Chapter II

Mr Gideon Maggleby had been married rather less than two-and-twenty hours, when at about nine o’clock on the morning of March 23, 1868, he walked into the room in which he had so often breakfasted and dined with his late friend and partner, Solomon Pudster. Mr Maggleby, who was pre-eminently a man of business, had not seen fit to go to the Isle of Wight or to Paris to spend his honeymoon; and Mrs Maggleby, who was nothing if not a woman of sound sense, had loyally accepted the decision of her third lord and master. They had agreed to stay in town, and not to allow their new happiness to interfere with their material interests in Mincing Lane. Mr Maggleby had determined, however, to make a holiday of the day after his wedding; to stay at home in the morning with his wife, to escort her to Madame Tussaud’s in the afternoon, and to take her to the play in the evening.

With this comfortable programme in his mind’s eye, Mr Maggleby came down to breakfast in his flowered dressing-gown. Mrs Maggleby, he knew, would not be many minutes behind him, and he therefore rang the bell for the coffee, and turned lazily towards the table, upon which lay two piles of letters. The smaller heap chiefly consisted of missives addressed to Mrs Pudster, for the marriage of the previous day had not as yet been noised abroad in the country, and Mrs Maggleby had several female correspondents who communicated with her much more often than she communicated with them. The larger bundle was made up of letters addressed either to Mr Maggleby or to Messrs Pudster and Maggleby, the letters to the firm having been already brought down from Mincing Lane by a confidential clerk.

It was a chilly morning; and Mr Maggleby, with the letters in his hand, sank into an easy-chair by the fireside, and then began to polish his spectacles. But ere he had time to complete that operation, one envelope attracted the attention of his not very dim-sighted eyes. It bore the post-mark ‘Plymouth,’ and was addressed in a familiar hand-writing. Without waiting to put on his spectacles, Mr Maggleby seized this envelope and tore it open. For an instant he stared at the letter which it contained; then he turned white, and fell back with a groan. But Mr Maggleby was a man of considerable self-command, and he soon partly recovered himself.

‘Maria must not see me in this agitated state,’ he murmured, as he rose. ‘I shall go back to my dressing-room, and decide upon some plan of action before I face her.’ And with unsteady steps, he quitted the dining-room, taking with him the letter that was the cause of his emotion.

Almost immediately afterwards, a servant entered with the coffee and some covered dishes, which she set upon the table; and no sooner had she withdrawn than Mrs Maggleby appeared. Mrs Maggleby looked blooming, and was evidently in capital spirits. She caught up her letters, sat down smiling in the very easy-chair from which her husband had risen a few minutes earlier, and began to read. The first letters to be opened were, of course, those which were addressed to her in her new name. They contained congratulations upon her marriage. Then she attacked the envelopes that were addressed to Mrs Pudster. One contained a bill; another contained a request for Mrs Pudster’s vote and interest on behalf of Miss Tabitha Gabbles, a maiden lady who was seeking admission into the Home for the Daughters of Decayed Trinity Pilots; and a third brought a lithographed letter from the Marquis of Palmyra, imploring the recipient to make some small subscription to the funds of the Association for the Encouragement of Asparagus Culture in the Scilly Islands. There were also letters from Miss Martha Tigstake and Mrs Benjamin Bowery, dealing with nothing in particular and with everything in general; and finally there was a letter bearing the post-mark ‘Plymouth.’ Mrs Maggleby opened it carelessly; but a single glance at its contents caused her to start up, grasp convulsively at the mantelpiece, utter an exclamation, and tremble like a leaf.

‘Poor Gideon!’ she said. ‘What a fearful blow! He mustn’t see me in this agitated state. I shall go up-stairs again, and decide upon some plan of action before I face him.’ And Mrs Maggleby, letter in hand and pale as death, quitted the room, leaving the coffee and the eggs and bacon and the crumpets to get cold.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Mr Maggleby ventured down-stairs again. He was dressed as if to go to the City, and in his hand he held a letter which bore the simple address, ‘Maria.’ This letter he laid upon his wife’s plate. It was worded as follows:

MY DEAREST LIFE—I am suddenly and unexpectedly summoned to
Mincing Lane on business of the greatest importance. I do
not know exactly when I shall return, but you must not be
anxious.—Yours devotedly,

GIDEON.

Mr Maggleby hastily seized a tepid crumpet, and without the formality of seating himself at the table, devoured the clammy dainty. Then, hearing his wife upon the stairs, he rushed like a madman from the room, and an instant afterwards, left the house and quietly closed the front-door behind him.

Mrs Maggleby, whose face bore traces of recent weeping, entered the dining-room as if she expected to find the place tenanted by a ghost. Discovering, however, that it was empty, she resumed her seat by the fire, and, with an hysterical outburst, buried her head in her hands.

‘Poor dear Gideon!’ she sobbed. ‘What will become of him and me? We shall be imprisoned for life; I know we shall. The house will have to be shut up; the business will go to ruin; the servants will have to know all. Oh, it is too terrible! But I must compose myself. Gideon will be coming down, and I must be prepared to break the news to him;’ and with great self-command, Mrs Maggleby wiped her eyes and seated herself at the table. As she did so, she caught sight of her husband’s note, which she eagerly opened.

‘He has gone!’ she exclaimed despairingly, when she had read it. ‘I am left alone to bear the trial!—Ah, Gideon, you little know how cruel you are. But I must follow you. We must concert measures at once.’

Once more she went up-stairs. She put on her bonnet and cloak; she covered her flushed face with a thick veil; and without saying a word to any of her servants, she left the house, and made the best of her way to the nearest cabstand.

