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THE GAELIC NUISANCE.
It is not a very creditable fact that after centuries of national
consolidation, there should be communities within the British Islands
who use different vernacular tongues and are ignorant of English. In
other words, there are large numbers of persons who cannot in ordinary
circumstances be directly communicated with. They can neither send
nor intelligibly receive letters through the post-office. Summoned as
witnesses on civil or criminal trials, they are in the position of
foreigners, and stand in need of interpreters. Cut off from English
books and newspapers, a correct knowledge of history, of science and
art, and of passing events is scarcely possible. They necessarily
vegetate amidst vague legends and superstitions. Theirs is a life of
stagnation and impoverishment, in the spot where they were born; for
anything like voluntary emigration to improve circumstances is only
exceptional. And all this has been complacently tolerated, if not
pampered, for hundreds of years by a nation full of enterprise, and
which, with no injustice, aspires to be in the front rank of general
civilisation.
We are quite aware that much the same thing can be said of most of
the continental nations. All are a little behind in this respect. The
ancient Breton language survives in France, as does the Basque in
Spain. Switzerland, Germany, and Russia are respectively a jumble of
spoken tongues. In Holland and Belgium, we have the Dutch, French,
Flemish, and Walloon. To accommodate the inhabitants of Brussels, the
names of the streets are stuck up in two languages. These continental
diversities do not greatly surprise us. In frequent wars, revolutions,
conquests, annexations, along with want of means, and a host of
inveterate prejudices to be encountered, we have an explanation of
the strange mixture of languages and dialects which still prevails in
continental Europe.
The case is somewhat different in the United Kingdom, where everything
but old prejudices would seem to favour a uniform native language
which all can use and understand. Yet, as we have said, there exist
communities who are still less or more ignorant of English. Centuries
have rolled on, and notwithstanding all appliances, groups of people
are yet found speaking a language which was common a thousand years
ago, but now occupies an obscure and fragmentary position. We do not
say that matters have not been advancing towards uniformity. Little
by little, outlying communities have been satisfactorily Anglicised,
not by anything like legal compulsion, but by what might be termed a
natural process of assimilation. We may speak of two important cases.
In the Shetland and Orkney Islands the Norwegian language existed
until within the last two centuries. It is now totally gone, and the
vernacular is a pure English; vastly to the advantage of the natives,
who besides being open to common civilising influences, are prepared
for pushing their fortunes in any part of the British dominions;
some of them indeed making no mean figure in current literature. The
other case is that of Galloway, a district embracing two counties in
the south-west of Scotland, where the Gaelic prevailed longest in
any part of the Lowlands. 'The wild Scots of Galloway' was once a
well-known phrase. It has passed away along with the Gaelic speech.
The Gallowegians--abounding in men of genius--are now a lively and
prosperous English-speaking and English-writing people. For them the
change has been a very happy one.
With a knowledge of these two instances of social improvement, there
is the more reason to regret the protracted existence of non-English
speaking races. No one will say that any good has come of the continued
prevalence of Erse, the old Irish tongue; nor of Manx in the Isle of
Man; nor of Welsh, though that, as regards literature, is considerably
ahead of any branch of the once universal Celtic tongue. Considering
what spirit is demonstrated in the way of books, newspapers, and
otherwise, Welsh rises to a comparatively prominent position; but there
always remains the unpleasant reflection, that interesting as the
Welsh tongue may be, it distinctly mars national unity, and must be a
drawback on those adhering to it alone, and reared in ignorance of
English. To this cause is doubtless attributable the lingering of many
whimsical superstitions in the Principality.
Should any one desire to see what mischiefs are effected by adherence
to a language long since out of date, he should visit some parts of the
Highlands and the Western Islands of Scotland, where, by a well-meant
but mistaken policy, Gaelic is still perseveringly maintained. Some
years since, it was our fortune to pay a visit to Barra, one of the
Outer Hebrides; and the feeling which rose in our mind was that what we
beheld was a specimen of Scotland as it existed in the sixth century,
when St Columba spread a knowledge of Christianity in the western
Caledonian regions. We seemed to step back twelve hundred years. It
was a marvellous kind of look into antiquity. In their language, in
their rude dwellings of stone and turf, in their religious forms, and
in their dress, the people belonged to a far-back age. Their existence
was an anachronism. And the curious thing was to find this condition of
affairs within four-and-twenty hours of Glasgow, with its enterprise
and prodigiously busy population. We have seen the Micmacs living in
a way little better than dogs in the wilds of Nova Scotia, but one is
not greatly astonished to see Indians dwelling in a state of primitive
wretchedness. The sentiment of wonder is raised on finding natives
within the British Islands still living as their ancestors did at a
time coeval with Vortigern and the Saxon Heptarchy. There they are, for
anything we can see, unimprovable. Speaking Gaelic and nothing else,
they, in their dismal isolation, are left behind in all ordinary means
of advancement. Who has not heard of the institutions plausibly and
benevolently set on foot to enlighten the aborigines of the Highlands
and Islands? Well, here, after all that is done, things are much as
they were in the era of St Columba--people living almost like savages,
without the ability to hold intercourse with strangers, or the power
to improve their circumstances, in consequence of knowing no other
tongue than Gaelic. That language is their bane. It keeps them poor, it
keeps them ignorant. So far as they are concerned, the art of printing
might as well never have been invented. The intelligence communicated
by books and newspapers is for them wholly unavailing. Practically,
they are living hundreds of years before the ingenious discoveries of
Gutenberg and Coster. To think that with all the costly apparatus of
national education, such should be going on within the compass of the
British Islands!
