed as much—it’s
very like him.—My boy, my boy—and my dear daughter—this is a poor
welcome for you, a very poor welcome! We never wanted you to come out
here; and if we could, we would have prevented it. But now that you’ve
come, you’ve come, and there’s no helping it. We must just try to do
our best to make you both tolerably comfortable.’

Marian stood in blank astonishment and silent wonder at this strange
greeting. A thousand vague possibilities floated instantaneously
through her mind, to be dismissed the next second, on closer
consideration, as absolutely impossible. Why on earth did this
handsome, dignified, courtly old gentleman wish to keep them away from
Trinidad? He wasn’t poor; he wasn’t uneducated; he wasn’t without
honour in his own country. That he was a gentleman to the backbone, she
could see and feel the moment she looked at him and heard him speak.
What, then, could be his objection to his son’s coming out to visit him
in his own surroundings? Had he committed some extraordinary crime? Was
he an ex-convict, or a fraudulent bankrupt, or a defaulting trustee?
Did he fear to let his son discover his shame? But no. The bare idea
was absolutely impossible. You had only to gaze once upon that fine,
benevolent, clear-cut, transparently truthful face—as transparently
truthful as Edward’s own—to see immediately that James Hawthorn was
a man of honour. It was an insoluble mystery, and Marian’s heart
sank within her as she wondered to herself what this gloomy welcome
foreboded for the future.

‘Father,’ Edward exclaimed, looking at him once more with appealing
eyes, ‘do explain to us what you mean? Why didn’t you want us to come
to Trinidad? The suspense is too terrible! We shall be expecting
something worse than the reality. Tell us now. Whatever it is, we
are strong enough to bear it. I know it can be nothing mean or
dishonourable that you have to conceal from us! For Marian’s sake,
explain it, explain it!’

The old man turned his face away with a bitter gesture. ‘My boy, my
boy, my poor boy,’ he answered slowly and remorsefully, ‘I cannot tell
you. I can never tell you. You will find it out for yourself soon
enough. But I—I—I can never tell you!’




DUST AND HOUSE REFUSE: SHOWING WHAT BECOMES OF IT.


If any of our readers are in the habit of passing a contractor’s or
town’s yard, he will, perhaps, remember perceiving, alongside the outer
walls, a busy scene going on, which he cannot exactly make out. A crowd
of women toiling and moiling amid heaps of rubbish, two or three barges
laden with vegetable refuse, he can distinguish plainly enough; but it
is not until he sees a string of dustcarts slowly wending their way
towards the distant wharf, that the thought flashes upon his mind that
the busy human ants he has been watching are scavengers, sorting and
arranging the refuse of the great towns and cities. There is nothing
particularly attractive in a scavenger’s yard: neither the sights nor
the smells are pleasant; nevertheless, the scene that here meets his
eye, repellent as it is, could not exist in any other than a high state
of civilisation. When we think of it, the dustbin is the tomb of the
householder; it is the grave into which all our domestic surroundings
inevitably sink. Of old, in the ruder states of society, this dust
and refuse found its final rest in mother earth; but with us, its
removal by the scavenger is only the first stage of its elevation to
a higher existence, if we may so speak. In detail, as it exists in
every household, it is a nuisance to be got rid of; in the aggregate,
it becomes a valuable commodity, to be re-imported into our arts and
manufactures.

As the great lumbering carts arrive in a dust-contractor’s yard, their
contents are emptied into isolated heaps. No sooner does this take
place, than they are each in detail attacked by grimy men, who remove
all the larger articles, such as vegetable matter, old coal-scuttles,
old crinolines—or rather crinolettes—old hats, and old garments. This
is a kind of rough sifting which prepares the heap for the attacks
of the women, who instantly settle upon every heap like a flock of
crows that may happen to spy any carrion in a field. Each woman as
she settles upon the heap comes sieve in hand, and spreads around her
a number of baskets; the man now fills the sieve, and the process of
separating the dustheap into its elements begins. The first few shakes
of the sieve throw down all the fine ashes and the coal-dust. This
detritus becomes a very valuable commodity when collected and put to
its right use. It is used by brickmakers to mix with the clay, and does
its part in the ultimate baking of the brick. In the neighbourhood
of most of our railways, our readers may have noticed vast heaps of
fine black dust burning with a slow combustion and with much smoke.
These heaps consist of bricks which are being baked. They are placed
in rows a little apart, and their interstices are filled with the
fine ‘breeze,’ as the coal-ashes are termed; a light is set below,
and gradually the whole mass fires to a dull red heat, the ‘breeze’
intimately mixed with the clay helping to bake the inside of the
brick in the most perfect manner without vitrifying it. The ‘breeze’
is the most valuable portion of the dust, and it rises or falls in
value according to the amount of building going on and to the rate of
its production; in the summer, but little, comparatively, is made.
Coal-dust, it must be remembered, is entirely a distinct refuse from
road-dust, which also possesses a certain value, as we shall show
by-and-by. When all the finer refuse has passed through the sieve, the
larger and coarser articles remain upon the top. There glisten some
pieces of broken glass; this, of course, only requires to be remelted
to be put once more into circulation in the world. Considering the
brittle nature of this material and the enormous quantities of it
employed, it is fortunate that it is almost indestructible. When we
break a window, we only alter the arrangement of its particles. Broken
into a thousand pieces, it remains as good glass as ever; time will not
touch it. The remnants of glass that are found among the Roman remains
that have been lying in the ground for two thousand years, are as fit
for the glass-pot as though it had been made yesterday; phials and old
bottles are rarely even chipped, hence they are merely washed, and they
pass again into the drawers of the chemist or apothecary.

Bones form another constant contribution to the sieve, and a valuable
item they are to the dust contractor. There is a grand tussle going on
for their possession both by the manufacturer and agriculturist. The
larger bones are first boiled, in order to extract all their fat and
gelatine. The purposes the former article is put to are too numerous
to be mentioned; a good deal of the finer kind goes to make pomatum
and soap; the gelatine is, we do not doubt, used as the basis of
soups; and we know that it is employed in the manufacture of jujube
lozenges. The smaller bones, which cannot be used in the constructive
arts, are equally valuable in agriculture. When ground down to a
fine powder and mixed with sulphuric acid, they become that great
fertiliser, superphosphate of lime, restoring to the soil all the
productive qualities that have been taken out of it by over-cropping.
Wheat-growing is very exhaustive to the soil; indeed, we could not
go on growing wheat for many years without reducing it to sterility,
were it not for the use of this superphosphate. Phosphorus, again, is
another extractive from bones.

Old iron finds its way into a very spacious sieve. Like the glass, its
substance is difficult to destroy; indeed, some old iron is rendered
much more valuable by being knocked about. Thus, old iron in the form
of horseshoes, and horseshoe nails, fetches a much higher price than
the original metal from which they were made; the toughness it acquires
by constant blows and concussions gives it a greatly enhanced value
in the market. Old tinned articles, such as slop-pails and saucepans,
are first heated, to recover their tin and the solder with which they
are made, both of which articles are more valuable than the old iron.
Paper is carefully collected, and goes once again to the paper-mills.
Like glass, the original fibre is very indestructible; for all we know,
the note-paper on which we indite the tenderest love-letters to our
beloved was made from an old account-book of a tallow-chandler, or from
the musty records of the past centuries. In turning over the ragman’s
basket, what a singular history we have! The ball-dress of a lady drops
into a rag-basket and reappears as a billet-doux; disappears again to
reappear once more in the drawing-room or the nursery as a workbox of
papier-mâché, or a doll, or even into the wheels of railway trucks, and
other uses to which paper is now put.

