[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 138.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, AUGUST 21, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
HOLIDAYS IN CAMP.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.
In the United States, even in the coolest, most northerly portion,
the summers are long and hot; the July days are scorching and the
nights are suffocating in the crowded cities and larger towns; with
August comes a little change, but then come the exhausting ‘dog-days,’
when, though the mercury will not run so high in the thermometer, the
atmosphere is as unpleasant as if it were still July.
Those who can afford it—and many who cannot do so, but fancy they must
do as their wealthy neighbours do—begin in June to flit to seaside,
mountain, or Springs hotel, where they pay as high a rent for a tiny
room as would give them a whole house in town. Here the ladies and
children stay for such a time as suits them, or as suits papa’s purse.
If the hotel chosen is within a reasonable distance of the men’s places
of business, they will flock there on Saturday night, and hasten away
early on Monday morning. At some resorts, certain trains or boats have
the local name, for the season, of ‘husbands’ train’ or boat, as the
case may be. The maidens who have no lover to look for at this time
are on the alert to see what ‘new men’ Messrs So-and-so will bring
with them this Saturday; for there is an appalling dearth of eligible
men—eligible, if only as escorts or partners at tennis or cotillon at
most of these summer resorts. Between Monday and Saturday the ladies
amuse themselves with fancy-work, gossip, reading of light novels,
fault-finding with the meals, or with the noise other people’s children
make, and flirting with the men who, taking their own holiday, are
remaining at the hotel for a week or two. Then, too, there is usually,
in so mixed an assembly as must necessarily be found at even the most
select hotel, at least one person who has something queer, perhaps
no worse than simply great eccentricity, about her, and so furnishes
material to her fellow-boarders for endless speculation and gossip.
Hotel-life is so distasteful to many and so expensive, that there
has of late arisen another way of summering—camping-out; but not
necessarily tenting, though some prefer that. All over the northern
portion of the land there are springing up like mushrooms roughly-built
cottages, which are only better than a tent in that they are
water-tight, have hard floors, and are not apt to be blown down at the
first stiff gale. These cottages are often unpainted, or but slightly
so, and have two rooms, small, down-stairs, and one large or two
small rooms above; if the latter, the partition is rarely more than
six feet high. When the campers are a mixed party, not simply father,
mother, and children, the young men sleep down in the living-room,
and the up-stairs beds are curtained off by curtains or screens. The
cottage is always erected near water of some sort, old ocean having
the preference, and a pinewood on the edge of a pond or lake is also
popular. I remember one such spot, in Maine, where some friends of mine
passed a very delightful vacation; it was a pine-grove not many miles
from the city of Augusta, on the very edge of one of those hundreds of
fresh-water lakelets which dot Maine so thickly. The owner of the land
had erected five of these simple houses, and rented them to persons
of the highest respectability, one being a High School teacher, one a
Universalist minister, one an editor, and so on. The rental was very
moderate—at the rate of a dollar a day for those who only wished to
remain one or two weeks; but at a very much less figure if they took
a cottage for the two summer months. This price included the use of
all the ice they needed for the preservation of their food, and a
rowboat which would hold eight persons. The campers brought their own
furniture; and it is really surprising how few things one actually
needs to live in comfort for a month. The pond which bears the Indian
name—more easy to pronounce than to write—of Cobbasacontee, is well
stocked with fish, and is dotted all over with pretty little islands,
which are capital places to land and build a fire to cook the fish
you have just caught. If you have taken the precaution to bring with
you a coffee-pot as well as your frying-pan, and some coffee, sugar,
condensed milk, pepper, salt, and buttered bread, you can soon have a
meal fit for a king—a hungry king.
How well I remember one such excursion I made two years ago! There were
five in the party, none very young, and none at all in love with any
one present. We two ladies were afraid to trust ourselves in the tiny
sailboat which made part of our fleet of two, so we and my friend’s
nephew started off in the rowboat. Hardly had we got well out, however,
when the sailor of the party found that his sail was not fitted to
the boat it was in; and nothing would suit the men but that sails
and oars must change places while passengers sat still; and in spite
of our unspoken qualms and our glances of mistrust slily exchanged
with one another, we had to go under full sail after all. And how
the wind did justify its title of ‘fickle as a woman,’ that morning!
For a few moments we would scud over the water in a rather alarming
style, considering that our skiff was capable of holding only about
six persons; then, after having dipped our gunwale quite as often as I
liked, the breeze would vanish, the sail would hang limp and lifeless,
and we were becalmed. The other boat was soon far ahead; and while
we were yet within sight of our camp, the occupants had reached our
destination, and were hauling in the fish with most provoking rapidity.
