[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. 31.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
BIRD MIGRATION.
The migration of birds is a subject that has excited the attention of
naturalists of all nations from very early times, and many theories
have been advanced to account for the mysterious periodical movements
that take place among the feathered tribes, although it can hardly be
said there is one which fully explains these movements. Some writers
affirm that they are entirely due to temperature; others, that they are
caused by a want of food; while others, again, assert that they are
traceable, within certain limits, to a hereditary impulse which guides
birds in following lines of flight over seas where at one time all was
land.
There can be no doubt that originally, birds, like other animals, were
actuated to a great extent in their periodical shiftings by the main
considerations of food and temperature. As familiar examples of this,
we have only to remember that species which are reared within the
Arctic Circle are compelled to quit their birthplaces as soon as the
brief summer is past—their haunts becoming wrapped in snow, and their
feeding-grounds converted into a dreary expanse of ice; while in our
own country, every one knows that swallows and other soft-billed birds
are obliged to leave us at the close of autumn, and repair to climes
where there is not only greater warmth but abundance of insect life, on
which their subsistence depends.
Another theory, however, may be adverted to, as showing the phenomena
in a more suggestive and poetical light—namely, that put forward
by the aged Swedish poet Runeberg, who believes that birds, in
undertaking their vast and toilsome journeys, are solely influenced
by their longing for light. When the days become shorter in the
north, birds make up their minds to go southwards; but as soon as
the long northern days of summer set in, ‘with all their luminous
and long-drawn hours,’ the winged hosts return to their old haunts.
There is evidently something in this theory, because, in the case of
the insectivorous birds, there is little diminution of food in their
southern hunting-grounds to compel them to seek a change; and even with
regard to marine birds, it seems quite possible that fishes and other
migratory creatures in the sea on which they prey are influenced to a
great extent by some such impulse as this theory indicates. The longing
after light, moreover, is well exemplified in imprisoned plants, which,
though firmly rooted in the ground, instinctively strain towards the
light, and spread upwards in search of an outlet from the surrounding
darkness. The Swedish poet, therefore, may, after all, be nearer the
truth than some naturalists are willing to allow.
But whatever may be the true theory, it is certain that at the
close of each summer, whether it be within the Arctic Circle or in
the temperate region of Britain, where observations are now being
made, vast flights of birds are seen passing southwards, and again
in early spring proceeding northwards, with unvarying regularity;
and it has consequently become a matter of considerable interest to
ornithologists, as well as to naturalists at large, to record such
observations as may help to throw light upon the question as to what
species share in the general migration and how their movements appear
to be influenced.
In _Chambers’s Journal_ for December 1876, a suggestion was made that
the light-keepers of our lighthouses might be enlisted in the cause
of science by making notes of their observations concerning birds
and other animals, as by that means new facts would certainly be
added to our stores of knowledge; and Messrs J. A. Harvie Brown and
John Cordeaux—two well-known ornithologists—subsequently undertook
of their own accord the circulation of carefully prepared schedules
among the keepers of lighthouses and lightships situated on the
English and Scottish coasts, with a view to investigate the migratory
movements of birds. The results, which were both interesting and
valuable, were published in the _Zoologist_ for 1880, but were
immediately thereafter reprinted in a convenient form for reference.
Subsequently, it was found that the scheme was somewhat beyond the
limits of private enterprise, and application for aid was therefore
made to the British Association at its meeting at Swansea, in the
autumn of the same year. This led to the appointment of a Committee
of Naturalists, whose Report, issued in 1881 (London: Sonnenschein
and Allen), was so encouraging, that when the Association again met
at York, a larger Committee was appointed, and a wider interest given
to the investigations by their extension to the coasts of Ireland.
A subsequent Report on the migration of birds, containing a mass of
interesting information on the points referred to, has recently been
issued as the work of this Committee; and judging from its contents, it
may reasonably be expected that the results of such investigations will
become more and more important as the work proceeds.
From the returns given by the light-keepers, it would appear that
birds, prior to crossing the ocean, follow closely the coast-line in
their journeyings, and that during the two periods named, a continuous
stream passes to and from their summer quarters, broken, it may be,
by a sudden change of wind or other vicissitude of weather, and thus
causing ‘throbs’ or ‘rushes,’ as they have been termed, but steady as a
rule—the hereditary impulse being too powerful to admit of anything but
a temporary deviation or delay on these great highways of migration.
It seems strange that while such movements are taking place, persons
resident but a few miles inland may be unaware of the winged multitudes
that in this way pass within a short distance of their homes. Yet a
great deal of information may be gathered by close observers who are
willing to visit the seacoast at daybreak about the time the birds
are on the move. The present writer well remembers seeing large
flights of birds of different species arriving in early spring on
the shores of East Lothian for a succession of years. Among these,
the swallows were conspicuous even at some distance out at sea, the
main body passing northwards in undeviating flight, while numerous
detachments left it and came landwards, to people the haunts in the
country which they had occupied the previous year. The same was
observed in the case of wheatears, redstarts, and golden-crested
wrens—the last-named being particularly interesting from their tiny
size. Occasionally goldcrests would come in great numbers, and
immediately on alighting, would flutter in the morning sunlight among
the rocks and walls near high-water mark in search of insect prey,
paying no heed to the presence of any one watching their motions.
