He suffered neither from hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, and required
no sleep. Aimlessly and ceaselessly, he wandered about, sunk in the
lowest depths of misery and despair. His great wish was to find the
pisási village again, as he hoped that, in some way, the spell might
then be removed from him. Night after night he entered the forest and
wandered about till daybreak with eyes and ears open for any sign of
the presence of pisásis; but though, before long, he knew every path
and game-track, and almost every tree for miles round, he could not
find again the haunted jungle. Sometimes, when tired, of his fruitless
midnight wanderings, he would go to the rice-fields and sit by the
blazing fires in the watch-huts and listen to the talk of the men
and boys guarding the crops from the wild beasts. During the day, he
haunted the village, entering all the huts unseen, and listening to
the conversation of the villagers. Often he laughed to himself as he
overheard secrets disclosed, weaknesses exposed, and designs laid
bare, by men and women who thought themselves alone and safe from
eavesdropping. The excitement about the murder of the headman soon died
out, and it ceased to be the absorbing theme of conversation in the
village. The púsári was supposed to have got safely off to some distant
country with his booty.
During this time, the púsári watched his enemy unceasingly, his
feelings of hatred and desire for vengeance growing deeper every day.
Iyan was too cunning a villain to excite suspicion by showing his
ill-gotten wealth, and he had not as yet profited much by his crime.
Every evening, the púsári watched him go into the jungle and gloat over
the money and jewels he had hidden in the hollow tree.
The púsári also kept an untiring, loving watch over his daughter.
His brother and family had by this taken complete possession of his
house and property. Vallee felt keenly their rapacious proceedings and
unkind treatment of her, for her father more than once saw her, with
tears of mortification and indignation in her eyes, rush out of the
house into the jungle. But she very often met there one who dried her
tears quickly and easily. Valan appeared to be always on the watch
for her, and met her so often and so openly, that it soon became
the talk of the village. Many sneered at him for a fool to think of
marrying a portionless girl, as they now thought her, and also the
daughter of a murderer. It soon became clear to the púsári that matters
were coming to a crisis, and that Valan, stung into resentment and
defiance by the remarks of the villagers, and pitying Vallee’s distress
and unhappiness, would soon make her his wife and take her away.
Valan’s generous and honourable conduct towards his daughter, and his
expression of belief in his innocence, had completely won the púsári’s
heart. He saw with approval and pleasure the relations between the two,
and the thought that his daughter would soon be provided for, helped in
considerable measure to reconcile him to his unhappy lot.
It happened one night that the púsári in one of his nocturnal rambles
found himself at the river. It was now the height of the hot season,
and the river was almost dry. Near where the path crossed the river
was a small pool, the only water for miles around; to this the púsári
went, and seated on the bank above, watched the wild animals coming to
drink. It was a bright moonlight night, and the light reflected from
the white sandy bed of the river made everything clearly visible. First
came a pair of porcupines, which played about and chased each other,
rattling their quills noisily, till the sudden appearance of an old
she-bear with a cub on her back put them to flight. The bear drank and
shuffled off; and then, with noiseless, stealthy step, a leopard glided
out of the jungle into the moonlight. It looked about with its cruel,
round gleaming eyes for a few moments, and then, lying down on its
stomach, lapped its fill of water. Afterwards came a herd of wild-pigs,
suspicious and wary, followed by a number of graceful spotted deer. As
these were drinking, a slight noise in the distance caused them all
to throw up their heads and listen in attitudes of alarm, and then to
disappear in the jungle like shadows. A few moments later, with heavy
but silent tread, a herd of elephants came along the river and drank at
the pool, throwing copious showers of water over themselves with their
trunks afterwards. The púsári had by this time quite lost all fear of
wild animals, so he sat and watched them with pleasure and in perfect
security.