During one of our spasmodic, rapid skims down the pond, we disturbed
a mother-loon. Laughing at us in the strange, weird manner peculiar
to that sort of water-fowl, she swam down the shore, trying to allure
us to chase her, and not believe that there was a nest full of little
loons, less hardy than the young one which was paddling along beside
her, among those long sedges from which she had started out with such
haste as our boat drew near them. For as much as a quarter of mile
she lured us—so _she_ put it—away from her home, answering us when
we tried to imitate her tones. Did you ever hear a loon laugh in the
dusk stillness of a warm summer night? It has a queer, eerie sound—a
lonesome, unhappy sound. After much tacking and drifting, we came at
last to a little island where two of my friend’s city neighbours, a
minister and a learned judge, were camping in a tiny cottage, set in a
most lovely spot, a tangle of underbrush and blackberry vines growing
up to the very doorway. Little brown squirrels—so tame that at our
approach they ran _down_ the trees to see what we were doing in their
domain—sprang about from tree to tree, or scampered over the soft
grass, quite aware that no one would harm _them_ while fishes were
so plenty; birds twittered and sung; Eden could not have been more
peaceful. There are scores of such islands to be hired or bought for a
mere song.
Did you ever inspect a house kept by the average man? I have heard that
men when camping are rarely in the habit of washing dishes any oftener
than they can help; and since I saw the little kitchen attached to that
cottage, I am sure some men, some learned men, don’t worry over such
trifles as greasy pans or grimy tins! The judge and his comrade had
gone out for a day’s fishing; we had met them on our way down, and
they cordially bade us make ourselves perfectly at home in their abode.
We did so. They sent us a message, a few days later, that they wished
the ladies would visit their house again. I know they hardly recognised
their own cups and saucers when they went to get supper that night!
The furnishing of most of these cottages is very primitive.
Comfortable beds are a _sine quâ non_ to those who are accustomed to
hair-mattresses and pliant springs, and one can sleep sweetly and
restfully on a bed of dry clean hay. It is not much trouble to carry
empty ticks, and dry grass or, still better, pine-needles can be had
for the gathering. Blankets and thick quilts must be on hand, for, no
matter what the days are, it is sure to be chilly the moment the sun
is well out of sight. A cot-bed is also necessary—for friends who, in
town, cannot find time to visit one, will gladly travel fifty miles
to camp a day or two with their cronies who have a cottage—not only
for use at night, but to be converted into a lounge in the daytime;
and of course there will be hammocks to sling under the trees or on
the piazza. There is always a farmer near who will gladly sell—at city
prices—butter, eggs, and milk; and as most of these lakes are well
stocked with fish, black bass, pickerel, trout, or perch—or if the camp
is on the seashore, there are mackerel, lobsters, clams, and greedy,
open-mouthed sculpin, which can devour more bait without being hooked
than any ten other fish, but which make a fairly good chowder when
enough are caught—no one needs suffer from hunger.
Several pretty groves on the Kennebec and Penobscot rivers are utilised
for camp-meetings. Here, for a week, usually in the latter part of
August—when the farmers are done haying—or the beginning of September,
religious services are held morning, noon, and night, popular preachers
or exhorters being invited to take part. The grounds immediately around
the spot where the services are held are generally owned by a stock
Company, and the regulations for the preservation of good order are
very strict, and rigidly enforced: lights must be out at a given hour;
unseemly mirth or secular music is not tolerated on Sunday; the sale
of intoxicating liquors is not permitted at any time, nor the use of
them in private tents or cottages, if it can be detected by the patrol
force always on hand. These rules are absolutely necessary to prevent
the freedom of camp-life from degenerating into license; for many young
folks go to camp-meeting who care very little for the religious part of
the affair.
The Methodists have the largest number of camp-grounds; but other
denominations are more or less fond of them. I once visited a
Spiritualist camp-ground on one of these Maine rivers; and a damper,
more ghostly spot could not well be imagined; everything and everybody
looked mouldy, and one might, without much stretch of the imagination,
expect to see a materialised spirit pop up anywhere. I understand,
however, that there were never any ‘manifestations’ at camp; it was
only held for the dissemination of their peculiar faith.
A party of about a dozen boys and four or five men have gone for the
past six years to a little island in a New Hampshire lake not far from
Lake Winnipisaukee, which is a favourite summer resort on account of
its beautiful scenery, to pass the months of July and August. Their
temporary dwelling is very primitive, not much more than a roof and
three walls, for they intend to spend all their time in the open air.
Every Sunday afternoon these boys have held religious services; they
have a small parlour organ, and form a choir themselves. They intend
this year, if possible, to have their choir properly vested, for
_their_ service is according to the Book of Common Prayer. There is not
a church of any sort within a long distance, for this portion of the
State is rather thinly settled. It is of New Hampshire that residents
of other States say that the farmers there have to sharpen the noses
of the sheep, in order that they may crop the grass between the rocks,
as New Hampshire is all rocks. The natives attend the boys’ service
as a treat, though, as the church is not very well known there, they
are not quite sure that they approve of the ceremonial. The service is
not always lay, however; several distinguished clergy and one or two
bishops have visited this little camp and have preached for them. One
of the boys told me that during these six years there had been but one
Sunday when it rained so hard that they had to hold service in their
hut. Doubtless, some day there will be a permanent chapel there.
And oh, what good times the little ones have at these camps! No fine
clothes to be kept clean; no attractive but forbidden alley children to
be avoided; no danger of being run over; no cross dogs to fear; and no
venturing out in the water without the knowledge of mamma or nurse, for
here no one is too busy to have one eye on the little mischiefs; but as
much paddling about on the brink of the lake or ocean as would delight
any small heart. And then, too, for mamma’s side of the question: no
candy-shops to draw the pennies out of her pocket, or the tears from
disappointed eyes; no coaxing ‘Can’t we go play with So-and-so?’ no
scarlet fever or measles to be caught from some neighbour’s progeny;
no evil influences to be feared for the older boys and girls; and no
parties to be made for or attended by the children.
