Chapter XVII (6)

Another officer of rank, a colonel of artillery, who had served under Napoleon, and was then in command of the arsenal at Havre, made some difficulty about receiving a much larger sum, offered him by Mr Nolte in acknowledgment of important and gratuitous services, most kindly rendered. He ended by pocketing the affront, when it was sent by Mr Nolte under cover to his confidential servant, and probably, as an old soldier of the Empire, he thought it quite equitable and honourable that he should have his slice of the contractor’s gain. But he afterwards made a most generous use of a portion of the sum. Poor Nolte, after toiling hard for three years, during which time he delivered arms to the amount of nearly eight millions of francs, fell amongst thieves, as too often happened to him, and was swindled out of all his earnings. Some time afterwards, when he was absent from Paris in pursuit of fresh schemes, Colonel Lefrançois happened to hear that his wife was in embarrassed circumstances, and immediately called upon her. “My dear Madam,” he said, “I have received a great deal of money from your husband, much more than I had any claim to—I have spent and squandered the greater part of it, as one is wont to do with windfalls of that kind. But now that you need it, it is my duty to return you what remains. Here it is—do me the favour to accept it. You, your husband, and your little family, will always be dear to me.” This trait contrasts pleasingly with the numerous others, of a very contrary nature, to be found in the record of Mr Nolte’s Parisian experiences and transactions. These were of a nature to bring him into unavoidable—but, to him, in no way discreditable—connection with various equivocal characters. Some of his contracts were for secondhand muskets, which he employed agents to seek in the brokers’ shops of Paris. Many of these agents were recommended to him by the subordinate officials of the war-office. Others he fell in with casually. Thus, in the month of December 1831, a down-looking man, of unprepossessing exterior, accosted him on the stairs of the artillery depot, in the Rue de Luxembourg, and offered his services for the purchase of old muskets. Mr Nolte briefly replied, that if he knew of a parcel of such weapons for sale, he would send to look at them, and would buy them if price and quality suited. Accordingly, several small parcels of arms were purchased of this man, whose name was Darmenon, and whose flighty, uncertain manner always displeased Mr Nolte, and made him think he must have done something that would not bear daylight. On inquiry of the police, he learned that he was a forger, who had served his time at the galleys. He could not, however, on this account, make up his mind to refuse the unfortunate fellow’s services, and so, perhaps, drive him again to crime, so he continued to employ him, and Darmenon made himself very useful, and, moreover, gave him constant information of the plans and movements of the malcontents of the Faubourg St Antoine. Through him and other agents, Mr Nolte was kept informed of the number of muskets daily brought into Paris, the persons to whom they were delivered, and various other particulars. It was rare that more than 100 or 120 came in at a time. One morning, however, Darmenon informed his employer that 2600 had been brought in at an early hour through the barrier of St Denis, and had been taken to the faubourg of the same name. On reporting this at the ministry of war, Mr Nolte received directions to purchase the whole lot immediately on government account, and regardless of price. The purchase was effected, but not without some competition, which he thought unlikely to proceed from a merely mercantile motive, and on setting his agents to work, he found that his competitors were the Legitimists, who had been very busy for some time past. He became convinced, from this and other information that reached him, that there was a plot in existence against Louis Philippe, and he desired Darmenon to keep a sharp look-out, and inform him of whatever came to his knowledge. The occupation seemed to the taste of the ex-galley-slave, who reported, on the morning of the 1st February, that several Carlist emissaries were at work in the Faubourg St Antoine, that towards noon there would probably be a gathering of workmen, who would raise the banner of Henry V., and that at ten o’clock at night the conspirators would leave the house, No. 18 Rue des Prouvaires, force their way into the Tuileries, where there was to be a ball that evening, surround Louis Philippe, lead him away, and put him to death. The conspirators, with whom Darmenon confessed himself to have been long in the habit of intercourse, had offered him 6000 francs for 200 muskets, and had paid him 2000 francs in advance. These circumstantial details, and the sight of the notes, convincing Mr Nolte of the truth of the story, he jumped into his cab and drove to the prefecture of police, then presided over by the notorious Gisquet. On his way he called at the Bourse. There had been a sudden fall of 1½ per cent, owing to alarming rumours and to heavy sales by the Carlists. Gisquet, with whom Mr Nolte was acquainted, discredited, or affected to discredit, the whole affair, but noted a few particulars, and politely thanked his informant for the needless trouble he had given himself. But, before seven o’clock that evening, Darmenon had the whole 6000 francs in his possession. The 200 muskets were to be sent for before ten o’clock. Mr Nolte again hurried to Gisquet, and asked if he should deliver them. “Yes,” was the reply; “a few at a time; I will have them followed.” Mr Nolte gave the needful instructions, and was informed, the next morning, by his storekeeper, that Darmenon had had seventeen muskets delivered to him, and had been forthwith arrested. The Paris papers of the 2d February announced that the police, with Mr Carlier (then chief of the municipal guard, since prefect of police under the Republic) at their head, had forced their way into the house, No. 18 Rue des Prouvaires, at 11 o’clock on the previous night, and, after some resistance, had captured the whole band of conspirators there assembled. From the evidence on the trial, it appeared that Gisquet, incredulous to the eleventh hour, was even then undecided what to do. He feared the attack of the opposition press, ever ready to accuse the police of fabricating the plots they discovered. Carlier at last put an end to his perplexity, by violently exclaiming, “They are armed; we are of superior force; we must enter the house and use our weapons!” An hour later this was done; a municipal guard was killed, and Carlier himself received a slight bullet-wound on the head.

