ABOUT BOYS.

I have numbered many pet boys among my kinsfolk and friends, and I am

going to tell you a few of their pranks. It would not be fair, I

suppose, to the little girls, to relate _their_ pieces of mischief, for

they are nearly all grown up now, and have boys and girls of their own,

who would be very much shocked if they could know that mamma had ever

been concerned in a small riot, or had nearly killed herself in

attempting to fly down from a heap of piled up boxes, by means of large

paper wings! I am sorry to say that my own chicks prefer the recital of

their mother’s wrong doings to any other tale, and when,

Between the dark and the day-light,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day’s occupations

That is known as the children’s hour,

I am taken prisoner, held captive in an armchair by the fire, and not

released till I have told, for the hundredth time, most of my own

childish scrapes. Once or twice I have tried to substitute a little

stray bit of goodness, but that was not half as popular as ‘Mamma’s

naughtiness.’

One of my earliest pets was a tiny boy who would have been very pretty

if he had not been disfigured by a black and blue lump about as big as a

pigeon’s egg on his forehead. At first I thought it was caused by a

fall, but it turned out to be his own doing. Whenever he was thwarted or

annoyed in any way he deliberately knelt down and thumped his head on

the floor, even on that of the marble hall. I have seen him drop on his

knees and hit his forehead against the pavement out walking, and the

curious part of the story is that, although it must have hurt him a good

deal, he never cried! He was not at all an ill-tempered child, but he

was rather wilful; and if his wishes were not at once attended to, these

knocks began and went on till he got his own way. The doctor said it was

very bad for him, and his mother tried every means to cure this trick.

In vain were all her attempts until some one suggested a little

counter-irritation, and it proved quite successful. Whenever Master

Willie dropped on his knees and began to knock his head, his mother

produced a small light horsewhip, and applied it to his little bare legs

with much vigour. At this unexpected treatment Willie scrambled to his

feet as fast as possible; and very soon he would ask, before beginning

to thump his forehead, ‘Is you goin’ to vitch me with dat vitch;’ his

mother replied, ‘Yes, I am;’ whereupon Willie calmly said, ‘Den I wont

hit my head no more;’ so in about a week the headthumping was quite

given up, but it took a much longer time to get rid of the ugly mark.

Poor little Willie got into dreadful trouble when he was about six years

old, for sealing up his sister’s lips. They were both nicely dressed,

and seated at the nursery table to wait till it was time to go down to

dessert. The stupid old nurse gave them two pieces of sealing wax and

some seals, to amuse themselves by sealing up imaginary letters. But

Willie soon got tired of this quiet play, and when his wax was flaring

away he popped it down upon his poor little sister’s red lips. She was

looking at him in great admiration, with her pretty smiling face

up-turned, when he suddenly dropped a quantity of blazing wax on her

lips, and firmly pressed the seal down, saying, ‘You shat (chatter) too

much, miss.’ Of course he had no idea of the anguish he was inflicting,

and the poor child suffered almost as much as his victim, and seemed

quite glad to be punished in expiation of his thoughtlessness.

I once knew two little brothers who were really fond of each other, but

who used to quarrel most dreadfully. I must say it was chiefly the fault

of the elder boy, who had no patience with his small brother Franky’s

shortcomings. Franky was devoted to Cecil, and would run his messages

for him, and wait upon him in the most dutiful way; but he never got any

thanks for his little services. One day I was calling on their mamma,

and she took me into the dining-room, to see a large and beautiful ship

which had been just given to Cecil. It stood in a sort of wooden rest on

the floor, and was certainly a very fine model of an old-fashioned

frigate. There were her guns and her portholes to open and shut, every

block and rope was right, and her sails and flags were something lovely

to behold. The only thing which struck me as being wrong was her crew;

they were little composition figures of sailors, very pretty to look at,

but hugely out of proportion: fancy an A.B. seaman reaching half way up

the mainmast! However, Cecil thought it all beautiful, and walked round

and round his new treasure with the greatest pride and delight.

His mamma took advantage of his softened mood to say a word about being

kind to poor little Franky, and showing it to him, which Cecil readily

promised to do, when the door opened, and nurse led in Franky fresh from

his mid-day sleep, in his pretty white frock and with cheeks as red as

his ribbons. His large solemn eyes opened wide at the sight of this

splendid man-of-war. He walked round it two or three times with many

murmurs of admiration, for he could not speak plain; and suddenly,

without the least warning, he sat down plump on the bowsprit, snapping

it off close to the bows. Of course he toppled over, and came crash down

on the back of his head, but, oh! what a wreck he made! So many ropes

are fastened to the bowsprit, that when it is carried away in this

sudden manner, the consequences are dreadful, and it is very difficult

to repair such an accident. Cecil’s wrath was tremendous, and it

certainly was enough to provoke a more patient little boy. He flew at

his brother, (who was howling loudly) with both his fists doubled, and

would no doubt have punished him severely, if nurse had not snatched up

her darling in her arms, and carried him off; but Cecil could not be

comforted for many a day.

You must not think they were always quarrelling, for they never were

happy apart; and if one was in any trouble or difficulty, the other was

wretched; for instance, Cecil once fastened himself into a room by

accident; it was a long time before a locksmith could be brought to

break open the door, and no ladder was long enough to reach to the

window, so Cecil’s imprisonment was very tedious. All the time he was

locked up Frank sat at his door trying to cheer and comfort his brother,

refusing his own dinner. Every now and then he would say, ‘Never mind,

Cis; I’m hungry too.’ And he looked quite faint and pale by the time

Cecil was released; but when he took him into the dining-room, he would

not touch food till Cecil had been helped and begun to eat. On another

occasion when Cecil set himself on fire, and was very severely burnt,

Franky kept making puffs at him as the poor child ran about in torture,

thinking he could blow out the flames; and I heard him say afterwards,

‘I did try to blow him out, but the fire wouldn’t be blowed.’ He was

such a dear little nurse to his brother all through the weeks of pain

and suffering which followed this accident.

Frank was very anxious to be allowed to ride a certain donkey which was

usually employed in drawing the mowing machine; but the donkey objected

decidedly to being ridden when his day’s work was over, and always

deposited Frank on the ground the moment he got into the road. Mr.

Donkey walked sedately up to the gate of his favourite meadow, and then

put his head down between his forelegs, hunched up his back—for it could

hardly be called kicking—and soon got rid of poor little Frank, who,

nothing daunted, scrambled on again to encounter the same fate directly.

One day we met Frank a long distance from home, looking hot and dusty;

he was walking along the high road leading the donkey by the rein. We

immediately asked if he had been thrown oftener than usual, and why he

was walking. He disdained to answer us, and turning with a little

confidential smile to his mother said, ‘Well, you see, mother, he was

trotting very nicely, and I got off to see how he was going!’ We all

laughed at this reason a great deal, but Frank saw nothing amusing in

it.

Frank and Cecil gave their mother a great fright one day. They were

living in the country, and had a very quiet old pony which was used in

the basket carriage. The boys begged that they might be allowed to ride

this pony in a large field near the house. Now, as there was nothing

whatever with which they could possibly hurt themselves in this field,

they were permitted to do so; but, soon after they started, a great

clatter and noise was heard in the porch; and, when the poor mamma went

to find out what it could be, there was the pony without either of his

riders, his reins broken, his saddle turned underneath him, and with a

great cut on his side. He had evidently come to complain of the

treatment he had received; but I fancy the mother thought more of her

missing boys. At all events I know she rushed out, still followed by

Mettle, and to her joy met both her troublesome treasures in the lane

close to the house, safe and well, but nearly in as bad a plight as the

pony: their clothes were torn and muddy, their hats off, and they were

both crying bitterly. It seems that they were ‘playing at hunting,’ and,

after several gallops round the field after a little terrier, who acted

fox very well, the dog bolted through a hole in a high, quickset hedge,

jumped the muddy ditch on the other side, and barked defiantly at them

from the road. The ardour of the chase quite carried away the two small

huntsmen, who put the pony at this big hedge, fully believing he could

jump it; and Mettle must have thought so too, for he actually tried,

landing of course in the middle of the thorns. The riders soon scrambled

off, but alighted in the ditch. The pony was firmly fixed in the fence,

and struggled a great deal before he could free himself, which he did at

last at the expense of many scratches, and the loss of his stirrups and

reins. It was not surprising to hear that he declined to be remounted,

and set off home as fast as he could.

One day, and almost before their poor mother’s nerves had had time to

recover this shock, she heard a tap at the drawing-room door, and on

going to see who it could possibly be, she found Franky with a very pale

face but an extraordinary polite manner, who said, ‘Oh mamma, dear, if

you please I think I have put out Cecil’s eye!’ Was not that a pretty

thing to hear? Poor Mrs. E—— flew off to the play-room to find Cecil

crouching in the corner with the blood streaming from between his

fingers, which were pressed to his right eye. At first she really

thought his sight was injured, but it turned out fortunately that the

deep cut had only gone very close to, but not actually into, the eye. Do

you know how this happened? Through disobedience: they had climbed up to

a high shelf and got down some foils (Papa will tell you what those are,

and how dangerous to play with), and were fencing away in fine style.