Again, in the autumn months, buzzards, owls, and woodcock would arrive
simultaneously, and pitch upon the rocks at low water, as if glad to
touch the nearest land; and even wood-pigeons (supposed by the country
folks to come from Norway), which delight only in dense woods and
fertile fields, and which suddenly appear in vast numbers in severe
British winters, settled in crowds upon the stony beach without any
preliminary survey of the ground. Observations like these can be made
on almost any part of the east of Scotland, and it is gratifying to
find them verified in a remarkable degree by the returns from the
light-keepers, which not only show the closeness with which birds
follow the coast-line, but also indicate the points of land from which
they speed seawards in their adventurous flight. Thus, it is found
that arrivals and departures take place at Spurn Point and on the
coast of Forfarshire—the inference being, if the theory of a former
land-communication be true, that an ancient coast-line must have
extended east or north-eastward probably from Holderness to Southern
Scandinavia and the mouth of the Baltic. There is also reason to
believe that similar points of arrival and departure exist in the
north-east of Aberdeenshire, judging from the occurrence of so many
rare birds, whose presence there at the migration season can hardly
otherwise be accounted for.
Among other interesting facts brought to light by the present series
of investigations we find that, with very rare exceptions, young birds
of the year migrate some weeks _in advance_ of the parent birds, and
that the appearance on our coasts in autumn of many species, such as
the wheatear, fieldfare, redwing, hooded crow, goldcrest, and woodcock,
may almost be predicted to a day. The punctuality, indeed, with which
certain birds return to us in the fall of the year is remarkable—one
species regularly taking precedence of another according to the time
required for their self-dependence. Shore-birds apparently reach this
stage earlier than land-birds, as it has been observed that the young
of the knot, gray plover, godwit, and sanderling—birds which nest in
very high latitudes, and are the last of the migrants to leave in
spring—are amongst the first to come to our shores.
The most interesting of all the stations from which returns have been
sent is the small rocky island of Heligoland, situated in the North
Sea, about forty miles from the mouth of the Elbe. Here the tired
wing of many a feathered wanderer finds a resting-place. Lying almost
directly in the line of migration, the island has been periodically
visited by birds in incredible numbers, many of them belonging to
species of extraordinary interest. Attracted by the lighthouse, which
occupies the highest point of the island, and throws out on dark nights
a blaze of light ‘like a star of supreme brightness,’ many thousands
of birds of all kinds pitch upon its treeless surface, where they have
scarcely any shelter from the weather, and where they become at once a
prey to the wants of the islanders, who capture them in vast numbers,
and use them as food. Mr Cordeaux, in an interesting communication to
the _Ibis_ for 1875, states, that on the evening of the 6th of November
1868, three thousand four hundred larks were captured on the lantern of
the lighthouse before half-past nine o’clock; and on the same evening,
subsequent to that hour, eleven thousand six hundred others were
taken—making a total of fifteen thousand. For this holocaust of these
charming songsters, no words of deprecation are strong enough, though
their capture was probably regarded as a lawful addition to the larder
of the captors, and probably such visitations had been so regarded
ever since the lighthouse had begun to lure the poor creatures to an
untimely fate! In this way also, no doubt, many a feathered rarity was
consumed.
Fortunately for science, however, this little island has numbered
amongst its resident population an observer of rare intelligence, Mr
H. Gätke, whose leisure hours have been employed for nearly thirty
years in registering the occurrence of the birds which have either
made the rock a temporary resting-place or been seen crossing it in
their migratory flight. Mr Gätke first visited Heligoland as an artist;
but having secured an official appointment there, he afterwards made
the island his permanent home. During the interval, he has collected
and preserved with his own hands upwards of four hundred species—a
collection containing examples of the avi-fauna of the four quarters
of the globe. Strange as it may appear, birds have touched here whose
proper homes are wide as the poles asunder—birds from the burning
plains of India and the arctic lands of desolation. The Far West, too,
has contributed its land and water birds; and from the barren steppes
of Siberia, tiny warblers have joined the moving throng. As instances
of the abundance of what are called ‘British birds,’ mention may be
made of flights of buzzards numbering thousands which passed over the
island on September 22, 1881; while flocks of equal numbers rested
on the cliffs, and a ‘great flight’ of hooded crows, which crossed
in the same direction. As for the starling—a bird which has become
extraordinarily plentiful in this country during the last thirty
years—it is referred to as making its appearance in a ‘great rush,’
which no doubt accounts for a flock, recorded some time afterwards
as coming from the east, by a light-keeper on the English coast,
‘estimated to contain a million starlings, making a noise like thunder,
darkening the air.’ All these birds were doubtless of Scandinavian
origin, and had in the case of each species travelled in a compact body
along the coast-line until they reached North Germany, where they had
to some extent become broken up, many of the birds being induced to
alter their flight westwards in the direction of the British coasts.
