Colonial memories

By Lady Barker

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Title: Colonial memories

Author: Lady Barker

Release date: April 7, 2025 [eBook #75806]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Smith, Elder, & Co, 1904

Credits: MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


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[Illustration: _Sir Frederick and Lady Broome with Monsieur Puppy_]




COLONIAL MEMORIES




 COLONIAL
 MEMORIES

 BY
 LADY BROOME

 LONDON
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO.
 15 WATERLOO PLACE
 1904

 [All rights reserved]




 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
 At the Ballantyne Press




NOTE


My cordial thanks are due—and given—to the Editor of the _Cornhill
Magazine_, within whose pages some of these “Memories” have from time
to time appeared, for permission to republish them in this form. Also
to the Editor of the _Boudoir_, where my “Girls—Old and New” made their
_début_ last season.

      M. A. B.

 _October 1904_




CONTENTS


                                                PAGE

         A Personal Story                         ix

      I. Old New Zealand                           1

     II. Old New Zealand—_Continued_              21

    III. Old New Zealand—_Continued_              33

     IV. A Modern New Zealand                     40

      V. Natal Memories                           55

     VI. “Stella Clavisque Maris Indici”          80

    VII. General Charles Gordon                  103

   VIII. Western Australia                       110

     IX. Western Australia—_Continued_           127

      X. The Enrolled Guard                      144

     XI. Trinidad                                149

    XII. Trinidad—_Continued_                    169

   XIII. Rodrigues                               184

    XIV. Colonial Servants                       203

     XV. Interviews                              224

    XVI. A Cooking Memory                        240

   XVII. Bird Notes                              255

  XVIII. Humours of Bird Life                    275

    XIX. Girls—Old and New                       293




A PERSONAL STORY


Almost the first thing I can remember is listening with fascinated
interest to an old gipsy woman, who insisted on telling my fortune one
summer afternoon on Cannock Chase long, long ago. I was very reluctant
to undergo what seemed to me a terrible ordeal, but I was encouraged
to do so by my nurse, to whom she had just promised “a knight riding
over a plain.” However, my Sibyl only touched on two points. First,
she looked at my little hand and said: “I see a stream of gold flowing
through your palm. Sometimes it runs full and free, sometimes scant and
slow, but it is _never_ quite dry.” Then she doubled up my childish
fingers and went on, “But this hand cannot close on money: you’ll never
be rich”—an utterance which has come exactly and literally true, and
the remembrance of which has often been a comfort to me in hard times.
Then she insisted on looking at the sole of my foot, and pronounced
that it would “wander up and down the earth; north and south, east
and west, to countries not yet discovered.” She concluded by crying
dramatically: “Earth holds no home for you, earth holds no grave;
you’ll be drowned.” Now, as I must have made something like forty ocean
voyages in the course of my life, I may be said to have spent it in
tempting my Fate. However that may be, the old woman’s prophecy was
written down at the time, and, so far as the wandering part of it goes,
no one who reads these pages can question its truth.

Born in Jamaica, where my father was the last “Island Secretary,”—a
Patent Office, held in conjunction with the late Mr. Charles Greville
of Memoir fame, and long since divided into four parts—I began to
wander to and from England before I was two years old, and had crossed
the Atlantic five times by 1852 when I married Captain (afterwards Sir
George) Barker, K.C.B. I lived in England for the next eight years,
whilst he served all through the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny. I
joined him at the first possible moment after the Mutiny, and arrived
in India at the close of 1860. He was then commanding the Royal
Artillery in Bengal, with the rank of Brigadier-General, a position
held at this moment by our eldest son.

The tragic events of that terrible time were fresh in our minds,
the struggle having just closed; and as I was brought in contact
immediately with many of the principal actors, I naturally wished
to hear details of the thrilling scenes through which they had
just passed, but I found that no one wanted to talk about them. We
started directly after I arrived in Calcutta on a sort of Military
Promenade with the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Hugh Rose (afterwards Lord
Strathnairn), and joined his camp at Lucknow. We stayed with friends
there whilst our tents, &c., were being procured, and I remember that
the walls of my vast bedroom were riddled with shot! There I also met
ladies who had behaved in the most heroic and splendid way all through
the siege; but I found to my amazement that they wanted to hear any
little English chit-chat I might have to tell, instead of saying
one word about those historic days or their share in them. If this
reticence had arisen from any dread of re-awakening sleeping memories,
I could have understood and respected it, but it really seemed to me at
the time as if they had positively forgotten all they had just passed
through, or did not deem it of sufficient interest to talk about,
wanting only to hear what was going on “at home.” It must be remembered
how far away England was in those days—forty odd years ago. Few
newspapers, no telegraph, hardly an illustrated paper even—so it was
perhaps no wonder that they were all suffering from what Aytoun calls—

    “The deep, unutterable woe
    Which none save exiles feel,”

and always wanted to talk of the dear distant land of their birth.

My own stay in India hardly lasted eight months, but I saw a great deal
of the country in our four months marching through it. The camp broke
up in March at the foot of the Himalayas just as the hot winds were
beginning to make tent-life disagreeable. We then went up to Simla, and
“Peterhof”—afterwards greatly enlarged and made into the Vice-regal
residence—was taken as the headquarters of the R.A. staff.

In that beautiful spot the first great sorrow of my life came to me. I
lost my kind, good husband there; and returned to England after less
than a year’s absence.

For the next four years I lived quietly with my two little sons among
my own people, but in 1865 I met Mr. Napier Broome, a young and very
good-looking New Zealand sheep farmer, who persuaded me to change the
whole course of my life and go back to New Zealand with him! Certainly
the influence of that old gipsy woman must have been very strong just
then; and I often wonder how I could have had the courage to take
such a step, for it entailed leaving my boys behind as well as all my
friends and most of the comforts and conveniences of life. But at the
time it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do, and we sailed
merrily away directly after our marriage in the summer of that year.

I tell elsewhere,[1] as well as in the following pages, the story of
the three supremely happy years which followed this wild and really
almost wicked step on our parts. The life was full of charm and
novelty, though so venturesome; but at first it seemed as if love was
not to be allowed to “be lord of all,” for a crisis in the affairs of
the Colony came just after the great snowstorm, and from one cause and
another the value of real estate as well as of wool sank terribly. It
was, therefore, with sadly diminished means we returned to England
early in 1869, to be met by a chorus of “we told you so” from all our
friends! However, we felt full of hope and courage, and set about at
once seeking for some other means of livelihood.

My husband had always been very fond of literature, and had tried his
hand more or less successfully at poetry. Still it was with great
diffidence that he walked into Messrs. Macmillan’s office one fine June
morning in 1869 and asked to see the editor of _Macmillan’s Magazine_.
Mr. (afterwards Sir George) Grove received him at once and was both
kind and encouraging, promising to look at a little poem called “Sunset
off the Azores.” This interview, which resulted in the immediate
acceptance of the verses, three of which are given below,[2] led to a
life-long friendship, not only with dear Mr. Grove, whom to know was to
love, but also with Mr. Alexander Macmillan, who was always kindness
itself to both of us, and was responsible for putting the idea of
writing into my head. At his suggestion I inflicted “Station Life in
New Zealand,” as well as several story-books for children, on a patient
and long-suffering public.

Almost at the same time an introduction to Mr. Delane of the _Times_
led to Mr. Napier Broome’s being taken on the staff of that paper as
special correspondent and reviewer, in fact, a sort of general utility
man. How well I remember the anxiety and care with which my husband
wrote his first review, and the pride and joy with which he showed me
a charming little note from Mr. Delane, in which, referring to a hope
on Mr. Broome’s part of getting a clerkship in the House of Commons,
he said: “Do not take any definite post at present, for you have an
estate in your inkstand.” And indeed so it proved, for work flowed in
only too fast. As _Times_ Special Correspondent he had many interesting
experiences, amongst them being a visit to Petersburg to describe the
late Duke of Edinburgh’s marriage.

Perhaps the episode which stands out most clearly before me is a
certain _tour-de-force_, as Mr. Delane himself called it, springing
out of the Commune riots at the close of the siege of Paris. We had
been paying a visit in Staffordshire in the early autumn of that tragic
year, and reached home one Saturday evening just in time for dinner,
and to find the well-known _Times_ messenger seated in the hall with
three or four large blue bags around him. He handed my husband a
note from Mr. Delane, explaining that these bags contained a heap of
miscellaneous printed matter taken from the “Cabinet Noir” at the sack
of the Tuilleries, and requiring a series of articles to be made out of
them.

Well, it was already late, and the papers had to be sorted, translated,
and the first article written by Monday morning. So we set to work
directly after dinner. It took all that night merely to sort the
papers and reduce them to an orderly sequence. Much of the material
before us had to be rejected as being either uninteresting or of a
private and personal nature below the dignity of the _Times_ to notice.
The whole of the next day—with only pauses for our meals and hasty
toilets—was devoted to arranging the papers into separate parts for
three consecutive articles of three columns each which Mr. Delane
had asked for. Then came the work of translation, which I undertook,
supplying my husband with hastily scribbled sheets from which he wrote
his article. The printer’s boy appeared about midnight and dozed in the
hall, occasionally tapping at the door for the large envelope full of
MSS. which he sent off by cab. All Monday and Monday night as well as
all Tuesday did the work go on. It was too interesting and exciting to
think of sleep, and it was something like two o’clock on Tuesday night,
or rather Wednesday morning, when, the third and last article being
finished, my husband took it himself down to Printing House Square
for the sake of the drive, and I crawled up to bed! It was literally
crawling, for I remember I sat down on the stairs and had a good cry,
which I found most refreshing and comforting.

I too was asked to write many of the _Times_ reviews of novels, and as
I was invited the next year to be the first Lady Superintendent of the
National School of Cookery, and I became also the Editor of a Magazine,
we both had plenty of agreeable and congenial work, as well as the
satisfaction of earning between us a comfortable income.

This busy but very pleasant London life went smoothly on until 1875,
when the gipsy took us once more in hand I suppose, for, quite
unexpectedly, my husband received an offer from the then Secretary of
State for the Colonies, the late Lord Carnarvon, to go out with Sir
Garnet Wolseley[3] to Natal as his Colonial Secretary. It required a
good deal of courage to again suddenly and violently alter our mode of
life, especially as only a few hours could be allowed for decision,
but both Mr. Delane and the late Duke of Somerset[4] strongly advised
my husband to accept the offer. The Duke had been the Chairman of the
Royal Commission on Unseaworthy Ships, of which my husband was the
Secretary, and ever since they had been thus brought into contact the
Duke had honoured the clever young _Times_ writer with a steady and
delightful friendship, and had always shown the keenest interest in his
career.

So once more our pretty and pleasant home in Thurloe Square was broken
up, and my husband started before the week was out for Natal, with Sir
Garnet Wolseley and his brilliant staff. I could not break off the
threads of my own work so rapidly as all that, and I did not go out
to Natal until six months later. My stay there only lasted a little
over a year, and I brought my two small boys back again early in 1877,
settled them in England, and then joined my husband in Mauritius,
where he was Lieutenant-Governor, in 1880. My own happiness as well as
usefulness there was sadly marred by ill-health, which finally drove me
home in 1881, and I had to remain in England until Mr. Napier Broome
was appointed Governor of Western Australia in 1882. By that time I
had recovered sufficiently to go round by Mauritius in one of the fine
boats of the Messageries Maritimes, which then ran between Marseilles
and Australia, and pick him up and go on to South Australia, from
whence we had to retrace our steps across the Great Australian Bight
to King George Sound. That was in the first days of June 1883. The
next year he was made a K.C.M.G., and came to England in 1885, when he
gave a lecture at the Royal Colonial Institute on “Western Australia,”
at which H.R.H. the Prince of Wales graciously took, for the first
time in the history of the Institute, the chair. It is impossible to
estimate the good effect that lecture had in attracting attention to
the Cinderella of the Australian colonies, or the deep gratification
of the colonists themselves at His Royal Highness’ kindly interest. It
was quite the first step on Western Australia’s road to progress and
prosperity, and I do not believe that at least this generation will
ever cease to be grateful to their Sovereign for helping them by his
presence and patronage when they were indeed “poor and of no account.”

In 1890 we left Western Australia amid heart-breaking farewells, in
order to enable the Governor to see the Bill for giving Responsible
Government to the Colony (which had been thrown out the Session before)
through the House of Commons. That proved a most interesting and
exciting summer, necessitating Sir Frederick’s constant attendance
before the Select Committee. But his efforts, aided by those of two
other delegates,[5] were successful, and the Bill was triumphantly
carried through to the great advantage of the Colony.

I have often thought since, that those seven years were perhaps the
happiest part of my very happy life. The climate, except when a hot
wind was blowing in summer, was delightful, the Government House, an
excellent and comfortable one, stood in beautiful gardens, and the
life was simple and primitive, for no one was rich in those days, and
the society was small and friendly. Sir Frederick worked hard for
the development of the vast Colony, which held a million square but
sandy miles within its borders, finding his task congenial as well as
deeply interesting. I worked too in various little ways, and amongst
other plans I collected all the girls in Perth on Monday afternoons
and read aloud to them for a couple of hours whilst they worked. We
began with Green’s “Short History of the English People,” and went on
to Justin M‘Carthy’s “History of our own Times,” and then Motley’s
“Dutch Republic,” and “Thirty Years’ War.” It was only an experiment at
first, but it succeeded splendidly, thanks to the thirst for knowledge
which all these pretty and charming girls displayed. No weather ever
prevented their coming, and it would have been hard to decide who
enjoyed those afternoons most, the reader or her very attentive and
intelligent audience.

I can answer for myself that it was a terrible wrench to leave that
dear home to which we had both become so truly attached; however,
the gipsy’s weird utterances had to be carried out, and a fresh home
was soon started in Trinidad, to which part of the “Bow of Ulysses”
my husband was appointed Governor in 1891. There the life was, of
course, very different, and so was the climate and the surroundings.
Still the interesting work went on, but there had to be a brief visit
to England—often only lasting three weeks—every year. Unlike most
other Governments there was no rest or change of air possible in the
Colony itself, so the English visit became a necessity for health
besides affording an opportunity for settling many questions of local
importance.

Our time there was drawing to a close in 1896, and already a movement
was on foot (as had been the case in Western Australia) to petition the
Secretary of State for an extension of Sir Frederick’s term of office,
when, like a bolt out of the blue, came an illness full of suffering
which speedily put an end to a career of great promise, and to his life
three months later.

Since 1896 I have therefore ceased wandering up and down the face of
the globe, and, except for short trips abroad and a long and delightful
visit to America last summer, I may be said to have settled down to a
less roving life; but I feel the gipsy prophecy still holds good, and
that no doubt my present little home will one day change its ground.

As it is, I often wonder which is the dream—the shifting scenes of
former days, so full of interest as well as of everything which
could make life dear and precious, or these monotonous years when
I feel like a shipwrecked swimmer, cast up by a wave, out of reach
of immediate peril it is true, but far removed from all except the
commonplace of existence. Still it is much to have known the best and
highest of earthly happiness; to have “loved and been beloved,” and to
have found faithful friends who stood fast even in the darkest days.
Among these friends I would fain believe there are some unknown ones,
who have perhaps read my little books in their childhood, and to whom I
venture to address these lines explaining as it were my personal story,
with an entreaty for forgiveness if I have made it _too_ personal.




COLONIAL MEMORIES




I

OLD NEW ZEALAND


It has so chanced that quite lately I have heard a good deal of this
beautiful and flourishing portion of our “Britain-over-sea,” and these
reports have stirred the old memories of days gone by when it was
almost a _terra incognita_—as indeed were many of our splendid Colonial
possessions—to the home-dweller. But the home-dweller proper hardly
exists in this twentieth century, and the globe-trotter has taken his
place. Even the latter sobriquet was unknown in my day, and I was
regarded as quite going into exile when, some eight-and-thirty years
ago, I sailed with my husband for his sheep-station on the Canterbury
Plains. As far as I was concerned, the life there afforded the sharpest
of all sharp contrasts, but it was none the less happy and delightful
for that.

The direct line of passenger-ships only took us as far as Melbourne,
and then came a dismal ten or twelve days in a wretched little
steamer, struggling along a stormy coast before the flourishing Port
Lyttelton of the present day (a shabby village in 1865) was reached.
Yet the great tunnel through the Port Hills was well on its way even
then, and the railway to connect the port and the young town of
Christchurch was confidently talked of. Even in those early days, the
new-comer was struck by the familiar air of everything; and, so far
as my own experience goes, New Zealand is certainly the most English
colony I have seen. It never seems to have attracted the heterogeneous
races of which the population of other colonies is so largely composed.
For example, in Mauritius the Chinese and Arab element is almost
as numerous as the French and English. In Trinidad there are large
colonies of Spanish and German settlers, without counting in both these
islands the enormous Indian population which we have brought there to
cultivate the sugar-cane; and in all the principal towns of Australia
the “foreigner” thrives and flourishes. But New Zealand has always been
beautifully and distinctly English, and the grand Imperial idea has
there fallen on congenial soil and taken deep root.

Even in the days I speak of, Christchurch, though an infant town,
looked pretty on account of its picturesque situation on the banks
of the Avon. The surrounding country was a sort of rolling prairie,
ideally suitable for sheep, with the magnificent Southern Alps for
a background. And what a climate, and what a sky, and what an air!
The only fault I had to find with the atmospheric conditions was
the hot wind. But hot winds were new to me in those days, and I
rebelled against them accordingly. Now I begin to think hot winds blow
everywhere out of England. In South Africa, in Mauritius, in all parts
of Australia, one suffers from them, to say nothing of India, where
they are on the largest possible scale.