Meantime, Mr Maggleby had been driven to his place of business in Mincing Lane. He entered his office, and sat down as if dazed, in his private room. Hearing of his principal’s unexpected arrival, the head-clerk, Mr John Doddard, almost immediately appeared. He too was scared and breathless.

‘Read, sir, read!’ he gasped as he thrust an open letter into Mr Maggleby’s hand.

Mr Maggleby mechanically took the letter, and read aloud as follows:

_On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday._

DEAR MR DODDARD—As you are probably not expecting me, I send a
line ashore to let you know that I hope to return in time to
be at business at the usual hour on Thursday. Please take care
that there is a good fire in my private room, as a visit to
Demerara always, as you know, renders me particularly sensitive
to cold and damp. I am writing to Mr Maggleby. We have had a
capital voyage so far, but the weather in the Channel threatens
to be rather dirty. I shall land at Gravesend; and if you can
find out when the _Camel_ is likely to be there, you may send
down some one to meet me.—Yours faithfully,

SOLOMON PUDSTER.

‘I knew it!’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby. ‘I have just received the letter that he speaks of.’

‘What does it all mean?’ asked Mr Doddard. ‘I seem to be dreaming, sir. We buried poor Mr Pudster eight months ago, didn’t we?’

‘So I thought,’ murmured Mr Maggleby vaguely. ‘But this letter is certainly in his handwriting. And look at the post-mark. There it is, as plain as possible: “Plymouth, Mar. 22, 1868.” That was yesterday; and to-day is Wednesday, March 23d.—Just read my letter, Mr Doddard!’ and he pulled from his pocket a missive, which he handed to his clerk.

Mr Doddard read as follows:

_On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday._

MY DEAR GIDEON—Here I am almost at home again. I fancy that you
didn’t expect to see me just at present; for I wasn’t able to
write to you before we left Demerara; so, as we are now sending
ashore here, I post you a few lines to prepare you for the
surprise. It is, as you know, quite unusual for vessels of this
line to call at Plymouth, and therefore I haven’t time to send
you a long letter; though, if we also call at Southampton, I
will write again from there. I have told Doddard to send some
one to meet me at Gravesend; let him take down any letters that
you may want me to see at once.—Yours affectionately,

SOLOMON.

‘Well, I never did!’ cried Mr Doddard. ‘Yet I could swear to Mr Pudster’s handwriting anywhere. It is a terrible thing for a man who ought to be lying quietly in his coffin to come back like this, and upset every one’s calculations.’

‘You are certain about the handwriting?’ asked Mr Maggleby anxiously.

‘Quite certain!’ replied Mr Doddard. ‘What a frightful thing for poor Mrs Pudster!’

‘Mrs Maggleby, you mean!’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘Yes. I don’t know how to break it to her. It’s a case of bigamy; isn’t it?’

‘Let us hope for the best, sir. Mr Pudster won’t prosecute, I fancy, considering the peculiar character of the circumstances. It’s his fault. That’s my opinion. I could swear, even now, that we buried him. He must have revived in his coffin, and been dug up again by the gravediggers; and must then have gone over to Demerara, in order to avoid shocking his poor wife.’

‘I wonder our Demerara agents didn’t say something about it when they wrote by the last mail,’ said Mr Maggleby.

‘Oh, of course he kept them quiet, sir. But it’s a cruel case—that’s all I have to say. And though I have known Mr Pudster these thirty years, and liked him too, I don’t hesitate to say that he’s not behaving straightforwardly in this piece of business.’

‘Hush! Wait until you know of his motives,’ said Mr Maggleby.

‘He can’t excuse himself, sir, I tell you,’ rejoined Mr Doddard warmly. ‘If he comes back, I go. So there! And I say it with all respect to you, sir. When a man’s once dead, he’s got no right to come back again. It isn’t natural; and what’s more, it isn’t business-like.’

The bitterness of Mr Doddard’s remarks in this connection may be partly accounted for by consideration of the fact that Mr Maggleby had a few days previously announced his intention of taking the head-clerk into partnership at an early date. Mr Pudster’s return would of course knock this project on the head.

‘Well, Doddard,’ said Mr Maggleby, ‘we can’t mend matters by talking. We can only wait; and perhaps, when we see Mr Pudster, we shall find that’——

But Mr Maggleby’s philosophical remarks were suddenly cut short by the unexpected arrival of Mrs Maggleby upon the scene. She rushed into the private room, stretched forth a letter, and fell sobbing upon her husband’s neck.

Mr Maggleby placed his wife in a chair, opened a cupboard, gave her a glass of wine, took the letter, and read it. Like the others, it was dated from on board the _Camel_, off Plymouth. ‘MY OWN DEAREST WIFE,’ it ran—‘In a few hours from this I shall, I hope, be with you once more, never again to leave you. I ought to have already apprised you of the probable date of my return; but at the last moment before starting, I had no opportunity of writing. How glad I shall be to see you! My long absence has been a great trial to me, and I feel sure that it has also tried you; but it is now almost at an end. I will, if possible, write again from Southampton, and tell you exactly when to expect me. The sea in the Channel is so rough that at present it is difficult to say when we shall get into the river.—Your ever loving husband,

SOLOMON.’

‘It is most painful!’ gasped Mrs Maggleby. ‘What can we do, Gideon? You must manage to meet Solomon at Gravesend. Look in the newspaper, and see whether the _Camel_ has been signalled yet. He must hear first of what has happened either from my lips or from yours; and I am really not well enough to go myself. I thought that he was lying cold in his coffin. Oh, that I should have committed bigamy! I ought to have remained faithful to his memory. This is my punishment. But he must—he shall forgive me.’

