[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 694. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE COMING OBELISK.
For more than fifty years we have heard of projects for bringing to
England the prostrate obelisk lying on the sandy shore of Egypt at
Alexandria, and popularly known as Cleopatra's Needle. Every successive
scheme of this kind has come to nothing. When the French army quitted
Egypt in 1801, the British officers, wishing to have some memorial of
the victories of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, claimed the prostrate obelisk
as a spoil of war, and formed a plan for bringing it to England. A ship
was obtained, a mode of stowage planned, and a jetty built between the
obelisk and the beach. The Earl of Cavan, in command of the troops,
headed the scheme; Major Bryce, of the Royal Engineers, worked out
on paper the details of the operation; while officers and men alike
subscribed a certain number of days' pay to meet the expenses. The
obelisk was to be introduced into the ship through the stern port, and
placed on blocks of timber lying over the keel. But difficulties of
various kinds arose and the scheme was abandoned.
Eighteen years afterwards the Pacha of Egypt, Mehemet Ali, presented
the prostrate obelisk to the Prince Regent; the British government
accepted the gift, but took no steps towards utilising it, being
deterred by an estimate of ten thousand pounds as the probable cost of
bringing the monolith to England. Thirty-three more years passed; the
Crystal Palace Company was organising its plan for the costly structure
and grounds at Sydenham; and a question was started whether Cleopatra's
Needle would form an attraction to the place. Men rubbed up their
reading to ascertain how the ancients managed to remove such ponderous
masses as this. It is certain that the stone must have been quarried
in Upper Egypt, and conveyed somehow down to Thebes, Alexandria, and
other places in that classic land. Pliny describes a prostrate obelisk
which was moved to a distance by digging a canal under it, placing two
heavily laden barges on the canal, and unloading them until they were
light enough to rise and lift the obelisk off the ground; it was then
floated down the Nile on the barges, and landed and set up by the aid
of a vast number of men with capstans and other apparatus. A plan was
suggested to the Crystal Palace Company for bringing Cleopatra's Needle
to England on a raft; but the idea was relinquished. Subsequently there
were several projects for importing the obelisk; but they also fell
through, after not a little eager expectation and talk. Thus, from one
cause or other, the famed obelisk was left undisturbed, and what may
be deemed British property still lies in a kind of buried state among
the sands on the coast of Egypt. Luckily, it has not suffered injury by
delay in removal. The stone is of a hard texture, and its entombment
has been rather an advantage than otherwise. Although first and last
there has been much said about Cleopatra's Needle, we shall attempt to
give some account of it and of a freshly conceived plan for bringing it
to England.
The ancient Egyptians excelled in the art of erecting magnificent
temples, pyramids, obelisks, and other works in stone, all of
which, or the ruins of them, fell into the hands of successive
conquerors--Persians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, and finally the Turks.
Among the long roll of monarchs of the ancient Egyptians, one stands
out conspicuously for grandeur of character and the splendour of his
reign. That was Thothmes III., who flourished fourteen hundred and
forty-four years before the commencement of our era, that is to say,
three thousand three hundred and twenty years ago. He ordered to be
executed two obelisks of gigantic dimensions for the City of On,
or City of the Sun, the name of which was changed by the Greeks to
Heliopolis, a word signifying the same thing. During the lifetime of
Thothmes, the obelisks were cut out of the quarries of Elephantiné,
which consist of the rose-coloured granite of Syene, or Es-souan. These
obelisks were to be set up in front of the Temple of the Sun, and
in however mistaken a way, must be viewed as a pious tribute to the
Almighty, personified in the Sun as the author of Light and Heat, the
fructifier and sustainer of animal and vegetable existence.
The preparation of the two obelisks was the work of years. Before their
completion, Thothmes III. had passed away; and the honour of setting
them up in their appointed place belonged to one of his successors,
Rameses II., familiarly known to us as Sesostris. We can fancy the
imposing ceremonies which took place in erecting the obelisks in front
of the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis. Both obelisks were inscribed
with hieroglyphics, signifying that they were erected to the god Ra,
or the Rising Sun, and to Tum, or the Setting Sun, which identify
them with the most ancient and perhaps most poetical superstition in
the world. To these hieroglyphics were added others by Rameses II.,
commemorative of certain military conquests.
And where is now Heliopolis, the City of the Sun, at which these
grand obelisks were set up and venerated by the ancient rulers of the
country? It is extinct. As in many other old Egyptian cities, its
dwellings, built of unburnt bricks, have long since crumbled into
heaps of dust. Its splendid monuments are destroyed or dispersed. When
the Romans took possession of the country, the two obelisks that had
been erected by Rameses II. in honour of the Sun were removed by the
celebrated Cleopatra to grace the Cæsarium at Alexandria about the year
40. There, near the shore, they were set up. One of them remains where
it was placed, and is a well-known landmark. The other fell, from what
cause is unknown, and there it has lain till our times.
Such in brief is the history of Cleopatra's Needle. It is upwards of
three thousand three hundred years old; and whether standing or lying,
it has been at Alexandria for at least eighteen hundred and thirty
years. How along with its fellow it was transported from Heliopolis
to Alexandria, can no more be known than how the Pyramids were built.