Whilst, however, we are watching the sifters grubbing over the heaps—as
we have said, like so many crows—they all rise together, as we
sometimes see these birds do, without any apparent cause, and make off
to the nearest public-house. But there is a cause, we may be sure, for
this sudden flight. If you ask the overlooker, he speedily enlightens
you. ‘Oh, they’ve been and found some money in the dustheap, and when
they do, it is a rule among them to share it together in drink.’
By-and-by, their little jollification over, they return. If there is
anything that can be used as food in the dust, the ‘hill-women’ are
entitled to it as a perquisite. In this manner they obtain many pieces
of bread which the reader might not like to eat, but which they either
do not object to, or put to other uses.

All the pieces of wood are also considered to be theirs; and when they
leave work, they may be seen laden with fuel of this kind, which saves
them more expensive firing. The broken china and crockery goes to make
the foundations of roads and paths; and all the ‘soft core’—namely,
refuse vegetable matter—is returned directly to the fields in the
shape of manure. Old clothes are not the least valuable items of the
dustyard. Anything in the shape of cotton, even to the covering of
the crinoline steels and stay-bones, is put aside for the paper-mill.
Cloth finds its way to the shoddy-mills of Lancashire, where it is
purified and ground down and remade into coarse cloth. The old woollen
garments that are turned thus into shoddy are equal to a contribution
of twenty-five thousand tons of wool. Yet these old clothes, not many
years ago, were considered of no more value than to be thrown upon
the manure-heap, there slowly to suffer disintegration until fit to
be placed upon the land. Indeed, there is a class of rags which is
now taken directly to the soil. Old house and dish cloths soaked with
grease and animal refuse make capital manure. In the dust-contractors’
yards we may see them spread upon the ground to dry, preparatory to
their being forwarded to the hop-grounds, where they are much used
for the cultivation of that plant. Old boots and shoes, if not too
much dilapidated, find their way to the back slums of the town, where
a class of tradesmen live who patch them up, and, by the aid of
heel-ball, make them once more presentable.

We had almost forgotten to say that no inconsiderable amount of coal
is rescued from the dustheap. This, of course, does not go to the
brickyard; it is purchased by the poor. In well-to-do neighbourhoods,
and especially in the fashionable quarter of the town, the ashes are
rarely sifted; hence, pieces of coal half-burnt, or small lumps, are
thrown away every morning. This extravagance makes the ‘dust’ of the
better portions of the town far more valuable than that collected from
the poverty-stricken districts. Indeed, the dust in the aristocratic
portion of the town is richer in every valuable refuse—there are more
bones, more ‘breeze,’ more refuse clothing, than ever find a chance of
getting into the boxes and middens of the poor quarter.

We have said that the dust from the roads is kept distinct from
the dust of the ashpit. Road-dust is always very rich in manure,
which makes it valuable as a top-dressing for meadows. It is also
largely used to mix with soft clay for the making of inferior bricks,
and we have ascertained that it is also used for a more unsightly
adulteration. The composition with which many of the cheaply run-up
houses are smoothed over and made to appear ornamental, is very freely
mixed with road-dust. The evil of this we speedily see in the green
stains with which all such structures are disfigured, such green stains
being nothing more than a vegetation that occurs in all damp spots, and
finds its support in this surreptitious dust.

Thus the grimy scavenger and ‘hill-women’ perform a valuable part in
the world. By their aid we return to the exhausted fields the riches
the towns have drawn from them; and they arrest from speedy destruction
a score of valuable products, and set them once more in circulation in
the busy world.




THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.


CHAP. II.—INVISIBLE.

When the púsári came to his senses, he found himself lying in the
jungle. It was early morning; but there was sufficient light for him to
distinguish the surrounding objects. He sat up and looked about him.
At first, he could not realise where he was; but when recollection of
his night’s adventure flashed across his mind, he became instantly
wide awake. He looked curiously and anxiously round. There was not
the least sign of any village or habitation of any sort—only dense,
pathless jungle all round! For some time he sat trying to recall the
incidents of the past night. It seemed to him like a wild dream. He
shuddered when he thought of it, and rising hastily, he prepared to
leave the uncanny spot. But he could see no path or track of any kind.
At length, noting the position of the sun, he decided that Pandiyán
must be in a certain direction, and at once began to make his way
through the jungle towards it. It was laborious and slow work forcing
his way through the dense undergrowth; but in about half an hour he
struck a path which he recognised as leading from a neighbouring
village to Pandiyán. He had not gone far along this path when he met
a man driving a number of pack-bullocks. To his surprise, the leading
bullock came straight towards him, as if it did not see him; and the
path being narrow, he had to step aside into the jungle to avoid it.

‘Hallo, brother!’ he said to the man driving the bullocks, ‘where are
you going, and what have you got in the packs?’

The man took no notice and made no answer, but merely shouted to his
bullocks and passed on. The púsári was inclined to be angry at the
man’s supposed rudeness; but thinking that perhaps he was deaf and had
not seen him, he went on his way without remark.

Presently he met a man from a neighbouring village whom he knew well,
coming along the path towards him. ‘Salaam, Arúmúkam!’ he said as they
neared each other; ‘you are about early this morning.’

To his great astonishment, the man came striding along as if he neither
saw nor heard him; and the púsári had to jump hastily aside, lest he
should be thrown down. For a few moments he stared after his retreating
friend, amazed at his extraordinary conduct; then he burst into a
passion, and shouting after him loudly, cursed him and his manners. But
the man went quietly on without replying, or even turning his head.

Very much surprised at what had happened, and in an angry, disturbed
frame of mind, the púsári resumed his journey. Soon he came to
the river. As he went down the steep descent to the water, he was
horror-struck to see a huge wild elephant appear from behind the bushes
overhanging the river, a few yards off, and come towards him. There
was no way of escape. The banks of the river rose perpendicularly on
either side of him, and there was no time for him to scramble back by
the way he had come. On came the elephant, dripping with water from its
morning bath in the river, and lazily swinging its trunk and flapping
its ears. The púsári stood petrified with terror in full view of the
animal, unable to move hand or foot. The elephant advanced till it
stood directly over him. But instead of throwing him down and crushing
him to death, as the púsári momentarily expected, it leisurely broke
off a branch from a bush on the bank above him and slowly munched it.
He could feel its hot breath as he crouched against the bank under its
huge head. Suddenly it turned away, listened for a moment to some sound
in the distance, and then walked slowly off down the river. With a
feeling of intense relief, he watched it out of sight. It was evident
the elephant had neither seen nor smelt him; but for what reason he
could not imagine.