Mr Doddard had gone into the outer office, and had sent a clerk for a copy of the _Times_. With this he now returned; and the paper was opened on Mr Maggleby’s table, and eagerly scanned for news of the _Camel_.

‘Here we have it!’ said Mr Doddard at last. ‘“Steamship _Camel_, from Demerara to London, with cargo and passengers, was signalled off Dover at one o’clock this morning.”—Then Mr Pudster will be at Gravesend in an hour or two, sir.’

‘Go, Gideon, go!’ exclaimed Mrs Maggleby. ‘Lose no time. Take a special train if necessary. Tell him all, and implore his forgiveness.’

‘Yes, I think I had better go, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘I will send a clerk home with you, and will telegraph to you as soon as I see your—your late husband. In the meantime, try to be calm. Please tell them to call a cab, Doddard.’

Mr Doddard returned to the outer office, and despatched a messenger for two cabs. Mr Maggleby handed Mrs Maggleby into one of them, and a clerk followed her. Then the unfortunate man went back for a moment to his private room to study Bradshaw on the best and speediest route from London to Gravesend. There was a train at a quarter past eleven. It was then a quarter to eleven.

‘And when will he be at Gravesend?’ asked Mr Maggleby.

Mr Doddard turned again to the _Times_. But instead of at once lighting upon the shipping news, his eye fell upon a paragraph that occupied a not very conspicuous position at the foot of the page. Suddenly he uttered a cry.

‘What’s the matter, Doddard?’ demanded Mr Maggleby, who was rapidly growing impatient.

Mr Doddard replied by bursting into a paroxysm of laughter. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘this is too ridiculous! I never heard of such a thing in my life! It is like a play! Ha, ha, ha!’

‘Your merriment is rather ill-timed,’ cried Mr Maggleby reproachfully. ‘Tell me when Mr Pudster will arrive at Gravesend; and be quick, or I shall lose that train.’

‘A _pump_, too!’ continued the head-clerk hilariously.

‘You’re mad, I think,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, read this, sir,’ answered Mr Doddard, and he handed the _Times_ to his principal and pointed to the paragraph.

Mr Maggleby testily took the paper, adjusted his spectacles, and read:

‘EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY AT PLYMOUTH.—The corporation of Plymouth recently decided to remove an old and disused pump which for many years has stood handleless and dry on the Hoe. Yesterday morning, some workmen proceeded to remove it, and in its interior they were astonished to discover a number of letters, which had, it is supposed, been put into the hole into which the handle formerly fitted, under the delusion that the pump was a post-office pillar letter-box. The letters were at once taken to the Plymouth post-office, and were without delay forwarded to their destinations.’

‘Can it be true?’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby, with a great sigh of relief. ‘Then the fact of the _Camel_ having been signalled last night off Dover is merely a coincidence?’

‘Most certainly,’ said Mr Doddard.

‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Mr Maggleby fervently. ‘Send the cab away, Doddard. But no! I’ll go home again at once, and set my poor wife at ease. Ha, ha! I do remember now, that when poor Mr Pudster came home from his last voyage, he discovered that some letters which he had posted at Plymouth had not been delivered. We didn’t miss them, because, as you recollect, Doddard, he wrote again from Southampton.’

‘Of course he did, sir,’ said Mr Doddard. ‘Well, let us congratulate ourselves. It would have been a fearful business for Mrs Maggleby to have to go through.’

‘And it would have been bad for you, Doddard, for it would have spoilt your chance of a partnership for some time to come. Now, I’m off.’

Mr Maggleby put the _Times_ in his pocket, and departed; and when he reached his home and showed the paper to his wife, the couple sat together for at least half an hour, talking over the extraordinary nature of the adventure.

‘Well, we shall be able to go to Madame Tussaud’s and the theatre after all, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby at luncheon.

And go they did; and what is more, Mr Doddard became a partner a fortnight later, the firm thenceforward being known as Maggleby and Doddard.

THE FORESIGHT OF INSECTS FOR THEIR YOUNG.

In no manner is the mysterious influence of instinct over the insect world more remarkably manifested than by the care taken by parent insects for the future welfare of offspring which they are destined never to behold. As the human parent upon his deathbed makes the best provision he can for the sustenance and prosperity of his infant children, whom death has decreed that he may not in person watch over, so those insects which nature has decreed shall be always the parents of orphan children, led by an unerring influence within, do their best to provide for the wants of the coming generation.

The butterfly, after flitting through her short life, seeks out a spot whereon to deposit her numerous eggs, not—as one might expect of a creature devoid of mind—upon any chance plant, or even upon the plant or flower from which she herself has been wont to draw her sustenance, but upon the particular plant which forms the invariable food of the larvæ of her species. The various kinds of clothes-moths penetrate into our cupboards, drawers, and everywhere where furs, woollen garments, &c., are stored, that they may there lay their eggs, to hatch into the burrowing grubs which are the terror of our housekeepers. The ichneumon tribe, one of nature’s greatest counterpoises to keep down the too rapid increase of the insect world, lay their eggs in the larvæ of other insects, which eggs when hatched develop into a devouring brood, which ungratefully turn upon and devour the helpless creature that sheltered them as a nest. The female ichneumon having discovered a caterpillar or grub which her instinct informs her has not been previously attacked, at once proceeds to thrust her ovipositor into the writhing body of her victim, depositing one or more eggs, according to the size of the living food-supply. When hatched, the larvæ devour and live upon their foster-parent, avoiding in a marvellous way the vital parts of their victim, whose life is most accurately timed to last until its young tormentors are full grown, and not beyond. At one time, we were led to believe in occasional instances of the instinct of female ichneumons being at fault, by observing them apparently ovipositing upon the dry shells of pupæ from which the butterflies had escaped. This, however, we subsequently found to be an erroneous idea, the fact of the matter being, that the caterpillar upon which the parent ichneumon had laid her fatal egg, had had time, before the full development of the young ichneumon grub, to turn to the pupal stage. What, then, we saw was the young ichneumon fly just emerged from the dry pupal case, the contents of which it had first devoured in its own larval stage, then, itself turning to a pupa, it had lain, thus doubly incased, until, having broken forth a perfect fly, it rested upon its late prison, awaiting sufficient strength to come to its wings. What a wooden horse of Troy such a chrysalis would prove, if introduced into the breeding establishment of a collector!