When Marshal Soult, Mr Nolte tells us, learned that it was one of his contractors who had led the way to the discovery of the plot, he was displeased that he had not been first informed of it, instead of the prefect of police. He was jealous of Thiers, then minister of the interior, who, on his part, bore him no love. Soult would not have been sorry to expose the inefficiency of his colleague’s police; Thiers, owing to the course adopted by Mr Nolte, was enabled to make a boast of its vigilance. All the merit of the affair was attributed to Gisquet, who was promoted to the rank of officer of the Legion of Honour. And when that worthy, after he was dismissed for his venality and scandalous immorality, wrote his memoirs and attempted justification, he ascribed the discovery of the plot of the Rue des Prouvaires entirely to his own activity and zeal, and made no mention whatever of Mr Nolte.

A chapter of amusing gossip, headed “Reminiscences of the Artistic World of Paris,” tempts us to linger, but the length to which this paper has already extended admonishes us to pause. We conclude by extracting a short anecdote, which we do not remember to have before heard, of that eccentric genius, Horace Vernet. It was some time before the capture of the Smala, his picture of which added so greatly to his reputation. Vernet was in Marshal Bugeaud’s camp, where all the soldiers knew of his presence, and one of them, who had promised to send his portrait to his mother, went to him and asked him if he would undertake the work, and at what price. Vernet’s reply was that he could not do it for less than a twenty-franc piece. The soldier thought this rather a high figure, but agreed to pay it, provided the likeness was perfect. This the painter promised that it should be, and accordingly, when the picture was done, it was exhibited in the camp, and the striking resemblance was proclaimed by all the comrades of the original. Thereupon the soldier paid the stipulated price, which Vernet quietly pocketed, observing that an artist must live by the price of his work. On leaving the camp, two days afterwards, he sent twenty napoleons to the captain of the soldier’s company, for distribution to him and his brave comrades.

Seldom, either in print or in the flesh, have we fallen in with so restless, versatile, and excursive a genius as Vincent Nolte, Esq., of Europe and America—no more limited address will sufficiently express his cosmopolitan domicile. The reader will perhaps imagine, after the perusal of this tolerably desultory paper, that we have traced a considerable portion of his journey through life. No idea was ever more erroneous. We have only picked a little here and there, and have taken scarcely any notice of the parts the author doubtless considers the most important in his book, and which will certainly be read with strong interest by bankers and merchants old enough to remember the mercantile history of the first quarter of the present century. It is chiefly to those intimate and personal commercial details that we attribute the uncommon success Mr Nolte’s autobiography has had in its place of publication, and in Germany generally. Independently of those, it contains matter of interest and entertainment for all classes of readers.

A SPORTING SETTLER IN CEYLON.[12]

One of the most striking features of the present age, with reference to our own country, is to be found in that wonderful chain of steam communication, which within the last few years we have seen gradually linking together the British dominions, and which must girdle the globe before it completely connects every portion of our vast empire. But if it is a subject of national pride that our possessions are scattered so widely over the face of the earth, the universal ignorance which prevails respecting them in the mother country only becomes the more incomprehensible and deeply to be deplored. Moreover, the comparatively small amount of intelligence which has been brought to bear upon the subject has been most partially and improperly distributed. The _colonies_ of Great Britain have engrossed all the sympathies of the home public. The _dependencies_ are utterly neglected, or, which comes to much the same thing, consigned unreservedly to the tender mercies of the Colonial Office.

However much may be regretted this marked preference in favour of the colony, it is easily accounted for. An inviting and almost totally uninhabited country of vast extent and genial climate, possessing a fertile soil, and sources of unknown wealth, tempts a certain class of the home community to quit for ever their native shores and risk their fortunes in those distant lands, which henceforward possess an interest in the eyes of those they have left behind, and create in them the spirit of inquiry and enterprise. In the case of the dependency, no such inducement exists. A tropical climate is a bugbear utterly appalling to the intending emigrant. He shudders at the bare idea of passing the rest of his existence in a temperature of 90°, exposed to the attacks of cholera, fever, natives, and snakes. He has heard of fortunes having been made in India, but he has never heard of children having been brought up there, and so having failed in the attempt to get a writership for his son, he pities the lot of those who are more successful, does not bestow a second thought upon that continent to which his country owes, in a great measure, her prosperity, and betakes himself, with his wife and family, to the backwoods of Canada.