It is no use to mince a matter so grave in its results. The upholding
of Gaelic as a vernacular tongue is, in our opinion, an error to be
lamented and abandoned. In saying so, we are reminded that an effort
has been made by an eminently enthusiastic Professor to gather funds
for the purpose of endowing a Celtic Chair in the University of
Edinburgh. To that effort, which is likely to prove successful, we make
no special objection. Let Celtic, like any other ancient language, by
all means be cultivated among the higher aims of philology. Students
who like to pursue learned inquiries of this kind may do so. But it is
a wholly different thing to maintain a system of elementary teaching
in schools which tends to perpetuate Gaelic as a spoken tongue to the
exclusion of English. Apart from social intercommunication, there may
be a difficulty in substituting English for Gaelic. Teaching to read
English alone in Gaelic-speaking districts is said to be of little use.
The pupils learn to pronounce the words without attaching any meaning
to them. Impressed with this awkward consequence, the Society for the
support of Gaelic schools, which has been in existence upwards of
seventy years, suggests that the best way to promote a knowledge of and
taste for English is to begin by teaching pupils to read Gaelic. 'The
people,' it is represented, 'having once got a taste for learning, are
not satisfied with their children being able to read Gaelic; a number
of them pay the teacher for instructing them also in reading English
and writing at extra hours.' There may be some truth in this view of
the matter; but unfortunately we are confronted with the greater truth,
that considerable numbers in the Highlands and Islands still speak
Gaelic, and are ignorant of English to any useful purpose.
If it be absolutely necessary that schoolmasters must begin by teaching
to read the Gaelic, they ought not to end there, but proceed to
offer, by a close translation, the requisite knowledge of English.
There are surely teachers qualified to make Gaelic-speaking children
understand the meaning of English words. The trouble to be taken
may be considerable, but there are few things either great or good
which can be effected without trouble. We cannot doubt that Highland
school-boards might find a way to make pupils understand English
provided they have the will to do so. Indifference and the grudging
of expense perhaps lie quite as much at the root of the difficulty as
traditional prejudice. It is open to conjecture that, but for undue
fostering, Gaelic would stand a fair chance of disappearing altogether
from the Highlands and Islands, as it did in Galloway and elsewhere
simply through the operation of natural causes.
The question, Gaelic or no Gaelic, has, we fear, been too long treated
in a sentimental point of view. For example, we see it fervently
argued that Highlanders should be able to understand and relish the
ancient Gaelic poetry, as if an acquaintanceship with a few old songs
and ballads were a primary concern in life. Poor people nailed to
a sterile soil by their hereditary ignorance of English, are to be
congratulated for their knowledge of some poem which the world at large
never heard of, and does not care about! Happy people, to whom food,
clothing, and cultured intelligence are as nothing in comparison to the
enviable pleasure of singing a ditty ascribed to Fingal or some more
modern and less apocryphal Celtic bard! It is gratifying to know that
Highlanders themselves are a little scandalised by these and similarly
absurd propositions. Sensibly, they observe that it is time to get
rid of Gaelic, as being entirely out of date, and only an impediment.
Two years ago, in a Glasgow newspaper, one who subscribed himself a
'Western Highlander,' took exception to the unreasonable clamour that
had been got up for the maintenance of Gaelic as a spoken tongue. He
says very rationally: 'We Highlanders have a language that, whatever
its beauties, suffices merely for speech; a language by which we
cannot acquire knowledge in art, science, history, commerce, or--if we
exclude the Bible--even religion. With a poor and infertile soil, we
live alongside a people rich in every gift of nature, possessing every
advantage that can insure worldly prosperity. We are debarred from all
the stores of wisdom locked up in the English language. Thus heavily
weighted, we cannot hope to rival our neighbours' wealth, but we can
wish and strive to make the best of our opportunities. We intend to win
our way if industry and thrift can do it. We can endeavour to improve
our infertile soil, to attract capital to our agriculture, to establish
better communication with the rest of the world. Proud as we are of the
mountain and the glen, we know that we cannot live by scenic beauty
alone. We are tired too of kilted glory, and of dressing and acting
up to Cockney sentiment about the savage Celt. We wish to recognise
and study the conditions of existence, the methods of supporting life
and securing comfort. And to do all this, if our much-loved language
has become an impediment rather than a gain, why, let it go. We shall
remain good Highlanders regardless of any particular mode of speech.
At a time when the first whisperings of prosperity are beginning to
reach us, when steamers deeper and deeper laden ply to every corner of
the west, when the completion of a railway will soon make Oban a great
commercial centre, when comforts hitherto undreamt of are everywhere
obtainable--is it right at such a time of promise to intensify our
disadvantages and to make our backwardness more backward still?' Shrewd
remarks these, well worth taking to heart.