Picking up his stick, which he had dropped in his fright, the púsári
went down to the water to wade through to the other side; and then
he discovered the reason of the strange behaviour of the two men he
had met, and why the elephant had not molested him. As he entered the
pool, he happened to glance down, and instantly saw, to his intense
horror, that his form was not reflected in it! It was some moments
before he realised what had happened. He was invisible! The water he
had drunk at the pisási village was a magic draught, and its effect
had been to make him invisible. Long and earnestly did he gaze down
into the water; but in vain; only the reflection of the blue sky and
overhanging trees appeared on the bright face of the pool. At length,
in an agony of alarm and distress, he waded through the water, without,
however, causing the faintest ripple on its surface, and hurried off
to the village, in the hope of finding that his dreadful suspicion was
not true. Close to the village he met a boy, the son of a neighbour,
driving some cattle to the tank pasture; the urchin passed him without
a word and without looking at him. The púsári groaned aloud and passed
on. Soon he reached the village, and passed through, glancing about
him with terrified anxiety, in the hope that some one would recognise
him. But though several of the villagers were standing about, not one
of them took the smallest notice of him. He went straight to his own
house. Just as he reached the gate, his daughter came out carrying
a water-pot on her hip; she was going to the well for water. The
púsári stood before her in an agony of fear and expectation. To his
unutterable horror, she walked past him without the slightest sign of
recognition!

‘Vallee, my child!’ he cried, stretching out his hands beseechingly,
‘do you not see me?’ But the girl walked on unconcernedly.

Just then a woman came out of a hut near by bound on the same errand as
herself. ‘Well, child,’ she exclaimed, addressing Vallee, ‘what did the
múdliya say to your father?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied; ‘he has not come back yet.’

This answer completely dispelled the hope that the púsári had clung
to—that his daughter might yet recognise him. He knew now what a mighty
spell was on him, and that he was invisible to mortal eyes, and had no
substance or voice. Wringing his hands and wailing aloud, but inaudibly
to all human ears, he followed the two women to the well, and listened
with agony and despair in his heart to their chatter and laughter.
Several times he shouted, as he thought loudly, to his daughter, in the
hope of making her hear, and also attempted to seize her by the arm;
but she neither heard his voice nor felt his touch. Before entering
the house again, on her return from the well, Vallee looked for some
moments in the direction of the path to Mánkúlam, in the hope or
expectation, apparently, of seeing her father appear, little thinking
how near he was to her. The púsári entered the hut with her and sat
down in his accustomed corner, overwhelmed by his terrible misfortune.

Suddenly there was a noise in the village outside. Some one, in loud
excited tones, was relating something which seemed to be of startling
import, from the loud ejaculations of surprise that followed. Listening
intently, the púsári heard a man say: ‘Yes, the múdliya has been
murdered, and his money-box broken open and rifled!’

Vallee, too, had evidently caught the words, for, starting up, she
rushed out, and was followed by her father. A number of villagers were
standing under a tree listening to a man whom the púsári recognised
as an inhabitant of Mánkúlam. He was talking rapidly and with much
gesticulation. On catching sight of Vallee, he stopped short, and with
a glance round, asked loudly and abruptly: ‘Where is your father,
child?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied the girl, noting with surprise the meaning
looks which the villagers exchanged. ‘He went last night to Mánkúlam to
see the múdliya, and has not yet come home.’

‘The múdliya has been murdered,’ said the man gravely; ‘and the
púsári’s knife has been found, and it is covered with blood!’

Vallee instantly understood what the man implied. With widely opened
eyes and parted lips, she stood transfixed to the spot. She knew too
well her father’s uncontrollable temper, not to feel him capable of any
deed, however atrocious, when his passions were roused. Yet she loved
him fondly and sincerely, and when she realised the awful nature of the
crime with which he was charged, she threw herself on the ground and
abandoned herself to grief and despair, refusing the comfort offered
her by the women standing round.

The villagers, meanwhile, plied the bringer of the news with questions.
He related how the múdliya’s little grandson had been present at a
stormy interview between his grandfather and the púsári, at which
the latter had uttered many threats; how, after the púsári had left
the house, he had returned when the múdliya was alone, and had
murdered him, and then robbed him of all his money and jewels. This
was proved by the finding of his knife covered with blood, and by
his disappearance, he having clearly fled to escape the penalty of
his crime. The púsári’s rage on hearing himself charged with such a
dreadful deed was excessive. Boiling over with wrath, he turned about
in the crowd, addressing one and then another with indignant denials
and protests. But though he shouted and raved and gesticulated, no one
saw or heard him; and at length, seeing how fruitless his efforts to
make himself heard were, he quieted down and waited to see what would
be done next.

Presently, a party of villagers, full of pleasant excitement and
curiosity, started off for Mánkúlam, the scene of the murder, and
the púsári decided to go with them. As they went along, he listened
with grim, bitter amusement to the remarks his fellow-villagers made
about him. His unneighbourly hatred of Iyan Elúvan, his violent temper
and quarrelsome nature, were the subject of general condemnation. It
appeared, by what they said, that one and all of the party had long
foreseen what his evil passions would bring him to. Every man of them
believed him to be guilty of the murder, and there was not one to
express any doubt or to say a good word for him.

In such pleasant converse the party arrived at Mánkúlam, and went to
the headman’s house. It was crowded inside and out by an excited,
curious throng. The púsári made his way into the hut. On a bed,
in the middle of it, lay the body of the múdliya. A wound in the
throat, exposed to view, showed how he had come by his death, and
indications were not wanting that he had struggled hard for life. A
number of women, relatives of the deceased, were shrieking in chorus
the death-wail over the corpse. In a corner of the hut sat a young
man, a minor headman from a neighbouring village, busily engaged in
inquiring into all the circumstances of the murder. He was occupied in
making a list, from the statements of the murdered man’s relatives,
of the missing articles of jewellery. The strong-box from which they
had been stolen stood, with its lid broken, before him. Lying on the
floor beside him was a knife, which the púsári immediately recognised
as his own, though how it got there and came to be covered with blood,
was more than he could guess. As he listened to the questions of the
headman and heard the remarks of the bystanders, the púsári began to
feel a kind of grim satisfaction in the fact of his being invisible,
so black seemed the case against him. He could not but feel that the
evidence produced more than justified them all in believing him to be
the murderer.

As he moved invisibly about the hut, he suddenly caught sight of his
enemy Iyan Elúvan entering the door. Iyan was accompanied by his
younger brother Valan, Vallee’s lover, a tall, well-made young man,
with handsome, pleasant features. The two men were very unlike each
other in every way—in features, expression, and manner, and no stranger
would have thought them to be brothers. On catching sight of Iyan, the
púsári moved close to him and watched him keenly. He had a nervous
downcast air, very different from his usual hard, bold expression. He
looked furtively and quickly round, and the púsári noticed a peculiar
expression pass over his face as he glanced at the corpse and then
hurriedly averted his eyes. A thought, a suspicion suddenly rushed into
the púsári’s mind. There stood the murderer! It was Iyan Elúvan who had
taken the múdliya’s life; and he had used his enemy’s knife, of which
he had in some way got possession, in order to cast the suspicion on
him. As the thought struck him, the púsári stepped fiercely forward to
seize and denounce him; then he recollected his strange position, and
with a strong effort, restrained himself. For some moments he stood
glaring malevolently but invisibly at his enemy.