And if India is treated with such indifference, what must be the fate of that large pear-shaped island at its southern extremity, perhaps more easily recognised by the well educated as Taprobane than as Ceylon. To be sure, Trincomalee (the white man’s grave) is a name familiar to their ears, but the existence of Colombo, a city containing 60,000 inhabitants, and the seat of government, is altogether ignored, just as the Cingalese themselves seldom hear of England, or are accustomed to think of it only as the capital of London. The absence of any recent popular work upon Ceylon may in some measure account for, while it cannot quite excuse, this ignorance. And we should certainly deeply commiserate any one who, in a moment of infatuation, attempted to acquire his information from the work of Sir Emerson Tenant, which was published about two years ago, entitled _Christianity in Ceylon_. Those who are really interested in the subject of Christianity will find it treated of there in a cold, unsympathising manner, calculated rather to repel than to attract them. Indeed, the unfavourable reception which this book has already met with, proves that the general public, but too little mindful of Christianity at home, care as little for its development in Ceylon as did Sir Emerson himself during his late administration as Colonial Secretary of the island. Mr Baker has evidently a much better appreciation of the popular taste, when, instead of “Christianity,” he gives us “The Rifle and the Hound” in Ceylon; and we entertain no doubt that the result will prove this satisfactorily alike to himself and to his publishers.

We have, indeed, seldom perused a work with a keener relish than the one we have just laid down. Our author has shown in it that he can wield his pen as ably as he can handle his rifle, and in his exciting description of wild sports in Ceylon, he gives the public a “view halloo” of the game he is in sight of there, that must stir within him the soul of every true sportsman. But the interest of Mr Baker’s book does not consist so much in the telling and graphic manner in which he relates his own adventures and hairbreadth escapes, as in the perfectly new character in which he represents the island where he has now permanently established himself, and where he seems to be enjoying existence in a capacity hitherto untried in that tropical clime; for he is no coffee-planter reconciling himself to a solitary existence in the jungle by the hope of speedily realising what he terms “a comfortable independence,” upon which to return to his native land—or Ceylon civil servant, revelling in the prospect of retiring when he is grey-headed to enjoy anything but a comfortable independence, viz. £500 a-year, or half the highest salary that splendid service offers to unfortunate younger sons. Nor is he stationed out here with his regiment, altogether regardless, as a soldier ought to be, of a comfortable independence, and anxious to keep his hand in for natives by shooting elephants. He is no mere dilettante sportsman, endeavouring to recover the effects, and dissipate the recollections, of half a dozen London seasons. He is a _settler_—positively a settler in Ceylon. If our preconceived impressions of this colony be true, what a sanguine temperament our author must possess, to enable him to expose himself so cheerfully to the attacks of fever and wild beasts for the rest of his life. There certainly never was such an act of insanity perpetrated; he might as well have emigrated to the infernal regions at once. We have no doubt his friends told him so before he quitted the genial clime of his native land. But before we condemn him so roundly, let us see where he has pitched his tent, and what sort of answer he sends back to the inquiries of these anxious friends of his.

“Here, then, I am in my private sanctum, my rifles all arranged in
their respective stands above the chimney-piece, the stag’s horns
round walls hung with horn-cases, powder-flasks, and the various
weapons of the chase. Even as I write, the hounds are yelling in the
kennel.

“The thermometer is at 62° Fahr., and it is mid-day. It never exceeds
72° in the hottest weather, and sometimes falls below freezing point
at night. The sky is spotless, and the air calm. The fragrance of
mignonettes, and a hundred flowers that recall Old England, fill the
air. Green fields of grass and clover, neatly fenced, surround a
comfortable house and grounds. Well-fed cattle of the choicest breeds,
and English sheep, are grazing in the paddocks. Well made roads and
gravel walks run through the estate. But a few years past, and this
was all wilderness.

“Dense forest reigned where now not even the stump of a tree is
standing; the wind howled over hill and valley, the dank moss hung
from the scathed branches, the deep morass filled the hollows; but all
is changed by the hand of civilisation and industry. The dense forests
and rough plains, which still form the boundaries of the cultivated
land, only add to the beauty. The monkeys and parrots are even now
chattering among the branches; and occasionally the elephant, in his
nightly wanderings, trespasses upon the fields, unconscious of the
oasis within his territory of savage nature.

“The still starlight night is awakened by the harsh bark of the elk;
the lofty mountains, grey with the silvery moonlight, echo back the
sound, and the wakeful hounds answer the well-known cry by a prolonged
and savage yell.

“This is ‘Newera Ellia,’ the sanatorium of Ceylon, the most perfect
climate of the world. It now boasts of a handsome church, a public
reading-room, a large hotel, the barracks, and about twenty private
residences.

“The adjacent country, of comparatively table-land, occupies an extent
of some thirty miles in length, varying in altitude from six thousand
two hundred to seven thousand feet, forming a base for the highest
peaks in Ceylon, which rise to nearly nine thousand feet.

“Alternate large plains, separated by belts of forest, rapid rivers,
waterfalls, precipices, and panoramic views of boundless extent, form
the features of this country, which, combined with the sports of the
place, render a residence at Newera Ellia a life of health, luxury,
and independence.”

So Mr Baker is not quite a maniac after all—in fact, his lines seem cast in rather pleasant places; and, if we may draw our own inferences from the brief description he gives us of his island home, the pleasures of the chase are only resorted to as an agreeable variation from the ordinary routine of his agricultural pursuits. He is a solitary specimen in Ceylon of that race so highly respected in our own country, which combines at once the sportsman, the farmer, and the gentleman.