Doubtless, there would be an enormous expenditure of human toil; but
at the time that was not regarded. Unfortunate beings captured in
battle were condemned to slavery, and if they perished in dragging huge
stones, no one cared. If Cleopatra's Needle could speak, it would tell
of cruelties of which we can form no adequate conception.
The two obelisks were nearly of the same dimensions; and standing in
their original position in front of the Temple of the Sun, they must
have had a most imposing appearance. The prostrate obelisk, square
in form, measures sixty-eight and a half feet long, six feet eleven
inches wide on each side at the base, tapering to four feet nine inches
near the summit, whence it narrows to a pyramidal point called the
pyramidion.
We may have a pretty good idea of its appearance from that of the Luxor
obelisk, set up on a pedestal in the Place de la Concorde at Paris,
which is the same shape, and measures seventy-two feet three inches
in height, exclusive of the pedestal of fifteen feet, and weighs five
hundred thousand pounds. The cost of removing this obelisk from Luxor,
near Thebes, to Paris, was about two millions of francs, or eighty
thousand pounds. It is a handsome monolith, of reddish Syenite, but
unfortunately it is damaged near the top, and suffers from the bad
taste exhibited in the pedestal on which it was erected in 1836. In
Rome there are a number of obelisks of different sizes that had been
brought from Egypt by the Romans. Europe may be said to have come in
for a fair share of these ancient monuments. There is room, however,
for one more--Cleopatra's Needle, which, had matters been managed
rightly, should long since have been brought to England and set up in
the metropolis.
This brings us to the project now set on foot by Mr Erasmus Wilson, an
eminent surgeon in London, and who has munificently undertaken to be
at the entire cost of bringing the obelisk from Alexandria. The idea
of doing so arose, as Mr Wilson explains in a letter to a friend, in
having had a communication from General Sir James Alexander, C.B. 'He,
Sir James, recounted that he had paid a visit to the prostrate obelisk
at Alexandria in the spring of 1875, with the view of ascertaining its
state of preservation and the possibility of bringing it to London;
that he stripped it of its covering of sand, and found the column
uninjured, and that he felt assured that its transit might be safely
accomplished; that all that was needed were the means of defraying the
cost, and the determination to bring the undertaking to a successful
issue; that he contemplated for this object to obtain the interest
of the city of London and the government; but that, although he had
secured the co-operation of the Metropolitan Board of Works for a site
on the Thames Embankment, he had made no substantial progress.' Mr
Wilson goes on to explain what he did in the circumstances. 'On the
7th of December, I had a conversation with Sir James Alexander. He was
very anxious to succeed in his object, and he mentioned a plan proposed
by Mr John Dixon, C.E., whom I promised to see. At my interview with
him, I listened to his plan. He explained the position of the monolith,
within a few yards of the sea, and the ease with which it could be
inclosed in a cylinder, rolled into the water, towed to the harbour
for the purpose of putting on to it a keel, a rudder, and a deck, and
then ballasting it to a proper depth of flotation. The process required
care, nicety, and judgment, but was evidently sound and practicable.'
The professional advice Mr Wilson received helped to confirm this
opinion, and he finally resolved to enter into a contract for the safe
transport of the monolith. Mr Dixon was willing to limit the cost to
eight thousand pounds; but to leave no room for failure, it was agreed
he should receive ten thousand pounds on the safe erection of the
obelisk on the Thames Embankment within a specified period. A contract
was entered into on this basis; Mr Dixon undertaking all risks.
We gather from Mr Wilson's letter that he had serious misgivings
as to the success of a public subscription, and that after all it
was a shabby kind of proceeding, unworthy of so great an object. In
short, feeling he could afford the outlay, he took the matter in hand
personally, and the element of expense was therefore at an end. Any
other difficulty was removed by Mr Dixon receiving the concurrence of
the government and of the Khedive of Egypt. 'I have,' says Mr Wilson,
'the assurance from Mr Dixon that the cylinder ship with its precious
freight may be expected to float into the Thames in July next.'
So far as we can understand the proposed plan, Cleopatra's Needle is
to be fixed by cross divisions or diaphragms of wood in a cylindrical
vessel of malleable iron plates. There will be seven diaphragms, and
consequently nine water-tight compartments. For safety, the obelisk
will be inclosed in wood, and well packed, a little below the central
level of the vessel, which will be closed at both ends. When completed
with the obelisk inside, the vessel will be about ninety-five feet in
length and fifteen feet across. After being rolled into the sea, and
towed to the harbour, it will be ballasted, and be provided with a
keel, deck, sail, and rudder. For these operations, manholes will have
been left in the cylinder. These holes will be opened, so that access
may be obtained to all the compartments. There will be no part into
which a man may not enter if necessary, until the cylinder is finally
sealed up for floating.
When made thoroughly ship-shape and sea-worthy, then the vessel with
its precious freight will set off on its voyage, under the charge of
two or three skilled mariners, for whom a small cabin on deck will be
provided. It will be towed the whole way by a steam-tug; the sail being
simply for steadying the cylinder. The steam-tug, or with whatever
other assistance that may be necessary, will tow the vessel up the
Thames, and lay it alongside a convenient part of the Embankment.
Where its precise site is to be has not, we believe, been determined.