It cannot be ascertained from any official Reports what is the exact
number of persons--men, women, and children--whose language is wholly
confined to Gaelic. In the second Report of the Education Commission
published in 1867, it is said to be 'probable that the population of
the parishes within which Gaelic continues to be the only language
which is understood by the majority of the people cannot exceed a
hundred and fifty thousand; these being chiefly the parishes of the
Hebrides, which are wholly insular, and the mainland parishes of the
west coast of the counties of Sutherland, Ross, Inverness, and Argyle.'
It is believed that since 1867, the number whose speech is limited
to Gaelic has diminished through various influences, among which
commercial intercourse by means of steam-vessels and otherwise has
been conspicuous. We should almost aver that Hutcheson's magnificent
fleet of steam-vessels, whether devoted to the carrying of goods or
passengers, had done more to introduce a knowledge of English, along
with conditions of prosperity, into the Hebrides than any other
appliance whatsoever. In the remoter or lesser islands which are little
visited by strangers, there is a corresponding backwardness. Barra we
have already spoken of as still in a singularly primitive condition. At
Coll, Tyree, and some other islands, the knowledge of English is also
unhappily deficient. In comparatively recent times, a great change in
proprietorship has come over these islands. The old families--such as
the Macneils and Macleans--have mostly disappeared, and new landlords
with the means and desire to improve the condition of the soil and the
population, find themselves obstructed by the difficulty of holding
any intelligent intercourse with the natives. The disadvantage is
mutual, for on all hands the Gaelic-speaking inhabitants are unable
to make their wants and feelings known to those who wish to be their
friends. A melancholy case of a rigid adherence to Gaelic, is that of
the extremely remote island of St Kilda. Here, as was described a few
months ago by Mr J. Sands in our pages, the natives speak Gaelic and
nothing else; in Gaelic they are preached to by a minister originally
from the mainland; he and his wife being the only individuals who know
English. Of course the natives can hold no epistolary correspondence
with the exterior world, on whose sympathy they are forced to rely. A
present of English books would be valueless, for they could not read
them. They could not emigrate unless accompanied by an interpreter,
much after the manner of a party of travellers in the East under the
guidance of a dragoman. We ask, Is that a position in which any of Her
Majesty's subjects should continue to be placed through the effect of
custom or prejudice? Such an afflicting condition of affairs is little
better than a national disgrace.
It is hard to run counter to long-cherished and in the main amiable
feelings. It is hard to find fault with persons and institutions whose
motives in encouraging Gaelic have been alike pious and benevolent.
But circumstances oblige us to be candid in a matter so momentous to
public welfare. The Gaelic language may be as copious and energetic as
the Greek; it may be not less suitable for poetry than the Italian; it
has strong archæological claims as a relic of the tongue which in its
various forms was at one time spoken all over the British Islands, if
not over all Europe; but it has survived its usefulness, and is out
of place as a vernacular. In short, looking to the wants of modern
society, and seeing the mischief it produces, we are--however hateful
the term--warranted in characterising Gaelic as a NUISANCE, which every
one should aid in removing with all reasonable speed.
W. C.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
BY 'ALASTER GRÆME.'
IN THREE PARTS.--PART II.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.
No one but Mistress Margaret and Marjory knew that Deborah and Kingston
Fleming were betrothed. Meantime Deborah, with her love-secret folded
like a flower within her heart, devoted herself to her father, and
Kingston remained with them. But Deborah's presence was required at
Lincoln; the tenantry were anxious to welcome the new mistress; and
like a dutiful daughter, fondly hoping that the change would restore
her father, she determined, by Kingston's advice, to go there at once,
and to leave Enderby to undergo thorough repair. So they left the dear
old place. 'What will happen,' thought Deborah Fleming, 'ere I see
Enderby again?' Mistress Margaret would not leave Enderby, for certain
private and sufficient reasons of her own; so she pleaded to be left
behind. She was in daily expectation of receiving a secret summons to
follow her husband, and her heart clung to her old father and the old
place.
They arrived at Lincoln Castle in the late summer gloaming. Groups of
solemn cedars were just visible, and the little melancholy bats were
flitting round like spirits; the grand old ivied keep loomed darkly
before them; and beyond, under a glimmering archway, were lights and
figures. Deborah shuddered; she knew not whether to weep or pray, as
she laid her head on her father's shoulder, and thought of herself
entering in triumph as Adam Sinclair's bride. She felt a traitor,
taking Kingston there, her lover, her betrothed, even though he was
going away that night; and the grim presence of Adam Sinclair pervaded
all the place. The same in the gorgeous rooms, gloomy though full of
brilliant lights. On one side walked her tall kinsman-lover, and on the
other stalked the spectre of Adam Sinclair. Deborah shivered, and clung
to Kingston's arm. She went out with him under the stars to bid him
good-bye. Two tall cedars met overhead, and the night-wind just sighed
amongst their branches; the night-flowers were exhaling their fragrant
odours.
'Deb,' whispered Kingston, 'I have half a mind to leave thee, love!
Men of rank and position would flock to woo my beautiful one. Thou'rt
very young. Wait; and let me come and know thy mind hereafter. _Wait_,
Deb. I speak no jest. Wert thou poor, I would make thee wed me now; but
love--as thou art--I cannot. Wait, Deb; and I will exact no promise
from thee.'
'Thou never didst know me, King, and never will! My love was quick to
come, but it was and ever will be changeless. Dear, I have seen many
men; and more than thou wott'st of have made love to me. But what are
they all to thee? From childhood, _thou_ hast been my love; I feel no
shame to tell it thee. And wilt thou, for my poor fortune, leave me?