Mother Nature is a great restorer, and a few days of uninterrupted
intercourse with her do more to renew the wasted health or relaxed
energies, than as many weeks of dress and gaiety at a fashionable
resort; and so sensible people are becoming more and more convinced.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER XLI.
Before the yelling mob could close again round Harry Noel’s fallen
body, with their wild onslaught of upraised cutlasses, more dangerous
to one another in the thick press than to the prostrate Englishman or
to poor fainting and unconscious Nora, another hasty clatter of horse’s
hoofs burst upon them from behind, up the hilly pathway, and a loud,
clear, commanding voice called out in resonant tones that overtopped
and stilled for a moment the tumultuous murmur of negro shrieks: ‘In
the Queen’s name—in the Queen’s name, hold; disperse there!’
That familiar adjuration acted like magic on the fierce and half-naked
throng of ignorant and superstitious plantation negroes. It was indeed
to them a mighty word to conjure with, that loud challenge in the name
of the great distant Queen, whose reality seemed as far away from them
and as utterly removed from their little sphere as heaven itself. They
dropped their cutlasses instantly, for a brief moment of doubt and
hesitation; a few voices still shouted fiercely, ‘Kill him—kill him!’
and then a unanimous cry arose among all the surging mass of wild and
scowling black humanity: ‘Mr Hawtorn, Mr Hawtorn! Him come in Missis
Queen name, so gib us warnin’. Now us gwine to get justice. Mr Hawtorn,
Mr Hawtorn!’
But while the creole-born plantation hands thus welcomed eagerly what
they looked upon, in their simplicity, as the Queen’s direct mouthpiece
and representative, Louis Delgado, his face distorted with rage, and
his arms plying his cutlass desperately, frowned and gnashed his
teeth more fiercely than ever with rage and disappointment; for his
wild African passion was now fully aroused, and like the tiger that
has once tasted blood, he would not be balked of the final vengeful
delight of hacking his helpless victim slowly to pieces in a long-drawn
torture. ‘Missis Queen!’ he cried contemptuously, turning round and
brandishing his cutlass with savage joy once more before the eyes of
his half-sobered companions—‘Missis Queen, him say dar! Ha, ha, what
him say dat for? What de Queen to me, I want you tell me? I doan’t care
for Queen, or judge, or magistrate, or nuffin! I gwine to kill all de
white men togedder, in all Trinidad, de Lard helpin’ me!’
As he spoke, Edward Hawthorn jumped hastily from his saddle, and
advanced with long strides towards the fiercely gesticulating and
mumbling African. The plantation negroes, cowed and tamed for the
moment by Edward’s bold and resolute presence, and overawed by the
great name of that mysterious, unknown, half-mythical Queen Victoria,
beyond the vast illimitable ocean, fell back sullenly to right and
left, and made a little lane through the middle of the crowd for the
Queen’s representative to mount the staircase. Edward strode up,
without casting a single glance on either side, to where Delgado stood
savagely beside Harry Noel’s fallen body, and put his right hand with
an air of indisputable authority upon the frantic African’s uplifted
arm. Delgado tried to shake him off suddenly with a quick, adroit,
convulsive movement; but Edward’s grip was tight and vice-like, and
he held the black arm powerless in his grasp, as he spoke aloud a few
words in some unknown language, which sounded to the group of wondering
negroes like utter gibberish—or perhaps some strange spell with which
the representative of Queen Victoria knew how to conjure by some still
more potent and terrible obeah than even Delgado’s.
But Louis Delgado alone knew that the words were Arabic, and that
Edward Hawthorn grasped his arm: ‘In the name of Allah, the All-wise,
the most Powerful!’
At the sound of that mighty spell, a powerful one, indeed, to the
fierce, old, half-christianised Mohammedan, Delgado’s arm dropped
powerless to his trembling side, and he fell back, gnashing his teeth
like a bulldog balked of a fight, into the general mass of plantation
negroes. There he stood, dazed and stunned apparently, leaning up
sulkily against the piazza post, but speaking not a word to either
party for good or for evil.
The lull was but for a minute; and Edward Hawthorn saw at once that
if he was to gain any permanent advantage by the momentary change
of feeling in the fickle negro mob, he must keep their attention
distracted for a while, till their savage passions had time to cool a
little, and the effect of this unwonted orgy of fire and bloodshed had
passed away before the influence of sober reflection. A negro crowd is
like a single creature of impulse—swayed to and fro a hundred times
more easily than even a European mob by every momentary passing wave of
anger or of feeling.
‘Take up Mr Noel and Miss Dupuy,’ he said aside in his cool commanding
tone to the Orange Grove servants:—‘Mr Noel isn’t dead—I see him
breathing yet—and lay them on a bed and look after them, while I speak
to these angry people.’ Then he turned, mastering himself with an
effort for that terrible crisis, and taking a chair from the piazza,
he mounted it quickly, and began to speak in a loud voice, unbroken by
a single tremor of fear, like one addressing a public meeting, to the
great sea of wondering, upturned black faces, lighted up from behind in
lurid gleams by the red glare of the still blazing cane-houses.