By the agency of hydraulic power, there will be no serious difficulty
in raising it to an erect position on its assigned pedestal. There
will, we think, be a concurrence of opinion, that no site would be
so universally acceptable as on some conspicuous point of the Thames
Embankment, where the effect towards the river would be particularly
striking. What more fitting place of permanent repose than the banks
of the 'Silent Highway' for the ancient symbol of contemplative
veneration, the Divine Architect of the Universe, Ra and Tum?
A great day for the metropolis will be that on which this vastly
interesting monolith is stuck upright in English ground! We can shew
some minor works of art of perhaps as great antiquity, such as the
stone axes of the pre-historic period, but nothing to compare with the
product of Egyptian civilisation something like four thousand years
ago. Trusting that no untoward accident may occur to derange the plans
for the maritime transport of this interesting object, there cannot
but be a universal feeling of satisfaction at the gracious manner in
which Mr Wilson has organised a scheme for effecting what has baffled
everybody since the beginning of the present century. When there is so
much begging of money for all sorts of objects, the heartiness of his
spontaneous generosity will be frankly acknowledged.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XVIII.--MARIAN'S GENEROSITY.
Marian was, I believe, genuinely disappointed at Lilian's decision to
leave Fairview and retire with her aunt to some cottage home.
'It will look so!' she ejaculated again and again; which words perhaps
best expressed her sentiments upon the point. 'People might think I
had not been inclined to behave handsomely towards you, you know; but
I'm sure no one could offer more fairly than I do. There's the run of
the place, and a carriage to ride out in, and your keep, and all that;
besides two hundred a year to spend as you please. _I_ had only two
hundred a year to do everything with, you know, before Pa died. And if
that isn't enough--well, I shouldn't perhaps mind saying'----
'It would be a great deal more than enough,' murmured poor Lilian.
'Only I must be with my dear aunt wherever she is, and she prefers
having a home of her own, however humble.--Do you not, auntie?'
Mrs Tipper was very decided upon that point; and Marian did not object.
'Auntie' was quite welcome to consult her own taste in the matter.
Indeed Marian was more ready to fall in with the little lady's desire
to leave Fairview than it was under the circumstances quite polite to
do.
'But for you, dear, it is altogether different,' she went on to urge.
'You are young, and have been brought up like a lady; and it really
seems quite cruel for you to be going to live at a cottage, when
there's such a home as this offered you.'
'I should prefer being with my aunt,' repeated Lilian, with flushed
cheeks, turning her eyes, full of tears, lovingly towards the little
lady, who nodded and smiled as though to say: 'Do not fear my being
wounded by anything that is said, my dear. I shall only be troubled
when you are.'
'You haven't tried it yet, dear,' sagely returned Marian; 'and you
don't know what it is to live like poor people. Think better of it; and
I will have a _distang-gay_ lady to go about with us; and we will fill
the place with company, and have lots of gaieties. Do, pray, think what
you will be giving up, before you make up your mind.'
But she found that Lilian was not to be tempted; and Marian was at
length brought to see that her arguments were of no avail. So I think
she satisfied herself with the reflection that she had done all
that could be expected of her, only stipulating that Lilian should
acknowledge her generosity to 'people,' as she indefinitely termed the
Fairview world.
'It is only fair that it should be made known that I was ready to act
generously, you know.'
Lilian promised that it should be made known. Moreover, when at length
matters were finally settled, Marian begged Lilian to take anything
which she had a fancy for with her.
'I mean, of course, the things that have been given to you, you know,'
she said a little hurriedly, as though afraid that her generosity might
be interpreted too literally; adding, with a little laugh: 'If you took
_everything_ you fancied, there would be nothing left at Fairview, I
expect! But there; just say what is yours, and I will take your word
for it!' she ejaculated, in another outburst of good-nature.
If it had been left to Lilian, very little would have been taken from
Fairview. But it was not left to her; and Mrs Tipper and I were more
business-like, and did not hesitate to secure for Lilian not a few
valuables. That little lady recollected a great many things which had
been named by Mr Farrar as gifts to his child. Fortunately for her, he
had been in the habit of talking about any new purchases which he made
to add to the glories of Fairview, as presents to Lilian. In fact, had
we kept strictly to the letter of Marian's offer, and taken whatever
had been given to Lilian, we might have carried away nearly everything
the house contained. As it was, we did not scruple to claim a great
deal. Her mother's jewellery; a nice little collection of pictures;
the grand piano, which had been a birthday present; and an endless
assortment of valuables, even to a new silver dinner-service. For the
last, we were indebted to Saunders, who reminded Mrs Tipper and Lilian
that Mr Farrar had mentioned at the dinner-table having ordered the new
pattern expressly for his daughter, by-and-by, naming the cost. Poor Mr
Farrar! it is pitiful to reflect how glad we were to avail ourselves of
his little ostentatious speeches, for the benefit of his child.
But in spite of herself, Marian began to look very grave and anxious
as one thing after another was eagerly named by the servants as 'Miss
Lilian's.' They had got scent of what was going on, and were eager to
give evidence of this or that having been given to her. She had made
up her mind to be generous, and strove hard with herself. But when it
came to be a question of a set of diamonds, she could control herself
no longer, nervously questioning as to the evidence of its having been
a gift to Lilian's mother. Was the inscription inside the case--'To
my dear Wife, on our wedding-day'--sufficient to make the diamonds
Lilian's; and would Lilian mind repeating his exact words when her
father put them into her hands on her last birthday.