It has ever been a matter of astonishment to us that no sportsman of the Cinnamon Isle has before this been inspired by his romantic and adventurous life to depict those scenes in which he has himself revelled, so as to allow the public the gratification of participating, although only in imagination, in wild sports of a nature as exciting and hazardous as the manner in which they are prosecuted is novel and enjoyable. We have not only explored, with Gordon Cumming, the interior of South Africa, but have been bored to death by exhibitions in our own country of the trophies which attest his courage and energy. Although we have never visited the Far West, we are as familiar with the life of the buffalo-hunter or prairie Indian as Washington Irving himself.—For did we not live among trappers, with the inimitable Ruxton for our companion, while we have only just returned from a solitary ramble with Palliser. And so tired are we of shooting tigers and hunting boars in India with the Cockney who goes out for a winter excursion, or the “Company’s” lady who wishes to astonish her sisters at home, and disgust her husband at “the station,” that we should infinitely prefer reading the account in the county paper of the last run of the subscription pack, to Mrs M.’s charming description of the Shickar at B——, and the grand Tomasha with which it terminated. And, indeed, if we are accused of giving too unfavourable an impression of Indian sport, it is because, when we compare our own experiences of sport in Bengal with that in Ceylon, we feel that the merits of the latter have been utterly ignored and overwhelmed by a profusion of rubbishy, exaggerated pictures of tiger-hunting and pig-sticking, half of which have been drawn, as a sportsman can at once detect, by those who have never seen a tiger or a wild boar before they gave us this account of their “fearful adventures.” We certainly will maintain that sport in India is very far inferior to sport in Ceylon, inasmuch as it is much more exciting to shoot an elephant than to ride one. The insipidity of rocking about on the back of an elephant, looking for a tiger among long grass, and running away or not when you find one, as it suits the fancy of the mahout or the elephant, is easily appreciated by those who have ever indulged in the delectable amusement of stalking a “rogue,” with nothing but a pair of rifle barrels and a pair of stout legs to trust to. We engage to say, that if there were as much elephant-shooting in Ceylon as there is tiger-shooting in India, the proportion of deaths in the former country would be as ten to one. We will admit that “shickar” arrangements are made on a much more magnificent and luxurious scale in India than in Ceylon; but this is a very secondary consideration with the true sportsman, and we certainly never enjoyed life more thoroughly at any time than while making our jungle trips in those wild districts in Ceylon which are so plentifully stocked with game. What an independent existence was that! far from the haunts of men by some secluded tank,—a monument of the industry and greatness of a race long since passed away,—shadowed over by the lofty and graceful tamarind tree, is pitched our snug little single-poled tent. Some camp-stools are our seats by day, and fit into one another so as to form comfortable beds; the small circular table is fixed to the tent-pole; the canteen, some green native baskets containing our wardrobe, and a long range of guns, complete the furniture. It is mid-day, and the occupants are taking a _siesta_ in their pyjamas; the coolies are snoring where the jungle forms the densest shade; the cook and servants have built a house for themselves of branches, and are engaged in culinary occupations. No sooner is the intense heat of mid-day past than we sally forth, working steadily for about four hours; then comes the luxurious fare known well to the Ceylon hunter. Our coolies and ourselves are alike dependent entirely on our trusty rifles. We sometimes indulge in beer, but it is a most extravagant practice—always, however, in a good cook. It is not yet quite dusk: we dine in the open air. There is roast peafowl with buffalo tongue, venison pasty and jugged hare, with a curry of jungle fowl, with pigs’ fry, if we are not otherwise well supplied; but, as a general rule, wild boar is to be avoided, especially if dead elephants are abundant in the vicinity. Presently the full moon in the cloudless sky throws the shadows long and sharp over our encampment, and we prepare for night-work. Our tent is quite concealed from the tank to which we now repair: it is about three-quarters dry, and the water is not more than half a mile in circumference. There are two round holes prepared for our reception close to the water’s edge, of sufficient depth to conceal the occupants. All through the night, with the moon looking calmly down upon us, brightly reflected in the waters of the tank, we watch. As it is early yet, there are plenty of buffaloes still to be seen. Soon large herds of deer come down to drink; they are quite unsuspicious, and pass to and fro within a few yards of the loaded rifles. Then the sharp bark of the elk rings through the still air, and a noble buck walks knee deep into the water, and a moment afterwards the doe more timidly follows. Large sounders of pigs grunt about constantly. After midnight, more important game appears, and rouses the eager sportsmen to more vigorous action; whether we have made a bag or not depends upon whether there are elephants in the neighbourhood. If there are, they will now be heard crashing through the jungle. They come very slowly, and the excitement is intense; they keep stopping by the way, and beating about with their trunks. We are getting very impatient—they never will come! At last, one after another, they stalk across the open in the clear moonlight; a large herd is soon splashing, and bubbling, and roaring in the muddy water. They are out of shot, and we are obliged to stalk them, for moonlight shooting is deceptive, and we have put lime on the sight of the guns—a precaution, by the way, we do not hear that Mr Baker adopted when shooting by moonlight. We no sooner fire than the uproar and noise of the retreating elephants are tremendous: they seldom charge at night, the whole transaction being too sudden and mysterious; but the crashing of the jungle, as the terrified herd sweeps through it, is inconceivable. An hour or two before daybreak chetahs and bears come stealthily down and stay for a moment, and are gone again. In the course of one night, in the northern part of Ceylon, we have literally seen and fired at every description of the game we have just enumerated. At daybreak we swallow a quantity of warm strong coffee, and only return when the barrels of our rifles become too hot to hold, unless, indeed, we are absolutely on the track of an elephant, and then the blazing sun itself is despised. On our way home we discharge our rifles at the scaly backs of innumerable alligators that bask open-mouthed upon the sloping bank, but never with the hope of getting, though sometimes of killing, one. We have occasionally put a ball between the greaves of their armour, but can testify most assuredly (although Mr Baker seems to doubt it) that an alligator’s back will turn a rifle ball at twenty yards, as upon one occasion the ball from a friend’s rifle lodged in a tree above us, although he was standing at a distance of about a hundred yards off, and the alligator at which he had fired was in a totally opposite direction. And so the days fly past, and our trip is at an end, while our appetite for excitement and adventure remains unappeased; but we are soon reconciled to the change from the rough jungle-life to the comforts of civilisation, for with them we combine the invigorating air of the mountains, and sport of another kind. The tent is exchanged at Newera Ellia for the warm thatched cottage, with its rustic porch covered with sweet-pea and honeysuckle, and well-furnished carpeted rooms, where a comfortable wood-fire crackles upon every hearth, and sheds its grateful influence upon the party gathered round it, and which is composed of the most diverse materials. Bengal civilians, who were supposed to be dying when they left the Sandheads, are narrating with no little satisfaction their exploits in the morning’s elk-hunt; officers from Colombo, and middies from Trincomalee, are eagerly canvassing the prospects for the morrow; coffee-planters, tourists, and Ceylon officials, have become excellent friends on short acquaintance, and are all burning to distinguish themselves. At 5 A.M. it requires some courage to emerge from beneath a couple of warm blankets: the ground is covered with a thick hoar-frost, and fingers long accustomed to wield a pen in some Indian cutcherry can scarcely hold the reins. Enterprising ladies, with very red tips to their noses, join the party, and the meet is a gay and animated scene. But we must not follow the fortunes of the hunt—our reminiscences have already led us beyond the orthodox limits of a review—and we shall gladly turn to Mr Baker for a description of those sports which he, in common with ourselves, so highly appreciates. We would first, however, say a few words more in reference to the lovely spot in which he has taken up his abode, and of which he has unfortunately given us a very meagre account.

