[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 714. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
TREATMENT OF ANIMALS.
In our youthful days in the early years of the present century, little
consideration was given to a systematic kindness to animals. Horses
were overwrought without mercy, when ill-fed and with wounds which
should have excited compassion. If they sunk down in their misery,
they were left to die, the chances being that, in their last hours,
they were inhumanly pelted with stones by boys;--no one, not even
magistrates or clergymen, giving any concern to the cruelties that
were perpetrated. All that we have seen, without exciting a word of
remonstrance. A wretch who habitually turned out his old, overwrought,
and half-starved horses to die on the town-green, never incurred
any check or reprobation. His proceedings were viewed with perfect
indifference. People, while passing along in a demure sort of way to
church, would see a crowd of boys pitching stones into the wounds of a
dying horse, and not one of these decorous church-goers endeavoured to
stop these horrid acts of inhumanity. Like the Pharisees of old, they
passed on the other side. Such within recollection is a small sample of
the unchecked atrocities of our young days. Cats were pelted to death.
Birds' nests were robbed. Dogs had kettles tied to their tail, and were
hounded to madness by howling multitudes. Oxen were overdriven to an
infuriated condition, and their frantic and revengeful career formed an
acceptable subject of public amusement.
Barbarous in a certain sense as these comparatively recent times were,
there had already been shewn instances of a kind consideration for
animals. The poet Cowper, it will be recollected, wrote touchingly of
the hares which he had domesticated. Sir Walter Scott's tender regard
for his dogs has been recently noticed in these pages. There was here
and there a glimmering consciousness that animals had some sort of
claims on the mercy of mankind. What strikes one as curious is that
society had retrograded in this respect. The oldest laws in the world,
found in the early books of the Old Testament, enjoin a kind treatment
of animals. If we see an ass fall which belongs to some one with whom
we have a cause of difference, we are to throw aside private feelings,
and hasten to help the animal. We are not to take a bird when sitting
on its eggs, or on its young; a most humane injunction. In various
texts the Hebrews were enjoined to have due regard for the comfort of
the ox, the ass, or any other animal which laboured for them. In these
venerable records, mercy is enjoined towards all living creatures.
The modern world, with all its pompous claims to civilisation,
strangely drifted into an entire neglect of these beneficent
obligations. Throughout Christendom, any laws enforcing a kind
treatment of animals are few in number, and of very recent date. Even
within our remembrance, clergymen were not usually in the habit of
inculcating that species of kindness to domesticated creatures which
we read of in the Old Testament; nor were children ordinarily taught
lessons of humanity within the family circle. The oldest statutory laws
concerning animals are those for the protection of game; but these
laws proceeded on no principle of kindness. They were intended only
to protect certain birds and quadrupeds during the breeding season,
with a view to what is called 'sport,' the pleasure of killing them
by licensed individuals--the license for indulging in this species of
luxury being, as is well known, pretty costly. It is not our wish to
hold up 'sport' of a legitimate kind to ridicule. The chief matter of
regret is the coarse way in which game is sometimes pursued and killed
even by licensed sportsmen: their operations in what is known as a
_battue_, when vast numbers of animals are driven into narrow spaces,
and shot down and maimed without mercy, being, as we think, no better
than wholesale butchery; and not what might be expected from persons of
taste and education.
Although in the early years of the present century there were no laws
for the specific purpose of preventing cruelty to animals, thoughtful
and humane persons were beginning to give attention to the subject. In
1809, Sir Charles Bunbury brought into the House of Commons a bill
for the 'Prevention of wanton and malicious cruelty to Animals.' Mr
Windham, a cabinet minister, little to his credit, opposed the bill,
and it failed to pass. The next attempt at legislation on the subject
was made by Lord Erskine in the House of Lords in 1810. His measure was
opposed by Lord Ellenborough, and had to be withdrawn. There the matter
rested until 1821, when Mr Richard Martin, member of parliament for
Galway, brought a bill into the House of Commons for the 'Prevention
of Cruelty to Horses.' It encountered torrents of ridicule, and after
passing a second reading in a thin house, was no further proceeded
with. Mr Martin, however, was not discouraged. He felt he was right,
and returned to the encounter. In 1822, he introduced a new and more
comprehensive bill. Instead of horses, he used the word 'cattle;' this
bill passed through all its stages, and became an act of parliament.
This act of 1822 was the first ever enacted against cruel and improper
treatment of animals. Let there be every honour to the memory of
Richard Martin for his noble struggle on behalf of defenceless
creatures. In 1825, he brought in a bill for the suppression of
bear-baiting and other cruel sports. Not without surprise do we learn
that Sir Robert Peel met the bill with determined opposition, and that
it was thrown out. To think that so eminent a statesman as Peel should
have been a supporter of bear-baiting! No fact could better present an
idea of what was still the backward state of feeling among educated
persons on the subject of cruelty to animals.
The year 1826 found Mr Martin still at his post. He framed a bill
to extend protection to dogs, cats, and other domesticated animals
from cruelty. In this it might have been expected he would have been
successful. But no. His arguments to move the House of Commons were
unavailing. Mr Martin died in 1834. Not until 1835, when more enlarged
ideas prevailed, was there an Act to throw a protecting shield over
cattle in the market, on the way to the slaughter-house, and in the
roads and streets generally; over all such animals as dogs, bulls,
bears, or cocks, kept for purposes of baiting or fighting; over all
animals kept in pounds or inclosures without a sufficiency of food or
drink; and over all worn-out horses, compelled to work when broken down
with weakness or disease.
