Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 115.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, MARCH 13, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE MONARCH OF AFRICAN MOUNTAINS.

To those who associate the name of the great African continent only with visions of the steaming mangrove swamps of the west coast, the luxuriant flower-carpets and grasses of the south, the trackless sand-wastes of the north, and the undulating thirsty plains of ‘the Bush,’ whose idea of Africa, indeed, may be summed up in three words—sun, savages, and fever—to such, we say, it may be difficult to accept the knowledge that snow-capped mountains exist in the very heart of this dry and heat-engirdled land. But yet, there have been for ages, strange tales of a wonderful mountain-mass in the tropical centre, whose summit was perpetually covered with a mysterious substance which the natives called ‘white salt.’ Now, as perpetual snow under the equator was known only in Central America—nowhere else do mountains in the tropics reach the snow-line—there did exist for ages incredulity as to the existence of this alleged African Mont Blanc or Chimborazo. The legend referring to it must have been known to the early Portuguese travellers at least three centuries ago, for the Portuguese were at Mombasa in the sixteenth century, and as Mombasa is within one hundred and eighty miles of the mountain, and is the coast-limit of the trade-route between it and the sea, they must have heard the stories of the native and Arab traders. Others believed this Kilima-Njaro[1] to be merely the legendary ‘Mountains of the Moon.’

The earliest authentic record of ‘discovery’ by a European is that of Rebmann, a German missionary, who, on the 11th of May 1848, first sighted the wonderful snowy dome. Baron Von der Decken, another German, actually reached Kilima-Njaro in 1861, and stayed on its slopes for some three months. On a second visit, Von der Decken ascended to a height of ten thousand five hundred feet, although he did not reach the snow. He was followed, in 1871, by an English missionary, the Rev. Charles New, who made two journeys to Chaga—the native name for the inhabited belt between three and seven thousand feet above the sea, stretching round the mountain—and on the second occasion was robbed and ill-used by Mandara, a native chief. Mr Joseph Thomson, after making the journey _Through Masai-land_, of which he has published so interesting an account, arrived at Kilima-Njaro in 1883. He journeyed nearly all round the base of the mountain, but did not ascend more than nine thousand feet. He also was robbed by Mandara.

It was reserved for Mr H. H. Johnston, F.R.G.S., to penetrate the mysteries of the ‘Monarch of African Mountains,’ and to record his experiences in a most interesting book, _The Kilima-Njaro Expedition_ (London: Kegan Paul). Mr Johnston’s experiences on the Congo qualified him for African exploration; while his services to science in other parts of the world, pointed him out as well equipped for the search into and observation of the natural history of the locality, selected for exploration by a joint-committee of the British Association and the Royal Society. To solve the many interesting problems surrounding the fauna and flora of this African alpine region, was the task delegated to Mr Johnston. He left London in March 1884, and in due course arrived at Zanzibar, where he was assisted by Sir John Kirk in getting together a band of porters, servants, and guides. After some delay at Mombasa, caused by a sharp attack of fever, Mr Johnston plunged into the wilderness at the head of his long band of porters, carrying loads of domestic necessaries, provisions, water, and ‘trade’ goods. The long tramp inland was a weary one, for it was through a hot and thirsty land, which sorely tried the endurance of the party.

The first glimpse of Kilima-Njaro was obtained long before the party reached its base. And here it may be proper to explain that this name is given to the whole mountain-mass, which consists of two huge peaks and a number of smaller ones, just below the third parallel south of the equator. The highest of the peaks is called Kibô, is eighteen thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea, and is always covered with snow on the top, and occasionally down to the altitude of fourteen thousand feet. This is, so far as is at present known, the highest mountain in Africa. The twin-peak, Kimawenzi, is sixteen thousand two hundred and fifty feet high, and although above the snow-line, is not continuously snow-clad. The whole mass is of volcanic origin, and the two peaks are the craters of extinct volcanoes.

Approached from the south-east, the mountain has the appearance of lonely isolation, and presents a truly remarkable spectacle, with its peaks towering to the clouds and its glittering snow-caps. It is worth while giving in Mr Johnston’s words his emotions on first gaining sight of the goal of his desires: ‘With the falling temperature of the small-hours, a brisk wind arose from the heated plain, and swept the clouds from off the sky, all except the mass which obstinately clung to Kilima-Njaro. Feverish and overtired, I could not sleep, and sat and watched the heavens, waiting for the dawn. A hundred men were snoring around me, and the night was anything but silent, for the hyenas were laughing hideously in the gloom outside our circle of expiring embers. At five o’clock I awoke my servant Virapan, and whilst he was making my morning coffee I dropped into a doze, from which at dawn he roused me and pointed to the horizon, where in the north-west a strange sight was to be seen. “Laputa,” I exclaimed; and as Virapan, though he had read _Robinson Crusoe_ and the _Arabian Nights_ in his native tongue, had never heard of _Gulliver’s Travels_, I proceeded to enlighten him as to the famous suspended island of Swift’s imagining, and explained my exclamation by pointing to the now visible Kilima-Njaro, which, with its two peaks of Kibô and Kimawenzi, and the parent mass of mountain, rose high above a level line of cloud, and thus completely severed in appearance from the earth beneath, resembled so strangely the magnetic island of Laputa.’