As a natural consequence, the earliest observers of their arrival in
this country would be the light-keepers at Spurn Head on the Yorkshire
coast; and the records from this station show that the buzzards and
hooded crows at least, reached us from Heligoland in somewhat less than
twenty-four hours.
Another important post of observation is the lighthouse on the Isle
of May, in the Firth of Forth,[1] from which one of the reporters
has obtained records of species of more than ordinary interest,
the intelligent keeper there having sent him no fewer than seven
closely filled schedules, principally referring to autumn migrations.
Seventy-five species have already been identified from this station;
but in addition to these, numerous entries refer to ‘small birds’ of
various descriptions, regarding which and other accidental visitors,
more will be known as the investigations proceed, arrangements having
been made for the preservation and transmission to the mainland of
all the species that occur at the station. The occurrence of the
blue-throated warbler here—a very rare bird in Britain—suggests the
possibility of other interesting forms being sent from this locality.
In summarising the material received, the compilers of the Report
confess that the migrations of seagulls are most erratic and difficult
to tabulate. In certain years, however, these are unquestionably
regulated by the movements of the fish upon which they feed. The late
Professor MacGillivray has recorded that, in the winter of 1837, a
flock of seagulls computed to contain not short of a million birds
made its appearance in the Firth of Forth; and it must be within the
recollection of at least one of the reporters that in 1872-3 similar
if not even greater numbers visited the firth, the most common species
being the kittiwake and lesser black-backed gull. In this memorable
invasion, unusual numbers of glaucous and Iceland gulls made their
appearance, birds of such note among ornithologists as to be marked
objects when they do occur; and the entire assemblage was suggestive
of a migration controlled by the movements of fishes—the waters of
the firth being at that time swarming with sprats. The ‘catches’ of
the local fishermen were so heavy as to necessitate their sale at a
trifling sum per cartload to the neighbouring farmers, for the purpose
of manuring their fields.
There is not much, we apprehend, to be gathered from the appearance of
skuas, petrels, long-tailed or ice ducks (_Harelda glacialis_), and
other species whose haunts are exclusively marine, as their occurrence
inshore signifies in nearly all cases continued rough weather at some
distance from land. There are no seafaring creatures, indeed, that
delight more in storms than ice-ducks and petrels; for them, the huge
green waves or churned masses of foam have no terrors; they are for the
time being at home amid the wildest waters—the petrels on the one hand
flitting silently over the turbulent billows, rising as they advance,
and falling in their wake with contemptuous ease; the ducks, on the
other hand, careering aloft during a sudden blast, and sounding their
bagpipe-like notes, as if deriding the war of elements. Very different
is the experience of the tender songsters that traverse the dreary
waste of waters; sorely tried in their powers of flight, they are not
unfrequently caught by adverse gales and driven hundreds of miles out
of their course, to be finally swallowed by the pitiless waves.
In connection with this subject, and as bearing upon the question of
former land-communications, reference may be made to an extremely
interesting paper on the Migration and Habits of the Norwegian Lemming,
read before the Linnæan Society of London by Mr W. D. Crotch in 1876.
In this communication, Mr Crotch shows that the lemming, which is
a small rat-like animal, occurring in abundance in many parts of
Norway, assembles periodically, although at irregular intervals,
in incredible numbers, and travels westwards until the seacoast is
reached; after which, on the first calm day, the vast multitude
plunges into the Atlantic Ocean, ‘and perishes, with its front still
pointing westwards.’ Such a voluntary destruction in the case of a
single species is perhaps nowhere else to be found in the history
of migratory animals, and it seems difficult to understand how the
annihilation of so many migratory hordes through a ‘suicidal routine’
should not ultimately lead to their extinction. Mr Crotch tells us
that no survivor returns to the mountains; indeed, so formidable is the
migration and its effects upon the poor fugitives, that we are told by
Mr Collett—a Norwegian naturalist—of a ship sailing for fifteen hours
through ‘a swarm of lemmings which extended as far over the Trondhjems
fiord as the eye could reach.’
Mr Crotch rightly, we think, concludes that land existed in the North
Atlantic Ocean at no very remote date, and that when dry land connected
Norway with Greenland, the lemmings ‘acquired the habit of migrating
westwards for the same reasons which govern more familiar migrations.’
The inherited tendencies, therefore, of this little creature are
opposed to the so-called instinct which impels quadrupeds as well as
birds to change their quarters in quest of food and warmth, unless
we conclude, with Mr Crotch, that in the case of the lemming, such
instinct has persistently failed in its only rational purpose.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See article ‘The Isle of May and its Birds,’ in _Chambers’s
Journal_ for September 22, 1883.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XL.—MADGE’S MISSION.
The glow of happiness on Madge’s face seemed to brighten even the
gloomy atmosphere outside. She had done something for Philip—something
that would not only give him pleasure in the highest degree, but which
he would regard as an important practical service. For she had no doubt
that she would be able to convince Mr Beecham of the groundlessness of
all his charges against Mr Hadleigh. Then the two men would meet; they
would shake hands; all the errors and suspicions which had separated
them would be cleared up, forgiven, and soon forgotten in the amity
which would follow. How glad Philip would be. She was impatient to
complete her good work.