Why, thou dost tempt me to fling it all away as dross, rather than lose
thy love. King, if thou leavest me, I shall _die_! For old kin's sake,
thou couldst not! Remember that we are kin near and dear! Thy father
and mine were boys at Enderby, and played in the same old haunts;
companions near and dear. Ah well, King as thou lovest me, promise soon
to come back!'
He took her face between his hands and hesitated. Perilously dear was
she to him; but oh! that golden casket in which his jewel lay--he hated
it! Kingston Fleming was proud where he loved.
'If thou wilt not promise,' said Deborah, 'thou shalt not go! _I_ shall
do the wooing!--Oh, I am too bold! But my heart saith thou lovest me.
Then fling this pride away. King, darling, do not break my heart!'
He was vanquished. Vows, caresses, sighs, and the lovers parted.
PART III.--NIGHT.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
The young and beautiful Lady of Lincoln won all hearts; not that she
visited any but the poor in those days; but the fame of her beauty and
sweetness spread abroad even so; and the 'Rose of Enderby,' though
not to be seen, was known to be brightening the stern old castle. The
tall gaunt father and the beautiful girl lived in utter seclusion,
except when amongst the poor--always together. Strangely enough, he
never tried to wander. She never had him left alone day or night; but
he never seemed happy save with Deborah. And still she watched for
and prayed for a change in him. She talked to him, waited on him,
sang to him from morning till night. Out in the broad sunny court that
lay between the door and the entrance-gates, Deborah and her father,
and often old Marjory with them, would sit and look up the long grass
avenue that stretched far away, a vista of giant trees, ever twilight,
where the antlered deer would trot past, to seek fresh shade and
pasturage, and where the far-away murmur of country life, the lowing
of cows, the tinkle of a sheep-bell, the bark of a dog, the shout
of a boy, or the cries of children at play, would be wafted to them
musically.
One morning, left alone, Sir Vincent said to his child: 'Where are we,
Deb?'
Often he had asked the same question before; and she answered as
before: 'At Lincoln Castle, father.'
But he went on: 'Who lives here?'
'You and I, father, and I hope Charlie soon. Adam Sinclair gave us this
place. Wasn't it good of him?'
'Adam Sinclair?' He looked bewildered, and shook his head. 'I know
naught of him, Deb. Deb, little Deb, I was thinking of Kate Shaw. I saw
her yesterday.'
'Who was she, father, dear?'
He stared at her. 'Why, your mother!'
Her heart fluttered. 'My mother! And did you see her yesterday?'
'Ay; she was walking under the trees yonder. But she looked ill, sadly
ill; her hair was as white as mine. She gave me such a look!'
Deborah went and kneeled by her father, and put her arms around him.
'Poor sweet father! This could not be. Thou knowest my mother died
long, long ago. And was her name Kate Shaw, father?'
'Ay;' and he smiled. Wrapt and intent, his eyes seemed gazing far
through and away. 'She was Kate Shaw, Deb; a gipsy lass, and beautiful
as the dawn. No one like her! Such eyes, such feet, such grace! Sweet
Kate! sweet Kate!'
Deborah knew that her mother's name had been Kate. She marvelled,
trembled.
'I walked with her yesterday, Deb; didn't I? Yes; under the trees at
Enderby; and I found she loved me. Little witch! She was hard, hard to
win; so coy, so whimsical! She had a gipsy lover too. I made short work
of _him_.'
'Didst shoot him, father?'
Sir Vincent laughed aloud, then feigned to look greatly scandalised
amid his mirth. 'Shoot him? Fie, fie, Deb! Ask me not what I did,
child. Why, one day she cared for him, the next for me. I could not
stand it. A Fleming too! The Flemings woo maidens honourably. 'Fore
heaven, I made Kate my Lady Fleming--my sweet little wife Kate! But I
let her go no more to the camp. Sometimes I think she pines. She talks
sometimes about her mother, in her dreams--that old hag! My wife must
give up all, and cleave to me. Kate, Kate! dear love!' Then he said no
more, nor did Deborah; but she marvelled at what she had heard, and
what could have recalled her mother so vividly.
It happened one afternoon a few days after this and their arrival at
Lincoln, Dame Marjory entered with a pale face. 'My Lady Deb, there's
a poor woman round there at the gates wantin' to see thee; she is very
ill. She lies there; 'tis like she's dyin'; so Master Coleman thinks.
She can't be moved away.'
'I will come,' cried Deborah. 'Send Coleman to father. I will speak to
her.' Beautiful, pitiful, Deborah appeared in her long black robes to
the vision of the dying woman, bending down to her. She was an old, old
woman, with wild and wintry hair; death in her face, but life in her
great burning eyes, and those were fixed on Deborah. Deborah started
back. It was _the_ gipsy! A hundred doubts and certainties rushed
surging to her brain. The gipsy beckoned her nearer.
'Speak to her,' whispered old Marjory emphatically. 'Go nearer.' And
then Marjory, standing by gaunt and grim, waved the other servants away.
