[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. 134.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JULY 24, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE GERMANISATION OF AMERICA.
Those who know any part of America, or have even a small acquaintance
with Americans, will not have been surprised at the list of names
published in the daily papers of the persons who were arrested as the
authors of the late disturbance at Chicago. With perhaps one exception,
there is not an English name among them; they are all foreign, and to
the true American public, must bring home in full force the certain
operation of a process hitherto only half apparent—that their country
is fast passing through a period of incubation, which, if allowed to
continue, will end in the development of a new Germanism, destroying
the individuality of the Anglo-Saxon, and flooding the land with
theories for the relief of an Old World discontent.
Before steamships and railways had made travel a matter of comparative
ease, it was customary to laugh at the peculiarities of our American
cousins, in the belief they were the result of the natural growth of
transatlantic life; but a wider knowledge of the continent has brought
to light the indisputable fact that they are to a very considerable
extent the habits and customs of the lower middle class of Germany.
The true American, taking into consideration difference of thought, is
as much a gentleman, from the English point of view, as the Englishman
himself. If there is anything which characterises an Englishman, as
distinct from the rest of his species, it is his sensitiveness on the
point of similarity to his kind, and his willingness in carrying this
out, to submit himself to personal inconvenience, rather than allow
any singularity to appear. Where this comes in, the American does
not bow to the same strict conventional rule, his constant activity
and the dissimilitude of life having of necessity forced him to take
circumstances into account. Laying aside the distinction, however, and
it is one which does not always intrude itself, making allowance also
for a greater conservatism which has retained old English customs
and expressions, where is the line to be drawn in cultivated circles
between an Englishman and an American? If, also, we look into the great
upper middle classes of the two countries, who will grant that the
dead level of uniformity in England is more attractive in its outward
than its inward form; and who will doubt that for the pleasure of
intercourse, the advantage is wholly on the side of America both as
regards originality of thought and freedom from restraint?
The juvenile republican of Europe, panting on the outskirts of
exclusivism, makes a great mistake when he imagines America is free
from ‘class’ prejudice. Let him emigrate to a house on the wrong
side of Boston, and we can promise he will have leisure during the
remainder of his life to calculate the difference in degree between the
descendants of those whose patent of nobility bears the date of the
_Mayflower_ and the representatives in the Old World of Norman blood.
In the present day, we take it for granted the society of every country
is willing to welcome the man of genius or money who is, besides, a
gentleman, and does not run his head against established facts. Be
that as it may, there is one thing certain—the old idea of Americans,
considered typical of the race, and still lingering in some quarters,
is entirely an error.
Let us look at a few of the supposed characteristics of our
‘cousins’—one and all taken from the travelling citizen of other
days, but who latterly has faded into the background before the
true American, and is only now to be seen in second-class hotels or
lodgings. Does he ask interminable questions with the curiosity of
an inquisitor, till nothing remains but a point-blank demand to know
the amount of your income? If so, engage rooms in a German _pension_,
and relate your experiences after a three days’ stay. Does he worry
you to death with a skilful display of the knife-trick? Go to a
German pastry-cook’s and watch the same performance at four o’clock
in the afternoon by a well-dressed young lady on a solid pie. Does
he smoke everywhere and spit freely? Enter a Paris tramway car or a
second-class German railway carriage, and you will learn that Uncle
Sam has not the monopoly of expectorating power. Does his square-cut
coat hang upon him like a sack? Does he wear shirt fronts and glazed
cuffs, long boots with high heels, and a hat whose style has originated
in his inner bosom? If you have observed these things, go to any small
German town and see their prototypes. Does he destroy his digestion
by drinking iced water as he sits down to dinner? Does he eat a heavy
meal in the middle of the day and hurry off as if the table were let?
Does he brag like a schoolboy and believe that existence centres in
himself? If he does, make the acquaintance of the first German at the
nearest watering-place. Does he, in his native town, when aspiring
to a higher place in the respect of the citizens, turn himself quite
inside out in the effort to be agreeable? Does he take his hat off to
the man of distinction with a wide wave, forgetful of his own dignity,
eyeing him with suppressed jealousy, and when he dares, endeavouring
to patronise, as a means of recommending himself to notice, the
realisation of _ich empfehl’ mich_ which is shot out occasionally,
more especially in Austria? If so, study the German character in the
lower middle class. Is this class, however, making all allowance for
humanity, morally sound, and is it the same in the United States? We
answer unhesitatingly, ‘Yes;’ though perhaps in Europe it ought to be
limited to Northern Germany. We would also affirm that the men in both
countries are intellectually decidedly above their customs or their
manners; while the women ripen early, and have a natural vivacity added
to good appearance, which supplies the want of a corresponding culture.
It would be easy to multiply questions proving the origin of supposed
Americanisms; and indeed, the better classes are more tinged with
continental ways than they might care to admit, as, for instance, the
‘Pap-a’ and ‘Mam-ma’ of well-born babies; or the Mrs Colonel and
Mrs Dr So-and-so, like the Frau Pastor or Frau Doctor of Germany;
but we have only desired to show how the foundation has been almost
unconsciously laid for the naturalisation of European customs, and,
as a consequence, of thought also, so that what is called American is
really German. These ideas have been carried to America, of course, by
the tide of emigration; and as the population grew out of the emigrants
of all nations, native manners were partially lost by the lower orders.