Miss Hadleigh entered the room hurriedly.
‘Goodness gracious, dear, what charm have you used with papa that you
have kept him so long with you? I never knew him stay so long with
anybody before.’
‘The only charm used was that the subjects we had to talk about were of
great interest to us both,’ Madge answered, smiling.
‘Oh, how nice.—They concerned Philip? What does he say?’
‘That we are not to pay attention to the rumours until we have definite
information from Philip himself.’
‘Was that all?’ Miss Hadleigh was disappointed, and her expression of
curiosity indicated that she was quite sure it was not all.
‘No,’ said Madge softly, wishful that her answer might have been more
satisfactory to Miss Hadleigh.
The latter did not endeavour to conceal her surprise; but she did
successfully conceal her feeling of pique that Madge should have been
taken into the confidence of her father about matters of grave moment:
she was sure they were so, for she had passed him on his way to the
library. _She_ had never been so honoured.
‘I suppose I must not ask you what the other subjects were, dear?’ she
said, with one of her most gracious smiles. She meant: ‘You certainly
_ought_ to tell _me_.’
Madge was spared the necessity of making a reply; for Mr Hadleigh,
instead of sending the promised packet, had brought it himself. When
he appeared, his daughter was silent. That was generally the case; but
on the present occasion the silence had an additional significance.
She was struck by a peculiar change in his expression, his walk, and
manner. As she afterwards told her betrothed, it quite took her breath
away to see him coming into the room looking as mild as if there had
never been a frown on his face. The dreamy, seeking look had vanished
from his eyes, which were now fixed steadily on Madge.
‘I have brought you the memorandum, Miss Heathcote, and you are free to
make what use of it you may think best.’
‘I hope to make good use of it,’ was her answer as she received a long
blue envelope which was carefully sealed.
‘Of course you understand that you are at liberty to open this
yourself, or in the presence of others whom you think the contents may
affect.’
‘I shall first find one or two of the other letters,’ said Madge, after
a moment’s reflection, ‘and then I shall place them with this packet,
sealed as it is, in the hands of the gentleman it most concerns.’
‘I am satisfied. What I am most anxious about is that you yourself
should be convinced. Do not forget that.’
‘I am already convinced.’ No one could doubt it who saw the bright
confidence in her eyes.
‘That is all I desire; but of course it will be a pleasure to me if you
succeed in convincing others. I have told them to have the carriage
ready, as I thought you might be in a hurry to get home.’
‘Indeed I am; and thank you.’
Amazement as much as courtesy kept Miss Hadleigh mute until the
leave-taking compelled her to utter the usual formalities. Mr Hadleigh
saw Madge to the carriage, and there was a note of tenderness in his
‘Good-bye’—as if he were a father seeing his daughter start on a long
journey from which she might never return.
What was the mysterious influence the girl exercised over this man?
Under it he had been always different from what he appeared to be at
other times; and under it he had consented to do that to which no one
else, except Philip, had ever dreamt he could be persuaded.
‘I shall be glad when they are married,’ he repeated to himself as,
when the carriage had disappeared, he walked slowly back to the library.
Aunt Hessy was somewhat startled when she saw the Ringsford carriage
and Madge come out of it alone.
‘Is anything wrong at the Manor?’ she asked; but before she had
finished the question she was reassured by the face of her niece.
‘No, aunt; but Mr Hadleigh thought I should have the carriage, as I was
in a hurry. I have had a long talk with him. He has made me very happy,
and has given me the power to make others happy.’
They were in the parlour now, and Aunt Hessy smiled at the excitement
of the usually calm Madge.
‘Is it extra blankets and coals for the poor folk, or a Christmas feast
for the children?’
‘No, no, aunt: it is something of very great importance to Philip and
to me. Philip’s uncle has all these years believed that it was Mr
Hadleigh who spread the false report about him; and that is why he will
not agree to have anything to say to him. Now, Philip has set his heart
upon making them friends, and I can do it!’
There was a brightness in the girl’s voice and manner which Aunt Hessy
was glad to see after those days of pained thoughtful looks.
‘How are you to do that, child?’
‘By showing Philip’s uncle who the real traitor was. His name was
Richard Towers, and Mr Hadleigh says you knew him.’
‘Richard Towers,’ echoed the dame gravely, and looking back to the
troubled time calmly enough now. ‘We did know him, and we did not like
him. He was one of the worst lads about the place, although come of
decent people. He borrowed money from my father, and thought he could
pay it back by wedding his daughter. He would not take “no” for an
answer for a long time. But at last he came to see that there was no
chance for him, and he spoke vile words. I do believe he was the kind
of man that would take pleasure in such evil work.’
‘He did do it. I have the proof.’
‘The wonder is we never thought of it before,’ continued the dame
thoughtfully; ‘but he has been gone away this many a year and is dead
now. He went to California, and was shot in some drunken quarrel.