The silly boys had never put on the buttons which even grown-up people

use when they fence; nor had they covered up their faces with the wire

masks which were kept with the foils. It was a very narrow escape I

assure you, and served as a severe lesson to both the children not to

touch forbidden things.

And now that I have told you of so many scrapes which these boys fell

into, it is only fair to tell you of something very nice about them.

They were the most generous little fellows in the world, and were never

so happy as when they could give a penny or a bun to a hungry child, or

a toy to a sick one. I was spending a week with their mamma about

Christmas-time one year, and a friend of hers chanced to call. Mrs. E——

asked where she had been staying, and this lady gave us a description of

a charming home far away in the wilds of Yorkshire. Its inmates were a

young clergyman and his wife, and a house full of children. She told us

how rich they were in goodness, in love, in self-denial, in all that

makes life beautiful and noble. She described the air of refinement over

the simple house, the way the elder children helped their mother, and

how all were busy and cheerful and happy. There was, however, no money

to spare for toys or picture-books, and some of the younger ones had

never possessed anything of the sort. We laughed at her account of a

sixpenny harlequin having been sent to the house by some friend, when,

after a reference to the nursery history it was solemnly announced by

sister Edith, the second mother to the little flock, that it was

‘Polly’s turn to have the next new toy;’ so the harlequin was given to

Polly, who rejoiced greatly over her first plaything. Cecil asked how

old Polly was, and seemed quite shocked to hear she was actually five

years old, and that there were three children below her, whose turn had

not yet come for a toy! He retired to a corner with Franky and they held

a long consultation, which resulted in their leaving the room with an

air of great importance, saying to their mother, ‘Don’t want us, please

mamma, for we are going to be very busy.’

And they were indeed busy, all that wintry afternoon, mending, sorting,

and arranging, putting maps together to make sure that all the pieces

were right, finding the bricks belonging to a large box, and at last

they came to ask their mother to go with them to the play-room as they

wanted her to ‘see something very particular.’ I went too, unasked, and

there was quite a large heap of toys, balls, carts, and picture-books,

all so neatly mended and in good order. By the table stood Cecil holding

his brother’s hand and saying, ‘Me and Franky think we should like to

send these to the children in Yorkshire, and do, please mamma, pack them

up at once so that they may arrive on Christmas morning.’ Dear little

fellows! how enchanted they were when Mrs. E. set to work at once, sent

for a huge cake and a big box of barley sugar, and finally filled a

large hamper with toys and Christmas cheer, which was sent off that same

night to the distant parsonage, with messages of love and good will from

Cecil and Franky to the unknown children who were so happy in spite of

their independence of toys from a shop; and when a letter came back

saying, in simple, graceful words, that the gifts had been received in

the same spirit in which they were sent, and that the little flock had

been made supremely happy by the sudden shower of presents, Cecil leant

his head on his mother’s shoulder and whispered, ‘O mamma! isn’t it nice

to make children _comfortable_?’ We all laughed so much at his idea of

comfort.

But the pet boy of all my boy-friends lies sleeping far away on a sunny

slope of the Himalaya Mountains, and the myrtles growing so luxuriantly

over his grave are meant to tell of the love which all bore to the man

who, even as a boy, was never guilty of a mean or a cruel action. My

darling little unknown friends, do not think that, because you are only

children, it does not matter what you do or say. That silent voice

inside you, which men have agreed to call conscience, but which is

really a spark from a Divine fire, will always tell you pretty

loudly—when you stop and listen to it—whether the thing you either wish

to do, or have done, is right or wrong, whether it is true or false,

mean or generous. Above all, think to yourselves whenever you are going

to hurt an animal: ‘Should I like a great giant to come and do this to

me?’ And when the voice says, as it will, nine times out of ten, ‘No,

you wouldn’t like it at all,’ then don’t do it. I have seen this pet boy

of mine, though he was not at all quarrelsome, rush out into the street

to defend a wretched draggled kitten which a big boy was torturing,

getting of course well knocked about; but, as in the struggle the kitten

escaped, Georgy did not mind a black eye in what he thought was a good

cause. I need hardly tell you how much all animals loved and trusted

him: a homeless dog never failed to follow him if it crossed his path, a

restive horse became as gentle as a lamb under his care. You see I put

Georgy’s behaviour to dumb creatures first in my sketch of his

character. Do you know why I do so? It is because I have never known a

boy who was wilfully cruel to animals, or careless of their comfort and

well-being, grow up into such men as I should like you all to be. It is

only a very little baby for whom we can make the excuse that it does not

_mean_ to hurt pussy when it tweaks its fur; but I have actually seen a

mother, and a very fond mother too, pull her baby’s fluffy hair to make

it feel how it hurt a dog or a cat to have their hair grasped; and,

after all, this practical teaching seemed to answer, for, long before

her babies could speak, they quite understood that they were not to hurt

any living thing which God has made. We know, both from the Old and New

Testaments, how our Father which is in heaven takes real thought and

care for His dumb creatures, for He condescended to make laws for their

good, at the same time that He gave commandments to His chosen people;

and you all know how our gentle loving Saviour taught us that His Father

and ours cared for the sparrows on the housetop.

If a boy is thoughtful and good to animals he will probably be kind and

considerate to his brothers and sisters; and then how happy they must

all be together, and is it not wonderful to think that quite little

children can help to make grown-up people comfortable by being patient

and unselfish to each other? One of my pet boys used always to call that

word ‘slefish,’ and his greatest blame of any thing or any one consisted

in calling it ‘slefish.’ He quite understood what selfish meant,

although he was not old enough to pronounce it properly. His name was

Basil, and the great joke against him used to be that he never had any

mind of his own, but required to be told by his favourite sister what he

liked! For instance, at dinner he would say to her, confidentially,

‘Connie, do you think I shall like that pudding?’ and if Connie said

yes, then when his turn to be helped arrived Basil said, ‘Yes if you

please.’ I once knew of his having been discovered sitting on the steps

dressed to go out for a walk, and on being asked what he waited for,

Basil answered, ‘I’m only waiting for Connie to tell me whether I shall

like to go to Highfield.’ Fortunately, at this moment, Connie appeared

and assured him that he would like it very much; so they both set off as

happy as possible. Basil and Connie are grown up now, and Basil has

learnt to know what he likes for himself; but they are just as fond of

each other as in the days when Connie was the queen of the nursery, and

ruled her tiny subjects with a wand whose touch expressed as much love

and gentleness as did that of the beautiful golden sceptre which King

Ahasuerus held out to Queen Esther.

Now I think I shall tell you of a terrible scrape which one of my pet

boys got into. Pray do not try to imitate him however, and he would be

the last person to advise you to do so, for he retains to this day a

lively recollection of the penalties which followed swiftly on the heels

of what he and his schoolfellows thought was a very good joke indeed at

the time. It happened a great many years ago at an old-fashioned school

for boys; Dick was the name of the hero of the adventure, and I never

could quite make out how he came to have the performance of the

principal character thrust upon him, for he was a quiet, studious boy,

with a great turn for invention. However that may be, or whoever was the

first originator of the plan, it is certain that poor Dick had to bear

the blame; but, in order to make you understand all about it, I must

begin at the beginning of the plot, which arose from one of the big

boys, who was very popular in the school, saying, that he wished the big

school bell, which always sounded at unwelcome hours, was ‘at Jericho.’

Now it was not possible to send it quite so far away at a moment’s

notice, and poor Dick, who chanced to be next Burrows Major when he made

this new and original remark, said dreamily, pointing to a tall elm

which stood in the playfield near the house, ‘What a lark it would be to

fix it up there, at the very top of that tree!’ It did indeed seem fun;

but there were serious difficulties in the way, for the tree was a very

high one, and it was considered a great feat to climb up to the top,

without being encumbered by a great bell, especially as its clapper was

not one which could be taken out whilst the climbing was in progress, so

every step was likely to be marked by a tremendous toll. Then, when once

it was fixed up there, how was it to be rung at unseasonable hours? The

most submissive fag could not be induced, by either bribes or threats,

to climb up and ring it in the middle of a dark night. It was early

spring, but a few days of sunshine had brought the leaves out thickly

enough to afford some cover to the conspirators, and now the weather had

changed to keen and cutting easterly winds. Dick promised to see what he

could do, and spent several days in making little models of a machine

very like a gallows, in which, however, the bell played the part of the

culprit. At last he announced that ‘he thought he could do something;’

when Dick said as much as that, everybody knew it was a settled thing,

so the next step was to elect a Bell Committee, and their first act was

to open an account at the village shop for wire, string, blocks, and

pulleys to the enormous sum of five shillings.

It was necessary to proceed with great caution, so as not to excite

suspicion in the minds of the masters, and as it happened to be the time

of year for bird-nesting, the frequent sight of Dick swarming up a big

elm tree was not sufficiently uncommon to arouse any remark. It is

perhaps just as well that I cannot give you a description of how Master

Dick arranged his numerous lines, and wires, and pulleys; I can only

tell you the result, which was that one cold night, when a bitter gale

from the east was blowing, the servant whose duty it was to ring the

bell for evening prayers returned to say that the bell could not be

found anywhere. ‘Nonsense, man,’ said the portly Doctor; ‘the bell

_must_ be there.’ Poor old John went out again in the cold porch to have

another unsuccessful hunt after the bell, and to return with the same

story. It was too late and too cold to continue the search, so there was

nothing for it but to go to chapel without the bell, and the boys were

afterwards marshalled into their dormitories with extra precautions.

