Chapter II: Part 2

To be sure the potatoes were gone, and the yellow meal was dear and dry and chippy—it hadn’t the _nature_ about it that a hot potato has for a poor man; but still ’twas a great thing to have the prospect of getting enough of even that same, and not to be obliged to follow the rest of the country into the poorhouse, which was crowded to that degree that the crathurs there—God help them!—hadn’t room even to die quietly in their beds, but were crowded together on the floor like so many dogs in a kennel. The next morning my father and Richard were off before daybreak, for they had a long way to walk to Droumcarra, and they should be there in time to begin work. They took an Indian meal cake with them to eat for their dinner, and poor dry food it was, with only a draught of cold water to wash it down. Still my father, who was knowledgeable about such things, always said it was mighty wholesome when it was well cooked; but some of the poor people took a great objection against it on account of the yellow colour, which they thought came from having sulphur mixed with it—and they said, Indeed it was putting a great affront on the decent Irish to mix up their food as if ’twas for mangy dogs. Glad enough, poor creatures, they were to get it afterwards, when sea-weed and nettles, and the very grass by the roadside, was all that many of them had to put into their mouths.

When my father and brother came home in the evening, faint and tired from the two long walks and the day’s work, my mother would always try to have something for them to eat with their porridge—a bit of butter, or a bowl of thick milk, or maybe a few eggs. She always gave me plenty as far as it would go; but ’twas little she took herself. She would often go entirely without a meal, and then she’d slip down to the huckster’s, and buy a little white bun for Mary; and I’m sure it used to do her more good to see the child eat it, than if she got a meat-dinner for herself. No matter how hungry the poor little thing might be, she’d always break off a bit to put into her mother’s mouth, and she would not be satisfied until she saw her swallow it; then the child would take a drink of cold water out of her little tin porringer, as contented as if it was new milk.

As the winter advanced, the weather became wet and bitterly cold, and the poor men working on the roads began to suffer dreadfully from being all day in wet clothes, and, what was worse, not having any change to put on when they went home at night without a dry thread about them. Fever soon got amongst them, and my father took it. My mother brought the doctor to see him, and by selling all our decent clothes, she got for him whatever was wanting, but all to no use: ’twas the will of the Lord to take him to himself, and he died after a few days’ illness.

It would be hard to tell the sorrow that his widow and orphans felt, when they saw the fresh sods planted on his grave. It was not grief altogether like the grand stately grief of the quality, although maybe the same sharp knife is sticking into the same sore bosom _inside_ in both; but the _outside_ differs in rich and poor. I saw the mistress a week after Miss Ellen died. She was in her drawing-room with the blinds pulled down, sitting in a low chair, with her elbow on the small work-table, and her cheek resting on her hand—not a speck of anything white about her but the cambric handkerchief, and the face that was paler than the marble chimney-piece.

When she saw me, (for the butler, being busy, sent me in with the luncheon-tray,) she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and began to cry, but quietly, as if she did not want it to be noticed. As I was going out, I just heard her say to Miss Alice in a choking voice:—

“Keep Sally here always; our poor darling was fond of her.” And as I closed the door, I heard her give one deep sob. The next time I saw her, she was quite composed: only for the white cheek and the black dress, you would not know that the burning feel of a child’s last kiss had ever touched her lips.

My father’s wife mourned for him after another fashion. _She_ could not sit quiet, she must work hard to keep the life in them to whom he gave it; and it was only in the evenings when she sat down before the fire with Mary in her arms, that she used to sob and rock herself to and fro, and sing a low wailing keen for the father of the little one, whose innocent tears were always ready to fall when she saw her mother cry. About this time my mother got an offer from some of the hucksters in the neighbourhood, who knew her honesty, to go three times a week to the next market-town, ten miles off, with their little money, and bring them back supplies of bread, groceries, soap, and candles. This she used to do, walking the twenty miles—ten of them with a heavy load on her back—for the sake of earning enough to keep us alive. ’Twas very seldom that Richard could get a stroke of work to do: the boy wasn’t strong in himself, for he had the sickness too; though he recovered from it, and always did his best to earn an honest penny wherever he could. I often wanted my mother to let me go in her stead and bring back the load; but she never would hear of it, and kept me at home to mind the house and little Mary. My poor pet lamb! ’twas little minding she wanted. She would go after breakfast and sit at the door, and stop there all day, watching for her mother, and never heeding the neighbours’ children that used to come wanting her to play. Through the live-long hours she would never stir, but just keep her eyes fixed on the lonesome _boreen_;[4] and when the shadow of the mountain ash grew long, and she caught a glimpse of her mother ever so far off, coming towards home, the joy that would flush on the small patient face, was brighter than the sunbeam on the river. And faint and weary as the poor woman used to be, before ever she sat down, she’d have Mary nestling in her bosom. No matter how little she might have eaten herself that day, she would always bring home a little white bun for Mary; and the child, that had tasted nothing since morning, would eat it so happily, and then fall quietly asleep in her mother’s arms.