Other members of the ichneumon tribe do not actually insert their eggs into the destined food-supply of their young; but, as it were, going deeper into calculation of future events, content themselves with laying them in close proximity to the eggs of some member of the tribe upon which it is their mission to prey.

There is an old saying—

Big fleas have little fleas
Upon their backs to bite ’em;
Little fleas have smaller fleas,
So on _ad infinitum_;

which is very true, inasmuch as from the great humble-bee down to the tiniest corn-thrips—a mere speck of dust to the naked eye—all insects have their parasites, and generally their own special species of ichneumon, to prevent their over-increase and to preserve the due balance of nature. There is a species of longicorn beetle, found in Pennsylvania, which feeds upon the tender bark of young hickory shoots. When laying-time arrives, the female, having deposited her eggs in cavities perforated in the bark, carefully cuts a groove, about one-tenth of an inch wide and deep, round the shoot just below where her treasures lie. The object, or rather we suppose we ought to say the consequence, of this act is the withering and decay of the shoot, a provision for the sustenance of her young, which, when in their larval state, live upon dead wood! This remarkable insect is called the hickory girder from the above-mentioned habit, which, we think, is one of the most extraordinary instances of foresight, through a mere blind instinct, that have ever come under observation.

The gadfly (_Œustrus equi_), whose larvæ are the bots which inhabit the intestines of the horse, gains for her progeny that comfortable position by entrapping the animal itself into introducing her eggs within its stomach. For this purpose, she lays her eggs upon such portions of the horse’s body as he is in the habit of frequently licking, such as the knees, shoulders, &c. The unerring nature of her instinct is shown by the fact that she never chooses as a nidus any portion of the body which the horse is unable to reach with its tongue. Having thus been introduced into their natural feeding-grounds, the bots there pass their larval existence, until, it becoming time for them to assume the pupal form, they go forth with the animal’s dung to reach the earth, burrow into it, and therein pass the insects’ purgatory.

Again, one of the grain-moths (_Gelechia cerealella_) shows remarkable instinct in adapting itself to circumstances according to the time of year when it has to deposit its eggs. The first generation of these moths, emerging in May from pupæ which have lain in the granaries through the winter, lay their countless eggs upon the as yet ungathered corn, upon which their young play havoc until, having passed through the necessary stages, they come out in the autumn as the second generation amidst the now stored-up grain. Now, however, their instinct prompts them, not, like the first generation, to go forth to the fields to seek the proper nest and future nourishment of their young, but bids them deposit their eggs upon the store of wheat ready at hand. Thus, two following generations of the same insect are led by their instincts to different habits to suit the altered and, in the last case, unnatural position of their infants’ destined food-supply.

The interesting mason-wasp, having with great care and skill bored out a cylindrical hole in some sunny sandbank, deposits at the bottom of this refuge her eggs. Next, provident mother as she is, she seeks out about a dozen small caterpillars, always of the same species, and immures them alive in the pit, as food for her cruel children. In making her selection of grubs to be thus buried alive, she rejects any that may not have reached maturity; not, we imagine, upon the score of their not being so full-flavoured, but because, when not full grown, they require food to keep them alive; whereas, when of mature age, they will live a long time without nourishment, ready to turn to chrysalides when opportunity occurs.

These are but a few of the instances which might be adduced in illustration of this foresight in insects, which compensates for their not being allowed in person to superintend the welfare of their offspring. In many cases, it would be better for human progeny were their parents thus endowed with an unerring instinct, rather than with an uncertain will.

A BREAK-NECK VENTURE.

It is more than thirty years since my medico-military lines were cast in the little picturesque station of Badulla, the capital of Oovah, in the interior of Ceylon. This district was the centre of very considerable European enterprise in coffee-growing, and, both socially and commercially, was an important unit of the Kandian provinces; hence government, in addition to a small garrison of troops, had established in it a staff of its Civil servants, for the administration of fiscal and judicial affairs, and it is concerning one of these officials—the assistant district judge, as he was called—that my story is now to be told.

The judge was a young gentleman of good parts and attractive manners. He was a dead-shot, an excellent angler, a perfect rider, a very Dr Grace or Spofforth of a cricketer, and an intelligent, chatty, pleasant companion to boot. He had also a sure foot and a steady head. He could walk along the verge of a rocky precipice with a sheer descent of hundreds of feet as unconcernedly as many a man trudges over a turnpike road. Chaffingly, we were wont to tell him that he had entirely mistaken his vocation in life, and that instead of being ‘an upright judge,’ trying ‘niggers,’ he ought to have been another Blondin, trundling wheelbarrows on a rope stretched across Adam’s Bridge from Manaar to Ramisseram, and cooking a prawn curry in a stove when in the very middle of the Straits. However, even in the capacity of the aforesaid judge, this proclivity of being able to walk safely upon next to nothing once stood him in good need, as I myself witnessed.