Their names were called over as they passed the masters at the doors and

these latter remained to watch that each boy got quietly into bed. No

boys could behave better that night; indeed they were suspiciously good,

if one may use such an expression in speaking of young gentlemen. But

the peace of the establishment was broken about midnight by a loud

‘Boom, boom, boom,’ from the elm tree. This unusual sound aroused the

Doctor, who threw his window open letting in such an icy blast. There

was no mistaking the clang of his own favourite bell; but how on earth

did it get up into the sky, for that was where the sound proceeded from.

‘I see, you Smith,’ roared the Doctor, ‘you shall pay for this, sir,

to-morrow;’ and he shouted for a monitor, who announced on his arrival

that, whoever it might be, Smith was not the culprit, for he was snugly

tucked into his bed. ‘Well, then, it must be Jones,’ shouted the enraged

Doctor. ‘Jones, if you don’t come down directly and bring the bell also,

it will go hard with you to-morrow.’ The monitor of No. 3. dormitory

appeared to assure the Doctor that Jones’s snores were keeping all his

neighbours awake.

In the meantime poor Mrs. Doctor was shivering with cold, and entreating

her husband to shut the window and return to bed; but the old gentleman

was too much enraged to listen to her; and every time the bell sounded,

which it did frequently through the night, he jumped out of his warm

bed, and flung up the window again calling out loudly, ‘I see you sir,

come down directly.’ He thought it safer not to mention any names. The

consequence of all this exposure to a biting east wind was, that when

the boys assembled in the morning, they very nearly got a flogging all

round for the broad grin which saluted the Doctor’s appearance with such

a swollen face. It must be very difficult to look calm and dignified if

you have one side of your face tremendously swelled and red and shining.

This was the poor Doctor’s plight, and his efforts to conceal his

suffering ought to have touched his pupils’ hearts. I daresay their

titters and grins did not really arise from want of feeling, only boys

are such sad creatures for laughing at the wrong time!

The first thing the Doctor did was to make a long speech to the boys,

telling them (as if the young pickles did not know it already) of the

loss of the bell and of its re-appearance at the top of the tree, and

urging them to confess how they had managed it; but a stony silence was

all he met with, and each boy’s countenance looked more hopelessly

vacant than his neighbour’s. When play-hours came the whole school was

kept in to write a line of Latin verse so many hundred times over. This

had a very sobering effect on the young gentlemen, and even the Doctor’s

expression of face at chapel with his head tied up in flannel could not

raise a smile from the depressed conspirators. However, when midnight

arrived, ‘Boom, boom, boom,’ went the bell, and it continued to sound at

intervals through the night, but in a jerky and spasmodic manner, not

the deep regular tones of the night before. After chapel the next

morning the boys were called over before the Doctor, and, in spite of

one of his eyes being now quite closed up, and his voice sounding as if

he had plums in his mouth, his demeanour was so stern that the stoutest

heart quailed. His address was short but very much to the purpose. He

said that, if the bell was not brought down in broad daylight and

restored to its proper place by twelve o’clock, the whole school should

be flogged, and all half holidays stopped for the remainder of the term.

He gave them half an hour to decide, and full liberty to discuss the

subject in the schoolroom without the presence of the masters. The

moment he had finished his little speech, he got up and left the room,

followed by all the masters and the monitors. I need hardly tell you how

stormy was the debate which followed, or how soon it became evident that

the funny side of the story was over for the present. Poor quiet old

Dick saw the situation at once, shrugged his shoulders, and merely

observing ‘I’m in for a good ‘un,’ was deep in a few minutes in some

fresh invention, the model of which he took out of his pocket and began

to examine. At first the general feeling was, that, as Dick had not

originated it he should not bear the punishment; but Dick himself

scouted the idea of being let off, and was the first to walk boldly into

the Doctor’s study, and with a noble disregard of grammar, which even at

that exciting moment made the Doctor wince, say, ‘Please sir, it’s me.’

‘Me will catch it then,’ was the Doctor’s grim answer; and poor ‘me’ did

catch it, and so did everyone concerned in the exploit in the remotest

way. The boys declared that Mrs. Doctor was the most venomous of the

two, and that it was she who stirred up her portly husband to go down to

the village shop and blow up its mistress in no measured terms; but the

woman’s sharp tongue could not keep silence very long, and she actually

stormed at the Doctor in return till he was glad to get out of the shop.

Do you know there is one rather solemn-looking gentleman of my

acquaintance whom I never can see without laughing. I am sure he must

sometimes wonder why I should always appear amused when I shake hands

with him, particularly if he happens to have his pretty, young-looking

mother leaning on his arm. I dare not tell _him_ why I laugh, but I will

tell you, in strict confidence, remember!

One day, when this Mr. F. was a small boy, he was locked up in his

mother’s bedroom, there to repent of his transgressions in general, and

of some recent offence in particular. Now it was a half holiday, and

there was a delightful excursion to the woods in prospect. All the other

children were wild with delight about it, for they were to have tea in

gipsy fashion, with a fire out of doors, and all sorts of pleasant

things; but an edict had gone forth that, until Mr., or rather Master,

F. had repented of his fault and apologised, he was not to be allowed to

go in the spring-cart to the place of meeting. The hours were passing

away, and his mother was very uneasy lest her pet boy should be deprived

of his share of the afternoon’s fun, so she thought she would try what

her gentle persuasions would do towards softening his heart. I must

explain to you that there was a sort of partition off this bedroom, and

a glass door in it which did not fit very well, consequently there was a

gap of a couple of inches between the floor and the bottom of the door.

Mrs. F went close up to this, and began to expostulate through the chink

at the side with her naughty darling. There was quite a little audience

at her back, composed of the other children, who were eagerly listening

for any signs of contrition on the part of the prisoner; and it caused

great dismay when mamma turned her head round to the young ones and

said, ‘I’m afraid he is not good yet.’ ‘Tell him to put the naughty

pinnit (spirit) up the chimbley,’ suggested a tiny brother, who disposed

of his little evil tempers very successfully in this way. Mrs. F. drew

still closer to the door, and began a fresh entreaty to the culprit to

make up his mind to confess and beg pardon; but at the most touching

part of her discourse she suddenly jumped back upon her little listeners

with a loud shriek of pain, and caught up one of her feet with many

groans, hopping about on the other. What do you think this dreadful boy

had done? He had found a hammer in the room, and when he saw his

mother’s toes sticking out under the door, he had deliberately knelt

down and hammered them!

I need hardly tell you that there was no gipsy tea for Master F. that

evening, and I believe he was afterwards very sorry for his conduct; but

it is not surprising that, whenever the recollection of this story comes

over me, I should feel inclined to laugh. Sometimes I see Mr. F. taking

great care of his mother at supper, getting her nice things to eat,

wrapping her carefully up in her shawl when she is going away from a

party, and so on; but instead of admiring his dutiful devotion to her,

this unfortunate piece of naughtiness recurs to my memory, and I cannot

help smiling at the wrong time; so you see it is very dangerous to do

naughty things, even when you are quite little, for people are apt to

remember them in after years.

‘_EDINBURGH CASTLE._’

This ‘Edinburgh Castle’ is not a castle at all in the first place, nor

is it in Scotland! It is only a little mud hut on a hill, in the middle

of a thick forest, in that beautiful island of Jamaica, about which I

have already told you so many stories; but I did not like to mix up this

shocking tale with the account of all our pets, so I have given it a

separate chapter to itself. If you want to know more about it you will

find it mentioned in a book called ‘Brydges’ Annals of Jamaica;’ but I

was standing on the spot where it all happened, when I heard the story

from my father’s lips. He, Jessie, and I had ridden for miles through

the clearings in this forest; and I can hardly make you understand how

delightful such an excursion is on a summer’s afternoon in these high

uplands of Jamaica. Instead of the burning heat and hot air, which is

called a breeze down in the plains, we had the most delicious fresh

atmosphere; and, as we rode along under the shade of the tall mahogany

and cedar trees, Jessie and I were never weary of admiring the beautiful

creepers hanging in festoons from branch to branch; great blossoms of

cacti, with brilliant gauzy-winged flies going busily in and out among

the thick tassels which form the centre of the flower; orchids of every

kind and description growing on the decayed timber, and making the

shabby old trees more beautiful than the strong young ones; convolvuli

of bright and delicate colour; slender tendrils laden with the

sweet-scented blossom of the passion flower hanging down on our heads.

Through all these lovely sights and sounds we rode, gaily talking and

laughing, Jessie setting all the mocking-birds nearly wild by breaking

out into snatches of song; and no sooner had one bird answered her, and

the others begun to take up the chorus, than she would change her tune;

then such an indignant chirruping and calling and whistling ensued, as

much as to say, ‘Now, that is not fair, one song at a time;’ until Papa

said, ‘O Jessie, do leave those birds alone; I never heard such a row.