The first six months of my New Zealand life was spent in Christchurch,
waiting for the little wooden house to be cut out and sent up country
to our sheep-station in the Malvern Hills. How absurdly primitive
it all was, and yet how one delighted in it! I well remember the
“happy thought”—when the question arose of the size of drawing and
dining-rooms—of spreading our carpets out on the grass and planning the
house round them. And the joy of settling in, when the various portions
of the little dwelling had been conveyed some seventy-five miles inland
to our happy valley and fitted together. The doors and window-frames
had all come from America ready-made, but the rest of the house was cut
out of the kauri pine from the forests in the North Island.

The first thing I had to learn was that New Zealand meant really
_three_ islands—two big ones and a little one. Everybody knows about
the North and the Middle Islands, which are the big ones, but the
little Stewart Island often confused me by sometimes being called
the South Island, which it really is. A number of groups of small
islets have been added to the colony since then, such as the Cook and
Kermadec Islands, but I do not fancy they are inhabited. The colony was
really not a quarter of a century old when I knew it, as it had been a
dependency of New South Wales up to 1842, and it owes its separation
and rapid development to the New Zealand Company, which started with
a Royal charter. The Canterbury Association sent out four ships which
took four months to reach Port Cooper in the Middle Island (now the
flourishing seaport of Lyttelton), only sixteen years before I landed
there.

The cathedral had not risen above its foundations in 1865, but I was
struck with the well-paved streets, good “side-walks,” gas-lamps,
drinking-fountains, and even red pillar-boxes exactly like the one
round the corner to-day. And it seemed all the more marvellous to me,
who had just gone through the lengthy and costly experience of dragging
my own little possessions across those stormy seas round the Cape of
Good Hope, to think of all these aids to civilisation having come by
the same route. Now I am assured you can get anything and everything
you might possibly want, on the spot, but in those days one eagerly
watched a _déménagement_ as a good opportunity for furnishing.

We had brought all our goods and chattels out with us, and the wooden
house was soon turned into a very pretty comfortable little homestead.
The great trouble was getting the garden started. The soil was
magnificent, and everything in that Malvern Valley grew splendidly if
the north-west winds would only allow it. Hedges of cytisus were always
planted a month or so before sowing the dwarf green peas, in order that
they might have some shelter, and this plan answered very well. I could
not, however, start a hedge of cytisus all round my little lawn, and
the consequence was that the blades of grass on that spot could easily
be counted, and that I discovered a luxuriant patch of “English grass”
about a mile down the flat, where a little dip in the ground had made
a shelter for the flying seed. And the melancholy part of the story
was that English grass-seed cost a guinea a pound! I was quite able
to appreciate, three years later, the ecstasy of delight of a little
New Zealand girl, who, beholding the Isle of Wight for the first time,
exclaimed to me: “How rich they must be! Why, it’s all laid down in
English grass!”

Other flower-seeds, of course, shared the same fate, and it was indeed
gardening under difficulties. But in the vegetable-garden consolation
could be found in the potatoes, strawberries, and green peas, which
were huge in size and abundant in quantity.

Indoors all soon looked bright and cheery; and besides the books we
brought out, I started a magazine and book club in connection with a
London library, which answered very well, and gave great delight to our
neighbours, chiefly shepherds. These men were often of Scotch or north
of England birth, and of a very good type. Their lives, however, were
necessarily monotonous and lonely, and they were very glad of books. We
had a short Church service every Sunday afternoon, to which they gladly
came, and then they took new books back with them.

The only grudge I ever had against these men was that they all tried
to provide themselves with wives among my maids, and by so doing
greatly added to my difficulties with these damsels. Far from accepting
Strephon’s honourable proposals, Chloe would make these offers—which
apparently bored her—an excuse for giving up her place and returning to
the gay metropolis.

I honestly think those maids (I had but two of them at a time) were
the chief, if not the only, real worry of my happy New Zealand life.
Nothing would ever induce them to remain more than four months at the
station. In spite of the suitors, they found it “lonely,” and away
they went. Changing was such a troublesome business and always meant
a week without any servants at all, for the dray—their sole means of
conveyance—took two days on the road each way, and then there were
always stores to buy and bring back, and the driver declared his horses
needed a couple of days’ rest in town. Some of the various reasons
the maids gave for leaving were truly absurd. Once I came into the
kitchen on a bright winter’s morning to find them seated on a sort of
sofa (made of chintz-covered boxes), clasped in each other’s arms, and
weeping bitterly. With difficulty I got out of them that their sole
grievance was the sound of the bleating of the sheep, a “mob” of which
were feeding on the nearest hillside. It was “lonesome like,” and they
must return to town immediately.

These girls, as well as their predecessors and successors, were a
continual mystery to me, and I never could understand why they became
servants at all. Not one of them ever had the faintest idea of what
duties she had to perform or how to perform them. A cook had never,
apparently, been in a kitchen before, nor had the housemaid ever seen,
or at least handled, a broom or a duster. I was only an ignorant
beginner in those days, and yet found myself obliged to teach the most
elementary duties. They were nearly all factory-girls; and when I asked
“Who did these things for you at home?” always answered “Mother.” They
had never held a needle until I taught them how to do so; and as for
mending or darning, that was regarded as sheer waste of time. The first
thing they had to learn was to bake bread, and as, unfortunately, the
best teacher was our head shepherd—a good-looking, well-to-do young
man—the “courting” began very soon, though it never seemed successful,
and poor Ridge’s heart must have been torn to pieces during those three
years of obdurate pupils.

I must, however, say here that, ignorant to an incredible degree as
my various “helps” were, I found them perfectly honest and perfectly
respectable. I never had the slightest fault to find on either of these
counts. Sobriety went without saying, for it was compulsory, as the
nearest public-house was a dozen miles away across trackless hills.

It was a real tragic time, for me at least, that constantly recurring
week between the departure and arrival of my maids; but I am inclined
to think, on mature reflection, that my worst troubles arose from the
volunteers who insisted on helping me. These kindly A.D.C.’s,—owners
or pupils on neighbouring stations,—all professed to be quite familiar
with domestic matters. But I found a sad falling-off when it came to
putting their theories into practice in my kitchen. It generally turned
out that they had made a hasty study of various paragraphs in that
useful work “Inquire Within, &c.,” and then started forth to carry out
the directions they had mastered. For instance, one stalwart neighbour
presented a smiling face at our hall-door one morning and said:—

“I’ve come to wash up.”

“That is very kind of you,” I replied; “but are you sure you know how?”

“Oh yes—just try me, and you’ll see. Very hot water, you know: boiling,
in fact.”

Well, there was no difficulty about the hot water, which was poured
into a tub in which a good many of my pretty china plates and dishes
were standing. The next moment I heard a yell and a crash—and I am
very much afraid “a big, big D——”—and my “help” was jumping about the
kitchen wringing his hands and shouting for cotton-wool and salad-oil
and what not. It seemed a mere detail after this calamity to discover
that half-a-dozen plates were broken and as many more cracked. “The
beastly thing was so hot” being the excuse.

The first time the maids left I thought I would, so to speak, victual
the garrison beforehand, and I had quantities of bread baked and butter
churned and meat-pies made and joints roasted; but at the end of a
couple of days the larder was nearly empty, partly on account of the
gigantic appetites we all had, and partly because of the addition to
our home party of all these volunteers who always seized the excuse of
helping. As a matter of fact, my “helps” generally betook themselves
to a rifle-range F. had set up down the valley, or else they organised
athletic sports. I should not have minded their doing so, if it had
not, apparently, increased their appetites.

Never can I forget an awful experience I went through with one of my
earliest attempts at bread-making. I felt it was a serious matter, and
not to be lightly taken in hand, so I turned my helps, one and all, out
of the kitchen, and proceeded to carry out the directions as written
down. First the dough was to be “set.” That was an anxious business.
The prescribed quantity of flour had to be put in a milk-pan, the
orthodox hole in the centre of the white heap was duly made, and then
came the critical moment of adding the yeast. There was only one bottle
of this precious ingredient left, and it was evidently very much “up,”
as yeast ought to be. Under these circumstances, to take out the cork
of that bottle was exactly like firing a pistol, and I do not like
firing pistols. So I was obliged to call for an assistant. All rushed
in gleefully, declaring that opening yeast-bottles was their show
accomplishment, but F. was the first to seize it. He gave it a great
shake. Out flew the cork right up to the rafters, and after it flew
_all_ my beautiful yeast, leaving only dregs of hops and potatoes,
which F., turning the bottle upside down, emptied into the flour. Of
course it was all spoiled, though I tried hard to produce something of
the nature of bread out of it. But certainly it was horribly heavy and
damp.

One thing my New Zealand experiences taught me, and that was the skill
and patience and variety of knowledge required to produce the simple
things of our daily life—things which we accept as much as a matter of
course as the air we breathe. But if you have to attempt them yourself,
you end by having a great respect for those who do them apparently
without effort.

I have often been asked how we amused ourselves in that lonely
valley. There was not very much time for amusement, for we were all
very busy. There was mustering and drafting to be done, besides the
annual business of shearing, which was a tremendous affair. It is
true I developed quite a talent for grafting pleasure upon business;
and when a long boundary ride had to be taken, or a new length of
fencing inspected (in those days wire fences could not be put up even
at that comparatively short distance from a town under £100 a mile),
I contrived to make it a sort of picnic, and enjoyed it thoroughly.
The one drawback to my happiness was the dreadful track—it were gross
flattery to call it a road—over which our way generally led us. No
English horse would have attempted the break-neck places our nags took
us safely over. Up and down slippery steep stairs, where all four feet
had to be collected carefully on each step, before an attempt to reach
the next could be made; across swamps where there was no foothold
except on an occasional tussock; over creeks with crumbling banks. At
first I really could not believe that I was expected to follow over
such places, but I was only adjured to “sit tight and leave it all to
my horse,” and certainly I survived to tell the tale! The only fall I
had during all those three years of real rough-riding was cantering
over a perfectly smooth plain, when a little bag strapped to my saddle
slipped down and struck my very spirited mare beneath her body. She
bucked frantically, and I flew into space, alighting on the point of my
shoulder, which I broke. On that occasion I was the victim of a good
deal of amateur surgery, but it all came right eventually, though I
could not use my arm for a long time.

But to return to our amusements. Boar-hunting was perhaps the most
exciting; though I was not allowed to call that an amusement, for it
was absolutely necessary to keep down the wild pigs, which we owe to
Captain Cook. A sow will follow very young lambs until they drop,
separating them from their mothers and giving them no rest. When
the poor little things fall exhausted the sow then devours them,
but it is almost impossible to track and shoot these same sows, for
they hide themselves and their litters in the most marvellous way.
The shepherds occasionally come across them, and then have a great
orgy of sucking-pig. But the big boar whose shoulder-scales are like
plated armour and quite bullet-proof, and whose tusks are as sharp as
razors, gives really very good sport, and must be warily stalked. These
expeditions had always to be undertaken on foot, and I insisted on
going because I had heard gruesome stories of accidents to sportsmen,
who had perished of cold and hunger on desolate hillsides when out
after boars. So I always begged to be taken out stalking, and as I
carried a basket with sandwiches and cake and a bottle of cold tea, my
company was graciously accepted.

These expeditions always took place in the winter, for the affairs of
the sheep seemed to occupy most of the summer, and besides it would
have been too hot for climbing steep hillsides and exploring long
winding gullies in anything but cold May and June weather. The boars
gave excellent sport, and I well remember, after a long day’s stalk
up the gorge of the Selwyn River, our pride and triumph when F., who
had taken a careful aim at what looked exactly like one of the grey
boulders strewn about on the opposite hillside, fired his rifle, and a
huge boar leapt into the air, only to fall dead and come crashing down
the steep slope.

Then there were some glorious days after wild cattle, but that was a
long way off in the great Kowai Bush, and we had to camp out for nearly
a week. It was difficult work getting through the forest, as, although
there was a sort of track, it was often impassable by reason of fallen
trees. Of course we were on foot; but it greatly adds to one’s work to
have constantly to climb or scramble over a barrier of branches. All
the gentlemen carried compasses as the only means of steering through
the curious green gloom. Though it was the height of summer, we never
saw a ray of sunshine, and it was always delightfully cool. Every now
and then we came to a clearing, and so could see where we were. One of
these openings showed us the great Waimakariri River swirling beneath
its high wooded banks, and it was, just there, literally covered with
wild duck—grey, blue, and “Paradise”—all excellent eating, but I am
thankful to say that the sportsmen forbore to shoot, as it would have
been impossible to retrieve the birds. Some fine young bullocks fell
every day to their rifles; but although I heard the shots and the
ensuing shouts of joy, the thickness of the “bush” always prevented
(happily!) my seeing the victims.

The undergrowth of that “bush”—_Anglicè_, forest—was the most beautiful
thing imaginable, and the familiar stag’s-head and hart’s-tongue grew
side by side with exquisite forms quite unknown to me. Besides the
profusion of ferns, there was a wealth of delicate fairy-like foliage,
but never a flower to be seen on account of the want of sun.

In summer we sometimes went down to the nearest creek, about a mile
away, for eel-fishing, but I did not care much for that form of sport.
It meant sitting in star-light and solitude for many hours, and one
got drenched with dew into the bargain. The preparations were the most
amusing part, especially the making of balls of worsted-ends with lumps
of mutton tied craftily in the middle; the idea being that when the eel
snapped at the meat his teeth ought to stick in the worsted, and so he
would become an easy prey to the angler. This came off according to the
programme, and even I caught some; but they were far too heavy to lift
out of the water, as there was no “playing” an eel, and the dead weight
had to be raised by the flax-stick which was my only fishing-rod.
However, quite enough of the horrid slimy things were secured to make
succulent pies for those who liked them.

We once invented an amusement for ourselves by going up a mountain on
our station three thousand feet high, and sleeping there in order to
see the sunrise next morning. I ought, perhaps, to explain that these
Malvern Hills among which our sheep-station lay are really the lowest
spurs of the great Southern Alps, so that even on our run the hills
attained quite a respectable height. I had heard from those who had
gone up this hill—quite near our little house—how wide and beautiful
was the outlook from its summit, so I never rested until the expedition
was arranged. Of course, it was only possible in the height of summer,
and we chose an ideally beautiful afternoon for our start directly
after an early dinner. It was possible to ride a good way up the hill,
and then we dismounted (there were five of us), and took the saddles
and bridles off the horses, tied them to flax-bushes within easy reach
of good feed, and commenced the climb of the last and steepest bit of
the ascent.

It was rather amusing to find, as soon as it came to carrying them
up ourselves, how many things were suddenly pronounced to be quite
unnecessary. Food and drink had to be carried (the drink consisting
of water for tea) and a pair of red blankets for shelter, and just
one little extra blanket for me. My share of the porterage was only a
bottle of milk strapped to my back—for it took both hands to scramble
up, holding on to the long tussocks of grass—but I felt that I was
laden to the extent of my carrying capacity! The four gentlemen had
really heavy loads (“swags,” as they called all parcels or bundles),
under which, however, they gallantly struggled up. There was no time to
admire any view when at last we stood, breathless and panting, on the
little plateau at the very top, for the twilight was fast fading, and
there was the tent to be put up and wood to collect for the fire.

Fortunately, all those hillsides were more or less strewn with charred
logs of a splendid hard red wood, called “totara,” the last traces of
the forest or bush with which they were once covered. The shepherds
always pick up and bring down any of these logs which they come across
when mustering or boundary-keeping, for they find them a great prize
for their fires, burning slowly, and giving out a fine heat.

When we came to pitch the tent, there seemed such a draught through
it that I gave up my own particular blanket to block up one end, and
contented myself with a little jacket. But oh, how cold it was! We
did not find it out just at first, for we were all too busy settling
ourselves, lighting the fire, unpacking, and so forth. But after we
had eaten the pies and provisions, and drunk a quantity of tea, there
did not seem much to do except to turn in so as to be ready for the
sunrise. Some tussocks of coarse grass had been cut to make a sort of
bed for me, after the fashion of the wild-pigs, who, the shepherds
declare, “have clean sheets every night,” for they never use their lair
more than once, and always sleep on fresh bitten-off grass. In spite of
this luxury, however, I must say I found the ground _very_ hard, and
the wind, against which the blankets seemed absolutely no protection,
_very_ cold. Also the length of that night was something marvellous;
and when we looked down into the valley and saw the lights twinkling
in our own little homestead, and reflected that it could not be yet
ten o’clock, a sense of foolishness took possession of us. Every one
looked, as seen by the firelight, cold and miserable, but happily no
one was cross or reproachful. Three of the gentlemen sat round the fire
smoking all night, with occasional very weak “grogs” to cheer them. F.
shared the tent with me and Nettle, my little fox-terrier; but Nettle
showed himself a selfish doggie that night. I wanted him to sleep
curled up at my back for warmth, but he would insist on so arranging
himself that I was at _his_ back, which was not the same thing for me
at all.