Deborah kneeled and bent her ear to the dying woman's lips. 'Girl,'
said the faint voice, 'I forgive and forget! Let me die like a woman,
not like a dog. I am thy mother's mother, an' I have been round day an'
night to seek thee. _She_ cast me off--Kate Shaw, thy mother. Because
she was my Lady Fleming, she forgot her old mother. I was the dirt
under her feet. Thy servants turned me off, Mistress. But take me into
your grand house an' let me die in peace.'
Deborah rose to her feet, and turned like a ghost on Marjory. 'Nurse,'
she whispered, 'is this my grandmother?'
'Yes, Mistress Deborah; it is true.'
Then Deborah beckoned to the men, and bid them bear the dying woman in
and lay her on a bed. And then Deborah, with Marjory on the other side,
sat down beside her. She seemed almost gone; the breath came labouring.
But the breeze that swept in at the open windows seemed to revive her.
It blew on the long white locks straggling across the brow; on those
glazing eyes, so dark, sunken, piteous--eyes that burned up again, and
sought Deborah's face as the embers of a dying fire flicker up and
throw into the room an unexpected light.
'My girl,' she said, 'if Kate had been like _thee_! Hark! I hated, an'
yet I always loved thee! _Thou'dst_ ne'er ha' treated me like a dog.
An', ah me! I loved her like my soul!'
'Grandmother,' answered Deborah sweetly and with a clear utterance,
that pierced to the dying ears, 'my mother loved you. Only the other
day I heard that great as she was, she never forgot you, even in her
dreams. Day and night she thought of you; but her promise to her
husband kept her from you, though she pined to see you once again.
Oh, be merciful then! Forgive her! You are going now to meet again. O
forgive her! that God may let ye meet in heaven!'
The great eyes stirred not from Deborah's face. 'Shall I win to
heaven, lass? Speak to me o' heaven.' And Deborah described to her
that beautiful place, that land glorious with promise and with bliss,
that 'eye hath not seen, nor heart of man conceived.' The dying gipsy
listened with her soul in her eyes. Then said she, very faintly:
'I am goin'. O Jesus, let me come! O Kate--my Kate!' Then, with
wonderful sudden life and fire: 'Hi! you, my lass! Where's the boy? the
rogue--"wild Charlie" they called him. Where's _he_?'
'In Ireland. Gone to fight for the Irish, grandmother.'
She laughed exultantly. 'Why, I tell thee why--_his mother_ was Irish,
an' he knew it. Mad boy, mad boy!'
Deborah laid her white hand on the old brown trembling hand, and
smiled. She watched to see again and again a strange look of Charlie
in that faded face and those large and wistful eyes. A great new-born
love was flooding Deborah's heart for the dying vagrant. But death was
taking the wanderer away. 'O Jesus, let me come!' Deborah heard her say
again.
The fire died out; the flame sank low; the embers of life just
smouldered, nothing more.... The fresh wind blew in vain on the wild
gipsy face. She was gone.
Scarcely had Katharine Shaw been laid in her grave when Sir Vincent
Fleming became very ill--so ill, that Deborah despatched a letter
post-haste to Mistress Margaret Fleming, begging her to make known the
fact to Charlie at once. But Mistress Fleming had started for Dublin;
and this is how it befell. One morning a letter came to her. She often
received such; but this one had cost her a laugh and a cry of joy. Just
as she was in the perusal, old Jordan entered, and stared in wonderment
at the glorious happiness of her face. 'Why, my maid,' he said, 'what
hast got there? It's naught but paper, is it?'
'No, dad; but something writ upon it. Father,' she said, and rose and
slid the beautiful arm around his neck, 'haven't I been a good daughter
to thee? Proud and pursed up with mine own conceit, the lads o' the
village have always called me. But, father, "Mistress Dinnage" has been
a good daughter unto thee?'
'Ay, ay, lass, thou hast! What wouldst be comin' at? What ails thee
now, Mistress?'
'Why, I come to ask thy blessing on me. Don't look scared, father; no
shame will ever fall on thee through Mistress Dinnage. But I will out
with it, for I can never beat about the bush. Father, I am Charles
Fleming's lawful wife!'
Jordan seized his child by the shoulders, and his old grotesque visage
grew dignified and terribly stern in its earnestness as he almost
shrieked: 'Not--not unbeknown to the Master--an' Mistress Deborah?'
'Unbeknown that we are wedded, but not that we love, father. Mistress
Deborah has known and wished it long; and Sir Vincent--he has seen us
twice together, father, when we were walking secretly, an' has smiled
on us. Mistress Deborah has heard him say a hundred times that he would
fain, if he had wealth, have for his daughter-in-law an "honest poor
man's child." So father, dear father, ye must not be angered.'
'Child, child! thou'st done wrong in keepin' it hid. Married?
What--_married_? Honestly?'
'Ay,' was the proud answer. 'Charles Fleming and Margaret Dinnage went
to Daxford Church, and were wed; we came out man and wife. Ask Master
Rawdon. Father, he's in Ireland; but it's kept secret from all but
Mistress Deborah. He's gone soldiering, father; and in this letter he
asks me to go. Father, I am his wife!'
'Ay, an' _Jordan's daughter_, Meg,' said the old man brokenly. 'I'm
a'most dazed. And thou'rt goin' to leave the old man alone--alone!'