So, after that, we went on more quietly, and at last the track we

followed led us to a clearing, and on our right was a little hillock

with a tumble-down hut on it; but what attracted our attention were some

large grey rocks around the hovel, which at a short distance had exactly

the effect of the battlements of a castle. We both exclaimed at once,

‘How like an old castle! Who lived there?’ And then Papa said, ‘Have you

never heard the story about this place?’ Jessie and I were quite as fond

of stories in those days as you can possibly be, so we edged our ponies

quite close to Papa’s horse, and listened eagerly whilst he told us this

tale; and I remember so well, as he went on with it, how all the warmth

and glow and beauty seemed to fade out of that summer evening, and it

appeared to turn damp and chilly; all the tropical luxuriance changed

with our changed mood into dank overgrowth; and even Jessie’s smiles and

songs died away into a hushed, breathless silence.

About fifty or sixty years ago, a man calling himself Hutchinson

appeared in this part of the country, and, after looking about him a

little, finally selected this forest in which to buy a section of land;

I think Papa said a hundred acres. Now it was very unusual to do such a

thing in Jamaica where people generally have large sugar estates or

grazing farms, and the land which Mr. Hutchinson bought was quite unfit

for either of these purposes. However he gave no reason for his choice,

but proceeded to cut down some trees, and to pile up all the available

stones and rocks into the shape of rough battlements. When they were

arranged to his satisfaction he built himself a small hut with a stable

and outhouse, kitchen, &c. All that he did was extremely methodical,

and, when finished, his new home looked perfectly comfortable and

weather-tight. A few creepers against the cottage soon made it pretty,

and his ‘provision ground,’ as the negroes call a kitchen garden, looked

very picturesque with the yams climbing like hops over their tall poles,

and the broad velvety leaves of his cocoa and arrowroot plants. His

establishment consisted of one old negro slave, who appeared dreadfully

afraid of his master. This was the more surprising, as Mr. Hutchinson’s

manners were gentlemanlike and quiet, with no trace of ill temper on the

surface. Inside the house, or rather cottage, everything showed signs of

refinement. There were only two rooms, and visitors saw but one, which

was used as a sitting-room, and contained books, mathematical

instruments, a few curious weapons, and several specimens of birds and

animals; but the most conspicuous object in it was a large telescope on

a stand, placed so as to command the road through the forest. This road

was really only a bridle path, but it was much used as a short cut from

one part of the island to the other, and, though, seldom travelled by

the negroes, often proved a great convenience to some gentlemen who

wanted to get quickly across the country.

Nothing is more amusing to a new comer in most English colonies than the

fine names the settlers give their places. I have known so many rough

enclosures of a mere common or heath called after grand parks and

castles in England, that the name ‘Edinburgh Castle,’ which Mr.

Hutchinson gave to his little mud hut with its rude parapet, did not

seem half so absurd to me as it probably does to you. At all events it

soon became known by that name; and as Mr. Hutchinson was very

hospitable and friendly, passers-by began to look upon it as a matter of

course that they should call in at the castle and have a glass of

sangaree (do you know what that is? A drink made of madeira and rum,

lemons, and all sorts of things) with its master, leaving him perhaps

the last English newspaper, and telling him whatever little local gossip

they could collect. But in the course of a few months three things began

to be noticed and talked of: first, Mr. Hutchinson _never_ left home, in

spite of many invitations to pay a visit to his neighbours. At whatever

hour of the day or night a traveller called, he was quite sure to find

him in his house always glad to see him and apparently expecting a

visitor. Then Mr. Hutchinson always betrayed great anxiety about the

hour, which seemed rather odd in a person who had apparently nothing to

do and nowhere to go. Another remarkable thing was the abject terror of

the old negro. He would come to the door to hold the guest’s horse,

shaking all over, and he could seldom refrain from some little speech

which sounded inhospitable, such as, ‘It berry fine day now; mas’r best

push on, plenty rain come ‘bout evening.’ People began to notice that if

they said to Mr. Hutchinson anything about his servant not appearing

glad to see them, or willing that they should dismount, a strange dark

look would come over his face, and he tried to laugh off the idea, or to

change the subject; but it was quite certain that poor old Pompey took

much more pleasure in obeying the injunction to ‘speed the parting

guest’ than he did in welcoming the new comer. The most extraordinary

thing of all was that Mr. Hutchinson’s guests occasionally disappeared!

A gentleman would leave an estate on one side of the great forest with

the intention of riding through it, calling in of course at ‘Edinburgh

Castle’ on his way, but it turned out afterwards that he seldom got

beyond that point. There were no police in those old days of slavery,

and very little communication between places; so months passed before

any one could be quite certain that a traveller was really missing, and

then it was hopeless to attempt to trace him. Everybody agreed, that

although Mr. Hutchinson was an odd sort of man, and that it was very

queer of him to live in such a place, still he was the ‘best fellow in

the world,’ and very clever and well educated.

At last it happened that a passing traveller, whose journey as usual

seemed to stop short at ‘Edinburgh Castle,’ was expected very anxiously

by his solicitor at an estate a few miles beyond the forest; and when a

day or two passed without bringing him, the lawyer got anxious for his

arrival, and thought perhaps he might have been taken ill at the last

house where he knew he was to have put up for a night, on his way to the

place of meeting. He therefore took the important papers, which he

wanted this gentleman to sign, in his pocket, and started off to ride

through the forest. Of course he called in at ‘Edinburgh Castle,’ and,

like everybody else, was asked the hour, and, on his producing a

handsome gold watch, Mr. Hutchinson set his by it, and became very

pressing in his entreaties to the lawyer to stay. But he said, No; he

could not possibly stop because he was in a great hurry to meet his

friend whom he expected to find at the next place. Upon this Mr.

Hutchinson’s hospitable entreaties were renewed; in fact, they became

rather like commands; and when he said, ‘Well, you can’t go now for your

horse has got away,’ the lawyer felt very much like a prisoner. He was,

however, a shrewd as well as a brave man; and although he said

afterwards that he felt there was something wrong, at the time he

pretended to give up all idea of going on, but in reality watched

narrowly for a chance of getting away. The afternoon and even the

evening passed without Mr. Hutchinson’s leaving him alone for a moment;

but still the lawyer hoped and waited for a lucky opportunity. All this

time the old negro kept going in and out of the room and trying to

convey to the lawyer, by a sign now and then, the fact that he would do

well to make the best of his way out of the house. Mr. G. gave him a

nod, just to show him he was quite determined to follow his advice; and

he particularly remarked how thankful poor Pompey seemed to find that at

last some one understood what he meant.

During the evening Mr. Hutchinson frequently asked what o’clock it was,

and every time Mr. G. produced his watch he noticed how his host seemed

to gaze at it, and examine it as carefully as if he had never seen such

a thing before. At last Mr. G. said, ‘My watch appears to have a great

fascination for you.’ These harmless words produced a strange effect on

the man; he turned first red and then pale; and asked angrily, ‘What do

you mean?’ but, before the other could answer, Hutchinson left the room

with some indistinct words about shooting pigeons. Mr. G. jumped out of

the low window in a second, and set off down the hill as fast as he

could; but he had the presence of mind to avail himself of every scrap

of cover, and these battlements did him good service as shelter. Under

their friendly lee he skirted the mound, and soon struck once more into

the bridle path, with his face turned in the direction in which he meant

to look for his client.

It was about ten o’clock at night—late for Jamaica hours, where

everybody gets up almost at daybreak—when Mr. G. knocked with his

knuckles at the little jalousie door of the ‘great house’ on the estate

where he hoped to find his friend, and, in answer to the cheery ‘Come

in’ of its owner, presented himself in rather a muddy and dirty state.

Great was the astonishment of the hospitable planter to see a ‘white

buckra’ in such a plight, and still greater was his surprise at Mr. G.’s

first inquiry, ‘Where is Ferrars?’ ‘He left this two days ago to ride

over to Friendship estate,’ was the answer; and then the planter added,

‘But what on earth are you doing here at such an hour of the night, in

so great a mess, and without your horse?’ ‘You may well ask,’ said Mr.

G.; ‘I’ve had to get away as best I could from “Edinburgh Castle;” and

I’m certain of one thing, either Hutchinson is stark staring mad, and

ought to be locked up, or else there is something wrong about the whole

affair. He would not let me go on any terms, turned my horse adrift

after I had securely fastened it up to a post, and then pretended it had

got away; and he kept wanting to know the hour every five minutes, and

gloating over my watch as if he expected me to give it to him, and all

the time he had a much handsomer one himself. But what I want to know

is, Where is Ferrars? He has never reached Friendship, and if he does

not sign these papers to-morrow, they will be too late for the mail.’

Mr. G. said all this in a very excited way; so, as the first thing

everybody thinks of in Jamaica is fever, the planter’s only reply was,

‘Show us your tongue, my good fellow,’ at the same time laying his hand

on his pulse. Now it is not pleasant to be considered delirious when you

are only anxious, and Mr. G. got very angry at the supposition that he

was ill; but it took some time before he could convince his startled

host that there really was any cause for uneasiness about Mr. Ferrars.