Footnote 4:

By-road

At the end of some months I got the sickness myself, but not so heavily as Richard did before. Any way, he and my mother tended me well through it. They sold almost every little stick of furniture that was left, to buy me drink and medicine. By degrees I recovered, and the first evening I was able to sit up, I noticed a strange wild brightness in my mother’s eyes, and a hot flush on her thin cheeks—she had taken the fever.

Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she brought little Mary over to me: “Take her, Sally,” she said—and between every word she gave the child a kiss—“Take her; she’s safer with you than she’d be with me, for you’re over the sickness, and ’tisn’t long any way I’ll be with you, my jewel,” she said, as she gave the little creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms.

’Twould take long to tell all about her sickness—how Richard and I, as good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every farthing and farthing’s worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and everything we could want.

Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up straight in the bed.

“Bring me the child, Sally _aleagh_,” she said. And when I carried little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was reading it like a book.

“You won’t be long away from me, my own one,” she said, while her tears fell down upon the child like summer-rain.

“Mother,” said I, as well as I could speak for crying, “sure you _know_ I’ll do my best to tend her.”

“I know you will, _acushla_; you were always a true and dutiful daughter to me and to him that’s gone; but, Sally, there’s _that_ in my weeney one that won’t let her thrive without the mother’s hand over her, and the mother’s heart for her’s to lean against. And now—.” It was all she could say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on my arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbours came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away.

Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit at the door, and watch hour after hour along the road that her mother always took coming home from market, waiting for her that could never come again. When the sun was near setting, her gaze used to be more fixed and eager; but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes used to droop like the flowers that shut up their leaves, and she would come in quietly without saying a word, and allow me to undress her and put her to bed.

It troubled us and the young ladies greatly that she would not eat. It was almost impossible to get her to taste a morsel; indeed the only thing she would let inside her lips was a bit of a little white bun, like those her poor mother used to bring her. There was nothing left untried to please her. I carried her up to the big house, thinking the change might do her good, and the ladies petted her, and talked to her, and gave her heaps of toys and cakes, and pretty frocks and coats; but she hardly noticed them, and was restless and uneasy until she got back to her own low sunny door-step.

Every day she grew paler and thinner, and her bright eyes had a sad fond look in them, so like her mother’s. One evening she sat at the door later than usual.

“Come in, _alannah_,” I said to her. “Won’t you come in for your own Sally?”

She never stirred. I went over to her; she was quite still, with her little hands crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on her chest. I touched her—she was cold. I gave a loud scream, and Richard came running—he stopped and looked, and then burst out crying like an infant. Our little sister was dead!

Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but it was short. You’re gone home to Him that comforts as a mother comforteth. _Agra machree_, your eyes are as blue, and your hair as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they were when you watched by the cabin-door; but your cheeks are not pale, _acushla_, nor your little hands thin, and the shade of sorrow has passed away from your forehead like a rain-cloud from the summer sky. She that loved you so on earth, has clasped you for ever to her bosom in heaven; and God himself has wiped away all tears from your eyes, and placed you both and our own dear father far beyond the touch of sorrow or the fear of death.

A GREAT MAN DEPARTED.

There was a festive hall with mirth resounding;
Beauty and wit, and friendliness surrounding;
With minstrelsy above, and dancing feet rebounding.

And at the height came news, that held suspended
The sparkling glass!—till slow the hand descended—
And cheeks grew pale and straight—and all the mirth was ended.

Beneath a sunny sky, ’twas heard with wonder,
A flash had cleft a lofty tree asunder,
Without a previous cloud—and with no rolling thunder.

Strong was the stem—its boughs above all ’thralling—
And in its roots and sap no cankers galling—
Prosperity was perfect, while Death’s hand was falling.

Man’s body is less safe than any tree;
We build our ship in strong security—
A Finger, from the dark, points to the trembling sea.

Man, like his knowledge, and his soul’s endeavour,
Is framed for no fixed altitude—but ever
Moves onward: the first pause, returns all to the Giver.

Riches and health, fine taste, all means of pleasure;
Success in highest efforts—fame’s best treasure—
All these were thine,—o’ertopped—and over-weighed the measure.

But in recording thus life’s night-shade warning,
We hold the memory of thy kind heart’s morning:—
Man’s intellect is not man’s sole nor best adorning.

THE ADVENTURES OF THE PUBLIC RECORDS.

“Burn all the records of the realm! _My_ mouth shall be the parliament.” Thus spoke Jack Cade; and it would appear from the manner in which the public records are at the present time “bestowed,” that those who have had the stowing of them, cordially echo the sentiment. The historical, legal, and territorial archives of this country—believed to be, when properly arranged and systematised, the most complete and valuable in existence—are spread and distributed over six depositories. Some little description of three of these only, will show the jeopardy in which such records of the Wisdom of our ancestors, as we yet possess, are placed, and the adventures which have befallen many of them.