That America should be more Germanised than Irishised or Frenchified,
is a tribute to the higher qualities of the Teuton; and that a certain
class of Americans could become so transformed from its original type,
only tells how completely it has been absorbed, and how far away it
already is from the Anglo-Saxon race. That this is a matter of grief to
all true Americans, is well known; and it is always said, whenever a
case comes up, the man in question is a ‘German American.’ The tenacity
of the Teuton has preserved his individuality under foreign conditions,
and he now forms a distinctly powerful element in the country, lives
the same way as if he were in Germany, thinks the same thoughts, and
clings to his language. The American, true to trade instincts, has
studied his wants and ministered to them, as, for example, in the
consumption of Rio coffee, so that in a way he is responsible for the
fostering of nationalities. Societies, too, representing these, formed
on philanthropic grounds, everywhere exist; and though the man may call
himself American, he is in reality partly Irish, Swiss, or Dutch.
There is, therefore, a hard task before the American people—the
necessity to weld into an harmonious whole European elements with long
histories of animosity to each other, at all times more or less active,
possessing Old World grievances that are inoperative in the United
States, and bent upon maintaining their own ideas under the shelter of
a common home. That measures will be taken to suppress the disturbances
of divers nationalities whenever they occur against the American
people, there is no doubt; but it is rather hard upon a new country to
have to submit up to fighting-point to the airing of doctrines which
do not affect it, and that might create artificial grievances causing
endless trouble. In the attempt to banish national distinctions, to
develop the Anglo-Saxon race, America has a firm friend here; and just
as her truest sons, when desirous of looking beyond themselves, turn
for their inspirations to the genius of the British people, so do we
in return take a leaf from that chapter of events in the progress of
humanity which it seems to be the mission of Americans to arrange.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Twilight, the beautiful serene tropical twilight, was just gathering
on Wednesday evening, when the negroes of all the surrounding country,
fresh from their daily work in the cane-pieces, with cutlasses
and sticks and cudgels in their hands, began to assemble silently
around Louis Delgado’s hut, in the bend of the mountains beside the
great clump of feathery cabbage-palms. A terrible and motley crowd
they looked, bareheaded and bare of foot, many of them with their
powerful black arms wholly naked, and thrust loosely through the wide
sleeve-holes of the coarse sack-like shirt which, with a pair of ragged
trousers, formed their sole bodily covering. Most of the malcontents
were men, young and old, sturdy and feeble; but among them there were
not a few fierce-looking girls and women, plantation hands of the
wildest and most unkempt sort, carelessly dressed in short ragged
filthy kirtles, that reached only to the knee, and with their woolly
hair tangled and matted with dust and dirt, instead of being covered
with the comely and becoming bandana turban of the more civilised
and decent household negresses. These women carried cutlasses too,
the ordinary agricultural implement of all sugar-growing tropical
countries; and one had but to glance at their stalwart black arms or
their powerful naked legs and feet, as well as at their cruel laughing
faces, to see in a moment that if need were, they could wield their
blunt but heavy weapons fully as effectively and as ruthlessly in their
own way as the resolute, vengeful men themselves. So wholly unsexed
were they, indeed, by brutal field-labour and brutal affections, that
it was hard to look upon them closely for a minute and believe them to
be really and truly women.
The conspirators assembled silently, it is true, so far as silence
under such circumstances is ever possible to the noisy demonstrative
negro nature; but in spite of the evident effort which every man
made at self-restraint, there was a low undercurrent of whispered
talk, accompanied by the usual running commentary of grimaces and
gesticulations, which made a buzz or murmur hum ceaselessly through the
whole crowd of five or six hundred armed semi-savages. Now and again
the women especially, looking down with delightful anticipation at
their newly whetted cutlasses, would break out into hoarse ungovernable
laughter, as they thought to themselves of the proud white throats
they were going to cut that memorable evening, and the dying cries of
the little white pickaninnies they were going to massacre in their
embroidered lace bassinettes.
‘It warm me heart, Mistah Delgado, sah,’ one white-haired, tottering,
venerable old negro mumbled out slowly with a pleasant smile, ‘to see
so many good neighbour all come togedder again for kill de buckra.
It long since I see fine gadering like dis. I mind de time, sah, in
slavery day, when I was young man, just begin for to make lub to
de le-adies, how we rise all togedder under John Trelawney down at
Star-Apple Bottom, go hunt de white folk in de great insurrection. Ha,
dem was times, sah—dem was times, I tellin’ you de trut’, me fren’,
in de great insurrection. We beat de goomba drum, we go up to Mistah
Pourtalès—same what flog me mudder so unmerciful dat de buckra judges
even fine him—an’ we catch de massa himself, an’ we beat him dead wit
stick an’ cutlass. Ha, ha, dem was times, sah. Den we catch de young
le-adies, an’ we hack dem all to pieces, an’ we burn de bodies. Den we
go on to odder house, take all de buckra we find, shoot some, roast
some same we roast pig, an’ burn some in deir own houses. Dem was
times, sah—dem was times. I doan’t s’pose naygur now will do like we
do when I is young man. But dis is good meeting, fine meeting: we cry
“Colour for colour,” “Buckra country for us,” an’ de Lard prosper us in
de work we hab in hand! Hallelujah!’
