When the little party reached home, they found Mrs. Ashton and Edward
waiting to receive them. The sun was shining brightly; and, indeed, all
appearance of rain had vanished, and an open carriage was at the door.
The children’s eyes sparkled with delight as the driver assisted them
to get into it; then came a large basket, which must be accommodated
with a place; papa’s telescope, mamma’s travelling-cloak, more clothing
for the children, and lastly, papa and mamma themselves.
“Now we are off!” cried Lewis. “Papa, have you told the man which way
we are to go?”
His father nodded assent.
“Edward,” said Helen, “you look very knowing; I do believe you are in
the secret.”
“Oh! it is no secret now,” Edward said: “we are on the road to the
Dyke, and I have been helping mamma this morning to prepare for the
trip; only I would not talk about it, for fear the weather should
disappoint you.”
“I will try to bear disappointments better,” said Lewis, who had not
forgotten the incident of the morning; “and then papa and mamma will
not be afraid of letting me know their plans.”
“Well,” interrupted Helen, “I must say I like excursions better when
they are quite unexpected, as this was.”
“So do not I,” said Edward, “there is a great deal of enjoyment in
thinking of, and preparing for, them beforehand.”
“Then,” said his father, “it seems you and Helen are both satisfied;
but there is one pleasure still which may belong to us all; and you
seem quite to have forgotten it.”
“Oh! papa,” cried Lewis, “you mean the pleasure of retrospection: every
one likes the pleasures of retrospection.”
“Then, my boy,” said his father, “it should be our constant desire, so
to pass each day and hour as that the retrospect may, at least, give us
no cause for pain.”
“I think we shall all be very happy to-day; do not you, dear aunt?”
asked Helen.
Mrs. Ashton smiled as she repeated:
“Say, is this a time to be gloomy and sad,
When all nature is smiling around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And joy springs from the blossoming ground?”
“This may well be called ‘blossoming ground,’” said Helen. “Look, aunt,
there is my favourite little ivy-leaved campanula, and the star-thistle
in abundance.”
“Yes,” replied her aunt, “and if I mistake not, you will find on the
hill-side, near the Dyke, the musk-ophrys, which you were wishing for,
to put in your herbal, and some species of orchis.”
“Helen,” said Lewis, “if you care so much for such common weeds as
these, I wonder what you would say to the plant captain Manning told
us about the other day, with blossoms as large as—let me see—as large
round as the flower-bed before your parlour-window: you would be
puzzled to get an herbal huge enough for such a giant-specimen.”
“I think,” said Helen, good-humouredly, “I should say that you and
captain Manning were laughing at me.”
“Well, then, if you are so unbelieving,” replied Lewis, “ask papa; I
suppose you can trust him.”
Mr. Ashton happened to have in his pocket, the number of the Penny
Magazine which contained an account of this curious plant; and he read
it to the wondering Helen:—
“In 1818, Doctor Arnold discovered, in the island of Sumatra, a
flower which he named _Rafflesia Arnoldi_; and which an author has
called with much justice, ‘the magnificent Titan of the vegetable
kingdom.’ The human mind, indeed, had never conceived such a flower:
the circumference of the full-expanded flower is nine feet, its
_nectarium_ is calculated to hold nine pints, the pistils are as large
as cows’-horns, and the entire weight of the flower is calculated to
be fifteen pounds.”
“Look, look, Helen!” exclaimed Edward, as soon as his father had ceased
to read, “there must be a rabbit-warren near. There they go; two,
three, four rabbits; and there are two men with guns on their shoulders
coming up the side of the hill. Papa, I do wonder any one can like to
make such a disturbance among the poor little creatures, just for their
own amusement: it would be much more diverting to me, I am sure, to see
them gambol and frolic over these green hillocks. Ah, there are their
pretty young ones, running as fast as their little legs will carry
them, by the side of their mother.”
“Run, run, little ones!” cried Helen, forgetting the wonderful flower,
in her anxiety for the rabbits. “Now they have popped into a hole; but,
oh! I am afraid it is of no use, for those sportsmen have a dog with
them, and they will be sure to catch some of the innocent creatures.”
“Helen,” asked Lewis, archly, “do you never eat rabbit-pie when it
comes to table?”
“Oh! yes,” said Helen, “I do, it is true; but, Lewis, I would rather
not think about that now; and if the poor animals must be killed for
our food, I am sure it might be done in a more humane manner than
hunting them with dogs and guns.”
Lewis could not deny this.
“Papa,” said Helen, “once allowed me to keep rabbits, but you may be
sure I never had any of my pets killed. It was such pleasure to watch
the pretty creatures, and feed them every day; and then you cannot
think how busy the old doe was in making a nest for her little ones.