Many of the most valuable documents of the past—including the Chancery Records from the reign of John to Edward I.—are kept in the Tower of London. Some in the White and some in the Wakefield Tower, close to which is an hydraulic steam-engine in daily operation. The basement of the former contains tons of gunpowder, the explosion of which would destroy all Tower Hill, and change even the course of the Thames; while the fate of paper and parchment thrown up by such a volcano, it is not even possible to imagine. The White Tower is also replenished with highly inflammable ordnance stores, tarpaulins carefully pitched, soldiers’ kits, and all kinds of wood-work, among which common labourers not imbued with extra-carefulness are constantly moving about. That no risk may be wanting, an eye-witness relates that he has seen boiling pitch actually in flames, quite close to this repository. When the fire of the Tower _did_ take place, its flames leaped and darted their dangerous tongues within forty feet of it. So alarmed were the authorities on that occasion, that this tower underwent a constant nocturnal shower-bath during the time the small Armoury was burning. But when the danger was over, though fireproof barrack-houses were built for the soldiers, the records were still left to be lodged over the gunpowder.

Among the treasures in these ill-kept “keeps,” are the logs and other Admiralty documents, state papers, and royal letters, many of which have never been consulted; because the manner in which they are stowed away rendered consultation impossible. They are, no doubt, silently waiting to clear up many of the disputed points, and to set right many of the false impressions and unmitigated untruths of history. Inquisitions—the antiquity of which may be guessed when we state that those up to the 14th of Richard II. have only yet been arranged in books—are also massed together ready for explosion or ignition. These are amongst the most curious of our ancient documents, being the notes of the oldest of our legal rituals—the “Crowner’s quest.” The Chancery proceedings and privy seals piled in the White Tower, are endless.

In the Rolls’ House, in Chancery Lane—which, with its chapel, was annexed by Edward III., in 1377, to the office of Custos Rotulorum, or Keeper of the Rolls—are located the Records of the Court of Chancery from that year to the present time. That every public document, wherever situated, may be rendered in as great jeopardy as possible, a temporary shed, like a navvy’s hut, has been recently knocked up for the Treasury papers in the Rolls’ Garden; other of the Records are quietly accommodated in the pews and behind the communion-table in the Rolls’ Chapel—a building which is heated by hot-air flues, in a manner similar to that which originated the burning of the Houses of Parliament.

Perhaps, however, our most valuable muniments repose in the Chapter-House of Westminster Abbey, a building still surrounded by the same facilities for fire as those which the late Charles Buller detailed to the House of Commons fourteen years ago. “Ever since 1732,” he said, “it had been reported to the House of Commons that there was a brewhouse and a washhouse at the back of the Chapter-House, where the Records were kept, and by which the Chapter-House was endangered by fire. In 1800, this brewhouse and this washhouse were again reported as dangerous. In 1819, this brewhouse and washhouse again attracted the serious notice of the Commissioners. In 1831, it was thought expedient to send a deputation to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, and to request His Majesty’s Surveyor General to report upon the perils of this brewhouse and washhouse, and endeavour to get the Dean and Chapter to pull them down. But the Dean and Chapter asserted the vested rights of the Church, and no redress was obtained against the brewhouse and washhouse. In 1833, another expedition, headed by the Right Honourable Sir R. Inglis, was made to the Chapter-House; but the right honourable baronet, desiring not to come into collision with the Church, omitted all mention of the brewhouse and washhouse. And thus the attention of the Commissioners had been constantly directed to this eternal brewhouse and this eternal washhouse, without any avail. There they still remain, as a monument of the inefficiency of the Commissioners, and of the great power and pertinacity of the Church of this country.” The newspaper reports of this speech end with “Loud laughter from all parts of the House.”

In the Chapter-House of Westminster Abbey, the Conqueror’s Domesday Book, an unequalled collection of treaties and state documents from the twelfth to the seventeenth centuries; others bearing upon the important events during the York and Lancastrian wars, and excambial returns belonging to the English Crown, of the most minute and precise character, are still at the mercy of the brewhouse and washhouse. There is a little adventure connected with the proceedings of the Courts of Star Chamber which we must here introduce:—Their registries and records were kept in an apartment of the Royal Palace of Westminster from the time of the dissolution of the Courts. They were shifted from room to room at the mercy of the Officers of the Palace. Committees of the House of Commons from time to time examined them, and reported equally as to their value, and the dirt, confusion, and neglect in which they were set apart for the public use. But it was not till the fire in the Cottonian Library, in 1731, frightened the custodian, that an order from the Privy Council was obtained for the removal of these documents to the Chapter-House. This house also possesses a unique collection of the disused dies for coining; and when the Nepaulese Minister and his suite visited the Office, they were particularly attracted by these primitive dies, which were at once recognised as being now used in the north-west of India. There are the washhouse and the brewhouse still.

But the most monstrous instance furnished to us of the disregard and contempt in which our civil, political, legal, or ecclesiastical authorities hold the very pedigrees of their professional avocations, is to be found in the ludicrously huge and unsuitable storehouse called Carlton Ride—a low, brick-slated roof, workhouse-looking building, at the east end of Carlton Terrace. Mr. Braidwood, the superintendent of the London Fire-Brigade, has pithily said, that “The Public Records in the Tower of London and Carlton Ride are exposed to risks of fire to which no merchant of ordinary prudence would subject his books of accounts.” The protective staff of this establishment, besides the clerks and workmen during the day, consists of two soldiers, two policemen, and two firemen, four thousand gallons of water—a sort of open air bath at the top of the building—three rows of buckets, ready-charged fire-mains, two tell-tale clocks, five dark lanthorns, and a cat.