‘My friends,’ he said, holding his hand before him, palm outward, in a
mute appeal for silence and a fair hearing, ‘listen to me for a moment.
I want to speak to you; I want to help you to what you yourselves are
blindly seeking. I am here to-night as Queen Victoria’s delegate and
representative. Queen Victoria has your welfare and interest at heart;
and she has sent me out to this island to do equal justice between
black man and white man, and to see that no one oppresses another by
force or fraud, by lawlessness or cunning. As you all know, I am in
part a man of your own blood; and Queen Victoria, in sending me out
to judge between you, and in appointing so many of your own race to
posts of honour here in Trinidad, has shown her wish to favour no one
particular class or colour to the detriment or humiliation of the
others. But in doing as I see you have done to-night—in burning down
factories, in attacking houses, in killing or trying to kill your own
employers, and helpless women, and men who have done no crime against
you except trying to protect your victims from your cruel vengeance—in
doing this, my friends, you have not done wisely. That is not the way
to get what you want from Queen Victoria.—What is it you want? Tell me
that. That is the first thing. If it is anything reasonable, the Queen
will grant it. What do you want from Queen Victoria?’
With one voice the whole crowd of lurid upturned black faces answered
loudly and earnestly: ‘Justice, justice!’
Edward paused a moment, with rhetorical skill, and looked down at
the mob of shouting lips with a face half of sternness and half of
benevolence. ‘My friends,’ he said again, ‘you shall have justice. You
haven’t always had it in the past—that I know and regret; but you
shall have it, trust me, henceforth in the future. Listen to me. I know
you have often suffered injustice. Your rights have not been always
respected, and your feelings have many times been ruthlessly trampled
upon. Nobody sympathises with you more fully than I do. But just
because I sympathise with you so greatly, I feel it my duty to warn you
most earnestly against acting any longer as you have been acting this
evening. I am your friend—you know I am your friend. From me, I trust,
you have never had anything less than equal justice.’
‘Dat’s true—dat’s true!’ rang in a murmuring wave of assent from the
eager listening crowd of negroes.
‘Well,’ Edward went on, lowering his tone to more persuasive accents,
‘be advised by me, then, and if you want to get what you ask from Queen
Victoria, do as I tell you. Disperse to-night quietly and separately.
Don’t go off in a body together and talk with one another excitedly
around your watch-fires about your wrongs and your grievances. Burn
no more factories and cane-houses. Attack no more helpless men and
innocent women. Think no more of your rights for the present. But go
each man to his own hut, and wait to see what Queen Victoria will do
for you.—If you continue foolishly to burn and riot, shall I tell you
in plain words what will happen to you? The governor will be obliged to
bring out the soldiers and the volunteers against you; they will call
upon you, as I call upon you now, in the Queen’s name, to lay down your
pistols and your guns and your cutlasses; and if you don’t lay them
down at once, they will fire upon you, and disperse you easily. Don’t
be deceived. Don’t believe that because you are more numerous—because
there are so many more of you than of the white men—you could conquer
them and kill them by main force, if it ever came to open fighting.
The soldiers, with their regular drill and their good arms and their
constant training, could shoot you all down with the greatest ease,
in spite of your numbers and your pistols and your cutlasses. I don’t
say this to frighten you or to threaten you; I say it as your friend,
because I don’t want you foolishly to expose yourselves to such a
terrible butchery and slaughter.’
A murmur went through the crowd once more, and they looked dubiously
and inquiringly toward Louis Delgado. But the African gave no sign and
made no answer; he merely stood sullenly still by the post against
which he was leaning; so Edward hastened to reassure the undecided mob
of listening negroes by turning quickly to the other side of the moot
question.
‘Now, listen again,’ he said, ‘for what I’m going to say to you now
is very important. If you will disperse, and go each to his own home,
without any further trouble or riot, I will undertake, myself, to go
to England on purpose for you, and tell Queen Victoria herself about
all your troubles. I will tell her that you haven’t always been justly
treated, and I’ll try to get new and better laws made in future for
you, under which you may secure more justice than you sometimes get
under present arrangements. Do you understand me? If you go home at
once, I promise to go across the sea and speak to Queen Victoria
herself on your behalf, over in England.’
The view of British constitutional procedure implied in Edward
Hawthorn’s words was not perhaps strictly accurate; but his negro
hearers would hardly have felt so much impressed if he had offered to
lay their grievances boldly at the foot of that impersonal entity,
the Colonial Office; while the idea that they were to have a direct
spokesman, partly of their own blood, with the Queen herself, flattered
their simple African susceptibilities and helped to cool their savage
anger. Like children as they are, they began to smile and show their
great white teeth in infantile satisfaction, as pleasantly as though
they had never dreamt ten minutes earlier of hacking Harry Noel’s body
fiercely into little pieces; and more than one voice cried out in
hearty tones: ‘Hoorrah for Mr Hawtorn! Him de black man fren’. Gib him
a cheer, boys! Him gwine to ’peak for us to Queen Victoria!’