'Only for a little time, father--a little, little time; for soon
Charlie, when all the trouble's over, will come home to Enderby. It's
all arranged between Lady Deb and me. A fine home-comin' it'll be, an'
it please thee, Master Dinnage! Father, I won't go for long, dear. But
o' nights, thinkin' o' Charlie, I well nigh go distraught. There is
danger, father, as thou know'st! Hundreds o' men are slain. I must be
_there_. I must go, dear; but I won't be long.'
'Go, go!' muttered Jordan irefully. 'Thou'dst allus the bit atween thy
teeth, Mistress Dinnage; so had thy poor dear mother. Go along! I've
no need o' thee; yon brave young fellow hath. Thou'lt be killed next,
girl, killed, ay, an' wus than killed, at the hands o' the wild Irish.
But, go, go! I don't want thee here.'
Anger, pride, and sorrow struggled fiercely in the brave old heart;
but 'Mistress Dinnage' knew how to take him. 'Father,' she said,
sorrowfully regarding him, with her head slightly on one side, and her
hands playing nervously with her apron, in her earnest pleading, 'if
thou wert newly wed, an' so parted from mother by land an' sea--an' she
in trouble, needin' thee sore--thou'dst wade through fire an' water,
only to win to _her_. My heart is broke in twain 'tween thee both--one
half is at home with thee, an' the other gone to Charlie. Though I
don't speak or cry, my heart is wounded with every man that's killed,
an' trouble wears me sore. Think of mother, my father! Think when thou
wert first wed, what it would be for one to part thee--think o' it, an'
bid me go!'
So Mistress Margaret won the day.
OUR INDIAN PETS.
Among the many, many good things swept from India by the great Mutiny
storm was the time-honoured order of Griffs--that is, officers under a
year's service in the country. Every regiment owned one or two members,
and in large stations they were usually to be found by the half-dozen.
They were generally the life of the station, and in every way were
our _prime_ pets. What would Mrs General and Mrs Brigadier have done
without their griffs to patronise and make use of in various ways,
such as filling up sudden vacancies at their dinner-tables, or helping
to fill their ball-rooms? Griffs invariably started Indian life with
the three animals which are also included in the list of 'our Indian
pets'--namely the horse or his humble representative the pony, the dog,
and the monkey. No griff considered his establishment complete without
these three animals; there would be a general uniformity among the
monkeys; but a collection of griff horses, ponies, and dogs formed a
rare aggregation of screws and curs of all sorts, sizes, and colours.
There is a peculiar charm about Indian life which is rarely seen
at home, and that is the compactness and domesticity of each
establishment. In each household the master, and if he is married,
his wife and children, is in direct contact with his servants and his
animals; all are housed near him; and the daily morning stroll leads
him from the stables to the farm-yard, then to the garden, and so
home by the tree beneath which the monkey is chained, the dogs being
in close attendance. The horses are brought up to be fed under their
master's eye, and generally receive a crust of bread, a biscuit, or a
chupátee (an unleavened wheaten cake like a pancake; the 'unleavened
bread' of Scripture) from his or his wife's hands; the dogs have the
free run of the house, and at their stated hours have their meals
under some one's eyes; while the farm-yard is under the direct charge
of the mistress, who fusses about among the cows, looks after the eggs
and chickens, and makes over the victims selected for the table. Then
on the march we are in still closer contact with our servants and
animals; for a few steps only separate us from all. Emerging from the
tent, a few paces to the rear bring us to the cook's tent, and behind
or beside it is that belonging to the servants. Behind them are our
horses and dogs, the latter generally tied up during the day and loose
at night.
So it happens that in cantonments, and more especially on the march,
we are virtually monarchs of all we survey; and I well remember that
in the pleasant days of my griffinage, on the occasion of my first
march, I felt quite patriarchal as I sat in the tent-door with all my
earthly belongings around me; the bearer (valet) and the other servants
attending to their various duties, my dear Caboolee horse Tom dozing in
the sunshine, my faithful setter Belle lying at my feet, and my monkeys
Jacko and Moony busy with their own affairs.
And now to 'our Indian pets;' and I purpose passing some of mine
in pleasant review; but in doing so I shall not record anything
remarkable, or what any kind observer of animals and their habits
cannot fully indorse.
One of my first purchases was a horse we called Tom, a gray,
thoroughbred, thick-necked, and sturdy Caboolee, for whom I paid
ninety rupees (nine pounds); and right valuable did he turn out. I
bought him in 1854, rode him from one end of the presidency to the
other, through the Mutiny, and up to 1866, when I pensioned him. In
1869 he was attacked by black cancer, and at length I was sorrowfully
obliged to put an end to his existence, to save him from a cruel,
lingering death. There was nothing about him externally different
from other thoroughbred Caboolees; but being made a great pet of,
his mental abilities shone more remarkably, especially under daily
observation. For instance, he had a strong sense of the comic. If I
spoke to him when mounted, he would turn his head as much as he could
and look at me; or he would take a cake or bit of sugar-cane out of
my stretched-out hand, and munch it as he went along; or if I tickled
one ear with my cane, he would unmistakably present the other ear to
be similarly treated. He was a great thief, and I had great difficulty
in restraining him from plunder when riding through crops. He was very
fond of my wife's horse Punch, and neither would be stabled apart from
the other; and it was most amusing to watch their nose-rubbings across
the stall partition. Much, however, as he loved Punch, he would never
allow him to precede him in the walk or canter, nor would he move until
the dogs had been let loose and had jumped up to his nose. He knew his
name perfectly, and would trot up to me when called, from any part
of the field. He carried me unflinchingly through the Mutiny until
wounded, and thought nothing of our weary rides of between thirty and
forty miles a night.