The few Englishmen of a lower class in society who have found their way to Newera Ellia are thriving well; they are, for the most part, discharged soldiers, or persons whose original object, in coming to Ceylon, was to superintend coffee plantations. English blacksmiths, carpenters, shoemakers, or tailors, are all sure of plenty of employment; while storekeeping, or taking charge of the residences of those government functionaries who are fortunate enough to possess them, is a profitable occupation. The great drawback to extensive settling in Newera Ellia, is the absence of a permanent market. At some seasons of the year the plain is overflowing with civilians and military men from the lower provinces, or from the continent of India, who flock to enjoy its bracing climate; at other times visitors are few and far between, and the produce must be transported in bullock-carts to Kandy or Colombo.

The nearest coffee plantations are situated in Dimboola, seven or eight miles distant, the elevation of the plain being too great for the growth of the berry. All the ordinary productions of our kitchen-gardens are to be procured in abundance, and delicious strawberries may here be grown, to recall to the acclimatised Company’s servant the long-forgotten tastes of his native land. There can be no doubt that when the merits of Newera Ellia become better known they will be more highly appreciated, while its proximity to India will then insure those who have settled there a speedy and profitable return for their outlay.

We regret that the scope and tenor of Mr Baker’s work do not admit of a full account of his farming experiences, which must have been both novel and interesting. His sketches of scenery are graceful and life-like, evincing a warm susceptibility and a cultivated mind—qualities which must ever distinguish the thorough sportsman from a mere butcher on a large scale. “To a true sportsman,” says our author, “the enjoyment of a sport increases in proportion to the wildness of the country.” The deliberate manner in which Mr Baker awaits the furious charge of a rogue elephant, with his rifle on full cock, wrapped in the contemplation of the beauties of nature, is truly appalling to us uninitiated Westerns; and, indeed, at these critical moments he is ever most enthusiastic—a very Izaak Walton of Nimrods.

“There is a mournful silence in the calmness of the evening, when the
tropical sun sinks upon the horizon, a conviction that man has left
this region undisturbed to its wild tenants. No hum of distant voices,
no rumbling of busy wheels, no cries of domestic animals meet the ear.
He stands upon a wilderness, pathless and untrodden by the foot of
civilisation, where no sound is ever heard but that of the elements,
when the thunder rolls among the towering forests, or the wind howls
along the plains. He gazes far, far into the distance, where the blue
mountains melt into an indefinite haze; he looks above him to the
rocky pinnacles which spring from the level plain, their swarthy
cliffs glistening from the recent shower, and patches of rich verdure
clinging to precipices a thousand feet above him. His eye stretches
along the grassy plains, taking at one full glance a survey of woods,
and rocks, and streams; and imperceptibly his mind wanders to thoughts
of home, and in one moment scenes long left behind are conjured up by
memory, and incidents are recalled which banish for a time the scene
before him. Lost for a moment in the enchanting power of solitude,
where fancy and reality combine in their most bewitching forms, he is
suddenly roused by a distant sound, made doubly loud by the
surrounding silence—the shrill trumpet of an elephant.”