We certainly verified the proverb of its being darkest before dawn,
for the stars seemed to fade quite out, and an inky blackness stole
over earth and sky an hour or so before a pale streak grew luminous in
the east. I fear I must confess to having by that time quite forgotten
my ardent desire to see the sunrise. All I thought of was the joy of
getting home, and being warm once more; and, as soon as it was light
enough to see anything, we began to strike the little tent and pack up
the empty dishes and pannikins. But long before we could have thought
it possible, and long before it could be seen from the deep valley
below us, the sun uprose, and one felt as if one was looking at the
majestic sight for the first time since the Creation. Nothing could
have been more magnificent than the sudden flood of light bursting over
the wide expanse. Fifty miles away, the glistening waves of the Pacific
showed quite clearly; below us spread the vast Canterbury Plains, with
the great Waimakariri River flowing through them like a tangle of
silver ribbons. To the west rose steep, forest-covered hills, still
dark and gloomy, with the eerie-looking outline of the snow-ranges
rising behind. A light mist marked where the great Ellesmere Lake lay,
the strange thing about which is that, although only a slight bar of
sand separates it from the sea, its waters are quite fresh. All we
could see of the River Rakaia were its steep banks, but beyond them
again shone the gleam of the Rangitata’s waters, whilst close under our
feet the Selwyn ran darkly through its narrow gorge. The little green
patches of cultivation—so few and far between in those days—each with
its tiny cottage, gave a little homelike touch which was delightful,
as did also the strings of sheep going noisily down from their high
camping-grounds to feed in the sheltered valleys or on the sunny
slopes. It was certainly a most beautiful panorama, and we all agreed
that it was well worth our long, cold night of waiting. Still, we got
home as quickly as we could, and I remember the day proved a very quiet
one. I suspect there were many surreptitious naps indulged in by us
poor “Watchers of the Night.”




II

OLD NEW ZEALAND—_Continued_


No wandering reminiscence of these distant days would be complete
without a brief mention of the famous snowstorm of 1867, at which I
assisted.

I must say a prefatory word or two about the climate—so far as my
three years’ experience went—in order to explain the full force of
the disaster that fall of snow wrought. The winters were short and
delicious, except for an occasional week of wet weather, which,
however, was always regarded by the sheep-farmer as excellent for
filling up the creeks, making the grass grow, and being everything
that was natural and desirable. When it did not rain, the winter
weather was simply enchanting, although one had to be prepared for its
sudden caprices, for weather is weather even at the antipodes, and
consequently unreliable. Sometimes we started on an ideally exquisite
morning for a long ride on some station business. The air would be
still and delicious, fresh and exhilarating to a degree hardly to be
understood; the sun brilliant and just sufficiently warming. All would
go well for four or five hours, until, perhaps, we had crossed a low
saddle in the mountains and were coming home by the gorge of a river.
In ten minutes everything might have changed. A sou’-wester would have
sprung up as though let out of a bag, heavy drops of rain would be
succeeded by a snow-flurry, in which it was not always easy to find
one’s way home across swamps and over creeks, and the riders who set
forth so gaily at ten of the clock that same morning would return in
the fast-gathering darkness wet to the skin, or rather frozen to the
bone. I have often found it difficult to get out of my habit, so stiff
with frozen snow was its bodice.

No one ever dreamed of catching cold, however, from the meteorological
changes and chances, an immunity which no doubt we owed to the fact
that we led, whether we liked it or not, an open-air life. The little
weather-boarded house, with its canvas-papered lining, did not offer
much protection from a hard frost, and I have often found a heap of
feathery snow on a chair near my closed bedroom window; the snow having
drifted in through the ill-fitting frame.

Still these snow-showers, and even hard frosts (which usually melted by
midday), did no harm to man or beast, and found us totally unprepared
for the fall in August 1867. Of course there were no meteorological
records kept in those days, for they had not long been started even in
England, and we had nothing to go by except the Maori traditions, which
held no record of anything the least like that snowstorm. Indeed, I had
seldom seen snow lie on the ground for more than an hour after the sun
rose, and it never was thought of as a danger in our comparatively low
hills.

I well remember that Monday morning and the strange restlessness which
seemed to extend to the sheep, for they must have felt the coming
trouble long before we thought of calamity. The weather during the last
week of July had been quite beautiful, our regular winter weather, and
we had taken advantage of it to send the dray down to Christchurch for
supplies. My store-room was all but empty, and the tea-chest, flour
and sugar bags, held hardly half-a-week’s consumption, so the drayman
was charged not to linger, but to turn round and come back directly he
got his load. When speaking of supplies it must be borne in mind that
tinned provisions were almost unknown in those days, and certainly
never found their way to a New Zealand sheep station. F. had also taken
advantage of the beautiful open weather to ride down to Christchurch
about wool matters, so I expected to be quite alone with a youth who
was learning sheep-farming under F.’s auspices, and my two servants.

But F. had hardly started before a cousin rode up the track and,
hearing I was feeling somewhat depressed and lonely, very kindly
volunteered to stay, and before the afternoon was over a neighbouring
young squatter also appeared, and asked (as was quite a common thing
in that hotel-less district) for shelter for the night. Nothing could
have been more unexpected—except that one’s station guests always were
unexpected—than these two visitors, but it proved a fortunate chance
for me that they appeared just then.

The weather was certainly curious, and we all noticed that the sound of
the sheep’s bleat never ceased. Now the odd thing at a sheep station
used to be that you hardly ever saw a sheep, and still more seldom
heard one, except perhaps in the early morning, when they were coming
down from their high camping-grounds. And sheep always “travel” head to
wind, but the sheep that afternoon kept moving in exactly the contrary
direction. Still I was not in the least uneasy about the weather,
except as it might affect the comfort of F.’s seventy-five mile ride to
town, and I knew he would be under comfortable shelter at a friend’s
half-way house that night. So we gaily and lavishly partook of our
supper-dinner, had an absurd game of whist, and went to bed as usual.

It was no surprise to see snow falling steadily next morning, but it
was disagreeable to find there was very little mutton in the house, and
that it was quite likely the shepherd would wait for the weather to
clear before starting across the hills and swamps between us and the
little homestead where the woolshed stood, and from whence the business
of the station was carried on.

The three gentlemen lounged about all day and smoked a good deal.
They told me afterwards how bitterly they regretted not having made
some preparation in the way of at least bringing in fuel, or putting
extra food for the fowls, &c. But each said to the other every five
minutes, “Oh, you know snow in New Zealand _never_ lasts,” though their
experience was only a very few years old. It was short commons that
second day, and I thought sadly that the dray would have only reached
Christchurch that evening! We all felt depressed, and, as no one had
any use for depression up that valley, the sensation was quite new to
us.

It was not until we met on the third morning, however, that we at all
acknowledged our fears. By this time the snow was at least four feet
deep in the shallowest places, and still continued to fall steadily. It
was impossible to see even where the fowl-house and pig-sties stood, on
the weather side of the house. All the great logs of wood lying about
waiting to be cut up were hidden, so was the little shed full of coal.
A smooth high slope, like a hillock, stretched from the outer kitchen
door, which could not be opened that morning, out into the floating
whiteness. All our windows were nearly blocked up and became quite so
by the evening, and no door except one, which opened inwards, could be
used. And we had literally no food in the house. The tea at breakfast
was merely coloured hot water, and we each had a couple of picnic
biscuits. For dinner there was a little rice and salt. Imagine six
people to be fed every day, and an empty larder and store-room!

The day after that my maids declined to get up, declaring they
preferred to “die warm”; so I took them in a sardine each, a few
ratafia biscuits, and a spoonful of apricot jam. Those were our own
rations for that day. We had by that time broken up every box for fuel,
and only lighted a fire in the kitchen, where also a solitary candle
burned.

“Be very careful of the dips,” said one of my guests, “for I’ve read of
people eating them.”

“I hear the cat mewing under the house,” said another; “we’ll try to
get hold of her.”

“I wonder if those are the cows?” asked a third, pointing to three
formless heaps high above the stockyard rails, but within them.

By Friday morning the maids, still in bed, were asking tearfully, “And
oh! when do you think we’ll be found, mum?” Whereas my anxiety was to
find something to feed them with! We shook out a heap of discarded
flour-bags and got, to our joy, quite a plateful of flour, and a
careful smoothing out of the lead lining of old tea-chests yielded a
few leaves, so we had girdle-cakes and tea that day. I was very unhappy
about the dogs: the horses were out on the run as usual, so it was no
use thinking of them.

On Saturday there was literally nothing at all in the house (which
was quite dark, remember), and my three starving men roped themselves
together and struggled out, tunnelling through the snow, in the
direction where they thought the fowl-house must lie. After a couple
of hours’ hard work they hit upon its roof, tore off some of the
wooden shingles, and captured a few bundles of feathers, which were
what my poor dear hens were reduced to. However, there was a joyful
struggle back, and after some hasty preparation the fowls were put
into a saucepan with a lump of snow, for there was no water to be got
anywhere, and a sort of stew resulted, of which we thankfully partook.
This heartened up the gentlemen to make another sally to the stockyard
in search of the cows. The clever creatures had kept moving round
and round as the snow fell, so as to make a sort of wider tomb for
themselves, and they were alive, though mere bundles of skin and bone.
They were dragged by ropes to the stable and there fed with oaten hay.
It was no question of milking the poor things, for they were quite dry.

Next day the dogs were dug out, but only one young and strong one
survived. Two more were alive, but died soon after.

On Sunday it had ceased snowing and the wind showed signs of changing.
I struggled a yard or two out of the house, as it was such a blessing
to get into daylight again. My view was of course much circumscribed,
as I could only see up and down the “flat,” as the valley was called.
But it all looked quite different; not a fence or familiar landmark
to be seen on any side. If I could have been wafted to the top of the
mountain from which we saw the sun rise the summer before, what a white
world should I have beheld! And if I could have soared still higher and
looked over the whole of the vast Canterbury Plains, I should have been
gazing at the smooth winding-sheet of half a million of sheep, for that
was found, later, to be the loss in that Province alone.

Yet, as we afterwards came to know, it was not really the fall of
snow, tremendous as it had been, which cost the Province nearly all
its stock. As I have said, the wind changed to the north-west—the warm
quarter—on Sunday night, and it rained heavily as well as blowing
half a gale. On Monday morning the snow was off the roof and it was
possible to clear some of the windows. An early excursion was also made
to the styes and a very thin pig was killed, and, as a bag of Indian
meal for fattening poultry had also been found in the stable loft, a
sort of cake could be made. So we were no longer starving, and the
maids got up!

Twenty-four hours of this warm rain and wind was what did all the
mischief to the poor sheep. By Monday night every creek within sight
had overflowed its banks, and was running—a dirty yellow stream—over
the fast-melting snowfields. The rapid thaw and the flooded creeks
made locomotion more difficult than ever, but the three gentlemen set
to work at once to try to release the imprisoned sheep. There was but
one dog to work with, and he was so weak he could hardly move, but the
poor sheep were still weaker. Contrary to their custom they had mostly
sought refuge beneath the projecting banks of the creeks, and would
have been safe enough there had not the sudden thaw let the water in on
them before they could struggle up, so they were nearly all drowned. It
was most pathetic to discover how in some places the mothers had tried
to save the lambs by standing over them in a leaning attitude so as
to make a shelter. The lambing season had just begun, and on our own
run, which was but a small one, we lost three thousand lambs. Several
were brought in to me to try to save, but I had no cow’s milk to give
them, and warm meal and water did not prove enough to keep the poor
little starving creatures alive. It was heart-breaking work, and when
F. returned it was to find the fences tapestried with the skins of a
thousand sheep.

As soon as we could move about on horseback we rode all over the run
and found that the sheep had evidently fared better when they had kept
on higher ground. It was curious to see the tops of the little Ti-ti
palms, some ten or twelve feet high, entirely nibbled off where the
sheep had clustered round them, and, as the snow fell, mounted higher
and higher until they could reach the green leaves. In those days
all the flocks were pure or half-bred merino; active, hardy little
black-faced sheep, tasting like Welsh mutton, and delicious eating.
On these excursions we often came upon dead wild-pigs, boars cased
in hides an inch thick, which had perished through sheer stress of
weather. It was wonderful to think that thin-skinned animals, with only
a few months’ growth of fine merino wool on their backs, could have
survived.

During the long bright summer which followed, we used often to ask
each other if it could be true that hills had apparently been levelled
and valleys filled up by the heaviest snowstorm ever known. But when
we looked at the Ti-ti palms with their topmost leaves gnawed to the
stump, we realised that the sheep must have been standing on eight or
nine feet of snow to reach them. When the survivors came to be shorn,
it was plainly to be seen by the sort of “nick” in the fleece, where
their three weeks’ imprisonment had evidently checked the growth of the
wool. Many of the hardiest wethers must have been without food for that
time, as the pasturage was either under snow or flooded.

In looking back on that tragic time, its only bright memory is
connected with tobogganing on a rough but giant scale, and I greatly
wonder any of us survived that form of amusement. By the time every
possible thing had been done for the surviving sheep, the snow had
disappeared from all but the steep weather-side of the encircling
hills, so our slides had to be arranged on very dangerous slopes.

The sledges on which these perilous journeys were made consisted of
a couple of short planks nailed together, with a batten across for
one’s feet to rest on, and half a shears for a brake. If the gentlemen
would only have made these rapid descents alone! But they insisted
on my being a constant passenger. No one who has not gone through it
can imagine the sensation of being launched on a bit of board down
a mountain side! And yet there must have been a fearful joy in it,
because after turning round and round many times as one flew over
the hard snow surface, and arriving in a heap, head foremost, in a
snowdrift, one was quite ready to try again. Luckily another north-west
gale set in, and when it had blown itself out there were too many
sharp-pointed rocks sticking up out of the remaining snow to make our
mad descents practicable.




III

OLD NEW ZEALAND—_Continued_


I wonder if “swaggers” have been improved off the face of the country
districts of New Zealand? Tramps one would perhaps have called them in
England, and yet they were hardly tramps so much as men of a roving
disposition, who wandered about asking for work, and they really could
and did work if wanted. They nearly always appeared, with their “swag”
(a roll of red blankets) on their backs, about sunset, and it was
etiquette for them to offer to chop wood before shelter was suggested.
A good meal of tea, mutton, and bread followed as a matter of course,
and a shakedown in some shed. In the early morning, if there was no
employment forthcoming, the “swagger” would fetch water, chop more
wood, or do anything he was asked, before he got some more food and
left. They always seemed very quiet, decent men, and perfectly honest.
Indeed, a missing pair of boots (afterwards found to have only been
mislaid) raised a great commotion in the whole country-side until they
were found, and I suspect the owner had to apologise abjectly to all
the “swaggers”!

The invariable custom of the “swagger” only appearing at sunset made
it all the more wonderful when I found one crouched in a corner of the
verandah at dawn one bitter winter’s morning. Now I was not at all in
the habit of getting up at daylight in winter, but it was a glorious
morning after nearly a week of wretched wet and cold weather. Some
demon of restlessness must have induced me to jump up, huddle on a
warm dressing-gown and start on a window-opening expedition, which led
me shortly to the little hall-door. This I also opened to let in the
fast-coming sunshine, and I nearly tumbled over the most forlorn object
it is possible to imagine. At first I thought that a heap of wet and
dirty clothes lay at my feet, but a shaggy head uprose and a feeble
voice muttered, “I’m fair clemmed.” Such wistful eyes, like a lost,
starving dog, glanced at me, and then the head dropped back. I thought
the man was dead or dying, and I flew to wake up F. and to fetch my
medicine bottle of brandy. But I could not get any down his throat
until F. arrived on the scene and turned the poor creature over on his
back. By this time I had roused up the “cadet,” and also got my maids
hurriedly out of bed. My tale was so pitiful that the warm-hearted
Irish cook—in the scantiest toilet—was lighting the kitchen fire by
the time F. and Mr. U. brought the poor man in. Water was literally
streaming from him, and the first thing to be done was to get him
out of his sodden clothes. Contributions from the two gentlemen were
soon forthcoming, and after a brief retirement into my store-room, the
wretched “swagger” emerged, dry indeed, but the image of exhaustion and
starvation. Warm bread and milk every two hours was all we dared give
him that day, and he slept and slept as if he never meant to wake again.

I forget how many days passed before he had at all recovered, and by
that time my maids had cleaned and mended his clothes in a surprising
manner, and he had, himself, cobbled up his boots. A hat had to be
provided and a pipe, but we could not spare any blankets for the
“swag.” However, though he hardly spoke to any one, he told Mr. U. he
felt quite able to start next day, and F. elicited from him with some
difficulty—for it was against “swagger” etiquette ever to complain
of the treatment of one station-holder to another—that at the very
beginning of that bad weather he had found himself at sundown at a
station about a dozen miles further back in the hills, and had been
refused shelter. The man pointed out that he did not know the track
over a difficult saddle, that very bad weather was evidently coming on,
and that he had no food, but he was ruthlessly turned off and seemed
soon to have lost his way. He wandered some days—he did not know how
many—without food or shelter, pelted by the merciless and continuous
storm; his pipe and blankets soon got lost in one of the numerous
bog-holes, and he really did not know how he found his way to our
verandah, or how long before dawn he had been lying there. I must say
it was the only instance I heard of brutality to a “swagger” whilst I
was in New Zealand.

Well, by the next morning I had ceased to think about the “swagger,”
and when I looked out of my window to enjoy the delicious crisp air and
the sunshine, I saw my friend coming round the corner of the house,
evidently prepared to start. He looked round, but I had slipped behind
the window curtain, so he saw no one. To my deep surprise, the man
dropped on his knees upon the little gravel path, took off his hat, and
poured forth the most impassioned prayer for all the dwellers beneath
the roof which had given him shelter. Not a soul was stirring, so he
could not have been doing it for effect, and he certainly had not seen
me. I felt as if I had no right to listen, for it was as though he
were laying bare his soul. First, there was his deep thankfulness for
his own preservation most touchingly expressed, and then he prayed for
every blessing on each and all of us, and, finally, as he rose from
his knees, he signed the Cross over the little roof-tree which had
sheltered him in his hour of need. And we had all thought him a silent
and somewhat ungracious man!