‘Then promise me faithfully,’ Edward said, holding out his hand once
more before him, ‘that you’ll all go home this very minute and settle
down quietly in your own houses.’
‘We promise, sah,’ a dozen voices answered eagerly.
Edward Hawthorn turned anxiously for a moment to Louis Delgado. ‘My
brother,’ he said to him rapidly in Arabic, ‘this is your doing. You
must help me now to quiet the people you have first so fiercely and
so foolishly excited. Assist me in dispersing them, and I will try to
lighten for you the punishment which will surely be inflicted upon you
as ringleader, when this is all over.’
But Delgado, propped in a stony attitude against the great wooden post
of the piazza, answered still never a word. He stood there to all
appearance in stolid and sullen indifference to all that was passing so
vividly around him, with his white and bloodshot eyes staring vacantly
into the blank darkness that stretched in front of him, behind the
flickering light of the now collapsed and burnt-out cane-houses.
Edward touched him lightly on his bare arm. To his utter horror and
amazement, though not cold, it was soft and corpse-like, as in the
first hour of death, before rigidity and chilliness have begun to set
in. He looked up into the bloodshot eyes. Their staring balls seemed
already glazed and vacuous, utterly vacant of the fierce flashing
light that had gleamed from the pupils so awfully and savagely but ten
minutes before, as he brandished his cutlass with frantic yells above
Harry Noel’s fallen body. Two of the plantation negroes, attracted
by Edward’s evident recoil of horror, came forward with curiosity,
flinging down their cutlasses, and touched the soft cheeks, not with
the reverent touch which a white man feels always due to the sacredness
of death, but harshly and rudely, as one might any day touch a
senseless piece of stone or timber.
Edward looked at them with a pallid face of mute inquiry. The youngest
of the two negroes drew back for a second, overtaken apparently by a
superstitious fear, and murmured low in an awe-struck voice: ‘Him dead,
sah, dead—stone dead. Dead dis ten minute, since ever you begin to
’peak to de people, sah.’
He was indeed. His suppressed rage at the partial failure of his
deeply cherished scheme of vengeance on the hated white men, coming
so close upon his paroxysm of triumph over the senseless bodies of
Mr Dupuy and Harry Noel, had brought about a sudden fit of cardiac
apoplexy. The old African’s savage heart had burst outright with
conflicting emotions. Leaning back upon the pillar for support, as he
felt the blood failing within him, he had died suddenly and unobserved
without a word or a cry, and had stood there still, as men will often
stand under similar circumstances, propped up against the supporting
pillar, in the exact attitude in which death had first overtaken him.
In the very crisis of his victory and his defeat, he had been called
away suddenly to answer for his conduct before a higher tribunal than
the one with which Edward Hawthorn had so gently and forbearingly
threatened him.
The effect of this sudden catastrophe upon the impressionable minds of
the excited negroes was indeed immediate and overwhelming. Lifting up
their voices in loud wails and keening, as at their midnight wakes,
they cried tremulously one after another: ‘De Lard is against us—de
Lard is against us! Ebbery man to your tents, O Israel! De Lard hab
killed Delgado—hab killed Delgado—hab smitten him down, for de murder
him committed!’ To their unquestioning antique faith, it was the
visible judgment of heaven against their insurrection, the blood of
Theodore Dupuy and Harry Noel crying out for vengeance from the floor
of the piazza, like the blood of righteous Abel long before, crying out
for vengeance from the soil of Eden.
More than one of them believed in his heart, too, that the mysterious
words in the unknown language which Edward Hawthorn had muttered over
the old African were the spell that had brought down upon him before
their very eyes the unseen bolt of the invisible powers. Whether it
were obeah, or whether it were imprecation and solemn prayer to the God
of heaven, they thought within themselves, in their dim, inarticulate,
unspoken fashion, that ‘Mr Hawtorn word bring down de judgment dat very
minute on Louis Delgado.’
In an incredibly short space of time, the great crowd of black faces
had melted away as quickly as it came, and Edward Hawthorn was left
alone in the piazza, with none but the terrified servants of the Orange
Grove household to help him in his task or to listen to his orders. All
that night long, across the dark gorge and the black mango grove, they
could hear the terrified voices of the negroes in their huts singing
hymns, and crying aloud in strange prayers to God in heaven that the
guilt of this murder might not be visited upon their heads, as it had
been visited before their very eyes that night on Louis Delgado. To the
negro mind, the verdict of fate is the verdict of heaven.
‘Take up his body, too, and lay it down on the sofa,’ Edward said to
Uncle ’Zekiel, still beside himself with terror at the manifold horrors
of this tragical evening.
‘I doan’t can dare, sah,’ Uncle ’Zekiel answered tremulously—‘I doan’t
can dare lay me hand upon de corpse, I tellin’ you, sah. De finger ob
de Lard has smite Delgado. I doan’t dare to lift an’ carry him.’
‘One of you boys, then, come and help me,’ Edward cried, holding up the
corpse with one hand to keep it from falling.
But not one of them dared move a single step nearer to the terrible
awe-inspiring object.