It was not until the thirteenth day after leaving Mombasa, that the party entered the state of Mosi, ruled over by the chief Mandara, already mentioned. This little kingdom is of about the same area as London, and is on the lower slope of the mountain, between three and four thousand feet above the sea. Splendid views are obtained from it over the plains below, and its condition is anything but one of savagery. The agriculture is of a high order, and the people, although nearly naked, are both intelligent and industrious. The fields are well intersected by artificial water-courses, led from the mountain-streams higher up, and ‘the air is musical with the murmur of trickling rivulets and the tinkling bells of the flocks and herds.’ Wherever the ground is not in cultivation, it is covered with brilliantly coloured wild flowers of numberless known and unknown species; the hum of bees is suggestive of endless stores of honey; and the flow of milk is guaranteed by the innumerable herds of mild-eyed kine cropping the rich pasture.

Finding that the feuds between the Mosi people and the other mountain tribes were a bar to his progress through Mandara’s country, Mr Johnston withdrew, and negotiated treaties of peace and commerce with one of the rival potentates whose territory extended nearer the summit. Before doing this, however, he had to retire to a place called Taveita, through which he had passed on his way to Mandara’s. Of this place he says: ‘From the day of my first arrival up to the time of my final departure, it seemed to me one of the loveliest spots on the earth’s surface.’

Taveita is the sort of trade centre of the district, and is ruled over by a senate of notables, called the ‘Wazēē,’ or elders, who preserve law and order, and arbitrate in disputes between the resident natives and the nomadic traders. Its population is about six thousand.

From Taveita, Mr Johnston negotiated with the chief of Maranū state rather larger than Middlesex, on the south-eastern flank of the mountain. After many preliminaries and much exchanging of presents, he was at length admitted into this kingdom, and had positively to crawl into it through the defensive stockades, which it seems the custom in this country for the separate peoples to erect around their domains. Between the kingdom of Maranū and the summit of Kibô, there lay no opposing tribe, so that, having obtained guides, Mr Johnston was, after a little delay, enabled to continue his journey to the snow.

The route crossed a fine river, and lay at first through a smiling and fertile country, with signs of cultivation and flourishing banana-groves up to an altitude of five thousand five hundred feet. Shortly after that, cultivation ceased, and a heathy district was reached, with grassy knolls and numerous small streams of running water. The ascent was very gradual, and the first night was spent in camp at six thousand five hundred feet. Leaving this, a dense forest was reached at seven thousand feet; then a district of uplands thickly covered with moss and ferns, studded with short gnarled trees, and teeming with begonias and sweet-scented flowering shrubs, but with few signs of animal life. At nine thousand feet, the region was clear of forests, and merely covered with grass; but higher up, the woodland began again, and water became very abundant. The third camp was formed at ten thousand feet, and here the party encountered a terrific thunderstorm and rainfall. It was succeeded by a fair and serene morning, leaving the two snow-peaks in full view against a cloudless blue sky. At this point Mr Johnston resided nearly a month, actively prosecuting his collecting and observing, and preparing for the final ascent. Then, one day, with three followers only, he started for great Kibô.

For some two thousand feet higher, vegetation is abundant; and even at twelve thousand six hundred feet the party struck a pretty little stream, on the banks of which were patches of level greensward and abundance of gay flowers, while the spoor of buffaloes was also observed. Strange sessile thistles, five feet in circumference, were noticed; and an extraordinary lobelia, between three and four feet in height, with bright-blue blossoms, as also other remarkable plants. Bees and wasps were still to be seen at this high altitude, and bright little sunbirds darting about. But beyond thirteen thousand feet, vegetation was seen only in dwarfed patches, and the ground became covered with boulders, lying in confused masses, with occasional huge slabs of rock, singularly marked like tortoise-shells. At thirteen thousand six hundred feet, the last resident bird was noticed—a species of stonechat—although high-soaring kites and great-billed ravens were seen even higher up. At fourteen thousand one hundred and seventeen feet, the Zanzibari followers were thoroughly done up, and began to show unmistakable signs of fear of the ‘bogey’ of the mountain, so they were left to prepare a sleeping-place for the night, while Mr Johnston continued the ascent alone.

At fifteen thousand one hundred and fifty feet he reached the central connecting ridge of Kilima-Njaro, and could see part of both sides. The ‘Monarch,’ however, was veiled in clouds. What followed cannot better be given than in the adventurer’s own words: ‘At length—and it was so sudden and so fleeting, that I had no time to fully take in the majesty of the snowy dome of Kibô—the clouds parted, and I looked on a blaze of snow so blinding white under the brief flicker of sunlight, that I could see little detail. Since sunrise that morning I had caught no glimpse of Kibô, and now it was suddenly presented to me with unusual and startling nearness.... Knowing now the direction of my goal, I rose from the clammy stones, and clutching my sketch-book with benumbed hands, began once more to ascend westwards. Seeing but a few yards in front of me, choked with mist, I made but slow progress; nevertheless, I continually mounted along a gently sloping, hummocky ridge, where the spaces in between the masses of rock were filled with fine yellowish sand. The slabs of rock were so slippery with the drizzling mist, that I very often nearly lost my footing, and I thought with a shudder what a sprained ankle would mean here.