Neighbour Hopkin’s lad, who was out there too, says he was lynched for
robbing a comrade and trying to murder him. But these are not pleasant
things to talk about. God forgive the poor man all his sins; although,
if what thou ’rt saying be true, he brought sorrow enough to our door.’
That was the worst word the good woman had for the man. Then Madge,
without betraying the confidence of Beecham, gave her a brief outline
of her conversation with Mr Hadleigh. Aunt Hessy naturally concluded
that it was Philip who had suggested that she should speak to his
father, and asked no questions. With her mind full of wonder at the
way in which the wicked are found out sooner or later, she went to the
dairy whilst Madge wrote a hasty note to Mr Beecham. She asked simply
what was the earliest hour at which she could see him.
She gave the note to young Jerry Mogridge with strict injunctions that
he was to bring back an answer, no matter how long he might have to
wait. Jerry promised faithful obedience, and privately hoped that he
might have to wait a long time, for the taproom at the _King’s Head_
was a pleasant place in which to spend a few hours.
Then Madge went to the garret, which had been a storehouse of wonders
to her in childhood, for there the lumber of several generations
was stowed. It was a large place, occupying nearly the whole length
and breadth of the house, with a small window at each end, and one
skylight. She knew exactly where to find the oaken box she wanted, for
she herself had pushed it away under the sloping roof near one of the
windows. It was not a large box, and she had no difficulty in dragging
it forward, so that she had the full benefit of the light. She had the
key ready; but as it had not been used for years, she found it was
not easy to get it to act. At length she succeeded, and raising the
lid, disclosed a mass of old letters neatly tied in bundles, and old
account-books ranged in order beside them.
The letters were not only neatly tied but duly docketed, so that, as
Madge rapidly took out bundle after bundle, she had only to lift the
tops to see from whom they had come and when. The light was failing
her fast, and Aunt Hessy would on no account permit a lighted lamp
or candle to be brought into the garret. She strained her eyes, and
endeavoured to quicken her search. At length she found two letters,
both dated in the same year—the year of her mother’s marriage—and
bearing the name Richard Towers. With a breath of satisfaction she drew
them out from the bundle. What their contents might be did not matter:
all she wanted was to secure fair specimens of the man’s handwriting.
After relocking the box and thrusting it back into its place, she
descended to the oak parlour. The lamp was on the table, and she lit it
at once. Her first impulse was to open those letters and read them. But
that would be to no purpose, as it was not in her power to compare the
writing with the memorandum in the blue envelope she had received from
Mr Hadleigh. Of course she was at perfect liberty to open that too,
and it was natural that she should feel an inclination to do so. This
feeling, however, was brief. She had decided to deliver the undoubted
letters of Richard Towers and the packet with its seals unbroken.
So she secured them all in one cover, which she addressed to Austin
Shield. It was not to pass from her own hand except into that of the
person for whom it was intended.
She had not recovered from the sense of hurry in which she had been
acting, when young Jerry returned, and after fumbling in his pockets,
produced a note.
‘You saw Mr Beecham, then?’ she said gladly.
‘Didn’t see him at all, missy; and I thought maybe as I’d better bring
that back.’ The note he gave her was her own.
‘But I told you to wait.’
‘Weren’t no sort ov use, missy. Gentleman’s gone away bag and baggage;
and they say at the _King’s Head_ he ain’t a-coming back no more.’
‘Did he leave no address?’
‘No what, missy?’
‘The name of any place where letters could be sent to him.’
‘O yes. I saw father: he drove him to the station, and the gentleman’s
gone to London.’
This was all the information young Jerry had been able to obtain, and
he regarded it as quite satisfactory. To Madge, it was disappointing;
but only in so far that it delayed the completion of her mission for
a few days. It was certainly strange that Mr Beecham should take his
departure so suddenly without leaving any message for her; but she had
no doubt that the post would bring her one.
So, now, she settled herself down to wait for Philip, and to make him
glad when he came, with her news that his father had given his consent
to the reconciliation.
But Philip did not visit Willowmere that night.
ANCIENT ROCK-HEWN EDICTS.
Having had the good fortune, some years ago, to find myself in the
grand old Indian land, in company of friends so exceptional as still to
take keen interest in all matters relating to native customs and Indian
antiquities, I hailed with delight their proposal that we should devote
some weeks to leisurely wandering among the chief points of interest
along the line of railway, and thus with ease and comfort see more of
the country than many old Indians have explored in their long years
of exile. One of the chief cities where we made a prolonged halt was
Allahabad—that is, ‘the City of God’—now the point of junction for the
railway from Bombay and from Calcutta, but dear to the natives of India
as the meeting-place of the sacred rivers the Jumna and the Ganges,
and consequently a very favourite place of pilgrimage, where countless
multitudes annually assemble from every part of Hindustan.
Immediately above the junction of the sacred rivers stands the old
fort of Allahabad, a grand mass of red sandstone, built by the great
Emperor Akbar. It now contains a very large English armoury—great guns
and little guns, and cannon and mortars, and all manner of weapons.