This is a good specimen of our author in his softer moods; but we must hurry on to more stirring scenes. Some seven or eight years ago Mr Baker visited Ceylon on a sporting tour, and the first part of his volume is devoted to an account of his adventures upon that occasion. He subsequently returned to Ceylon, and, making Newera Ellia his permanent headquarters, he enjoyed elk-hunting at his own doors; and, having profited by former experience, made his elephant-shooting excursions in a deliberate and well-organised manner. His battery consisted “of one four-ounce rifle (a single barrel) weighing twenty-one pounds, one long two-ounce rifle (single barrel) weighing sixteen pounds, and four double-barrelled rifles, No. 10, weighing each fifteen pounds.” The No. 10 double barrels did most execution, and were twelve-grooved, carrying a conical ball of two ounces and a half. It is certainly a popular delusion to suppose that smooth bores are better than these for elephant-shooting. We have already enumerated the varieties of game at which this formidable battery is directed.

About eighty miles to the north-east of Kandy, the lake of Minneria lies embosomed amid the most luxuriant vegetation, presenting a sheet of water twenty miles in circumference; and here, far distant from the haunts of men, surrounded by some of the loveliest scenery which Ceylon can boast, Mr Baker introduces us to his first buffalo. Our author’s brother is the only companion of his sport; they have just arrived in the island, and consequently are complete novices in its wild sports. No sooner do they reach Minneria than, carried away by the excitement of such close proximity to their noble game, they sally forth to attack a herd of buffaloes, improperly supplied with ammunition. A bull charges and is wounded, the herd retreats, and our author, leaving his brother to extinguish the wounded bull, follows another, who disdains a rapid flight. He is at length overtaken, and as he faces about to his pursuer, Mr Baker puts two balls into his chest at fifteen paces, without effect, “save that his eye, which had hitherto been merely sullen, was now beaming with fury, but his form was motionless as a statue.” This is decidedly startling—more startling still to find that there is not another ball left. It was now the bull’s turn. “I dared not turn to retreat, as I knew he would immediately charge, and we stared one another out of countenance.” For a quarter of an hour Mr B. stares fiercely but hopelessly at his maddened antagonist, then a bright thought flashes across him:—

“Without taking my eyes off the animal before me, I put a double
charge of powder down the right-hand barrel, and tearing off a piece
of my shirt, I took all the money from my pouch, three shillings in
sixpenny pieces, and two anna pieces, which I luckily had with me in
this small coin for paying coolies. Quickly making them into a rouleau
with the piece of rag, I rammed them down the barrel, and they were
hardly well home before the bull again sprang forward. So quick was it
that I had no time to replace the ramrod, and I threw it in the water,
bringing my gun on full cock in the same instant.”

His brother now comes up:—

“It was the work of an instant. B. fired without effect. The horns
were lowered, their points were on either side of me, and the muzzle
of the gun barely touched his forehead when I pulled the trigger, and
three shillings’ worth of small change rattled into his hard head.
Down he went, and rolled over with the suddenly checked momentum of
his charge. Away went B. and I as fast as our heels would carry us,
through the water and over the plain, knowing that he was not dead but
only stunned.”

We have generally found in the course of our own short experience that there was nothing for meeting a charge like a little ready money, but this is squaring accounts with a vengeance. In a moment more Mr Baker must inevitably have paid the debt of nature—he paid 3s. 6d. instead, and we will venture to say he never before spent that sum more quickly or satisfactorily to himself. Upon the following day our two sportsmen are charged by a herd, and again narrowly escape destruction. “Although,” says Mr Baker, “I have since killed about two hundred wild buffaloes, I have never witnessed another charge by a herd. This was an extraordinary occurrence, and fortunately stands alone in buffalo-shooting.” Mr Baker only thinks it necessary to select from his extensive buffalo-shooting experiences those occasions which involved considerable personal hazard, and exhibited, at the same time, the extraordinary courage and instinct of the animal. Unless buffalo-shooting be followed up as a sport by itself, the real character of the animal must remain unknown. “Some will fight and some will fly, and no one can tell which will take place—it is at the option of the beast. Caution and good shooting, combined with heavy rifles, are necessary. Without heavy metal the sport would be superlatively dangerous, if regularly followed up.” Mr Baker places great confidence in, and is not a little proud of, his heavy rifles, and he gives some wonderful instances of his performances with them, which fully justify his high estimate of their capabilities. The last day’s work on the occasion of his subsequent visits to Minneria is worthy of record. He begins by knocking over a bull at three hundred and fifty-two paces, then a cow from horseback at a long range, and a bull at about four hundred yards. These are mere experiments; presently he comes to closer quarters. A young bull is hidden in a thick cover, and our author rides in to dislodge him:—

“I beat about to no purpose for about twenty minutes, and I was on the
point of giving it up when I suddenly saw the tall reeds bow down just
before me. I beard the rush of an animal as he burst through, and I
just saw the broad black nose, quickly followed by the head and horns,
as the buffalo charged into me. The horse reared to his full height as
the horns almost touched his chest, and I fired as well as I was able.
In another instant I was rolling on the ground, with my horse upon me,
in a cloud of smoke and confusion.