‘This is an awful thing, Iyan,’ remarked a man standing by.

‘Ay,’ he responded in a gruff, harsh voice. ‘I felt sure that mad fool
Ráman Ummiyan would do this. I met him yesterday on his way here, and
heard him swear he would have the múdliya’s life.’

On hearing this lie, the púsári’s rage boiled over, but he could do
nothing but utter inaudible curses and threats. He soon tired, however,
of his useless ravings, and calmed down once more. Iyan did not remain
long in the house; he went to the headman, who took down his statement,
to which he swore, adding many cunning and malicious embellishments,
which made the lie seem very like truth. As he left the hut accompanied
by his brother, the púsári followed them. The brothers separated in the
village, and Iyan started for Pandiyán with his unseen enemy behind
him. The púsári could not rid himself of the feeling that he was still
visible, and so followed at some distance. Iyan walked fast, glancing
over his shoulder from time to time and muttering as he went.

The púsári followed his enemy about all day. Iyan did but little work
of any kind, but sat moody and restless in his hut all the afternoon,
only going occasionally to the door and glancing anxiously around.
He was alone in the hut, as he was a widower and had no children,
while Valan, who lived with him, was absent at Mánkúlam. Late in the
afternoon he began to make preparations for cooking the evening meal,
but in a very preoccupied, desultory manner. When it grew dusk, he
suddenly stopped, went to the door, and looked out to see if he was
being watched; and seeing he was not, slipped out, through the fence,
into the jungle at the back of his hut. The púsári followed him. Iyan
pushed his way through the dense undergrowth for some distance till he
came to a huge hollow tree that had been blasted by lightning; here he
stopped for a few minutes in a listening attitude. Hearing nothing to
alarm him, he fell on his knees and thrust his arm into a hole under
the roots and drew out something tied up in a cloth. The púsári saw his
enemy open the bundle, and then his suspicion that he was the murderer
of the headman was fully confirmed, for it was full of jewellery and
rupees. For some minutes Iyan remained gloating over his ill-gotten
wealth, counting the money and fingering the jewels. Once he started,
and a look of terror passed over his face. He had heard a rustle
overhead; but it was only caused by a small monkey in the tree above,
which was watching his movements with intense curiosity. At length Iyan
tied up his booty and replaced it in the hollow tree, and then sneaked
back to his hut, unseen by any one but his invisible enemy. Soon
afterwards, his brother Valan returned home, and the two men cooked and
ate their evening meal almost in silence. After watching them for some
time, the púsári went off to his own house.

He found Vallee lying moaning in a corner, utterly prostrated by the
heavy blow that had fallen on her. A kind-hearted woman of the village
had brought her some food, as she had not cooked anything for herself;
but the weeping girl refused to eat, and lay moaning and sobbing as
if her heart was breaking. The púsári longed to be able to speak to
her and assure her of his innocence; but made no attempt to do so,
knowing how useless it would be. At length the woman went away, and the
púsári sat for a long time watching with an aching heart his sorrowing,
unhappy daughter. At last, exhausted by her weeping and grief, Vallee
fell asleep. Seeing this, he rose, and went out into the village.
It was now quite dark, and nearly every one had retired to rest. He
wandered aimlessly about till he found himself before the little temple
on the dam of the tank. All was dark within save where a faint light
shone through a hole in the roof on to the hideous little idol. He
entered the temple and stood before the shrine. Long and earnestly did
he pray to the god to deliver him from the spell that had been cast
on him, and many were the promises and vows he made should his prayer
be granted. Then he began to dance before the idol, chanting sacred
manthras or hymns. All night long did the púsári remain in the temple,
sometimes offering púja, sometimes praying, and at other times dancing
wildly before the shrine. But the little stone god stood black and
silent in its niche, and no answer came to the púsári’s passionate
prayers.




A NIGHT-RAID ON DONEGAL SMUGGLERS.


On a wild, stormy evening, some years ago, the writer was returning to
Ballyroughan, a miserable little town on the bleak coast of Donegal.
It had rained heavily all day, but having cleared up a little, I drew
rein as I approached the town. On such an evening the scene was far
from inspiriting. The road followed the windings of the seashore, here
bounded by huge rocks, over which the waves were dashing furiously,
like demons storming a fort. About five miles from the mainland lay
the little island of Innismurry, almost shrouded in mist, and only
discernible by the ring of white foam which marked its coast. Beyond,
stretched the Atlantic, raging with all the force and passion of a
November storm. I had barely time to take in this scene, when I was
accosted by a man, who seemed to rise out of the road at my side.

‘It’s a sevare day, yer honour,’ said he, politely touching his hat.
‘God be good to them that’s at sea on an evening like that.’

‘It is very stormy, indeed; but I think the worst of it is now over.’

‘God sind it, thin, for it’s hard times for the fishermen; though it’s
mighty good for the stillin’.’

‘Good for the stilling!’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why, I mane there’s little fear of “the boys” being interrupted in
weather like that.’

‘Interrupted at what?’

‘Why, at the stillin’, av coorse; and by the same token, yonder they’re
at it;’ and he pointed to the little island already referred to, now
partially disrobed of its mist.

‘Do you mean to say that there is illicit distillation now going on at
that island?’

‘Faix and you’ve just guessed it; and sure it comes mighty handy, by
rayson that the fair is on Monday.’

I need not weary the reader with all that passed between me and my
chance companion, whom I recognised as Mickey Mehaffey, a hanger-on
about one of the hotels in the town. From Mickey I learned that the
inhabitants of Innismurry consisted of about a score of families,
who obtained a living by fishing and illicit distillation, and I
grieve to say, chiefly by the latter. There were no police on the
island, and as in stormy weather it was wholly unapproachable from
the mainland, they could carry on their nefarious business without
fear of ‘disturbance.’ At other times their scouts could give at least
half-an-hour’s warning of approaching danger, and this was sufficient
to enable them to secrete their contraband goods before the ‘inimy’
arrived. And when hard pressed, the Atlantic always formed a safe and
capacious storehouse. They had also their agents and confederates on
the mainland, who assisted them to land and dispose of the poteen prior
to fairs, wakes, and marriages, these being the favourite channels of
‘home consumption.’

But to return to Mickey. He still kept a wistful eye on the island,
particularly on one little curl of blue smoke that he assured me arose
from the identical cabin where the stills were at that moment being
‘fired.’

‘They’ll be sure to land it on Sunday night,’ said he, ‘as Monday is
the fair. The new gauger is very sevare, I’m towld, and means to make a
raid on them.’

‘Who told you that?’ I asked.

‘Oh, the divil a one; sure, I’ve been dhraming it, or something.’

‘Well, Mickey,’ said I, ‘since you’ve been so very free with your
information, I don’t mind telling you that I am the “new gauger”
myself, and certainly mean to put a stop to this smuggling, if
possible.’

‘Oh, the saints protect us!’ piously ejaculated Mickey. ‘Bad luck to
the tongue of me! I’ve been an informer all unknownst to meself; but
your honour won’t betray me?’

‘Never fear. I knew already most of what you told me.’