One afternoon he came into my quarters holding in his hand a letter, which the post had just brought him. I ought perhaps to mention that thirty odd years ago there were neither railroads nor electric telegraphs in Ceylon, and that travelling was comparatively slow, and to some extent uncertain. In the case of our station, however, we had little to complain of. The postal authorities at Colombo forwarded our mail-bags to Kandy—the first seventy-two miles of the way—by a daily two-horsed coach; and from that city to their destination, ‘runners’ carried the letters. But these ‘runners’ now and again met with accidents of various sorts, such as being killed by elephants or tigers; and it so happened that something of the sort—I forget what—having occurred to detain my friend’s letter, it was older by more than twenty-four hours than it should have been, when he got it.

‘I must be off sharp to Colombo,’ said he, addressing me as he entered my room. ‘I have had awfully bad news: it is a question of life or death with a very dear friend there. I can’t lose a moment over my departure. But get leave from the Commandant, and keep me company as far as Attempyttia—it is only a dozen miles away—and we will talk over things as we go along.’

‘All right,’ I said; ‘I’m your man.’

In a very few minutes the required permission was obtained; after which my pony was saddled and we were off. After leaving me at the travellers’ bungalow at Attempyttia, my companion would have to proceed to Kandy, to catch the downward coach, leaving at daylight next morning for Colombo. To accomplish this—some eighty odd miles—he would be forced to ride all night, assisted stage by stage with fresh mounts, which the kind-hearted coffee-planters, whether known or unknown to him, would willingly place at his disposal.

‘Let’s see,’ said the judge. ‘I’ve a good fourteen or fifteen hours before me to find that highly respectable rattle-trap of a royal mail-coach drawn up at the post-office at gun-fire to-morrow morning. Fourteen hours, six miles an hour, including stoppages—eighty-four miles! A snail’s pace; but I won’t calculate upon more speed. Bar accidents, I’m safe to do it, and do it I must.’

So on we galloped, little heeding the romantic scenery through which we were hurrying, and the faster too, as the sun was becoming obscured by thick, heavy, black rain-clouds, which were gathering over it and all around.

‘We are in for a drenching,’ I remarked.

‘If a drenching were all,’ was the reply, ‘it would not much matter; but’——

‘Well! But what?’

‘The Badulla Oya, the river which runs through the deep gorge between the spurs of the hills you see yonder—I know that river well. In dry weather, it is little more than a shallow streamlet, over the stones of which an inch or two of water trickles. But when these sudden monsoon downpours come on, it has the unpleasant knack of swelling, swelling, until it becomes a large, wide, deep mountain torrent, tearing like mad to empty itself somewhere. And you have no idea of the rapidity with which this metamorphosis is accomplished. Let’s push on, for the river crosses the highway; and by Jove, here is the rain and no mistake!’

A vivid flash of lightning, a loud clap of thunder right overhead, and before its reverberations were half ended among the echoing mountains, a deluge of rain was upon us. We were soaked to the skin in a few seconds.

‘How far is the river?’ I asked.

‘Good five miles; and five miles with these flood-gates of the skies opened, mean touch and go. Twenty to one, the Badulla Oya will be swollen and impassable.’

‘Is there no canoe or bridge?’

‘Canoe! What on earth, in your Ceylon griffinage, are you dreaming about? As for a bridge, well, metaphorically speaking, there is a thing which the natives call a bridge; but practically, not what you and I and the department of Public Works would class as one. However, it will not be long before you see what sort of a concern the bridge is like.’

We now hastened as fast as the animals we rode could lay hoofs to ground; but before the five miles were traversed and the banks of the river reached, we distinctly heard it roaring.

‘It is down already,’ said my companion.

Down it was with a vengeance, as we presently realised. Over a bed of rocky boulders it foamed and boiled and tumbled, a dark, deep, angry chocolate-coloured torrent, sixty feet wide at least.

Squatting under a large tree on the bank opposite to us, accepting the situation with that stolid indifference for which the Asiatic is so very remarkable, and chewing betel, that panacea for all the ills which Singhalese flesh is heir to, was a Kandian villager, well advanced in years. The judge hailed him in his own language. ‘Hi! father! Did you swim the river?’

‘Am I a fish, think you, my son?’ the man responded.

‘Did you cross it by the bridge, then?’

‘Does the English _mahatmeya_ [gentleman] take me for a Wanderoo monkey, or for a jungle-cat, to walk upon broken twigs high up in the air?’ he answered evasively.

‘How, then, did you manage to get over?’

‘I have not got over at all. I have come from my village on this side, and I wait here until the flood subsides.’

‘How long will that be, think you?’

‘If the rain ceases, the river will be again fordable in three or four hours. If the rain continues—who can tell? Buddha only knows!’

‘Three or four hours!’ muttered my companion despondingly. ‘Too long, much too long for me.’ Then again speaking to the Kandian: ‘Is there any possibility of crossing the bridge?’ he asked.

‘None, none, my master. Alas! it has been shattered for some time past, and has not yet been repaired.’

‘Let’s go,’ said my friend to me, ‘and reconnoitre.’

We dismounted, gave our ponies to the horsekeepers, who had closely followed us, and walked a short distance along the bank. Suspended in the air, resting upon the forked branches of two forest trees, which grew nearly opposite each other on either side of the stream, were the relics of one of those primitive bridges which the Singhalese villagers build to enable them to pass ravines and mountain torrents. Bamboo and the withes of a ground creeper called waywel are the usual materials they employ; but if they can get slabs of timber, they use them as well. This was the case here: the rough-hewn trunk of a tall but slender cocoa-nut palm spanned the river, its ends being firmly fastened to the two trees which served to support it. Originally, a sort of hand-rail of the waywel had been tied to uprights nailed along the stem; and thus hemmed in, the bridge was safe enough to traverse by any one not subject to dizziness on ‘giddy heights;’ but as time and mischief had partly removed this protection, leaving long gaps with nothing to hold on by, a more precarious, break-neck, risky crossing, save for the monkeys, no one could possibly imagine. Picture to yourself this tapering pole strung at a height over a deep rushing whirlpool of a current, and you will comprehend what we saw and what I fairly shuddered at.