He can’t have lost his way,’ argued the planter, ‘for he knew the track

perfectly, and it is quite a straight path; he started early the day

before yesterday in perfect health, on a capital nag, and with a

beautiful day before him; he must be all right.’ ‘But where is he?’

repeated the lawyer. ‘I waited till the last moment for him at

Friendship; if he were anywhere on the road I must have met him; there

is no house at which he could have turned in except ‘Edinburgh Castle;’

I asked Hutchinson whether he had seen him; he said Ferrars had not

called in there at all; but Pompey was groaning and fidgeting about the

whole time in the oddest way!’ The two gentlemen sat up late that night

discussing what was best to be done, and the earliest dawn of the next

day saw them in their saddles and on the road to Spanish Town. Here they

had a long talk with the governor and one or two friends of Mr. Ferrars,

which resulted in a hurried journey back again; and so well had their

horses carried them, that, before twenty-four hours were over, the whole

party, consisting of Mr. G. and the planter, with the addition of a

magistrate and a constable, found themselves at the little wooden gate

which served as an entrance to the fortifications of ‘Edinburgh Castle.’

Here everything was unchanged; Pompey appeared as usual to hold their

horses, shaking as if he had an ague-fit, and peering up into Mr. G.’s

face with a wistful glance more like an old monkey than a human being.

Mr. Hutchinson seemed rather absent, but was as cool and impassive as

ever. It was a very awkward moment, and each wondered why the other did

not say something; but they all found it difficult to give words to

their suspicions and uneasiness. However, matters were brought to a

point by Mr. Hutchinson’s giving his usual hospitable order of ‘luncheon

directly, Pompey.’ Mr. G. said afterwards that he felt an instinctive

dislike to the idea of breaking bread under that roof; so he refused the

offer, adding, ‘The fact is, Mr. Hutchinson, we are very uneasy about

poor Ferrars; he has been traced as far as this, but we cannot hear of

him afterwards; we have brought a search warrant with us, and we call

upon you to afford us every assistance in your power towards finding

him, alive or dead.’ Hutchinson stared dreamily about him and murmured

his usual question, ‘What o’clock is it?’ Whereupon the magistrate

struck in with, ‘Oh it’s quite early; lots of daylight left;’ but the

doomed man did not attempt to disarm the fast-growing suspicions of his

visitors, for he looked at his own watch, then opened a drawer and drew

out poor Mr. Ferrars’ gold watch and chain with the heavy dangling bunch

of seals which it was the fashion for gentlemen to wear in those

far-past-away days.

As if they had but one voice the three horror-stricken lookers-on

exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! Ferrars’ watch.’ And before any answer could

be given the constable called out, ‘Look at the nigger!’ They turned

their heads to see poor old Pompey on his knees, with uplifted hands, at

his stern master’s feet, crying, ‘O mas’r! me tell you let buckra ‘lone;

me tell you him be found. Pompey savy (know) dem sure come look for

Mas’r Ferrars. Now duppy (evil spirit) catch us all, for we hab no more

bisness in de kingdom of heaben dan my hog hab in de gubner’s garden. O

my king, my king!’ The constable gave one stride and laid his heavy hand

on the abject creature’s shoulder saying, ‘Now, look here, darky; what

you have got to do is to make a clean breast of it, sharp. We know right

well there’s been some foul play with that poor gentleman, and if you

want to save your precious neck you just turn king’s evidence, and tell

us all you know about it, and we’ll see you safe through the job.’

Pompey seemed quite speechless, and only gazed with a despairing stare

into the dark impenetrable face before him, moaning and murmuring,

‘Duppy’ll hold me.’ The constable was afraid the old man would have a

fit, and perhaps be rendered useless as a guide or helper to them in

their sad search; so he picked him up like a baby, and carried him out

into the sunshine; but Pompey quaked and shivered as much under the

glowing beautiful blue arch all flooded with light and warmth, as he had

done in the dark little room. As for Hutchinson he seemed to have spoken

his last word, so profound was his silence, never to be broken again on

earth, for people say he was perfectly silent at his trial.

The party held a brief and hurried consultation, which ended in their

separating into two divisions. The constable produced the traditional

handcuffs without which they seem never to stir, at least in a story;

and he and the magistrate remained to watch the man whom they did not

know whether to look upon as mad or a murderer, whilst Mr. G. and the

planter went out to try and see what could be made of the poor old

negro. The planter was a kindhearted good man, well accustomed to

dealing with his own slaves, who all loved and respected him; so he

undertook to question Pompey, and he managed so well to soothe and

encourage the trembling creature, that at last he picked himself up and

stood quivering before them, his face of an ashen grey colour in spite

of the black skin over it, saying, ‘Pompey’ll tell white buckra all

‘bout it, dat best ting to do.’ But no words would come, so he turned

away telling them to ‘come ‘long,’ and led the way down the hillock

towards a thick uncleared part of the forest. A very few yards brought

them to a place where, on close examination of the brushwood growing

luxuriantly round it, could be seen a little opening in the earth like

the mouth of a well. Pompey set to work and lifted up the long branches

of supple-jack and other forest creepers which had stretched themselves

across the space. Five minutes work was enough to show that the opening

was much larger than it appeared to be at first, and of a great depth.

‘Don’t go too near, mas’r,’ gasped Pompey, struggling with a great

flower-laden vine; ‘him berry slippy.’ The two friends went as close as

they dared, but nothing was to be seen except a deep pit where all was

inky darkness. ‘Man alive, you don’t mean to say Mr. Ferrars is down

_there_,’ they exclaimed. ‘Eess, mas’r,’ said Pompey with wonderful

composure; ‘Mas’r Huchisson him kill Mas’r Ferrars quite dead up dere,

take him watch ’way, den Pompey drag him down here come night, heave him

in; eess, mas’r, jest so.’

Few and simple as were the negro’s words they contained the whole truth;

there was nothing to be added or taken away. That was just what had

befallen not only Mr. Ferrars but many another solitary traveller

besides. Their lives hung upon the answer to the invariable question,

asked by Hutchinson, ‘What’s o’clock.’ If the unfortunate guest

possessed a watch, his doom was sealed; he was detained at the castle on

some pretence or the other, sometimes by almost forcible means, and

murdered in the night, his watch taken from him, and his dead body

handed over to Pompey to dispose of. The negro seems never to have kept

anything for his own use except, on one occasion, a warm waistcoat, and

on another a pair of boots. As soon as the day dawned again over the

blood-stained roof, Pompey’s custom was to drag the body to the edge of

this deep abyss, and after removing the creepers and branches which

formed such a smiling covering to the grave-like shaft, he tumbled the

corpse in. When once Pompey found his tongue, and perceived that no

supernatural events followed his words, he seemed to derive relief from

‘making a clean breast of it;’ and I think we can all understand a

little, what a comfort confession must have been to the poor sin-laden

wretch whose superstitions had made him an accomplice in such

cold-blooded wickedness. He now jabbered incessantly, and described with

terrible minuteness how some were heavy and some were light to drag down

that pretty picturesque path; how he used to be obliged to call Mr.

Hutchinson to shoot the victim’s horse, for he could not find it in his

heart to kill the creature he had fed and stabled the night before, and

who had looked round on him with a grateful whinny when he entered the

stable in the morning to lead him out to his death. Hutchinson taught

Pompey to bring the horse to the edge of this well after he had flung

the poor murdered rider down it; and, whilst the negro held the bridle,

Hutchinson put a pistol to its head and shot it dead, after which he

would walk calmly back to the house and read, or garden or amuse himself

in some innocent way, whilst Pompey huddled the quivering mass, which a

moment before had been a horse, down this horrible place. The saddle and

bridle and everything belonging to the victim was also flung down, and

the branches replaced, until some other chance should bring a visitor

possessed of a watch to the fatal threshold of ‘Edinburgh Castle.’

Papa lifted Jessie and me off our ponies, tied the reins to the stump of

a tree, and led us to this well. I don’t know why I should call it a

well, for there was nothing to make one think it had ever been used for

such a purpose; the surrounding country is well watered by springs, so

the Carribs would not have been likely to have taken the trouble of

digging to such a vast depth for water, when there was plenty on the

surface; and the Spaniards, who ceded the island to us, certainly had

not had anything to do with it. Just after these terrible discoveries

people tried to go down the shaft in a bucket with lanterns and ropes,

but the air was too foul, and they never could get beyond a ledge which

projected at an immense depth, and where poor Mr. Ferrars’ body was

found. Below this all seemed a bottomless pit, and Papa told us that he

had once gone there in the company of an engineer officer, who had

attempted to measure it with a stop watch by throwing a stone of a

certain weight down, and by calculating how many feet it had fallen in

so many seconds. He was able to find out the depth as far as the ledge I

have told you of; but the most intent listening with his ear to the

ground failed to detect the least sound or splash when the stone was

thrown perfectly straight down, so this terrible grave must have been

almost fathomless.