‘Arrah! did you, now? Well, and if you want any more information about
them same smugglers, sure Mickey Mehaffey’s the boy that can find it
out for ye.’

I was certainly rather amused at Mickey’s sudden change of principles;
and telling him to call on me next day, if he had further information
to give, I put spurs to my horse and trotted in to town.

I had only been recently appointed to Ballyroughan, with special
instructions to do my utmost to suppress smuggling, which was at that
time very prevalent in the district. And from all the information I
could gather, I came to the conclusion that the most effectual way of
doing this was to intercept the landing of the goods from the island.
The supply, I reasoned, would soon cease, if I succeeded in cutting off
the demand.

Mickey kept his promise about giving me further information. I had just
thrown myself on the lounge next evening after dinner, when a fiery
altercation broke in upon my rest. It was my landlady and Mickey on the
stairs. ‘Ye can’t disturb him now, I’m telling ye; he’s only afther his
dinner.’

‘But I want to see him particular,’ persisted Mickey, endeavouring to
pass her on the stairs.

‘And it’s want ye’ll meet with, thin; ye can watch for him as he goes
out in the mornin’.’

‘It’s a matther of life and death, I’m tellin’ ye; and the mornin’
wouldn’t do at all, at all.’

‘Well, and what if it _is_ a matther of life and death? Sure, _he_
isn’t the docthor.’

I now thought proper to interfere. ‘If that is Mickey Mehaffey,’ I
said, ‘you may allow him to come up, Mrs M‘Ketchup.’

‘Very well, sor.—Bad luck to the dirthy boots o’ ye!’ This last to
Mickey in an undertone.

‘Well, Mickey, shut the door, and let me hear what you have got to say.’

‘I’ve learned it all, sor. Hugh’s Shan gave me all the news this
mornin’ afther chapel. He’s wan of the smugglers, ye know, from the
island.’

‘What “news” did he give you?’

‘Why, about the landing of the poteen for the fair. It’s just as I
towld ye. They’re to land it to-night about twelve o’clock, as the moon
will be dark by that time.’

‘Where do they usually land it?’ I asked.

‘Well, sor, there are only two places where a boat can put in with
safety: wan of these, “the Smugglers’ Pier,” is just between the high
rocks forninst Ballyroughan; and the other is about a quarter of a mile
farther along the shore. It’s not so safe in the dark as the Smugglers’
Pier, and so they never land at it.’

After arranging with Mickey to meet me that night at a certain point,
I dismissed him, and proceeded to mature my plan for trapping the
smugglers. It was this. I arranged with the coastguard officer to meet
me at the Smugglers’ Pier about eleven o’clock. He was to bring two
boats and three boatmen with him, and row up silently from the station
to the place appointed. Three constables of the ‘Royal Irish’ were also
detailed to meet me at the same time and place. Mickey, as previously
stated, was to go with myself and act as guide. The rendezvous was
about a mile from the town, so I started off about half-past ten on my
secret expedition. Fortunately, Ballyroughan retires early to rest, so
not a soul was to be seen as I passed through the town. A subdued cough
at the outskirts told me that Mickey was true to his appointment.

We walked in silence to the place, and found the ‘palers,’ as Mickey
called them, waiting. The coastguard officer and his men had not yet
arrived. They came, however, shortly afterwards, and I then gave my
final instructions. One boat, manned by the coastguard officer, a
boatman, and one of the constables, was to row about four hundred yards
out, and lie on its oars, out of the track of the smugglers, but ready
to intercept them on their return to the island, if they escaped us. A
shot from my revolver was the signal for them to be on the alert. The
other boat, I directed to be kept out of sight between the rocks, but
ready for action at a moment’s notice. These arrangements completed,
every one waited quietly at his post to watch the turn of events. It
was now midnight; and though the moon had been down almost half an
hour, there was no sign of the smugglers. Could it be that Mickey was
playing us false? This thought had just occurred to me, when my ear
caught the sound of distant oars.

‘Did you hear anything, sir?’ one of the constables whispered.

‘Hush! Listen,’ I said.

Yes; there was no mistake. Nearer and clearer came the plash of the
oars and the creaking of the rowlocks; and in a few minutes afterwards,
the boat grated on the gravel within a few yards of where we lay
concealed. I saw through the darkness that there were only two men in
the boat, with a boy to steer. The former proceeded at once to land the
goods. They brought a keg ashore; but before I could give the order for
capture, a ludicrous incident betrayed us. Mickey, I noticed, had been
nodding with sleep for some time, and at the most critical moment began
to snore so loudly, that the men at once dropped the keg and made a
rush for the boat.

‘Arrest them!’ I shouted, and one of the policemen succeeded in
catching hold of an oar just as the boat was being pushed off; but the
smuggler was equal to the occasion. He drew the oar towards the boat,
then pushed it rapidly back again, and next moment the unfortunate
constable was left sprawling in the water. ‘Man the boat!’ I shouted,
as I observed they were about to escape us. ‘You,’ I said to the
policeman who got the ducking, ‘will remain on shore to guard the
seizure, and Mickey may keep you company.—All ready?’ I asked, stepping
into the boat, and at the same time discharging my revolver, as a
signal to the coastguard officer in the other boat.

‘All right, sir.’

‘Then pull off;’ and away we went in the wake of the smugglers. The
chase was an exciting one. They had got about twenty yards ahead; but
our boat was the swifter, and we soon came up with them. ‘Now we have
them,’ I exclaimed, as our other boat came into view, intercepting
their course to the island. They were not, however, to be caught so
easily. Making a rapid double to the left, our boat was shot far ahead
of them before we could turn. I now saw that the advantage did not all
lie on our side; for although we had greater speed and greater numbers,
on the other hand, the smugglers’ boat was so formed as to twist and
turn about with the greatest rapidity, rendering it very difficult for
us to come into close quarters with them. Again we came up with them,
and again they made a double towards the mainland, leaving us still at
a distance.

I now adopted a different mode of operations. Both our boats were
between the smugglers and Innismurry, and I directed them to separate
about twenty yards, and row close behind the enemy, keeping the latter
always in front and between the two boats. This plan was perfectly
successful. The smugglers were now compelled to ‘move on’ before us
towards the mainland, any attempt to turn aside being prevented by
either boat. Their only escape now was landward, and they made a spurt
to reach the shore before us, heading directly for the Smugglers’ Pier;
but their boat had scarcely touched the gravel, when our men, jumping
into the water, surrounded it, and took the occupants in charge ere
they had time to land.

I now directed my attention to matters on shore. Mickey was still
there, but the constable was nowhere to be seen. A feeble groan from
behind the rocks led Mickey to explain.

‘It’s the paler, yer honour,’ said he. ‘He tuk mighty bad after you
left.’

‘Has he been to the keg?’ I asked.

‘Faix, and he has, thin; and it didn’t agree with him.’

It evidently did not. The ground beside him bore witness to the fact.

‘Confound the stuff!’ growled one of the boatmen, who had taken the
opportunity to follow the paler’s example and have a pull at the keg.
He was expectorating at a furious rate and making horrible grimaces.

‘Is it poison?’ feebly groaned the policeman.

‘Poison? Confound it!’ said the boatman; ‘it’s water, and as salt as
blazes.’