Carlton Ride was, originally, the Riding-House of the Prince of Wales’s residence, Carlton House. Under it are arched storehouses for carriages and horse furniture; and these were used for the carriages and horses of the late good Queen Dowager. When a question was raised as to the capability of the structure to support the thousands of tons of records which were to be treasured therein, the district Clerk of the Works satisfied all enquiries by noticing the fact, that the strength of the building had been tested to the utmost during the Spa Fields riots, when it was occupied by the horses and ammunition-waggons of the Royal Artillery, packed together as close as they could stand.

To adapt the interior of this place for the public archives, the first process of building, and that only, was resorted to;—scaffolding was put up, so that, on entering this receptacle of the national records of Great Britain, the visitor finds himself in one of a series of gloomy, dimly-lighted, mouldy-smelling alleys, or stacks, of wooden scaffolding, the sides of which are faced with records, reaching to some thirty feet high. At first sight it reminds him of an immense mediæval timber-yard, in which no business has been done since the time of the Tudors. Here two-thirds of our country’s public and private history are huddled together; not with the systematic red tapery of a public office, but,—to use an expressive vulgarism—“anyhow.” Whichever way the eye turns, it meets reams of portfolios, piles of boxes, stacks of wills—rolls of every imaginable shape, like those of a baker—square, round, flat, oblong, short, and squat; some plaited like twopenny twists, others upright as rolls of tobacco; a few in thick convolutions, jammed together as if they were double Gloucester cheeses; there are heaps laid lengthwise, like mouldering coffins; some stacked up on end, like bundles of firewood, and others laid down, like the bottles in a wine-bin. The hay-loft which extends over the riding-school is similarly occupied, and all the racks, presses, shelves, boxes, beams, and scaffolding, being of wood, Mr. Braidwood has good right for estimating that a fire would burn it up “like matches” in less than twenty minutes. That, however, there should be no accidental deficiency of combustibles, the riding-school was partitioned into two divisions, one side for the records of the Courts of Common Pleas and Exchequer, and the other for the domestic furniture, china, paintings, weapons of warfare of all kinds, books, prints, &c., belonging to Carlton House. It is evident that in the estimation of the powers that were, the records were classed with the other lumber. But this store of second-hand furniture could not take fire of itself; and that no chance might be lost, the functionary in charge of it, finding his half of the “ride” a dreary, comfortless, and cold place, even for a lumber store, warmed it by means of a large stove with a chimney-flue which perforated one side of the building. On several occasions he was observed during the winter months—particularly after meal-time—to be somnolently reposing by the stove, while the flue was judiciously emulating his example, by acquiring all the heat possible from the fire—and, indeed, once or twice its face was illumined by a red glow of satisfaction rather alarming to those in charge of the records, who witnessed it. Some five or six years ago, by the instigation of Lord Lincoln, who was then Chief Commissioner of Woods and Forests, Prince Albert paid a visit to Carlton Ride, and after examining the furniture, &c., directed that it should be all removed, and that the remainder of the building should be given up for the records; consequently, a variety of important parchments were removed into it—chiefly ecclesiastical records, touching the property belonging to the religious houses dissolved in King Henry VIII.’s time, together with a most valuable and minute series of documents, relating to the receipt and expenditure of the royal revenue, from Henry II. down to Charles II. To these were added various Exchequer and Common Pleas records.

The water as well as the fire test of destruction has been also applied to our national muniments. The Common Pleas records previous to the coronation of George IV. were deposited in a long room, called “Queen Elizabeth’s Kitchen,” lying under the Old Court of Exchequer on the west side of Westminster Hall. This room was frequently flooded during the prevailing high tides of spring or autumn. Rats and vermin abounded, and neither candle nor soap could be kept in the rooms, although mere public documents were deemed quite safe there. The consequence was, that before these could be removed, the authorities had to engage in a little sporting. The rats had to be hunted out by means of dogs. We believe this was about the time that the celebrated dog “Billy” was in the height of fame; and we are not quite sure that his services were not secured for this great Exchequer Hunt. After several fine “bursts” the rats allowed the documents to be removed, and turned into a temporary wooden building, which was so intensely cold during winter time, that those wishing to make searches prepared themselves with clothing as if they were going on an Arctic expedition. Here mice abounded in spite of the temperature; and the candles, which the darkness of this den rendered necessary, were gradually consumed by them. But this light sort of food wanted a more consolidating diet, and they found a relishing _piece de resistance_ in the prayer-book of the Court, a great portion of which they nibbled away. Ten years afterwards the records were packed off to the King’s Mews, Charing Cross, into stables and harness lofts; and on the demolition of this building in 1835, Carlton Ride was selected as their resting-place. The records of the Queen’s Remembrancer of the Exchequer (an officer who was presumed to preserve “memoranda or remembrances” of the condition of the royal exchequer) kept company with the Common Pleas muniments in their trials and journeyings.

At present, we repeat, the whole of the records of the three Courts, Queen’s Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, are located under the same roof at Carlton Ride. Such of the records as are in this building are reasonably accessible to the public. Many of them are of intense interest. Fees only nominal in amount are imposed, to restrain inquisitive, troublesome, or merely idle inquirers; a restriction highly necessary against pedigree-hunters and lady-searchers. One poor deluded female, who fancied herself Duchess of Cornwall, and claimed the hereditary fee-simple of the counties of Devon and Cornwall, caused the employment of more clerks and messengers to procure the documents for her extravagant humours than any legion of lawyers’ clerks hot with the business of term time. She begged, she implored, she raved, she commanded, she threatened, she cried aloud for “all the fines,” for “all the recoveries,” for “all the indentures of lease and release” touching the landed property of these two counties.

Pedigree-hunters abound. One of these requested to be allowed to remain among these founts of antiquity day and night. In his unwearied and invincible zeal he brought his meals with him, and declared that rest was out of the question until he was satisfied which of his ancestors were “Roberts,” and which “Johns,” from the time of the Seventh Henry. A hair-brained quack doctor has seriously asserted his claim to a large quantity of these public documents.

On the other hand, persons really interested in these records take no heed of them. Messrs. Brown, Smith, and Tomkins buy and sell manors and advowsons, Waltons and Stokes, and Combes cum Tythings, without knowing or caring that there are records of the actual transfers of the same properties between the holders of them since the days of King John! There is no sympathy for these things, even with those who might fairly be presumed to have a direct interest in the preservation of them, or with the public at large. Out of many examples of this sort, we need only cite one from the “Westminster Review:”—The Duke of Bedford inherits the Abbey of Woburn, and its monastic rights, privileges, and hereditaments; and there are public records, detailing with the utmost minuteness the value of this and all the church property which “Old Harry” seized, and all the stages of its seizure; the preliminary surveys to learn its value; perhaps the very surrender of the monks of Woburn; the annual value and detail of the possessions of the monastery whilst the Crown held it; the very particulars of the grant on which the letters patent to Lord John Russell were founded; the inrolment of the letters patent themselves. But neither his Grace of Bedford, the duke and lay impropriator, nor his brother, the Prime Minister and the historian, have seemed to regard these important documents as worthy of safe keeping.

On public grounds, nothing was for a long time done, although, as Bishop Nicholson said in 1714, “Our stores of Public Records are justly reckoned to excel in age, beauty, correctness, and authority, whatever the choicest archives abroad can boast of the like sort.”

We are happy to perceive by the “Eleventh Report of the Deputy Keeper of the Public Records” that the work of arranging, repairing, cleaning, cataloguing, and rendering accessible these documents, proceeds diligently. But we are more happy to discover that the disastrous adventures of our Public Records are nearly at an end. The Deputy Keeper acknowledges “with extreme satisfaction the receipt of communications made to Lord Langdale from the Lords Commissioners of Your Majesty’s Treasury, intimating that their Lordships propose to commence the building of the Repository so emphatically urged by his Lordship the Master of the Rolls, and so long desired; the site thereof to be the Rolls Estate, and the Building to be comprehended within the boundaries of such Estate, the said site being in all respects the best and most convenient which the metropolis affords.”

A MIGHTIER HUNTER THAN NIMROD.

A great deal has been said about the prowess of Nimrod, in connexion with the chase, from the days of him of Babylon to those of the late Mr. Apperley of Shropshire; but we question whether, amongst all the sporting characters mentioned in ancient or modern story, there ever was so mighty a hunter as the gentleman whose sporting calendar now lies before us.[5] The annals of the chase, so far as we are acquainted with them, supply no such instances of familiar intimacy with Lions, Elephants, Hippopotami, Rhinoceroses, Serpents, Crocodiles, and other furious animals, with which the human species in general is not very forward in cultivating an acquaintance.

Footnote 5:

A Hunter’s Life in South Africa. By R. Gordon Cumming, Esq., of
Altyre.

Mr. Cumming had exhausted the Deer forests of his native Scotland; he had sighed for the rolling prairies and rocky mountains of the Far West, and was tied down to military routine as a Mounted Rifleman in the Cape Colony, when he determined to resign his commission into the hands of Government, and himself to the delights of hunting amidst the untrodden plains and forests of Southern Africa. Having provided himself with waggons to travel and live in, with bullocks to draw them, and with a host of attendants; a sufficiency of arms, horses, dogs, and ammunition, he set out from Graham’s-Town, in October 1843. From that period his hunting adventures extended over five years, during which time he penetrated from various points and in various directions from his starting-place in lat. 33 down to lat. 20, and passed through districts upon which no European foot ever before trod; regions where the wildest of wild animals abound—nothing less serving Mr. Cumming’s ardent purpose.

A lion story in the early part of his book will introduce this fearless hunter-author to our readers better than the most elaborate dissection of his character. He is approaching Colesberg, the northernmost military station belonging to the Cape Colony. He is on a trusty steed, which he calls also “Colesberg.” Two of his attendants on horseback are with him. “Suddenly,” says the author, “I observed a number of vultures seated on the plain about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and close beside them stood a huge lioness, consuming a blesblok which she had killed. She was assisted in her repast by about a dozen jackals, which were feasting along with her in the most friendly and confidential manner. Directing my followers’ attention to the spot, I remarked, ‘I see the lion;’ to which they replied, ‘Whar? whar? Yah! Almagtig! dat is he;’ and instantly reining in their steeds and wheeling about, they pressed their heels to their horses’ sides, and were preparing to betake themselves to flight. I asked them, what they were going to do? To which they answered, ‘We have not yet placed caps on our rifles.’ This was true; but while this short conversation was passing, the lioness had observed us. Raising her full round face, she overhauled us for a few seconds and then set off at a smart canter towards a range of mountains some miles to the northward; the whole troop of jackals also started off in another direction; there was, therefore, no time to think of caps. The first move was to bring her to bay, and not a second was to be lost. Spurring my good and lively steed, and shouting to my men to follow, I flew across the plain, and, being fortunately mounted on Colesberg, the flower of my stud, I gained upon her at every stride. This was to me a joyful moment, and I at once made up my mind that she or I must die.” The lioness soon after “suddenly pulled up, and sat on her haunches like a dog, with her back towards me, not even deigning to look round. She then appeared to say to herself, ‘Does this fellow know who he is after?’ Having thus sat for half a minute, as if involved in thought, she sprang to her feet, and facing about, stood looking at me for a few seconds, moving her tail slowly from side to side, showing her teeth, and growling fiercely. She next made a short run forwards, making a loud, rumbling noise like thunder. This she did to intimidate me; but, finding that I did not flinch an inch, nor seem to heed her hostile demonstrations, she quietly stretched out her massive arms, and lay down on the grass. My Hottentots now coming up, we all three dismounted, and drawing our rifles from their holsters, we looked to see if the powder was up in the nipples, and put on our caps. While this was doing, the lioness sat up, and showed evident symptoms of uneasiness. She looked first at us, and then behind her, as if to see if the coast were clear; after which she made a short run towards us, uttering her deep-drawn murderous growls. Having secured the three horses to one another by their reins, we led them on as if we intended to pass her, in the hope of obtaining a broadside; but this she carefully avoided to expose, presenting only her full front. I had given Stofolus my Moore rifle, with orders to shoot her if she should spring upon me, but on no account to fire before me. Kleinboy was to stand ready to hand me my Purdey rifle, in case the two-grooved Dixon should not prove sufficient. My men as yet had been steady, but they were in a precious stew, their faces having assumed a ghastly paleness; and I had a painful feeling that I could place no reliance on them. Now, then, for it, neck or nothing! She is within sixty yards of us, and she keeps advancing. We turned the horses’ tails to her. I knelt on one side, and, taking a steady aim at her breast, let fly. The ball cracked loudly on her tawny hide, and crippled her in the shoulder; upon which she charged with an appalling roar, and in the twinkling of an eye she was in the midst of us. At this moment Stofolus’s rifle exploded in his hand, and Kleinboy, whom I had ordered to stand ready by me, danced about like a duck in a gale of wind. The lioness sprang upon Colesberg, and fearfully lacerated his ribs and haunches with her horrid teeth and claws; the worst wound was on his haunch, which exhibited a sickening, yawning gash, more than twelve inches long, almost laying bare the very bone. I was very cool and steady, and did not feel in the least degree nervous, having fortunately great confidence in my own shooting; but I must confess, when the whole affair was over, I felt that it was a very awful situation, and attended with extreme peril, as I had no friend with me on whom I could rely. When the lioness sprang on Colesberg, I stood out from the horses, ready with my second barrel for the first chance she should give me of a clear shot. This she quickly did; for, seemingly satisfied with the revenge she had now taken, she quitted Colesberg, and, slewing her tail to one side, trotted sulkily past within a few paces of me, taking one step to the left. I pitched my rifle to my shoulder, and in another second the lioness was stretched on the plain a lifeless corpse.”

This is, however, but a harmless adventure compared with a subsequent escapade—not with one, but with six lions. It was the hunter’s habit to lay wait near the drinking-places of these animals, concealed in a hole dug for the purpose. In such a place on the occasion in question, Mr. Cumming—having left one of three rhinoceroses he had previously killed as a bait—ensconsed himself. Such a savage festival as that which introduced the adventure, has never before, we believe, been introduced through the medium of the softest English and the finest hot-pressed paper to the notice of the civilised public. “Soon after twilight,” the author relates, “I went down to my hole with Kleinboy and two natives, who lay concealed in another hole, with Wolf and Boxer ready to slip, in the event of wounding a lion. On reaching the water I looked towards the carcase of the rhinoceros, and, to my astonishment, I beheld the ground alive with large creatures, as though a troop of zebras were approaching the fountain to drink. Kleinboy remarked to me that a troop of zebras were standing on the height. I answered, ‘Yes;’ but I knew very well that zebras would not be capering around the carcase of a rhinoceros. I quickly arranged my blankets, pillow, and guns in the hole, and then lay down to feast my eyes on the interesting sight before me. It was bright moonlight, as clear as I need wish, and within one night of being full moon. There were six large lions, about twelve or fifteen hyænas, and from twenty to thirty jackals, feasting on and around the carcases of the three rhinoceroses. The lions feasted peacefully, but the hyænas and jackals fought over every mouthful, and chased one another round and round the carcases, growling, laughing, screeching, chattering, and howling without any intermission. The hyænas did not seem afraid of the lions, although they always gave way before them; for I observed that they followed them in the most disrespectful manner, and stood laughing, one or two on either side, when any lions came after their comrades to examine pieces of skin or bones which they were dragging away. I had lain watching this banquet for about three hours, in the strong hope that, when the lions had feasted, they would come and drink. Two black and two white rhinoceroses had made their appearance, but, scared by the smell of the blood, they had made off. At length the lions seemed satisfied. They all walked about with their heads up, and seemed to be thinking about the water; and in two minutes one of them turned his face towards me, and came on; he was immediately followed by a second lion, and in half a minute by the remaining four. It was a decided and general move, they were all coming to drink right bang in my face, within fifteen yards of me.”

The hunters were presently discovered. “An old lioness, who seemed to take the lead, had detected me, and, with her head high and her eyes fixed full upon me, she was coming slowly round the corner of the little vley to cultivate further my acquaintance! This unfortunate coincidence put a stop at once to all further contemplation. I thought, in my haste, that it was perhaps most prudent to shoot this lioness, especially as none of the others had noticed me. I accordingly moved my arm and covered her; she saw me move and halted, exposing a full broadside. I fired; the ball entered one shoulder, and passed out behind the other. She bounded forward with repeated growls, and was followed by her five comrades all enveloped in a cloud of dust; nor did they stop until they had reached the cover behind me, except one old gentleman, who halted and looked back for a few seconds, when I fired, but the ball went high. I listened anxiously for some sound to denote the approaching end of the lioness; nor listened in vain. I heard her growling and stationary, as if dying. In one minute her comrades crossed the vley a little below me, and made towards the rhinoceros. I then slipped Wolf and Boxer on her scent, and, following them into the cover, I found her lying dead.”

Mr. Cumming’s adventures with elephants are no less thrilling. He had selected for the aim of his murderous rifle two huge female elephants from a herd. “Two of the troop had walked slowly past at about sixty yards, and the one which I had selected was feeding with two others on a thorny tree before me. My hand was now as steady as the rock on which it rested, so, taking a deliberate aim, I let fly at her head, a little behind the eye. She got it hard and sharp, just where I aimed, but it did not seem to affect her much. Uttering a loud cry, she wheeled about, when I gave her the second ball, close behind the shoulder. All the elephants uttered a strange rumbling noise, and made off in a line to the northward at a brisk ambling pace, their huge fanlike ears flapping in the ratio of their speed. I did not wait to load, but ran back to the hillock to obtain a view. On gaining its summit, the guides pointed out the elephants; they were standing in a grove of shady trees, but the wounded one was some distance behind with another elephant, doubtless its particular friend, who was endeavouring to assist it. These elephants had probably never before heard the report of a gun; and having neither seen nor smelt me, they were unaware of the presence of man, and did not seem inclined to go any further. Presently my men hove in sight, bringing the dogs; and when these came up, I waited some time before commencing the attack, that the dogs and horses might recover their wind. We then rode slowly towards the elephants, and had advanced within two hundred yards of them, when, the ground being open, they observed us, and made off in an easterly direction; but the wounded one immediately dropped astern, and next moment she was surrounded by the dogs, which, barking angrily, seemed to engross her attention. Having placed myself between her and the retreating troop, I dismounted, to fire within forty yards of her, in open ground. Colesberg was extremely afraid of the elephants, and gave me much trouble, jerking my arm when I tried to fire. At length I let fly; but, on endeavouring to regain my saddle, Colesberg declined to allow me to mount; and when I tried to lead him, and run for it, he only backed towards the wounded elephant. At this moment I heard another elephant close behind; and on looking about I beheld the ‘friend,’ with uplifted trunk, charging down upon me at top speed, shrilly trumpeting, and following an old black pointer named Schwart, that was perfectly deaf, and trotted along before the enraged elephant quite unaware of what was behind him. I felt certain that she would have either me or my horse. I, however, determined not to relinquish my steed, but to hold on by the bridle. My men, who of course kept at a safe distance, stood aghast with their mouths open, and for a few seconds my position was certainly not an enviable one. Fortunately, however, the dogs took off the attention of the elephants; and just as they were upon me I managed to spring into the saddle, where I was safe. As I turned my back to mount, the elephants were so very near, that I really expected to feel one of their trunks lay hold of me. I rode up to Kleinboy for my double-barrelled two-grooved rifle: he and Isaac were pale and almost speechless with fright. Returning to the charge, I was soon once more alongside, and, firing from the saddle, I sent another brace of bullets into the wounded elephant. Colesberg was extremely unsteady, and destroyed the correctness of my aim. The ‘friend’ now seemed resolved to do some mischief, and charged me furiously, pursuing me to a distance of several hundred yards. I therefore deemed it proper to give her a gentle hint to act less officiously, and accordingly, having loaded, I approached within thirty yards, and gave it her sharp, right and left, behind the shoulder; upon which she at once made off with drooping trunk, evidently with a mortal wound. Two more shots finished her: on receiving them she tossed her trunk up and down two or three times, and falling on her broadside against a thorny tree, which yielded like grass before her enormous weight, she uttered a deep hoarse cry and expired.”