One of the women stood listening eagerly to this thrilling recital of
early exploits, and asked in a hushed voice of the intensest interest:
‘An’ what de end ob it all, Mistah Corella? What come ob it? How you no
get buckra house, den, for youself lib in?’
The old man shook his head mournfully, as he answered with a meditative
sigh: ‘Ah, buckra too strong for us—too strong for us altogedder; come
upon us too many. Colonel Macgregor, him come wit plenty big army,
gun an’ bay’net, an’ shoot us down, an’ charge us ridin’; so we all
frightened, an’ run away hide in de bush right up in de mountains. Den
dem bring Cuban bloodhound, hunt us out; an’ dem hab court-martial, an’
dem sit on Trelawney, an’ dem hang him, hang him dead, de buckra. An’
dem hang plenty. We kill twenty—twenty-two—twenty-four buckra; an’
buckra kill hundred an’ eighty poor naygur, to make tings even. For one
buckra, dem kill ten, fifteen, twenty naygur. But my master hide me
till martial law blow ober, because I is strong, hearty young naygur,
an’ can work well for him down in cane-piece. Him say: “Doan’t must
kill valuable property!” An’ I get off dat way. So dat de end ob John
Trelawney him rebellion.’
If the poor soul could only have known it, he might have added with
perfect truth that it was the end of every other negro rebellion too;
the white man is always too strong for them. But hope springs eternal
in the black breast as in all others, and it was with a placid smile
of utter oblivion that he added next minute: ‘But we doan’t gwine to
be beaten dis time. We too strong ourselbes now for de soldier an’ de
buckra. Delgado make tings all snug; buy pistol, drill naygur, plan
battle, till we sure ob de victory. De Lard wit us, an’ Delgado him
serbant.’
At that moment, Louis Delgado himself stepped forward, erect and firm,
with the unmistakable air of a born commander, and said a few words
in a clear low earnest voice to the eager mob of armed rioters. ‘Me
fren’s,’ he said, ‘you must obey orders. Go quiet, an’ make no noise
till you get to de buckra houses. Doan’t turn aside for de rum or de
trash-houses; we get plenty rum for ourselbes, I tellin’ you, when
we done killed all de buckra. Doan’t set fire to de house anywhere;
only kill de male white folk; we want house to lib in ourselbes,
when de war ober. Doan’t burn de factories; we want factory for make
sugar ourselves when de buckra dribben altogedder clean out ob de
country. Doan’t light fire at all; if you light fire, de soldiers in
Port-ob-Spain see de blaze directly, an’ come up an’ fight us hard,
before we get togedder enough black men to make sure ob de glorious
victory. Nebber mind de buckra le-ady; we can get dem when we want dem.
Kill, kill, kill! dat is de watchword. Kill, kill, kill de buckra, an’
de Lard delibber de rest into de hands ob his chosen people.’ As he
spoke, he raised his two black hands, palm upwards, in the attitude of
earnest supplication, towards the darkening heaven, and flung his head
fervently backward, with the whites of his big eyes rolling horribly,
in his unspoken prayer to the God of battles.
The negroes around, caught with the contagious enthusiasm of Delgado’s
voice and mutely eloquent gesture, flung up their own dusky hands,
cutlasses and all, with the self-same wild and expressive pantomime,
and cried aloud, in a scarcely stifled undertone: ‘De Lard delibber
dem, de Lard delibber dem to Louis Delgado.’
The old African gazed around him complacently for a second at the
goodly muster of armed followers, to the picked men among whom
Isaac Pourtalès was already busily distributing the pistols and the
cartridges. ‘Are you ready, me fren’s?’ he asked again, after a short
pause. And, like a deep murmur, the answer rang unanimously from that
great tumultuous black mass: ‘Praise de Lard, sah, we ready, we ready!’
‘Den march!’ Delgado cried, in the loud tone of a commanding officer;
and suiting the action to the word, the whole mob turned after him
silently, along the winding path that led down by tortuous twists
from the clump of cabbage-palms to the big barn-like Orange Grove
trash-houses.
With their naked feet and their cat-like tread, the negroes marched
along far more silently than white men could ever have done, toward
the faint lights that gleamed fitfully beyond the gully. If possible,
Delgado would have preferred to lead them straight to Orange Grove
house, for his resentment burnt fiercest of all against the Dupuy
family, and he wished at least, whatever else happened, to make sure of
massacring that one single obnoxious household. But it was absolutely
necessary to turn first to the trash-houses and the factory, for
rumours of some impending trouble had already vaguely reached the
local authorities. The two constables of the district stood there on
guard, and the few faithful and trustworthy plantation hands were
with them there, in spite of Mr Dupuy’s undisguised ridicule, half
expecting an insurgent attack that very evening. It would never do to
leave the enemy thus in the rear, ready either to attack them from
behind, or to bear down the news and seek for aid at Port-of-Spain.
Delgado’s plan was therefore to carry each plantation entire as he
went, without allowing time to the well-affected negroes to give the
alarm to the whites in the next one. But he feared greatly the perils
and temptations of the factory for his unruly army. ‘Whatebber else you
do, me fren’s,’ the old African muttered more than once, turning round
beseechingly to his ragged black followers, ‘doan’t drink de new rum,
an’ doan’t set fire to de buckra trash-houses.’