She chose the softest hay she could find, and when she had munched out
all the hard parts, she stripped some of the thick warm down from her
own breast to spread over it. At first, she covered up her young ones
so closely that I could not see them; and papa told me not to disturb
the nest: indeed, I should have been quite afraid to do so, for Minny,
who was so gentle in common, used to try to bite me whenever I went
near the nest, until her little ones grew larger and stronger and then
she would let me take them in my hand and feed them.”
“This is the case with many animals, my dear Helen,” said her aunt;
“indeed, the attachment which some creatures manifest to their young
is so strong, that they will die rather than abandon them. I recollect
once reading an anecdote respecting an American sow, which pleased
me much; because in her care for her offspring she evinced a degree
of sagacity, which we are apt not to give the species credit for
possessing. This animal was accustomed to pass her days in the woods,
with a numerous litter of pigs, but to return regularly to the house
in the evening, to share with her family a substantial supper. One of
her pigs was, however, quietly slipped away to be roasted; in a day or
two afterwards, another; and then a third. It would appear that this
careful mother knew the number of her offspring, and missed those that
were taken from her; for after this she came alone to her evening meal.
This occurring repeatedly, she was watched coming out of the wood, and
observed to drive back her pigs from its extremity; grunting with so
much earnestness, and in a manner so intelligible, that they retired at
her command, and waited patiently for her return.”[2]
The children were much amused with this anecdote.
Edward asked Helen, what became of her rabbits at last.
Helen said, “that when she went to school, her little pets were all
given to farmer Johnstone’s daughter, Susan. Minny and Bob were still
alive and well, and the little ones they had nursed so tenderly were
grown as large as themselves.”
And now Mr. Ashton told the little party, they must leave the carriage,
and ascend the lofty rampart which they saw before them; and which, he
said, was reported to have been formerly used as a place of security
for the distressed Britons, when invaded by their powerful foes, the
Romans; being still known by the designation of the Poor-man’s-wall.
The intrenchment, which is accessible only by a narrow projection to
the south, is surrounded by a broad ditch.
Having reached the summit of the mount, the lovely and extensive
prospect which opened to the view, was an ample compensation for the
fatigue of ascending. The undulating verdant downs, the boundless
ocean, and the distant view of hill, and dale, and wood, altogether
formed a prospect more picturesque and beautiful than the children had
ever beheld.
The day was clear; and papa’s telescope was in great request.
Mr. Ashton pointed out the romantic view of the extensive weald of
Sussex, and parts of Hampshire, Surrey, and Kent adjoining.
At last, when the scenery, far and near, had been admired again and
again, when the boys had made the tour of the Dyke as often as they
pleased, and Helen had filled her handkerchief with the musk-ophrys,
and other wild-flowers, the happy party left the attractive spot, and
were soon reseated in the carriage.
“Not homeward-bound yet, papa!” exclaimed Lewis.
“I thought,” returned his father, “you would not object, now that
we are so near, to see the little village of Poynings; particularly
as there are some remains of antiquity in the neighbourhood, which,
perhaps, may interest you.”
“Thank you! thank you!” exclaimed the children, one and all.
The name of the village of Poynings, is derived from two ancient
British words, descriptive of its situation; _pou_, country, and
_ings_, downs: that is, the plain country under the Downs. The church
is a large and ancient edifice; it is built in the form of a cross,
with a tower in the centre. The ruins Mr. Ashton spoke of, were those
of some stupendous building raised in ancient times, which tradition
relates was the seat of the barons of Poynings.
On their return, Mr. Ashton pointed out to his companions, the ruins of
an encampment, called Hollingbury Castle, or Hill.
“The rampart,” he said, “which was once strong and high, is now much
dilapidated, Three tumuli have lately been discovered, containing
some Roman coins; they were probably raised over the bodies of some
who fell in battle. How different a scene these peaceful Downs now
present: on this very spot where, perhaps, once resounded the din of
war, nothing but the pleasant tinkling of the sheep-bell, or the lark’s
shrill notes of joy, reach the ear. The bodies of thousands of human
beings, who fell victims to avarice, ambition, or revenge, then strewed
the plain, where now the solitary herd-boy tends the flock; while
beneath us, on the dark blue ocean, which once bore to our devoted land
the hostile fleets of an invading foe, we may mark the sails of distant
vessels, laden with the blessings of commerce, the fruits of industry
and peace. My children, how thankful we should be, that our lot has
been cast in such favoured times; and, whilst permitted to enjoy
these gifts, let us never forget the debt of gratitude we owe to the
bounteous Giver.”
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Wakefield’s Instinct Displayed.