‘At length, after a rather steeper ascent than usual up the now smoother and sharper ridge, I suddenly encountered snow lying at my very feet, and nearly plunged headlong into a great rift filled with snow, that here seemed to cut across the ridge and interrupt it. The dense mist cleared a little in a partial manner, and I then saw to my left the black rock sloping gently to an awful gulf of snow, so vast and deep that its limits were concealed by fog. Above me a line of snow was just discernible, and altogether the prospect was such a gloomy one, with its all-surrounding curtain of sombre cloud, and its uninhabited wastes of snow and rock, that my heart sank within me at my loneliness.... Turning momentarily northwards, I rounded the rift of snow, and once more dragged myself, now breathless and panting, and with aching limbs, along the slippery ridge of bare rock, which went ever mounting upwards.... The feeling that overcame me when I sat and gasped for breath on the wet and slippery rocks at this great height, was one of overwhelming isolation. I felt as if I should never more regain the force to move, and must remain and die amid this horrid solitude of stones and snow. Then I took some brandy-and-water from my flask, and a little courage came back to me. I was miserably cold, the driving mist having wetted me to the skin. Yet the temperature recorded here was above the freezing-point, being thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit.... The mercury rose to 183.8. This observation, when properly computed, and with the correction added for the temperature of the intermediate air, gives a height of sixteen thousand three hundred and fifteen feet as the highest point I attained on Kilima-Njaro.’

When he returned to the camping-place, Mr Johnston found that his three followers had deserted him, being thoroughly terrified, and certain that the white man had perished on the lonely heights. With much difficulty he made his way to the station on the lower ground, where the great body of his attendants had remained; and in due course the whole party arrived safely again at Taveita. From there a new route was taken, by way of Lake Jipé, to the coast at Pangani, where the followers were paid off. An English mission afforded Mr Johnston shelter until he could get a passage on an Arab _dau_ to Zanzibar, where he caught the mail-steamer; and in little more than six weeks after getting his last glimpse of the snow-peaks of Kilima-Njaro, from the shores of Lake Jipé, the gallant explorer was in London once more.

Although attaining the highest altitude yet reached by man in Africa, Mr Johnston did not complete the conquest of Kilima-Njaro. But he reached within two thousand feet of the summit; and having shown the way, it will be odd if some of the adventurous spirits among alpine climbers do not essay the task of peering into the hidden depths of the crater of Kibô. Be this as it may, the expedition has resulted in the acquisition of a vast amount of valuable information about the geography, the fauna, and flora of this strange district, where in two days you can ascend from equatorial heat to arctic cold. Even in the plains, the temperature is, for six months in the year, quite bearable, and in some parts delightful. The extreme fertility of the mountain slopes, the abundance of game, the stores of ivory to be obtained from the vast herds of elephants, the rare and beautiful skins—in short, all the known riches of animal and vegetable production, and the supposed existence of mineral deposits, such as copper and nitrate of soda, point to this district as destined to play an important part in the future of Africa.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Pronounced Killy-manjāhro, and meaning ‘The Mountain of the Demon of Cold.’

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XIII.

‘Father, father,’ Dr Whitaker whispered in a low voice, ‘let us go aside a little—down into my cabin or somewhere—away from this crowd here. I am so glad, so happy to be back with you again; so delighted to be home once more, dear, dear father. But don’t you see, everybody is looking at us and observing us!’

The old mulatto glanced around him with an oily glance of profound self-satisfaction. Yes, undoubtedly; he was the exact centre of an admiring audience. It was just such a house as he loved to play to. He turned once more to his trembling son, whose sturdy knees were almost giving way feebly beneath him, and redoubled the ardour of his paternal demonstrativeness. ‘My son, my son, my own dear boy!’ he said once more; and then, stepping back two paces and opening his arms effusively, he ran forward quickly with short mincing steps, and pressed the astonished doctor with profound warmth to his swelling bosom. There was an expansiveness and a gushing effusion about the action which made the spectators titter audibly; and the titter cut the poor young mulatto keenly to the heart with a sense of his utter helplessness and ridiculousness in this absurd situation. He wondered to himself when the humiliating scene would ever be finished. But the old man was not satisfied yet. Releasing his son once more from his fat grasp, he placed his two big hands akimbo on his hips, puckered up his eyebrows as if searching for some possible flaw in a horse or in a woman’s figure—he was a noted connoisseur in either—and held his head pushed jauntily forward, staring once more at his son with his small pig’s eyes from top to toe. At last, satisfied apparently with his close scrutiny, and prepared to acknowledge that it was all very good, he seized the young doctor quickly by the shoulders, and kissing him with a loud smack on either cheek, proceeded to slobber him piecemeal all over the face, exactly like a nine-months’-old baby. Dr Whitaker’s cheeks tingled and burned, so that even through that dusky skin, Edward, who stood a little distance off, commiserating him, could see the hot blood rushing to his face by the deepened and darkened colour in the very centre.

Presently, old Bobby seemed to be sufficiently sated with this particular form of theatrical entertainment, and turned round pleasantly to the remainder of the company. ‘My son,’ he said, not without a real touch of heart-felt, paternal pride, as he glanced towards the gentlemanly looking and well-dressed young doctor, ‘your fellow-passengers! Introduce me! Which is de son of my ole and valued friend, de Honourable James Hawtorn, of Wagwater?’

Dr Whitaker, glad to divert attention from himself on any excuse, waved his hand quietly towards Edward.

‘How do you do, Mr Whitaker?’ Edward said, in as low and quiet a tone as possible, anxious as he was to disappoint the little gaping crowd of amused spectators. ‘We have all derived a great deal of pleasure from your son’s society on our way across. His music has been the staple entertainment of the whole voyage. We have appreciated it immensely.’