'Of course I only want what is right; but she wasn't his wife, you
know; so it couldn't be their wedding-day,' anxiously ejaculated
Marian, her eyes dwelling fondly upon the jewels in their open cases.
Fortunately for us, Lilian fled at the first words, and we had Robert
Wentworth to help us, so we battled courageously for the diamonds, and
at length gained the day. Marian was obliged to yield, though she did
so with a sigh over 'Pa's extravagance.' 'He never gave diamonds to
Ma! Why, Lilian will have quite a large fortune to take away, with one
thing and another!' Then, in reply to some allusion from Mr Wentworth
about the fortune Lilian was _leaving_, he was sharply reminded that
it was not hers to leave. 'People seem to forget that it's only my
rights, and if it were not for my generosity things would be very
different for Lilian.' For she was, I think, beginning to feel that her
generosity was not sufficiently recognised, and it required some little
encouragement in the way of being appreciated to keep it alive.
Meanwhile, Mrs Tipper and I were quietly at work in search of a
cottage. We succeeded beyond our expectations; being fortunate enough
to secure a pretty little place on the outskirts of a neighbouring
village, at a very moderate rent, Robert Wentworth giving us material
assistance in the negotiations. Having overcome the dear little woman's
scruples about accepting half of my fifty pounds as my share towards
the first three months' housekeeping, we gave ourselves up to the
business of furnishing; and in this also Robert Wentworth was of much
assistance to us, though I do not think that any one besides myself
attributed it to anything warmer than friendship. Becky and I and a
couple of work-people were busily engaged from morning till night in
arranging and making ready, in order that no time might be lost in
getting away from Fairview before Marian's good-nature altogether
collapsed. Lilian was becoming very anxious to take her departure; and
it was evident that to Mrs Tipper herself the change would be a very
welcome one.
'To tell the truth, my dear, it will be a real blessing to me to live
in a small house and be able to go into my own kitchen again,' she
confided to me. 'You and the dear child will be the company in the
parlour; and I shall make the puddings and pies, and know what's in
them!' she ejaculated, enjoying her little jest.
Of course I did not mean to be idle, though I agreed that the dear
little lady should reign supreme in the kitchen. Becky was to be our
factotum; and very proud she was of the position, making it very
evident that Fairview had altogether lost its attractions for her now.
We began to plume ourselves upon having quite a little model home,
where nothing but love and peace would be admitted. Ah me! it was as
well we should think so!
It was a very pretty, if somewhat fantastically built cottage, which
had been erected for an ornamental lodge at the entrance of a fine
estate, the property of an old but impoverished family, which had
been brought to the hammer, and sold in separate portions. The house
itself--a fine old place, built in one of the Tudor reigns--stood on an
eminence some two miles distant, and had been taken on lease by some
benevolent lady, for the purpose of making a Home for girls who had
suffered imprisonment, with a view to prevent their further degradation.
Our cottage was situated just out of the village, which lay in the
hollow at the foot of the hill, on the side of which stood the house
which I have mentioned as being visible from one part of the Fairview
grounds, and which I so coveted for my married life with Philip. A
little to the left, at the back of our cottage, still stood a portion
of the fine old woods as they had been for many a generation of the
A---- family. The land on the other side of what had once been the
avenue, had been turned into hop-fields and so forth. In front of the
cottage, the space had been so much encroached upon that what had once
been a fine private road was now but a narrow lane. Branching from
that lane, on the right was the village, and on the left another lane
leading to a field, through which there was a right of way to the
railway station; and from the stile of that field ran two paths, the
lane I have mentioned passing the cottage and on to the village; and
another lane at right angles with it, leading through the woods.
There was some little talk of _my_ house soon being in the market,
said the work-people, to whom I was curious enough to put a few
questions about it. The lease was expiring, it seemed, and the present
residents did not intend to renew it. This was news indeed. If, by
good fortune, Philip arrived in time to secure it, how delightful it
would be; the two others I most cared for in the world living so near
us! How delightful to be able to shew my appreciation of the kindness
I had received in some better way than by words! Then I pleased myself
with another pretty picture of the future, in which Lilian and Robert
Wentworth were the principal figures.
That Lilian would very long remain as depressed as she now was, I
did not believe; her mind was a too healthy one for that. Indeed the
reaction had already set in. After the first shock was got over, she
was, I think, not a little astonished at the comparatively small amount
of regret she suffered on account of the loss of her lover. It might
be that she was beginning to realise the fact that her love for him
had never really been what she had imagined it. In one point she was
mistaken. She believed that he also had deceived himself, and was
firmly persuaded that he did not love her and never had.
_I_ knew that Arthur Trafford was in truth suffering the keenest
misery in his efforts to tear himself away from her. He loved her
better than all the world, except himself; and although he had not
sufficient manliness and moral courage to make an effort in the right
direction, I was glad to see he had the grace to be heartily ashamed
of the part he was playing. I could not help being a little amused by
Mrs Tipper's mild suggestions, in the midst of his wild ravings against
his miserable fate. Indeed her very practical advice about looking for
work, and never blaming Fate or giving up hope as long as he had youth
and strength and his two hands to use, was not the lightest punishment
he had just now to bear, Lilian being present, sitting white and silent
with downcast eyes. I think he was almost driven to the verge of
entreating her to share his poverty and challenge fortune with him; but
he did not get beyond the verge. Marian silently watched with keen eyes
and heightened colour, and it was not difficult to read her thoughts.