At the foot of the little knoll under whose base the trash-houses lay,
they came suddenly upon one of the faithful field-hands, Napoleon
Floreal, whose fidelity Delgado had already in vain attempted with
his rude persuasions. The negroes singled him out at once for their
first vengeance. Before the man could raise so much as a sharp shout,
Isaac Pourtalès had seized him from behind and gagged his mouth with
a loose bandana. Two of the other men, quick as lightning, snatched
his arms, and held them bent back in a very painful attitude behind
his shoulders. ‘If you is wit us,’ Delgado said, in a hoarse whisper,
‘lift your right foot, fellah.’ Floreal kept both feet pressed doggedly
down with negro courage upon the ground. ‘Him is traitor, traitor!’
Pourtalès muttered, between his clenched teeth. ‘Him hab black skin,
but white heart. Kill him, kill him!’
In a second, a dozen angry negroes had darted forward, with their
savage cutlasses brandished aloft in the air, ready to hack their
offending fellow-countryman into a thousand pieces. But Delgado, his
black hands held up with a warning air before them, thundered out in
a tone of bitter indignation: ‘Doan’t kill him!—doan’t kill him! My
children, kill in good order. Dar is plenty buckra for you to kill,
witout want to kill your own brudder. Tie de han’kercher around him
mout’, bind rope around him arm an’ leg, an’ trow him down de gully
yonder among de cactus jungle!’
As he spoke, one of the men produced a piece of stout rope from his
pocket, brought for the very purpose of tying the ‘prisoners,’ and
proceeded to wind it tightly around Floreal’s body. They fastened it
well round arms and legs; stuffed the bandana firmly in his mouth so
as to check all his futile attempts at shouting, and rolled him over
the slight bank of earth, down among the thick scrub of prickly cactus.
Then, as the blood spurted out of the small wounds made by the sharp
thorns, they gave a sudden low yell, and burst in a body upon the
guardians of the trash-houses.
Before the two black policemen had time to know what was actually
happening, they found themselves similarly gagged and bound, and tossed
down beside Napoleon Floreal on the prickly cactus bed. In a minute,
the insurgents had surrounded the trash-houses, cut down and captured
the few faithful negroes, and marched them along unwillingly in their
own body, as hostages for the better behaviour of the Orange Grove
house-servants.
‘Now, me fren’s,’ Delgado shouted, with fierce energy, ‘down wit de
Dupuys! We gwine to humble de proud white man! We must hab blood! De
Lard is wit us! He hat’ put down de mighty from deir seats, an’ hat’
exalted de lowly an’ meek!’
But as he spoke, one or two of the heaviest-looking among the rioters
began to cast their longing eyes upon the unbroached hogsheads. ‘De
rum, de rum!’ one of them cried hoarsely. ‘We want suffin for keep
our courage up. Little drop o’ rum help naygur man well to humble de
buckra.’
Delgado rushed forward and placed himself resolutely, pistol in hand,
before the seductive hogsheads. ‘Whoebber drink a drop ob dat rum dis
blessed ebenin’,’ he hissed out angrily, ‘before all de Dupuys is lyin’
cold in deir own houses, I shoot him dead here wit dis very pistol!’
But the foremost rioters only laughed louder than before, and one of
them even wrenched the pistol suddenly from his leader’s grasp with an
unexpected side movement. ‘Look hyar, Mistah Delgado,’ the man said
quietly; ‘dis risin’ is all our risin’, an’ we has got to hab voice
ourselbes in de partickler way we gwine to manage him. We doan’t gwine
away witout de rum, an’ we gwine to break just one little pickanie
hogshead.’ At the word, he raised his cutlass above his head, and
lunging forward with it like a sword, with all his force, stove in one
of the thick cross-pieces at the top of the barrel, and let the liquor
dribble out slowly from the chink in a small but continuous trickling
stream. Next moment, a dozen black hands were held down to the silent
rill like little cups, and a dozen dusky mouths were drinking down the
hot new rum, neat and unalloyed, with fierce grimaces of the highest
gusto. ‘Ha, dat good!’ ran round the chorus in thirsty approbation:
‘dat warm de naygur’s heart. Us gwine now to kill de buckra in true
earnes’.’
Delgado stood by, mad with rage and disappointment, as he saw his
followers, one after another, scrambling for handful after handful
of the fiery liquor, and watched some of them, the women especially,
reeling about foolishly almost at once from the poisonous fumes of the
unrefined spirit. He felt in his heart that his chances were slipping
rapidly from him, even before the insurrection was well begun, and
that it would be impossible for a crowd of half-drunken negroes to
preserve the order and discipline which alone would enable them to
cope with the all-puissant and regularly drilled white men. But the
more he stormed and swore and raved at them, the more did the greedy
and uncontrolled negroes, now revelling in the unstinted supply, hold
their hands to the undiminished stream, and drink it off by palmfuls
with still deeper grunts and groans of internal satisfaction. ‘If it
doan’t no hope ob conquer de island,’ the African muttered at last with
a wild Guinea oath to Isaac Pourtalès, ‘at anyrate we has time to kill
de Dupuys—an’ dat always some satisfaction.’
