Table of Contents
Page
Short Stories. 419
Whale v. Sharks. 419
A Battle in Mid-air. 422
Up in a Balloon. 425
Some “Freak” Memorials. 428
DOWN THE CHUTE: A Miner’s Extraordinary Experience. 436
Where Women Wear Trousers. 443
Retribution. 451
Mountain Tragedies of the Lake District. 457
Cupid and the Dentist. 464
My Experiences in Algeria. 469
I.—MY ADVENTURES IN ‘FRISCO. 476
II.—A Sharp Lesson. 480
III.—“Seeing It Out.” 485
In the Land of the Reindeer. 489
“Tapu.” 497
The Finches’ Festival. 503
The Fight at The A-T Ranch. 509
THE WIDE WORLD: In Other Magazines 515
Odds and Ends. 516
[Illustration: “WILLIAMS LASHED AT THE BIRD WITH HIS STICK.”
(SEE PAGE 424.)]
THE WIDE WORLD MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXII. FEBRUARY, 1909. No. 131
[Illustration: SHORT STORIES.]
Another instalment of a fascinating budget of adventure
narratives. This month we publish accounts of a fight to the
death between a whale and a school of thresher sharks; a
nest-robber’s terrible battle with an infuriated mother-eagle;
and the nerve-trying experience which befell a Surrey cyclist
while out for a Saturday afternoon spin.
WHALE _v._ SHARKS.
BY VICTOR PITT-KETHLEY.
Early on the morning of August 14th last, while engaged in building new
quarters for the lighthouse-keeper at Breaksea Island, near Rottnest,
Western Australia, the contractor and his men noticed a bull whale,
with a cow and calf, passing the island some distance off. They watched
them with interest for awhile, noting the immense size of the two
parents and the methodical regularity with which columns of water rose
from their blowholes, and then resumed their labours.
An hour or so later--about nine o’clock, to be exact--the men were
startled by an extraordinary noise, apparently coming from the eastern
end of the island, a noise unlike anything they had ever heard before.
Dropping their tools and staring towards the east, they beheld such a
sight as it falls to the lot of few people to witness. There, not five
hundred yards from the shore, was being waged a battle to the death--a
fight between the great cow whale previously seen and a school of
thresher sharks. The calf was swimming about distractedly, but the old
bull had disappeared, having basely deserted his family at the first
approach of danger.
The sharks, as though acting in accordance with some preconcerted plan,
had completely surrounded the two whales, and, apparently realizing
that nothing was to be feared from the calf, concentrated all their
efforts upon the cow. Again and again they charged in upon her, their
jaws snapping, tearing at her mighty sides until the sea was red
with blood. Meanwhile the cow lashed her tail furiously, hurling up
sheets of reddened water and occasionally crashing down with terrific
force upon one of her voracious opponents. Maddened with pain and
rage, she dashed this way and that, but the sharks hung to her side
with a persistency and ferocity that made the fascinated onlookers
shudder. Now and again the wildly-lashing tail would catch one of
the assailants, driving it beneath the waves--no doubt killed or
disabled--but the remainder rushed in undismayed, tearing viciously
at the mammal’s bleeding flanks or butting her with the force of
battering-rams.
[Illustration: “BY A SUPREME EFFORT SHE HURLED HER WHOLE GREAT BULK
CLEAR OF THE WATER.”]
Presently the spellbound spectators realized two facts--firstly, that
the calf had disappeared in the _mêlée_, and secondly, that, the
tortured whale was undoubtedly becoming weaker. It was obvious that the
unequal struggle could have only one ending. Still, however, she
fought on doggedly, winning admiration and sympathy by her exhibition
of hopeless courage. Altering her tactics, by a supreme effort she
hurled her whole great bulk clear of the water for a moment, and the
fascinated onlookers beheld the sharks hanging from various parts of
her gleaming body by their serrated teeth. Then down she went again,
with a crash like thunder, and for an instant whale and sharks were
buried amidst masses of foam, heavily coloured with the poor mammal’s
life-blood. Rising again, she essayed another change of plan, making
for the rocks and desperately striving to rub off the clinging sharks
against their edges. But the threshers were equal to the occasion;
while those on the outside maintained their grip, the others dived
under their enemy and charged her anew, tearing at the whale’s side in
an ecstasy of ferocity that was bloodcurdling to witness.
[Illustration: TERRIFIC BATTLE AT BREAKSEA ISLAND.
WHALE KILLED BY THRASHER SHARKS.
A THREE HOURS’ FIGHT.
A SEA OF BLOOD.
(By An Eye Witness.)
Much has been written about fights between the larger denizens of the
sea, but it has fallen to the lot of very few to witness such a battle
as one which took place off Breaksea Island on Friday, the 14th inst.,
between a school of thrasher sharks and a cow
A CUTTING FROM THE “WEST AUSTRALIAN,” OF PERTH, W.A., REFERRING TO THE
BATTLE BETWEEN A WHALE AND THRESHER SHARKS.]
More and more feeble grew the whale’s struggles, and at last--to the
heartfelt relief of the spectators, for her death-fight had been
terrible to behold--the great body turned over and sank beneath the
red-tinted water. The unequal battle was over, having lasted from
nine o’clock until noon--as awe-inspiring a contest as man was ever
privileged to witness. It is a thousand pities that there was no camera
on the island to make a pictorial record of the struggle. The men went
back to their work greatly impressed by the unique spectacle, and
expressions of sympathy for the whale were heard on every side.