But old Bobby was not to be put off with private conversation aside in a gentle undertone. He was accustomed to living his life in public, and he wasn’t going to be balked of his wonted entertainment. ‘Yes, Mr Hawtorn,’ he answered in a loud voice, ‘you are right, sah. De taste for music an’ de taste for beauty in de ladies are two tastes dat are seldom wantin’ to de sons or de grandsons of Africa, however far removed from de original negro.’ (As he spoke, he glanced back with a touch of contempt and an infinite superiority of manner at the pure-blooded blacks, who were now busily engaged in picking up portmanteaus from the deck, and squabbling with one another as to which was to carry the buckras’ luggage. Your mulatto, however dark, always in a good-humoured, tolerant way, utterly despises his coal-black brethren.) ‘Bote dose tastes are highly developed in my own pusson. Bote no doubt my son, Wilberforce Clarkson Whitaker, is liable to inherit from his fader’s family. In de exercise of de second, I cannot fail to perceive dat dis lady beside you must be Mrs Hawtorn. Sah’—with a sidelong leer of his fat eyes—‘I congratulate you mos’ sincerely on your own taste in female beauty. A very nice, fresh-lookin’ young lady, Mrs Hawtorn.’

Marian’s face grew fiery red; and Edward hardly knew whether to laugh off the awkward compliment, or to draw himself up and stroll away, as though the conversation had reached its natural ending.

‘And de odder young lady,’ Bobby went on, quite unconscious of the effect he had produced—‘de odder young lady? Your sister, now, or Mrs Hawtorn’s?’

‘This is Miss Dupuy of Orange Grove,’ Edward answered hesitatingly; for he hardly knew what remark old Bobby might next venture upon. And indeed, as a matter of fact, the old mulatto’s conversation, even in the presence of ladies, was not at all times restrained by all those artificial rules of decorum imposed on most of us by what appeared to him a ridiculously strait-laced and puritanical white conventionality.

But Edward’s answer seemed to have an extraordinary effect in sobering and toning down the old man’s exuberant volubility; he pulled off his hat with a respectful bow, and said in a lower and more polite voice: ‘I have de honour of knowing Miss Dupuy’s fader; I am proud to make Miss Dupuy’s acquaintance.’

‘Here, Bobby!’ the captain called out from a little forward—‘you come here, say. The first-officer wants to introduce you’—with a wink at Edward—‘to His Excellency the Peruvian ambassador.—Look here, Mr Hawthorn; don’t you let Bobby talk too long to your ladies, sir. He sometimes blurts out something, you know, that ladies ain’t exactly accustomed to. We seafaring men are a bit rough on occasion ourselves, certainly; but we know how to behave for all that before the women.—Bobby, don’t; you’d better be careful.’

‘Thank you,’ Edward said, and again felt his heart smitten with a sort of remorse for poor Dr Whitaker. That quick, sensitive, enthusiastic young man to be tied down for life to such a father! It was too terrible. In fact, it was a tragedy.

‘Splendid take-down for that stuck-up, young brown doctor,’ the English officer exclaimed aside in a whisper to Edward. ‘Shake a little of the confounded conceit out of him, I should say. He wanted taking down a peg.—Screaming farce, isn’t he, the old father?’

‘I never saw a more pitiable or pitiful scene in my whole life,’ Edward answered earnestly. ‘Poor fellow, I’m profoundly sorry for him; he looks absolutely broken-hearted.’

The young officer gazed at him in mute astonishment. ‘Can’t see a joke, that fellow Hawthorn,’ he thought to himself. ‘Had all the fun worked out of him, I suppose, over there at Cambridge. Awful prig! Quite devoid of the sense of humour. Sorry for his poor wife; she’ll have a dull life of it.—Never saw such an amusing old fool in all my days as that ridiculous, fat old nigger fellow!’

Meanwhile, James Hawthorn had been standing on the wharf, waiting for the first crush of negroes and hangers-on to work itself off, and looking for an easy opportunity to come aboard in order to meet his son and daughter. By-and-by the crush subsided, and the old man stepped on to the gangway and made his way down upon the deck.

In a moment, Edward was wringing his hand fervently, and father and son had exchanged one single kiss of recognition in that half-shamefaced, hasty fashion in which men of our race usually get through that very un-English ceremony of greeting.

‘Father, father,’ Edward said, ‘I am so thankful to see you once more; so anxious to see my dear mother.’

There were tears standing in both their eyes as his father answered: ‘My boy, my boy! I’ve denied myself this pleasure for years; and now—now it’s come, it’s almost too much for me.’

There was a moment’s pause, and then Mr Hawthorn turned to Marian. ‘My daughter,’ he said, kissing her with a fatherly kiss, ‘we know you, and love you already, from Edward’s letters; and we’ll do our best, as far as we can, to make you happy.’

There was another pause, and then the father said again: ‘You didn’t get my telegram, Edward?’

‘Yes, father, I got it; but not till we were on the very point of starting. The steamer was actually under weigh, and we couldn’t have stopped even if we had wished to. There was nothing for it but to come on as we were, in spite of it.’

‘Oh, Mr Hawthorn, there’s papa!’ Nora cried excitedly. ‘There he is, coming down the gangway.’ And as she spoke, Mr Dupuy’s portly form was seen advancing towards them with slow deliberateness.