At last, finding that no help was forthcoming on any hand, Edward
lifted up the ghastly burden all by himself in his own arms, and laid
it down reverently and gently on the piazza sofa. ‘It is better so,’ he
murmured to himself slowly and pitifully. ‘There will be no more blood
on either side shed at anyrate for this awful evening’s sorry business.’
And then at length he had leisure to turn back into the house itself
and make inquiries after Mr Dupuy and Harry and Nora.
WILD-BEES AND BEE-HUNTING.
There are, it is said, no fewer than twenty-seven genera, and one
hundred and seventy-seven species of bees, natives of Great Britain.
But one only of all these, the _Apis millifica_, or common honey-bee,
has been domesticated. Attempts have been made with others, especially
with the _bombus_, or humble-bee, but without any adequate success.
The frequent mention of honey in the Old Testament from the patriarchal
ages downward, and the description of Palestine as ‘a land flowing
with milk and honey,’ may well have raised the question whether the
honey was obtained from bees in a wild condition or in a state of
domestication. The weight of evidence is in favour of the former. In
the somewhat wandering life, as ‘strangers and pilgrims,’ which many of
the patriarchs led, bee-culture would have been very inconvenient, if
not impossible; and as honey was to be had in rich abundance simply for
the seeking, there would be little inducement to undertake unnecessary
cares and labours in the domestication of the native variety. There is
no question, however, as to the possibility of inducing wild bees to
accept domestication. In Cashmere and the north of India, the natives
have a simple and ready method of doing this: in building their houses,
they leave cavities in one of the walls having a sunny aspect, with
a small hole like that of a modern hive opening outwards. The inner
side of the wall is fitted with a frame of wood with a door attached.
A swarm of bees in search of a new home—or perhaps the pioneers who
are sent, a day or two before the actual swarming, to seek out a
dwelling-place—would be attracted by such an ‘open door,’ and the
family, or army, ten, twenty, or thirty thousand strong, would at once
take possession. The vacant space would soon be filled by the busy
workers; and the inmates of the house, having access to the store by
means of the open door, could move a comb or two at pleasure, without
distressing the bees, simply using the precaution of blowing in as much
smoke at the back as would cause the bees to fly out at the front.
English travellers report having seen the operation performed, and
the bees quietly return when the work was done. The plan has been
recommended for use in this country. It is at least practicable, if
not necessary. In dwelling-houses there might be risks, which would
not apply to farm-buildings and erections around a country house. But
if man has not utilised this plan, the bees themselves have acted upon
it. An instance of two within the writer’s own knowledge may not be
uninteresting.
I was the tenant of Rose Cottage, Brenchley, Kent, from 1853 to 1862.
The house—which has been considerably altered since—was well adapted
for such a purpose. The upper parts of the walls were formed, as is
common in that part of the county, externally of tiles on a framework
of wood, and internally of lath and plaster. In the cavities there
would be ample space for large stores of comb and honey. A swarm
of bees took possession of a portion of the front wall, having a
south-south-eastern aspect, entering their abode through a crevice
between the tiles just over one of the chamber windows. They held
possession for several years, and still held their own when I left
the cottage. As they never swarmed, it is almost certain there must
have been a large collection of honey; but for some reason or other,
chiefly, no doubt, on account of the difficulty of taking the honey
without injuring the house and exposing the whole family to the attacks
of the bees, I profited in no way by their busy labours.
Less than ten years ago, when making a call at the old farmhouse,
Penrhos, Lyonshall, Herefordshire, my attention was directed to a
colony of bees which had made a settlement in the upper part of one
of the walls of the house. I suggested the removal of a portion of
the inner wall, and predicted a large ‘find.’ After some time, this
advice was acted on; but the farmer adopted a plan which I should have
strongly deprecated—the plan of destroying with brimstone the entire
bee community. The store of honey was so great that every available
keeler and pan in the house was filled to the extent of nearly two
hundredweight.
Two other instances may be cited, as reported in the _West Surrey
Times_. One is that of an extraordinary ‘take’ of honey from the walls
of the _Hautboy and Fiddle Inn_, Ockham, Surrey. The outer walls of
the house are about three feet in thickness, and at the very top of
the third story a colony of bees had established themselves, holding
undisturbed possession for a number of years. At length the innkeeper
determined to find out their whereabouts. After a diligent search
under the roof, a piece of comb was found. Descending to one of the
upper bedrooms, chisel and hammer went to work, and a square of about
two feet was opened in the front wall; here a large mass of comb was
discovered; and after fumigating the bees, about one hundred and twenty
pounds of honey were secured. Another and still more extraordinary
‘take’ of honey was secured at Winter’s Hall, Bramley, Surrey, the seat
of Mr George Barrett. Some bees had long held possession of a space
between the ceiling of the coachhouse and the granary: on effecting an
entrance, about three hundredweight of honey was secured.