Forty-eight hours afterwards the whale’s carcass, which had in the
meantime become distended with gas, rose to the surface, and exploded
with a roar like a miniature powder-magazine, causing the startled
people to flock to the shore to discover what had happened. On
examination of the remains it was discovered that every shred of the
outer flesh of the whale had been torn off by the sharks, who had now,
doubtless, gone off to repeat their tactics upon some other hapless
leviathan.
A BATTLE IN MID-AIR.
BY T. R. PORTER.
Swinging like a pendulum at the end of a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot
rope against the side of a five-hundred-foot cliff, with jagged rocks
far below, and nothing but one bare hand with which to fight off the
fierce onslaught of an immense eagle, whose nest he was attempting
to rob--this was the awful predicament in which Arthur Williams, a
young man of Riverton, Wyoming, found himself one day early in June
last year. With the welfare of her nestlings at stake, the great bird
attacked the despoiler of her home with inconceivable fury, and only to
a lucky chance does Williams owe his life.
Riverton is a new town on that portion of the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
Indian reservation which was opened to settlement last year, and
in the country thereabouts mountain lions, timber wolves, coyotes,
eagles, bears, etc., are still to be found. The principal industry is
sheep-raising, and continual warfare exists between the flockmasters
and the wild things, especially the eagles, which annually kill and
carry off hundreds of young lambs. Because of this heavy drain on
their flocks, every shepherd and owner of sheep in Wyoming takes great
pains to kill the birds and to destroy their nests whenever they are
discovered.
Before the Indian reservation was formally opened to the whites for
settlement, the flockmasters were permitted to graze their sheep over
the country, and it gradually became known among the sheepmen that over
in Lost Well Canyon there were a pair of eagles who made a speciality
of devouring young lambs. Try as they might, however, the shepherds
were unable to get a shot at either of these great birds, and for
several years they were the terrors of the district.
It was discovered that the old birds made their nest in a cleft in the
face of a five hundred-foot perpendicular wall, which formed one side
of the canyon. Here they safely raised brood after brood of young
ones, which were turned loose in due course to prey on the community.
Hunters, with their Winchester rifles, often lay in wait for the big
birds, hoping to get a shot at them, but, with the proverbial keen
eyesight of such creatures, the eagles detected the Nimrods and never
came within gun-shot when the nest was being watched.
During the spring of 1908 the two old eagles were more successful than
ever in raiding the flocks of the sheepmen, and accordingly a special
effort was made to exterminate them. To that effort Arthur Williams
owes the appalling adventure which befell him.
Williams and two friends made a trip out to Lost Well Canyon to
investigate the chances of trapping the eagles in their nest. A ride of
eight miles, over rough mountain trails, brought them to the canyon,
half-way up the perpendicular side of which they saw the horizontal
cleft in which the wise old birds had built their nest. At the foot of
the cliff, directly under the cleft, was a pile of bones--the remains
of lambs, thrown out of the nest by the eagles after they had been
picked clean.
“We ain’t any nearer that nest down here than when we were at home,”
remarked Williams to his comrades. “Nothing but a balloon or an airship
can help us from down here. Let us go up to the top of the cliff and
see what we can do from there.”
For two hours the three young men struggled to reach the top of
the mountains. A wide _détour_ was necessary, but at last this was
accomplished and they stood on the brink of the cliff, half-way down
which the eagles’ nest had been built.
“There’s nothing to be done from here, either,” said one of the men,
despondently. “We might just as well go back home; we shall never reach
that nest.”
While the men stood and talked, from far down below them there arose
the shrill piping call of young birds.
“Young ones!” said Williams. “I wish we could get them alive; they
would be worth money to us.”
“No use to bother; you’ll have to take it out in wishing,” said the
third member of the party. “Come on; let’s go home.”
[Illustration: MR. A. E. WILLIAMS, WHO FOUGHT THE EAGLE IN MID-AIR.
_From a Photograph._]
“All right. I’ll go home now, but I’m coming back to-morrow after those
birds,” said Williams.
The next day found the three young men back at the cliff. They had
mapped out a scheme whereby they hoped to get the young birds, and had
brought with them seven hundred and fifty feet of stout rope, far more
than enough to reach from the top of the cliff down to the bottom of
the canyon. To make quite sure of this, however, they first lowered the
rope, weighted with a stone, down the face of the rock, and saw that,
while there yet remained a big coil at their feet, the weighted end of
the rope rested on the floor of the canyon.
Then the rope was hauled back and a tight loop made in one end. This
was paid out over the edge of the cliff until it hung directly in front
of the eagles’ nest. The other end of the rope was hitched round a
convenient tree.
During all this time the men kept close watch for the old eagles, but
saw nothing of them.
“Off hunting lambs, I suppose,” said one of the young fellows.
Then Williams stepped forward, laid hold of the rope, and quickly
disappeared over the side, sliding slowly downward, using one leg,
around which the line was wrapped, as a brake to keep himself from
going too fast.
Across his shoulders was slung a stout bag, in which he intended
placing the little eagles when he secured them. In one hand he carried
a stout stick for use in an emergency: the other hand grasped the rope.
Down, down he went until just in front of the eyrie. Then he slipped
one leg through the loop at the end of the cord and turned to look into
the dark hole, where he could hear the eaglets “talking.”
Slowly he swung round, bracing his foot against the rocky wall, until
he faced the cleft and could give his attention to the nest.