Of course Jessie and I asked Papa a great many more questions, and he

told us further, that in Hutchinson’s bedroom was found a chest with

between thirty and forty watches in it, many of which were identified as

belonging to some of the missing travellers, but, as some of them could

not be traced, it is quite possible that he had got them through the

same murderous means in other countries. It was very extraordinary that

nothing whatever could be discovered about this man’s past life. There

was a strong impression abroad that he was a Scotchman, but no trace was

to be found of his having even lived anywhere in that part of the world.

He had evidently travelled a good deal, though, when the few survivors

of his hospitality came to compare notes, they could not call to mind a

word he had said which gave them a clue to any particular place. No

persuasions would induce Hutchinson himself to open his lips. If it had

not been for his earnest attention to everything which was said at his

trial, one might have supposed he was deaf; but he never once lost his

presence of mind, or forgot himself sufficiently to utter a sound. The

counsel who defended him laid great stress on this silence, and tried to

persuade the jury that he was what is called a monomaniac, that is, mad

upon _one_ subject; but I fancy people were not so merciful in those

days as they are now, and the plea of insanity did not serve him as an

excuse; he was hung in chains at Kingston (I think), in the presence of

an immense crowd.

During all the years I knew Jamaica there was only one execution among

the negroes, and the opinion I formed of them during that time did not

at all prepare me for the news of the extraordinary outburst four years

ago, which you may easily hear all about if you inquire. But as this

execution was the just punishment of the most cruel and unnatural act

ever heard of, and as I took an immense interest in the trial, perhaps

you would like me to tell you about it.

Our house in Spanish Town was one of those built long ago by the

Spaniards, and, although only of wood, was as fresh and good as when

new. Outside it resembled all the others, being painted of a light stone

colour, with bright green jalousies round three sides of it. This

fashion used always to make the houses look in my eyes exactly like

those out of a box of toys, and they were also not unlike them in shape.

Inside, however, the old Spanish builders had left us the most splendid

carved door and window-frames of mahogany, which was now as black as

ebony from age, and the floors were exactly like a beautiful

old-fashioned dining table, quite dark, and polished every day until

they shone like looking-glasses. When I returned to Jamaica after I was

grown up, I used to think it the prettiest sight in the world to see a

little baby-creature toddling over these shining mirror-like floors,

clad in only one scanty garment, and with its lovely marble feet and

limbs reflected as it crawled or staggered about. There was only one

thing prettier, and that was to see the same baby asleep on its bright

coloured straw mat which was laid on the floor, no covering on except

the tiny cambric shirt I have mentioned, and lying under an extinguisher

made of thin net stretched over a bamboo frame, to keep the mosquitoes

from biting it. These were the little white ‘piccaninnies;’ but both

Jessie and I had many pets among the black babies belonging to the

servants. They were dear little creatures, so glossy and funny, always

fat and good-humoured; and there was no doubt about their being clean,

for the simple reason that they were always splashing and dashing about

in the river, which ran a couple of hundred yards from the door. The

‘Rio del Cobra,’ or Snake river, so called because it turns and winds

like a snake, took a lovely bend just above our house; and, if I shut my

eyes, I can see, as in a magic glass, the whole picture. I see the black

grooms clad in white suits with bare feet and head leading the horses

down to water. Some have already reached the stream, and the horses are

standing up to their girths in the cool water looking the picture of

enjoyment. A little higher up are some large flat stones, and on these

half-a dozen stout buxom negresses are banging away and beating our

clothes, singing, laughing, and chattering the while. These are our

housemaids, and every day, after they have washed out the whole house

with the juice of the Seville orange and water, they collect whatever

clothes or house-linen has been used the day before and march off to

this river, where they remain till sunset, engaged in destroying the

things, as Mamma used to say; then, whilst we are out driving in the

evening, they wash the whole house out again. So you see we were very

clean; had we scrubbed and washed less incessantly, the insects would

have eaten us all up, for the least scrap of dust or dirt served as a

nursery to scorpions, ants, fleas, and all sorts of horrid things. But

to come back to my picture of the stream. On its shore is a perfect

flight of black children paddling about in the water, and enjoying

themselves exactly in duck-fashion; they dare not venture far beyond the

shining shallows, for a little way out the noble river sweeps by with a

strong resistless current. Its banks are fringed down to the water’s

edge with beautiful trees, whose exquisite green foliage shows that

their roots are ever drinking from this fountain of their life; and in

their branches a thousand birds find homes, and add by their whistling

and chirruping to all the joyous sounds on the river’s bank this bright

tropical day.

Between our house and the ‘Cobra,’ however, lies what is called a

‘grass-piece,’ or paddock, of the tall Guinea grass, which you will find

mentioned elsewhere, and which brings me to my story. In this field were

several fine trees, under whose shade the horses loved to stand when

they were turned out to graze. It was a very common thing for goats to

get through its strong prickly fence, and eat up the horses’ grass, much

to our coachman’s wrath and indignation; so Jessie and I were not at all

surprised to hear one night what we thought was the bleating of a kid in

the enclosure. At breakfast next morning we spoke of this, and soon

afterwards Papa sent one of the men-servants to drive the supposed kid

out. ‘Duke’ (short for Marmaduke) returned to say he could not find any

trace of a kid, nor was there a gap in the fence by which one could have

got in; but as Jessie and I had been kept awake almost the whole night

by the sounds, we knew we could not have dreamt them. I must explain to

you that there was no other bedroom at that side of the house, and our

morning rooms were far away, so we had no chance of hearing the noise in

the daytime. Towards the afternoon we remembered our fancied enemy, and

begged Papa to send some one else to see about it; but, after listening

some time at the gate of the paddock, he said, ‘Oh! it has got out now,

I think, for there is not a sound, and the men trample the grass down so

much, that I don’t like their going in more than is necessary.’ We were

obliged to confess that he was right next morning, for the silence of

the tropical night, never very profound, had been deeper than usual.

During the course of the next day, whilst we were working away very hard

at our music and drawing, in the pretty shaded room which Jessie and I

called our ‘den,’ Mamma came in looking rather pale and agitated. Before

we could ask what was the matter, she said, ‘Do you remember that noise

in the grass-piece? It was not a kid at all, but a child’s voice which

you heard. Oh, the poor little creature! to have suffered such torture

so near us;’ and then Mamma did what many of your mammas would be very

likely to do under the same excitement, she sat down on a chair and

began to sob and cry as if her heart was breaking; and Jessie and I were

nearly as bad when we heard what had happened.

A little way from us lived a negress of the most violent temper. She was

respectably married and very well off; but neither her husband nor her

children had much comfort, owing to her constant fits of passion. Mamma

knew her quite well, and had often tried to teach her how wrong it was

to give way to these furies. Whilst the lecture lasted, ‘Clara’ would

appear quite penitent, and promise the sweet gentle ‘missis,’ whom

everybody loved, that she would try to restrain herself; but she soon

forgot or broke her word. On this occasion some ‘new sugar’ was wanted,

and Clara sent her youngest child to fetch some, giving it a ‘quattie,’

or small silver coin worth three-halfpence, to pay for it. Poor Emmy

toddled off with her can and her quattie, and performed her errand quite

nicely; but unfortunately the can had no lid, and the sight as well as

the smell of new sugar proved too much for her little principles. I

wonder how many of us, big or little, would have resisted such a

temptation? I should not like to say too much about my own honesty under

similar circumstances, for I think sugar in this stage is the most

delicious thing in the whole world, so we must be very indulgent in our

judgment on poor little two-years-old Emmy. As she trotted down the

shady lane which led to the village by the river-side, she dipped first

one small chubby black finger into the liquid sugar and sucked it, and

then another, and so on till, by the time home was reached, the can was

more than half empty, and Emmy’s smeared face and hands told their own

tale of the fate of the sugar. The child was too young to understand

threats or scoldings, so Clara’s fury had no means of venting itself in

its usual storm of reproaches. She was in one of her most wicked and

reckless moods that day, and she led off the wretched baby (for she was

not much more), muttering something about teaching her not to be a

‘tief.’ By and bye she returned without Emmy, but neither her husband

nor the neighbours dared to question her. They supposed that she had

gone with the child to her mother’s cottage and left it there, which had

been her custom if she wanted to get rid of it for a day or two. But

what do you think this dreadful woman had done? She had taken her child

into our grass-piece for two reasons: first, she had observed a huge

ants’ nest at the foot of one of the trees; and, secondly, she knew that

the grass was in a certain stage of its growth when it destroys it to be

touched; so the gates are fastened up, and the long blades of grass left

alone to grow six feet high!