I really _cannot_ believe that I often rode fifty miles to a ball,
or rather two balls, danced all night for two successive nights, and
rode back again the next day! The railway was even then creeping
up the plains and saved us the last twenty-five miles of the road.
These same balls were almost the only form of society in those days,
for dinner-parties were impossible for want of anything but the most
elementary service. Certainly there were bazaars sometimes, but I do
not remember riding fifty miles for any of them! Such amusing things
used to happen at these balls, which, no doubt, were very primitive,
but we all enjoyed them too much to be critical.

On one occasion the Governor had come to Christchurch for some
political reason, and of course there were balls to welcome him. He
had brought down some Maori chieftains with him; rumour said he was
afraid to leave them behind in the North Island, where the seat of
Government used to be and still is. Now I was very curious to see these
chieftains, and it was somewhat of a shock to behold tall, well-built,
dark-hued men faultlessly clad in correct evening-dress, but with
tattooed faces. Presently one of the stewards of the ball came to me
and said:—

“Te Henare wants very much to dance these Lancers; I should be so
grateful if you would dance with him.”

“Certainly,” I answered; “but can he dance?”

“Oh, he will soon pick it up, and you’d have an interpreter.”

Te Henare, who had been watching the result of the mission, now
approached, made me a beautiful bow, offered his arm most correctly,
and we took our places at the side, closely followed by the
interpreter. I discovered through this gentleman that my dusky partner
had never seen a ball or social gathering of any sort before, and that
he had learned his bow and how to claim his partner since he entered
the room. Of course, we danced in silence, and indeed I was fully
occupied in admiring the extraordinary rapidity with which Te Henare
mastered the intricacies of the dance. He never made a single mistake
in any part which he had seen the top couples do first, and when I had
to guide him he understood directly. It was a wonderful set of Lancers,
and when it was over I told the interpreter that I was quite astonished
to see how well Te Henare danced. This little compliment was duly
repeated, and I could not imagine why the interpreter laughed at the
answer. Te Henare seemed very anxious that it should be passed on to me
and was most serious about it, so I insisted on being told. It seems
the poor chieftain had said with a deep sigh, “Ah, if I might only
dance without my clothes! No one could really dance in these horrid
things!”

Te Henare apologised through the interpreter for his tattooed face.
His cheeks were decorated with spiral dark-blue curves, and his
forehead bore an excellent copy of a sea-shell. The poor man was deeply
ashamed of his tattoo, and said he would give anything to get rid
of the disfiguring marks, and so would the other chieftains, adding
pathetically, “Until we came here we were proud of them.”

I must confess I got rather tired of poor Te Henare, and indeed of all
the chieftains, for they insisted on coming to call on me next day for
the purpose of letting me hear some Maori music. I cannot truthfully
say I enjoyed it. Every song seemed to have at least fifty verses as
well as a refrain. Fortunately, they did not sing loudly, but there
was no tune beyond a bar or two, and the monotony was maddening. The
interpreter and I tried in vain to stop them, and at last I went away,
leaving them still singing, quite happily, what I was informed was “a
love-song.” It seemed more in the nature of a lullaby.

I fear it is an unusual confession for a staid elderly woman to make,
but I certainly enjoyed those unconventional—what might almost be
called rough—days more than the long years of official routine and
luxury which followed them. But then one looks back on those days
through the softening haze of time and distance, of youth and health;
and one realises that after all “the greatest of these is Love.”




IV

A MODERN NEW ZEALAND


The passage of over a quarter of a century has of course made a great
change all over the world in the matter of education, but probably
nowhere would that change be more apparent than in New Zealand. Even in
less than ten years after I had left the Colony, two thousand schools
had been started under a new law, with a roll of two hundred thousand
scholars. What must they number now? There are Schools for natives and
Schools for the deaf and dumb and for the blind, Schools of Mines and
Schools of Science, Technical Schools, and a fine Agricultural College
in Canterbury.

But in my day very few of the working men I came across, as our
shepherds, shearers, and so forth, could read at all. One can hardly
realise it, but so it was, and one of the first things I did was to
start a sort of night school for these stalwart Empire-builders, in
which, alas! I was the only teacher. The population was so thin and so
scattered in those distant days that these men’s lives were necessarily
very lonely, and those who could read at all eagerly joined a little
lending library, or rather a Book and Magazine Club, which I set
going. At first I had only thought of providing literature for our
neighbours—any one within fifty miles was a neighbour—but the shepherds
begged to join, and of course I was delighted to enrol them.

Looking back on those days, I fear the comic side of that educational
attempt chiefly asserts itself. My pupils—only four or five at a
time—were so big and so desperately shy. One gigantic Yorkshireman
would only read, or rather attempt to read, with his broad back turned
to me. Others almost wept over their difficulties. It really involved
far more trouble on their part than on mine, for they had often some
distance to ride, and over such trackless hills and swamps. It was
found almost impracticable to have any set evening for the lessons, as
sometimes weather, and sometimes their duties interfered; so at last
it was settled that they should come any evening they could spare,
and I would be ready for them by eight o’clock (so primitive was
our dinner-hour!) in the little dining-room. Certainly the seeds of
knowledge are _very_ difficult to plant in later life, for intelligent
as these men evidently were, and most eager to learn to read and write,
they made but little progress under my tuition. Perhaps I was a bad
teacher, for I had only the experience of my own little boys’ very
first lessons to guide me.

Some of the incidental difficulties were very absurd. Two men lived in
a hut up a lonely and distant river-gorge, who were among my earliest
pupils, and they also came regularly on Sunday to the little afternoon
service. But they never came together, and their brand-new suit of
shepherd’s plaid had always a strange effect. First they tried my
gravity by invariably stepping up to me with their prayer-books to find
their places for them, and saying loudly each time, “Thank you kindly,
Mum.” I dared not say a word for fear of frightening them away. But
one day I ventured to ask why they could not come together, either to
the lessons or the service, and was informed that the clothes were the
difficulty.

“You see, it’s this way, Mum. We’ve only got one suit, and we got it a
between-size on purpose. Joe, he’s too tall, and I’m too short, so I
turns it up, and Joe he wears leggin’s and such like, and so we makes
it do till after shearin’.”

But I do not want to laugh when I think of the last time I met my
bearded pupils. My own face was set towards England then, and I had to
say good-bye to the happy valley and to my scholars. They were made
shyer than ever by my shaking hands with them, and only one said a
farewell word. “To England, home and beauty, of course, Mum, you’d be
glad to go, but it’s rough on us.” This cryptic utterance seemed quite
to express his and his “mate’s” meaning, though it still remains dark
to me.

The Canterbury Plains are now covered with fields of wheat and all
kinds of agricultural produce. The rare “English grass” of my day is
almost universal. Except in the very back-country stations, the little
hardy merino sheep has given way to the more substantial Southdown,
whose frozen carcase comes back to us in the shape of excellent
mutton. Comfortable homesteads are within hailing distance of each
other. Railways, telegraphs, telephones, and all the latest scientific
annihilators of time and space are thickly planted everywhere. I used
to look down the valley on to certain white cliffs which seemed to
bound my view in that direction, and, speaking of it the other day,
some one said, “Oh, the terminus of the nearest railway to your old
‘run’ stands there now.” I cannot realise that the whistle of an engine
has taken the place of the shrill scream of a huge hawk—more like an
eagle than a hawk—which haunted that lonely spot.

But perhaps the greatest difference of all would be found in the sport.

In my day there was absolutely nothing except the wild boars, and the
difficulties of introducing game seemed at first insurmountable. Mr.
Frank Buckland sent out quantities of salmon ova packed in ice, of
which hardly a single specimen survived the long voyage. Then people
told me that the New Zealand rivers were impossible to stock, owing to
a bad habit they had of constantly changing their beds without warning.
It is true that I saw that happen at those very white cliffs I have
just spoken of, where, after an unusually violent hot north-west gale
which melted the snows in the mountains, the river running beneath
those cliffs changed its course entirely during one night, cutting
another wide and deep channel for itself over very good grazing ground,
and leaving the owner of that particular spot with a vast extent of
shingle-covered river-bed in exchange, on which, as he pathetically
said, “a grasshopper could not find enough green meat.”

One can easily understand that respectable stay-at-home English fish
would not be able to shift their quarters at such short notice, but yet
I am now assured that a good basket of trout can be landed from almost
any New Zealand stream. They must have become very “mobile”! I wonder
if any of these same fish are the descendants of what I always regarded
as _my_ trout!

This was the way of it. Not long before we left New Zealand, one of our
squatter neighbours, who was anxious to stock a fine stream running
through his property, offered to give a home and a chance to some of
the newly-imported trout ova. I happened to meet him on one of my rare
visits to Christchurch, and inquired as to the progress of his trout
plans. I suppose that put the idea into his head, for he first asked
when we were returning to our station, and then earnestly entreated to
be allowed to drive me back in a sort of buggy or gig he possessed. I
greatly preferred riding, and told him so, but he seemed most anxious
for my company, and finally said he would speak to F. about it. I felt
quite willing to abide by _his_ decision, which I flattered myself
would be that I must certainly ride back with him. But to my dismay F.
said, “I think you had better drive with ——.” So there was no help for
it, and at the appointed early hour Mr. —— drove up, I was packed into
the buggy, and then the whole villainous scheme revealed itself! I was
wanted to carry a small pail full of trout ova, carefully, so that it
should not be jolted or spill. My whole attention and my every thought
were to be devoted to that sole object. I must not move or talk; I must
think of nothing but that pail. Mr. —— assured me later that his mind
would be entirely fixed on avoiding every stone or even inequality on
the road, so that the precious freight might not be jeopardised. And
I had seventy-five miles before me! If we came to a really rough bit
of road, I had to hold that pail out, on the principle of a swinging
cot at sea. Fortunately, there was a halt in the middle of the day,
but only for the benefit of the ova; however, my aching arms got just
a little rest. To make my sense of hardship more acute, F. rode near
us most of the way, and constantly added his entreaties to me to “be
very careful.” Later, I arrived at feeling a certain sense of pride
in having conveyed those ova so carefully that they all survived the
journey, but at the time I well remember my suppressed indignation and
burning sense of injury at having been entrapped as a trout-carrier.
But that only lasted so long as did the fatigue of my cramped position.

There has always been very good sea-fishing almost everywhere on the
coast, but we lived too far off to enjoy it. When, however, we went
to Christchurch it was always a great treat to have at every meal the
whitebait the Maoris sold in pretty little baskets of woven flax-leaves.

I see in the latest accounts that our own familiar “Selwyn” is quite a
favourite trout stream, but in the more distant big lakes, where the
fish attain quite a large size, the water is so clear that a rod is
useless, and netting is the only chance.

Some means must have been found of keeping down the “weeka,” tamest and
most impudent of apteryx. Very like a stout hen pheasant itself, only
without the tail feathers, it used to be the sworn foe of pheasants
in my day. It ate their eggs or killed the young birds. Many and
doleful were the tales told of the wholesale massacre of the pioneer
pheasant broods by the weekas, who seemed numerous as the sands of the
sea-shore. Dogs hunted them, men shot them, but in both cases they
were as elusive as the Boers, gliding from tussock to tussock, and
when forced into the open, running almost faster than the eye could
follow. To all my “bush” picnics the weekas invited themselves and
cleared up every crumb. It would have needed a pack of terriers to keep
them off, and although “Nettle” did his best he made no impression on
the marauders. They were not good to eat, but the shepherds extracted
an oil from the fat, which they declared made boots and leggings
waterproof. Still, weekas had it very much their own way at that
date. I see that hares and also Californian quail and plover flourish
nowadays, and I know the wild-duck were always plentiful and delicious
eating.

There was a talk of importing deer even thirty-five years ago, but
the idea did not find favour in the eyes of the run-holders. The
fences were only three or four wires high, and would of course be
no protection to the sheep, whose feed would be at the mercy of the
new-comer. It was known that two hinds and a stag had been turned out
in some well-grassed and forested low ranges in the North Island
as early as 1862, but one did not hear anything of them as either a
danger or a pleasure. They were the only survivors of a batch sent from
Windsor Forest by the late Prince Consort. The conditions must have
been ideally favourable, for they have now spread all over the place,
and afford excellent sport. Red deer seem to do well in our island
(the Middle), though I do not fancy they have come at all near the
part I knew. A few moose have been turned out on the West Coast of the
same Island, and there is even a talk of importing wapiti and cariboo.
But any one who wishes to know all about New Zealand—fur, fin, and
feathers—cannot do better than study, as I have done with the greatest
pleasure and profit, a delightful booklet by Mr. R. A. Loughman, of
the Lands and Survey Department in Wellington, which no doubt can be
procured at the Agent General for New Zealand’s Office. It makes one
wish to set off directly for that favoured though distant shore, and
Mr. Loughman asserts that numbers of sportsmen arrive there every year.

I heard a great deal of modern New Zealand when the Imperial
Representative Corps came back from their wonderful tour round
Australia and New Zealand three years ago. It was most interesting and
delightful to listen to the accounts of the progress everywhere; but as
I had been so very much longer away from New Zealand, the marvellous
changes there took more hold of my imagination, and I was delighted to
be told by all that it was still the most English place they visited.

There was much to occupy the public mind at home just then, and I have
often felt that we rather missed the value and significance of that
tour, especially as it was somewhat overshadowed and crowded out by
the rapture and magnificence of the welcome extended to their Royal
Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York almost directly
afterwards.

We were still in the midst of the war in South Africa, and then, just
after the Imperial Contingent left Sydney, to which it first went to
take part in the ceremonies marking the Inauguration of the Australian
Commonwealth, the Empire had to mourn the loss of its beloved Queen,
and nowhere was the grief more personal and profound than on those
distant shores. As the Commandant[6] told me, although the sad news
spoiled in a way the gaiety and _éclat_ of the greeting provided for
the troops, still it was far more impressive to see the genuine grief
and regret which the width of the world could not weaken. Memorial
services everywhere took the place of balls, and the “Soldiers of the
Queen” shared, with the splendid Colonial forces who were just then
springing to arms at the Empire’s call, in honouring her dear memory.

But by the time Invercargill, the most southern point of New Zealand,
had been reached, the first dark days of sorrow had passed, and the
people could better give free scope to their hospitable instincts,
and they greeted the Contingent with the heartiest welcome. The last
time British troops had touched New Zealand shores it was to fight the
Maoris, who now stood first and foremost in the cheering crowd, and
delivered addresses of welcome with the best.

The straight run down from the extreme south of Middle Island brought
them in due time, through those great Canterbury Plains where
harvesting was in full swing, down to Christchurch, and so on to
Lyttelton. But there was always time, apparently, for delightful little
picturesque episodes, such as stopping the train to let the detachment
of Seaforth Highlanders march, with pipes playing, to visit one of the
most prominent Scotch settlers, a man who had given his life’s work
to the beautiful new land. Fancy what a dramatic moment! To hear the
war-pipes skirl, and the old tunes played, all in one’s own honour and
in recognition of splendid service!

Then the thousand troops were taken on by sea to Wellington and shown
everything in the length and breadth of all the fair land; up to the
wonderful hot springs at Rotarua, down to the deer-stocked islands off
Auckland. Everywhere, not only did they receive a rapturous welcome
from the cheering crowds, but there were many historic and picturesque
moments in which the Maoris formed the central figures. I should like
to have seen the old Maori chieftain, after the “haka” or native dance,
fling his tasselled spear at the Commandant’s feet, saying, “For four
hundred years this taiaha has been handed down from father to son, from
son to grandson. But you and I alike are sons of our King, who rules
in the place of the Queen we have lost. Take it, and let it descend to
your children’s children.”

Thrilling also must have been the sight of the veterans of former
wars, now peaceful citizens, ending their days in comfort in these
distant lands, yet, like the war-horse of Bible story, pricking up
their ears and joining their new comrades. At all the reviews there
the veteran sailors and soldiers were, marshalled in the old form and
given prominent places; they themselves, with their medal-covered
breasts, being objects of honour to the gorgeous visitors. And quite as
thrilling must have been the ranks of cadets who lined the streets here
and there. My own heart has often gone out to these chubby boy-soldiers
when I have seen them—first at Adelaide in 1883, later in Western
Australia, where the youthful corps bore my name, and was known as my
“Own”—so it was with a peculiar interest that I read part of a speech
of the Commandant’s when he was leaving Brisbane, but it applies
equally well to the cadet corps of all the large New Zealand towns.

“What pleased me most in the march through your streets to-day, more
than even the enthusiastic greetings of the Queenslanders, was nearly a
mile of boys lining the road by the railway station. Hundreds of sturdy
youngsters, every one of them devouring our men with his eyes and
doing his best to look like a soldier himself. I thought as I looked
at their bright, keen young faces, ‘_there_ are our future Australian
contingents.’”

At Auckland there was one newly-raised detachment which had not yet
got its uniform, but turned out in white shirts with black arm-bands
and Panama hats. These sinewy, workmanlike “bushmen” had ridden in
from the country district on their own horses—as workmanlike as
themselves—not to take part in the big parade which every one was
talking about, and which would be remembered for years, but in order
to lend the Contingent their horses. Such stories—stories which I know
to be true—show me that after all the lapse of years New Zealand still
remains in heart the Old New Zealand of my day.

But, speaking of medals, I was much amused at hearing that the youthful
volunteers turned out sometimes quite covered with medals, extending
as far back as the first Cape war and going on to the Crimea and the
Mutiny. On its being remarked that they looked very young to have taken
part in such distant campaigns, they admitted that the medals had
belonged to their grandfathers and fathers, but that they conceived
themselves entitled—as did many others who were not even volunteers—to
wear them, and could see nothing at all laughable in doing so. It
seemed to me a very wise concession on the part of the Colonial
authorities to permit this, as a recognition of the natural pride of
the sons of such men in their ancestors having fought for the Empire in
bygone days, for they evidently regarded the medals as a link binding
them to the dear old Mother-land. However, the present generation will
proudly wear medals of their own winning, even if they do so side by
side with those gained by their forefathers. Yes, those thousand picked
men of that fine Imperial Contingent will have been so many Peace
missionaries bringing back news of the loyalty as well as of the wealth
and beauty of that fair England beyond the sea.