Suddenly, screaming wildly with rage and fright, out from the dark
cleft came the old mother-bird. Like a stone from a catapult she flung
herself at Williams’s face.
Dismayed by the suddenness of the attack, Williams recoiled; his foot
slipped from the wall, and his body spun round and out of reach as the
huge bird went past him. He did not escape altogether scathless, for
one claw, like a knife blade, cut across his cheek, and in an instant
the blood was flowing from a cut half an inch deep.
Only a few yards did the old eagle fly; then she wheeled and, with the
speed of an arrow, shot once more at the man hanging at the end of the
rope before her nest.
This time Williams braced himself and, with his stout stick ready in
his right hand, awaited the onslaught of the big bird. His left hand
grasped the rope.
The eagle struck Williams on the head with her wing, and at the same
moment Williams lashed at the bird with his stick. Such was the fury
and strength of the creature, however, that the stick flew from
Williams’s hand and went whirling through space to the bottom of the
canyon, far below.
Again the eagle turned sharply and swooped down on the man, now
left defenceless, with only a single bare hand to fight against the
infuriated mother-bird’s sharp claws, powerful beak, and mighty wings.
Pecking, clawing, and striking stunning blows with her terrible wings,
the big bird beat the air in front of Williams’s face, holding her
position and tearing savagely at the head and face of the would be
despoiler of her home. Her screams were incessant.
Meanwhile, on top of the cliff, there was utter consternation. The
attention of one man was necessarily taken up with the rope, and a slip
on his part meant instant death to Williams in the way of a fall to the
rocks at the foot of the precipice. With a rifle in his hand the other
man watched that nightmare fight in mid air, far below him. He could
not shoot without endangering Williams even more than the eagle.
Just then things were going very badly with the nest-robber. Blood was
flowing from a dozen cuts on his head and face, his hand was lacerated,
the clothing about his shoulders was cut into ribbons. Moreover, he was
half stunned, and but for the loop in the end of the rope would have
fallen to his death. He had no time to give directions to his comrades,
and simply had to fight the battle out alone.
[Illustration: MR. WILLIAMS AFTER HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE EAGLE.
_From a Photograph._]
Presently the old bird darted away, preparing for another swoop at the
defenceless man. When she was ten feet distant a rifle-shot rang out
from the top of the cliff, and Williams knew his friends were doing
what they could. But the old bird did not falter for a second, although
a couple of feathers from her terrible right wing floated away on the
wind. In his haste to send a second bullet downward the man with the
rifle managed to “jam” the weapon, and with a despairing cry threw the
now useless weapon to the ground.
The eagle returned to the attack with even greater fury, and for a few
minutes Williams thought his last moments had arrived. But still he
fought on, pulling great handfuls of feathers from the bird and beating
at her desperately with his bare fist, receiving in return many cuts
and slashes, as well as stunning blows from the madly-flapping wings.
He was almost ready to loose his hold on the rope and go crashing down
to the bottom of the canyon when the eagle suddenly wheeled away for
another attack.
As she came back again, screaming and beating the air, something the
size of Williams’s head struck her on the back, and down she went like
a stone, whirling over and over. Williams’s friend above had hurled
a small rock at the bird, and, luckily for Williams, the boulder had
struck her fairly on the back, between the immense wings.
“Hold on tight and we’ll let you down to the bottom,” sang out the
man at the top of the cliff, leaning far over. Then Williams showed
the sterling stuff of which he was made. Though bleeding from a dozen
wounds, breathless and exhausted, he was still determined to fulfil his
errand.
“Hold me here until I get these little birds,” he shouted, feebly. “I
came after them, and I’m going to have them.”
With that the plucky fellow crawled back into the niche, put the two
little eaglets in his bag, thrust his leg through the loop, grasped the
rope with both hands, and was safely lowered to the floor of the canyon.
Within a few feet of where he landed lay the old mother-eagle. Williams
staggered over to her and gave her a kick. To his amazement she moved,
stood up on her feet, and flew away!
One of Williams’s companions came sliding down the rope, and reached
him just as the injured man fainted from loss of blood and excitement.
The punishment he had received was terrible, but fortunately his eyes
had escaped injury.
After casting off the rope the third man made his way down the mountain
to where Williams and his friend were. They managed to stop the flow of
blood, and between them got the wounded man on his horse and brought
him to Riverton. Williams spent several days in bed and was covered
with bandages for two weeks, but received no lasting injuries.
As souvenirs of his terrible fight, he has two little eagles and a
dozen or more big scars to show his friends.
UP IN A BALLOON.
BY A. SODEN.
It was a delightful September afternoon some six years back--the close
of a week during which there had been much discussion in the newspapers
concerning a great balloon race versus cyclists, to be fought out on
this identical Saturday. The late Rev. G. M. Bacon, of Newbury, the
“ballooning parson,” and Mr. Percival Spencer, the well-known aeronaut,
were to compete against Volunteer cyclists in an endeavour to settle
the much-debated question as to whether, in time of war, a hostile
balloon could escape from the speedy military wheelman. I am not a
Volunteer, and certainly was at that time far from being a balloonist;
I am less so now.
[Illustration: MR. A. SODEN, WHO HERE DESCRIBES HIS EXPERIENCES IN A
RUNAWAY BALLOON.