She still found her position at Fairview a somewhat anomalous one; and
would continue to find it so as long as Lilian remained there; the
latter being treated as mistress, and she herself as much as possible
ignored by the servants.
It was, I think, some little relief to us all when the cottage was
declared ready for occupation. Mrs Tipper and I contrived to spare
Lilian the leave-takings and final wrench of separation from the
home she had always been taught to consider her own. We invited her
to go to look at the progress of our work; and once there, we hinted
that she might just as well remain at the cottage. There need be no
returning to Fairview unless she desired it. As we had hoped, Lilian
was only too glad to avail herself of the suggestion; unconsciously
shewing how much she had dreaded a parting scene. So we three took tea
together in the little parlour, which was to serve as dining-room.
Our drawing-room, as we jestingly called it, on the other side of the
house, was left unfinished, for Lilian and me to arrange, according
to our own taste--in truth to afford some occupation for the former's
hands and thoughts, and to leave no time for dwelling upon bygones,
at anyrate for a while. Mrs Tipper and Becky had contrived to make
it appear quite a festive occasion; the tea-table being spread with
all sorts of little home-made dainties, which we felt bound to make a
demonstration of enjoying, and I verily believe did enjoy a great deal
more than we were conscious of doing, so pleasant was the contrast to
the meals we had latterly partaken at Fairview. We could now freely
shew our thoughts to each other, and that itself was no slight boon,
after being obliged to pick and choose our words, as we had been in
Marian's presence.
Afterwards I left Lilian with Mrs Tipper; I knew that she would put
aside her own feelings in her desire to please the dear little mistress
of the cottage, by shewing an interest in the arrangements which had
been made, &c. And I had to set forth for Fairview again, in order to
make the best excuses I could for Lilian's non-return.
I found Marian very much inclined to take offence at the method of
quitting Fairview. Of course she would have sent Lilian in the carriage
in a proper way; and she ought to have been allowed to shew people what
her feeling in the matter was. 'Going off in that way makes it look as
though I had not been inclined to treat Lilian handsomely; and I call
it very unfair towards me!'
I intimated that Mrs Tipper and I had hoped to spare Lilian's feelings
in leaving the home she had been taught to consider her own.
'But I think _my_ feelings ought to have been consulted too, Miss
Haddon. It's all very well to talk of Lilian's feelings; but it is
not fair to let people think I don't want to do right,' she repeated,
walking to and fro amidst her gorgeous surroundings. 'Of course they
will think so now she has gone off in that way, and all my generosity
goes for nothing! Besides, I was not prepared to be left alone in this
sudden way, the servants all as upstart and impertinent as ever they
can be. And I haven't been able to engage a lady-companion yet.'
In truth, Miss Farrar--I suppose I must give her the name now--had
found well-born ladies (she had made it a _sine qua non_ that the lady
she sought should be well-born as well as everything else that was
desirable in a companion) were either at a premium just then, or they
did not incline towards Fairview, for she had not as yet succeeded in
finding one after her own heart. In her difficulty, she extended the
olive-branch to me; beginning by a little pointedly reminding me that
the burden was already heavy enough upon Mrs Tipper's shoulders, and
opining that I should no doubt be glad of something to do.
'I shouldn't mind paying you a pound a week till I got suited; and,'
she was good enough to add, 'we don't know but what a permanent
engagement might come about, if we get on together.'
I declined with as good a grace as I could, politely but very
decidedly; and then went upstairs to label the boxes and parcels which
were to be sent down to the cottage, and make sundry other arrangements
for a final flitting.
THE JUNGLE AND ITS INHABITANTS.
In an interesting volume on the _Large and Small Game of Bengal_,[1]
Captain J. H. Baldwin presents us with a peculiarly striking picture
of field-sports pursued in the ample game-preserves of India. The
tiger, the tyrant of the Indian jungle, has, as is due, the precedence
over his feebler or less dreaded congeners. Skirting the base of the
Himalayan range, extending east and west for many hundreds of miles,
is a tract of land covered with jungle, called the Terai; this is his
chosen home. Cradled in the long feathery grass of the jungle, he
gambols about in his infancy playful as a kitten, and usually attains
when full grown the length of nine or nine and a half feet. Wild hogs,
deer, and all the larger species of game, are his usual prey; but
sometimes a pair of tigers will take up their abode within a mile of a
village, sallying out from their lair every three or four days to pull
down a bullock or a buffalo, always selecting the fattest in the herd.
The strength of their muscular fore-arms is enormous. Captain Baldwin
says: 'I remember in Assam a tiger in the dead of night leaping over a
fence nearly five feet high, seizing one of the largest oxen, and again
leaping back, dragging the bullock after him across several fields and
over two hedges.'
In his old age, when his teeth become worn, he not infrequently becomes
a man-eater; and such is the devastation he then occasions, that whole
villages are sometimes deserted, and extensive districts laid waste
from dread of these feline scourges. In these disastrous circumstances
the advent of an English sportsman with his rifle and elephants is
hailed as a godsend by the whole neighbourhood.