For a second, he gazed about him curiously, looking for Nora; then, as he saw her, he walked over towards her in his leisurely, dawdling, West Indian fashion. Nora darted forward and flung her arms impulsively around him. ‘So you’ve come, Nora,’ the old gentleman said quietly, disembarrassing himself with elephantine gracefulness from her close embrace—‘so you’ve come, after all, in spite of my telegram!—How was this, my dear? How was this, tell me?’

‘Yes, papa,’ Nora answered, a little abashed at his serene manner. ‘The telegram was too late—it was thrown on board after we’d started. But we’ve got out all safe, you see.—And Marian—you know—Marian Ord—Mrs Hawthorn that is now—she’s taken great care of me; and, except for the hurricane, we’ve had such a delightful voyage!’

Mr Dupuy drew himself up to his stateliest eminence and looked straight across at Marian Hawthorn with stiff politeness. ‘I didn’t know it was to Mrs Hawthorn, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘that I was to be indebted for your safe arrival here in Trinidad. It was very good of Mrs Hawthorn, I don’t doubt, to bring you out to us and act as your chaperon. I am much obliged to Mrs Hawthorn for her kind attention and care of you on the voyage. I must thank Mrs Hawthorn very sincerely for the trouble she may have been put to on your account.—Good-morning, Mrs Hawthorn!—Good-morning, Mr Hawthorn! Your son, I suppose? Ah, so I imagined.—Good-morning, good-morning.’ He raised his hat with formal courtesy to Marian, and bowed slightly to the son and father. Then he drew Nora’s arm carefully in his, and was just about to walk her immediately off the steamer, when Nora burst from him in the utmost amazement and rushed up to kiss Marian. ‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘I don’t think you understand. This is Marian Ord, don’t you know? General Ord’s daughter, that I’ve written to you about so often. She’s my dearest friend, and now she’s married to Mr Edward Hawthorn—this is he—and Aunt Harriet gave me in charge to her to come across with; and I _must_ just say good-bye to her before I leave her.—Thank you, dear, thank you both so much for all your kindness. Not, of course, that it matters about saying good-bye to you, for you and we will be such very, very near neighbours, and of course we’ll see a great deal of one another.—Won’t we, papa? We shall be near neighbours, and see a great deal of Marian always, now she’s come here to live—won’t we?’

Mr Dupuy bowed again very stiffly. ‘We shall be very near neighbours, undoubtedly,’ he answered with unruffled politeness; ‘and I shall hope to take an early opportunity of paying my respects to—to your friend, General Ord’s daughter.—I am much obliged, once more, to Mrs Hawthorn for her well-meant attentions. Good-morning.—This way, Nora, my dear. This way to the Orange Grove carriage.’

‘Father,’ Edward exclaimed, in doubt and dismay, looking straight down into his father’s eyes, ‘what does it all mean? Explain it all to us. I’m utterly bewildered. Why did you telegraph to us not to come? And why did Nora Dupuy’s father telegraph to her, too, an identical message?’

Mr Hawthorn drew a deep breath and looked back at him with a face full of consternation and pity. ‘He telegraphed to her, too, did he?’ he muttered half to himself in slow reflection. ‘He telegraphed to prevent her from coming out in the _Severn_! I might have guessed as much—it’s very like him.—My boy, my boy—and my dear daughter—this is a poor welcome for you, a very poor welcome! We never wanted you to come out here; and if we could, we would have prevented it. But now that you’ve come, you’ve come, and there’s no helping it. We must just try to do our best to make you both tolerably comfortable.’

Marian stood in blank astonishment and silent wonder at this strange greeting. A thousand vague possibilities floated instantaneously through her mind, to be dismissed the next second, on closer consideration, as absolutely impossible. Why on earth did this handsome, dignified, courtly old gentleman wish to keep them away from Trinidad? He wasn’t poor; he wasn’t uneducated; he wasn’t without honour in his own country. That he was a gentleman to the backbone, she could see and feel the moment she looked at him and heard him speak. What, then, could be his objection to his son’s coming out to visit him in his own surroundings? Had he committed some extraordinary crime? Was he an ex-convict, or a fraudulent bankrupt, or a defaulting trustee? Did he fear to let his son discover his shame? But no. The bare idea was absolutely impossible. You had only to gaze once upon that fine, benevolent, clear-cut, transparently truthful face—as transparently truthful as Edward’s own—to see immediately that James Hawthorn was a man of honour. It was an insoluble mystery, and Marian’s heart sank within her as she wondered to herself what this gloomy welcome foreboded for the future.

‘Father,’ Edward exclaimed, looking at him once more with appealing eyes, ‘do explain to us what you mean? Why didn’t you want us to come to Trinidad? The suspense is too terrible! We shall be expecting something worse than the reality. Tell us now. Whatever it is, we are strong enough to bear it. I know it can be nothing mean or dishonourable that you have to conceal from us! For Marian’s sake, explain it, explain it!’

The old man turned his face away with a bitter gesture. ‘My boy, my boy, my poor boy,’ he answered slowly and remorsefully, ‘I cannot tell you. I can never tell you. You will find it out for yourself soon enough. But I—I—I can never tell you!’

DUST AND HOUSE REFUSE: SHOWING WHAT BECOMES OF IT.