_From a Photo. by Sternberg & Co., Kingston-on-Thames._]
At four-forty-five in the afternoon of this particular Saturday, while
I was still debating what to do with myself, what should I see to
the north-east but the war balloon, released from its anchorage at
Stamford Bridge grounds, being carried by a gentle September breeze in
the direction of Epsom. At all times the sight of a balloon excites
peculiar interest, and I had soon made up my mind--I would try my hand
at catching the aeronauts, and try to beat the military cyclists! I
rushed for my machine, and was presently in full chase, pedalling fast
through the lovely lanes of Malden. On and on I went, riding hard,
alternately glancing at the road to see that all was clear and then at
the balloon, calculating how high it was, how far away, and where it
was likely to descend.
[Illustration: THE BOY WHO WAS WITH MR. SODEN IN THE BALLOON.
_From a Photograph._]
Mile after mile I chased the drifting balloon, until at last, much
to my joy, I saw that it was undoubtedly nearing the earth, and it
eventually descended in a harvested field at Bookham. On approaching
the balloon I soon discovered I was not alone, for cyclists
representing various Volunteer regiments and civilian riders were
there by the score; and a number of farm labourers who had been busy
harvesting in the neighbouring fields also appeared on the scene, eager
to inspect closely so formidable a beast as a war balloon.
The formal “capturing” of the balloonists by the soldiers was soon
over, and then, at the urgent request of the onlookers, and to the
intense delight of the local element, Mr. Spencer was good enough to
grant permission for those who wished to go for short trips in the
balloon, now held captive by the anchor-rope. There were many willing
hands to relieve the balloon of ballast, grappling-irons, and sundries,
and in a remarkably short time the great gas-bag was free of its
accoutrements. A trail-rope was attached for those on the ground to
hang on, to prevent the balloon from sailing away, and Mr. Spencer,
with his usual foresight, arranged for parties of six to go up at a
time. The passengers were given strict instructions that when the
balloon touched ground each was to get out singly, so that there should
be no sudden alteration of weight that would cause the balloon to shoot
up again.
All went merrily, and several car-loads went up, we on the ground
hanging tight to the rope and hauling the great bag down on the word
of command from Mr. Spencer. At length came the call, “The last time!”
and in I jumped. There were five of us in the car, four men and a
boy--a Volunteer, a farm labourer, and two others. Surely, I thought,
as the great sphere began to rise, I am well repaid for my long ride by
this novel experience. It was grand to be sailing up in the air with
the ground gradually sinking away beneath us and our late companions
becoming mere specks dotted about on the ground. At last we arrived
at the end of our upward journey, and the men below began hauling at
the trail-rope. Down we went, and presently touched ground. Then,
contrary to all instructions, out jumped the Volunteer and a civilian
named Tickner. As they leapt they collided with the men who held the
controlling ropes, knocking them over and causing much confusion.
[Illustration: “HIGHER AND HIGHER WE WENT, WITH THE HAPLESS MAN
DANGLING.”]
The balloon, relieved of the heavy load, at once shot up again. There
were wild cries of “Seize the rope!” “Hang on to her!” “Hold her
down!” But all the shouts were of no avail; the balloon continued to
rush upwards, while we peered helplessly over the edge of the car.
Several men, realizing the dangerous position we were in, soaring up
aloft at great speed, rushed into the middle of the crowd of excited
onlookers and seized the trailing rope, but all to no purpose; it
was now impossible to check the balloon’s rapid ascent. “Let go!”
roared somebody, and by the sudden bound our car gave we knew the
men had obeyed. All, that is, save one. He, Tickner, a hard-working,
much-respected farm labourer, clung to the rope like a monkey, only
to be drawn up into the air as the balloon rose. Higher and higher we
went, with the hapless man dangling two hundred feet below us and the
crowd watching with horror in their eyes. Presently, when he was about
eighty feet from the earth, the poor fellow’s strength gave out and he
was compelled to let go, falling with an awful thud to the ground.
Then, for the first time since the accident, I found my tongue. “Good
heavens! this is awful!” I cried. “Where shall we drop?” I could say
no more, for my knees shook under me and my very blood seemed frozen
with horror. Still, steadily and inexorably, the balloon continued to
rise. I dared not look over the side, but I knew we must have reached a
considerable altitude. What would happen to us, and should we ever see
our homes again?
All this time the boy beside me, shivering with fright, yet not
realising his desperate position, kept dinning into my ears in a
whining monotone, “They’ve let us go! They’ve let us go!”
There was nothing to be seen around us now but mountains of
clouds--clouds white, black, and grey. I saw them, and yet, somehow or
other, I could not bring myself to realize what they meant. I could not
think, but simply stood there, bewildered and dazed, leaning against
the side of the car. On my right hand the boy still continued his
maddening wail; on the left my second companion, a man, kept asking
what his father and mother would think. Our peril seemed to have
temporarily turned his brain.
[Illustration: 2 SEPTEMBER 1902.
BALLON DISASTER.
A LEATHERHEAD LABORER KILLED.
THRILLING ADVENTURES OF AMATEUR AERONAUTS.
The ballon versus cyclists, which was arranged by the Rev. G. M. Bacon,
of Newbury, the ballooning enthusiast, with the sanction of the War
Office, and which took place from Stamford-bridge athletic grounds on
Saturday, was, it was transpire, attended with an accident of a very
serious character, resulting in the death of one man, injuries to
several others, and an experience which three of those involved are
never likely to forget as long as they live. The
A CUTTING FROM THE “MORNING LEADER” REFERRING TO THE BALLOON DISASTER.]