On her way to the tree she picked up a rusty reaping-hook, used by the

grass-cutters for mowing the grass, and also a piece of rope dropped by

them. We cannot tell whether she left home with this awful plan in her

head, or whether it was suggested to her by the sight of the great black

cone more than three feet high, where a whole colony of ants had

established themselves for many a long day; but when Clara reached this

spot, she used the reaping-hook to hack out a large hole in the middle

of the nest, and into this she deliberately put poor unfortunate Emmy,

throwing her one little striped blue and white garment down by the side

of the tree, where it was afterwards found, and then she fastened the

child securely into its frightful prison by tying the rope around its

body and passing it also round the tree. It is supposed that the

infuriated ants attacked the child instantly, and that their sharp

stings overcame her fear and dread of her mother so much, that she

probably screamed, and Clara may have thought her victim’s cries would

be heard, for she made a gag of leaves, and securely stuffed Emmy’s

little mouth with them. She then went away, to lead her usual idle, easy

life, leaving the miserable child to what she must have known would be a

certain, though slow and agonising, death. The sounds Jessie and I heard

were Emmy’s stifled wails. Oh, the poor little creature! I cannot bear

to think of what she must have endured, although so many years have

passed since then; but I have a vivid recollection of the pain which I

have often felt from one nip given by the strong pincers a large black

ant carries in front of him. Fancy being devoured by thousands of such

cruel bites! and yet that was Emmy’s fate, the punishment for a babyish

error.

Her little skeleton was not found for two or three days as you know; the

man who went to look for the reaping-hook he had lost made this awful

discovery; every scrap of flesh had been eaten off the child’s bones;

and if they had been bleaching there for a century, they could not have

been cleaner or whiter. Clara did not attempt to deny what she had done;

perhaps she had the sense to know any such denial would have been

useless. She had been seen to enter the grass-piece leading the sobbing

baby, and its poor little shirt lying at the foot of the tree, with the

smears of the sugar still on it, would have risen up in witness against

the savage mother. Her trial was a short one, and I can hardly describe

to you the state of excitement everyone was in whilst it lasted. She was

hung early one morning, and I think I may safely say that no criminal in

the world was ever greeted on the scaffold with such yells of

execration. The whole population of the town, and of all the surrounding

country assembled in the great open space where the gallows-tree was

planted; and I am told that there was but one feeling expressed by every

black or coloured person present, that no punishment was too heavy for

such deliberate cruelty. Clara met her death quite bravely, and never

expressed the least sorrow for her crime. The same spirit of sullen

defiance, which she had so often indulged in during happier times, stood

her instead of resignation or courage at this terrible moment. Her

wickedness was the more remarkable, as the negro women make the most

affectionate and devoted nurses, both to children and sick people. They

are very clever in this capacity, and as kindhearted as clever; so it is

no wonder that every negress in the island cried out in horror and

indignation against Clara.

_THE GRAVE BY THE RAKAIA._

I am afraid this will not be a very merry story; but I find that

children sometimes like to hear a sad tale, and they will certainly

learn as they grow older, that life is not all fun and laughter. It is

full of stories as sad and as true as this; but the bravest men have

often the tenderest hearts, and so, perhaps, the boldest and gayest of

my little friends may be touched by a tale of suffering and death.

One lovely spring morning in New Zealand I went out for a ride with my

husband: he wanted to look at what is called there an ‘out-station,’

that is, a hut far away from the homestead, and from all the bustle and

life which surrounds the woolsheds, sheep-yards, and accessories of a

prosperous settler’s new home in that new world. We left behind us the

paddocks of English grass and clover, the patches of oats for the

horses, my own little pet acre of wheat, grown expressly for my numerous

fowls and pigeons, the garden sloping down to the creek, the young

plantations whose growth we watched so anxiously, and whose enemy, the

strong north-west wind, was on this balmy morning slumbering peacefully

in his cave far away among the mountains. Going out for a ride in

England is a very different affair from a New Zealand excursion. _Here_,

you have only to coax papa to give the order to the groom, and then it

is all settled; you mount quietly and set off (quietly also, I hope,

though I rather doubt it). _There_, the first thing necessary was to

catch the horses. Sometimes they were out on the run, and it took a man

with a great stockwhip a long time to get them in: then they had to be

brushed and cleaned, and at last the saddles were put on, and we

started. I had the usual bag fastened to the pommel of my saddle, with a

new book, the last English papers, and some numbers of ‘Good Words,’ or

the ‘Leisure Hour,’ or the ‘Sunday at Home,’ for the poor lonely man

whom we were going to see. The moment we appeared in the verandah, all

the dogs set up a loud barking and jumping, each wanting to accompany

their master, but only steady old Hector was allowed to come. Garry, and

Queen, and Sharp, all pull at the chains which fasten them to their

kennels, and howl dismally. Nettle, my little terrier, comes out in the

verandah, stretching himself with a self-satisfied air, as much as to

say, ‘I know _I_ may come;’ but I can tell, by the coaxing expression of

his brown eyes, that he has secret misgivings, and his worst fears are

soon realised by my carrying him off to the cook to be taken care of and

consoled during my absence. Then, as soon as the question about the dogs

is settled, I have to make it known to the fowls and ducks, which

surround me instantly, that I have no intention of giving them a second

breakfast; and I have to elude the affectionate caresses of the pet

calves, who leave their favourite amusement of trying to pull the

clothes off the line, to come and playfully butt at me. ‘Julia’ is

getting too big for these games, and she tried to kill me once by

running, with her head down, between my horse’s forelegs, just as I was

mounting, causing it to rear, and throw me off again.

However, we surmounted all these little difficulties on this particular

morning, and set off; the horses caracolling with sheer high spirits as

we walked them down the paddock; Hector frisking about more like a puppy

than an elderly colley of great experience; and we ourselves saying

every now and then, ‘Is not this delicious.’ There is such a sense of

freedom in the open country, such freshness and brightness in the

feeling of the air; it is warm without being oppressive, cool without a

chill. Before we had gone 300 yards from the house there was a wide

creek to be jumped, and our horses were so clever that they always knew

exactly where the banks were sound, and would not cross anywhere except

at the place they thought best. As we cantered up the sunny flat which

stretched behind the house, and wound among the low downs for miles, we

startled hundreds of sheep and lambs who were feeding on the young

undergrowth of _blue_ grass which lay sheltered beneath the tall waving

tussocks. The lambs were so wild and so strong, that, the moment they

saw or heard us, the whole flock would make for the nearest hill; and I

have often watched a tiny newborn lamb keeping up with its mother,

jumping from rock to rock like a goat. I delighted to see them at play;

if we rode very softly round a corner, we sometimes came upon a large

semicircle of old sheep standing gravely together, just like mammas at a

party, watching their children amusing themselves and in the open space

there were perhaps several hundred white lambs, jumping, frisking, and

bounding about; butting at each other, running round and round, chasing

one another. Our appearance caused a startled silence for half a moment,

and then the whole flock would be off like a flash of lightning, amid

much calling and answering from young and old, whilst Hector gazed in

his master’s face, asking with speaking eyes, if he should go and bring

them all back?

We cantered gaily along till we came to the foot of a range of hills;

followed the sheep track which led us across a low saddle, through

another valley, across a higher range; and then we dropped down to the

most lonely place I ever saw in my life. The downs, which we had

hitherto crossed, were succeeded by gaunt bare hills stretching away as

far as the eye could reach, rising higher and higher till the snowy

range stood out sharp and clear from the glorious blue sky. We were on

the borders of the ‘back country,’ a vague term used to denote the

inferior land behind that which has already been taken up for

sheep-runs. There were several thousand sheep probably among these

desolate hills, but they had gone up to the higher ranges for their

summer pasture, and the stillness was oppressive. Not a tree broke the

monotony of the yellow tussocks, or brown and gray rocks, not a twitter

or chirrup could be heard, only the startled cry of a woodhen, or

‘weka,’ gliding swiftly from its cover in a flax bush.

We had ridden for a few miles along the high bank of the Rakaia, a

river, or rather a roaring torrent, gushing from the snowy mountains;

our path for sometime had followed a narrow strip of flat land which

separated the foot of the hills from the stream, when I noticed a little

enclosure, close under a terraced bank about eight feet high. A few

minutes’ canter brought us to it, and then I saw it was a wooden fence

surrounding a grave. On the opposite bank of the river was a settlement,

or ‘home station,’ and we could hear the dogs barking, and the men’s

voices; but these sounds only made the solitude and loneliness of the

spot where we stood more oppressive. The bright sunshine did not even

touch it, for the shadow of a great mountain fell across and made the

air chill. Involuntarily whispering I asked, ‘Why did they bury the poor

fellow out here in this desolate spot, away from everybody and

everything,’ and then F. told me the tale I am going to tell you.

A few years ago, in what is now called ‘the early days’ of the colony, a

young surveyor came out to try his fortune in the new country. He was

very much liked, knew his profession thoroughly, and got on as well as

possible. He had just time to write home to the loving friends left

behind, to tell them how happy he was, and how bright his prospects

seemed in this fresh young world, when he received an order from the

Government to start on a long journey to survey this very ‘back

country.’ He was to be well paid for his work, and at each of the

distant stations where he intended to put up, he was sure of the most

cordial welcome. F. saw him as he was starting on this journey, whose

end was here, and he described him as being full of health and spirits.