If any of our readers are in the habit of passing a contractor’s or town’s yard, he will, perhaps, remember perceiving, alongside the outer walls, a busy scene going on, which he cannot exactly make out. A crowd of women toiling and moiling amid heaps of rubbish, two or three barges laden with vegetable refuse, he can distinguish plainly enough; but it is not until he sees a string of dustcarts slowly wending their way towards the distant wharf, that the thought flashes upon his mind that the busy human ants he has been watching are scavengers, sorting and arranging the refuse of the great towns and cities. There is nothing particularly attractive in a scavenger’s yard: neither the sights nor the smells are pleasant; nevertheless, the scene that here meets his eye, repellent as it is, could not exist in any other than a high state of civilisation. When we think of it, the dustbin is the tomb of the householder; it is the grave into which all our domestic surroundings inevitably sink. Of old, in the ruder states of society, this dust and refuse found its final rest in mother earth; but with us, its removal by the scavenger is only the first stage of its elevation to a higher existence, if we may so speak. In detail, as it exists in every household, it is a nuisance to be got rid of; in the aggregate, it becomes a valuable commodity, to be re-imported into our arts and manufactures.

As the great lumbering carts arrive in a dust-contractor’s yard, their contents are emptied into isolated heaps. No sooner does this take place, than they are each in detail attacked by grimy men, who remove all the larger articles, such as vegetable matter, old coal-scuttles, old crinolines—or rather crinolettes—old hats, and old garments. This is a kind of rough sifting which prepares the heap for the attacks of the women, who instantly settle upon every heap like a flock of crows that may happen to spy any carrion in a field. Each woman as she settles upon the heap comes sieve in hand, and spreads around her a number of baskets; the man now fills the sieve, and the process of separating the dustheap into its elements begins. The first few shakes of the sieve throw down all the fine ashes and the coal-dust. This detritus becomes a very valuable commodity when collected and put to its right use. It is used by brickmakers to mix with the clay, and does its part in the ultimate baking of the brick. In the neighbourhood of most of our railways, our readers may have noticed vast heaps of fine black dust burning with a slow combustion and with much smoke. These heaps consist of bricks which are being baked. They are placed in rows a little apart, and their interstices are filled with the fine ‘breeze,’ as the coal-ashes are termed; a light is set below, and gradually the whole mass fires to a dull red heat, the ‘breeze’ intimately mixed with the clay helping to bake the inside of the brick in the most perfect manner without vitrifying it. The ‘breeze’ is the most valuable portion of the dust, and it rises or falls in value according to the amount of building going on and to the rate of its production; in the summer, but little, comparatively, is made. Coal-dust, it must be remembered, is entirely a distinct refuse from road-dust, which also possesses a certain value, as we shall show by-and-by. When all the finer refuse has passed through the sieve, the larger and coarser articles remain upon the top. There glisten some pieces of broken glass; this, of course, only requires to be remelted to be put once more into circulation in the world. Considering the brittle nature of this material and the enormous quantities of it employed, it is fortunate that it is almost indestructible. When we break a window, we only alter the arrangement of its particles. Broken into a thousand pieces, it remains as good glass as ever; time will not touch it. The remnants of glass that are found among the Roman remains that have been lying in the ground for two thousand years, are as fit for the glass-pot as though it had been made yesterday; phials and old bottles are rarely even chipped, hence they are merely washed, and they pass again into the drawers of the chemist or apothecary.

Bones form another constant contribution to the sieve, and a valuable item they are to the dust contractor. There is a grand tussle going on for their possession both by the manufacturer and agriculturist. The larger bones are first boiled, in order to extract all their fat and gelatine. The purposes the former article is put to are too numerous to be mentioned; a good deal of the finer kind goes to make pomatum and soap; the gelatine is, we do not doubt, used as the basis of soups; and we know that it is employed in the manufacture of jujube lozenges. The smaller bones, which cannot be used in the constructive arts, are equally valuable in agriculture. When ground down to a fine powder and mixed with sulphuric acid, they become that great fertiliser, superphosphate of lime, restoring to the soil all the productive qualities that have been taken out of it by over-cropping. Wheat-growing is very exhaustive to the soil; indeed, we could not go on growing wheat for many years without reducing it to sterility, were it not for the use of this superphosphate. Phosphorus, again, is another extractive from bones.

Old iron finds its way into a very spacious sieve. Like the glass, its substance is difficult to destroy; indeed, some old iron is rendered much more valuable by being knocked about. Thus, old iron in the form of horseshoes, and horseshoe nails, fetches a much higher price than the original metal from which they were made; the toughness it acquires by constant blows and concussions gives it a greatly enhanced value in the market. Old tinned articles, such as slop-pails and saucepans, are first heated, to recover their tin and the solder with which they are made, both of which articles are more valuable than the old iron. Paper is carefully collected, and goes once again to the paper-mills. Like glass, the original fibre is very indestructible; for all we know, the note-paper on which we indite the tenderest love-letters to our beloved was made from an old account-book of a tallow-chandler, or from the musty records of the past centuries. In turning over the ragman’s basket, what a singular history we have! The ball-dress of a lady drops into a rag-basket and reappears as a billet-doux; disappears again to reappear once more in the drawing-room or the nursery as a workbox of papier-mâché, or a doll, or even into the wheels of railway trucks, and other uses to which paper is now put.

Whilst, however, we are watching the sifters grubbing over the heaps—as we have said, like so many crows—they all rise together, as we sometimes see these birds do, without any apparent cause, and make off to the nearest public-house. But there is a cause, we may be sure, for this sudden flight. If you ask the overlooker, he speedily enlightens you. ‘Oh, they’ve been and found some money in the dustheap, and when they do, it is a rule among them to share it together in drink.’ By-and-by, their little jollification over, they return. If there is anything that can be used as food in the dust, the ‘hill-women’ are entitled to it as a perquisite. In this manner they obtain many pieces of bread which the reader might not like to eat, but which they either do not object to, or put to other uses.