I glanced at the altitude-registering instrument; we were up two
thousand feet! Then, suddenly, without the slightest warning, my
brain cleared, and I remembered the valve, the opening of which would
cause the great gas-bag to descend. But where was it? Which was the
valve-rope? The car seemed all ropes as I turned anxiously this way and
that. I tried one after another, and at last, to my joy, I felt one
give. Then I smelt the escaping gas, and knew that I had struck the
right cord. Very soon I realized that our upward way was checked, and
that instead we were descending. I do not know how long we took over
the downward trip. I only remember that I pulled the rope, then slacked
it, and so on alternately until we could faintly hear the shouts of
those below. Presently the boy plucked up courage to look over the
side of the car, and, wild with joy, called out that we were saved.
Fortunately for us, there was practically no wind; we went up straight
and came down straight, landing safely in a field only some two hundred
yards from the spot where we ascended. I collapsed as they helped
me out of the car, and the other man, directly he alighted, rushed
headlong away--the ordeal had turned his brain.
Giving evidence before the coroner the following Monday at the inquest
on poor Tickner, I still felt decidedly shaky, and to my dying day I
shall never forget my trip in the runaway balloon.
[Illustration: THE FIELD IN WHICH THE BALLOON DESCENDED.
_From a Photograph._]
Some “Freak” Memorials.
BY T. W. WILKINSON.
When a man, especially a wealthy man, sets out to erect a
memorial to something or somebody, there is no knowing what
eccentricity he will not commit. Scattered up and down this
country, as the writer shows, are a number of most remarkable
memorials--“freaks” of the first water, from whatever
standpoint one judges them.
Who shall impose limits on the intent and form of memorials? He
would be a brave man indeed who attempted the task; yet, though it
is very difficult to say precisely where the line should be drawn,
there are a number of such things in existence which, judged by the
commonly-accepted standards, are distinctly “freakish.” They range from
public statues plain to all men to small stones in arcadian aloofness,
and, as a whole, go far to justify the oft-repeated taunt of the
“intelligent foreigner”--a taunt amounting to an implication--that
memorials afford an outlet for much of the Englishman’s eccentricity
and sheer “pig-headedness.”
There are some very curious monuments to animals scattered over the
countryside. The one with the most remarkable story crowns Farley
Mount, near Winchester. Underneath it lies buried, as an inscription
on the exterior records, “a horse, the property of Paulet St. John,
Esq., that in the month of September, 1733, leaped into a chalk-pit
twenty-five feet deep a-fox-hunting, with his master on his back,
and in October, 1734, won the Hunters’ Plate on Worthing Downs, and
was rode by his owner, and entered in the name of Beware Chalk Pit.”
This inscription, which is a copy of the original, was restored by
the Right Hon. Sir William Heathcote, Bart., in 1870. A duplicate is
in the interior, which is provided with three seats intended for the
accommodation of wayfarers.
[Illustration:
A MONUMENT TO A HORSE THAT LEAPED INTO A CHALK-PIT AND AFTERWARDS WON A
RACE.
_From a Photograph._]
Of the memorials to dogs the most imposing of modern date is “Tell’s
Tower,” a structure on the seashore near West Kirby, Cheshire. It is
in honour of the Great St. Bernard dog, Tell, “ancestor of most of the
rough-coated champions of England, and himself winner of every prize in
the kingdom. He was majestic in appearance, noble in character, and of
undaunted courage.” Built by the late Mr. J. Cumming Macdona, the tower
is a sort of summer-house, in the base of which is a vault containing
Tell’s remains, guarded by an effigy of that remarkable animal.
To a whole series of such freaks of commemoration there hangs a
singular tale. In Oatlands Park, Weybridge, there are two or three
scores of memorials to dogs. These animals, some of which have handsome
epitaphs inscribed to their many virtues, are popularly supposed to
have been pets of Frederica Duchess of York; but, as a fact, Her Royal
Highness had not sufficient warm affection to bestow a goodly portion
on so many dumb creatures. What human being, indeed, ever had? She was
presented with many dogs, which she could neither refuse without giving
pain, nor keep unless the whole house was turned into kennels. So they
were given a dose of opium, buried, and then commemorated in verse.
But, while the Duchess was not so foolish as is generally believed
by those who visit Oatlands, she was certainly responsible for the
monuments.
[Illustration: “TELL’S TOWER,” ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF A ST. BERNARD
DOG--IN THE FOUNDATIONS IS A VAULT CONTAINING THE ANIMAL’S REMAINS.
_From a Photograph._]
Strange, then, that her own memorial is the prime curiosity of
Weybridge! Its history is this: After her death the inhabitants of
the town were desirous of commemorating her thirty years’ residence
among them, and it suddenly struck them that a way was ready to hand.
Till about fifty years earlier there had stood in Seven Dials a pillar
supporting a sundial which presented a face to each of the streets.
It was from this adornment, indeed, that the classic district got its
name. Believing that treasure was buried beneath the pillar, some
night-birds threw it down and excavated beneath it, to find nothing.
Rumour, they discovered, was a lying jade. The stones, instead of
being set up again on their old site, were conveyed to Sayes Court,
Addlestone, with a view to their re-erection there, but this was not
done, the column remaining dismembered till the occupier of Oatlands
died. Now this bit of London out of town the inhabitants resolved
should be converted into a memorial of the Duchess. So the stones
were purchased and set up on the green, with the substitution of a
ducal crown for the block on which were the dials. This was used for
some time afterwards as a mounting stone at an inn hard by. It then
constituted a puzzle, because, though in Seven Dials--according to the
testimony of everybody who described it--there were seven faces, the
number on close examination proved to be only six.