Here it was that the English found refuge during the Mutiny; and our
friends showed us the balcony, over-hanging the river, to which they
thankfully hauled up any morsels of food or firewood brought to them by
the faithful old servants, whom, however, they had been compelled to
dismiss, with the rest of the native attendants, from within the walls
of the fort. The mutiny in this city was very quickly crushed by the
timely arrival of General Neill with his ‘Madras Lambs;’ not, however,
till after one awful night, when, the doors of the jails having been
broken open, three thousand miscreants were turned loose to lend their
aid in burning and plundering the city. Upwards of fifty Europeans were
massacred that night, including eight young cadets who had only just
arrived from home. In the centre of the fort stands a very remarkable
monolith, surmounted by a lion. It bears an inscription in the ancient
Pali character, and is known as the Lat or Stone of Asoka, a mighty
emperor who lived about 250 B.C., and who, having embraced the tenets
of Buddha, inscribed his decrees on sundry great pillars which he
erected in divers cities. One of these is at the Buddhist caves of
Karli, and is called the Lion-pillar. It is a sixteen-sided monolith,
surmounted by four lions. Another exists at Delhi, in the ruined fort
of Togluck, though it is called after Feroze, a very modern emperor,
whereas Asoka was, as we have seen, a mighty prince of pre-Christian
ages. His pillars are sometimes surmounted by lions, sometimes by human
figures, overshadowed by the seven-headed cobra, or some other emblem
of power, such as the mystic umbrella—symbolical of Buddha—of which
sufficient trace remains to be recognised, though time and weather have
in the course of two thousand long years worn away the distinct form.
Very similar pillars are at the present day erected in Nepaul, whereon
are placed statues of kings, sometimes shaded by an umbrella made of
metal—and in one instance, by the serpent hood.
From the reign of Asoka, the stone architecture of India dates its
origin. He is said to have left eighty-four thousand buildings of
various sorts, as the marks of his footprints on Time’s sands. To him
is attributed the great tope at Sanchi, that mighty relic-shrine, whose
huge stone portals are to this day a marvel of mythological sculpture,
the details of which have now been made so familiar to us all by
casts, photographs, and description (see Fergusson’s _Tree and Serpent
Worship_, and also the great plaster casts at the South Kensington
Museum)—sculptures representing the primeval worship of sacred serpents
and holy trees, and displaying wheels, umbrellas, and other symbols
more particularly suggestive of the new faith—that of Buddha—which
Asoka established as the religion of the state. This mighty despot
having determined that the new maxims which had become binding on his
own conscience should henceforth be law to his subjects, proceeded
to inscribe them on stone in every corner of his dominions, that the
wayfarer might read them for himself.
Thus it is that, besides finding his edicts engraven on his buildings
and pillars, they are also found inscribed—as on imperishable
tablets—on great rocks scattered over the country from Orissa to
Peshawur. One of these huge boulders, twenty feet in height and
twenty-three in circumference, lies in the lonely jungle in the
district of Kathiawad in Western India. Here the emperor states, that
being convinced of the iniquity of slaying living creatures, he will
henceforth desist from the pleasures of the chase. Henceforth, no
animal must be put to death either for meat or sacrifice; and this
law, which the emperor appoints for himself, is to apply to all his
subjects, who are in future to feed only on vegetables. His protection
of the brute creation applies, not only to their lives; medical care is
to be provided for all living creatures, man and beast, throughout the
whole empire, as far south as Ceylon. Wells were to be dug, and trees
planted, that men and beasts might have shade and drink. The emperor
forbids all convivial meetings, as displeasing to the gods or injurious
to the reveller. He declares that he will himself set the example of
abstaining from all save religious festivals. On this huge ‘Junagadh
Rock,’ as it is called, allusion is also made to four contemporary
Greek kings. The date thus obtained is proved to be about 250 B.C.,
which just corresponds with that of Asoka himself.
The edicts go into various other matters. They inculcate the practice
of a moral law of exceeding purity; they enjoin universal charity;
and bid all men strive to propagate the true creed. To this end,
special missionaries were to be sent forth to the uttermost parts of
the earth, to preach to rich and poor, learned and ignorant, that
they might bring those ‘which were bound in the fetters of sin to
a righteousness passing knowledge.’ Nevertheless, a liberal margin
was to be allowed for diversity of opinion, and nothing savouring
of religious persecution was to be tolerated. At the same time, the
domestic life of the people was subject to the strictest censorship,
overseers being appointed to report on every act in the life of every
subject. These domestic inspectors attracted the particular attention
of the Greeks who visited India in the train of Alexander the Great,
who first turned the attention of Europeans to the then unknown
Indian land, and pursued his career of conquest as far as the banks
of the Sutlej, making himself master of the Punjab, and establishing
Greek colonies at various places. These Greeks described the domestic
monitors as ‘Episcopi,’ and asserted that their duty was to report,
either to the king or the magistrates, everything that happened in
town and country—an office which they seem to have filled wisely and
with discretion. We may here observe that there must be some confusion
in this chronicle of ancient days, inasmuch as Alexander the Great is
stated to have died at Babylon in the year 323 B.C., a hundred years
before the date usually assigned to the death of Asoka.