All the pieces of wood are also considered to be theirs; and when they leave work, they may be seen laden with fuel of this kind, which saves them more expensive firing. The broken china and crockery goes to make the foundations of roads and paths; and all the ‘soft core’—namely, refuse vegetable matter—is returned directly to the fields in the shape of manure. Old clothes are not the least valuable items of the dustyard. Anything in the shape of cotton, even to the covering of the crinoline steels and stay-bones, is put aside for the paper-mill. Cloth finds its way to the shoddy-mills of Lancashire, where it is purified and ground down and remade into coarse cloth. The old woollen garments that are turned thus into shoddy are equal to a contribution of twenty-five thousand tons of wool. Yet these old clothes, not many years ago, were considered of no more value than to be thrown upon the manure-heap, there slowly to suffer disintegration until fit to be placed upon the land. Indeed, there is a class of rags which is now taken directly to the soil. Old house and dish cloths soaked with grease and animal refuse make capital manure. In the dust-contractors’ yards we may see them spread upon the ground to dry, preparatory to their being forwarded to the hop-grounds, where they are much used for the cultivation of that plant. Old boots and shoes, if not too much dilapidated, find their way to the back slums of the town, where a class of tradesmen live who patch them up, and, by the aid of heel-ball, make them once more presentable.

We had almost forgotten to say that no inconsiderable amount of coal is rescued from the dustheap. This, of course, does not go to the brickyard; it is purchased by the poor. In well-to-do neighbourhoods, and especially in the fashionable quarter of the town, the ashes are rarely sifted; hence, pieces of coal half-burnt, or small lumps, are thrown away every morning. This extravagance makes the ‘dust’ of the better portions of the town far more valuable than that collected from the poverty-stricken districts. Indeed, the dust in the aristocratic portion of the town is richer in every valuable refuse—there are more bones, more ‘breeze,’ more refuse clothing, than ever find a chance of getting into the boxes and middens of the poor quarter.

We have said that the dust from the roads is kept distinct from the dust of the ashpit. Road-dust is always very rich in manure, which makes it valuable as a top-dressing for meadows. It is also largely used to mix with soft clay for the making of inferior bricks, and we have ascertained that it is also used for a more unsightly adulteration. The composition with which many of the cheaply run-up houses are smoothed over and made to appear ornamental, is very freely mixed with road-dust. The evil of this we speedily see in the green stains with which all such structures are disfigured, such green stains being nothing more than a vegetation that occurs in all damp spots, and finds its support in this surreptitious dust.

Thus the grimy scavenger and ‘hill-women’ perform a valuable part in the world. By their aid we return to the exhausted fields the riches the towns have drawn from them; and they arrest from speedy destruction a score of valuable products, and set them once more in circulation in the busy world.

THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAP. II.—INVISIBLE.

When the púsári came to his senses, he found himself lying in the jungle. It was early morning; but there was sufficient light for him to distinguish the surrounding objects. He sat up and looked about him. At first, he could not realise where he was; but when recollection of his night’s adventure flashed across his mind, he became instantly wide awake. He looked curiously and anxiously round. There was not the least sign of any village or habitation of any sort—only dense, pathless jungle all round! For some time he sat trying to recall the incidents of the past night. It seemed to him like a wild dream. He shuddered when he thought of it, and rising hastily, he prepared to leave the uncanny spot. But he could see no path or track of any kind. At length, noting the position of the sun, he decided that Pandiyán must be in a certain direction, and at once began to make his way through the jungle towards it. It was laborious and slow work forcing his way through the dense undergrowth; but in about half an hour he struck a path which he recognised as leading from a neighbouring village to Pandiyán. He had not gone far along this path when he met a man driving a number of pack-bullocks. To his surprise, the leading bullock came straight towards him, as if it did not see him; and the path being narrow, he had to step aside into the jungle to avoid it.

‘Hallo, brother!’ he said to the man driving the bullocks, ‘where are you going, and what have you got in the packs?’

The man took no notice and made no answer, but merely shouted to his bullocks and passed on. The púsári was inclined to be angry at the man’s supposed rudeness; but thinking that perhaps he was deaf and had not seen him, he went on his way without remark.

Presently he met a man from a neighbouring village whom he knew well, coming along the path towards him. ‘Salaam, Arúmúkam!’ he said as they neared each other; ‘you are about early this morning.’

To his great astonishment, the man came striding along as if he neither saw nor heard him; and the púsári had to jump hastily aside, lest he should be thrown down. For a few moments he stared after his retreating friend, amazed at his extraordinary conduct; then he burst into a passion, and shouting after him loudly, cursed him and his manners. But the man went quietly on without replying, or even turning his head.

Very much surprised at what had happened, and in an angry, disturbed frame of mind, the púsári resumed his journey. Soon he came to the river. As he went down the steep descent to the water, he was horror-struck to see a huge wild elephant appear from behind the bushes overhanging the river, a few yards off, and come towards him. There was no way of escape. The banks of the river rose perpendicularly on either side of him, and there was no time for him to scramble back by the way he had come. On came the elephant, dripping with water from its morning bath in the river, and lazily swinging its trunk and flapping its ears. The púsári stood petrified with terror in full view of the animal, unable to move hand or foot. The elephant advanced till it stood directly over him. But instead of throwing him down and crushing him to death, as the púsári momentarily expected, it leisurely broke off a branch from a bush on the bank above him and slowly munched it. He could feel its hot breath as he crouched against the bank under its huge head. Suddenly it turned away, listened for a moment to some sound in the distance, and then walked slowly off down the river. With a feeling of intense relief, he watched it out of sight. It was evident the elephant had neither seen nor smelt him; but for what reason he could not imagine.