Not less emphatically will these tidings be endorsed by the welcome
extended to their King’s son and his gracious young wife when they too
landed on those smiling shores a few months later. The message their
Royal Highnesses brought was to the same effect, and received in the
same spirit of love and gratitude. At all events it will not be our
fault if our kinsmen beyond the sea, especially in the Islands of New
Zealand, do not understand how we valued the splendid help they gave
the Empire in its hour of need, and how grateful we are for it. I was
reading a little while ago some of the evidence taken before the War
Commission last year, and saw that one of the Generals was asked if he
had, at any time, any of the many New Zealand Contingents under his
command. “I am sorry to say I had not,” was the reply, and I felt just
as personally proud of the answer as though I were a New Zealander
myself, and all for the sake of those dear distant days and the good
friends who helped to make them so happy.




V

NATAL MEMORIES


As I sit, sad and alone in my empty home, dreading the cries of the
newspaper-boys in the streets, my thoughts often fly back to the “Fair
Natal” I knew long ago. More than twenty-eight years have passed since
I last saw it. Then, as now, it was early summer-time. The wide,
well-watered stretches of veldt were brilliantly green and covered with
blossom, chiefly lilies and cinerarias; the spruits were running like
Scotch burns, and the dreadful red dust of the winter months no longer
obscured everything. I have often, between April and November, not
known what was within an approaching bank of solid red cloud, until the
shouts of the unseen little “Voor-looper” warned me that a huge waggon
and its span of perhaps twenty or thirty oxen had to be avoided.

But after November, dust gives place to mud on the roads—mud of a
singularly tenacious quality, formed from the fertile red clay soil.
I don’t believe it rains anywhere so hard as it does in Natal, and
during the summer months it is never safe to part for a single hour
from the very best waterproof cloak which you can procure, or from a
substantial umbrella. Round Maritzburg a thunderstorm raged nearly
every summer afternoon, coming up about three o’clock. But when, by
any chance, that thunderstorm passed us by, we regretted it bitterly,
for the oppressive, suffocating heat was then ever so much worse. Even
the poor fowls used to go about with their beaks open and their wings
held well away from their sides, literally gasping for breath. One was
prepared for thunderstorms, even on the largest scale, when they came
up with the usual accompaniments of massed clouds, rumbling or crashing
thunder, and were followed by a deluge of rain; but I could not get
used to what I have never seen anywhere else, and which could only be
described as a “bolt from the blue.”

A very few days after my arrival at Maritzburg at the end of 1875, I
was standing one afternoon in the shade of my little house on a hill,
anxiously watching the picturesque arrival of an ox-waggon laden with
my boxes. It was in the very early summer, and the exigencies of
settling in left me no time to worry about the thunderstorms, of which,
of course, I had often heard. A more serene and brilliant afternoon
could not be imagined, and it was not even hot—at all events, out of
the sun. My two small boys, as usual, trotted after me like dogs,
and clamoured to assist at the arrival of the waggon; so I lifted the
little one up in my arms and stood there, with an elder boy clinging
to my skirts. Suddenly, out of the blue unclouded sky, out of the
blaze of golden sunshine, came a flash and a crash which seemed as
if it must be the crack of doom. No words at my command can give any
idea of the intolerable blinding glare of the light which seemed to
wrap us round, or of the rending sound, as if the universe were being
torn asunder. I suppose I flung myself on the ground, because I was
crouching there, holding the little boys beneath me with some sort of
protective instinct, when in a second or two of time it had all passed,
for I heard only a slight and distant rumble. I do not believe the sun
had ceased shining for an instant, though its light had seemed to be
extinguished by that blaze of fire. Never can I forget my amazement,
an amazement which even preceded my deep thankfulness at finding we
were absolutely unhurt, the fearless little boys only inquiring, “What
was that, Mummy?” There had been no time for their rosy cheeks even to
pale. I wonder what colour _I_ was. I looked at the little stone house
with astonishment to find it still there, for I had expected to see
nothing but a heap of ruins. Nay, it seemed miraculous that the hills
all round should still be standing.

I only saw one more flash equally bad during my two summers in Natal,
and that was whilst a thunderstorm was raging, accompanied by terrific
hail. Of course, I was then in a house and trying to distract my
thoughts from the weather, which I knew must be annihilating my lovely
garden, by dispensing afternoon tea. I am certain _that_ flash came
down upon the tea-tray, for when I lifted up my head (I defy any one
not to cower before a stream of electricity which seems poured upon you
out of a jug), I felt the same surprise at seeing my cups and saucers
unshattered. I am sure they had jumped about, for I heard them, but
they had recovered their equanimity by the time I had. Almost every
day one saw in the newspapers an account of some death by lightning,
and I know of one only too true story, in which our Kaffir washerman
was the victim. He had left our house one fine Monday morning with a
huge bag of clothes on his back, which he intended to wash in the river
at the foot of the hill, when he observed one of these thunderstorms
coming up unusually early, and so took shelter in the verandah of a
small cottage by the roadside. After the worst of the storm had passed
he was preparing to step outside, when a violent flash and a deafening
thunderclap passed over the little house. The lightning must have
been attracted by a nail carelessly sticking up in its shingled roof.
The poor Kaffir chanced to be standing exactly beneath this nail and
was struck down dead at once. I was told that he was in the act of
speaking, promising some one that he would return the same way that
very afternoon.

The streets of Maritzburg used, in my day, to be mended or hardened
with a sort of ironstone which abounds in the district, and in one of
these daily thunderstorms it was not uncommon to see the electricity
rising up as it were from the ground to meet the descending fluid.
Of course, the rivers soon become impassable, and I have a vivid
recollection of four guests, who had ridden out rather earlier than
usual one afternoon to have tea with me, being kept in our tiny house
all night. More than one attempt was made before dark to find and use
the little wooden bridge over the stream, which could hardly be called
a river, but its whereabouts could not even be perceived, and the
horses steadily refused to go out of their depth. So there was nothing
for it except to return, drenched to the skin, and bivouac under our
very small roof for the night.

And yet one is glad of these same rains after the long dry winter, when
all vegetation seems to disappear off the baked earth and the cattle
become so thin that it is a wonder the gaunt skeletons of the poor
trek-oxen can support the weight of their enormous spreading horns.
The changes of temperature in winter were certainly very trying. The
day began fresh and cold and bracing, but the brilliant sunshine soon
changed that into what might be called a very hot English summer’s
day. About four o’clock, when the sun sloped towards the western
hills, it began to grow cold again, and no wrap or greatcoat seemed
too warm to put on then. By night one was only too glad of as big a
fire on the open hearth as could be provided, for fuel was scarce and
very expensive in those days. Doubtless, the railway has improved all
those conditions; but Natal, as far as I saw it, is not a well-wooded
country, except on the Native Reserves, and the only forest—“bush,” as
they call it in Australia—which I saw, cost me a fifty-mile ride to get
to it!

Our poor Kaffir servants used to get violent and prostrating colds in
winter, in spite of each being supplied with an old greatcoat which
had once belonged to a soldier. This the master provides; but if the
man himself can raise an aged and dilapidated tunic besides, he is
supremely happy. Anything so grotesque as this attire cannot well be
imagined, for the red garment (it was almost unrecognisable as ever
having been a tunic by that time) is worn with perfectly bare legs, a
feather or two stuck jauntily on the head or with a crownless hat, and
the true dandy adds a cartridge-case passed through a wide hole in the
lobe of his ear and filled with snuff! Nor will any Kaffir stir out
of doors without a long stick, on account of the snakes: but only the
police used to be allowed to carry the knobkerry, which is a sort of
South African shillelagh and a very formidable weapon.

It always seemed strange to me that a climate which was, on the whole,
so healthy for human beings should not be favourable to animal life.
Dogs do not thrive there at all, and soon become infested with ticks.
One heard constantly of the native cattle being decimated by strange
and weird diseases, and horses, especially imported horses, certainly
require the greatest care. They must never be turned out whilst the dew
is on the grass, unless with a sort of muzzling nosebag on, and the
snakes are a perpetual danger to them, though the bite is not always
fatal, for there are many varieties of snakes which are not venomous.
Still, a native horse is always on the look-out for snakes and dreads
them exceedingly. One night I was cantering down the main street of
Maritzburg on a quiet old pony on my way to the Legislative Council,
where I wanted to hear a very interesting debate on the native question
(which was the burning one of that day), and my pony suddenly leaped
off the ground like an antelope and then shied right across the road.
This panic arose from his having stepped on a thin strip of zinc cut
from a packing-case which must have been opened, as usual, outside
the store or large shop which we were passing. As soon as the pony
put his foot on one end of the long curled-up shaving, it must have
risen up and struck him sharply, waking unpleasant memories of former
encounters with snakes.

Railways were but a dream of the near future in my day. Indeed,
the first sod of the first railway—that between Durban and
Pietermaritzburg—was only turned on January 1, 1876, amid great
enthusiasm. A mail-cart made a tri-weekly trip between the two
towns—fifty-two miles apart—and that was horsed, but on anything like a
journey either oxen or mules were used.

I have seen an ox-wagon arriving at a ball, with pretty young ladies
inside its sheltering hood, who had been seated there all day long,
having started in their ball-dresses directly after breakfast! Mules
were in great request for draught purposes, and up to a point they
answered admirably, jogging along without distress over bad roads
which would soon have knocked up even the staunchest horses. But a
mule is such an unreliable animal, and his character for obstinacy is
thoroughly well deserved. When a mule, or a team of mules, stops on
a particularly sticky bit of road, no power on earth will move him,
and there is nothing for it but to await his good pleasure. I have,
two or three times, journeyed behind a team of sixteen mules, and I
always suffered great anxiety lest they should cease to respond to
the incessant cries of their “Cape-boy” driver, or the still more
persuasive arguments of his assistant, who bore quite a collection of
whips of different lengths for emergencies. Happily the roads were then
in fairly good order, and beyond a tendency to drop into a slow walk at
the slightest hill the mules behaved irreproachably.

Locomotion was the great difficulty in those days, and we
island-dwellers cannot easily realise the vast and trackless spaces
which lie between the specks of townships on a huge continent. Natal is
magnificently watered and grassed in the summer, but the big rivers are
not only a hindrance to journeying, but from a sanitary point of view
they are as undrinkable as the Nile, and probably for the same reasons.
Still, they are there, and future generations will doubtless use them
for irrigation and canals and all the needs of advancing civilisation.

In my day the Boer was quite an unconsidered factor, and we felt we
were performing a Quixotically generous action when, at his own earnest
entreaty, we took him and his debts and his native troubles on our own
shoulders in 1876. He was always extremely dirty, and about a thousand
years behind the rest of the civilised world in his ideas. His religion
was a superstition worthy of the Middle Ages, and his notions of
morality went a good deal further back than even those primitive times.

I confess the only Boer I ever was personally brought into contact
with seemed to me a delightful person! This is how it happened. Soon
after my arrival in Maritzburg, a bazaar was held in aid of some local
literary undertaking. Bazaars were happily of very rare occurrence in
those parts, and this one created quite an excitement and realised
an astonishingly large sum of money. The race-week had been chosen
for the purpose of catching customers among the numerous visitors to
Pietermaritzburg in that gay time, and the wiles employed seemed very
successful. I never heard how or why he got there, but I only know
that a stout, comfortable, well-to-do Dutch farmer suddenly appeared
at the door of the bazaar. He was, of course, at once assailed by
pretty flower-girls and lucky-bag bearers, and cigars and kittens
were promptly pressed on him. But the old gentleman had a plan and a
method of his own, on which he proceeded to act. He had not one single
syllable of English, so it was a case of deeds not words. He began at
the very first stall and worked his way all round. At each stall he
pointed to the biggest thing on it, and held out a handful of coins
in payment. He then shouldered his purchase as far as the next stall,
where he deposited it as a gift to the lady selling, bought her biggest
object, and went on round the hall on the same principle. When it came
to my turn he held out to me the largest wax-doll I ever beheld, and
carried off a huge and unwieldy doll’s house which entirely eclipsed
even his burly figure. My next door (or rather stall) neighbour had a
table full of glass and china, and she consequently viewed the approach
of this article of bazaar commerce with natural misgiving, but as our
ideal customer relieved her of a very large ugly breakfast set, she
managed to make room for the miniature house until she could arrange
a raffle and so get rid of it. The last I saw of that Boer, who must
have contributed largely to our receipts, was his leading a very small
donkey, which he had just bought at the last stall, away by a blue
ribbon halter. I believe it was the only “object” in the whole bazaar
which could have possibly been of the slightest practical use to him,
but the contrast between the weak-kneed and frivolously attired donkey
and its sturdy purchaser was irresistibly comic. No one seemed to know
in the least who he was, but we supposed he must have come down for the
races and backed the winners very successfully.

Our little house stood on a hill about a mile from Maritzburg, and,
remembering the formation of the surrounding country, one realises
how badly the towns in Natal, and probably all over South Africa, are
placed for purposes of defence. Every town, or even little hamlet
or township, which I ever saw, stood in the middle of a wide plain
with low hills all round it, so it is easy for me to realise how
soon cannon planted on those hills would wreck buildings. There was
a great and agreeable difference in the temperature, however, up on
that little hill, but towards the close of the dry winter season the
water-supply became an anxiety. In spite of the extremely cold nights
up there, any plant for which I could spare a daily pail of water
blossomed beautifully all through the winter. I was advised to select
my favourite rose-bushes before the summer rains had ceased, and to
have the baths of the family emptied over them every day, which I did
with perfect success, and was even able to include some azaleas and
camellias in the list of the favoured shrubs.

I was much struck with the rapid growth of trees in Natal, and it was
astonishing to see the height and solidity of trees planted only ten
years before, especially the eucalyptus. But grass walks or lawns are
much discouraged in a garden on account of the facility they afford
as cover for snakes, and red paths and open spaces are to be seen
everywhere instead. Even the lawn-tennis of that day was played on
smooth courts of firmly stamped and rolled red clay. I wonder how the
golf-players manage, for play they do I am certain, as nothing ever
induces either a golfer or a cricketer to forego his game.

One morning, very early, I was taken to the market, and it certainly
was an extraordinary sight. The market-place is always one of the
most salient features of a South African town, and is the centre of
local gossip, just as is the “bazaar” of the East. It was an immense
open space thronged with buyers and sellers; whites, Kaffirs, coolies,
emigrants from St. Helena, and many onlookers like myself. It was all
under Government control and seemed very well managed. There were
official inspectors of the meat offered for sale, and duly authorised
weights and scales, round which surged a vociferous crowd. I was
specially invited to view the butter sent down from the Boer farms up
country, and I cannot say it was an appetising sight. A huge hide, very
indifferently tanned, was unrolled for my edification, and it certainly
contained a substance distantly resembling butter, packed into it, but
apparently at widely differing intervals of time. The condiment was
of various colours, and—how shall I put it?—strengths; milk-sieves
appeared also to have been unknown at that farm, for cows’ hair formed
a noticeable component part of that mass of butter. However, I was
assured that it found ready and willing purchasers, even at four
shillings a pound, and that it was quite possible to remake it, as it
were, and subject it to a purifying process. I confess I felt thankful
that the butter my small family consumed was made under my own eyes.

Waggons laden with firewood were very conspicuous, and their loads
disappeared rapidly, as did also piles of lucerne and other green
forage. There was but little poultry for sale, and very few vegetables.
I remember noticing in all the little excursions I made, within some
twenty miles of Maritzburg, how different the Natal colonist, at
least of those days, was from the Australian or New Zealand pioneer.
At various farmhouses where there was plenty of evidence of a kind
of rough and ready prosperity, and much open-handed hospitality and
friendliness, there would be only preserved milk and tinned butter
available. Now these two items must have indeed been costly by the
time they reached the farms I speak of. Yet there were herds of cattle
grazing around. Nor would there be poultry of any sort forthcoming,
nor a sign of a garden. Of course, it was not my place to criticise;
but if I ventured on a question, I was always told, “Oh, labour is
so difficult to get. You know, the Kaffirs won’t work.” I longed to
suggest that the young people I saw lounging about might very well turn
to and lend a hand, at all events to start a poultry yard, or dairy, or
vegetable garden.

Now, at Fort Napier—the only fortified hill near Maritzburg—every
little hollow and ravine was utilised by the soldiers stationed there
as a garden. The men, of course, work in these little plots themselves
and grow beautiful vegetables. Potatoes and pumpkins, cabbages and
onions, only need to be planted to grow luxuriantly. Why cannot this
be done in the little farms around? I am afraid I took a selfish
interest in the question, as it was so difficult, and often impossible,
to procure even potatoes. Such things grow much more easily, I was
told, at Durban, so probably those difficulties have disappeared with
the opening of the railway—that very railway of which I saw the first
sod turned. My own attempt at a vegetable garden suffered from its
being perched on the top of a hill, where water was difficult to get;
but I was very successful with some poultry, in spite of having to wage
constant war against hawks and snakes.