It was indeed water, fresh drawn from the Atlantic. The constable,
it seems, feeling cold after his immersion, broached the keg in our
absence, and had taken a good pull at it before he discovered that it
wasn’t the ‘rale Innishowen.’ It produced such a nausea and sickness
of stomach, that the poor fellow thought he was poisoned, and became
frightened into the ludicrous state of distress in which we found him.

I now examined the contents of another keg in the boat. Salt water
also. Meanwhile, our three prisoners, who understood not a word of
English, stood composedly looking on, and seemed quite satisfied with
their position. Our own position was certainly a novel one. There
we stood, eight men in Her Majesty’s service, with three prisoners
in charge, and for what? For having two kegs of salt water in their
possession, whilst the broad Atlantic rolled at our feet. No one
appeared to be able to give any explanation of our peculiar ‘seizure;’
and we were about to leave the place in disgust, when the coastguard
drew my attention to the sound of oars farther up the shore, and we
could dimly discern a boat putting off towards the island.

‘Depend upon it,’ said he, ‘that boat has just been landing the poteen;
and this has only been a decoy, to divert our attention from the real
culprits.’

This indeed was the true explanation of the mystery, so I discharged my
prisoners, who coolly tossed the kegs into their boat and pulled off
towards Innismurry.

I afterwards learned that Mickey, with all his apparent simplicity, was
a shrewd confederate of the smugglers, and that it was really he who
planned and set us on this ‘wildgoose chase.’ They expected, it seems,
a raid made on them that night; and Mickey was deputed, under cover of
giving information, to learn the mode of attack, and, if possible to
thwart it. In this he was but too successful. And although, on many
subsequent occasions, I had ample revenge for the trick played on
me that night, I must confess that these later and more successful
experiences appear to me but tame and commonplace, compared with my
first encounter with the Donegal smugglers.




SOME FAROE LEGENDS.

_Adapted from the Danish._


I. THE SEAL-GIRL.

Seals have their origin in human beings who of their own free-will have
drowned themselves in the sea. Once a year—on Twelfth-night—they slip
off their skins and amuse themselves like men and women in dancing and
other pleasures, in the caves of the rocks and the big hollows of the
beach. A young man in the village of Mygledahl, in Kalsoe, had heard
talk of this conduct of the seals, and a place in the neighbourhood of
the village was pointed out to him where they were said to assemble on
Twelfth-night.

In the evening of that day he stole away thither and concealed himself.
Soon he saw a vast multitude of seals come swimming towards the place,
cast off their skins, and lie down upon the rocks. He noticed that a
very fair and beautiful girl came out of one of the seal-skins and
lay down not far from where he was hidden. Then he crept towards her
and took her in his arms. The man and the seal-girl danced together
throughout the whole night; but when day began to break, every seal
went in search of its skin. The seal-girl alone was unsuccessful
in the search for her skin; but she tracked it by its smell to the
Mygledahl-man, and when he, in spite of her entreaties, would not give
it back to her, she was forced to follow him to Mygledahl. There they
lived together for many years, and many children were born to them; but
the man had to be perpetually on the watch lest his wife should be able
to lay hands on her seal-skin, which, accordingly, he kept locked in
the bottom of his chest, the key of which was always about his person.

One day, however, he was out fishing, when he remembered that he had
left the key at home. He called out sorrowfully to the other men: ‘This
day I shall lose my wife.’ They pulled up their lines and rowed home
quickly; but when they came to the house, his wife had disappeared, and
only the children were at home. That no harm might come to them when
she left them, their mother had extinguished the fire on the hearth and
put the knives out of sight. In the meantime, she had run down to the
beach, attired herself in her seal-skin, and directed her course to the
sea, where another seal, who had formerly been her lover, came at once
to her side. This animal had been lying outside the village all these
years waiting for her.

And now, when the children of the Mygledahl-man used to come down to
the beach, they often saw a seal lift its head above the water and
look towards the land. The seal was supposed to be the mother of the
children.

A long time passed away, and again it chanced that the Mygledahl-man
was about to hunt the seals in a big rock-hole. The night before this
was to happen, the Mygledahl-man dreamed that his lost wife came to
him and said that if he went seal-hunting in that cave he must take
care not to kill a large seal which stood in front of the cave, because
that was her mate; and the two young seals in the heart of the cave,
because they were her two little sons; and she informed him of the
colour of their skins. But the man took no heed of his dream, went away
after the seals, and killed all he could lay hands upon. The spoil was
divided when they got home, and the man received for his share the
whole of the large male seal and the hands and feet of the two young
seals.

That same evening, they had cooked the head and paws of the large seal
for supper, and the meat was put up in a trough, when a loud crash was
heard in the kitchen. The man returned thither and saw a frightful
witch, who sniffed at the trough, and cried: ‘Here lies the head, with
the upstanding nose of a man, the hand of Haarek, and the foot of
Frederick. Revenged they are, and revenged they shall be on the men
of Mygledahl, some of whom shall perish by sea, and others fall down
from the rocks, until the number of the slain shall be so great that
by holding each other’s hands they may gird all Kalsoe.’ When she had
uttered this communication, the witch vanished from the room and was
seen no more.

Many Mygledahl-men soon afterwards came to a violent end. Some were
drowned in the sea by Kalsoe while fishing; others fell from the rocks
while catching the seafowl: so that the witch’s curse might be said to
have taken partial effect. The number of the dead, however, is not yet
so large that they can encircle the whole of the island hand in hand.[2]


II. HOW TO BECOME RICH.

If you would be rich, you must go out on Twelfth-night to a cross-road
where five ways meet, one of which leads to a church; and you must take
with you in your hands a gray calfskin and an axe. When you reach the
cross-road, you must sit down on the calfskin, the tail of which must
be extended in the direction of the road which leads to the churchyard.
Then you must look fixedly at the axe, which must be made as sharp as
possible. Towards midnight, the goblins will come in multitudes and
put gold in great heaps round you, to try and make you look up, and
they will chatter, grimace, and grin at you. But when at length they
have failed in causing you to look aside, they will begin to take hold
of the tail of the calfskin and drag it away, with you upon it. Then
you will be fortunate if you can succeed in cutting off the tail with
the axe without looking about you and without damaging the axe. If you
succeed, the goblins will vanish, and all the gold will remain by you.
Otherwise, if you look about you or damage the axe, it will be all up
with you.