But Asoka’s pillar has been to us as a talisman, transporting us
backward for twenty centuries, to those remote days, which we now hear
of as a dream of the past, when Buddhism first arose, and, like a
mighty wave, for a while overspread the whole land. Hinduism is now,
however, the chief religion of this north-west province.
The pillar is not the sole representative of diversity of creed
that exists within the huge Mohammedan fort, a fort now held by
Christians, who have fitted up one of Akbar’s buildings as a military
chapel, where, we believe, service is held daily. Half-way between
this Christian church and the Buddhist pillar there still exists
a Hindu temple of exceeding sanctity, though how the Mohammedans
came to tolerate its existence within their fort is a marvel quite
beyond comprehension. It is a foul temple of darkness, extending far
underground, and roofed with low arches. We descended by a flight of
dark dirty steps, dimly revealed by a couple of tallow candles; and we
followed the old soldier who acted as our guide, and who led us along
dark passages, and did the honours of various disgusting idols, stuck
in niches, some as large as life, others quite small, but all alike
hideous, and all adorned with flowers, and wet with the libations of
holy Ganges water, poured upon them by the faithful. The flowers are
the invariable large African marigold and China roses.
Each image is generally smeared with scarlet paint, to symbolise
the atonement of blood that should be offered daily, but which most
of the worshippers are too poor to afford. This substitute for the
sacrifice of blood is common all over India, where a daub of red paint
administered to the village god is at all times an acceptable act of
atonement. These village gods, however, are generally placed beneath
some fine old tree, with the blue sky overhead; but this disgusting
temple was one which you could not enter without a shuddering
impression of earthly and sensual demon-worship.
Here we were also shown a budding tree, supposed to be of extraordinary
antiquity; a fiction by no means shaken, though the Brahmins frequently
substitute a new tree. So holy is this temple, that when, at one
time, all natives were excluded from the fort, one rich Hindu pilgrim
arrived, and offered twenty thousand rupees for permission to worship
here. The commandant, however, had no authority to admit any one, so
was compelled to refuse his prayer, in spite of so tempting a bait. It
was with a feeling of thankful relief that we emerged from that noxious
and oppressive darkness into the balmy air and blessed sunlight.
We spent some pleasant hours in one of the balconies overhanging the
river, while in the cool room within, fair women with musical voices
accompanied themselves on the piano, in Akbar’s old quarters; and so we
idled away the heat of the day till the red sun sank into the water,
behind the great dark railway bridge, a bridge which the Brahmins
declared the gods would never tolerate on so sacred a river as the
Jumna, but which nevertheless spans the stream in perfect security.
It was a vast undertaking, as, owing to the great extent of country
subject to inundation during the rains, it was necessary to construct a
bridge well-nigh two miles in length. The Indian railway has certainly
necessitated an amazing amount of work, on a scale so vast as to test
engineering skill to the uttermost, and in no respect more strikingly
than in the construction of these monster bridges, one of which, across
the Soane, is about a mile and a quarter in length, while that on
the Sutlej, between Jellunder and Loodiana, is about two and a half
miles. On the sandbanks just below the fort, huge mud-turtles lay
basking, and the gentlemen amused themselves by taking long shots at
them from the balconies, whereupon the creatures rose and waddled into
the water with a sudden flop. These sandbanks are favourite haunts of
crocodiles—_muggers_, as they are called—which, however, declined to
show on this occasion.
Perhaps the pleasantest of our afternoons at Allahabad was one spent
in watching the evolutions of the native cavalry, Probyn’s Horse, a
beautiful regiment, whose graceful dress, and still more graceful
riding, were always attractive. On this occasion they were playing
the game of Naza Bazi, or the Game of the Spear, when, riding past
us singly at full gallop, they with their long spear split a wooden
tent-peg driven hard into the ground. Then they picked a series of
rings off different poles; afterwards, with unerring sword, cleaving
a succession of oranges, stuck on posts, as though they were foemen’s
skulls. Next followed some very pretty tilting with spear against
sword. We had only one fault to find—their strokes were so unerring
that they never allowed us the excitement of a doubt! Altogether, it
was the prettiest riding imaginable, and a beautiful game, though the
practice of suddenly pulling up short, when at full speed, on reaching
the last peg, thereby showing off splendid horsemanship, must often
injure the good steed. As we watched this beautiful sport, we all
agreed in wishing we could see it introduced into England. That wish
has since then been fulfilled, and I learn with pleasure that many of
our own cavalry have attained such perfection in this game of skill as
to be no whit behind the most accomplished of Indian horsemen.
A RUN FOR LIFE.
A prisoner had escaped from Dartmoor Prison. During a dense fog, which
had suddenly enveloped a working convict-gang, one of them—a man
notorious for being perhaps the most desperate character amongst the
many desperate ones there—had contrived to escape, and, for the present
at all events, had eluded capture.