It was reserved for the beneficent reign of the present Queen to see
a comprehensive Act of Parliament for the prevention of cruelty to
animals. This was the Act of 1849 (which was extended to Scotland in
1850), that now forms the basis for prosecuting cases of cruelty, and
may be called the charter which conferred on domesticated animals
a right to protection. Lamenting the backwardness of England in
establishing such a charter, it is not without pride that one knows
that England was after all the first country in modern times to enforce
the principle that the lower animals are entitled to be protected by
law. That principle, as we have shewn, is not new. It was recognised
by the ancient Hebrews, and it is pleasing to feel that at length
modern common-sense has legislatively assumed its propriety. Latterly,
there have been several additional Acts of Parliament, chiefly as
concerns protection to sea-birds and small land-birds; but while well
meant, these Acts are very imperfect. The eggs of sea-birds not being
protected, the nests of these animals may be rifled with impunity. As
regards small birds, a number are left out in the list of protected
animals--the skylark for one. These deficiencies are unfortunate.
Sea-birds, though generally looked on with indifference, are of great
public utility. They benefit agriculturists by eating the worms and
grubs in newly ploughed land; they hover over parts of the sea and
point out where there are shoals of herrings and other fish; they are
useful to the mariner in foggy weather, by their warning cries near
the rock-bound coast. How beautiful that arrangement of Nature, in
making provision for birds to live on shelving rocks by the sea-shore,
there to act like beacons, in warning off the bark of the mariner from
a coast that would cause its destruction! Considering that wonderful
provision, how scandalous, how short-sighted the practice of rifling
the nests of sea-birds! A supplementary Act to protect the eggs of
sea-birds cannot, as a matter of public duty, be too soon passed.
Already, on some parts of the coast, sea-birds are said to be rapidly
disappearing.
As every one knows, dogs are often lost in large towns, and roam about
miserably in search of their master or mistress. A sight of them in
such circumstances is exceedingly pitiable. In the Metropolis, a
humane plan for succouring lost dogs has been established. Some years
ago, a benevolent lady, Mrs Tealby, was enabled, by the aid of public
subscriptions, to set on foot a temporary Home for Lost and Starving
Dogs, which has existed since 1860. It is situated at Battersea Park
Road. Any dog, when found and brought to the Home, is taken in and
succoured under certain necessary conditions. If a dog, after being
housed and succoured, is applied for by the owner (with satisfactory
proof of ownership), the animal is given up on payment of the expenses
of its keep. If no owner comes forward, every unclaimed dog is sold for
the benefit of the institution, or otherwise disposed of according to
circumstances. The Home is growing in usefulness. In one year recently
more than three thousand three hundred dogs were restored to their
former owners or sent to new homes. Many owners who recover their
favourites through the agency of this institution, not only refund the
expenses incurred, but assist the funds by subscriptions in the name of
their recovered pets--as for instance, 'In memory of Pup,' 'For little
Fido,' 'In name of darling Charlie,' 'The mite from an old dog;' and so
on. This deserving and well managed institution is well worth visiting.
Only, the visitor must be prepared to see painful demonstrations from
some of the unhappy inmates. On the approach of the visitor, each
animal eagerly hastens to see if he be his dear master. And when a
sniff and a glance render too evident the fact that you are not the
person wished for, something like a tear steals from the poor doggie's
eye. The happiness shewn when one of the animals finds his lost master
is equally expressive. Looking to the great good done in the cause
of humanity by this meritorious Home for Lost and Starving Dogs, it
may be hoped that efforts will not be wanting to establish similar
institutions elsewhere.
There is another admirable establishment worth referring to. It is
known as the Brown Institution, from having been founded by the bequest
in 1851 of a large sum of money by Mr Thomas Brown. Its design was the
advancement of knowledge concerning the diseases of animals, the best
mode of treating them for the purpose of cure, and the encouragement
of humane conduct towards animals generally. The Institution combines
the quality of an infirmary and a dispensary for animals belonging to
persons who are not well able to pay for ordinary medical attendance,
and therefore does not trench on veterinary establishments. Several
thousands of animals are treated annually. The Institution, which is
under the direction of the Senate of the University of London, is
situated in Wandsworth Road, near Vauxhall Railway Station. As an
hospital and dispensary for poor horses, dogs, and other animals, the
Brown Institution is unique of its kind. As far as we know, there is
nothing like it in the world. What a prodigious step in advance is the
Home for Dogs, and the Institution now described, from the condition of
things at the beginning of the nineteenth century!
In speaking of the improved treatment of defenceless creatures within
recent times, a prominent place is due to the Royal Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, located in Jermyn Street, London.
Standing at the head of all organisations of the kind in the United
Kingdom, this Society may be considered the watchful guardian of the
rights of animals, and without whose agency the laws we have enumerated
would, as regards England, stand a poor chance of being enforced. The
business of this Society is conducted mainly by the employment of
persons all over the country to find out cases of cruelty, and to bring
the offenders to justice. The Society diffuses hand-bills and placards
in places where they may come prominently under the notice of persons
likely to infringe the law. It further has issued various publications
calculated to stir up the feelings in behalf of animals.