III. THE LUCKY-STONE.

The ‘lucky-stone’ is a good thing to possess, because the man who
has it is always fortunate and victorious in every struggle; nor
can any man or evil spirit harm him. Success follows him wherever
he goes; everything happens according to his wishes; he is every
one’s favourite. It is not wonderful, therefore, that men are eager
to bargain for a stone that can work so much good for its owner.
Unfortunately, however, no man knows where to find it; only the raven
knows this; and now you shall hear how the raven may be induced to
discover it. It is a common saying that this bird mates in February,
lays its eggs in March, and hatches its young in April. Now, when the
raven has laid its eggs, the man who determines to have the lucky-stone
must climb the rock wherein the raven has its nest. There he must sit
still without letting the raven see him, until the bird flies away from
its nest. Immediately afterwards the man must hasten to the nest, take
the eggs therefrom, go away and boil them hard, and then lay them in
the nest again, so that the raven when it comes back may not notice
anything amiss. The bird then resumes its attempt to hatch the eggs.
When, however, it has sat past the ordinary hatching-time without young
ones coming out of the eggs, it gets impatient and tired of sitting
any longer. Away it flies after the lucky-stone, to place this in the
nest between the eggs, so that by its help the young may get out of the
shell; and, in readiness for its return, the man must station himself
by the nest and shoot the bird when it reappears. Then he may take the
lucky-stone out of the raven’s beak and go home with it.[3]


IV. THE SKARVEN AND THE EIDER-DUCK.

The skarven and the eider-duck both wished to wear down, and could
not determine which of them should have that privilege. They came to
a decision that it should belong to that one of them who first saw
the sun rise next morning and cried to the other: ‘The sun is up!’
Accordingly, they seated themselves among the rocks side by side that
evening. The eider-duck fell asleep immediately after sunset; but
the skarven, knowing that he was a sound sleeper, formed the wicked
resolution not to go to sleep that night, lest he should oversleep
himself. Thus he became almost assured that he, and not the eider-duck,
should get the down. The skarven sat full of pride in his resolve to
keep awake the whole night. This was easy enough at the outset; but
later on in the night his head grew heavy and he had to fight hard
with sleep; however, he held out until it began to be light in the
east; then, elated with joy, he cried: ‘Now the east becomes blue!’
But by this outcry, the skarven awoke the eider-duck, who had enjoyed
his accustomed sleep; while, on the other hand, the skarven could no
longer keep his eyes open. When the sun really rose, the eider-duck was
not slow to cry to the skarven: ‘The sun rises over the sea!’ Thus the
eider-duck received the down. As for the skarven, his punishment was
very severe. Because he could not keep silence, but by his outcry awoke
the eider-duck, from that time forward he has been tongue-tied as well
as without down.


V. A TALE OF SANDOE.

West of the town of Sand is a great hole deep in the ground, where a
witch used to live. A man from Sand once went down into this hole and
saw a woman standing crushing gold in a hand-mill, and a little child
sitting by her playing with a gold stick. The old crone was blind.
After a little reflection, the man went softly up to the woman and
took away the gold which she was crushing. Hereupon she said: ‘Either
a mouse is being crushed, or a thief is stealing, or else something
is wrong with the quern.’ The man left her, took the gold stick from
the child, whom he struck and made to cry. The old woman now instantly
divined that something was wrong. She jumped up and groped after the
man in the hole. But he was no sooner out of the cave than he ran home
at a gallop with the gold. The witch then called a neighbour crone,
related her misfortune, and besought her help. The neighbour forthwith
ran with all speed after the man. She jumped across certain lakes on
the way, and here her footprints may be seen in the stone on each side
of the water to this day. But the man escaped her until he came to a
marshy tract of land, where she succeeded in laying hold of his horse’s
tail. However, he whipped the horse forward so that its tail broke off.
Nor did this stop him. On he went until he came in sight of the church.
Here the witch could do him no harm, but was obliged to turn back. To
this day, it is said that one may hear the old blind witch crushing
gold in the cave.[4]


VI. THE MAN AND THE BROWNIES.

The village of Gaasedahl, in Waagoe, has no level beach, but is almost
fifteen fathoms straight up from the sea, so that boats could not
very well be kept there. Moreover, the inhabitants are too few to
man a large boat for sea-fishing. They have, therefore, their boat
jointly with the neighbouring village of Boe, with the men whereof
they associate in fishing. One night a man from Gaasedahl went by
appointment east to Akranes, where the men from Boe wanted to take
him in the boat to row with them to the fishing. When he had come to
Skardsaa, he observed a boat which lay by the land in the appointed
place; and, fearful lest he should delay the others, he hurried down
to it. He saw that there were seven in the boat, and that a place was
vacant by one of the thwarts. He believed, therefore, that all was as
it should be, although he could not recognise any of the men, because
of the darkness. Then he jumped briskly into the boat and sat down by
his oar; but, to his great terror, he now perceived that he knew none
of the men, and he did not fail to understand that he had got among
the brownie folk. Still, he would not let them see that he was afraid,
but sat down to row as capably as the others. They steered north of
Waagoe towards Ravnemulen, a fishing-place to which the men of Waagoe
are accustomed to row.

The elves now began to put bait on their hooks and to cast out; but the
Gaasedahl-man sat still because he had only a line with him; his hooks
were in Boe. Then the leader of the elves gave him both hooks and bait,
with which he made a cast, and immediately caught a big cod. When he
had pulled up the fish and killed it, the leader took and marked it,
and in the same way he marked every other fish caught by the man. They
fished until the boat was full, then rowed home, and touched the land
by Akranes, where the Gaasedahl-man had come to them. The brownies
threw on shore to him all the fish he had caught. When he was going
away, the Gaasedahl-man remembered that he had left his knife behind
him in the boat, and said to the brownies that ‘the sharp thing by his
thigh’ was left in the boat. The brownie thereupon took the knife and
threw it at him to hurt him, but it did not hit him. Then he said: ‘You
were a doomed man; but you are a lucky man;’ and the other brownies
then rowed off, abusing him because he would not thank them for the use
of the boat.[5]


VII. ABOUT WITCHES.

It is said that witches are fond of visiting people’s houses,
especially when they find them empty. North of Núgvunes, in Borgardahl,
on the island of Myggenes, there is a little but well-built house for
shepherds to pass the night in, when at certain times in the year they
come here to look after the sheep, because this part of the island is
far away from a village. One night, at an unusual time, one of these
shepherds went thither; but when he was about to take shelter in the
house, he heard much noise and racket within the building. He stationed
himself by a little window, and perceived that the house was full of
witches, who were holding carnival. They danced and sang: ‘Cold is the
witches’ home in the hills. It is better within the house on the cliff
by Skálavellir—trum, trum, trallarei—to dance close to the doors.’

But it was much worse at Troldenes, which is the most northerly village
in Kalsoe. Thither the witches used to come every Twelfth-night in such
multitudes that the townsfolk were at that time forced to flee to the
nearest town, Mygledahl, and stay there while this witches’ revelry
lasted; hence this town got the name of Troldenes (Witches’ Point). It
happened once that an old woman was not able to flee with the others to
Mygledahl on Twelfth-night. She lay under a table in the kitchen and
hid herself from the witches. In the evening, she saw the witches come
in and begin to shout and dance. But in the height of their merriment
the old woman under the table cried out: ‘Jesus, be merciful to me!’
When the witches heard the blessed name of Jesus, which they hate and
tremble at, they began to scream, and said to each other: ‘Gydja[6]
disturbs the dance.’ Thereupon they disappeared from Troldenes, and
they have not dared since to trouble that village. When the people came
back from Mygledahl after the festival, they expected to find the old
woman dead, but she then told them of her adventure with the witches.