In some countries the honey-bee still roams at will and uncontrolled;
this is notably the case in the western parts of the United States
and Canada. The discovery of their natural hives for the purpose of
securing the honey is the calling of a class of persons known as
bee-hunters. A writer of considerable repute thus speaks on this
subject: ‘The beautiful forests in which we were encamped abounded
in bee-trees; that is to say, trees in the decayed trunks of which
wild-bees had established their hives. It is surprising in what
countless swarms the bees have overspread the Far West within but a
moderate number of years. The Indians consider them the harbinger
of the white man, as the buffalo is of the red man, and say that in
proportion as the bee advances, the Indian and the buffalo retire. We
are always accustomed to associate the hum of the beehive with the
farmhouse and the flower-garden, and to consider those industrious
little animals as connected with the busy haunts of men; and I am told
that the wild-bee is seldom to be met with at any great distance from
the frontier. They have been the heralds of civilisation, steadily
preceding it, as it advanced from the Atlantic borders; and some of
the ancient (early) settlers of the West pretend to give the very year
when the honey-bee first crossed the Mississippi. The Indians, with
surprise, found the mouldering trees of their forests suddenly teeming
with ambrosial sweets; and nothing, I am told, can exceed the greedy
relish with which they banquet for the first time upon the unbought
luxury of the wilderness. At present, the honey-bee swarms in myriads
in the noble groves and forests that skirt and intersect the prairies
and extend along the alluvial bottoms of the rivers. It seems to me as
if these beautiful regions answer literally to the description of the
land of promise, “a land flowing with milk and honey;” for the rich
pasturage of the prairies is calculated to sustain herds of cattle as
countless as the sands upon the seashore; while the flowers with which
they are enamelled render them a very paradise for the nectar-seeking
bee.’
A bee-hunt must be a very exciting adventure, and, as most people
would think, attended with considerable risk; but the ingenuity of
the settlers, and especially of the bee-hunters, who make a living
of the business, is equal to the occasion. Let us, for the sake of
greater brevity, suppose a case, which is, however, little other than
a narrative of simple facts. A party sets out in quest of a bee-tree—a
tree in the cavity of which a colony of bees have established
themselves. The party is headed by a veteran bee-hunter, a tall lank
fellow, with his homespun dress hanging loosely about him, and a hat
which might be taken for a beeskep. A man similarly attired attends
him, with a long rifle on his shoulder. The rest of the party, six in
number, are armed with axes and rifles. Thus accoutred, they are ready
for any sport, or even more serious business. Reaching an open glade
on the skirts of the forest, the party halts, and the leader advances
to a low bush, on which he places a piece of honeycomb. This is a
lure for the bees. In a very short time several are humming about it
and diving into the cells. Laden with honey, they rise into the air
and dart off in a straight line with almost the velocity of a bullet.
The hunters watch attentively the course they take, and set off in the
same direction, still watching the course of the bees. In this way the
tree where the bees have made their home is reached. But it will often
happen, as may be suspected, that the bees will elude the sight of the
most vigilant hunter, and the party may wander about without succeeding
in finding any treasure. Another method is then adopted: a few bees
are caught and placed in a small box with a glass top, having at the
bottom a small piece of honeycomb. When they have satisfied themselves
with honey, two or three are allowed to escape, the hunters taking
care to observe the direction of their flight and to follow them as
rapidly as possible. When these bees are lost sight of, two or three
others are set free and their course followed, and so on until the
identical tree has been reached. It sometimes happens that one set of
bees take an opposite course to their predecessors. The hunter knows
by this that he has passed the tree, or otherwise missed his mark, and
he retraces his steps and follows the lead of the unerring bees. The
sight of the bee is so strong and keen that it can descry its home at
an immense distance. It is a well-ascertained fact that if a bee be
caught on a flower at any given distance south of its home, and then
be taken in a close box an equal distance north of it, the little
creature, when set free, after flying in a circle for a moment, will
take a straight course to its identical tree. Therefore, the hunter who
has intelligence, patience, and perseverance on his side is sure to be
successful in the end.
It not unfrequently happens that when in the immediate neighbourhood of
the tree, the hunter may not be able to distinguish the particular one
he is searching for from the rest, as the entrance to the bee-castle
is commonly many feet above the ground. He is not then at the end of
his resources. A small fire is kindled, and upon a piece of stone or
other suitable material made hot, some honeycomb is placed; the smell
will at once induce the whole colony of bees to come down from their
citadel, when the hunters proceed with their axes to bring down the
tree. A vigorous writer thus describes the proceedings, when the party
of hunters had traced the honey-laden bees to their hive in the hollow
trunk of a blasted oak, into which, after buzzing about for a time,
they entered at a hole about sixty feet from the ground: ‘Two of the
bee-hunters now plied their axes vigorously at the foot of the tree,
to level it with the ground. The mere spectators and amateurs in the
meantime drew off to a cautious distance, to be out of the way of the
falling of the tree and the vengeance of its inmates. The jarring
blows of the axe seemed to have no effect in alarming or agitating
this most industrious community; they continued to ply at their usual
occupations; some arriving full-freighted into port, others sallying
forth on new expeditions, like so many merchantmen in a money-making
metropolis, little suspicious of impending bankruptcy and downfall.
Even a loud crack, which announced the disrupture of the trunk, failed
to divert their attention from the intense pursuit of gain. At length,
down came the tree with a tremendous crash, bursting open from end to
end, and displaying all the hoarded treasures of the commonwealth.