“In a most unsportsmanlike manner (as persons may exclaim who were not
there), I hid behind my horse as he regained his legs. All was
still—the snorting of the frightened horse was all that I could hear.
I expected to have seen the infuriated buffalo among us. I peeped over
the horse’s back, and, to my delight and surprise, I saw the carcass
of the bull lying within three feet of him. His head was pierced by
the ball exactly between the horns, and death had been instantaneous.
The horse having reared to his full height, had entangled his hind
legs in the grass, and he had fallen backwards without being touched
by the buffalo, although the horns were close into him.”

On his way home, after this disagreeable rencontre, Mr Baker falls in with a small herd of five, and drops both bulls and an infuriated cow, the latter in the act of charging, at a distance of fifteen paces. The two remaining cows and a calf are killed in their retreat, and Mr Baker is strolling home satisfied with a bag of ten buffaloes, when he suddenly stumbles upon a herd of elephants. These beat an immediate retreat. But singling out a fine bull, Mr Baker drops him severely wounded with the four ounce, and, taking his second gun, he runs up just in time to catch him as he is half risen.

“Feeling sure of him, I ran up within two yards of his head, and fired
into his forehead. To my amazement, he jumped quickly up, and with a
loud trumpet he rushed towards the jungle. I could just keep close
alongside him, as the grass was short, and the ground level, and being
determined to get him, I ran close to his shoulder, and, taking a
steady shot behind the ear, I fired my remaining barrel. Judge of my
surprise,—it only increased his speed, and in another moment he
reached the jungle: he was gone. He seemed to bear a charmed life. I
had taken two shots within a few feet of him that I would have staked
my life upon. I looked at my gun. Ye gods! I had been firing _snipe
shot_ at him. It was my rascally horsekeeper, who had actually handed
me the shot-gun, which I had received as the double-barrelled
ball-gun, that I knew was carried by a gun-bearer. How I did thrash
him! If the elephant had charged instead of making off, I should have
been caught, to a certainty.”

This is a judgment upon him evidently for boasting too much of his battery. The abundance of game at Minneria, however, is not to be compared to the enormous sports which Mr Baker finds in the almost unexplored country beyond Hambautotte. “Here the deer were in such masses that I restricted myself to bucks, and I at length became completely satiated. There was too much game. During a whole day’s walk I was certainly not five minutes without seeing either deer, elk, buffaloes, or hogs.”

Gradually our sportsman gets still more particular; he refuses tempting shots, and goes out simply in search of large antlers. None appearing of sufficient size he does not fire, and only kills buffaloes if they look vicious, and he can get a charge out of them. Notwithstanding this dainty shooting, he comes home one morning to breakfast, at eight o’clock, with three fine bucks and two buffaloes in his bag. Altogether we cannot charge Mr Baker with indiscriminate slaughter. A thorough sportsman, he is a humane man; but if we may so phrase it, he is a little too conscientious in his sport. He gives us glimpses of much that is interesting in his search after game; but, because it is unconnected with the matter in hand, he hurries us away upon the track of a rogue elephant or a buffalo, and will not allow us to linger for a moment upon those fairy scenes which he has himself conjured up, or to inquire more deeply into subjects of interest he has himself suggested. We should have liked to have heard a little more of the Veddahs, for instance; but the district they inhabit is the finest part of Ceylon for sport, so of course we must not expect to be told about wild men when there are wild beasts in the case. We have, however, a brief description of the manners and habits (or rather want of habits) of the animal:—

“The Veddah in person is extremely ugly; short, but sinewy; his long
uncombed locks fall to his waist, looking more like a horse’s tail
than human hair. He despises money; but is thankful for a knife, a
hatchet, or a gaudy-coloured cloth, or brass pot for cooking. The
women are horribly ugly, and are almost entirely naked. They have no
matrimonial regulations, and the children are squalid and miserable.
Still these people are perfectly happy, and would prefer their present
wandering life to the most luxurious restraint. Speaking a language of
their own, with habits akin to those of wild animals, they keep
entirely apart from the Cingalese. They barter deer-horns and
bees’-wax with the travelling Moormen pedlars in exchange for their
trifling requirements. If they have food they eat it; if they have
none they go without until by some chance they procure it. In the mean
time they chew the bark of various trees, and search for berries,
while they wend their way for many miles to some remembered store of
deer’s flesh and honey, laid by in a hollow tree.”

They are expert trackers, but are not so skilled in the use of bows and arrows as savages usually are. Without any fixed place of residence, they wander over their beautiful country, always finding abundance to eat and drink, while the warm temperature renders any description of clothing superfluous. Upon another occasion, Mr Baker, in search of elephants, stumbles upon the ruins of Mahagam. As he is unsuccessful in finding any game, he gives us a short description of what remains of this ancient city, the first records of which date back to the year 286 B.C.

“We were among the ruins of ancient Mahagam. One of the ruined
buildings had apparently rested upon seventy-two pillars. These were
still erect, standing in six lines of twelve columns: every stone
appeared to be about fourteen feet high by two feet square, and
twenty-five feet apart. This building must therefore have formed an
oblong of three hundred feet by one hundred and fifty. Many of the
granite blocks were covered with rough carving; large flights of
steps, now irregular from the inequality of the ground, were scattered
here and there; and the general appearance of the ruins was similar to
that of Pollanarua, but of smaller extent. The stone causeway which
passed through the ruins was about two miles in length, being for the
most part overgrown with low jungle and prickly cactus. I traversed
the jungle for some distance, until arrested by the impervious nature
of the bushes; but wherever I went the ground was strewed with squared
stones and fallen brickwork overgrown with rank vegetation.”