[Illustration: THE “SEVEN DIALS” PILLAR, AT WEYBRIDGE, SURREY.
_From a Photograph._]
Another class of “freak” memorials have a twofold peculiarity: they
are singular in themselves and are also remarkable by reason of the
tardiness with which they were erected. Maud Heath’s Column, on
Bremhillwick Hill, near Chippenham, is as good an instance as any.
The title of the good lady to grateful remembrance is that she left a
bequest by which a causeway was constructed in 1474 from Chippenham
to the shoulder of Bremhillwick Hill. Her claim was from the outset
acknowledged, inscriptions along the route of the causeway expressing
gratitude to her for having made it. But this was not enough for a
former vicar of Bremhillwick. After pedestrians had for more than three
centuries been called upon to bless the public-spirited lady, and had
been told, moreover, precisely where her causeway began and where
it ended, the vicar came to the conclusion that she ought to have a
statue, and moved himself to that end. A preliminary difficulty was
that no portrait of Maud Heath was known to exist; but ultimately, with
the co-operation of the Marquess of Lansdowne, the clergyman triumphed,
and the column on Bremhillwick Hill--which was set up in 1836--is the
result. The sculptor of the statue on the top of it had to fall back
on his imagination, and he represented a woman in fifteenth century
costume, with a staff in her hand and a basket by her side.
[Illustration: A BELATED MONUMENT--IT WAS ERECTED IN 1836 TO THE MEMORY
OF A LADY WHO LIVED IN 1474, AND THE ARCHITECT HAD TO FALL BACK UPON
HIS IMAGINATION FOR THE PORTRAIT!
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: A HIGHWAYMAN’S GRAVE AT BOXMOOR COMMON.
_From a Photograph._]
A belated memorial of a different class is at the head of a
highwayman’s grave on Boxmoor Common. The knight of the road buried
here, Snooks by name, was long a terror to travellers on the London
road, which runs by his resting-place. At last, emboldened by many
successes, he had the audacity to rob the Royal mail, whereupon he
was hunted down, and eventually hanged near the scene of many of
his crimes. He was, it is said, the last highwayman to suffer the
extreme penalty in the district. Buried in unconsecrated ground, he
was intended to be forgotten; but till about four years ago his grave
was re-turfed periodically, and then a small stone, simply inscribed,
“Robert Snooks, 1803,” was placed at its head. That tribute is one
proof out of many that there is still a certain admiration for the race
of which Dick Turpin is the popular hero.
[Illustration: THE “ROUND HOUSE,” NEAR FINEDON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, WHICH
IS SUPPOSED TO OVERLOOK A TRACT OF COUNTRY EXACTLY RESEMBLING THE FIELD
OF WATERLOO.
_From a Photograph._]
Among our battle memorials are several of the “freak” order. The Round
House, near Finedon, Northamptonshire, must certainly be so classified.
Formerly an inn, it is now a dwelling, from the roof of which, it is
said, there can be obtained a “panorama of Waterloo.” It was built on
this spot, as a memorial of Wellington’s great victory, because the
surrounding country is believed to be very much like the theatre of
the momentous battle. There is a parallel duplicate in Kent. Crown
Point, between Sevenoaks and Maidstone, takes its name from a place in
Canada where Sir Jeffrey Amherst gained a great victory over the North
American Indians. It is said to bear a remarkably close resemblance to
its namesake.
Waterloo is also commemorated by an Alnwick memorial. Locally dubbed
a “folly,” it stands on Camphill, where it is surrounded by tall fir
trees, which prevent it from being seen except at close quarters. Its
creator was the late Mr. H. S. Selby, whose object was to place on
record the policy of Pitt, the victories of Wellington and Nelson, and
the restoration of peace in 1814. He appears to have been doubtful
afterwards whether the column would be sufficient to prevent all these
events from being forgotten by posterity, because in celebration of the
Battle of Waterloo he set up a beautiful statue of Peace in front of
his mansion.
[Illustration: A HILL-TOP FREAK--THE COLUMN COMMEMORATES QUITE A LOT OF
THINGS, BUT IS SO SURROUNDED BY TREES AS TO BE INVISIBLE SAVE AT CLOSE
QUARTERS.
_From a Photograph._]
Still more singular a memorial of our fighting prowess is the Red
Lion of Martlesham. The Red Lion, originally a ship’s figure-head,
is now the sign of an inn at Martlesham, on the high road between
Ipswich and Woodbridge, and is painted a most brilliant and aggressive
red. Indeed, “As red as the Red Lion of Martlesham” is a proverbial
expression throughout East Suffolk. The grotesque object is a relic of
a British victory over the Dutch in Sole Bay. It was brought inland as
a trophy of our success, and was ultimately converted to its present
use--that of an inn sign.
[Illustration: THE RED LION, OF MARTLESHAM, WHICH HAS GIVEN RISE TO A
SUFFOLK PROVERB.