How fortunate it is that one remembers the laughs of one’s past life
better than its tears! That morning visit to the Pietermaritzburg
market stands out distinctly in my memory chiefly on account of an
absurd incident I witnessed. I had been much interested and amused
looking round, not only at the strange and characteristic crowd, but
at my many acquaintances marketing for themselves. I had listened to
the shouts of the various auctioneers who were selling all manner of
heterogeneous wares, when I noticed some stalwart Kaffirs bearing on
their heads large open baskets filled entirely with coffee-pots of
every size and kind. Roughly speaking, there must have been something
like a hundred coffee-pots in those baskets. They were just leaving an
improvised auction-stand, and following them closely, with an air of
proud possession on his genial countenance, was a specially beloved
friend of my own, who I may mention, was also the beloved friend of all
who knew him. “Are _all_ those coffee-pots yours?” I inquired. “Yes,
indeed; I have just bought them,” he answered. “You must know I am a
collector of coffee-pots and have a great many already; but how lucky I
have been to pick up some one else’s collection as well, and so cheap
too!”

The Kaffirs were grinning, and there seemed a general air of amusement
about, which I could not at all understand until it was explained to me
later that my friend had just bought his own collection of coffee-pots.
His wife thought that the space they occupied in her store-room could
be better employed, and, believing that their owner would not attend
the market that day, had sent the whole lot down to be sold. She told
me afterwards that her dismay was indeed great when her Kaffirs brought
them back in triumph, announcing that the “Inkose” (chieftain) had
just bought them, so the poor lady had to pay the auctioneer’s fees,
and replace the coffee-pots on their shelves with what resignation she
could command.

One of my pleasantest memories of Natal, especially as seen by the
light of recent events, is of a visit I paid to the annual joint
encampment of the Natal Carabineers and the Durban Mounted Rifles. It
was only what would be called, I suppose, a flying camp, and the ground
chosen that year (August 1876) was on “Botha’s Flat,” halfway between
Maritzburg and Durban. I well remember how beautiful was the drive
from Maritzburg over the Inchanga Pass, and how workmanlike the little
encampment looked as I came upon it (after some break-neck driving),
with its small tents dotted on a green down.

Although one little knew it, that same encampment was the school where
were trained the men who have so lately shown the worth of the lessons
they were then learning. The whole training seemed practical and
admirable in the highest degree. It had to be carried out amid every
sort of difficulty, and, indeed, one might almost say discouragement.
In those distant days such bodies of volunteers were struggling on with
very little money, very little public interest or sympathy, and with
great difficulty on the part of the members of these plucky little
forces in obtaining leave for even this short annual drill. I was told
that both the corps were much stronger on paper, but that the absentees
could not be spared from the stores, or sugar estates, or offices to
which they belonged.

I had, much earlier in the year, at our midsummer, in fact, seen
some excellent swimming drill at certain athletic sports held in the
little park at Maritzburg, through which a river runs. The keenest
competition on that occasion lay between these same Natal Carabineers
and a smart body of Mounted Police. The most difficult part of the
stream, with crumbling banks and mud-holes, was chosen, and at a given
signal they all plunged in on horseback, holding their carbines high
above their heads. In some cases the riders slipped off their horses
and swam by their side, mounting again directly the opposite bank
was gained; and I noticed how well trained were the horses, and how
at their master’s whistle they stood still to allow them to remount
instantly. How well this training has stood the test of practical
warfare let the late campaign tell. And we must also bear in mind that
all this training was going on nearly thirty years ago!

It was partly to show my own sympathy and interest in this same
movement that I accepted the invitation of the commandant to spend a
couple of nights at the camp and see what they were doing. A lonely
little inn hard by, where a tiny room could be secured for me, made
this excursion possible, and I can never forget some of the impressions
of that visit. When I read in the papers how splendidly the Natal
colonist came forward in the late campaign, even from the purely
military point of view, I remember that camp, and I understand that
I was then watching the forging of those links in our long imperial
chain. The men who came out so grandly as “soldiers of the Queen,” no
matter by what local names they might have been called, are probably
the sons of the stalwart volunteers I saw, but the teaching of that and
succeeding encampments has evidently borne good fruit.

It was indeed serious work they were all engaged on during those bright
winter days, and my visit was not allowed to interrupt for a moment
the drill which seemed to go on all through the daylight hours. What
helped to make the lesson so valuable to the earnest learners was, that
all went precisely as though a state of war existed. There were no
servants, no luxuries—all was exactly as it probably was in the late
campaign.

I dined at the officers’ mess that evening. Our table-cloth was of
canvas, our candles were tied to cross pieces of wood, and the food was
served in the tins in which it was cooked. Tea was our only beverage,
but the open air had made us all so hungry that everything seemed
delicious. It was, I remember, bitterly cold, and the slight tent did
not afford much shelter from the icy wind. How well I recollect my
great longing to wrap myself up in the one luxury of the camp—a large
and beautiful goatskin karosse on which I was seated! But that would
have been to betray my chilliness, which would never have done. We
separated somewhere about half-past eight—for we had dined as soon
as ever it got too dark to go on drilling—but not before the whole
encampment had assembled to sing “God save the Queen,” with all their
heart as well as with all their lungs,—a fitting finish to the day’s
work.

I had some other delightful rides in Natal, one especially on the
peaceful errand of a visit to a Wesleyan Mission station about a dozen
miles off at Edendale. It was a perfect winter’s day, and the road was
fairly good.

I have often wondered why our own beloved Mother Church employs
such slow and cumbrous machinery in dealing with native races. She
is apparently considering the subject in the time it takes for the
Baptists or Wesleyans to start a settlement. So long ago as 1851 a
certain James Allison, a Wesleyan missionary who had worked among the
Basuto and Amaswasi tribes, bought some six thousand acres hereabout
from old Pretorius, the Dutch President of Natal, and set to work to
teach the Kaffirs not only Christianity but citizenship. Now-a-days
there are two chapels and four schools, all built by the natives
themselves, as well as several Sunday Schools. In former days there had
also been an industrial school which had turned out capital artisans,
but the yearly grant of £100 from Government had been withdrawn before
my visit, and the school was in consequence closed. The existing
schools only receive fifty pounds a year from outside, and all the
other expenses of the flourishing little Mission are borne by the
people themselves. Such neat, comfortable brick houses and such gay
gardens, to say nothing of “provision grounds” full of potatoes,
pumpkins, and even green peas. Lots of poultry everywhere, and an
air of neat prosperity over everything. I was told there were many
excellent Norwegian Missions on the borders of Zululand, and I hope
they still flourish, for it is difficult to overrate the value of such
settlements as a factor in the spread of civilisation as well as in
that of Christianity.

But I had really only one long ride during my thirteen months in
Natal, and that was later in the same winter season, in fact, quite
at the end—in September. Five cruel months of absolutely dry weather
had reduced the roads to fine red powder, and the vegetation to
sun-dried hay, but still the air was beautiful and exhilarating as
we set forth—a little party of four, including a Kaffir guide—very
early one lovely morning. At first we headed for Edendale, but soon
left it on our right, and pushed on, before the sun got too hot, and
whilst our somewhat sorry steeds were fresh, for “Taylor’s”—a roadside
shanty twenty miles off. Our destination was a fine forest called
“Seven-mile Bush,” only fifty miles away but with several hill-ranges
to be crossed. Two hours’ bait started us again at 2 P.M. in good
fettle, and it was fairly easy going to Eland’s River, which we reached
at 4 o’clock, and where we off-saddled for half-an-hour. The rough
waggon-track which had been our only road had been steadily rising
ever since our first halt, and we were now amid beautiful undulating
downs with distant ranges ever in front of us. No sooner had we climbed
painfully over one saddle than another seemed to block our way, and I
confess my courage rather sank when, with twilight fast coming on and
the path getting steeper with every mile, I inquired of the guide how
far off we still were. Of course, my question had to be in pantomime,
and his answer—_five_ dips of his hand towards the hills—told me we had
yet five low ranges to cross.

The last few miles seemed a nightmare of stumbling up and down
break-neck places on tired horses in the dark, and the contrast of a
charming little house at last, with lights and blazing fires, was all
the more delightful. Indeed, it seemed to us, stumbling out of the
darkness and a chilling mist, that nothing short of Aladdin’s lamp
could at all account for the transport of all the nice furniture,
pictures, glass and china along such impassable tracks. However,
they were all there, and everything which goes to make up a pretty
and refined home besides, including a charming hostess and two rosy
children. We were waited on by Kaffir boys in long white garments,
looking for all the world like black-faced choristers. But after
gallons of tea and a capital supper, bed seemed the most attractive
suggestion, and many hours of dreamless sleep wiped away all fatigue
and started us off early next morning in splendid health and spirits to
explore the magnificent forest close by.

I have often thought that the three most distinct memories of beautiful
scenes, which must ever remain vividly before me, are, my first view
of the Himalayas, early one morning from the Grand Trunk Road, when I
complained that I could not see them, and discovered it was because I
had not looked half high enough. That was indeed a revelation of solemn
mountain grandeur. Next to it ranks the mighty sweep of the Niagara
river as you see it from the railway, and a few moments later behold it
thundering over the edge. And the third is that long, lonely morning in
the magnificent forest in the heart of Natal, the recollection of which
dwarfs all other trees to insignificance. The growth not only of giant
timber but of exquisite under-growth of ferns and delicate foliage was
indeed superb. Of flowers there were none, because the sun could not
enter those cathedral glades except at the very edge and outskirt where
the big trees had been felled.

I confess I should greatly have preferred to wander as far as I
dared, and looked longer into the old Elephant pits, and heard more
stories of the comparatively recent dates at which tigers, panthers,
and leopards could be met with. And I also wanted to go deep enough
among the overhanging _lianes_, or monkey-ropes as they call them,
to see, perchance, the great baboons swinging on them. But our host
evidently regarded his new saw-mill as the greatest point of interest,
and thither we betook ourselves—all too soon for my enjoyment. There,
indeed, one beheld a marvellous chaos of wheels and chains and saws,
which took hold of these same giant trunks and tossed them out and
passed them from one to the other, until they emerged, shaven and
shorn into the planks of every-day commerce. Very wonderful, no doubt,
and one asked one’s-self every moment, “how did these huge masses of
machinery get over that last range?” But still I feel that it was the
forest I came to see and I was only peeping into it.

However, next day I had a fine long ramble in it, and explored to my
heart’s content, but it was damp and drizzling, and so it remained
the day after that again, when we started very early for home. The
horses were quite fresh and rested, and carried us well, in spite of
the extreme slipperiness of the mountain tracks. Curiously enough as
soon as we got clear of the ranges we rode into the thickest fog I
have ever seen. We could only go at a slow walk in Indian file, with
the Kaffir leading, and every few minutes he got off his rough little
pony and patted the ground to _feel_ where we were. They said it was
a sea fog, but it wrapped us up as thoroughly as if it had been the
thickest of blankets, and one felt quite helpless. Certainly nothing
is so demoralising as a fog, and I never wish to repeat that morning’s
experience. We should have tumbled over “Taylor’s,” or rather passed
it, though it stood quite close to the track, if a cock had not
fortunately crowed, and the leading pony neighed in reply, calling
forth a chorus of barks from quite unseen dogs, who dared not venture
an inch from the sheltering porch.

Although my stay in Natal lasted very little over a year, I made many
friends there, and it is with sympathising regret I often saw in the
roll-call of her local defenders the familiar names of those whom I
remember as bright-eyed children. They have all sprung to arms in
defence of the fair land of their fathers’ adoption, and when the tale
of this crisis in the history of Natal comes to be written, the names
of her gallant young defenders will stand out on its pages in letters
of light, and the record of their noble deeds will serve as an example
for ever and for ever. So will they not have laid down their lives in
vain.




VI

“STELLA CLAVISQUE MARIS INDICI”


“The Star and the Key of the Indian Ocean” lay smiling before me on
Easter Sunday, April 1878.

The little schooner in which I had come across from Natal had just
dropped her anchor in the harbour of Port Louis after seventeen days of
light and baffling winds. The tedium of that past time slipped quickly
out of my mind, however, as the fast-growing daylight revealed the
beauties of Mauritius, a little island which I had so often read of and
yet so little expected ever to behold. The interest of the tragic tale
of “Paul and Virginia” had riveted my wandering attention during the
French reading-lessons of my youth, though I always secretly wondered
why Virginia had been such a goose as to decline help from a sailor,
apparently only because he was somewhat insufficiently clad. But I
should not have dared to give utterance to this opinion, so prudish was
the domestic atmosphere of those early days.

The first real interest I felt in Mauritius arose from the frequent
mention of the little island as a health-resort, in some charming
letters of Miss Eden’s published about five-and-twenty years ago, but
written long before that date, when she was keeping house for her
brother, Lord Auckland, then Governor-General of India. Miss Eden
speaks of many friends as well as of Indian tourists (for “Paget,
M.P.’s” existed apparently even in those distant times) having gone
for change of air to “the Mauritius” and coming back quite strong and
robust. She mentions one instance of a whole opera company, whose
health gave way in Calcutta, and who made the excursion, returning in
time for their next season with restored health, and she often longs in
vain for such a change for her hard-worked brother.

But all this must have been many years before the first mysterious
outbreak of fever which ravaged the place in 1867. I was assured that
before that date the reputation of the pretty little island had stood
very high as a sanatorium, but no doctor could give me any reason for
the sudden appearance of this virulent fever. There were, of course,
many theories, each of which had earnest supporters. Some said the
great hurricane which had just before swept over the island brought
the malaria on its wings. Others declared the _déboisement_ which had
been carried on to a devastating extent in order to increase the area
available for sugar-cane planting was to blame; whilst a third faction
put all the trouble down to the great influx of coolie immigrants
introduced about that date to work in the cane-fields. Perhaps the
truth lies in a blending of these three principal theories. Anyway, I
felt it sad and hard that so really lovely an island should have such
dark and trying days behind as well as before it.

But, after seventeen days of glaring lonely seas and dark monotonous
nights, one is not apt to think of anything beyond the immediate
“blessings of the land,” and I gazed with profound content on the chain
of volcanic hills, down whose rugged sides many _cascades_ tumbled
their gleaming silver. Coral reefs, with white foam tossing over them,
in spite of the calm sapphire sea on which we were gently floating
into harbour, seemed spread all around us, and indeed I believe these
_récifs_ circle the whole island with a dangerous though protecting
girdle. Sloping ground, covered with growth of differing greens,
some showing the bluish hue of the sugar-cane, others the more vivid
colouring of a coarse tall grass, led the eye gently down to the
flowering trees and foliage round the clustering houses of Port Louis,
whose steep high-pitched roofs looked so suggestive of tropic rains.
Port Louis was once evidently a stately capital, and large handsome
houses still remain. These have, however, nearly all been turned into
offices or banks, and the fine large Government House, or _Hôtel du
Gouvernement_, is always empty as to its numerous bedrooms. Hardly
a white person sleeps with impunity in Port Louis, though all the
business—official and private—is carried on there, and it contains many
excellent shops.

You must climb up, however, some few miles by the steep little railway
before you realise how really lovely the scenery of Mauritius can be.
All in miniature, it is true, but very ambitious in character. Except
for the glowing tints of the volcanic rocks and the tropic vegetation,
one might be looking at a bit of Switzerland through the wrong end of
a telescope; but nowhere else have I ever seen such tints as the bare
mountain sides take at sunset. The tufa rocks glow like wet porphyry,
and so magical are the hues that one half expects to see the grand
recumbent figure of the old warrior of the Corps de Garde hill outlined
against the purple sky, rise up and salute the island which once was
his.

Mauritius is in many ways an object-lesson which is not without its
significance just now. Here we have a little island thoroughly French
in its history and people, and inhabited by many of the _vieille roche_
who fled there in the Terror days. Battles between French and English
by land and sea raged round its sunny shores in the first few years of
the just-ended century. Dauntless attacks and valiant resistance have
left heroic memories behind them. We took it by _force majeure_ in
1811, but it was not until the great settling up at the Restoration
in 1814 that the hatchet may be said to have been finally buried, and
the two nationalities began to pull together comfortably. I was rather
surprised to see how thoroughly French Mauritius still is in language
and in characteristics; but the result is indeed satisfactory. I found
it quite the most highly civilised of the colonies I then knew, and
from the social point of view there was nothing left to be desired.
The early class of French settler had evidently been of a much higher
type than our own rough-and-ready colonist, and the refinement so
introduced had influenced the whole place. Did I find any race-hatred,
oppression, or heart-burnings? No, indeed; of all the dependencies of
our Empire not one has come forward more generously or more splendidly
with substantial offers of help than that little lonely isle, “the
Star and Key of the Indian Ocean.” I venture to say, speaking from my
experience of those days, that the King has no more loyal subjects than
the Mauritians.

It may be that the trials and troubles we have all borne there side
by side in the past half-century have knitted and bound us together.
We have had hurricane, pestilence, and fire to contend with, besides
the chronic hard times of the sugar industry. In these fast-following
calamities French and English have stood shoulder to shoulder, and
the only race or religious rivalry has been in good and noble deeds.
In the Zulu War of 1881, when Sir Bartle Frere sent a ship down
with despatches to my dear husband, then the Lieutenant-Governor of
Mauritius, urgently asking for help to “hold the fort” until the
English reinforcements could arrive, Mauritius sprang to her feet then
as now, and gave willing and substantial help. Every soldier who was
able to stand up started at twenty-four hours’ notice for Durban. The
same day the mayor of Port Louis held a meeting, at which a volunteer
corps of doctors and nurses was at once raised, with plenty of money to
equip them, and they, as well as cooks and cows—both much needed—were
on their way to Durban before another sun had set. It was indeed
gratifying to hear afterwards that not only had our little military
effort been of great service, but that the abundance of fresh milk
supplied had helped many a case of dysentery among the garrison at
Durban to turn the corner on the road to recovery.