A tiger when brought to bay often 'spits' exactly like a cat. Contrary
to the received opinion, tigers seldom roar; but at night the forests
resound with the hideous din of their cries, which resemble the
caterwauling of a whole squadron of gigantic Tom-cats. In making a
charge the tiger utters a series of short vicious coughing growls, as
trying to the nerves as the most terrific roar. Tiger-hunting, even
from elephant-back, is always accompanied with danger. One day when
Captain Baldwin and a friend were out beating the bush for tigers,
one of his beaters, a fine young man, 'foolishly crept forward to try
and discover the actual spot where the tiger was hiding. He must have
approached within a few feet of the animal, for it struck but one blow
without moving or exposing its body, and dashed the unfortunate man
with great violence to the bottom of a stony ravine.' He was rescued at
once, but died the same evening, his skull having been fractured by the
blow from the tiger's paw.
In tiger-shooting, when you discharge your piece, whether you hit or
miss you must not move, but standing perfectly still, keep your eye on
the animal and put in a fresh cartridge. Many lamentable accidents have
occurred from sportsmen going rashly up to fallen tigers, erroneously
supposing them to be dead. One or two stones should always be thrown
first, to see what power of mischief is left in him, for it is quite
possible that he may require another ball as a quietus.
A tiger cannot climb trees, but he can spring to a considerable height,
and this should be remembered in shooting them from what are called
machāns, a sort of framework of poles resting on the higher branches
of a tree. An officer, some years ago, in Central India got into a
tree which overhung a water-course to watch for tigers. He was a
considerable way up the tree, but he did not advert to the fact that
the high bank of the ravine behind him was almost on a level with him.
In no long time a tiger came to drink, and he fired at and hit it, but
failed to kill it; when the enraged brute rushed up the bank to the
higher ground behind, and springing upon him, dragged him out of the
tree, and bit and tore him so frightfully that he died very soon after
he was rescued.
Powerful and ferocious as the tiger is, he is afraid of the wild-dog. A
pack of these ravenous creatures, finding strength in their union, will
set upon, kill, and devour a tiger.
In the opinion of some old Indian sportsmen, the panther is even more
to be dreaded than the tiger. He is a large, powerful, thoroughly
ferocious brute. In old age he also sometimes takes to man-eating, but
not so often as the tiger does. Our author, however, gives an instance
'of one in Gwalior who had devoured over fifty human beings, and was
the terror of the whole district.' One evening Captain Baldwin, along
with a friend, was perched in a tree in an open part of the jungle,
near the carcase of a cow, which had been killed as was supposed by a
tiger. The body was covered with birds of prey struggling and fighting
over it like so many feathered demons, when suddenly a great commotion
occurred among the noisy diners-out, and with a whish-h-h of their
heavy wings they left their dainty fare, and flew into the trees close
by, making way as it appeared for their betters, for very soon a huge
brute approached the carcase, and began to tear and gnaw at the flesh.
'A tiger!' whispered the captain to his companion. 'No; a very large
panther,' answered the other, firing as he spoke, but not killing
the animal. In a minute he recovered himself, and springing up, made
straight for the tree. It was an ugly situation, for although a tiger
cannot climb a tree, a panther can, as well as a cat. As he approached,
another shot was fired at him, which passed between his fore-legs, and
he paused and looked up. 'Never,' says our author, 'shall I forget the
devilish expression of that terrible countenance.' An awful moment of
suspense followed, during which Captain Baldwin contrived to give him
his quietus.
The leopard resembles the panther, but is smaller, and altogether a
less formidable animal. It never attacks man, and rarely shews fight
unless brought to bay, when, like all the felidæ, it is more or less
dangerous. The lynx, which is smaller than the leopard, is a rare
animal; and the cheetah or hunting leopard is also comparatively
seldom met with in a wild state.
The bear, which we are accustomed to associate with cold countries,
such as the north of Europe and North America, is also very frequently
met with in the very hottest parts of India. Here, as in colder
countries, he is a sagacious animal, and varies his carnivorous diet
with berries, sugar-cane, honey, and every kind of insect he can get
at. It is a mistake to suppose that they hug their victim to death;
they draw him towards them with their paws, and bite him on the face
or arm. A bear's paw, from the huge curved claws with which it is
garnished, is a very terrible weapon. They almost invariably strike a
man in the face; and Captain Baldwin tells us of a native named Dhun
Singh, 'who was a most enthusiastic follower of the chase, and always
joined our shooting-party in the hot-weather months, and who was, by
a single blow from the fore-paw of a bear, disfigured for life in an
instant, and left senseless on the field. He was afterwards such an
awful object that I never could look at him without shuddering.'
The striped hyena is a native of India. He is an ugly cowardly brute,
with an indescribably hideous cry. Goats, sheep, dogs, or a young
child who has strayed from home, are his favourite prey. He never
shews fight, but slinks away from the hunter's presence, much after
the fashion of the wolf, who is also credited with a large amount
of child-slaughter. A fearful loss of life is caused in this way in
some districts by these brutes; and in common with the rest of the
Indian carnivora, government offers a price for their destruction.
The wild-dog is lighter in colour and taller than the jackal. It is a
gaunt, ungainly, ravenous creature, of wonderful speed and endurance.
If once a pack get upon the track of any animal, its fate is sealed.