In those days any thing like an enclosure was very rare, even near a

house, and throughout his expedition the young man had many difficulties

to contend with. When he reached a station the only way of securing the

horse he rode and the packhorse which carried the tin case with his

papers, his saddle-bags, &c., was to tether them by a long rope, which

was fastened to a flax bush or Ti-ti palm. Now the New Zealand horses

are very clever and very cunning; they soon know when they have a ‘new

chum’ to deal with; and these two horses were the plague of the young

surveyor’s life. When he awoke in the morning his first thought was

whether they had escaped, and he too often found that, in spite of his

precautions over night, the words with which his host generally greeted

him were, ‘Well, your horses are off.’ There was nothing for it but to

track them, and by availing himself of the experience of the older hands

around him, the truants were always recovered; but, though many an hour

was wasted in these pursuings, the early winter days of June found him

hurrying back to Christchurch with the materials for his report all

collected.

He had reached a station about ten miles from this spot where we stood,

and distant about seventy miles from the town. From thence the horses

once more escaped; but a shepherd, belonging to the homestead I have

mentioned on the opposite bank of the river, came with a message early

the next morning, and said that he had seen two strange horses, whose

appearance he described, feeding quietly among a ‘mob’ on their flat. It

was a lovely, bright winter’s day, and the surveyor determined to walk

over the hills to this homestead, catch his horses, cross the river, and

sleep there that night, making his final stage to Christchurch next day.

His host promised to send his valise and papers down to town to meet

him, on a dray which was just starting by a longer route, and the poor

fellow set off full of health and spirits, with a crust of bread and a

flask of cold tea in his pocket. He sent everything down by the dray

except a little notebook, took a flax stick in his hand, and with a

cheery good-bye started fairly off, whistling as he stepped out. His

host’s parting words were an injunction to him not to dawdle on the way,

and a warning of how soon these bright short winter days turn into a

dark and often foggy afternoon.

That was the last glimpse which anyone had of poor Charlie —— in life.

The drayman took his things down to town, deposited them at one of the

rude little wooden publichouses which in those days were called hotels,

and returned home. A week later people began to ask each other, ‘Have

you heard anything of Charlie ——?’ No one had seen him since those

friendly eyes had watched him round the corner of the last turning, and

then lost sight of him for ever. Inquiries were made at the homestead on

the banks of the Rakaia, which resulted in the discovery that he had

never arrived there: his horses were still feeding in the sheltered

valley where the shepherd had seen them. It took only a short time to

organise a regular search along the track between the stations: this

continued for two days without even a sign being found to show that any

human being had ever trodden those desolate hills. On the third morning,

just such a bright, sparkling day as the one on which Charlie —— set

out, the dogs came whimpering and whining back to their master’s side.

Colleys are not of any use as sleuth hounds; they are only wise and

learned about sheep; but they showed the instinctive uneasiness in the

neighbourhood of a sudden or violent death which all the nobler brutes

feel. Still there were many hours of patient search before the men came

upon what was not far from them when first the dogs returned from their

mad gambols to walk soberly at their masters’ heels.

There, below this little terrace, which he could have jumped down

without injury, was a weather-stained, rain-sodden body in Charlie ——’s

clothes. It lay on its face, and underneath it, safe and dry, was the

little pocket book: the arms were extended, and the hands much cut and

torn; but what was more shocking than all was to find that _both_ the

legs were broken. Rough strong hands, whose touch became gentle as a

mother’s through the magic of pity, turned the poor stiffened figure

over and tried to close the wide-staring eyes gazing sightlessly up into

the bright heaven above. Some of the party remained to watch, whilst

others recrossed the river to fetch picks and spades. The short

afternoon was hardly long enough to give time for a grave to be dug,

wide as well as deep, for those frozen arms could not be bent, but, just

as darkness closed in, the sorrowful task was finished, and the mourners

returned slowly and sadly to light, and warmth, and the sound of human

voices, leaving him who had specially delighted in all these things,

lying in his lonely grave. After the supper-tea, with which a New

Zealand day ‘up-country’ is closed, they drew round the fire, having

first packed up carefully his watch, a lock of his hair, and a tuft of

grass which had been held tight in one clenched hand, to be sent home to

his relations. Before the little pocket book was added to the collection

it was examined, and was found to contain the history of those sad days.

The first entry, in trembling pencil strokes, was dated the morning

after the day on which he had left the distant station; it told briefly

how the accident had happened. He had lost his way and wandered about

all day. He tried to keep within sound of the waters of the Rakaia, as

he knew his destination lay on its opposite bank, and at last to his

great joy he saw the lights and heard the sounds of a homestead. A more

experienced traveller would have ‘camped’ under a flax bush and

‘coo-éd,’ or waited till the moon rose, or in fact done anything but

what poor Charlie did, which was to hurry on, tired and footsore,

through the pitchy darkness, stumbling at every second step, till he

walked over the short but abrupt descent beneath which his poor body was

found. He wrote at first with hope; he said he had waited for a gleam of

light to see where he was, for he found he could not move either of his

legs; he felt them snap like sticks, he wrote; but he meant to try and

drag himself up the little terrace so as to be more easily seen, and he

must have made the attempt by the state of his hands and clothes. There

was only one more intelligible and connected entry dated the next day.

He had spent all the intervening hours in trying to better his position,

and to attract the attention of those on the other side of the river. He

trusted to a shepherd passing on his way to a boundary; alas! the river

was sufficient boundary for miles along its banks, and no shepherd was

likely to come that way. He wrote that he had shrieked and screamed for

help till his voice was quite gone; that the anguish he endured made him

pray for a speedy death; and that, before the night, whose piercing cold

he felt sure he could not again survive, he intended to exert all his

remaining strength to turn over on his face, partly to keep the book dry

in his breast, partly to prevent the hawks from tearing out his eyes.

Then came a few words saying, he had suffered much from thirst, an adieu

to his mother more pathetic in its brief good night than pages of

leave-taking, a prayer for a speedy end to his life of torture, and his

initials scrawled over the page. Soon after tracing these he must have

died.

I heard of one more such accident whilst I was in New Zealand, and that

was to a poor shepherd who went to give what is called a ‘drafting

notice’ to the next run. You are obliged to send and tell all your

neighbours when you muster your sheep, at shearing and other times, so

that any which may have strayed on to your feeding grounds may be

claimed by their rightful owners. Each sheep has a device stamped on it

every year after it has been shorn; this is called the ‘brand;’ besides

which a little mark is put on each ear, so you can easily tell your own

sheep at a glance; indeed, I have heard of a celebrated colley, who was

supposed to know his master’s brand, and to be able to pick the sheep

belonging to him out of a mixed mob! Well, this shepherd, ‘Joe’ by name,

never came back; but it happened that just then there was a great rush

to some wonderful Gold fields near, and it was no uncommon thing for a

shepherd to go out in the morning, and, instead of returning, send a

message to say he had gone to the diggings; so, although no such message

came from Joe, his master never doubted but that he had started to look

for a fortune in the wintry torrent of a New Zealand river.

Months afterwards a lad was eel-fishing in a creek which ran between the

two stations, and as he strolled along its banks looking for a deep hole

wherein to cast his simple tackle—a few yards of strong twine and a

large hook, baited with a bit of mutton—he came to a new place where the

banks had been washed away by a recent heavy fresh, and a splendid basin

formed. Here he prepared to throw in a line, fasten it to a flax bush,

and then go on to search for another favourable spot. The water was

clear, and on the shining shingle which paved the little pool he saw

some white bones. At first he thought of a missing bullock of his

father’s, and laying down at the edge of the stream, with a flax stick

in his hand, he tried to drag or push the bones into a shallow place

where he could reach them, but to his horror, the weight of his own body

leaning on an overhanging bush seemed to dislodge some more bones, which

had caught in its thick branches, and first a skeleton hand, and then a

foot, dropped into the bright sparkling water. The boy told me the story

himself, and described very simply and forcibly how he had felt as if

the whole thing was a ghastly dream; for in New Zealand one is seldom

brought face to face with anything worse than a lamb which has met with

an untimely fate; and to this boy, who had left England as a child, and

lived a free pastoral, life, almost removed from the knowledge of death,

these grim bones were very dreadful.

He stood in perplexity wondering if he could find his way back again

exactly to the same spot, when his eye was caught by a fluttering rag on

a thorny shrub near. He disentangled it and examined it carefully, and

then there flashed upon his mind, the distinct recollection of Joe the

shepherd having worn a flannel shirt of this peculiar kind, for he well

remembered having ‘chaffed’ him about its staring pattern of brown

foxes’ heads on a scarlet ground. He quickly returned for help to the

home station, and that evening poor Joe’s remains were collected in an

empty flour sack, and buried by the side of the stream. His skull,

easily recognised by a peculiar enormous tooth, of which he was very

proud as being a sort of _lusus naturæ_, was higher up on the steep

hill-side, and his tobacco-pouch and pipe were found a little way off.

It was then remembered that the evening he left for home a dense and

sudden fog had come on, and, as he was found far from the right track,

he must have lost his way, made a false step in the dark, and probably

broken his neck. He must at any rate have so injured himself by a fall,

as to be incapable of moving, for otherwise there was no reason why he

should not have waited till morning and then retraced his steps.

This story was told to me on my asking why a certain hill, which I very

often passed in my rides, was called ‘Golgotha.’ The shepherds had given

it that name ever since the discovery of poor Joe’s skull on its

pathless and slippery sides.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

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