Suddenly the púsári started to his feet, and with staring eyes and
beating heart, gazed at something in the distance that had caught his
eye. It was a brilliant glare of light over the trees. It was the
pisási village at last! Without a moment’s hesitation, and breathless
with anxiety, he hurried off in the direction of the light, going
straight through the jungle towards it. Nearer and nearer appeared the
light, till at last, with joy and exultation in his heart, he stepped
out of the jungle into the well-remembered enchanted bazaar. But
instead of the unearthly silence that had reigned in the bazaar the
last time he was there, it was now filled with uproar. No particular
sounds were distinguishable; but horrid shrieks and yells, awful
execrations and hideous sounds of every sort, filled the air. Instead
of taking no notice of him as before, the pisásis glared balefully
at him, and seemed to snarl and show their teeth. The creatures in
the shape of cattle and dogs followed him threateningly; and numbers
of evil-looking birds and loathsome creatures with wings flapped and
fluttered about his head. But undaunted and undeterred, the púsári
walked steadily on, searching for the old she-pisási’s stall where he
had drunk the magic potion. At last he found it. There sat the old hag,
blinking and leering with the same hollow gourd of water before her.
Seizing it, the púsári raised it to his lips, and in spite of the awful
din that instantly arose, drained it to the bottom. As he put it down
empty, he fell to the ground insensible.
It was daylight when he recovered and staggered to his feet. He
remembered instantly what had happened during the night, and was filled
with intense anxiety to ascertain whether his experiment had broken the
spell that had bound him. He gazed at his arms and legs, and it seemed
to him that they were real flesh and blood. He pinched them, and was
sure he had felt the sensation. A thrill of joy passed through him,
for he felt certain that he had recovered his human form. Taking his
bearings by the sun, he made his way rapidly through the jungle to the
river. As he descended the bank, he came upon a herd of deer, and it
was with rapture that he saw them gaze in alarm at him and then dash
hastily away. As he walked along the bed of the river, he noticed with
intense satisfaction that he now had a shadow! There was no longer any
doubt, and in the gladness of his heart the púsári began to sing at the
top of his voice. As he turned into the path leading to Pandiyán, he
caught sight of a man coming towards him; a moment later, he saw it was
Valan Elúvan. On seeing the púsári, the young man stopped and looked at
him with astonishment. After a moment’s hesitation, he came forward.
‘Why, iya, where have you been?’ he exclaimed.
‘I cannot tell you now, Valan,’ replied the púsári. ‘I am anxious to
get to Pandiyán. Come with me, and I will tell you all.’
‘Then you are not afraid to go to the village, iya?’ said Valan
hesitatingly.
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Have you not heard, then, of the murder of the múdliya and what is
said about it?’
‘Yes, yes! I know all about it, and who the murderer is.’—Valan glanced
quickly and searchingly at the púsári.—‘Ay, and I know more than that,’
continued the púsári, returning his glance with a smile. ‘I know how
you have been making love to my daughter in my absence, and heard every
word you said to her!’
Valan looked puzzled and confounded, but said nothing; and the two
walked on together in silence, each buried in his own thoughts. Valan
was wondering whether the púsári could possibly have been hidden in the
jungle near his house all the time, and thus overheard his interviews
with Vallee. He was also trying to account for his friendly manner
towards him, so different from his former behaviour. He could not help
feeling that the púsári was only feigning friendliness, and that he had
some deep design in view, especially when he thought over his remark,
that he knew who was the murderer of the headman; and who that was
he felt only too sure—his own brother, and the other’s deadly enemy.
Meanwhile, the púsári, filled with joyful thoughts and anticipations,
strode along at such a rate that Valan could scarcely keep up with him.
At length they reached Pandiyán. A number of the villagers were
standing about, and they no sooner saw who it was that accompanied
Valan than the cry was raised; ‘The púsári has come back!’ and men,
women, and children came running out of the houses, filled with
astonishment and excitement. Vallee, however, was not to be seen,
though both the men looked round for her. Without taking notice of
anybody, the púsári walked through the village, past his own louse,
to Iyan Elúvan’s hut. Valan followed, grave and silent. The púsári’s
face was hard and stern as he entered the house. A glance round showed
him there was no one there; it was, however, in great disorder, and
something lying on the floor caught his eye. It was a torn fragment of
cloth, and near it lay a small knife, its point stained with blood.
The púsári picked them up and examined them; then, without a word, and
followed by Valan and an intensely curious and excited but silent crowd
of villagers, he left the hut, and entering the jungle at its back,
made his way to the hollow tree where Iyan had hidden the valuables he
had robbed the múdliya of. As the party neared the spot, a loud cry
rose from the villagers, for lying at the foot of the tree was a dark
object; it was the body of Iyan Elúvan!