_From a Photograph._]
One of the best-known memorials of battles fought on English soil--the
obelisk at Naseby--is a “freak,” and a strange one, too. Its
distinction lies in the fact that it has misled thousands, including
Carlyle and Dr. Arnold. “To commemorate,” so runs the inscription,
“that great and decisive battle fought in this field on the XIV day
of June, MDCXLV, between the Royalist Army, commanded by King Charles
the First, and the Parliament Forces, headed by the Generals Fairfax
and Cromwell ... this pillar was erected by John and Mary Frances
Fitzgerald, Lord and Lady of the Manor of Naseby.” But nothing is
more certain than that the battle was not fought in “this field.” It
actually took place on Broadmoor, about a mile away. Appropriately,
therefore, did Liston call the obelisk the “obstacle.” Edward
Fitzgerald was conscious of this strange blunder, to which he refers in
one of his letters (the monument, he says, “planted by my papa on the
wrong site”), and which he proposed to remedy by removing the obelisk
to the real battlefield. The scheme, however, was not carried out,
presumably on the score of expense.
[Illustration: A MONUMENT IN THE WRONG PLACE--THE NASEBY MEMORIAL,
WHICH DOES NOT STAND UPON THE BATTLEFIELD AT ALL.
_From a Photograph._]
Besides the Round House, Finedon possesses a representative of a large
class of “freak” memorials--those which bear no inscription, and the
object of which is consequently doubtful. These differ from the many
strange things which serve as memorials without being plainly stamped
as such. In Lancaster, for instance, a large horse-shoe is embedded in
the middle of the roadway, and there is nothing to inform the stranger
of its intent. It is actually there owing to a tradition that a horse
ridden by John o’ Gaunt, the town’s patron saint, cast a shoe near
the spot. The silent reminder of the incident--which, of course, has
been renewed many times--was some years ago polished every morning. An
eccentric man turned up with the utmost regularity, went down on his
knees, and made it as bright as the proverbial new pin. Unfortunately
his zeal was not admired by the authorities, who ultimately prosecuted
him for obstructing the traffic.
A unique milestone, again, serves as a memorial. It stands in the
hamlet of Newbold, Gloucestershire, and is surmounted by a cross. On
the south side are the directions:--
6 miles
To Shakespeare’s town, whose name
Is known throughout the earth;
To Shipston 4, whose lesser fame
Boasts no such poet’s birth.
And on the north face appears a “sermon in stone”:--
Crux mea lux.
After darkness, light.
From light hope flows,
And peace in death,
In Christ a sure repose.
Spes, 1871.
Nothing on the milestone denotes that it is intended to be a memorial,
but a local gentleman, it is understood, erected it as such after the
death of a member of his family.
There are, however, many memorials of conventional form which are much
more puzzling than such “freaks.” Above the white horse at Cherhill,
Wilts, is one on which not a single letter or figure appears. Several
stories are told locally of its origin and purpose. Of the same cryptic
character is the Finedon memorial--a pillar standing in a garden at
the cross-roads. It is generally supposed to commemorate a mail-coach
robbery which took place near the spot in or about the year 1810; but,
as it was in existence before this event took place, the popular belief
must be erroneous. The most probable theory is that it was set up
during the rejoicings at the recovery of George III. from his illness.
There was an ebullition of patriotism at that time, and before the
fever subsided several memorials sprang up in different parts of the
country.
[Illustration: WHAT IS IT? AN OBELISK WITHOUT AN INSCRIPTION.
_From a Photograph._]
Burial-grounds contain numerous “freak” memorials, notwithstanding that
clergymen, as a rule, discountenance that form of eccentricity which
strives after novelty in post-mortem advertisement. The most curious
churchyard memorial in England, perhaps, is at Pinner. It resembles
a church tower, and half-way up it a coffin projects on each side.
Beneath, and supporting the structure, are arches filled in with
ironwork, bearing the words, “Byde-my-Tyme.” The “my” appears to stand
for one William London, who was interred (or interned) here in 1809.
[Illustration: “’TWIXT EARTH AND SKY”--AN EXTRAORDINARY GRAVE IN PINNER
CHURCHYARD.
_From a Photograph._]
Legends cluster round this strange object. The stone coffin, according
to the most circumstantial, contains the remains of a Scotch merchant,
whose descendants retain his property as long as he “remains above
ground.” Nothing definite, however, is known about the tomb. If its
constructor wished to furnish posterity with an insoluble puzzle, he
has succeeded to perfection.
[Illustration: ANOTHER REMARKABLE MEMORIAL--A LIGHT BURNS IN THE TOWER
NIGHT AND DAY.
_From a Photograph._]
Of the “freak” memorials in public cemeteries, a lighthouse is easily
first. This is at Ulverston, and is not merely a stonemason’s model,
for it actually contains a plate-glass lantern, in which a gas-jet
is burning continuously day and night. The most remarkable thing
about this elaborate token of affection, perhaps, is that it is not
a glorified tombstone. It was erected by a daughter in memory of her
father, who is buried elsewhere, and was placed on its present site
because the two had paid several visits to Ulverston Priory. Neither
had any real connection with the town. A feature which differentiates
this handsome tribute from all, or nearly all, others is obvious, and
that is the cost of maintenance consequent on the gas consumed in the
lantern.
Public memorials include numbers of “freaks,” the singularity of some
of which is greatly heightened by their surroundings. This is notably
so in the case of a drinking fountain which stands in the middle of the
East Anglian town of Swaffham. Unromantic as its environment is, this
structure is a modern heart shrine, containing as it does the cardiac
organ of a local magnate, Sir William Bagge, who died in 1880. It was
at his own request that his heart was deposited within the memorial,
that he might remain after death, in a sense, in a place which he had
loved so well in life.
[Illustration: A MODERN “HEART SHRINE,” AT SWAFFHAM, NORFOLK.