Not so, my companion. He sprang up the tree, and stood for a moment or two upon the end of the mutilated bridge. Then he said quite determinedly: ‘I’ve made up my mind; I’m going over.’

‘Are you mad?’ I exclaimed; ‘going over that narrow, frail, up-in-the-clouds thing? Why, it’s certain death if you fall.’

‘Even so, old man; but I have walked with sure steps narrower planks than this.’

‘Perhaps so; but not with a torrent rolling under you.—Don’t attempt it!’ I exclaimed; ‘wait until the waters go down.’

‘Wait! for four hours or more. Impossible! As I told you when we started, my errand is a vital one. I must be in Colombo on Sunday at the latest; and as to-day is Friday, to do that I must hit off to-morrow’s coach in Kandy. Well, you and the other fellows have often joked me about my Blondin-like propensities; I am going to try now how nearly I can tread upon the heels of that worthy acrobat. Never fear; I will get across safely enough. It is a pity, however, that the nigger architects have not been a little more liberal in their breadth of timber; but your Singhalese native is invariably a skinflint.’

Again I attempted to combat the foolhardiness of my friend; but he threw me off, said half jocosely, half in earnest:

‘I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die;’

and with the words in his mouth, began the crossing.

I am not, generally speaking, a nervous man, and I have had to witness some trying things in my time; but now I confess that fear and trembling came over me, and that I could not look upon my friend in his perilous transit. I half crouched and cowered behind a tree, my heart in my mouth, and every nerve strung to its utmost degree of tension. I expected every instant to hear a shriek, a splash, and then to see my friend buffeting with and carried away by the boiling torrent. Now and again, the voices of the old Singhalese and the Malabar horsekeepers, who had crept up to the neighbourhood of the bridge, broke upon my ears, first as if in tones of entreaty and warning, then in those of astonishment, and lastly in shouts of admiration and joy. At the jubilant sounds I roused myself, looked up, and hurrahed, too, at the very top of my voice, for on the opposite bank the adventurous judge stood safe and sound!

A weight such as I had never borne before was removed from my breast. ‘Thank goodness you’re all right!’ I called out.

‘Yes, as a trivet,’ he replied.—‘Now, screw _your_ courage to the sticking-place and run over.’

‘Am I a jungle-cat, or a Wanderoo monkey, or even a district judge in the Ceylon Civil Service, to walk upon a hair? No; my good sir. If I took two steps upon that infinitesimally narrow palm’s trunk, my doctoring occupation would be gone.—Thank you; no! I’ll return to Badulla, and resume my physicking there.’

‘Good-bye, then. I’ll write to you from Kandy, if I can.’

He was gone. And it will no doubt satisfy the reader’s curiosity to learn that, thanks to the mounts provided by friendly coffee-planters, he caught the coach, went on to Colombo, and found the person for whom he had risked his life out of danger and in a fair way of recovery.

CURIOUS ANTIPATHIES IN ANIMALS.

DOGS.

All sincere lovers of the animal creation are pleased to listen to the recitation of anecdotes illustrating the love and affection of animals for their lord and master, man. Many of these stories are deeply interesting, as showing the wondrous intelligence and reasoning powers so often exhibited; and others are deeply affecting, as proving an amount of genuine, unasked, unselfish love, that we fear is not always too abundant amongst educated bipeds. It is not unlikely that numbers of such acts are never heard of; as many men—well-meaning enough in other ways—are in the habit of looking on the dog or the cat as a mere animal and nothing more; and therefore, whatever it might do, or whatever sagacity it might display, the creature would be treated with indifference and passed by without notice. Byron, who loved animals as well as most folks, was quite aware of this, when he wrote, with so much truth:

But the poor dog—in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend—
Unhonoured falls—unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.

Strongly deprecating this indifference, it has always been the writer’s delight to record every well-authenticated instance of remarkable sagacity in animals, in whatever way they have been brought under his notice. The cases referred to have come under the immediate notice either of the writer, or of friends on whose word he can rely.

Some years ago, a lady, who was a friend of our family, possessed a beautiful black-and-tan ‘King Charles’ called Prinney. A most engaging and affectionate creature, he never showed the smallest symptom of temper, or anything disagreeable save in one thing, and that was, a fixed aversion to a particular melody. Music generally, either vocal or instrumental, he never took the smallest notice of, or exhibited the slightest dislike to; but if any one played, sang, whistled, or even hummed the well-known and popular duet from the opera of _Norma_ known by the name of ‘Si, fin’ al ora,’ no matter where he was or what he was doing, he would start up and commence the most dismal howling, with his nose elevated in the air. If the music did not cease on this melancholy and earnest appeal, he would make frantic efforts to get out of the room, rearing on his hind-legs, scratching violently at the door, and continuing his howling until some one opened the door and let him out. We took great pains to investigate this curious antipathy, but could never arrive at anything like a satisfactory conclusion. As before stated, the dog never objected to music generally, as many dogs have been known to do, nor even to single airs closely resembling the _Norma_ melody; but so soon as we commenced that one—even though we purposely jumbled it up with some other—he would instantly detect it, and take his part of the ‘howling obligato’ with an energy and determination which nothing could stop.