Uttering an exclamation of horror, Valan knelt beside his brother and
laid his hand upon his heart. The body was still warm, but Iyan was
quite dead. His right hand was bound up with a strip of cloth. On
this being unwound by Valan, a couple of small punctured wounds were
discernible in the fleshy part near the thumb. Cries of, ‘It is a
snake-bite!’ ‘He has been bitten by a snake!’ rose from the villagers
crowding round, for they all recognised the marks. Meanwhile, the
púsári, with the assistance of a stick, had drawn the bundle out of
the hollow in the tree. With it came the freshly shed skin of a cobra,
and it was at once seen how Iyan had come by his death. A cobra had
taken up its abode in the hollow where Iyan had placed his ill-gotten
treasure, and on his attempting to withdraw it, had bitten him in the
hand. Iyan had then gone back to his house, and lanced and washed the
wound and bound up his hand; but feeling the approach of death, had
crawled back to the tree, but for what purpose was never known, and had
there expired.
Opening the bundle, the púsári displayed to the astonished gaze of
the villagers the money and jewels it contained. Every one of them
knew at once that it was the stolen property of the murdered headman;
but how it came to be hidden in the tree and what Iyan had to do with
it, they were at a loss to guess. And now the púsári spoke, and in a
few words told them all that had happened to him since they had last
seen him. They listened eagerly and attentively, and believed every
word. They frequently interrupted his story of what he had seen in the
pisási village, with exclamations of horror and amazement, and when he
finished, they one and all loudly expressed their satisfaction at his
return, and belief in his innocence.
The whole party then returned to the village, carrying the body
of Iyan, and taking with them the recovered treasure. The púsári
went at once in search of his daughter, and soon found her in the
thrashing-ground in the fields winnowing rice. The meeting was a very
happy one. Vallee’s delight and joy knew no bounds. Could it have
been possible to increase her happiness at her father’s return, the
assurance he now gave her of regard for Valan Elúvan and his approval
of him as her future husband, would have done so. The púsári’s next
step was to go home accompanied by Vallee, and in a few cold, bitter
words, to upbraid his relatives for their conduct and order them to
leave his house at once. Ashamed and abashed, they went away without
any attempt at explanation or apology. That afternoon, the young
headman who had before inquired into the murder arrived at Pandiyán
and at once instituted inquiries. The result was that the púsári’s
innocence was established and the dead man’s guilt proved. The headman
took charge of the stolen property.
‘Truly, iya,’ he said to the púsári as he departed, ‘you have much to
be thankful for. Only by the favour of Púliya have you escaped from
the wiles of the pisásis, and from the snare that Iyan Elúvan laid for
you. ’Tis well, indeed, to be a favourite of the god. May you be happy
and prosper!’
Before many days, Valan and Vallee were married, and went to live in
an adjoining village. Relieved by the death of his enemy from constant
worry and irritation, the púsári’s temper greatly improved. In course
of time he became so much respected and so popular, that he was elected
headman of the district. The secrets he learned when he wandered about
the village invisible, proved to be of great value to him, as he was
often able to turn his knowledge to account in his dealings with his
fellow-villagers. He became in time a man of substance.
The púsári’s adventure was the subject of conversation through the
whole country round for many weeks, and for a long time not a man,
woman, or child dared enter the jungle after nightfall. But though
in course of time the fear of the pisásis wore off, and on several
occasions villagers were lost in the forest and wandered about there
all night, no one ever found again the Haunted Jungle.
A STICK OF INDIAN INK.
Amongst familiar things that are of comparatively recent introduction
we must include that artistic article inaccurately known as Indian ink.
Even when the seventeenth century was more than half-spent, it was a
rarity; and in the folio volume, published in 1672, descriptive of the
Museo Moscarda, there is an engraving of a stick of Indian ink, which
was included with some ‘giants’ teeth’—in reality mammoth bones—as
amongst the chief curiosities of the collection. Notwithstanding its
usual English name of ‘Indian ink,’ it is a Chinese manufacture.