VIII. THE TWO SISTERS.

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman. They had one daughter;
and when the child was a year old, her mother died. The man, poor
creature, was now left alone with this little girl. No wonder,
therefore, that he, like so many other men in a similar plight, began
to think of taking a second wife, and duly married again. By this
second wife also he had a daughter. The two girls were nearly of the
same age, there being not much more than two years’ difference between
them. They grew up together in the house; but it may be imagined which
of them the woman made the most of; for, whilst she gave her own
daughter everything that was nice, and let her have her way both in
good and evil, she could not bear the sight of the elder child, her
step-daughter, but struck and trounced her both early and late. The
poor girl was made to do all the worst work: to clean the cowhouses in
winter; to crush every grain of corn that was eaten in the house; to
pick the wool, and the like. In summer, she had to go into the fields
to milk the cows both morning and evening, often a long way up the
mountains, without anything to eat.

The step-mother was perpetually gnawed with envy of the elder of the
girls because she was as beautiful as the finest summer apple, red and
white like blood upon snow; whilst the younger was ugly in appearance
and disgusted every man. The wicked woman wanted, therefore, to spoil
her step-daughter’s pretty face; and with this intention, compelled
her to do all the worst and hardest work both at home and in the
fields; but in spite of it all, she grew yet more beautiful, while
her half-sister became pale and sickly from sitting indoors and never
stirring out to lend a helping hand to any one.

The woman now resolved to make her step-daughter so thin by starvation
that she could not fail to lose her beauty, and come to be as
insignificant as her own daughter. She refused to give her any supper,
so that the poor girl had to go into the fields to do the milking
without having had anything to eat the previous evening, and without
breakfast that day. With a heavy heart and a hungry stomach, she now
left home with the milk-pail on her back, not knowing how to get
anything to eat. While she went along crying, and so exhausted that she
was ready to fall to the ground, she saw a hill straight before her
open, and a table standing there decked with meat and drink. She asked
God to guide her, went in, and refreshed herself with the meat and
drink. Then she thanked God for the meal, and went on joyfully in quest
of the cattle. The hill opened for her in the same place every morning
and evening, and by this means she kept so strong and healthy that her
step-mother’s scheme quite failed.

The younger sister now asked how it was that she herself, who had good
things every day and all she wanted, did yet not thrive so well as the
other, who was always working and got little to eat? But the elder
sister would not at first answer her questions; she simply said that
she had taken nothing from her or her mother. In the end, however, she
told her that she got meat and drink in the hill. When the younger
sister heard this, she immediately wanted to go into the fields and
milk the cows, that she might see what took place in the hill, and she
besought her mother’s permission to go the very next day. This the
mother granted at once, though she wondered that her daughter should
conceive such a fancy. Accordingly, the girl went. The hill was open.
She sat down, ate and drank of the good things, and never bethought
herself how they came thither; nor, when she had finished eating, did
she think of asking God to be with her or of thanking Him. This she was
not accustomed to do. In the evening, she would not eat at home, so
that she might eat the more when she went again on to the hill. But the
second time, when she was come thither, the hill was shut for her; so
she had for once to experience what it was to go hungry into the fields
and look after the cows. She had to go high up the mountains and search
a long time before she found the animals; and she returned home in the
evening angry, and said that she would not make many such excursions.

And so the elder sister had again to go in the old way; but for her the
hill was never closed. She went without shoes and dressed in rags, like
the most miserable of beggars; and the worse she looked, the better
pleased was the step-mother.

One day, when the poor girl came to the hill, her rags were ready
to fall off her, so that she had good cause to cry and grieve over
herself. How great, then, was her joy when she saw some beautiful
clothes held towards her within the hill, and heard a voice say that
they were for her. She hastened to dress herself in these new clothes,
and sat down in the field, the better to examine them. But she had no
sooner seated herself, than a grand king’s son, with a large suite of
attendants, came riding towards her, and entered into conversation
with the fair maid. The king’s son liked her so much that he fell in
love with her immediately and asked whom she was. The girl replied to
his declaration of love, that if he did not change his mind within a
year, then he might come back to her parents and ask their consent; she
herself would not say him ‘Nay.’ On this understanding they separated.

When she reached home again, the girl said not a word about this
meeting. Her fine clothes were taken from her by her half-sister, and
again she had to go to the fields in her rags, as before.

When the year had gone by, the king’s son came riding into the farmyard
as a suitor. He shone with gold from top to toe, and likewise the man
who accompanied him. He explained his mission, and asked for the hand
of the farm-people’s daughter. They consented to the match; but the
woman went away and locked up her step-daughter in the strong-room,
made her own daughter array herself in the clothes which the king’s son
had seen on the elder of the girls, and brought her before him. The
prince said that he had never seen this girl before, and had not come
to court her. The mother replied that the girl was the same, but that
she had been so disfigured by a severe illness as to be unrecognisable.
When the king’s son heard this, his blood rushed to his heart, and he
begged her to go apart alone with him. The girl followed behind him;
but no sooner were they out of the house, than she fell down and burst
asunder.

Then the king’s son re-entered the house. He perceived that the woman
had deceived him, and he threatened to kill them all unless they
instantly gave him the real girl whom he had come to court. They could
go out and see the consequence of having already lied to him.

The man now fetched his elder daughter, and the king’s son was joyful
when he saw her. He gave her the choicest clothes and presents; then he
set her upon a fine horse; and they rode away home to his kingdom. When
the king his father died, the prince himself became king, and the poor
girl his queen, and they lived happy together all the rest of their
days.

As for the wicked step-mother, she died of grief and vexation.


FOOTNOTES:

[2] Kalsoe is about ten miles long by about one mile and a half in
width.

[3] Sysselman Müller of Thorshavn, Faroe, possesses one of these
stones. It is brown, and rather common to look at; but no doubt the
fact that Herr Müller is reputed to be the richest man in the Isles,
as he is certainly the most influential, is due to the virtue of this
stone. Herr Müller sits in the upper house of the Danish government;
and this also may be attributable to his lucky-stone.

[4] This story, it is obvious, is allied to the Ayrshire traditions on
which Burns founded his _Tam o’ Shanter_.

[5] It is necessary to explain that in talking to a brownie one must
not call a knife, a sword, an axe, or anything of the kind by its right
name, but indicate it by a paraphrase, ‘The sharp thing,’ &c. Nor must
one say ‘Thank you’ to the brownies, if they do one a service, because,
if so, it gives them power to injure the person who thanks them.

[6] Gydja is Faroese for an old wife, crone, or aged woman.




THE OLD VIKING.

AN ADAPTATION FOR MUSIC.


    Why ’midst these shadowy woods should I
    In grave-like loneness, lingering, die?
    ’Tis ours to unfurl the sail, and ride
    Away as of old on the flashing tide.

    How bleak these beetling crags, and bare!
    What lifeless gloom broods everywhere!
    In this poor mousetrap of a hold,
    How can a warrior’s heart be bold?

    The billows dark, the galley strong,
    I learned to love when life was young;
    Why then should I, with whitened hair,
    Die like an old wolf in his lair?

    Oh, better far it were for me
    To risk my life on the rolling sea,
    To die as died my fathers brave,
    And sleep with them in their ocean-grave!

    Farewell, ye woods and crags, farewell!
    My bark rides brave on the billowy swell;
    The tall mast swings, the sail flaps free,
    And our home once more is the boundless sea.

            JOHN RUSSELL.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._