The men were now thoroughly inflamed with the hot new rum, and more
than one of them began to cry aloud: ‘It time to get to de reg’lar
business.’ But a few still lingered lovingly around the dripping
hogshead, catching double handfuls of the fresh spirit in their
capacious palms. Presently, one of the women, mad with drink, drew out
a short pipe from her filthy pocket and began to fill it to the top
with raw tobacco. As she did so, she turned tipsily to a man by her
side and asked him for a light. The fellow took a match in his unsteady
fingers and struck it on a wooden post, flinging it away when done
with among a few small scraps of dry trash that lay by accident upon
the ground close by. Trash is the desiccated refuse of cane from which
the juice has been already extracted, and it is ordinarily used as a
convenient fuel to feed the crushing-mills and boil the molasses. Dry
as tinder, it lighted up with a flare instantaneously, and raised a
crackling blaze, whose ruddy glow pleased and delighted the childish
minds of the half-drunken negroes. ‘How him burn!’ the woman with the
pipe cried excitedly. ‘Sposin’ we set fire to de trash-house! My heart,
how him blaze den! Him light up all de mountains! Burn de trash-house!
Burn de trash-house! Dat pretty for true! Burn de trash-house!’
Quick as lightning, the tipsiest rioters had idly kicked the burning
ends of loose trash among the great stacked heaps of dry cane under
the big sheds; and in one second, before Delgado could even strive in
vain to exert his feeble authority, the whole mass had flashed into
a single huge sheet of flame, rising fiercely into the evening sky,
and reddening with its glow the peaks around, like the lurid glare of
a huge volcano. As the flames darted higher and ever higher, licking
up the leaves and stalks as they went, the negroes, now fairly loosed
from all restraint, leaped and shrieked wildly around them—some of
them half-drunk, others absolutely reeling, and all laughing loud
with hideous, wild, unearthly laughter, in their murderous merriment.
Delgado alone saw with horror that his great scheme of liberation was
being fast rendered ultimately hopeless, and could only now concentrate
his attention upon his minor plan of personal vengeance against the
Dupuy family. Port-of-Spain would be fairly roused by the blaze in
half an hour, but at least there was time to murder outright the one
offending Orange Grove household.
For a few minutes, helpless and resourceless, he allowed the half-tipsy
excited creatures to dance madly around the flaring fire, and to leap
and gesticulate with African ferocity in the red glare of the rapidly
burning trash-house. ‘Let dem wear out de rum,’ he cried bitterly to
Pourtalès. ‘But in a minute, de Dupuys gwine to be down upon us wit
de constables an’ de soldiers, if dem doan’t make haste to kill dem
beforehand.’
Soon the drunken rioters themselves began to remember that burning
trash-houses and stealing rum were not the only form of amusement they
had proposed to themselves for that evening’s entertainment. ‘Kill de
buckra!—kill de buckra!’ more than one of them now yelled out fiercely
at the top of his voice, brandishing his cutlass. ‘Buckra country for
us! Colour for colour! Kill dem all! Kill de buckra!’
Delgado seized at once upon the slender opportunity. ‘Me fren’s,’ he
shrieked aloud, raising his palms once more imploringly to heaven,
‘kill dem, kill dem! Follow me! Hallelujah! I gwine to lead you to kill
de buckra!’
Most of the negroes, recalled to duty by the old African’s angry voice,
now fell once more into their rude marching order; but one or two of
them, and those the tipsiest, began to turn back wistfully in the
direction of the little pool of new rum that lay sparkling in the glare
like molten gold in front of the still running hogshead. Louis Delgado
looked at them with the fierce contempt of a strong mind for such
incomprehensible vacillating weakness. Wrenching his pistol once more
from the tipsy grasp of the man who had first seized it, he pointed
it in a threatening attitude at the head of the foremost negro among
the recalcitrant drunkards. ‘Dis time I tellin’ you true,’ he cried
fiercely, in a tone of unmistakable wrath and firmness. ‘De first man
dat take a single step nearer dat liquor, I blow his brains out!’
Reckless with drink, and unable to believe in his leader’s firmness,
the foremost man took a step or two, laughing a drunken laugh
meanwhile, in the forbidden direction, and then turned round again,
grinning like a baboon, toward Louis Delgado.
He had better have trifled with an angry tiger. The fierce old African
did not hesitate or falter for a single second; pulling the trigger, he
fired straight at the grinning face of the drunken renegade, killing
him instantaneously. He fell like a log in the pool of new rum, and
reddened the stream even as they looked with the quick crimson flow.
Delgado himself hardly paused a second to glance contemptuously at the
fallen recalcitrant. ‘Now, me fren’s,’ he cried firmly, kicking the
corpse in his wrath, and with his eye twitching in a terrible fashion,
‘whoebber else disobeys orders, I gwine to shoot him dead dat very
minute, same as I shoot dat good-for-nuffin disobedient naygur dar! We
has got to kill de buckra to-night, an’ ebbery man ob you must follow
me now to kill dem ’mediately. De Lard delibber dem into our hand!
Follow me, an’ colour for colour!’