The hand-bills and placards deserve special notice. Sheep salesmen
are reminded that convictions have been obtained against persons for
ill-treating sheep by cutting and lacerating their ears, as a means of
identifying them from sheep belonging to other consigners. Shepherds
are warned, by a cited example, to abstain from a specified mode
of treating sheep for certain maladies; because pain is inflicted,
which a veterinary surgeon knows how to avoid, but which an ignorant
though well-meaning shepherd may not. Farmers are reminded that it
is a punishable offence to crowd too many sheep together on going
to market; instances being cited in which eleven sheep were crammed
into a small cart, with their legs tied tightly together. Captains of
freight steamers are informed that penalties have been enforced against
a captain for so overcrowding his vessel, on a voyage from Holland to
the Thames, as to cause the sheep much pain and suffering; carriers and
cattle-barge owners are under the same legal obligations.
In regard to cows, one placard cautions persons sending them to market
with the udder greatly distended with milk, and from which the poor
animals evidently suffer much pain. Cattle rearers are told that
penalties have been enforced against one of their body for sawing off
the horns of fourteen heifers so close to the head as to cause blood to
flow in considerable quantity, and to make the animals stamp and moan;
the object of such a mode of cutting being to increase the market value
of the horns. Butchers are reminded that it is a punishable offence
to bleed calves to death merely for the sake of giving additional
whiteness to veal. Consigners and carriers are alike reminded that
the Act of 1849 imposes fines or imprisonment as a punishment for
conveying animals in such way as to subject them to unnecessary pain or
suffering; the neglect to give proper food and water to the animals,
whether coming to market, at market, or in removal from market, is
announced in another hand-bill to be an infringement of the same
statute.
Drovers, by another hand-bill or placard, are cautioned against urging
on cattle which by lameness are unfitted to travel along the roads and
streets; and against striking animals on the legs so violently as to
lame them: both are practices to which drovers are too prone, and both
are punishable. Farmers, graziers, and salesmen are alike warned that
the season of the year should be taken into account in the transport
of shorn sheep. 'It is hardly conceivable that respectable farmers and
graziers, merely for the sake of profit, can in the months of December,
January, February, March, or April, cruelly strip a dumb animal of
that warm woollen coat which the goodness of God has provided more
abundantly in winter to protect it from the cold weather; or that any
English salesman will lay himself open to a criminal charge of aiding
or continuing the offence by exposing shorn animals for sale at such
inclement seasons.'
Horses and donkeys find a place in the safeguards which the Society
endeavours to provide, by disseminating placards and hand-bills
pointing out the penalties for cruelty or neglect. It is an offence
against the laws to work a horse in an omnibus, cab, or other vehicle
when in an infirm or worn-out state. It is an offence to beat a horse
in a stable with a degree of severity amounting to cruelty, merely to
make it obedient, or still worse, through an impulse of angry passion.
It is an offence to set a horse to drag a cart or wagon loaded with a
weight beyond his strength; many coal-merchants and their carmen have
been prosecuted and fined for this unfeeling conduct. It is an offence
to cruelly beat and over-ride poor donkeys; useful animals which seem
fated to be the victims of very hard treatment in the world. It is a
significant fact that one placard is addressed to 'excursionists and
others:' those who have witnessed the treatment of donkeys by their
drivers, at Hampstead Heath, Blackheath, and the humbler grades of
sea-side places where holiday people assemble, will know what this
means. The Society aid the inspectors of mines, or are aided by them,
in bringing to justice truck-drivers and others for working horses and
ponies in an unfit state in coal-pits.
It was not likely that dogs would be left out of sight by the
Society; the maltreating of such animals is the subject of some
of the cautionary placards, especially in localities where rough
persons, prone to dog-tormenting, are known to be numerous. Cats are
the subjects concerning which other warnings are given, in regard to
torturing or cruelly worrying. Fishmongers are reminded that it is
a punishable offence which many persons commit of 'putting living
lobsters and crabs into cold water, and then placing them on a fire
until the water is heated to boiling temperature, thereby causing them
to endure horrible and prolonged suffering.'
That the feathered tribes should share the protection which the issuing
of these placards is intended to subserve, is natural enough; seeing
that the Sea-bird, Wild-bird, and Wild-fowl Acts were due in great
measure to the Society. One placard states that it is a punishable
offence to kill or wound any such birds (including the young in nests)
within the prohibited period; and that those who sell such killed birds
are also punishable. Another placard administers a similar warning
in regard to wild-fowl, enumerating thirty-six species, all of which
are to be safe from the gun, the snare, and the net from the 15th of
February to the 10th of July, under penalties which are prescribed
in the Act of 1876. Bird-fanciers are reminded that one of their
fraternity was imprisoned for fourteen days for depriving a chaffinch
of its sight as a means of improving its singing. Poultry-dealers are,
in another hand-bill, cautioned against plucking live poultry, a cruel
practice which, if proved, subjects the offender to three months'
imprisonment. Carrying live fowls to market by their legs, with their
heads hanging downwards; and exposing fowls to hot sunshine with their
legs tied together--have brought the offenders into trouble. In another
placard the patrons of pigeon-matches are warned that occasional
cruelties practised by them or their servants come within the scope
of the law. In one of the Society's publications, the cruelty of
bearing-reins for carriage-horses is significantly pointed out.