They even attack tigers and bears, and as often as not get the best of
it. In some parts of the jungle, the wild buffalo are very abundant;
they are always found in herds, which sometimes consist of eighteen or
twenty, but oftener only of five or seven. The bull is much larger than
the cow, and when old is always dangerous.
The dense thick bush and tall reeds and grass which surround the
_jheels_ or solitary jungle lakes, are a favourite resort of buffalo.
There they feed on the rich herbage, and approach the water by long
tunnels in the grass and reeds. The extreme danger of encountering
these creatures is graphically described by Captain Baldwin, who one
evening, accompanied by a native, went down to one of these jungle
lakes, and hearing something move in the long grass, had the temerity
to enter a tunnel. Up to his ankles in mud, and with scarcely room to
move or turn, he was straining his eyes to discover the game, when
there was a sudden crash through the brushwood, and before he could
bring his rifle into position, 'I was hurled,' he says, 'to the ground
with astonishing quickness by a tremendous butt on the right shoulder,
followed by a pair of huge knees on my chest, crushing me down. The
buffalo then commenced butting me with his huge head. I was covered
with foam from his vile mouth: most luckily the ground was very soft,
or I must have been killed. I had fallen on my back, but managed, by
clutching the root of a small tree, to draw myself from under him;
but as I did so and turned over, he struck me a terrible blow on the
back with his foot, breaking two ribs; and then I was powerless, and
imagined all hope of escape to be over. He gave me a bad wound on the
left arm, another dangerous one under the arm-pit, a third on the
hip--all with his horns; and then I found myself lifted off the ground
and thrown a tremendous somersault in the air.'
Stunned and bleeding, our unfortunate sportsman was pitched upon his
head, and landed behind a low thorn-bush at the edge of the lake. More
dead than alive, he had yet sufficient presence of mind to remain
perfectly still. A few yards off he could see his shaggy foe, sniffing
all over the scene of the late tragedy. Satisfied with his victory,
the buffalo then raised his head, listened intently for a few minutes,
and to the inexpressible relief of his victim, trotted off in another
direction. Faint and dizzy, but feeling that he must make an effort to
escape, Captain Baldwin rose, staggered about thirty paces and then
fell over in a dead-faint. When he revived a little he found his Hindu
servant, who had been far too terrified even to try to help him in his
hour of need, crying over him, and trying to bind up his bleeding arm.
In a moment he remembered all that had happened; and motioning to the
man to be silent, he got him to help him to his feet, and with his
assistance, staggered fifty yards farther, when exhausted nature again
gave way, and he fell to the ground, able only to murmur in a faint
voice: 'Water; bring me water!' The Hindu ran down to the lake with
his master's hat, which he filled with water, and having given him a
little to drink, poured the rest of it over his head. He then cut his
linen coat into strips, dipped them in water, and with them bound up
the wounds as well as he could. 'Now,' said his master, 'put your rifle
at full cock on the ground beside me, and run for assistance as fast as
you can.'
He obeyed, and the captain in this almost helpless state was left
alone. Night was beginning to fall; and he could hear from time to
time some animal moving behind him through the undergrowth of matted
creepers and reeds; but he was too much exhausted either for curiosity
or fear, and at last, through sheer weakness, fell into a doze, from
which he was awakened by the glare of torches. A brother-officer, after
a long search, had found him; and although it was many weeks before
he could move hand or foot, he got at last all right again, and was
as dashing a sportsman as before; only he ever afterwards took care
to give a buffalo bull as wide a berth as possible--in which prudent
precaution he is imitated even by the tiger. This latter tyrant of the
jungle, red with the slaughter of scores of buffalo cows, is careful to
treat with profound respect the grizzled patriarchs of the herd.
Wild elephants, which were once abundant in the dense forests at
the foot of the Himalaya, are still plentiful in Assam and Burmah,
where many are yearly caught and tamed for the use of the government.
Elephant-shooting is prohibited, except when a wild elephant becomes
dangerous, and is transformed from a peaceable denizen of the forest
into the morose, sullen, and savage brute known as 'a rogue elephant.'
The Indian rhinoceros is plentiful in Assam and in the Bootan jungles,
and resembles an immense pig, with a long horn curving backwards at
the end of the snout. If unmolested, it is harmless; but if assailed,
it will make a furious charge, when its long horn is an ugly weapon to
encounter.
Wild hogs are very plentiful all through the scrub and brush jungle.
Old males are armed with large semicircular tusks nine inches long.
A more formidable antagonist than a wild boar with these tremendous
weapons in full play need not be wished for. There is no cowardice
about _him_; he is game to the backbone, and will fight to the last,
and sell his life dear. 'Sportsmen have frequently been mauled,'
Captain Baldwin says, 'in encounters with wild boars; and a European
in the Customs Department near Jhansi many years ago lost his life, so
fearfully was he gored by a hog which he had wounded.' The flesh of the
wild boar roasted and eaten cold is delicious.
Passing over the various species of deer, each of which our author
describes, we come to the Himalayan chamois and the thar, which
frequent the rocky fastnesses of the Himalaya, and the hunting of
which is quite as hazardous an amusement as hunting chamois among the
mountains of Switzerland. As among the European Alps, so among the
Himalayan Alps is the sportsman not only rewarded by the fascination of
the sport itself, but by the surpassingly beautiful scenery amid which
it is pursued. Above him rise the magnificent hills, dazzling in snowy
grandeur, cleaving the skies with peaks which tower nine thousand feet
higher than the highest mountain in Europe; below him in the distance
spreads a varied and splendid landscape of hill, forest, and river,
with distant plains luxuriant with ripening crops, shading beneath his
feet into shaggy stretches of woodland, penetrated by deep, well-nigh
inaccessible chasms and glens, abysses of pine, and precipices, and
foaming torrents, such as Salvator Rosa would have loved to paint.