M. Maurice Jametel, a careful and accomplished French scholar, has
compiled from Chinese sources an interesting monograph on its history
and manufacture (_L’Encre de Chine, d’après des Documents Chinois_,
traduits par M. Jametel: Paris, 1882). The historians of the Celestial
kingdom, according to their usual custom in dealing with the affairs of
their own land, attribute high antiquity to the use of ink; they say
that it was invented by Tien-tchen, who flourished somewhere between
2697 and 2597 B.C. The Chinese at the time made use of a lacquer which
was spread upon silk by the help of bamboo sticks. That, at least, is
one interpretation of certain passages as to bamboo books. Next we are
told that they used a sort of black stone, to which water was applied.
About two centuries and a half before the birth of Christ, a new
departure arose in Kiang-si province, where they began to manufacture
balls of lampblack made of a mixture of lacquer, firwood, and size. The
new invention was warmly welcomed, and the processes rapidly improved.
A poet, Ouï-fou-jen, celebrating the novel aid to literature, mentions
with especial praise the ink that was made from the firs that grew on
the hillsides of Lou-chan, in the province of Kiang-si. This province
was celebrated for the fine quality of its ink; and under the Tang
dynasty, in the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries of our era, there
was an overseer who was a government official and whose functions were
hereditary. Every year, a certain number of sticks of ink were sent to
the Emperor as tribute.
During the reign of the Tang dynasty, we are told that the ink grew
blacker with age, and that the size hardening, made the sticks as hard
as stone. This points to the early development of the industry; for
these characteristics of more than a thousand years ago are precisely
those which are still regarded as the true tests of excellence. There
is even some reason to think that there were state manufactories. The
names of Li-tsao, Tchou-feung—whose place was called the Fir-burning
Workshop—and of Li-tchao have been recorded as makers of excellence;
but the son of the last-named, Li-ting-kouei, is still regarded as the
most famous of ink-makers. He was an ingenious person, and moulded his
‘sticks’ of ink into a variety of quaint forms; and his ‘swords’ and
‘cakes’ were greatly admired. His reputation, however, rests on a more
solid basis than a talent for fancy shapes. The sterling character of
the man was reflected in his work; and the excellence and good quality
of his ink attracted general admiration. It was said that if you wanted
to test the genuineness of an ink-stick that professed to be from
his workshop, you must break it in pieces, and throw the bits into a
vessel of water. If the pieces at the end of a month remained intact
and undissolved, it was a proof that the ink had come from the works of
Li-ting-kouei.
There are points of contact between the manners of the East and West,
for an honorific syllable or title was granted by the Emperor to the
successful ink-maker, who thus became Lhi-ting-kouei. Another famous
ink-maker was Tchang-yu, who was furnisher to the household of the
Emperors under the dynasty of the Song, who flourished from 998 to
1023. The manufacture, however, declined in its artistic quality; but
sometimes a maker arose who gave it a fresh impetus and importance.
Two of these are named Pan-kou and Tchai-sin, the latter of whom is
said to have rediscovered some of the antique processes by which
Li-ting-kouei had gained his renown. A great variety of processes have
been employed, and nearly every kind of combustible has been used for
the production of the lampblack. The Emperor Hsiuan-tsong made use of
perfumed rice-powder steeped in a decoction of _Hibiscus mutabilis_.
At one locality where petroleum is used for lighting purposes, the
lampblack resulting from its combustion is said to make an ink which
for brilliance and blackness is superior to that made from firwood. The
latter was, however, formerly the great source of Indian ink. After
the lampblack or soot obtained by the burning of the wood, the most
important thing is the size by which the particles are held together.
This is frequently of animal origin. The horns of the stag and of
the rhinoceros are said to be laid under contribution; as also the ox
and various kinds of fishes. There is some reason to think that this
industry came to the Middle Kingdom from Corea. At the present time,
it is said that, instead of firwood, the oleaginous matters of the
_Dryandra cordata_ and grains of hemp are almost universally used. In
some places, the _Gleditschia sinensis_ is preferred, and even the
cane-flower and the haricot do not escape. It is curious that the
Chinese author Chen-ki-souen does not mention the _Sesamum orientale_,
which is generally regarded as the chief source from which the soot
of Indian ink is now obtained. The processes of the manufacture have
been elaborately described, and Chinese artists have exerted their
ingenuity to portray all the details of an industry so important both
to literature and art. In Europe, Indian ink is used for drawings only;
but in China, it is the instrument by which the poet writes his verses
and by which the judge records his sentences, as well as that by which
the artist embodies his fugitive fancies.