The Society has been encouraged in its benevolent exertions by a letter
from Her Majesty the Queen, addressed in 1874 to the Earl of Harrowby,
in his capacity as President. There was an assembly in London of
foreign delegates representing similar associations, on the occasion
of the holding of the half-century jubilee of the parent Society. Her
Majesty requested the President to give expression publicly to her warm
interest in the success of the efforts made here and abroad for the
purpose of diminishing the cruelties practised on dumb animals. 'The
Queen hears and reads with horror of the sufferings which the brute
creation often undergo from the thoughtlessness of the ignorant, and
she fears also sometimes from the experiments in pursuit of science.
For the removal of the former the Queen trusts much to the progress
of education; and in regard to the pursuit of science, she hopes that
the advantage of those anæsthetic discoveries from which man has
derived so much benefit himself, in the alleviation of suffering, may
be fully extended to the lower animals. Her Majesty rejoices that the
Society awakens the interest of the young by the presentation of prizes
for essays connected with the subject, and hears with gratification
that her son and daughter-in-law shew their interest and sympathy by
presenting those prizes at your meetings.'
Looking to the distinguished patronage of the Society from Her Majesty
downwards, its vast array of supporters, and the large number of
Societies which it has helped to originate at home and abroad, we
naturally rely upon it for promoting a consolidation and expansion
of the laws against cruelty to animals. These laws, as has been
seen, are composed of shreds and patches, brought into existence with
difficulty, and in many respects imperfect. The time appears to have
come when the whole should be combined in a statute applicable to all
parts of the United Kingdom. That certain actions should be deemed
cruelties punishable by law in England and not in Scotland, is anything
but creditable, and not a little ludicrous. This is a point to which
the attention of legislators should be seriously invited. From the
fragmentary and confused condition of the statutes, we have experienced
much difficulty in ascertaining what, as a whole, the law really is.
This chaotic state of things detracts, we think, not a little from the
glory which may be freely claimed by the English for their legislation
in behalf of animals. A consolidated Act with all reasonable
improvements, would be something to point to with satisfaction, and
probably go far to insure a legalised system of kind treatment of
animals all over the globe.
W. C.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
A STORY IN THREE PARTS.
BY ALASTER GRÆME.
INTRODUCTORY.
Every man loves the land where he got life and liberty. The heart of
the mountaineer is chained to his rugged mountain-home; he loves the
wild and whirling blast, the snow-storm and the brooding clouds. Every
true heart beats truly for country and for home. Thus the 'children of
the peat-bog' and the fen cling to the illimitable wolds and the 'level
shining mere,' beautiful even now.
Beautiful _then_, when long ago, primeval forests clothed the land.
When in later times the bells of minster towers sounded far and near,
and the deep bay of the Bruneswald hounds awoke the echoes of the
wold; when old Crowland's towers gleamed through mist; and the heights
of that far-famed isle, the Camp of Refuge, where, amidst blood and
battle, and beneath the 'White Christ' uplifted, the gallant Saxon
fought the wild Viking; where the Saxon made his last dread stand for
England's liberty, while men fell dead, and bones lay bleaching on
every island and valley of the fen.
Beautiful _now_, O Fen-land! where still I seem to hear the wild shout
of your outlaw hunters, hunting the red-deer and the wolf; where still
I seem to hear the war-cry of the men of Danelagh, or imagine the great
fires sweeping the boundless plains. Wide are your marshes still, and
dark and deep your woods; the keen winds bring the driving snow; dense
fog and mist and drenching rains sweep strongly from the sea; dark
and capricious are the autumn days, and full of storm; yet overhead
stretches a free heaven, boundless and open; underfoot stretch the
free plains, wide and open; and over all sweeps the magnificence of
the cloud-scenery, unbroken and unopposed; and the splendour of the
sunrise and the sunset lights the low isles like flame.
PART I.--DAWN.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
Thus did the suns rise and set in glory across the level lands of
Enderby; old Enderby manor, where the Flemings had dwelt for centuries;
old Enderby, with its 'clanging rookery,' its grand timber, its
turrets and its towers. Under that arched gateway has swept many a gay
cavalcade with hawk and hound; has passed slowly many a hearse with
sable plumes and horses; has stepped many a brave bridegroom leading
his blushing bride, while the far-famed bells of Enderby pealed out
loud and clear.
It is nearly two centuries ago, and it is evening; the sun is setting.
Sir Vincent Fleming stands under the gateway; he is booted and spurred;
his jaded horse stands in the court-yard, and has been ridden fast
and far. Sir Vincent puts a whistle to his lips and whistles loud and
shrill; he is looking across the wide holt with a smile--his eyes laugh
under his thick black brows, and his long white hair is flowing free
in the wind. He opens his arms wide, and there come flying towards him
two little dark figures neck and neck, shrieking with laughter and with
glee. Panting, breathless from their long run, a boy and girl rush
through the gateway, and leap boisterously into Sir Vincent's arms.
'My two little pets of Enderby!' he cries, and there is a wail in his
voice, half of sorrow and half of joy.
'An' what have you brought us, father?' asks Deborah, leaping and
dancing in her gladness. 'I see your flaps are full!--Nay, Charlie; get
away; you shall not have father all to yourself!'