_From a Photograph._]
The last class of people to whom one would expect to see “freak”
memorials are preachers, and yet there are two or three to such men.
Decidedly the most picturesque, though not the most _outré_, is a
massive chimney-stack at Coleman Green, Herts. It is preserved, as a
tablet on it records, because in the cottage which was attached to it
Bunyan occasionally preached.
[Illustration: “JOHN BUNYAN’S CHIMNEY” AT COLEMAN GREEN, HERTFORDSHIRE.
_From a Photograph._]
Strange as some of the foregoing memorials are, they are surpassed by
certain monstrosities in private parks, which unquestionably contain
the most remarkable “freaks” of the kind in England. In several cases
the public are forbidden to enter such domains, not because it is
feared that they commit damage, but in order that they shall not see
some colossal absurdity of which the descendants of its creator are
ashamed. Nearly the first thing one gentleman did, on entering into
possession of the estate which he now holds, was to ascertain whether
he had power to sweep off it a memorial which was ridiculed by the
whole countryside and pointed out to every stranger to the district.
Finding that he could not remove the eyesore, he at once gave orders
that the park wall should be raised four feet all the way round!
DOWN THE CHUTE: A Miner’s Extraordinary Experience.
BY C. A. O. DUGGAN, OF KIMBERLEY, SOUTH AFRICA.
An account of a miraculous triple escape--an escape in which
the odds were as a million to one on death. Mr. Wood’s
adventure created quite a sensation in South Africa, for it is
unique in the annals of the diamond fields. The photographs
illustrating the story are published by kind permission of the
general manager of the De Beers Consolidated Mines.
The following narrative, describing a miner’s miraculous escape
from what appeared certain death, forms one of the most sensational
episodes in the history of South African mining in general and of the
world-famous De Beers Diamond Mines of Kimberley in particular. Miners
who have spent many years in the wonderful underground workings of the
Kimberley diamond mines, and who have become thoroughly familiar with
the perils and thrilling incidents synonymous with underground mining,
were dumbfounded at the truly unique experience which befell Mr.
Charles Wood at the De Beers Company’s Wesselton Mine, Kimberley, South
Africa, on Tuesday, 11th August, 1908. Mr. Wood’s story is here given
as related to the author.
* * * * *
I am twenty-nine years of age, and have been for some years engaged in
various capacities in the many departments of the underground workings
of the Kimberley diamond mines. During that period I have witnessed
many hairbreadth escapes from the innumerable perils of the treacherous
subterranean workings, and have seen men launched into eternity in a
single second by one or other of those unavoidable happenings which of
necessity form part of the miner’s precarious occupation. Personally,
however, I have been very fortunate, for my own mining experience has
been uneventful--until last week, when I was the victim of a string of
events probably unparalleled in the annals of the diamond mines.
On the morning of Tuesday, 11th August, 1908, I went to work as usual,
and arrived at the mine shaft a few minutes before six o’clock, feeling
in high spirits after a brisk and invigorating three-mile bicycle ride
in a calm, bracing, and typical South African dawn, which heralded the
commencement of a day that was to prove the most eventful and memorable
of my life. Precisely as the mine “hooter” sounded, I, with several
others, boarded the huge iron man-cage, and in another moment its human
freight was being lowered some five hundred feet down the perpendicular
shaft to the main working level of the mine.
Our destination was reached in due course, and the cage came to a
standstill at the entrance to the main level, which here resembles a
large arch-shaped room, about eighteen feet high and twenty-five feet
wide, with sides and roof of solid rock. On the one side is the main
vertical shaft, leading to the headgear on the surface above and to
the further levels below, while directly opposite, and extending in
a straight, horizontal line for nearly half a mile into the bowels
of the earth, is the main tunnel to the mine, suggestive of some
great corridor, with many side galleries and minor branch tunnels on
either side, leading in contrary directions. There is a double track
of rails, one for empties returning from the tips and the other for
the loaded trucks, which are detached from the electric locomotives
at an apex some thirty yards from the loading chute, and from which
they run by gravitation, in sets of eight, along the “full-way,” round
the left side of the shaft, to the automatic tips, which are situated
immediately behind the shaft and on the opposite side of the main
tunnel. Here the trucks are mechanically overturned and the contents
discharged into the loading chute, a large steel receptacle some twenty
feet deep, fifteen feet long, and four feet wide. From this point
the trucks run along the “empty-way,” or right side of the shaft, in
a semicircle towards the main tunnel, to be finally coupled to the
locomotive, and drawn, in trains of sixteen, to the different passes to
be reloaded.
In the mine I am known as the “tipman,” and my duties--directing the
discharge of the diamond-laden “ground” into the chutes--commence when
the trucks, laden with the “ground,” reach the automatic tips.
I was soon at my accustomed post, and before many minutes had elapsed
the distant rumbling of the moving trucks in the tunnels became
audible. The day’s operations had begun.
I am constantly engaged in superintending the working of the tipping
arrangements, and in watching the running of trucks on the proper
tracks, which here almost entirely encircle the main shaft, through
which the “ground” is eventually raised to the surface in the giant
hoisting skips.
On this particular morning I worked without the shortest break, and
nothing interrupted the monotonous rolling of the trucks as they went
backwards and forwards again and again to be refilled at the loading
passes and emptied at the loading chutes, until nearly one o’clock,
when, through a slight but unfortunate mishap, I became the victim of a
catastrophe which now seems to me like some horrible nightmare, or the
effect of temporary delirium, rather than an actual occurrence.