One of the hunters immediately ran up with a wisp of lighted hay,
as a defence against the bees. The latter, however, made no attack,
and sought no revenge; they seemed stupefied by the catastrophe and
unsuspicious of its cause, remaining crawling and buzzing about the
ruins, without offering us any molestation.’
When the tree had been brought down, the whole party fell to with
spoon and hunting-knife to scoop out the combs with which the hollow
trunk was stored. A single tree has been known to yield from one
hundredweight to one and a half hundredweight.
‘Some of the combs were old and of a deep brown colour; others were
beautifully white, and the honey in their cells was almost limpid.
Such of the combs as were entire were placed in camp kettles, to be
conveyed to the encampment; those which had been broken by the fall
were devoured on the spot. Every stark bee-hunter was to be seen with a
rich morsel in his hand, dripping about his fingers, and disappearing
as rapidly as a cream tart before the holiday appetite of a schoolboy.’
Not in America alone, but in Africa also, the wild-bee is an object
of pursuit by the natives. Even the Hottentots show considerable
shrewdness in obtaining the wild-honey. The author of an _Expedition
into the Interior of Africa_ thus describes an operation of this kind:
‘One of the Hottentots observed a number of bees entering a hole in the
ground which had formerly belonged to some animal of the weasel kind.
As he made signs for us to come to him, we turned that way, fearing he
had met with some accident.’ It was the home of a recent swarm. ‘When
the people began to unearth the bees, I did not expect that we should
escape being severely stung; but they knew so well how to manage an
affair of this kind, that they robbed the poor bees with the greatest
ease and safety. Before they commenced digging, a fire was made near
the hole, and constantly supplied with damp fuel, to produce a cloud of
smoke. In this the workmen were completely enveloped, so that the bees
returning from the field were prevented approaching, and those which
flew out of the nest were driven by it to a distance.’
The same writer mentions another incident, even more interesting.
‘Whilst I was engaged in the chase one day on foot with a Namaqua
attendant, he picked up a small stone; he looked at it earnestly, then
over the plain, and threw it down again. I asked what it was. He said
there was the mark of a bee on it. Taking it up, I also saw on it a
small pointed drop of wax, which had fallen from the bee in its flight.
The Namaqua noticed the direction the point of the drop indicated, and
walking on, he picked up another stone, also with a drop of wax on it,
and so on at considerable intervals, till, getting behind a crag, he
looked up, and bees were seen flying across the sky and in and out of
a cleft in the face of the rock. Here, of course, was the honey he was
in pursuit of. A dry bush was selected, a fire was made, the cliff
ascended, and the nest robbed in the smoke.’
An amusing anecdote is related in _Feminine Monarchy_, an old book
printed in 1609, and given by a Russian ambassador to Rome as ‘written
out of experience by Charles Butler.’ A man was out in the woods
searching for honey. Climbing a large hollow tree, he discovered an
immense ‘find’ of the luscious produce. By some means however, he
missed his footing, and slipped into the hollow, sinking up to his
breast in honey. He struggled to get out, but without avail. He called
and shouted, but alike in vain. He was far from human habitation,
and help there was none, for no one heard his cries. At length, when
he had begun to despair of deliverance, he was extricated in a most
remarkable and unexpected way. Strange to say, another honey-hunter
came to the same tree in the person of a large bear, which, smelling
the honey, the scent of which had been diffused by the efforts of the
imprisoned man, mounted the tree and began to lower himself, hind-part
first, into the hollow. The hunter, rightly concluding that the worst
could be but death, which he was certain of if he remained where he
was, clasped the bear around the loins with both hands, at the same
time shouting with all his strength. The bear, what with the handling
and the shouting, was very seriously frightened, and made speed to get
out of his fix. The man held fast, and the bear pulled until, with his
immense strength, he drew the man fairly out of his strange prison. The
bear being released, made the best of his way off, more frightened than
hurt, leaving the man, as the story quaintly says, ‘in joyful fear.’
We conclude this paper with a story of another kind, a version of
which was given some years ago in a contemporary; but the French
bishop was turned into an English prelate, and the bee-keeping curé
into an Anglican clergyman, the story being otherwise greatly changed.
The said French bishop, while paying a visit to his clergy, was much
distressed by the extreme poverty which met him everywhere. Reaching
the house of a certain curate who lived in the midst of very poor
parishioners, where he expected to witness even greater destitution,
he was astonished to find that everything about the house wore an
appearance of comfort and plenty. Greatly surprised by what he saw, the
bishop asked: ‘How is this, my friend? You are the first pastor I have
seen having a cheerful face and a plentiful board. Have you any income
independent of your cure?’
‘Yes,’ said the curé, ‘I have. My household would otherwise starve
on the pittance I receive from my poor people. If you will walk into
the garden, I will show you the stock which yields me such excellent
interest.’
On going into the garden, the bishop saw a long range of beehives.
‘There,’ said the curé—‘there is the bank from which I draw an annual
dividend; and it is one that never stops payment.’
The fact was that his honey supplied the place of sugar, leaving him a
considerable quantity for sale, in addition to other household uses.
Then, of the washings of the comb and refuse honey he manufactured a
very palatable wine; while the wax went far to pay his shoemaker’s
bill.