It had been suggested that the dog had on some particular occasion been severely beaten, or ill-treated, when this melody was either played or sung, and thus it was painfully impressed on the dog’s mind and memory. But this could not have been the case, for my friend had received him as a puppy, and certainly never ill-treated him, or even whipped him. What, therefore, could have been the peculiar connection in the dog’s mind between this one particular melody, and some fear of ill-usage or pain—for nothing but such a recollection could have caused his piteous howling, which always indicated intense fear or dread—is a mystery, and one which it seems impossible to solve, or even explain on any reasonable grounds.

The following anecdote somewhat resembles the last, inasmuch as the peculiar antipathy shown is also in connection with music, although not to any particular melody, as in Prinney’s case. A little white terrier belonging to my grandfather had a peculiar antipathy to the pianoforte, for as soon as any one began to play, Rose would walk into the middle of the room, and then, quietly seating herself, facing the instrument, elevate her nose, and commence a long series of howlings, but without any display of anger or temper, or any attempt to run away. It might have been her own original way of expressing applause, or approbation of pianoforte-playing in general, for it should be specially noted that no other music, vocal or instrumental, ever affected the dog. Musical friends, one with his flute, another with his fiddle, often came in, but Rose never took notice of either of these until the pianoforte began; then at once began her demonstration. Now, what could have caused this curious antipathy—if it was an actual antipathy—to the sound of one particular musical instrument? The dog was born and bred at a farmhouse in Surrey, and farmhouses in those primitive days never possessed such an unheard-of luxury as a pianoforte; and therefore, until she came into my grandfather’s keeping—and she came direct from Surrey—she could never have heard the sound of such an instrument. How, then, are we to explain her singular procedure? I fear it is only another ‘dog mystery,’ and must ever remain so.

A third, and certainly most remarkable, case of musical antipathy is all the more singular because it was not exhibited towards any special melody or instrument, but towards one particular person only—a lady. The dog—a beautiful and very amiable Clumber spaniel—belonged to an uncle of ours who always brought Wag with him whenever he paid us a visit, for the dog was a universal favourite; but, unluckily, he had always to be put out of the room when one of the ladies of our family was going to sing, because he seemed to have a violent antipathy, not to music or singing generally, but only to the voice of this lady; and, what is perhaps still more odd, he always seemed, personally, to be very fond of her; but the moment she began to sing, he would start up and commence whining, growling, and at last barking, gradually increasing in force, until he got to a grand _fortissimo_. He would run up in front of the lady, and get so angry, that any one would have supposed he was going to fly at her. But this he never attempted, and as the Scotch say, ‘His bark was waur than his bite.’ This lady possessed a brilliant soprano voice; and it has been suggested that the clear, ringing, penetrating tones must have produced a peculiar vibration or sensation, perhaps causing sharp pain, in the dog’s ears, which might have occasioned his extraordinary action, for it must be remembered that this lady’s voice, and hers alone, produced the effect described.

The next case of unreasoning antipathy was that of a very handsome half-bred bull-terrier, called Charley. He belonged to a friend of ours, the vicar of a beautiful parish in Kent, and was an affectionate, good-tempered dog, never known to bite, snarl, growl, or do anything disagreeable to his friends. He would romp and play with the children on the vicarage lawn by the hour together, and never lose his temper, though often sorely tried by the thoughtless teasing of his little playmates. Yet he, too, had his peculiarity, which was, that if any one—master, friend, or stranger—approached him rubbing the palms of his hands slowly together, and at the same time repeating his name very deliberately, ‘Char-ley, Char-ley,’ the dog would instantly get into a state of wild fury. He would bark violently, until the bark ended in that peculiar sort of scream often noticed in small dogs when greatly excited or angered. He would make a rush at the offending person, and then suddenly retreat backwards, throwing out his fore-paws with sudden jerks at each bark; and although the person might cease the action, yet it would be some time before Charley recovered his usual equanimity, going about the room uttering little short barks, and a sort of odd sound between the end of a growl and the beginning of a whine!

When this curious antipathy was first noticed, it so much surprised and interested the vicar—who was a devoted lover of animals—that he took a great amount of trouble to try to find out what could have been the original cause. He thought the dog might have been taught this merely as a clever trick; but he could never procure any evidence to show that such had been the case on the part of any one in the vicarage or village. What could have caused these extraordinary bursts of passion and anger at so simple an act as merely rubbing the palms of the hands together? There was nothing in the act itself calculated to irritate or frighten any animal, and therefore the greater the mystery at the strange effect produced. As the vicar could discover nothing through his investigations, he had to ‘accept the inevitable,’ and come to the conclusion that it was unaccountable.

CURIOUS NEWSPAPERS.

That great engine that never sleeps, as Thackeray once described the press, not unfrequently displays its energy and enterprise in the performance of feats both novel and interesting. All are more or less familiar with the daring and intrepidity of its ‘specials,’ who in their eagerness to supply those at home with full and graphic descriptions of stirring scenes, expose themselves to the risk of being shot; while the public spirit and enterprise of the different journals are shown by the lavish way in which they spend their money in the laying of special cables or in the hiring of special steamers or trains. These are matters of every-day occurrence, on which plenty has been, and will continue to be written; but at the present moment we wish to confine the attention of our readers to the history of a few novel and curious broadsheets which have appeared at different times.