At the word, the last recalcitrants, awed into sobriety for the moment
by the sudden and ghastly death of their companion, turned trembling
to their place in the rude ranks, and began once more to march on in
serried order after Louis Delgado. And with one voice, the tumultuous
rabble, putting itself again in rapid motion towards Orange Grove,
shrieked aloud once more the terrible watchwords: ‘Colour for colour!
Kill de buckra!’
VISITS TO THE ZOO.
THE LION-HOUSE.
We are glad to observe that in spite of the general depression in trade
and agriculture, and the many counter-attractions for pleasure-seekers
which have sprung up in and around London in recent years, the
Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park, still maintain their popularity
with the British public. On Easter-Monday, no fewer than thirty-one
thousand visitors paid at the gates; thus clearly proving that the love
of natural history is not dying out among us. An expedition to the Zoo
is always the more pleasant when we are accompanied by the young, eager
to compare the Jumbos and tigers of their Noah’s Ark and picture-book
with the living realities to be seen in the Society’s collection. But
there are others besides our children who may gain a useful knowledge
in natural history by a stroll through the Zoological Gardens; and one
hopes for a still more profitable effect in the ideas of many; for when
studying the structure, the form, and the habits of even the meanest
of creatures, it is hardly possible for the reflective mind to resist
feeling a sense of the power and wisdom of the Creator.
Before speaking individually of the many interesting animals to be seen
in the Zoological Gardens, it is right to point out, for the benefit
of the uninitiated, or to those who have never visited a foreign land,
and consequently have not had the opportunity of seeing wild creatures
in a state of nature, that though the great majority of the prisoners
we see there doubtless give a true idea of their habits when roaming
in their native jungles, yet many of the quadrupeds, more especially
those bred in the Gardens, cannot altogether be relied upon in this
respect; for instance, many of the bears from the Himalaya Mountains,
or other cold climes, which, we know, hibernate during the depth of
winter, are unable to indulge in their lengthened sleep from force of
circumstances. There are no hollow trees or snug caves wherein to curl
up comfortably and pass the winter in a state of somnolence. Again, it
is often most difficult, if not impossible, to provide the natural food
for some of the creatures from tropical countries, and these animals
have of necessity to subsist upon whatever their keeper places before
them, and that sometimes of a kind which they would hesitate or even
refuse to devour in a state of freedom.
Perhaps the most interesting spot in the Zoo to the general visitor
is the well-known Lion-house, though children almost invariably show
a predilection for the monkeys. The Lion-house was erected some few
years ago, and is a great improvement upon the former structure, now
used for the bears, wolves, and hyenas; but though fairly roomy and
comfortable for the larger felidæ inhabiting it, yet, considering their
ever increasing number, and the importance which these carnivora hold
in the animal kingdom, it is unfortunate that a still larger space and
more commodious building could not have been spared for the purpose.
The Lion-house contains not only several fine specimens of African
lions, but also almost every known species of the larger Cat tribe, the
snow leopard of the Himalayas (_Felis uncia_) alone excepted.
In our changeable climate, more especially during the long dreary
winter-months, when the ground is often covered with snow and hard
frosts prevail, animals like the lion, the tiger, and the leopard,
accustomed to tropical climates and a more equable temperature than
ours, necessarily require their dens to be artificially heated, and
great care taken to guard against their suffering from the extreme
cold. In spite of every precaution having been taken, several valuable
animals succumbed to the rigours of our late almost arctic winter. But
ample space and outdoor exercise are also great desiderata, and in this
respect it must be confessed that the Lion-house of our own Zoological
Gardens does not compare favourably with buildings intended for a like
purpose to be seen at Berlin and other continental collections. At the
Thiergarten, Berlin—where may be seen a magnificent troop of seven
or eight lions all in one large inclosure—there is a rocky hill—made
secure, so far as the public are concerned, by a circle of high iron
railings, and connected by doorways with the ordinary winter dens. So
soon as summer appears and the weather becomes warm, the lions are
permitted to roam about at will over this hill; and it is a pleasing
sight to observe the creatures really enjoying themselves, and for a
time forgetful of their present captivity. Here may be seen a shaggy
veteran with his wife and cubs lying together in a group upon some
slabs of rock, and basking in the rays of the mid-day sun; there, an
old lioness asleep under the shade of an overhanging boulder; while her
two half-grown sons, full of health and spirits, are busily engaged in
a romp of hide-and-seek.