Nothing can be much more beautiful than the view from the back verandah
at “Réduit,” as the fine country Government House, built by the
Chevalier de la Brillane for the Governors of Mauritius more than a
century ago, is called. Before you spreads an expanse of English lawn
only broken by clumps of gay foliaged shrubs or beds of flowers, and
behind that again is the wooded edge of the steep ravine, where the
mischievous “jackos” hide, who come up at night to play havoc with the
sugar-canes on its opposite side. The only day of the week on which
they ventured up was Sunday afternoon, when all the world was silent
and sleepy.

It used to be my delight to watch from an upper bedroom window the
stealthy appearance of the old sentinel monkeys, who first peered
cautiously up and evidently reconnoitred the ground thoroughly. After a
few moments of careful scouting a sort of chirrup would be heard, which
seemed the signal for the rest of the colony to scramble tumultuously
up the bank. Such games as then started among the young ones, such
antics and tumblings and rompings! But all the time the sentinels never
relaxed their vigilance. They spread like a cordon round the gambolling
young ones, and kept turning their horribly wise human-looking heads
from side to side incessantly, only picking and chewing a blade of
grass now and then. The mothers seemed to keep together, and doubtless
gossiped; but let my old and perfectly harmless Skye terrier toddle
round the corner of the verandah, and each female would dart into the
group of playing monkeys, seize her property by its nearest leg, toss
it over her shoulder, and quicker than the eye could follow she would
have disappeared down the ravine. The sentinels had uttered their
warning cry directly, but they always remained until the very last,
and retreated in good order; though there was no cause for alarm, as
“Boxer’s” thoughts were fixed on the peacocks—apt to trespass at those
silent and unguarded hours—and not on the monkeys at all!

This is a sad digression, but yet it has not led us far from that
halcyon scene, which is so often before the eyes of my memory. The
beautiful changing hues of the Indian Ocean binds the horizon in this
and every other extensive island view, but between us and it there
arises in the distance a very forest of tall green masts, the spikes
of countless aloe blossoms. I have heard Mauritius described as “an
island with a barque always to windward,” and there is much truth in
the saying; though one could easily mistake the glancing wing of a huge
seagull or the long white floating tail-feathers of the “boatswain
bird” for the shimmer of a distant sail.

I fear it is a very prosaic confession to make, but one fact which
added considerably to my comfort in Mauritius was the excellence of
the cook of that day. I hear that education and Board schools have
now improved him off the face of the island, but he used to be a very
clever mixture of the best of French and Indian cookery traditions.
The food supply was poor. We got our beef from Madagascar, and our
mutton came from Aden. We found it answer to import half-a-dozen little
sheep at a time; they cost about £1 apiece for purchase and carriage,
but could be allowed only a month’s run in the beautiful park of five
hundred acres which surrounded Réduit. More than that made them ill,
so rich and luscious was the grass; for sheep, like human beings, seem
to need a good deal of exercise, and, as Abernethy advised the rich
gourmet to do, ought to “live on a shilling a day and earn it.”

These same sheep, however, or rather one of the servants, gave me one
of the worst frights of my life. We were at luncheon one day when an
under servant, who never appeared in the dining-room, rushed in calling
out, “Oh, Excellence, _quel malheur_!” then he lapsed into Hindustani
mixed with patois, declaring there had been a terrible railway accident
and that _all_ were injured and two killed outright! As this same line,
which had a private station in the Park about a mile away, constantly
brought us up friends at that hour, I nearly fainted with horror;
and yet I remember how angry, though relieved, I felt when the same
agitated individual wailed out, “and they were all so fat!” One is
apt to be indignant at having been tricked into emotion before one is
grateful for the relief to one’s mind.

Almost the first thing which struck me in Mauritius was the absence of
cows as well as sheep. I never saw a cow grazing, and yet there seemed
plenty of good milk, and even a pallid pat of fresh butter appeared at
breakfast. But there were really plenty of cows, only the coolies kept
them in their houses, to the despair of the sanitary inspectors, who
insisted on proper cowsheds being built at an orthodox distance from
the little _case_ or native house, only to find that the family moved
down and lived with the cow as before. One year there was an outbreak
of pleuro-pneumonia among the poor cows, and I heard many pathetic
stories of the despair of the owners when sentence of death had to be
pronounced in the infected districts against their beloved cows. It was
impossible to make the coolies understand that this was a precautionary
measure, and the large and liberal compensation which they received
seemed to bring no consolation whatever with it. I was assured that in
many instances the owner of the doomed animal would fling himself at
the inspector’s feet, beseeching him to spare the life of the cow, and
to kill him (the coolie) instead!

The roads in Mauritius were admirably kept, but very hard and very
hilly. The big horse, usually imported from Australia, soon knocked his
legs to pieces if much used up and down these hills; but an excellent
class of hardy, handsome, little pony came to us from Pégou and other
parts of Burma, as well as from Timor and Java. These animals were very
expensive to buy, but excellent for work, and I should think would
have made splendid polo ponies; but polo did not seem to be much played
in Mauritius at that date.

Since my day another frightful hurricane has devastated the poor
little island, but I heard many stories of former ones. During the
summer season—that is, from about November until March or April—the
local Meteorological Office keeps a sharp eye on the barometer, and
every arrangement is cut and dry, ready to be acted upon at a moment’s
warning, for a _coup de vent_ is a rapid traveller and does not dawdle
on its way.

We had many false alarms during my stay, for it sometimes happens that
the hurrying winds are diverted from the track they started on, and so
we escaped, _quitte pour la peur_. When the first warning gun fired all
the ships in harbour began to get ready to go outside, for the greatest
mischief done in the big hurricane of 1868 was from the crowded vessels
in the comparatively small harbour of Port Louis grinding against each
other; to say nothing of those ships which, as Kipling sings, were

    “Flung to roost with the startled crows.”

At the second signal gun, which meant that the force of the wind was
increasing and travelling towards us, the ships got themselves out of
harbour, and every business man who lived in the country betook himself
to the railway station, as after the third gun, which might be heard
within even half-an-hour, the trains would cease to run. I chanced to
be returning from Port Louis on one of these occasions, and certainly
the railway station presented a curious sight. All my acquaintances
seemed to be there, hurrying home with anxious and pre-occupied faces.
Each man grasped a ham firmly in one hand and his despatch-box in the
other, whilst his _pion_, or messenger, was following, closely laden
with baskets of bread and groceries, and attended by coolies with
live fowls and bottles of lamp oil! My own head servant, “Monsieur
Jorge,” always made the least sign of a “blow” an excuse for demanding
sundry extra rupees in hand for carriole money, and started directly
in one of these queer little vehicles for a round of marketing in the
neighbourhood.

At the first gun heard at Réduit an army of gardeners used to set to
work to move the hundreds of large plants out of the verandahs into a
big empty room close by. They were followed by the house-carpenter and
his mates, armed with enormous iron wedges and sledge-hammers. These
worthies proceeded to close the great clumsy hurricane shutters, which
so spoil the outer effect of all Mauritian houses, and besides putting
the heavy iron bars in their places, wedged them firmly down. It really
looked as if the house was being prepared for a siege. Happily, my own
experience did not extend beyond a couple of days of this state of
affairs, nor was any storm I assisted at dignified by the name of a
hurricane, but I could form from these little experiences only too good
an idea of what the real thing must be like. Personally, my greatest
inconvenience arose from the pervading smell of the lamps, which were,
of course, burning all day as well as all night, and from our never
being able to get rid of the smell of food. One was so accustomed to
the fresh-air life, with doors and windows always open, that these
odours were very trying.

But the noise is, I think, what is least understood. Even in a “blow”
it is truly deafening, and never ceases for an instant. At Réduit there
was a long well-defended corridor upstairs, and I thought I would
try and walk along its length. Not a breath of wind really got in,
or the roof would soon have been whisked off the house; but although
I flatter myself I am tolerably brave, I could not walk down that
corridor! Every yard or so a resounding blow, as if from a cannon-ball,
would come thundering against the outer side, whilst the noise of many
waters descending in solid sheets on the roof, and the screams of the
shrieking, whistling winds outside, were literally deafening. It was
impossible to believe that any structure made by human hands could
stand; and yet that was not a hurricane! Never shall I forget my last
outdoor glimpse, which I was invited to take just before the big
hall-door on the leeward side was finally shut and barricaded. I could
not have believed that the sky could be of such an inky blackness,
except at one corner, where a triangle of the curtain of darkness, with
sharply defined outlines, had apparently just been turned back to show
the deep blood-red colouring behind. It was awful beyond all words to
describe; but “Monsieur Jorge,” who held the door open for me, said:
“Dat not real bad sky.” He seemed hard to please, I thought.

However, a couple of days’ imprisonment was all we suffered that
time, and the instant the gale dropped, at sunrise on the second day,
the rain ceased and the sun shone out. It was a curious scene the
rapidly-opened shutters revealed. Every leaf was stripped off the
trees, which were bare as mid-winter. A few of the smaller ones had
been uprooted bodily and whisked away down the ravine. Some were found
later literally standing on their heads a good way off. It was quite a
new idea to me that roots could be snowy white, but they had been so
completely washed bare of soil by the down-pouring rain that they were
absolutely clean and white. A few hours later I was taken for a drive
round some neighbouring cane-fields. Of course, the road was like the
bed of a mountain torrent, and how the pony managed to steer himself
and the gig among the boulders must ever remain a mystery. Already
over three hundred Malagashes (coolies) were at work covering up the
exposed roots of the canes, for each plant stood in a large hole partly
filled with water, which was rapidly draining away. The force of the
wind seemed to have whirled the cane round and round until it stood,
quite bare of its crown of waving leaves, in the middle of a hole. Had
the sun reached these exposed roots nothing could have saved the plant.

But my memories must not be all meteorological. Rather let me return
in thought to the merry and happy intercourse with pleasant friends,
of which so many hours stand brightly out. In all the colonies I
know hospitality is one of the cardinal virtues, and nowhere more
so than in pretty little Mauritius. I heard many lamentations that
in these altered times the gracious will far outran the restricted
possibilities, but still there used to be pleasant dances, without end
and number, most amusing cameron-fishing _déjeuners_, and _chasses au
cerf_ in the winter months. It so chanced that we had a guest hailing
from Exmoor, who was bidden to one of these popular forms of _le
sport_, and never shall I forget his horror at finding he was required
to carry a gun and shoot a stag if he could! No fox-hunter invited
to assist at a battue of foxes in the Midlands could have been more
shocked and disgusted, and it was quite in vain that we cited Scotch
deer-stalking in excuse. This was _not_ deer-stalking he vowed, for
you sat on a camp-stool in a thick forest and took pot shots at the
poor animals as they were driven past certain spots! An excellent
luncheon was served in the middle of the _chasse_, so it was always
a favourite diversion, but the hospitable owner of one of the best
deer districts told me that he had to inflict fines on these sportsmen
who only wounded the poor deer. Some very handsome “heads” could be
got among them however. But, indeed, I am constrained to say that the
idea of sport, as we understand it, seemed rather undeveloped in that
fairy island, and it was difficult to keep one’s countenance when, in
answer to the Governor’s inquiry as to the success of a morning among
the cane-fields in pursuit of red-legged partridges and quail, the
sportsman rose in his place, bowed low, and answered, “Excéllence, j’ai
tué un, mais j’ai blessé deux.”

The annual race-meeting, held on the Champ-de-Mars outside Port Louis,
was remarkable for the crowds of coolies it attracted from all parts of
the island. The horses were the least important or interesting part of
the performance, and the betting on even the principal races appeared
to be confined to a few Arab merchants, who certainly did not look at
all “horsey” in their gay and flowing robes. It so chanced that I was
being driven home very late the night before the third principal day
of one of these race-meetings, and I thought the shuffling, sheeted
crowds with which the roads were thronged by far the most curious and
suggestive part of the proceedings. No cemetery giving up its silent
sleepers could have furnished a more ghostly crew. Young and old,
babes astride on their mothers’ hips, older children carried by their
fathers, aged men and girls in their shrouding veils, all gliding,
barefooted, in absolute silence along the dusty roads in such a dense
and never-ending crowd that my carriage could only move, and that with
difficulty, at a foot’s pace. It was a lovely starlight, cold night,
and I had the hood of the victoria lowered so as to better take in the
weird scene, to which the dangling cooking-pots carried by all, added
a grotesque touch. At various parts of the road the wily Chinaman had
hastily set up a little booth of palm branches, from which he dispensed
refreshments of sorts doubtless at a high price. These moving masses
were perfectly orderly, nor did they seem to require any restraining or
even guiding force.

Next day I naturally looked out from my beautiful rose-wreathed stand
on the Champ-de-Mars for these white-clad crowds, and there they
were, sure enough, covering the slopes of the encircling natural
amphitheatre, but to my astonishment, though it was barely noon and
the principal race was yet to be run, the massed mob was rapidly
dispersing. As a matter of fact, none of these fifty thousand coolie
spectators cared in the least about the races. That final Saturday
of the race week had come to be regarded as a public holiday. Work
was suspended at the sugar estates all over the Island, and the race
meeting was just an occasion on which all expected to meet their
friends. Every coolie had washed his garment to a snowy whiteness, and
this, taken in conjunction with the vivid touches of colour dear to the
Oriental eye, furnished by the babies’ little scarlet caps and the red
edging of the women’s veils, made up an enchanting picture set against
the vivid green and glowing blue of earth and sky.

It was always great fun when the flagship of the East Indian squadron
paid us an all too brief visit; and, indeed, the arrival of any
man-of-war used to be made an excuse for a little extra gaiety. It was
my special delight to get the midshipmen to come in batches and stay at
Réduit, although I often found myself at my wits’ end to provide them
with game to shoot at, for that was what their hearts were most fixed
on. They all brought up weird and obsolete fowling-pieces, which the
moment they had finished breakfast they wanted to go and let off in the
park. What fun those boys were, and what dears! One chubby youth, being
questioned as to whether midshipmen were permitted to marry, answered,
“No, but sometimes there was a _candlestick_ marriage.”

“A _what_?”

“A candlestick marriage, sir,—not allowed, you know.”

“Clandestine” was the proper word, but the mistake had great success as
a joke.

My young soldier guests were quite as gallant and susceptible to the
charms of the bright eyes and pretty, gentle manners of my pet French
girls, but I often felt disconcerted to find that at my numerous _bals
privés_ there was a difficulty in getting them to dance with each
other, because the red-coated youths would not or could not speak one
word of French, whereas that difficulty never seemed to weigh with the
middy for a moment.

I dare say things are now different, and that improved mail and cable
services have changed the loneliness of my day, when there was no
cable beyond Aden and only a mail steamer once a month. I always felt
as though we ourselves were on a ship anchored in the midst of a
lonely ocean, and that once in four weeks another ship sped past us,
casting on board mail bags and cablegrams. But even as we stood with
stretched-out hands, craving for more news or more details of what news
was flung to us, the passing steamer had sunk below the horizon, and we
were left to possess our souls in what patience we might until the next
mail day came round.

The consequence of this comparative isolation was that few visitors
came our way, so that it aroused quite a little excitement in our
small community to hear that the Government of Madagascar—a curious
mixture in that day of power vested in the hands of a Queen, who was
always expected to marry her prime minister—intended to send three
delegates to Europe _viâ_ Mauritius to protest against the proposed
French protectorate. These delegates were dignified by the name of
Ambassadors, and their mission was to seek the intervention of Great
Britain and other European powers. We were instructed to receive them
with all official courtesy, including salutes from big guns and guards
of honour and so forth; the worst of all this ceremonial being that
the idea became firmly impressed on their minds that England was quite
prepared to take up their quarrel, or, at least, to remonstrate with
France. So it was a very happy and hopeful trio of “Ambassadors” who
presented themselves, with a number of attendants, including several
interpreters, at Réduit one evening to go through the ordeal of a
formal banquet.

I confess to a certain amount of curiosity when I heard that the
ambassadors were not only as black as jet, but they were quite unused
to the forms of society, and that, in fact, their only experience of
the ways of English folk was gathered from Wesleyan missionaries near
their chief towns. Indeed, the only English entertainment they had
ever seen was a school-feast to little native children, at which they
had been onlookers, and which, as one of the interpreters informed me,
had seemed to them a strange and puzzling performance.

However, when the dinner-hour arrived I beheld three fine, dignified
and stately gentlemen, quite as black nevertheless as their faultless
evening dress, the only false note being a massive gold watch chain,
from which dangled rather an aggressive bunch of lockets and other
ornaments, and with which each ambassador was decorated. Beautiful
bows were exchanged, and nothing could be more correct than the
fashion in which the senior dignitary offered me his arm. With an
interpreter on my left hand we got on famously all through dinner,
with absolutely no mistakes in essentials, though I often observed
some anxiety in the interpreter’s face. I suppose he felt responsible
for their manners. But the false hopes were there all the time, and I
felt myself to be quite a cruel monster when I had to whisper to the
interpreter to explain to his black Excellency, that it was only the
usual custom for the Governor to propose after the toast of our own
Queen the health of the sovereign of any foreign guests at table. Poor
ambassadors! they thought this commonplace courtesy meant a public
announcement of England’s intention of ranging herself on their side
of the question at issue. One did not realise at the time what a
deadly importance they attached to all these trifles, nor would we
perhaps have wondered at it so much had we known that they felt their
own lives depended on the success of the mission. They considered it a
most hopeful sign when I asked them after dinner to write their names
in my little birthday-book; and most astonishing names they were, each
name occupying three lines, but all apparently forming one syllable!
They seemed quite familiar with a pen, and each letter was beautifully
formed, only they were all joined together.