On one memorable occasion we were escaping from a threatened attack,
and I had dismounted to look at the girths; a shot from the rear
elicited the exclamation: 'I wonder where that bullet has gone to;'
and I again mounted, but had hardly gone two paces when Tom began to
limp. I got off at once, and then found that the bullet had struck him
just outside the off-knee, had run round under the skin, and lodged
in front. I tried to cut it out then and there; but the horse was too
restive, and I again mounted, but only to find the poor brute getting
more and more lame. I was now well behind, and the rest of our party
urged me to come on. As I still lagged, they cried out to abandon the
horse, as we were being pursued. This I grudgingly did, and trudged
on hurriedly to join our party; having done this, I looked back, and
saw poor old Tom hobbling after me. I could not stand this, so brought
him on at once. When we reached comparative safety some days after, I
extracted the bullet.
I have already mentioned Punch my wife's horse. He was ridden as a
charger through the battle of Gujrát in January 1849, and with his
rider, had a remarkable escape from a shell, which exploded between
his rider's foot and his own off-shoulder. The wound inflicted left a
scar, into the hollow of which you could thrust half a fist. He was a
perfect lady's horse, and quite free from vice, possessing a gentle and
affectionate disposition. He was fonder of Tom than Tom was of him,
and used to exhibit great anxiety when, in his opinion, his friend
was longer absent from his stall than usual, his return to which was
greeted by a loud neigh of welcome. I have never seen so gentle or
loving a horse. He quite understood the difference between adults and
children, and would allow the latter to take all kinds of liberties
with him, and was perfectly aware how to behave when they mounted him,
as they always did when he returned from the morning or evening ride.
He was a darling horse, and like true friends, his and Tom's best
qualities came out under trial. Both had suddenly to exhibit their best
points when the Mutiny broke out, and both behaved nobly. When Tom
was disabled, I rode Punch, and during these weary days and nights he
fully understood his position; many a time had we to snatch an hour or
two of sleep when we could on the bare road; I would lie down with the
bridle round my arm, and he would sleep standing beside me. One morning
we broke down together, and both fell asleep while progressing, being
rudely awoke by finding ourselves in a large roadside bush. Poor old
Punch was subject to a disorder which eventually carried him off in
November 1864, in the twenty-third year of his age. Unlike Tom, he was
hale and hearty to the last. Peace to the memory of these two humble
and faithful friends! Several horses have subsequently been in my
stables, and I might narrate something about each, did time and space
allow, but none of them ever took our affections so completely as did
Tom and Punch; they were our first and best equine loves.
Let me pass some of my dogs in review; and how tender are the memories
which some of their names recall! Dear old Belle, an English brown and
white setter, leads the way: she was too old for active service, had
been left in the country by her former master, and had passed from one
hand to the other, getting thinner and thinner with each change. When
I got her she seemed to think a new master a matter of course, and
accepted the change without emotion; but when she saw that she had
really found a permanent master and a comfortable home, then all her
pent-up affection welled forth, and she seemed to feel that she could
not shew enough of it. She was my constant and faithful companion in
the early years of my service, and I felt her loss keenly when carried
off by distemper, which on that occasion killed all my dogs. Her last
acts were to lick my hand and feebly wag her tail as I bent over her
prostrate form.
Belle number two comes on the scene: a small black and white spaniel,
which I had as a pup. She was specially noted for an intimacy she
struck up with another dog Topsy, and a cat; and the romps of the three
were most amusing, but at the same time most destructive to a bed of
melons they always selected for their invariable game of Hide-and-seek.
The gardener protested in vain against their romps, though he allowed
that Belle effectually protected the melon-bed from the jackals at
night. She accompanied me in our flight in the Mutiny; but, poor
little thing, was lost on the road. Topsy was a great pet; a very
singular-looking little animal of a mixed breed, very peppery, full
of life, and immensely affectionate. Her peculiarities were--intense
antipathy to jackals, whose howl she would at once imitate if you
called to her: 'Jackals, Tops;' and the clear manner in which she
articulated grand-mam-má-á-á, if you interrupted her growling with your
finger. She accompanied her mistress to England as a co-refugee from
the Mutiny, and was made much of in consequence, returning to this
country only to die prematurely, dear little Tops.
Rosie! Rosie! Here is a small liver and white smooth terrier, very
affectionate, and noted for her antipathy to musk-rats and squirrels;
the former she invariably killed, and the latter she tried hard to,
but rarely succeeded, as they were too agile, and always got up the
nearest tree. I have had to drag her away from the foot of a palm-tree,
at which she had been sitting all the morning watching a squirrel. Her
first litter consisted of one pup, about which she made an immense
fuss, and was inclined to resent a great liberty I took with her. I
found one day a starving outcast kitten, and bringing it home, put
Rosie on her side, and told her to be kind to it. The kitten ravenously
seized a teat; and Rosie was very uneasy, not quite making out the
animal which was draining her, and evidently suspecting it to be a
squirrel. After a day or two she took to the stranger; and the kitten
at once made itself quite at home; rather too much so, for she would
claw at the pup most unmercifully, while it yelled complainingly, the
mother not knowing what to make of the arrangement. But the tables were
turned as soon as the pup got its teeth and legs; and then it fiercely
maintained its rights, and there used to be regular scrimmages over a
favourite teat; Rosie looking on in blank amazement, and wincing under
the scratches of her strange pup. The three pulled on together in a
way; but there was never much love lost among them.