But the boy fights hard. 'You are a greedy Deb!' he cried. 'Your
thoughts are ever o' sweetmeats an' o' toys.'
'Nay; it is not so,' retorted Deborah shrilly and scarlet as a rose. 'I
am glad when things come.--But father, I am gladder to have _you_ come.'
'I believe thee, sweet heart!' and Sir Vincent, lifting little Deborah
to his shoulder, and taking his boy by the hand, turned towards the
house.
In those days many a care pressed hard on Sir Vincent Fleming. His
beautiful wife, the mother of his children, lay dead in the little
churchyard. For a short time the children had run wild; then for a time
Sir Vincent gave them a hard, hard step-mother, and the children went
from bad to worse. Little Deborah cut her hair like a boy, and the two
ran away from home. But ere long the hard step-mother died, leaving Sir
Vincent free and the children like two mad colts. Sir Vincent tried the
experiment no more. He could not cope with his two wild ones; they were
beyond him; they were given over entirely to old Dame Marjory, and she
voted them 'a handful.' Never wilder youngsters trod the earth. The
hot blood of the Flemings and the Stuarts, with a dash of cast not so
easily pedigree'd, coursed in their veins, and they could not brook a
word of opposition or reproof. Dearly did they love their father, and
dearly loved they one another--in a wild way more intensely than either
knew.
One day they were running in one of their mad games, 'Hare and
Hounds,' with all their village crew behind them, when their course led
straight through the churchyard of Enderby. Vaulting over the low wall,
they rushed bounding over the graves with yell and whoop and laughter.
Soon the whole gay thoughtless throng passed away. But an hour after,
in the twilight, a boy and girl came gliding back alone hand in hand;
half-wistful and half-scared, they opened the churchyard gate, Deborah
urging forward Charlie.
'What do you want?' asked the boy half sullenly. 'I'll not come!'
'I do want,' said little Deborah, 'to go to mother's grave! Dost know
what we did, Charlie? An' my heart has ached ever since, nor could I
hunt the hare for thinkin' of it. We trampled over mother's grave! When
we jumped over yon wall, I tell you, Charlie, we ran on mother's grave!
Come with me, Charlie, an' kneel down to her to forgive you an' me!' In
the highest state of excitement, the little child caught his unwilling
hand.
'But she won't hear us,' said the boy; 'mother's gone to heaven,
Marjory saith. Thou art a girl!' he cried, as they stood beside the
grave. 'These be bones that lie here. It is like your fancies! Mother's
gone to heaven, I tell you.'
'That's true,' said Deborah; 'but mother sees her grave, an' she
looks down an' has seen us run over it this day, an' laugh! Maybe she
thinks we have forgot her; maybe she thinks we have forgot the prayers
she taught us.--O mother, it is not so!' With unconscious and most
exquisite fervour, the little Deborah fell on her knees, and raised her
eyes and clasped hands to heaven: 'We are naughty, but we've not forgot
you, sweet mother. Charlie has not forgot you, mother; an' Charlie an'
me look up to you as you are lookin' down, an' ask you to forgive us
for treadin' on your sweet grave. Mother, dear mother, forgive us!'
The boy stood looking on in dogged silence, knitting his brows; but
when he saw Deborah's tears, tears rushed to his own bright eyes.
With a cry of passionate sorrow and remorse, he flung himself on
his mother's grave and cried as if his heart would break. Charlie
Fleming had idolised his mother. He was two years older than Deborah;
he remembered the mother better. He never forgot her memory. Proud,
reserved, and shy, he hid that memory in his heart, and would let no
hand drag it forth. In his mad freaks, when old Dame Marjory, driven
to distraction, solemnly upbraided him about his 'poor dear mother'
and what _she_ would have thought, he mocked, and ran away shouting
his derisive laughter. Seldom would a tear dim those bright roving
eyes; neither rod, nor threat, nor lecture made Charlie Fleming quail;
clenching his teeth and his hands, he stood his ground like a little
demon: his stubborn heart would have broken rather than yield a whit.
And what of Deborah Fleming? she who, at eight years old, cut her
flowing locks like a boy, and ran away from home. She was not behind
her brother in mischief, wit, or daring; wondrously bold was the spirit
of the little Fleming. But the caprices of the child shall speak for
themselves.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
One afternoon Deborah was playing by the lodge-gates with little
Margaret Dinnage, the bailiff's child, when a tall gipsy woman strode
to the gate and looked through. Meg ran away with a scream of terror,
but Deborah stood and stared up at the gipsy.
She was a tall woman, dressed in faded red, with a yellow and scarlet
shawl tied over her head; long glittering rings in her ears, and black,
black eyes. Deborah never all her life forgot that woman looking
through the gate; the vision was riveted on her childish memory.
'Come to me, pretty one,' said the woman, tossing her head backward;
then imperiously: 'Come!'
'Where?' asked Deborah.
'Over yonder--to the camp. We want a pretty one like thee. I am gettin'
old, child, an' I want you to come run arrands an' tell the fortunes o'
the qual'ty.'
'_I_ am the quality,' said Deborah gravely.
'_You!_' retorted the gipsy, with sudden and savage scorn. 'You are o'
the scum o' the airth!' Then in a moment the wild passion passed, she
resumed her half-coaxing, half-imperative manner: 'Come, come, pretty
love!'