But to return. The row of elevated seats provided for visitors to the
Lion-house, and facing the long line of fourteen cages, affords an
excellent view of the inhabitants of the different dens. On the left we
see two fine male lions in separate cages; and close to them several
lionesses, one with a pair of handsome cubs. To the extreme right are
three tigers—two from continental India; and a third, a young, very
quiet, and peculiarly dark fulvous-marked animal, recently obtained
from Turkestan. It must be confessed, however, as every old Indian
shikary will testify, that no one of the three before us conveys a true
idea of the enormous size, strength, and muscular power which the
royal tiger attains to in a wild state. It would be no exaggeration to
say, that a well-fed specimen from the Bengal Sunderbunds or Central
India would reach nearly twice the weight, and measure twice the
thickness round the shoulders, of any one of the three narrow-chested,
hollow-flanked creatures before us. Next in importance and size comes
the jaguar from America—a single specimen, but a remarkably fine,
powerful animal, and, to all appearance, quite a match for any one of
the three undersized tigers from the Old World. The puma or cougar
of South America—a pair of beautiful grayish-red cats, but wanting
in the brawny limbs and muscular neck and chest of the jaguar. Three
beautiful leopards in one den. Many good naturalists would pronounce
one of them to be a panther, and a distinct variety from the remaining
two; but this is an undecided point among zoologists, so we will not
touch upon it, merely remarking upon the extraordinary dissimilarity
in the colour and marking of the skins of the three specimens before
us, and which fully accounts for the difficulty so many naturalists
have found in classifying these felidæ. Lastly, we notice the cheetah,
or Indian hunting leopard, said to be the ‘pard’ of the ancients,
common to various countries in Asia, and also throughout Africa, but
not found in Ceylon, where the common leopard has erroneously gained
the title of cheetah. This interesting animal has been rightly placed
as a separate subgenus from the true cats, on account of the claws
being only partially retractile, with the tips always visible. It
is a high-standing, slender creature, thin across the loins like a
greyhound, and carrying the tail more after the manner of the dog than
the true cat.
As being the largest of the group before us, the lion and the tiger
naturally attract our chief attention. These champions of the Old
World have many a time in the days of ancient Rome been pitted the one
against the other in mortal combat; but there is still a difference
of opinion which of the two is the more formidable animal. Probably
the tiger, on account of his more muscular hind-quarters, would have
most friends; but many experienced travellers and sportsmen who have
witnessed the extraordinary strength and ferocity of the lion, hold
the contrary opinion. In parts of Central India, as also in Kutch
and Guzerat in the Bombay Presidency, the Asiatic lion and tiger are
still found in the same jungles; but we never hear of the two animals
quarrelling and coming to blows. Formerly, the lion of India, on
account of the male having a shorter mane, was considered to be of a
different species from his African brother; but more recently, our
scientific naturalists have rightly come to the conclusion that the
two are identical. It must be allowed, however, that the Asiatic lion
is altogether a less courageous and dangerous beast than the animal
inhabiting the African continent; and our experienced Indian hunters
assert that the former, even when fired at, wounded, and driven to bay,
seldom turns on his pursuers and fights to the death after the manner
of the royal tiger.
It is somewhat extraordinary that neither lion nor tiger has the power
of climbing trees. They can make prodigious springs and bounds, but
cannot clamber up a tree ‘hand over hand,’ so to speak, like the bear;
and this is the more surprising when we remember that the jaguar, the
puma, and the leopard, like all the smaller cats, are active, expert
climbers. True, both lion and tiger are far larger and heavier than
any other of the felidæ; and undoubtedly their great strength lies in
the massive proportions of the shoulder and forepart of the body, as
compared with the hind-quarters; yet, when we consider the general
symmetry and graceful movements of these two gigantic wild cats, we
cannot help feeling disappointed that they are wanting in one of the
chief characteristics of the tribe.
Most of us probably who are in the habit of constantly visiting
the Zoological Gardens have heard the roar of the lion—that grand,
deep-toned, terrible voice, which seems to make the very air in close
proximity to the king of beasts vibrate and quiver. We also frequently
read and hear tales of the roar of the tiger; but the writer ventures
to say that this impression is erroneous. The Bengal tiger, when going
his nightly rounds, often makes a low yawning kind of whine or sigh,
ending with a subdued grunt sounding like distant thunder; and a highly
unpleasant cry it is to the belated traveller on foot as he hurries
along the jungle path. But this night-moan of a prowling tiger has no
resemblance whatever to the deep, grand, resounding roar of the lion.
Again, every tiger-shooter who has witnessed the scene can readily
recall to mind that never-to-be-forgotten moment when a royal tiger
worthy of the name—perhaps wounded and goaded to fury and desperation
by his eager pursuers—at length turns to try conclusions with them,
and with open jaws, ears laid back, flashing eye, and tail on end,
a truly terrible object, bounds towards his enemies. At such times
he makes the jungle resound with a succession of deep-drawn coughing
growls, evidently delivered with the intention of striking terror into
the hearts of his foes. But again we say, these murderous snarls of an
enraged tiger are altogether dissimilar in character to the roar of the
king of beasts.
The wild tribes of Central India have often told the writer that at
certain seasons of the year they are made aware of tigers being in the
neighbourhood by horrible ‘caterwauling’ sounds emanating from the
jungle; and doubtless this is correct, for we all know the agony of
mind we often labour under when a conclave of our domestic cats are
holding a palaver on the garden wall.
There is an almost universal belief that the lion roars when _he is
hungry_, and in a wild state when in _search of prey_; but the writer
ventures to say that, like the bear’s _hug_ and other almost proverbial
expressions of the kind, the idea is altogether erroneous. Probably
certain verses in the Bible, more especially in the Psalms, such as
‘The lions roaring after their prey, &c.,’ and passages of a similar
nature, have given rise to this impression. But, let it be asked,
would so cunning an animal as the lion, when hungry and in search of
his dinner, betray his approach and put every living creature within
miles of the spot thoroughly on the _qui vive_, by making the forest
echo again with his roaring? Assuredly not; for a more certain method
of scaring his prey he could not possibly adopt. All quadrupeds, more
especially the deer tribe, well know and dread the voice of their
natural enemy. Even domestic animals instinctively recognise and show
fear on hearing the cry of a wild beast.