Chinese imagination has run riot in doing honour to ink. As there are
divinities to preside over almost every object, the instruments of
literature do not lack their supernatural guardians, and their place
and precedence are settled by strict rules of etiquette. The ‘Prefect
of the Black Perfume’ is the official style of the ink-deity, and
he ranks higher than the ‘Guardian Spirit of the Pencil;’ whilst on
a still lower level stands the ‘Genius of Paper.’ One day when the
Emperor Hiuan-tsong, of the Tang dynasty, was at work in his study,
suddenly there popped out from a stick of ink that lay upon his table
a quaint figure no larger than a fly, but having all the appearance of
a Taoist priest. The startled monarch was soon reassured by the words
of the apparition. ‘Behold,’ it said, ‘the Genius of the Ink. My title
is the Envoy of the Black Fir, and I have to announce to you that
henceforth, when a man of true learning or genius writes, the Twelve
Deities of Ink shall make their appearance to testify to the reality
of his powers.’ Alas for literature! From that day to this, the Twelve
Deities of Ink have remained invisible, although many centuries have
passed away.
THE GREAT JEWEL ROBBERY.
The little world of fashionable London society was startled a few years
ago by reports of a series of daring jewel robberies. The most costly
gems seemed to disappear as if by magic under the very eyes of their
owners. These robberies defied detection. A clue in one case was upset
by the facts in another. When my aid as private detective was called
in, I resolved to confine my attention to three distinct cases, though,
of course, if useful information came in my way concerning other
matters, I should know how to take advantage of it.
The first of the three on my list was the case of the Dowager Lady A.,
a somewhat eccentric old lady, who found her chief delight in arraying
herself in her most valuable jewels and visiting in regular rotation
all the West-end theatres. One night, when returning from one of these
expeditions, her carriage had been overturned by colliding with an
omnibus. The dowager was seriously injured, and within a few days she
was dead. Then, apparently for the first time, it was discovered that
the whole of the jewels worn by Lady A. on the night of the carriage
accident had mysteriously disappeared. Her maid was so overcome by the
sight of her injured mistress, that she failed altogether to remember
what was done with these jewels at the moment when her ladyship was
undressed. It was even a question whether they might not have been
actually lost in the street during the confusion of the accident. At
all events, no trace of them could be found, and it soon became evident
that in the excitement of summoning relatives, fetching doctors, and,
very soon, nurses and undertakers, half-a-dozen persons might have
entered the house and walked off with the jewels without any chance of
detection.
Then I turned my attention to the second case—that of the young
Countess of B. There seemed less room for doubt in this instance. The
fashionable wedding of the autumn had been that of the Earl of B.
with Miss Blank. There had been a churchful of people at St George’s,
Hanover Square, and a host of guests at the breakfast at the _Unique
Hotel_. On the morning of the wedding, the earl had presented his bride
with a magnificent tiara of diamonds. As the ‘happy pair’ were to
start almost immediately for the continent, these diamonds, inclosed
in a case, were hastily packed in a travelling bag, which the bride’s
travelling maid was never to let out of her sight. On arriving at
Paris, the bag was apparently intact; but on opening the jewel-case,
the tiara was amissing. Clearly, it must have been cleverly extracted
from the case while lying in the bride’s dressing-room, the empty case
then being placed in the bag. Who had stolen the countess’s diamonds?
The maid, the bride’s mother, and a younger brother had alone, as far
as it was known, entered the room where the jewels were lying. I don’t
mind saying I had some difficulty in believing that a _bonâ fide_
robbery had been committed. You may not believe it, but I am convinced
that many a startling robbery of jewels would be explained, if we knew
of all the private debts incurred by ladies of fashion, and of the
sacrifices sometimes made by them to screen from disgrace themselves or
some deeply involved connection.