It was not a particularly pleasant piece of news for us to hear,
considering that we had, attracted by a very tempting advertisement,
taken a small house for the summer months not very far distant from the
famous prison itself. We were tired of seaside places; it seemed as if
we should enjoy a change from our every-day life in London more, if we
were in some quiet secluded spot, far from uncompromising landladies,
crowds of over-dressed people, and bands of music. Every day we
scanned the papers, with a view to discovering something to suit us;
and our patience was at last rewarded by coming across the following
advertisement, to which I promptly replied: ‘To be let for the summer
months, a charming Cottage, beautifully situated on the borders of
Dartmoor, containing ample accommodation for a small family, with every
convenience; a good garden and tennis-lawn; also the use of a pony and
trap, if required; and some choice poultry. Terms, to a careful tenant,
most moderate. Apply to A. B., Post-office, &c.’
The answer to my inquiries arrived in due time; and everything seemed
so thoroughly satisfactory, that I induced my husband to settle upon
taking the place for three months, without a personal inspection of it
previously. The terms were two pounds ten shillings a week, and that
was to include the use of the pony-trap, the poultry, and several other
advantages not set forth in the advertisement. The only drawback—rather
a serious one—was that Mr Challacombe, to whom the place belonged, had
informed me that it was about three miles from a station. However, with
the pony-trap always at hand, even that did not seem an insuperable
objection. He expatiated upon the beauty of the scenery; the perfect
air from the heather-clad moors; and lastly, requested an early
decision from us, as several other applicants for the Cottage were
already in the field.
To be brief, we agreed to take it; and on a scorching day in July, our
party—consisting of two maid-servants, my husband, and myself, and
our only olive branch, a most precious little maiden of three years
old—started from Paddington Station _en route_ for Exeter, where we
were to branch off for our final destination, Morleigh Cottage. The
pony-trap was to meet us; and Mr Challacombe had promised that we
should find everything as comfortable as he could possibly arrange; and
as sundry hampers had preceded us, I had no fears as to settling down
cosily as soon as we should arrive.
The journey to Exeter by an express train was by no means tedious; we
rather enjoyed it. As our branch train slowly steamed into the wayside
station, we seemed to be the only passengers who wished to alight; and
presently we found ourselves, with the exception of a solitary porter,
the sole occupants of the platform. At one end of it lay a goodly pile
of our luggage, which the said porter had in a very leisurely manner
extracted from the van.
The pony-trap was to meet us; and as Mr Challacombe had assured us it
would not only hold four grown-up people and a child, but a fair amount
of _impedimenta_, we were under no anxiety as to how we were to reach
Morleigh Cottage.
‘Is there anything here for us?’ my husband inquired of the porter.
‘No, sir; not that I knows of.’
‘From Morleigh Cottage?’ Jack explained.
‘No, sir,’ he repeated. ‘But chance it may come yet.’
‘Chance, indeed,’ I echoed in a low tone. ‘It will be too disgraceful,
Jack, if Mr Challacombe has forgotten to desire the carriage to be
sent.’
We both proceeded to the other side of the station, and gazed through
the fast-falling twilight up a narrow road, down which the porter
informed us the pony-trap was sure to come, if it was coming at
all—which did not seem probable, after a dreary half-hour’s hopeless
waiting for it.
In the meanwhile, we beguiled the time by asking the porter some
leading questions with regard to the surroundings, &c., of Morleigh
Cottage; all of which he answered with a broad grin on his sunburnt,
healthy face.
‘How far is the Cottage from here?’ Jack inquired.
‘Better than six miles.’
‘Six miles!’ I exclaimed!—‘O Jack, Mr Challacombe said it was about
three.’
‘It’s a good step more than that,’ observed the porter, with a decided
nod of his head.
‘It is a very pretty place?’ I said interrogatively.
‘It isn’t bad, for them as likes it,’ was the guarded and somewhat
depressing response.
I felt my spirits sink to zero. I had persuaded Jack to take it; he had
suggested that we should go to see it first; but the advertisement had
been so tempting, and the idea of the other longing applicants had made
me so keen to secure it, that I felt whatever it was like, I must make
the best of it, and contrive that Jack at least should not repent of
having been beguiled by me into, as he expressed it, taking ‘a pig in a
poke.’
‘The pony-carriage is sure to come,’ I said in a confident way, once
more straining my eyes up the deserted road. As I uttered the word
‘pony-carriage,’ I detected a distinct grin for the second time on the
man’s face, which was presently fully accounted for by the appearance
of our equipage coming jolting down the deeply rutted road. Imagine a
tax-cart of the shabbiest, dirtiest description, with bare boards for
seats, and the bottom strewn with straw; the pony, an aged specimen,
shambling along, with a harness in which coarse pieces of rope
predominated. It was a pony-_trap_, with a vengeance.
I could almost have cried when it drew up, and I saw Jack’s critical
eye running over all its shortcomings. And it was all my fault.
It was too late to recede from our bargain now; all that we could do
was to bundle into the horrible machine, and endure as we best could
an hour’s martyrdom driving to Morleigh Cottage.