My monkeys Jacko and Moony I bought as a griff at Umballah for the
large sum of one rupee. They were just emerging from babyhood, and so
required some care and looking after. I never taught them anything;
for such education, as with dogs, always necessitates more or less
severity; but I carefully cultivated the talents they possessed.
The looking-glass was always a standing joke. Either monkey would
cautiously approach its image, making the usual recognition grimaces,
which of course were duly returned; then it would sit close up to the
glass, and now and then look sideways at the reflection; or it would
put a hand behind the glass, as if feeling for the other monkey. If I
seized the hand, a fight with the glass at once ensued, which I kept up
with my hand, and then suddenly dropped the glass. The amazement of the
monkey at the sudden disappearance of its adversary was most ludicrous
to behold.
Moony was very fond of a delicacy well known in India as mango-fool.
The spirit of mischief induced me one day to add a teaspoonful of
spirits of wine to her daily saucer of mango-fool, and for the first
and last time in my life I saw an intoxicated monkey; her antics and
attempts to keep the perpendicular were most absurd. She certainly
attempted to dance and clap her hands, but ultimately was obliged
gradually to subside and yield to the soporific influence of the
spirits. As a great treat I used occasionally to loosen both monkeys
and let them scamper up a large tree. At first they appreciated my
kindness and came down at call to be tied up for the night; but the
sweets of liberty were too great, and they gradually began to be tardy
in their descent, and at last Moony preferred to spend the night in the
tree. To prevent the return of such behaviour, I bombarded Moony next
day with my goolél or pellet-bow (a weapon with which in those days I
was remarkably skilful), and soon brought her to my feet. Both monkeys
were familiar with the goolél, for I often harmlessly tested their
agility by shelling them with it; but Moony now learned for the first
time the punishment it could inflict; and ever thereafter, if I merely
called out (when she hesitated to descend) to the bearer: 'Goolél lao'
(Pellet-bow bring), she would hurry down the tree repentant. This
story savours somewhat of the American colonel and opossum; but it is
strictly true.
Moony had her first young one when about fifteen months old; and the
fuss she made with it, and the fierce affection she exhibited, were
interesting to behold. Her babe was still at the breast when the
Mutiny broke out. Among the ruffians who burned my bungalow was one
who provoked her in some way or other. She attacked him at once, but
was killed by one blow of a láthee (stout bamboo staff), her young one
sharing her fate. Jacko escaped in the confusion, and became a vagrant.
A native gentleman once presented me with a black gibbon (_Hylobates
agilis_), called by the natives from its yell, Hookoo or Hoolook. Its
tremendous teeth and unearthly yell impressed me unfavourably, and
I kept it in confinement, much against my will, as it always seemed
so gentle. The poor brute soon died. Some time after, when staying
with a dear and congenial friend at Alipore, near Calcutta, I became
acquainted with a second gibbon, which was quite tame, and allowed to
be at large. We at once exchanged confidences, and the poor creature's
loving affection for me became quite overpowering. So thoroughly did
I trust it, that I allowed my boy of three years of age to play with
her, and the way the two rolled over on the turf was most amusing
to behold. The agility of the animal was simply marvellous. I have
seen it go round the large house hanging by its finger-tips to the
cornice beading which went round. To run up the rain-pipes was as easy
to it as a ladder would be to a man; in fact, it could go anywhere
and everywhere, and so often vexed us by its depredations. It found
out where my boy's milk was kept, and helped itself in this strange
fashion. Its great length of arm prevented it from drinking direct
from the vessel, as monkeys do, the arms always intervening between
the vessel and the animal's mouth; so she was obliged to sit at some
distance from the vessel, and scoop out its contents with her fingers,
letting the milk drop from them into her mouth. She did not drink from
the hollowed hand, but let the fingers drip the liquid into the mouth.
One day the gibbon had annoyed my friend by eating some of his papers,
and in the afternoon we were conversing together in his study, when
suddenly it appeared, and sidled up to me. With a half-angry laugh, my
friend made a gesture as if to throw a book at it, and exclaimed: 'Get
out, you mischievous brute.' She accordingly got out, in her silent
mysterious manner, and we went on talking. We then adjourned to the
roof for a view, and I drew my friend's attention to the gibbon, which
was timidly surveying us from behind a distant chimney. Playfully
shaking his fist at her, we walked together to the opposite end of the
roof and leaned over the parapet. Presently I saw the gibbon stealing
quietly towards us along the parapet. As soon as she saw that she was
observed, she boldly ran up to me, threw her long arms around me, and
nestled into my breast. Could I resist such an appeal for forgiveness
and protection? We were both much touched by it, and winked at many of
her subsequent misdoings.
So much for our principal pets: minor ones are cats, pigeons, parrots,
cockatoos, minas, squirrels, and the mongoose. I might devote an
article to each of these animals; but time and space warn me to stop.
THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE.