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. 15.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

NATURE AROUND LONDON.

Most people have the impression that to enjoy country sights and sounds, and all the peaceful rural beauties and bright hues of an English landscape, one must go a long way out of London. Mr Richard Jefferies, in his recent volume, _Nature near London_ (Chatto and Windus), has, with his admirable power of nature-painting, shown this to be a mistake. About twelve miles from the great metropolis there are to be found small picturesque villages lying in the heart of leafy copses, and rural lanes imbedded in greenery, and filled with bird and insect life. Here the wayfarer, weary with the dust and smoke of London, may inhale an atmosphere laden with resinous and balmy scents, and stretch himself in the cool grass beside streams beloved by the angler, where patches of forget-me-nots gem the greensward with their soft turquoise-blue, and the yellow flag hangs out in the bright summer sunshine its gay streamers of gold.

Mr Jefferies tells us regarding one of these tiny brooks, that he watched season after season a large trout that lay in a deep pool under the shadow of a great beech-tree. For nearly four years, in shadow and sunshine, he observed this veteran of the finny tribe as he lay meditatively watching the world outside from the quiet depths of his snug pool. The noisy little sedge-birds chattered overhead, and the patient anglers cast their lines with crafty care by the side of the brook; but no bait they could use had any charm for him. At length, by slow degrees, there came to be a comparative friendliness and confidence between the trout and the patient watcher who stood so still and silent by the edge of the pool. Sometimes the trout would venture out of the shadow, and raising himself over a dead branch that lay in the water, display all his speckled beauties in the ripple and sunshine. At last, one bright summer morning, an end came to this quaint friendship. An awful revolution occurred in the quiet life of the brook—the water was dammed up and let off by a side-hatch, in order that some large pipe might be laid down; and the big trout, with his lesser brethren, fell a victim to the predatory instincts of a party of navvies. Our author looked in vain next day into the still depths of the beech-tree pool; his finny friend was gone, and the place looked empty and dull without him.

It is impossible to describe to any one who has not experienced it for himself, how much the near neighbourhood of London enhances all the beauties of the country, and brings out the sweet scents of the fields and hedges. In the cool dewy mornings, the honeysuckle trailing along the hedgerows perfumes the air all around, and mingles with the delicious scent of the bean and hay fields. In these woodland copses, nature has opened her flowery cornucopia and poured out her treasures with a liberal hand. Here one stumbles upon a clump of wild-roses, with their delicate pink glow and faint sweet perfume; there, a few steps farther bring you to a lime-tree laden with blossoms, and you feel the whole perfumed air heavy with the slumberous hum of the bees busy overhead. Rabbits dart out and in from under the green palm-like fronds of a great clump of brake-fern; the woodpeckers call to each other; the jays screech from the leafy lanes; wood-pigeons coo from the depths of the copse-wood. There is no blank of silence, no absence of the companionship of living things, no lack of vivid interest for any one who can scan with an intelligent eye the pages of nature’s great book.

Away over the rippling hayfields, the lark, mounting upwards, a tiny speck in the cloudless blue of the summer sky, makes the air quiver with the glad thrilling notes of his morning song; and down in the leafy hollow of the copse, where the brook murmurs gently beneath the overhanging boughs, the blackbird trills his mellifluous flute-like notes. Birds, our author says, abound. ‘In some places, almost every clod has its lark, every bush its songster.’

One particular lane, with a high hedge bordered with elm-trees, had four or five nightingales; and a copse near it resounded in the season with the cheerful call of the cuckoo. Magpies, which have become scarce in many places throughout the country, are plentiful near London, where some birds are also found which, in many country districts, are but rare and occasional visitors, such as the blackcap, shrike, and gorgeous kingfisher. To a student of bird-life, such spots as a little wood, which our author christened Nightingale Copse, cannot fail to prove a perfect paradise. It was a favourite resort not only of nightingales, but of other migratory birds—chiff-chaffs, willow wrens, golden-crested wrens, fieldfares, &c. In the fields bordering the highway, partridges abounded; and Mr Jefferies counted on one occasion as many as seventeen young pheasants all feeding together on the wheat-stubbles. Nor is the ear the only sense which is charmed in these woodland copses—in the hedgerows, and under the straggling trees and bushes which border the woods, flowers abound, gleaming out in the sunshine from between the tall grasses with a sudden surprise of vivid colour; or spreading like enamel over the short turf; or intertwining their gay garlands with the clustering masses of creeping bramble. Each flower has its own peculiar habitat, where it flourishes luxuriantly. There are patches of the yellow rock rose, of the cranesbill, of the sweet purple wild thyme, of the starry white stitchwort, of the campion and yellow snapdragon; while stately and tall under the shadow of the birch-trees, the foxglove hangs out to the rustling breeze its lovely bells of clouded purple. Nor is heath awanting; ‘the open slopes beyond Sandown are covered with heath, growing so thickly, that even the narrow footpaths are hidden by the overhanging bushes of it. Beneath and amid the heath, what seems a species of lichen grows so profusely as to give a gray undertone to the whole.’

In autumn, this stretch of heath blazes out into a deep glory of purple, so rich and full, that it seems to give the very atmosphere a glow of purple light. Beyond the heath, there are fir-woods, stretching to the east and west; while southwards, the heath melts into the soft green of corn and meadow lands, with scattered clumps of trees. The open slopes among the straggling firs, which dot like sentinels the borders of these pine-woods, are covered with forests of tail ferns, amid which the browsing cows are lost to sight, and only reveal their whereabouts by the tinkling music of the small bells suspended to their necks.

Adders are common in these woods, and are sometimes killed for the sake of their oil, which some folks consider a specific for deafness. It is procured by skinning the adder and taking the fat and boiling it; the result being a clear oil, which never thickens even in the coldest weather. It is applied by pouring a small quantity into the ear, exactly in the same manner as the poison was poured into the ear of the sleeping king in _Hamlet_. Squirrels abound in these copses, and so do weasels and stoats.

In some fields christened by our author Magpie Fields, because he one day saw ten magpies all together in one of them, herbs abound which are in request among herbalists for medicinal purposes. One of these is yarrow. One day, looking at some mowers at work in a hayfield, he saw a man in advance of the others pulling up the yarrow plants as fast as he could and carefully laying them aside. Asking him why he did so, he answered, that although it seemed such a common weed, it was not without its value, for that a person sometimes came and took away a whole trap-load of it. The flowers were boiled, and mixed with cayenne pepper, and were then used as a remedy for colds in the chest. Dandelions are also in request; the tender leaves are pulled in the spring, and taken away in sackfuls to be eaten as salad. There are also hellebore and blue scabious; and the rough-leaved comfrey; and borage with its reminiscences of claret-cup; and groundsel, dear to the owners of pet birds; and knotted figwort, and Aaron’s rod; and a whole tribe of strongly scented mints and peppermints. The belief in these simples, which made the reputation in the middle ages of many a wonder-working doctor and village witch, is fast dying out in the country districts, where the agricultural labourers scarcely know one herb from another; but it flourishes still around the mighty and enlightened metropolis. The herb self-heal is to be found in many hedgerows of many harvest-fields, as well as on the stubbles near London; but very few reapers now would know it if they saw it, or ever think of applying it to any accidental cut or gash.

In the harvest and turnip-hoeing seasons, picturesque bivouac fires dot the fields and lanes. These do not owe their existence to parties of pleasure-seekers, who go a-gipsying under the greenwood tree, but are rather the outcome of a hard struggle for the means of subsistence. They belong to wandering Irish labourers, who move about from farm to farm wherever they can get work, sleeping in barns or outhouses, and in fine weather doing their cooking in the open air. Nothing can be more unlike the populace of the vast adjacent metropolis than these agricultural labourers, native or imported. Look at the ploughman in the furrows yonder, with his stolid characterless face, vacantly regarding the team of three stately horses before him. Intent day by day on the earth beneath his feet, he sees, or at least notices little else. ‘His mind imbibes the spirit of the soil,’ and cannot rise beyond. When the plough stops, he takes out his bread and cheese; and as he munches away, his eyes fall on the sunbeams glittering on the roof of the Crystal Palace; but the sparkling reflection awakens no train of thought in his uncontemplative soul; he takes no interest except in the furrows at his feet; although near London, he is not of it.

In the collection of English pottery in the Museum is preserved the simple rustic memory of these tillers of the soil, the men who, centuries ago, ploughed like this simple countryman these beautiful English acres, scattering the seed over the furrows in the green flush of spring, and garnering the golden grain beneath the mellow skies of autumn. It is curious that so much of the unwritten history of our race should be preserved by so frail a thing as earthenware. These jugs and mugs, with their quaint mottoes and ornamentation, carry the spectator back to the sports and habits of a bygone age.

‘May the best cock win,’ recalls a brutal sport now almost unknown. The frog at the bottom of the jug is a rebuke to the too greedy toper; while the motto on another cup shows that there were grumblers even in the good old days, and that times were hard then as well as now:

Here’s to thee, mine honest friend,
Wishing these hard times to mend.

Beyond the woodlands and valleys which Mr Jefferies has described so happily, are the vast South Downs, hidden in masses of gray mist. These wide sheep-walks are seemingly endless in their extent. They are profusely covered with flowers in their season, with patches of furze, and with short thick grass, amid which the wild thyme luxuriates, spreading out into soft cushions of purple which might make a seat for a king, and permeating with its aromatic fragrance the whole keen air of the uplands. The furze is full of bird-life. Only game has decreased with the increase of cultivation; and with the decrease of game, foxes have become fewer. A few years ago, they were so abundant, that a shepherd told our author that he had sometimes seen as many as six at a time sunning themselves on the precipitous face of the cliffs at Beachy Head. They ascend and descend the precipice by narrow winding-paths of their own with the greatest ease and in perfect safety, unless a couple have a quarrel on one of the narrow rock-ledges, when fatal results often ensue—one or both toppling over.

‘Lands of gold,’ says our author, ‘have been found, and lands of spices and precious merchandise; but the South Downs are the land of health. There is always the delicious air, turn where you will; and the grass, the very touch of which refreshes.’ Besides all this, there is the peculiar beauty which gives its chief charm to all elevated situations, the interest of the panorama which spreads around and beneath—the distant trees which wave in the freshening breeze; the gleam of light which brings out into strong relief the warm bit of colouring supplied by the tiled roof of yonder farmhouse; the flashes of sunshine which brighten up the gloom, and chase the shadows across the swelling uplands and green low-lying meadows beyond.

Seen in the shifting lights and glooms of a breezy autumn day, this lofty, lonely spot seems a land of enchanted beauty, which holds the spectator spellbound, till masses of cloud, rolling up from the sea, throw deep purple shadows over the peaceful landscape, and warn him that darkness is about to fall over the flower-spangled slopes and gleaming sea beyond.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXIII.—CHANGES.

The arrival of a stranger in Kingshope was not such an unusual occurrence as to attract much particular attention. The villagers were accustomed in the summer to frequent visits of bands of ‘beanfeasters’ or ‘wayzegoose’ parties, as the annual outings of the employees of large city firms are called. On these occasions there were athletic games on the common, pleasant roamings through the Forest, and high revel in the _King’s Head_ or the _Cherry Tree_ afterwards. Then there were itinerant photographers, negro minstrels, and gypsy cheap Jacks, with caravans drawn by animals which may be best described as the skeletons of horses in skin-tights—working the Forest ‘pitch’ or ‘lay’—these being the slang terms for any given scene of operation for the professional vagrant. The bird-snarers and the pigeon-flyers seemed to be always about. In the hunting season there were generally a few guests at the _King’s Head_; and so, although every new visitor underwent a bovine stare, he was forgotten as soon as he passed out of sight.

Mr Beecham’s ways were so quiet, that before he had been a week in the place, he had glided so imperceptibly into its ordinary life that he seemed to be as much a part of it as the parson and the doctor. His presence was of course observed, but there was little sign of impertinent curiosity. It was understood that he was looking about the district for a suitable house in which to settle, or for a site on which to build one. This accounted for his long walks; and there was nothing remarkable in the fact that his peregrinations led him frequently by Willowmere, and sometimes into the neighbourhood of Ringsford Manor.

Although his ways were so quiet, there was nothing reserved or mysterious about them. The object which had brought him to Kingshope was easily comprehended; he entered into conversation with the people he met, and took an interest in the affairs of the place—the crops, the weather, and the prospects of the poor during the coming winter. Yet nothing more was known of his antecedents than that he came from London, and that he visited the city two or three times a week. He dressed plainly; he lived moderately at the inn—not like one who required to reckon his expenses carefully, but like one whose tastes were simple and easily satisfied.

The general belief was that he had belonged to one of the professions, and that he had retired on a moderate competence, in order to devote his time to study of some sort. He himself said nothing on the subject.

One of the first acquaintances he made was Uncle Dick, who adhered to the kindly old country custom of giving the time of day to any one he met in the lanes or saw passing his gates. The first salutation of the master of Willowmere induced Mr Beecham to make inquiries about the district, which led to future conversations. These would have speedily introduced the stranger to the farmhouse and its mistress; but hitherto he had not availed himself of the cordial invitation which was given him. He was apparently satisfied with the privilege of going over the land with Uncle Dick, inspecting his stock and admiring his horses, and thus speedily developing a casual acquaintanceship into a friendship. On these occasions he had opportunities of seeing and conversing with Madge, and she formed as favourable an opinion of him as her uncle had done.

‘Has he ever said what made him think of coming to settle hereabout?’ inquired the dame one day, after listening to their praises of the stranger.

‘Never thought of asking him,’ replied Crawshay, wondering if there was anything wrong in having neglected to put such a natural question.

‘He mentioned that some friends of his lived near here at one time,’ said Madge, ‘and that he had always liked the Forest.’

‘Has he spoken about any family? Is he married? Has he any children?’

‘Why, mother, you wouldn’t have me go prying into what doesn’t concern us!’ was Crawshay’s exclamation. ‘It does seem a bit queer, though, that he seems to have nobody belonging to him.’

Aunt Hessy thought it very queer; and when Philip came next, she asked him to describe Mr Shield to her again.

‘He must have changed very much since I last saw him,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I scarcely know what put it into my head, but this Mr Beecham is much more like what I should have fancied your uncle would grow into, than the gentleman you describe. But foreign parts do seem to alter people strangely. There was neighbour Hartopp’s lad went away to California; and when he came back ten years after, it took his own mother two whole days before she would believe that he was himself. Yes, foreign parts do alter people strangely in appearances as well as feelings.’

It was regarded by the little group as a good joke that Aunt Hessy should have formed the romantic suspicion that the stranger in the village might be her old friend Austin Shield. They did not know anything of the confidential letter. She had said nothing about it yet, and her conscience was much troubled on that account.

‘It’s wrong to keep a secret from Dick,’ she kept saying to herself. ‘I know it is wrong, and I am doing it. If harm come of it, I shall never forgive myself; I hope others may be able to do it.’

She regarded with something like fear the enthusiasm with which Philip spoke of the social revolution he was to effect by means of the wealth placed at his command. Yet it was a noble object the youth was aiming at. Surely wealth could do no harm, when it was used for the purpose of making the miserable happy, of showing men how they might prosper, and teaching them the great lesson, that content and comfort were only to be found in hard work. The scheme looked so feasible to her, and was so good, that she remained silent lest she should mar the work. She bore the stings of conscience, and prayed that Philip might pass safely through the ordeal to which he was unconsciously being subjected. He talked of the bounty of his uncle, and she was uneasy, knowing that this bounty might prove his ruin, although she was quite unable to see how that could come about as matters looked at present. She was simply afraid, and began to understand why preachers often spoke of gold as a fiend—the more dangerous because it appeared as the agent of good. Then there was the coming of this stranger at the same time that Philip met his uncle in London. Of course there was nothing to associate the two in her mind except the period of their arrival. But she was puzzled.

‘There is not the slightest resemblance between the two men, I assure you,’ Philip said; ‘but there is this strong resemblance between my uncle as he is now and as he was, by your own account, when you knew him long ago—he is as odd in his ways as ever. He will not discuss anything with me except by letter. That, you might say, was no more than prudent, as it can leave no room for dispute as to what we say to each other.’

‘He wants to make you careful,’ said the dame, with some feeling of relief; for this arrangement seemed to prove that he was desirous of helping Philip to pass the test.

‘But, besides, he will scarcely see me at all; and when he does, he is as short with me and in as great a hurry to get rid of me as he was on the first day I called on him. When I try to explain things to him, he says: “All right; go your own way. If you want me to consider anything, you must write it out for me.” I don’t mind it now, having got used to it; but sometimes I cannot help wondering’——

Philip checked himself, as if he had been about to say something which he suddenly remembered should not be spoken even to his dearest friends.

‘Well?’ queried Uncle Dick, looking at him along the line of his churchwarden pipe as if it were a gun and he were taking aim. ‘What are you stopping for? You can’t help wondering at what?’

‘Only at his droll ways,’ answered Philip. ‘I should have thought that risking so much money in my hand, he would have been anxious to have the fullest particulars of all that I was doing with it.’

‘So should I, lad. What does your father say about it?’

‘Nothing more than that he will want to speak to me one day soon. He is not pleased.’

‘There don’t seem to me much to be not pleased about.—Eh, mother?’

‘We’ll see after a bit,’ answered the dame, cautiously, but smiling. ‘We don’t know yet whether Philip is to prove himself a very wise man or’——

‘Or a fool,’ interrupted Crawshay, with one of his hearty laughs.

‘Nay, Dick; not that. Philip will never prove himself a fool; but he might do worse—he might prove himself a sensible man doing foolish things.’

The stranger who provoked this discussion went on in his calm way, seeking what apparently he could not find, but always with a pleasant smile or a kindly ‘good-day’ to the people he met in the fields and lanes.

One of his favourite halting-places was at the stile which gave access from the roadway to the Willowmere meadows. On the opposite side of the road were the willows and beeches, bordering the river. Four of the latter trees were known as the ‘dancing beeches,’ from the position in which they stood, as if they had suddenly halted whilst whirling round in a country-dance; and when the wind blew, their branches interlaced and creaked in unison, as if they wanted to begin the dance again. This was a famous trysting-place, and in the summer-time the swains and their maidens would ‘wander in the meadows where the May-flowers grow.’ This is the burden of a rustic ballad which you would often hear chanted in the quiet evenings. It served the double purpose of supplying the place of conversation and of agreeably expressing the thoughts of the singers. Uncle Dick sometimes saw and heard them; but with kindly indifference to his clover, he would shake his head and turn away, remembering that he, too, had once been young.

Mr Beecham resting on the stile could, by an easy movement of the head, command nearly the whole of the hollow in which the village lay; and looking upward, could catch glimpses of Willowmere House peering through the apple and pear trees of the orchard.

After the lapse of years, how new it all looks, and yet how old; how changed, and yet familiar. There is the church, the same gray weather-beaten pile, in spite of the vicar’s manful efforts to get it put into a state of thorough repair. The vicar himself is the same cheery good friend in gladness, and the sympathising comforter in sorrow; his hair is almost gray now, and his figure is inclined to be rotund; but he is still the same. There are, however, new gravestones in the churchyard, and they bear the names of old friends. Their places in the world have been easily filled up; their places in the memory of the survivors never can be. Ay, there is change indeed.

But here is the golden autumn, its lustre slowly growing dim under the touch of approaching winter; there are the green fields and the red ploughed lands—they are just as they looked long ago, although his eyes see them through the sad haze which separates him from the past. There are the sounds of the cattle, the ripple of the river, and the rustle of the trees—sounds to which he gave no particular heed in the old time, and now they are like the voices of welcoming friends.

So the present steps by us; pain and sorrow plant milestones on our way; by-and-by the eye glances tenderly backward and over them, and in old age we hear the voices of our youth.

‘Good-afternoon, Mr Beecham. Do you think it will rain?’

He lifted his head, and bowed to Madge and Philip as they were about to pass over the stile. He looked up at the sky.

‘I am afraid it will rain; but you will be home before it begins, I think.’

Philip gave her his hand; she mounted the three foot-worn wooden steps and descended on the meadow side.

‘I hope you will always have a strong hand to help you over the stiles, Miss Heathcote,’ he said, smiling; but there seemed to be as much of earnest as of jest in his meaning.

‘I believe she may fairly count upon that, Mr Beecham,’ answered Philip.

‘The pity is, we so seldom find what we count upon,’ said Mr Beecham, shaking his head.

‘Then we must make the best of what we do find,’ replied Philip cheerfully, ‘and scramble over somehow without a helping hand.’

The two passed on at a smart pace up the meadow, Mr Beecham looking after them with a dream in his eyes.

Overhead, on this afternoon, was a sky gloomy and threatening; but on the horizon were rivers of pale golden light, giving hope and courage to the weary ones who were like to faint by the wayside. Suddenly a white light relieved the gloom immediately above, and the golden rivers were lashed with dark promontories; but still, the farthest point was light. Again suddenly a white glory burst through the gloom, dazzling the eyes and breaking the clouds into fantastic shapes, which fled from it like the witches of evil fleeing before the majestic genii of good. Another change, and all gradually toned down into the soft repose of a calm evening, bearing the promise of a pleasant day to follow.

‘I have lived alone too much,’ muttered Mr Beecham with a long-drawn breath, which is the only approach to a sigh ventured upon by a man past middle age; ‘and my own morbid broodings make me superstitious, showing me symbols in everything. I hope this one may turn out well, however.’

Philip and Madge had disappeared by this time, and Mr Beecham walked slowly on to the village.

When the young people reached the homestead, Madge announced that Philip had come to tell them something very important, which he had refused to reveal until they should be in the house.

Aunt Hessy glanced uneasily from one to the other; but seeing no sign of disturbance on either face, her uneasiness passed away. She concluded that it was some jest with which Philip had been teasing Madge.

‘I have seen Mr Shield again to-day,’ he began, ‘and I have received new instructions from him.’

‘He is not going to send you off to Griqualand, after all?’ queried Madge quickly.

‘O no; but maybe you would prefer that he should order me off there, rather than tell me to take chambers in town.’

‘Chambers in town! What can that be for?’

‘Well, he was as short and bustling as ever; he never seems to have time to discuss anything. “That’s what I want,” he says; “if you don’t like it, write, and tell me why.” All he said about it was that he desired me to feel independent.’

The uneasy expression reappeared on Aunt Hessy’s face.

‘Have you consented to make this change?’ she asked quietly.

‘I could see no objection; and in several ways the arrangement will be convenient. I made it clear that it was not in any way to be considered as a step towards separating me from my family. He said I could please myself as regarded my family—he had nothing to do with that.... Do you not like it, Madge?’

The clear eyes looked wistfully in his face. ‘No, Philip; I do not like it. But perhaps Mr Shield is right; and it may be as well that you should have the experience of being away from us for a time at least.’

‘Living away from you! Why I shall be here as often as ever!’

She said nothing; and Aunt Hessy put the apparently irrelevant question:

‘Have you seen Mr Beecham to-day, Madge?’

‘We saw him by the stile at the foot of the meadow as we passed.’

Aunt Hessy, with evident disappointment, abandoned the droll fancy which had for a time possessed her mind.

SOME QUEER DISHES.

If, in England, a man was pushed to discover a new animal food, it would, I think, be a long time before he hit upon bats as at all likely to furnish him with a desirable addition to his table, even if their diminutive size did not place an insuperable obstacle in the way of their being so utilised. But in many of the South Sea Islands where the flying-fox—a species of bat, fifteen inches or so across the wings—is common, it is used as food by the natives, and its flesh is by no means to be despised even by epicures. This animal, frugivorous in his tastes as a rule, does not for all that turn up his nose at a plump moth or a succulent beetle when they chance to come in his way; but he usually confines himself to fruit—ripe bananas of the best quality and plenty of them being about his mark; and dreadful havoc he and his friends would make in the banana gardens, if the natives—well aware of his habits—did not hasten to bind quantities of dead leaves round the ripening fruit, and so preserve it from his attacks. It would seem absurd to a stranger to the country to be informed that such an insignificant animal as a bat could seriously threaten the fruit-harvest in countries where it is so abundant; but he would change his opinion when informed that the flying-foxes often settle in hundreds in any likely plantation; and as they always destroy very much more than they consume, the loss and inconvenience they cause to the natives may be properly estimated.

The bat in question is not so strictly nocturnal in his habits as his English brother; and although he usually sallies out at sunset, yet I have often noticed them sailing about in broad daylight, provided the weather was dull and overcast; the flight is even and regular, very like that of a rook, and not in the least resembling the extremely erratic mode of progression affected by our native species. If in their manner of flying—a few steady flaps and then a long sail—they remind one of the rook, they also resemble our old friend in their habit of assembling together at bedtime, when they all retire to roost on the same grove of trees, and hang head downwards with their wings wrapped round their bodies, looking like a collection of large cobwebs.

It must not, however, be supposed that the meeting and subsequent proceedings take place in silence; the contrary is the case; and an immense amount of chattering is carried on for a considerable time, when no doubt all the affairs of the day are duly discussed, as well as other matters amatory and otherwise. In the old heathen times, the rookeries were strongly tabooed by the priests; and even to the present day, the natives, more especially the old men, have an evident aversion to interfere with the sacred trees, a feeling which does not in the least prevent them from killing all the bats they can in other places.

The natives prepare them for food by first cutting off the wings and then passing the body through the fire, to remove the fur, and with it the strong foxy smell with which it is impregnated. It is then carefully scraped, split open, and afterwards grilled on the coals spitchcock fashion, when it is ready for consumption; and is capital eating, having a rich gamy flavour something between a hare and a woodcock.

I was so much encouraged by the success of my first essay at bat-eating, that I afterwards had a pie made of several I had shot, and from my previous experience, rather looked forward to a good dinner; but when the pastry was cut open, I was grievously disappointed by finding that the fetid odour peculiar to the live animal had survived the cooking—from being unable to escape from the pastry—rendering it utterly uneatable, and so for the future contented myself with bat _au naturel_—that is, native fashion.

The above-mentioned animal is very common in Australia, and is quite as great a nuisance among the orchards there as he is in the islands; but it will be some considerable time, I fancy, before our colonial brothers utilise him in the kitchen.

I don’t suppose that many people—at least English people, who are tolerably prejudiced in their way—have ever voluntarily gone in for a cuttle-fish or octopus diet, as they are horribly weird, uncanny animals to look at; and few, I opine, would feel inclined to make a ‘square meal’ off the shiny creatures, at least until other more prepossessing kinds of food remained to be tried. Nevertheless, throughout the whole of the Pacific, including Japan, all the different varieties of cuttle and octopus are regarded as a _bonne bouche_ of peculiar excellence; and both in its capture and preparation, the natives display considerable ingenuity. I remember once, when sailing in the tropics, seeing one morning the deck of our little schooner nearly covered with that very elegant little cuttle-fish called the ‘flying-squid.’ The sea had been very rough during the night, and I could never properly ascertain whether the squid had come on board of their own accord, attracted by the light—as the men affirmed—or had been left there by a heavy sea we had shipped just before daylight. Anyway, our cook, a smart Maltese, at once set to work to collect them, and then, much to the disgust of the sailors, who are the most prejudiced of mortals, he forthwith proceeded to cook them for the cabin table, and sent us down dishes of squid both curried and fried that were much approved of by all who partook of them; and proved a delightful change after the long course of ‘salt junk’ and tinned soup and bouillie that the slow sailing of our little craft had obliged us to adopt.

These fish were about six inches long, had large brilliant eyes of a set expression, and were furnished with a pair of flippers or wings. They also—unlike any other kind of fish that I am acquainted with—rejoice in a couple of tails, in lieu of the orthodox number. The body, almost transparent, was of a delicate olive brown. Altogether, they were pretty little things, and tasted even better than they looked.

I am now about to introduce my readers to a dish of octopus prepared _secundum artem_ by a South Sea native. The octopus is by no means, without proper apparatus, an easy animal to lay hold of; on the contrary, it demands all the cunning of the most experienced South Sea fisherman to wile him from his haunts in the coral and to secure a good number for a feast.

But here is my Tongese friend Fakatene, just about to launch his _hamatefna_, or fishing-canoe; and we cannot do better than accompany him on his trip, and lend a hand in catching the fish we are to partake of. But first, just notice how ingeniously his tiny vessel is constructed out of timber of the bread-fruit tree. This tree does not, so far south—we are in about twenty-three degrees five minutes south—attain to any great size, and the timber, therefore, is proportionately small and scarce, which accounts for the small size of the pieces used. The hull, you notice, is pretty well in one piece, except that queer-shaped bit so artfully let in near the bows, and so close-fitting all round that even a penknife could not be introduced between the seams; and were it not for the difference in the grain of the wood, the ingenious patch would never be detected. The top sides are formed of several small planks neatly sewn on to the hull with sinnet, and joined in the same manner to one another; and yet, with all this patching, she exceeds in beauty, in the grace of her lines, and in her extreme buoyancy in the water, the finest four-oar ever turned out by Searle in his most palmy days.

Fakatene is pleased with our admiration of his highly prized canoe, and takes some pains to explain that she was moulded on the lines of the bonito, one of the swiftest of fishes. Not such a bad idea that, we consider, for a poor native; but one that we intellectual white men are much too proud, not to say too conceited, to follow; so we go in for all kinds of scientific curves and angles, with the result that our builders are constantly producing craft that will neither pull nor sail, and that would have been a disgrace to Noah himself, or even to prehistoric man.—But to return to our canoe. She is provided with an outrigger called a ‘thama,’ to prevent capsizing; with a carved-wood bailer, in case we ship a sea or make any water from the working of the seams; also with a long three-pronged fish-spear, a few lines, a bamboo of fresh water; and last, but not least, with the inevitable fire-stick, or smouldering twist of tapa cloth, to furnish a light for our friend’s _seluka_ (cigarette). Off at last; and Fakatene, who poled swiftly over the shallow part of the reef, has taken to his paddle, and coasting along the island for some distance, we soon come to a favourable spot for our purpose; so we drop anchor—a large stone—and business commences.

The octopus dwells in holes in the reef, keeping only a portion of his body exposed, so that, while he can look out for his prey, he can at the same time quickly withdraw within his hole, directly his dread enemy the shark appears, who is always foraging about the reefs in search of adventurous cuttles.

Now, I must tell you that the octopus, although partial enough to crabs, is particularly fond of the inhabitant of the spotted cowrie or ear-shell, so common in our shops; and so Fakatene, well aware of this fact, has prepared a cunning bait, artfully constructed of a number of small plates of the shell fastened together in such a manner that while similar in appearance to the real thing, yet, being much heavier, and not containing any air, sinks at once, which a real shell would not do. Our friend now lowers his line, with the shell-bait attached, until it touches the bottom, and then raising it a few inches off the ground, jerks it gently up and down. Presently, a pull on the line shows that the fish has taken the bait; more jerking on the part of the native; which the octopus replies to by at once throwing out a fresh arm. The jerking still continues; until the fish, dreading the escape of his prey, lets go his hold of the rocks, and wraps the whole of his body round the shell; when the native, perceiving that his line is no longer fast to the ground, gently hauls up the line, and finally deposits an immense octopus in the bottom of the canoe. Our new friend no sooner finds himself caught, than he lets go the deceptive bait, and with his great goggle eyes staring hard at nothing in particular, sprawls about in the most awkward fashion, at the same time giving vent to a species of grunt, until at last he finally retires into the darkest corner he can find, and collapses into a lump of grayish-looking jelly, about a third part of his apparent size when in motion.

Having by the same means secured several more fish, we return to land, when the canoe is duly housed, and Fakatene disposes of the octopi by turning them inside out and hanging them up to dry in the sun, having first carefully saved all the sepia left in the fish, as this is esteemed a great luxury, and an indispensable ingredient in preparing the sauce.

When the cuttle is to be cooked, it is first of all carefully cleaned and scraped, when all the outer skin, including the hideous-looking suckers, comes off. The fish is then cut in pieces, and having been tied up in a banana-leaf, is baked in an oven for a considerable time in conjunction with cocoa-nut milk and a certain proportion of the inky-hued sepia above mentioned, and which, as is well known, is made use of by the fish when alive to obscure the water when escaping from the pursuit of its enemies. It takes some time to cook octopus properly, as it is naturally tough and stringy; but when well prepared, it is one of the most delicate and luscious dishes I ever tasted; and, singular to say, the cooking converts the tripy, stringy-looking substance into a solid meaty food, bearing a curious resemblance to lobster both in taste and colour, only rather firmer in texture; a most unlooked-for occurrence in such dissimilar articles.

A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

When I got back to town, the sessions were only a week off; so the first thing I did was to call on the solicitor in charge of my murder case, in order to learn from him how it stood, and to take it off his hands. The magistrate, of course, had sent the prisoner for trial. When I came to read the depositions, the case against him seemed perfectly simple, and as conclusive as circumstantial evidence could make it. The crime had not occurred so long ago but that a diligent search had unearthed several witnesses. The servant-girl, who had now become the wife of a dairyman in the immediate neighbourhood, was found. She proved the bad conduct of young Harden, and the ill-will which gradually grew up between him and her former mistress. She also spoke to his ejectment from the house on the day of the murder, and to his threats at the street-door. She swore to the knife, which had been in the possession of the police ever since, as having belonged to the prisoner. There were other witnesses to the same facts; and the landlord, my client, and several others, proved the flourishing of the identical knife and the ominous words in the public-house. To complete the chain, the man who had instructed me proved the finding of the knife in the room where the murder was committed; and two or three witnesses remembered being by his side and seeing him stoop down and pick it up. These, with the final facts of his sudden disappearance and changes of name, appeared both to me and to my friend to be capable of being spun into a rope quite strong enough to swing John Harden out of the world.

‘But,’ said my solicitor-friend, ‘the queerest thing of all is that no one is going to appear for the prisoner.’

‘No one to appear for him?’

‘No one. Young Elkin holds a watching brief on behalf of the prisoner’s master, and that is all. He said Harden had been in Mr Slocum’s—that’s his master—service for over seven years, behaving extremely well all the time. He was invaluable to his old master, who is something of an invalid. He had turned religious, and was disgusted at his former wicked life.’

‘But I suppose he has money—or, at anyrate, if Slocum is so fond of him, why doesn’t he pay for the defence?’

‘Why, it seems that his notion of religion forbids Harden to avail himself of worldly arts. Slocum is only too anxious to retain some one; but Harden won’t have it, and no one can persuade him. Says he is in the hands of a Higher Power, and it shall be given him what he shall speak, and all the rest of it. He wanted to make a speech to the magistrate; but Slocum, by Elkin’s advice, did manage to induce him to hold his tongue for the present, and say he would reserve his defence. Of course they hope he will come to his senses before the trial. But I don’t know how that will be. I never saw such an obstinate pig. Only gave in to his master about not speaking because the poor man began to whimper in court!’

The main part of my work had been done for me, and it only remained to bespeak copies of the depositions, see the witnesses, and make sure that they intended to say at the Old Bailey substantially the same things as they had said at the police court—a most necessary precaution, the imagination being so vivid in people of this class that they are very likely to amplify their tale if possible—and prepare the brief for the prosecuting counsel. This done, I had but to let things take their course.

When the day of the trial came, I was betimes in my place at the Central Criminal Court, having various other cases in hand there. The prisoners, as is customary, were first put up and arraigned—that is, had the substance of their several indictments read over to them—and were called on to plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ These disposed of, the case for John Harden was called, and I looked at him with some curiosity. No sooner had I done so than I knew that his was a face upon which at some time or other I had looked before, and of which I had taken note. It is a useful peculiarity of mine that I never forget a face to which I have once paid any attention, and I can generally recollect the place and circumstances under which I last saw it. But here the latter part of my powers failed me. I knew the face well, but could not imagine when and where I had beheld it. I even knew that I had seen the man bare-headed, and that he was not then, as now, bald on the crown. The thing worried me not a little. In the meanwhile, John Harden was being put up to take his trial for the murder of Agatha Harden.

‘I, m’lud, appear to prosecute in this case,’ said my counsel, starting up and down again like the blade of a knife.

‘Does nobody appear for the prisoner?’ asked the judge.

‘I understand, m’lud, that the prisoner is not represented,’ said counsel, appearing and disappearing as before.

‘My lord,’ said an agitated voice from the body of the court, ‘I have used all possible efforts’——

‘Si-lence!’ proclaimed the usher.

‘Who is that?’ inquired the judge, looking over his spectacles.

‘My lord, I am this foolish fellow’s master; and I am perfectly convinced’——

‘I cannot hear you, sir. If the prisoner wishes to have counsel assigned to him for his defence, I will name a gentleman, and will take care that the prisoner shall have due opportunity for his instruction; and if you desire to give evidence on his behalf, you can do so.—Prisoner, is it your wish that counsel be assigned to you for your defence?’

Harden had been standing with his head slightly bent, and his clasped hands resting on the rail of the dock. He now looked up at the judge, and replied in a grave and impassive voice: ‘My lord, I wish no help but the help of God. I am in His hands, and I am an innocent man. If He sees good to deliver me, He will do so. Who am I, that I should interfere with His work?’

‘You appear to me,’ said the judge gently, ‘to be under an unfortunate delusion. You say rightly that you are in God’s hands; but that should not hinder you from using such instruments for your deliverance as he offers you. Once more I will ask, do you now desire to be represented by counsel?’

‘I do not, my lord.’

‘So be it.—Now, Mr Clincher.’

Rising once more, counsel for the prosecution proceeded to open his case. It was clear and straightforward, put concisely and tellingly, and embraced the facts which the reader already knows. He then called his witnesses; and as each after each left the box, it was easy to see from the faces of the jury that things were likely to go hard with the prisoner. Always, in answer to the inquiry, ‘Do you wish to put any questions to this witness?’ Harden replied: ‘No, my lord. He has said the truth, for all I know.’

So smoothly did the trial run its course, that only one incident called for remark. This was when my client got into the box; and so indecently eager did he appear to be to procure the conviction of the prisoner, that he twice called down upon himself a severe rebuke from the judge, for persistently volunteering irrelevant statements to Harden’s prejudice. And when counsel at length said, ‘That, m’lud, is my case,’ and sat down, but little doubt remained as to the prisoner’s fate. I still sat with my gaze fascinated by the set face in the dock, trying—trying to remember when and where I had last looked upon it.

‘Do you propose, prisoner, to call any witnesses?’ asked the judge.

‘Only my master, my lord—Mr Slocum. He’ll speak for me, and he’ll say, I know, that I’m not the man to kill any living thing.’

‘Very well.—And now, before calling him, do you desire to address the jury?’

The interest of the case, which, except for that interest which is inseparable from a trial for murder, had slightly flagged, revived now that a human being was virtually at grips with death. For what had just passed meant that there was no defence or attempt at a defence, that the jury must convict, and that the man must die, without hope of mercy for so cowardly and ungrateful a murderer. There was not a sound in the court. It was late in the afternoon, and the winter sun was setting. Its rays lit up the crimson hangings, the scarlet robes of the judge, the intent faces, all looking one way, the drooping head and white composed countenance of the prisoner—the man standing up there in full health and strength, and whose life was going down with the sun.

‘I have but a few words to say, my lord and gentlemen. I didn’t do it. I was bad enough, and maybe cruel enough in those days, to do it; but I didn’t. I was so drunk and so mad, my lord and gentlemen, that I might have done it if it had happened earlier in the day, unknown almost to myself, and be standing here rightly enough. But I _know_ I couldn’t have done it, and why? Because I was miles away at the time. My poor aunt, as I’ve heard from what has been said, must have been killed between a quarter to and a quarter past eight in the evening. Well, at eight o’clock I was at least five miles off. If I’d done it directly the girl went out of the house—as she says, at a quarter to eight—it isn’t according to reason that I could have broke open the cupboard, took the money, and got five miles off in a quarter of an hour.’ He stopped, and drew the cuff of his coat across his forehead.

Where _had_ I seen him before? Where and when had I seen him do that very action?