Huge rugged crags tower like vast cathedrals above the giant trees,
their crests covered with gentian and stone-crop; while round their
base cling dark green clumps of rhododendrons, all ablaze with scarlet
beauty, their blossoms shining like points of flame against the foliage
of the splendid walnuts, and apricots behind, whose fruit at certain
seasons literally strews the ground.
Camp-life in such a spot is beyond all things enjoyable. The atmosphere
is clear and exhilarating; a sparkling streamlet gurgles across the
little meadow in which your tent is pitched, diffusing a pleasant
freshness around; radiant butterflies hover above the water, or alight
like living gems upon the long fronds of the magnificent coronets
which crown the giant tree-ferns. The ravine behind you, dark with
forest, is vocal with the mellow notes of unfamiliar songsters. The
eye, as you gaze, loses itself in a stupendous panorama of mountain
peaks, rocky ridges, winding valleys, glittering streams, populous
plains, and pathless fever-haunted jungles; while nearer, on the verge
of the wood, a herd of ravine deer are feeding; lazily you watch them
while you sip your coffee, all unconscious of the close proximity of a
splendid wild blue sheep, which is gazing intently down at you from its
bushy covert. Did you move? The motion was so slight as scarcely to be
perceptible to yourself; but the startled creature rushes like an arrow
down the grassy slope, and threading the ravine, rejoins the herd of
its companions, to whom it immediately imparts the intelligence of your
whereabouts, and in a moment they all make off, gliding shadow-like
and swift along the precipitous mountain side.
India presents a wide field for the researches of the ornithologist,
and is the native home of many of our feathered favourites, such as the
peacock. This lovely bird, superb in its native forests, is accounted
sacred by the Hindus. It delights in patches of jungle by the side of
rivers, where on moonlight nights its shrill discordant cry may be
often heard swelling the savage concert. The red jungle-fowl is very
like the bantam in appearance, but its plumage is more brilliant, and
like its _confrères_ of the poultry-yard, it is very pugnacious.
There are six different kinds of pheasants in the Himalaya, most of
them excellent for the table, and all of them more or less beautiful.
There are also many varieties of partridge. The quail, which is always
fat, is a _bonne bouche_ fit for an epicure. Captain Baldwin says of
it: 'A quail-pie or a quail-currie is a dish for a king.' There are
four varieties of grouse, the largest of which is the sand-grouse, a
very fine bird; but the monarch of Indian game-birds is the bustard.
'It is,' our author says, 'in my opinion the king of game-birds; and
the value of its feathers, its excellence as a bird for the table,
and last, though not least, the very great difficulty of shooting it,
render it a prize to be much coveted.' The oobara is a small species of
bustard; and to a certain extent a migratory bird. The floriken, one of
the finest of Indian game-birds, has beautiful black and white plumage,
and its flesh when cooked is peculiarly rich and delicate. There are
two varieties of it; and several kinds of plover, which, however, are
not abundant.
Different species of crane abound, as do wood-cock and snipe. Of the
latter, as many as fifty or sixty couples are sometimes bagged in a day
in a rice-field or by the edge of a swamp.
On the lakes and jheels in the north of India, below the Himalaya,
thousands of wild-fowl congregate about the beginning of October on
their way south. On the jungle swamps and lakes wild ducks of various
kinds abound; wild geese are also common, as are several varieties of
the shielsdrake. In company with these migratory wild-fowl arrives the
flamingo, a very beautiful bird, with brilliant rose-coloured feathers.
It has, however, little except its beauty to recommend it, for when
cooked, the universal verdict of the mess-table was, 'that it was a
very poor bird.' During the cold season the bittern is plentiful in
Northern India, and unlike the flamingo, is very good eating. On the
banks of large rivers the curlew is sometimes found, and several kinds
of green pigeons abound.
From birds, Captain Baldwin suddenly skips back to beasts, and gives
us a sketch of the Indian hare. Of this little creature there are
two varieties; and they seem to have as hard lines of it (especially
in the neighbourhood of barracks) as their well-known congeners have
at home. With a passing glance at this four-footed martyr, we bid
adieu to a book which is well fitted to inspire not only a love of
sport, but of natural history. Nowhere can this interesting science be
studied to greater advantage than in these wide-spreading Himalayan
jungles, where mountain torrents gurgling down the beautiful ravines,
temper the air to delicious coolness; where great trees grow stately
as masts, making a pleasant twilight with their lustrous unfamiliar
foliage; where gorgeous flowers bespangle the greenery, and round the
overhanging boughs our hothouse ferns cling with ample stems and giant
fronds, forming bowers through which lovely bright-hued birds flit, and
multitudes of insects find shelter, filling the otherwise silent noon
of the tropics with their shrill incessant hum.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Henry S. King & Co. Price 21s.
SUNSHINE AND CLOUD.
IN TWO PARTS.
PART I.--SUNSHINE.