In 1828 a paper was published called the _Cherokee Phœnix_, which is interesting on more accounts than one. It was published in English and Cherokee, the latter portion being printed with characters invented after years of patient labour and thought by one of the Indians, whose curiosity had been excited by the ‘speaking leaf,’ as he called a newspaper which he one day heard a white man read with surprising readiness and facility. After producing his alphabet, he taught it to the other members of his tribe, and eventually, with the assistance of government, was enabled to start the _Phœnix_. Very similar was the _Sandwich Islands Gazette_, first started in 1835, and boasting of wood-cuts, for which the publisher received a license from the king, worded as follows: ‘_To STEPHEN D. MACKINTOSH._—I assent to the letter which you have sent me. It affords me pleasure to see the works of other lands and things that are new. If I was there, I should very much like to see. I have said to Kivan, “Make printing-presses.” My thought is ended.—Love to you and Reynolds.—_By KING KAINKEAGUOLI._’ This paper was of eight octavo pages, and was published in English. The present ruler of the Sandwich Islands shares the liberal views expressed in the above letter of his predecessor. Since that time, the practice of publishing papers in the native tongues has spread rapidly; and in India alone at the present moment no fewer than three hundred and thirty newspapers, with a total circulation of more than one hundred and ten thousand, are printed in the languages spoken in the different provinces.

A most curious paper is the official Chinese paper, called _King-Pan_, which claims to have been started as early as 911, and to have appeared at irregular intervals till 1351, when it came out regularly every week. At the commencement of the present century, it became a ‘daily,’ at the price of two _kehs_—about a halfpenny. By a decree of the emperor, a short time back, it was ordered that three editions were to be printed every day—the first or morning edition, on yellow paper, is devoted to commercial intelligence; the second or afternoon edition contains official and general news; and the third, on red paper, is a summary of the two earlier editions, with the addition of political and social articles. The editorial duties are performed by six members of the Scientific Academy, who are appointed by government. The circulation is about fourteen thousand daily.

On board the _Hecla_, one of the ships belonging to Captain Edward Parry’s expedition in search of the north-west passage, a paper was printed called the _North Georgia Gazette and Winter Chronicle_. The first number was dated the 1st November 1819, and its twenty-first and last the 20th March 1820. The _Great Britain_ steamer, which started for Australia on the 21st of August 1852, may claim to have inaugurated the practice of publishing a newspaper on board ship, as a paper, entitled the _Great Britain Times_, was published every week during the voyage, and distributed amongst the passengers. At the present time, these sea-born broadsheets are a source of considerable amusement, and go a long way to relieve the monotony of the passage, as the passengers not only read but supply the articles. Burlesque telegrams, jokes made by the passengers, and all the news, whether social, nautical, or personal, of the voyage, are published in their columns. One well-known American journal has even purchased a steamer and fitted it up as a regular floating newspaper office. The editors, sub-editors, and journalists all live on board; and by this means, news which has been picked up during the voyage can be set up without loss of time; whilst the details of any incident can be fully authenticated by the steamer calling at the scene of action. This steamer plies between Memphis and New Orleans, distributing the papers on its journeys, and collecting every item of news current along the banks of the Mississippi.

Before the 67th Regiment left England for British Burmah, the officers spent a sum of money in purchasing a printing-press and types, with which they published a paper called _Our Chronicle_, soon after they landed at Rangoon. The editorial staff and compositors were all connected with the regiment, and the journal was regarded as a phenomenon in the annals of the press. Another military journal deserving mention is, or was, the _Cuartal Real_, the official organ of the Carlists, published during the war on the almost inaccessible summit of the Pena de la Plata.

Though America is the land of big things, in newspaper matters it can boast of possessing the smallest paper in the world. This diminutive journal is the _Madoc Star_, which very properly has for its motto, ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star.’ It is published weekly. Its dimensions are three inches and a half by three inches; and it consists of four pages, the first being devoted to foreign news, the second to mining notes, the last two to local news. If we may believe the Paris _Rappel_, America has recently issued two startling novelties combining utility with entertainment. The first is a newspaper printed on cotton cloth, and is called the _Pocket-handkerchief_, which at once explains the purpose to which it is to be put when intellectual demands have been satisfied. The other is called the _Necktie_, being printed with gold letters upon silk, and is said to be highly ornamental and of great elegance. This is practical literature with a vengeance.

THE DAWN OF PEACE.

Sweet dawn of peace, how lovely is thy breaking!
With summer blossoms round thy smiling brow,
From troubled dreams of dead and dying, waking,
Gladly we hasten forth to greet thee now.
Heaven’s brightest gems are gleaming in thy tresses;
Thy voice of melody bids discord cease;
And ’neath the magic of thy fond caresses,
All earth grows beautiful, fair dawn of peace.

Earth’s feathered minstrels plume their wings with gladness,
And hail thy coming with a burst of song;
While weary Age, bowed down with care and sadness,
Passes contented through life’s busy throng.
What though the summer of our lives be over,
Our steps may falter, but our hearts rejoice,
When, o’er fair fields of fragrant crimson clover,
Steals the dear music of thy heavenly voice.

The nation kneels in humble adoration,
For angels follow in thy glittering train,
Singing sweet hymns of praise; while all creation
Mingles its voice in the triumphant strain.
No bloodstains mar thy robe of snowy whiteness,
Though thou hast paused o’er many a gory bed,
Shedding a halo of celestial brightness
Round the still forms of the unburied dead.

To the lone mother by her childless ingle,
Bright as a star thy radiant face appears;
And golden hopes, like morning sunbeams, mingle
With the pure fountain of her joyous tears.
Fades the dark memory of long nights of sorrow;
Her worn cheek glows; her heart’s wild doubtings cease.
To Love and Home, her boy shall come to-morrow,
Borne in thy pitying arms, blest dawn of peace.

Delighted childhood flings white chains of daisies,
As Youth’s best offering, at thy gracious feet;
The dome of heaven seems echoing forth thy praises;
Where muffled drums made mourning, glad hearts beat;
And while the merry lark is proudly soaring
In joyous rapture from the emerald sod,
Pæans of praise our grateful souls are pouring,
For thou art welcome as a smile from God!

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._