Deborah had been half startled; now she knew not what to make of the
gipsy woman. Did the gipsy really like her, and wish to be kind?
Deborah had never moved her large wondering eyes from the gipsy's face.
'I will not come,' she said, 'without Charlie.'
'Well, fetch Charlie, quick!' answered the gipsy with intense
eagerness, and stooping forward to whisper the words. Deborah drew
back; something within her rebelled; the woman was too imperious and
too bold.
'Charlie will not come,' she answered; 'he hates gipsies.'
'Then _thou_ shalt come alone.' Quick as thought the long arm was
thrust through the half-open gate and the iron hand round Deborah's
wrist, as if to draw her out, when Deborah cried at the top of her
voice: 'Jordan, Jordan, Jordan!' An old man in a red waistcoat and his
shirt sleeves came running round the lodge from the wood, and at the
same moment the gipsy woman, pushing Deborah violently backward, darted
away. Deborah was thrown on the back of her head; she got up at once,
and stood looking up at old Jordan in silence, with her hand at the
back of her head.
'She hath hurt thee, the jade!' said the old man indignantly. 'What has
she been a-sayin' and a-doin' to thee?'
Deborah gazed at her fingers: there was blood on them; she raised her
clear gray eyes to Jordan's face.
'Why, she hath cut thy head open, my lassie, and badly too! I know
them cussed gipsies! Spiteful demons! See ye never meddle with them
agen. This comes on it.' And assuming a scolding tone, the old man
took Deborah's hand and hurried her angrily into the lodge. He was
frightened, very pitiful and very angry, all in one; now he coaxed, now
he threatened.
'Let me bind up thy broken head, my lassie; it is broken badly. But
thou'rt a brave little lady! This comes o' meddlin'; thou'rt all too
inquisitive by half. Leave them gipsies alone; or sure as thou'rt
alive, I'll tell the master. Now then, thou'rt a brave little lady.
Doth it pain thee, Lady Deb?' He stooped to peer anxiously with his old
gray eyes into his little mistress's face.
Deborah was sitting on a high chair in the middle of the table,
looking very white and grave. 'I should think it doth,' she said; 'you
are a gaby to ask it, Jordan Dinnage. Finish to tie my head; and see
that you do not tell father who cast me down,' she added with dignity.
The little Margaret was standing below, gazing upward at the operation
in affright, with her round eyes and mouth wide open.
'_Tell thy father!_' retorted old Jordan with supreme disdain as he
finished his surgery. 'Why, he would burn the camp and all the varmin
in it for this. Fine times there'd be for Enderby with them revengeful
cats. They'd be burnin' Enderby. Where wouldst thou be then?'
'In the flames, Master Dinnage,' said Deborah coolly.
Old Jordan Dinnage laughed loud and long. 'Thou art a little bold
wench!' he said; then turning to his little daughter, added with mock
gravity: 'Mistress Dinnage, well mayst thou gape an' stare. Thy young
mistress will be the death o' me; for floutin' an' for scorn, I never
knew'd her equal.'
The little maiden went quietly home, rather proud of her bandaged head
than not; and the sight was so little novel to Dame Marjory's eyes,
that well as she loved the child, she scarcely asked a question. That
night Deborah tossed in her little bed and could not sleep. The pain in
her head she heeded not; her wild and fitful fancy was conjuring up the
gipsy camp. A hundred tall figures went trooping by, all with yellow
and scarlet shawls tied over their heads; and tall men with black eyes,
and little children, little boys with beautiful black eyes and curly
hair. Dogs were lying about, and great pots full of meat were slung on
poles over fires, and the red watch-fires blazed over all. She fancied
all these men, women, and children came and kneeled to her, and said
she was their queen. One little boy, more beautiful than the rest,
said he was destined for the king, and she would be his wife. Then
they hung about her necklets and bracelets, and set a crown upon her
head, and the little maiden saw herself queen of the gipsies. Deborah
loved power, and knew the power of beauty. She fancied herself dancing
before the gipsies, in the light of the fires, in a glitter and blaze
of beauty.
On the other side of the room slept Dame Marjory; she was snoring
loudly. Deborah, hot and excited, sat up and gazed round; she could
not rest. She started up, and sped like a little ghost into the next
room, to Charlie's bedside; she seized his arm, and shook it: 'Charlie,
Charlie!' The boy gave a cross snort. 'Charlie, art well awake? I have
somewhat to tell, love. The gipsy camp is out on the fen, an' to-morrow
I am goin' to visit them! You will come too Charlie, for there be dogs
an' horses in plenty. An' mayhap you will be made the king. _I_ mean to
be the queen; for the gipsy woman has been to the gate this afternoon,
an' invited me to go an' bring you along.'
Charlie stared in the dim light, well awake then, yet very cross.
'_You!_ You are always "bringin' me along," forgettin' you are the
youngest by two years. You are very wise an' grand. _I_ am not so fond
o' gipsy folk; they are sneaks and cowards.'
'Nay; they are not! If you are afeard, I'll go alone; an' I'll ride on
the vans from one end o' the world to the other. So good-e'en.'
'Stay!' cried the boy. 'You say I am afeard. Then you know it is a
_lie_! A Fleming never knew fear. So father tells you. Dost say I am
afeard?'
But Deborah, feeling the grasp of his hands on her arm, cried: 'Nay,
nay; you are not afeard! Belike you are wise, an' that is why. But I
will go alone.'