At Pollanarua the ruins are still more interesting, and our author is evidently just becoming romantic when his reveries are disturbed in a manner inexcusable even in a sportsman. He is strolling through shady glades, and moralising over palaces which have crumbled into shapeless mounds of bricks: “Massive pillars, formed of a single stone some twelve feet high, stand in upright rows throughout the jungle here and there over an extent of miles of country. The buildings which they once supported have long since fallen, and the pillars now stand like tombstones over vanished magnificence.” While Mr Baker is wandering amid these ruins, meditating upon the touching mementoes by which he is surrounded, of a race long since passed away—

“Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary doe.”

Instead of quoting Wordsworth, what does Mr Baker do? “I was within twenty yards of her before she was aware of my vicinity, and I bagged her by a shot with a double-barrelled gun. At the report of the gun a herd of about thirty deer which were concealed among the ruins rushed close by me, and I bagged another doe with the remaining barrel.” Really Mr Baker should be ashamed of bagging does right and left amid pillars which stand as tombstones over vanished magnificence; or, if it was the effect of an impulse irresistible at the moment, the placid reader should be spared the sudden shock which such an admission is likely to cause.

The most extensive ruins are strewn over all this country, those of Anarajapoura, comprising a surface of two hundred and fifty-six square miles, being the most celebrated. Numerous tanks attest the existence of a dense population, where now elephants and buffaloes roam unmolested. The tank at Doolana, a secluded spot, is a favourite resort for single or rogue elephants; and here Mr Baker and his brother find a notorious pair, and determine upon their destruction. The difficulty of following an elephant through the dense forests of Ceylon is so great that the assistance of native trackers is often absolutely necessary. In this instance, unfortunately, even the trackers mistake the direction, and our two sportsmen are standing hopelessly near a wall of impenetrable jungle, into which the elephants had been seen to retreat, wondering how they are ever to achieve the desired end, when, says Mr Baker,

“I suddenly heard a deep guttural sound in the thick rattan within
four feet of me; in the same instant the whole tangled fabric bent
over me, and, bursting asunder, showed the furious head of an elephant
with uplifted trunk in full charge upon me.

“I had barely time to cock my rifle, and the barrel almost touched him
as I fired. I knew it was in vain, as his trunk was raised. B. fired
his right-hand barrel at the same moment without effect from the same
cause. I jumped on one side and attempted to spring through the deep
mud: it was of no use; the long grass entangled my feet, and in
another instant I lay sprawling in the enraged elephant’s path within
_a foot_ of him. In that moment of suspense I expected to hear the
crack of my own bones as his massive foot would be upon me. It was an
atom of time. I heard the crack of a gun; it was B.’s last barrel. I
felt a spongy weight strike my heel, and, turning quickly heels over
head, I rolled a few paces and regained my feet. That last shot had
floored him just as he was upon me; the end of his trunk had fallen
upon my heel. Still he was not dead, but he struck at me with his
trunk as I passed round his head to give him a finisher with the
four-ounce rifle, which I had snatched from our solitary gun-bearer.

“My back was touching the jungle from which the rogue had just
charged, and I was almost in the act of firing through the temple of
the still struggling elephant when I heard a tremendous crash in the
jungle behind me similar to the first, and the savage scream of an
elephant. I saw the ponderous fore-leg cleave its way through the
jungle directly upon me. I threw my whole weight back against the
thick rattans to avoid him, and the next moment his foot was planted
within an inch of mine. His lofty head was passing over me in full
charge at B., who was unloaded, when, holding the four-ounce rifle
perpendicularly, I fired exactly under his throat. I thought he would
fall upon me and crush me, but this shot was the only chance, as B.
was perfectly helpless.

“A dense cloud of smoke from the heavy charge of powder for the moment
obscured everything. I had jumped out of the way the instant after
firing. The elephant did not fall, but he had his death wound: the
ball had severed his jugular, and the blood poured from the wound. He
stopped, but, collecting his stunned energies, he still blundered
forward towards B. He, however, avoided him by running to one side,
and the wounded brute staggered on through the jungle. We now loaded
the guns; the first rogue was quite dead, and we followed in pursuit
of rogue number two.”

He had received his death wound, and was found dead in the jungle a day or two afterwards. We have no doubt a large proportion of those who take up Mr Baker’s book, will read this, and many other similar adventures which it contains, in a spirit of profound scepticism. Of course, we cannot vouch for their credibility otherwise than by saying that, from our own experience and our knowledge of the experience of others, we believe not only in the possibility, but in the probability of scenes such as those described by Mr Baker frequently occurring in a long course of elephant-shooting. When a man can show three hundred or four hundred tails adorning the walls of his room, he may fairly expect us to consider them as vouchers for his own good faith; and carpet sportsmen may laugh as they please, but they will find, if they have got the pluck to try to procure similar ornaments, that elephants don’t generally allow their tails to be cut off without fighting for them, and that the mild specimen in the Zoological Gardens is not altogether to be taken as a type of the race generally.

“I have often heard people exclaim,” says Mr Baker, “upon hearing
anecdotes of elephant-hunting, ‘poor things!’