Mr. Cumming’s exploits in the water are no less exciting than his land adventures. Here is an account of his victory over a hippopotamus, on the banks of the Limpopo river, near the northernmost extremity of his journeyings.

“There were four of them, three cows and an old bull; they stood in the middle of the river, and, though alarmed, did not appear aware of the extent of the impending danger. I took the sea-cow next me, and with my first ball I gave her a mortal wound, knocking loose a great plate on the top of her skull. She at once commenced plunging round and round, and then occasionally remained still, sitting for a few minutes on the same spot. On hearing the report of my rifle two of the others took up stream, and the fourth dashed down the river; they trotted along, like oxen, at a smart pace as long as the water was shallow. I was now in a state of very great anxiety about my wounded sea-cow, for I feared that she would get down into deep water, and be lost like the last one; her struggles were still carrying her down stream, and the water was becoming deeper. To settle the matter I accordingly fired a second shot from the bank, which, entering the roof of her skull, passed out through her eye; she then kept continually splashing round and round in a circle in the middle of the river. I had great fears of the crocodiles, and I did not know that the sea-cow might not attack me. My anxiety to secure her, however, overcame all hesitation; so, divesting myself of my leathers, and armed with a sharp knife, I dashed into the water, which at first took me up to my arm-pits, but in the middle was shallower. As I approached Behemoth her eye looked very wicked. I halted for a moment, ready to dive under the water if she attacked me, but she was stunned, and did not know what she was doing; so, running in upon her, and seizing her short tail, I attempted to incline her course to land. It was extraordinary what enormous strength she still had in the water. I could not guide her in the slightest, and she continued to splash, and plunge, and blow, and make her circular course, carrying me along with her as if I was a fly on her tail. Finding her tail gave me but a poor hold, as the only means of securing my prey, I took out my knife, and cutting two deep parallel incisions through the skin on her rump, and lifting this skin from the flesh, so that I could get in my two hands, I made use of this as a handle, and after some desperate hard work, sometimes pushing and sometimes pulling, the sea-cow continuing her circular course all the time and I holding on at her rump like grim Death, eventually I succeeded in bringing this gigantic and most powerful animal to the bank. Here the Bushman quickly brought me a stout buffalo-rheim from my horse’s neck, which I passed through the opening in the thick skin, and moored Behemoth to a tree. I then took my rifle, and sent a ball through the centre of her head, and she was numbered with the dead.”

There is nothing in “Waterton’s Wanderings,” or in the “Adventures of Baron Munchausen” more startling than this “Waltz with a Hippopotamus!”

In the all-wise disposition of events, it is perhaps ordained that wild animals should be subdued by man to his use at the expense of such tortures as those described in the work before us. Mere amusement, therefore, is too light a motive for dealing such wounds and death Mr. Cumming owns to; but he had other motives,—besides a considerable profit he has reaped in trophies, ivory, fur, &c., he has made in his book some valuable contributions to the natural history of the animals he wounded and slew.

CHIPS.

A MARRIAGE IN ST. PETERSBURG.

A fair Correspondent supplies us with the following “Chip” from St. Petersburg:—

In England we used to think the marriage ceremony, with all its solemn adjuncts, an impressive affair; but it is child’s play when compared with the elaborate formalities of a Russian wedding. In England, the bride, though a principal, is a passive object; but in Russia she has, before and at the ceremony, to undergo as much physical fatigue and exertion as a prima donna who has to tear through a violent opera, making every demonstration of the most passionate grief. But you shall hear how they manage on these occasions.

The housekeeper of Mons. A., who has been in his service for eighteen years, and consequently no very youthful bride, took it into her head to marry a shoemaker, who, like his intended, is not remarkable for his personal beauty. Friday was fixed for the happy day, and about two in the afternoon I caught sight of the bride, weeping and wailing in a most doleful manner. I saw or heard no more of her till six in the evening, when she appeared in Mad. A.’s room, attired for the ceremony. Her dress was of dark silk, (she not being allowed to wear white, in consequence of some early indiscretions,) with a wreath of white roses round her head, and a long white veil, which almost enveloped her. She sobbed, howled, went off into hysterics, and fainted; I felt excessively sorry for her, but did all my soothing in vain, for she refused to be comforted. As soon as she became calm, we all assembled in the drawing-room, and Mons. A.’s godson, a little fellow of five years old, entered the room first, bearing the patron saint, St. Nicholas, then came the bride, followed by her train of female friends. She knelt down before Mons. and Mad. A., and they each in turn held the image over her head, saying they blessed her, and hoped she would “go to her happiness.” She kissed their feet frantically; and they then assisted her up, kissed her, and she was conducted weeping to the carriage.