'Nay; that you shall not!' cried the boy, glad to see a way to change.
'Why, they would kill you,' he said, with an air of superior wisdom
and scorn. 'If you _will_ go, I go too. I will take my big stick, an'
(say not a word) a knife under my clothes, for the gipsy folk be sly
as foxes, an' in one minute might stick you through. I must be fully
armed.'
'An' so must I,' quoth Deborah.
'_You!_' said the boy in loud derision; 'you are a _girl_; though I
ne'er knew the like for tomboyin'. Run to bed; an' we will see what
to-morrow brings.'
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
The morrow saw Master Fleming and Mistress Deborah speeding along the
fields. Charlie carried a mighty stick, cut from a tough ash-tree,
and a knife beneath his skirts; Deborah too, secretly, had a long
blade concealed, to her own heart's satisfaction. Drawn to danger like
moths to candle-flare, these little hardy Flemings sought an adventure
after their own hearts. When they reached the level downs and the
long expanse of shining water, the gipsy camp burst full on view. It
was a sight familiar to their eyes; the dauntless Charlie knew it
well. Many an hour, when Dame Marjory, shut in with her pickles and
preserves, thought Master Fleming intent over his books, he was riding
a bare-backed pony on the downs amidst a ragged crew. Many a raid on
those same camps had Master Fleming dared; and twice, hunted by them,
had the bold boy fled for liberty, or life. So that, knowing the gipsy
nature, he did not approach the camp with Deborah without misgiving or
unprepared for flight.
'Now see; if the gipsies curse or hunt us,' he said to Deborah, as they
paused, 'that you do not lay hold on me, but run for your life; you can
run like a hare; so can I. They may not be best pleased to see us.'
With a heart that beat somewhat faster at her brother's words, Deborah
gave assent, and they advanced hand in hand. But in another moment
their approach was seen by one ragged sentinel, and with shrill cries
of delight they were surrounded by a weird elfin band. Their eyes were
beautiful and black, as in Deborah's vision; but upon close quarters,
they were all rags and dirt. They swarmed round their old playmate,
staring in dumb amaze at Deborah's fair loveliness. Charlie clutched
his stick.
'Now stand back!' he cried, in a loud authoritative voice, 'an' I will
give you copper pence.' He struck his stick on the ground, and the
ragged boys and girls all started back and stood in a circle round
them. Deborah was abashed and overwhelmed with admiration at her
brother's potent sway; her eyes were riveted upon him. The youthful
captain was aware of this, and with added dignity turned upon his
troop: 'First, first,' quoth he, 'you must catch two ponies for
Mistress Deborah an' for me, the biggest an' the best, an' we will race
you. The first one who wins gets the prize; an' if _I_ win or Mistress
Deborah wins, we win the prize, an' give it to the first man in: an'
that is fair play, seein' our ponies must be the biggest an' the best.
But stay. Come on the common, and let them not see us in the camp.
After the race is done, we will go an' speak to your grandam, old Dame
Shaw, and stay the night mayhap.'
With yells of glee the whole troop rushed hooting over the common,
tearing hither and thither after colts as tameless. Deborah's hat was
off and her hair flying, the soul of glee was dancing in her eyes. They
caught one restive steed; in a moment she was across his back like a
boy, and in another minute they were off! Thus the hours fled away,
all too fast for them; all the largess of the young captain was thrown
away and scrambled for. Deborah's dress flew in tatters round her; she
looked the wildest gipsy of them all.
Night came, and vainly through the shades of evening did old Dame
Marjory, shading her eyes in the doorway, look for her truants. Sir
Vincent was out, and not likely to return. At last she sought Jordan
Dinnage, her ancient lover and Enderby's right hand. 'Jordan, hast seen
Master Charlie and Lady Deb? A pretty kettle o' fish to fry if they
return not to-night, an' the master comes home i' the mornin'. Go seek
them, for heaven's sake, man. I am distraught!'
'Why, this comes, Mistress Marjory, o' lettin' the young Master run
wild; he's a handful for thee! I know'd how 'twould end, when he's day
an' night out gipsyin'. _There's_ where they be, Mistress Marjory, with
the gipsies; an' thank yer stars if ye ever set eyes on them agen!'
Old Marjory turned as white as her apron. 'Now, don't ye be goin' to
frighten me, Jordan. But if ye speak truth, man, run with all the men
you can get along, an' hunt them gipsies down, an' find my two poor
dears. O their poor mother! O Jordan, Jordan, Jordan Dinnage!' And
Marjory, with her apron to her face, cried as if her true heart would
break.
This was too much for Jordan; he was arming already. Snatching a short
rusty sword from the wall, and with one comforting hand-thud on Dame
Marjory's back, and a 'Comfort thee, my lass!' the active old man was
off. The hue-and-cry was raised--all Enderby rang with it. But behold
the gipsy camp was gone! Smouldering fires blackened the common; no
other trace of the fugitives was visible. But old Jordan rode and rode,
with all his men behind him; some on horseback, some on foot, they
scoured the country far and near. In vain did Dame Marjory and the
servants sit up till morning dawn. It was only late on the following
day that the bailiff rode up the avenue with another horseman, one
carrying a boy before him, the other a girl; the dresses of both men
and children were torn and travel-stained, and the head of Jordan
Dinnage tied up. At this sight Dame Marjory ran forward and screamed,
and all the women screamed.