Picking up his stick, which he had dropped in his fright, the púsári went down to the water to wade through to the other side; and then he discovered the reason of the strange behaviour of the two men he had met, and why the elephant had not molested him. As he entered the pool, he happened to glance down, and instantly saw, to his intense horror, that his form was not reflected in it! It was some moments before he realised what had happened. He was invisible! The water he had drunk at the pisási village was a magic draught, and its effect had been to make him invisible. Long and earnestly did he gaze down into the water; but in vain; only the reflection of the blue sky and overhanging trees appeared on the bright face of the pool. At length, in an agony of alarm and distress, he waded through the water, without, however, causing the faintest ripple on its surface, and hurried off to the village, in the hope of finding that his dreadful suspicion was not true. Close to the village he met a boy, the son of a neighbour, driving some cattle to the tank pasture; the urchin passed him without a word and without looking at him. The púsári groaned aloud and passed on. Soon he reached the village, and passed through, glancing about him with terrified anxiety, in the hope that some one would recognise him. But though several of the villagers were standing about, not one of them took the smallest notice of him. He went straight to his own house. Just as he reached the gate, his daughter came out carrying a water-pot on her hip; she was going to the well for water. The púsári stood before her in an agony of fear and expectation. To his unutterable horror, she walked past him without the slightest sign of recognition!

‘Vallee, my child!’ he cried, stretching out his hands beseechingly, ‘do you not see me?’ But the girl walked on unconcernedly.

Just then a woman came out of a hut near by bound on the same errand as herself. ‘Well, child,’ she exclaimed, addressing Vallee, ‘what did the múdliya say to your father?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied; ‘he has not come back yet.’

This answer completely dispelled the hope that the púsári had clung to—that his daughter might yet recognise him. He knew now what a mighty spell was on him, and that he was invisible to mortal eyes, and had no substance or voice. Wringing his hands and wailing aloud, but inaudibly to all human ears, he followed the two women to the well, and listened with agony and despair in his heart to their chatter and laughter. Several times he shouted, as he thought loudly, to his daughter, in the hope of making her hear, and also attempted to seize her by the arm; but she neither heard his voice nor felt his touch. Before entering the house again, on her return from the well, Vallee looked for some moments in the direction of the path to Mánkúlam, in the hope or expectation, apparently, of seeing her father appear, little thinking how near he was to her. The púsári entered the hut with her and sat down in his accustomed corner, overwhelmed by his terrible misfortune.

Suddenly there was a noise in the village outside. Some one, in loud excited tones, was relating something which seemed to be of startling import, from the loud ejaculations of surprise that followed. Listening intently, the púsári heard a man say: ‘Yes, the múdliya has been murdered, and his money-box broken open and rifled!’

Vallee, too, had evidently caught the words, for, starting up, she rushed out, and was followed by her father. A number of villagers were standing under a tree listening to a man whom the púsári recognised as an inhabitant of Mánkúlam. He was talking rapidly and with much gesticulation. On catching sight of Vallee, he stopped short, and with a glance round, asked loudly and abruptly: ‘Where is your father, child?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied the girl, noting with surprise the meaning looks which the villagers exchanged. ‘He went last night to Mánkúlam to see the múdliya, and has not yet come home.’

‘The múdliya has been murdered,’ said the man gravely; ‘and the púsári’s knife has been found, and it is covered with blood!’

Vallee instantly understood what the man implied. With widely opened eyes and parted lips, she stood transfixed to the spot. She knew too well her father’s uncontrollable temper, not to feel him capable of any deed, however atrocious, when his passions were roused. Yet she loved him fondly and sincerely, and when she realised the awful nature of the crime with which he was charged, she threw herself on the ground and abandoned herself to grief and despair, refusing the comfort offered her by the women standing round.

The villagers, meanwhile, plied the bringer of the news with questions. He related how the múdliya’s little grandson had been present at a stormy interview between his grandfather and the púsári, at which the latter had uttered many threats; how, after the púsári had left the house, he had returned when the múdliya was alone, and had murdered him, and then robbed him of all his money and jewels. This was proved by the finding of his knife covered with blood, and by his disappearance, he having clearly fled to escape the penalty of his crime. The púsári’s rage on hearing himself charged with such a dreadful deed was excessive. Boiling over with wrath, he turned about in the crowd, addressing one and then another with indignant denials and protests. But though he shouted and raved and gesticulated, no one saw or heard him; and at length, seeing how fruitless his efforts to make himself heard were, he quieted down and waited to see what would be done next.

Presently, a party of villagers, full of pleasant excitement and curiosity, started off for Mánkúlam, the scene of the murder, and the púsári decided to go with them. As they went along, he listened with grim, bitter amusement to the remarks his fellow-villagers made about him. His unneighbourly hatred of Iyan Elúvan, his violent temper and quarrelsome nature, were the subject of general condemnation. It appeared, by what they said, that one and all of the party had long foreseen what his evil passions would bring him to. Every man of them believed him to be guilty of the murder, and there was not one to express any doubt or to say a good word for him.