In India, the sportsman when out in camp during the hot-weather months,
often finds himself far away from towns and villages, in some wild
spot in the depths of the jungle. Here, the stillness of the night is
constantly broken by the calls of various creatures inhabiting the
neighbouring forest—the deep solemn hoot of the horned owl, the sharp
call of the spotted deer, or the louder bell of the sambur. But these
familiar sounds attract no notice from the domestic animals included
in the camp circle. But should a panther on the opposite hill call
his mate, or a prowling tiger passing along the river-bank mutter
his complaining night-moan, they one and all immediately show by
their demeanour that they recognise the cry of a beast of prey. The
old elephant chained up beneath the tamarind tree stays for a moment
swaying his great body backwards and forwards, and listens attentively.
His neighbour, a gray Arab horse, with pricked-up ears, gazes uneasily
in the direction the sound appeared to come from; while the dogs, just
before lying panting and motionless in the moonlight, spring to their
feet with bristling back and lowered tail, and with growls of fear
disappear under the tent fly.
Some few years ago, one of the dens allotted to the tigers was
tenanted by a fine specimen named ‘Plassey.’ The writer first made the
acquaintance of this animal many years ago when quartered with his
regiment at Lucknow; and there is a story connected with Plassey’s
history, the account of which should read a good lesson, and yet
another warning, to too eager sportsmen when tiger-shooting on foot.
Two officers of the Irish Lancers, then stationed at Lucknow, were out
shooting in the Oude jungles. Captain T—— fired at and mortally wounded
a tigress with two cubs. She dropped apparently dead, but with just
sufficient life left in her to strike a last blow; and becoming aware
of the near approach of her enemy, she suddenly recovered her legs, and
in a moment sprang upon him and inflicted the most terrible injuries
on the unfortunate sportsman. The tigress was speedily despatched, and
the wounded man carried into the nearest station, where everything
that could be done for him was done, but in vain, for after lingering
several weeks, he succumbed.
Plassey and his brother-cub were taken to Lucknow and reared in the
lancer messhouse, where they became great favourites. But time passed;
the small harmless cubs grew into large powerful animals—and, as is
usually the case, on attaining to a full size they speedily became
troublesome and dangerous, so were first chained up, and later on
confined in cages. Eventually, Plassey was brought home and presented
to the Regent’s Park Gardens, where he died somewhat suddenly in the
prime of life. Many valuable and rare animals brought from foreign
countries, at great expense and trouble, to our shores, though at
first, to all appearance, in the best of health, yet before even
reaching middle age, gradually pine away and die. Nor is this to be
wondered at when we remember how unnatural it is for them to be cooped
up in cages, in place of a wild, unrestrained life, with liberty to
wander where they will.
J. H. B.
WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
It was indeed as Winny had said. I was as stunned by her words as
though a heavy blow had actually fallen upon me, and for a few seconds
could scarcely think, much less speak; but recovering a little
from this confusion, I asked her for some explanation. I called it
‘explanation,’ when I spoke to her, but I felt her statement was true;
their manner, their looks at parting, were sufficient to tell me all.
Godfrey Harleston had seen Winny going to and from business, and had
contrived an introduction to her—this preliminary acquaintance was but
slightly glanced at in her story—then, to show that his views were
honourable, he had early proposed marriage, but had explained that
he wished it kept a secret until some unpleasant matters which were
troubling him were settled. This referred at first to the quarrels
between his mother and himself, with Mr Thurles, and afterwards, to the
affair of the forged bills, respecting which, to my surprise, he had
spoken freely to Winny and given a tolerably correct account. Of the
burglary he had said nothing, and until my speech, Winny knew nothing
of it. She was startled at finding I was sent for by Mr Thurles; but
when she learned it was not for the forgery—the messenger saying
nothing about that—she was reassured. On that very evening Godfrey
had told her that his difficulty was now settled, and, as naturally
following upon this, he proposed now making their marriage known. They
were talking on this subject when they met me.
All this Winny told—every word going to my heart—in a rapid, excited
manner, which increased in force as she went on, until she finished
with a wild declaration that she would go to Godfrey and warn him of
the traps which were being set for him, of the danger which awaited
him on the morrow. He was her husband—her honourable, guiltless, noble
husband! she almost shrieked. It was her duty to warn him, and, if
needful, to be with him.
I had a dreadful job to pacify her; and I was obliged to hold out hopes
which I knew to be false, and to explain away all that I had said. That
all I told her now would be proved false the very next day, I well
knew, and perhaps it was cruel to deceive her; but what was I to do? I
was nearly mad. I did not show it so much as Winny, but I believe I was
as bad.
Never was man in a more painful position on this earth. It was
impossible for me to draw back; I could not and would not do so; yet
the consequences of going on were frightful. Ruin to my daughter—a
blight on her life which could never be removed—this I should bring
about; and to do it would kill me.
I never closed my eyes all night; and by the haggard looks of Winny in
the morning, I was sure it had been the same with her. I tried to talk
as though I was not thinking of the horrible position we were in; but
of course it was a dead failure. I said that as she did not seem very
well, she had perhaps better not go to business that morning. If I had
known what her answer would be, I should probably have held my tongue.