'Here be thy childer,' said Jordan; 'an' a hard fight we made for it.
Keep a tight hand on 'em, Dame Marjory; but no scoldin' _yet_.'
So Charlie and Deborah, looking penitent and demure, but rejoicing
madly in their hearts at seeing home again, ran in. They were feasted
royally in the servants' hall that day!
* * * * *
For many days Sir Vincent did not return, and Jordan Dinnage kept a
sharp watch on the gate, to see that the children did not stir beyond.
The old vicar called on the little culprits; he looked to daunt them
by his words and presence. He was a sad-looking man with a long sallow
face; yet some quaint humour lurked in his nature too. Severely he bade
Dame Marjory send 'Master and Mistress Fleming' to him. The boy stoutly
rebelled; but at last hand in hand, scrubbed and ruffled, they were
ushered into the room where the awful vicar sat. Charlie was dressed
in a little black velvet doublet and hose, with silk stockings and
buckle-shoes, and ribbons at his knees; his long red-brown hair was cut
square on his white forehead, and flowed loose on his shoulders; his
lips were set firm, his brown brows were knit, and his eyes, large dark
and sombre like a stag's, glowered defiantly beneath them. Mistress
Deborah was dressed in pale blue silk, pointed to her fairy shape,
and trimmed with rose-coloured ribbons; her hair was in hue like her
brother's, and cut the same in front, but falling lower behind, and
tied at the end with a bow; her lips were apart, and her white teeth
gleamed with irrepressible humour; her large bright eyes, gray like a
falcon's, gleamed with laughter too; she half hung behind her brother,
with her head upon his shoulder, saucy yet shy.
The vicar, in his long black clothes, gazed upon the pretty picture
from a high-backed chair, stern, melancholy, resigned. The little
Flemings stood before him just as they had entered. 'Children,' quoth
the vicar of Enderby, 'it hath afforded me great grief to hear of
thy misdeeds; they have been reprehensible in the extreme. Thou hast
encouraged vagabondism, and run near becoming vagabonds thyselves; in
fine, thou hast outraged propriety and set all social laws at defiance.
To thee, Charles, I should have looked, in thy father's absence, to
set an example to thine inferiors, to guard the house, and to protect
thine infant sister (or little better than an infant, either in years
or discretion). Thou hast proved thyself, Charles, incapable of either
charge; indeed, if thou art not sent to school, to feel a master's
rod, I entertain great fears for thy future, and so I shall inform thy
father. To thee, Mistress Deborah, I say little; thou art young and
inexperienced, though much given to vanity, it is said, both in dress
and person; but though thou art as yet incorrigible, I would have thee
reform, and entertain some hopes of thee. Thou art the future mistress
of this house; how then, when thou comest to years of discretion, wilt
thou fulfil thy duties of mistress and of hostess, if thou dost now run
wild amid grooms and gipsies? Mistress Fleming, Mistress Fleming, I
have much against thee! What induced thee the second time to run away
from such a home as this?'
But Deborah only hung her head and smiled.
Then quoth Charlie sturdily, glowering with his red-brown eyes: 'She
loves the gipsies, like to me.'
'Charles, Charles!' said the vicar, 'I will not bandy words with thee.
Forsake such evil company, and stick to thy Latin more.'
'I don't love Latin, Master Vicar, an' never shall.'
'Goodsooth, thou wilt and shall. What wouldst thou be? Wouldst idle
here all thy days?'
'I'd be a soldier.'
'A soldier? An ungodly set!'
'Father says the priests are the ungodly ones.'
At this the vicar held his peace in despair.
'I'd be a gipsy queen,' chimed in Deborah's treble voice. 'Dost not
love the gipsies, Master Vicar? When I am a woman grown I'll run off
and travel over the world--I will! Charlie does not love Latin; no more
do I love Dame Marjory's lessons.' And forgetting her fear, she nestled
up to the vicar's side and gazed up with her laughing dauntless eyes.
At that moment the clank of horse's hoofs resounded on the stones of
the court-yard.
A TYROLESE CATASTROPHE.
Many and varied are the calamities to which those people are exposed
who have their abodes among the grim mountain fastnesses of Switzerland
and the Tyrol, or indeed who live in any similarly situated region,
where Nature still reigns in undisputed majesty, and manifests her
power by those swift and awful catastrophes which strike terror to
the hearts of all who come within their influence. In winter the snow
falls heavily and constantly, and forms a huge overhanging mass, that
overtops the often narrow pass below, and is suspended, like the sword
of Damocles, by the slightest possible retaining hold; a trifling
noise, such as the discharge of a rifle or even the prolonged blast
of the Alpine horn, being sometimes sufficient to dislodge the vast
snow-wreath, and send it gliding on its silent but deadly course
towards the valley beneath. The destruction caused by the overwhelming
avalanche is too well known to need description. Scarcely a Swiss
hamlet or mountain pass but has its record of some sad calamity caused
by the resistless force of those fatal snow-falls. Single travellers,
parties varying in number, châlets, and even entire villages, have on
different occasions been buried under the snow; no warning having been
afforded to the hapless victims till the icy pall of death descended
relentlessly upon them, and hid them, sometimes for long months,
sometimes for ever, from their fellow-men.