There is an excellent and most comfortable rule in the Colonial Service
which forbids a Governor to receive any gifts. I suppose it would also
apply to a Governor’s wife if the said gifts were of any intrinsic
value; but I did not see my way to wounding the feelings of my poor
guests that evening by sheltering myself behind official etiquette when
they tendered a hideous little glass biscuit-box and a sort of native
quilt (spoiled by vivid aniline dyes) for my acceptance. Yet I had
terrible misgivings all the time that they thought they were securing
my interest and co-operation in their affairs, and I even edged in
a word or two in my thanks through the interpreter to imply that
acceptance of their gifts must be taken “without prejudice.” I do not
believe, however, that he had the heart to pass my remark on, for the
ambassadors beamed joyously on me and the rest of the company all the
time.

I heard afterwards that they had made desperate efforts at all
the European Courts, beginning with that of St. James’s to secure
intervention, and that it was impossible to make them understand that
no one was able or willing to take up their quarrel. So in the fulness
of time, their money being all spent, they had to return to their own
land, where failure meant death, which I believe they welcomed rather
than the new order of things.




VII

GENERAL CHARLES GORDON


I feel as if no sketch, however slight, of my short stay in beautiful
Mauritius would be complete without a reference to General Gordon.
Soon after our own arrival Colonel Charles Gordon came in command of
the small body of Royal Engineers stationed there. From the very first
his delightful personality made itself felt, and although I suspect
that very few of the island-dwellers had the least idea of what a
name to conjure with “Chinese Gordon” was, still he at once assumed
that amazing sway over men’s hearts of which he possessed the secret.
Looking back on it through all these years I think the wonderful
humility of the man is the first thing one realises. He took up his
duties and his position in that obscure little corner of the Empire
with just as much interest and simplicity as though he had never led
armies to victory or changed the fate of nations. I am proud to say
we saw a great deal of him, though it had to be on his own terms
and in his own way. Of course, he was asked to the large and formal
entertainments at Réduit, but he always excused himself, and only came
to dine with us when we were quite alone. He would change into the mess
uniform, which it was the custom always to wear at Government House, in
the carriole which brought him up, and he once gave this as an excuse
for the extreme crookedness of his black neck-tie.

On these occasions, which I am happy to say were very frequent, the
dinner had to be of the most simple character and compressed into the
shortest possible space. I do not remember whether he took wine or not,
but he consumed an immense amount of black coffee, not at dinner, but
directly after, when we adjourned to the verandah and cigarettes were
lighted. Every half-hour a servant brought a fresh cup of fragrant
coffee, and noiselessly put it on the little table at Colonel Gordon’s
elbow, and this went on for hours! It is impossible to convey in
words any idea of the singular charm of Gordon’s conversation. With
so appreciative and sympathetic a listener as my dear husband was, he
gave of his best and that was very good. Not in the least egotistical,
his vivid narratives were the most thrillingly interesting it has
ever been my good fortune to listen to. Every word he said, for all
its picturesqueness, bore the stamp of reality, and the scenes he
described at once stood out before your eyes. A question now and then
was all that was needed to sustain the delightful flow of talk. He
never uttered a word which could be called “cant,” nor did he bring his
religious opinions into prominence. One gathered from his utterances
that he was more deeply imbued with the “enthusiasm of humanity” than
with any dogma.

His eyes were the most remarkable part of his face, and I cannot
imagine any one who has ever seen them forgetting their wonderful
beauty. It was not merely that they were of a crystal clearness and
as blue as a summer sky, but the expression was different to that of
any other human eye I have ever seen. In the first place, instead of
the trained, conventional glance with which we habitually regard each
other and which, certainly at first, tells you nothing whatever of
your new acquaintance’s character or inner nature, Gordon’s beautiful,
noble soul looked straight at you, directly from out of these clear
eyes. They revealed him at once, as he was, and I am sure the secret
of his extraordinary and almost instantaneous influence over his
fellow-creatures lay in that glance. There was a sort of wistful
tenderness in it for all its penetration, an extraordinary magnetic
sympathy, and yet you felt its authority. The rest of his face was
rugged, and, I suppose, what would be called plain, but one never
thought of anything beyond the soul shining out of those wonderful
windows. To look at any other face after his was like looking at a
lifeless mask. A few months after he arrived the General commanding the
troops in Mauritius left, and Colonel Gordon was promoted and succeeded
him. He had been very active among the Chinese mercantile class (a very
numerous one) and had done much good, not merely of a missionary but
of a social nature, explaining the duties of citizenship to them, and
enforcing local laws and rules which they probably had not understood.
That part of the community became much easier to manage after he took
them in hand.

But there was a strangely unpractical side to General Gordon’s nature,
apart from his utter disregard of what might be called his own
interests. Those he never thought of for one moment, and I honestly
believe that his feelings about the value or importance of money—_as_
money—were on a par with the ideas of a nice child of five years old!
Coins of the realm remained but a short time in his pocket, and were
only welcome to him as a means of helping others. Still his charity was
not at all indiscriminate, and in the numerous instances of which I
knew his help was always judiciously given.

Curiously enough, the scheme of defence for Mauritius, which General
Gordon was requested officially to draw up, was found to be absolutely
impossible. He bestowed much pains and care on it, but his plans
involved many alterations and changes not one of which were found
practicable. I have in my possession some charming letters of his
to my husband, who had written privately to the General to state
that in forwarding this scheme of defence to the War Office, he, as
Lieutenant-Governor, had felt obliged to disagree entirely with it,
and to point out the utter impossibility on every ground of carrying
it out. Now my husband was one of General Gordon’s warmest and most
discriminating admirers, and he showed me the private correspondence
on the subject as illustrating the noble and beautiful nature of the
man. There was not the slightest trace of annoyance or even pique at
the uncompromising terms in which a civilian Governor had felt it his
duty to differ from so eminent a military authority. The General just
recognised that it was a plain expression of an honest opinion and
respected it accordingly, nor was there the slightest friction between
them nor the least check upon their friendly intercourse.

I remember particularly one merry evening in the verandah after dinner,
when the General had just returned from an official visit to the
Seychelles, a little group of islands nearly 1000 miles from Mauritius,
but in those days one of its _dépendences_. He was full of a brand new
theory, based on the coco-de-mer, a gigantic palm which he saw for the
first time, and which convinced him that he had discovered the site of
the Garden of Eden. He explained with great eagerness how he felt sure
of the existence of the four encircling rivers of that favoured spot
(only they now ran underground), but his strong point was the strange
weird fruit which hung, some eighty feet or so above the ground, from
those splendid palms which are peculiar to the Seychelles group. In
vain the Governor pointed out, with much laughter, that our first
parents must have been of a goodly height to reach this fruit, and in
the next, that it was not good to eat!

The dear General bore all our chaff with the sweetest good-humour, but
remained as firmly fixed as ever in his idea. He was most eager and
earnest about it all, and, though he found our laughter infectious and
joined heartily in it, nothing made the least impression on him, and
I believe he always thought the Garden of Eden had once united that
little group of islets in one exquisite whole—for Mahé is certainly a
lovely spot and as fertile as it is fair.

We always felt we could not expect to keep him long with us in
Mauritius though he never chafed nor repined in any way, and just did
his duty from day to day, and whatever other work for his fellow-men
his hand found to do, with all his might. But all too soon he was
summoned home, and quite the next thing we heard of him was that he
was going out to India with the new Governor-General, Lord Ripon,
as his Private Secretary. We all exclaimed at once, “Think of the
dinner-parties!” and were not at all surprised to hear how short a time
that arrangement had lasted, though the dreaded form of entertainment
had really nothing whatever to do with Gordon’s resignation of his
post long before India was reached. From time to time he wrote to my
husband, and we followed every step of his subsequent career with the
deepest interest. I have since heard, I do not know with what truth,
that it was a mistake in a telegram which prevented his going to the
Congo on King Leopold’s business instead of to Egypt on ours. However
that may be, the rest of the story was quite in harmony with what one
had known of him, but of all those who sorrowed for his tragic fate—and
it was a nation that grieved—no one lamented him more than his official
chief of the Mauritian days.




VIII

WESTERN AUSTRALIA


Few people can realise how rapid is the growth of a colony when once
it begins to grow. Like a young tree, after reaching a certain stage,
it may seem to have almost attained its limit, and one often feels
disappointed that more visible progress has not been made. But come
again a little later, and you will find your sapling shooting rapidly
up into a splendid tree. It was really growing, as it were, _under_
ground; searching with its roots for the most favourable conditions.
Perhaps there was a piece of rock to be got round before the good
soil could be reached, but the little tree was covering that rock all
the time with a network of roots so that it ceased to be an obstacle
and was gathered up and assimilated with its growth. In the decade
between 1880 and 1890 Western Australia was just in that stage, and
the splendid young giant of to-day must have been growing underground
then, though it did not seem to be making much progress as a colony.
In those days we sadly called ourselves “Cinderella,” but the Fairy
Prince—Responsible Government—was not far off, and I am proud to
remember that my dear husband, then Governor of the colony, was one of
those who helped to open the door and let Prince Charming in.

They tell me the colony is quite different now, and that Perth is
unrecognisable. I try to be glad to hear it, and keep repeating to
myself that the revenue of a month now is what we thought good for
a year, fifteen years ago. But no one can be more than happy, and I
question very much if the rich people there to-day are any happier
or even better off, in the true sense of the words, than we were. Of
course, enormous progress has been made, and many of the works and
wants which we only dreamed of and longed for, have suddenly become
accomplished facts. Our Cinderella’s shoes have turned out to be made
of gold, but they pinch her now and then, and have to be eased here
and there. Still they are, no doubt, true fairy shoes, and will grow
conveniently with the growth of her feet.

In our day—which began in May 1883—the colony was as quiet and
primitive as possible, but none the less delightful and essentially
homelike. I must confess that one of its greatest attractions in my
eyes was what more youthful and enterprising spirits used to call the
dulness of Perth. But it never was really dull. To me there always
appeared to be what I see American newspapers describe as “happenings”
going on.

For instance, one morning I was called into the Governor’s office to
look at a tin collar just sent up from the port of Freemantle for the
Governor’s inspection. It appeared that the two little children of a
respectable tradesman in Freemantle had that morning been playing on a
lonely part of the beach, and had observed a large strange bird, half
floating, half borne in by the incoming tide. It was a very flat bit of
shore just there, and the sea was as smooth as glass, so the boy—bold
and brave, as colonial boys are—fearing to lose the curious creature,
waded in a little way, and, seizing it by the tip of the outstretched
wing, dragged it safely to land. There, after a few convulsive
movements and struggles, the poor bird died, and the little ones wisely
set off at once to fetch their father to look at what they thought was
an enormous seagull. When Mr. —— arrived at the spot, he at once saw
that the bird was an albatross, and furthermore that a large fish was
sticking in its throat. A closer inspection revealed that a sort of
tin collar round the neck, large enough to allow of its feeding under
ordinary circumstances, but not wide enough to let so big a fish pass
down its gullet, had strangled it. The collar had evidently formed part
of a preserved meat tin of rather a large size, with the top and bottom
knocked out, and around it were these words, punched quite distinctly
in the tin, probably by the point of a nail:—

“_Treize naufragés sont refugiés sur les Iles Crozets, ce_”—then
followed a date of about twelve days before. “_Au secours, pour l’amour
de Dieu!_”

In those days everything used to be referred to the Governor, so Mr. ——
at once went to the police station, got an Inspector to come and look
at the bird, hear the children’s story, take the collar off—a work of
some difficulty, in fact the head had to be cut off—and bring it up by
next train to Perth.

It was an intensely interesting story, and aroused all our sympathy.
A telegram was at once sent off to the Admiral commanding on the
Australian station, telling the tale, and asking for help to be sent to
the Crozets; but the swiftly returned answer stated, with great regret,
that it was impossible to do this, and that the Cape Squadron was the
one to communicate with. Now unfortunately this was impossible in those
days, so another message was despatched directly to the Minister for
Marine Affairs in Paris, and next day we heard that the Department had
discovered—through an apparently admirable system of ship registry—that
a small vessel had sailed from Bordeaux some months before and that
the way to her destined port would certainly take her past the Iles
Crozets. No news of her arrival at that port had ever been received,
so a message was even then on its way to the nearest French naval
station ordering immediate relief to be sent to the Crozets. This
reply, most courteously worded, added that there were _caches_ of food
on these islands, which statement was borne out by the fresh look of
the tin collar. A curious confirmation of the story was elicited by
the volunteered statement of the captain of a newly-arrived sailing
wool-ship, who said that in a certain latitude, which turned out to
be within quite measurable distance of the Crozets, an albatross had
suddenly appeared in the wake of the ship, feeding greedily on the
scraps and refuse thrown overboard, and the crew observed with surprise
that the bird followed them right into the open roadstead which then
represented Freemantle harbour. The date coincided exactly with the
figures on the tin. The bird must have found the collar inconvenient
for fishing, and had joined the ship to feed on these softer scraps,
until, with the conclusion of the little vessel’s voyage, the supplies
also ceased.

Stories should always end well, but alas! this one does not. We heard
nothing more for several weeks, and then came an official document,
full of gratitude for the prompt action taken, but stating that when
the French gunboat reached the Crozets it was found quite deserted.
A similar tin, with the same sort of punched letters on it, had been
left behind saying that the contents of the _cache_ had all been
used, and that, supplies being exhausted, the _naufragés_ were going
to attempt to construct some sort of a raft on which to try to reach
another of the islets where a fresh supply of food might possibly be
found hidden. This message had briefly added that the poor shipwrecked
sailors were literally starving.

The most diligent and careful search failed, however, to discover the
slightest trace of the unfortunate men or their raft. Probably they
were already so weak and exhausted when they started that they could
not navigate their cumbrous craft in the broken water and currents
between the Islands. We felt very sad at this tragic end to the
wonderful message brought by the albatross, and only wished we had
possessed any sort of steamer which could have been despatched that
same day to the Iles Crozets.

Another morning—and such a beautiful morning too!—F. looked in at the
drawing-room window, and asked if I would like to come with him to
the Central Telegraph Office—a very little way off—and hear the first
messages over a line stretching many hundreds of miles away to the
far North-west of the colony. Of course, I was only too delighted,
especially as I had “assisted” at the driving in of the very first pole
of that same telegraph line two or three years before at Geraldton,
some three hundred miles up the coast.

I was much amazed at the wonderful familiarity of the operator with his
machine. How he seemed hardly to pause in what he was himself saying,
to remark, “They are very pleased to hear your Excellency is here, and
wish me to say,” and then would come a message glibly disentangled from
a rapid succession of incoherent little clicks and taps. Presently came
a longer and more consecutive series of pecks and clicks, to which
the operator condescended to listen carefully, and even to jot down a
pencilled word now and then. This turned out to be a communication from
the sergeant of police in charge of the little group of white men up
in that distant spot, where no European foot had ever trodden before,
to the effect that he had lately come across a native tribe who had an
Englishwoman with them. The sergeant went on to say that this woman had
been wrecked twenty years before, somewhere on that North-west coast,
and that she and her baby-boy—the only survivors of the disaster—had
ever since lived with this tribe. She could still speak English, and
had told the sergeant that these natives had always treated her with
the utmost kindness, and had in fact regarded her as a supernatural
and sacred guest. Her son was, of course, a grown-up man by this time,
and had quite thrown in his lot with the tribe. She declared she had
enjoyed excellent health all those years, and had never suffered from
anything worse than tender feet. She hastened to add that whenever her
feet became sore from travelling barefoot, the tribe halted until they
had healed.

Naturally, we were deeply thrilled by this unexpected romance clicked
out in such a commonplace way, and the Governor at once authorised the
sergeant—all by telegraph—to tell the poor exile that, if she chose,
she and her son should be brought down to Perth at once, cared for, and
sent to any place she wished, free of all expense.

Of course we had to wait a few moments whilst the sergeant explained
this message, though he had wisely taken the precaution of getting the
tribe to “come in” to the little station as soon as he knew the line
would be open. I spent the interval in making plans for the poor soul’s
reception and comfort, promising myself to do all I could to make up
to her for those years of wandering about with savages. But my schemes
vanished into thin air as soon as the clicks began again, for the woman
steadily refused to leave the friendly tribe—who, I may mention, were
listening, the sergeant said, with the most breathless anxiety for her
decision. She declared that nothing would induce her son to come away,
and that she had not the least desire to do so either. The Governor
tried hard, in his own kind and eloquent words, to persuade her to
accept his offer, or, failing that, to say what she would like done
for her own comfort, and to reward the tribe who had been so hospitable
and good to her. She would accept nothing for herself, but hesitatingly
asked for more blankets and a little extra flour and “baccy” for the
tribe. This was promised willingly, and some tea was to be added.

My contribution to the conversation was to demand a personal
description of the woman from the sergeant, but I cannot say that I
gathered much idea of her appearance from his halting and somewhat
laboured word-portrait. Apparently she was not beautiful; no wonder,
poor soul!—tanned as to skin, and bleached as to hair, by exposure to
weather. Only her blue eyes and differing features showed her English
origin. She had kept no count of time, nothing but the boy’s growth
told that many years must have passed.

“They look upon her as a sort of Queen,” the sergeant declared, “and
don’t want her to leave them.” It was very tantalising, and I felt
quite injured and hurt at the collapse of all my plans for restoring
such an involuntary prodigal daughter to her relatives.

I fear I became rather troublesome after this episode, and got into a
way of continually demanding if there were nothing else interesting
going on up in that distant region; but, except the sad and too
frequent report of interrupted communication, which was nearly always
found to mean a burned-down telegraph pole, there was nothing more
heard of the tribe or its guest whilst we remained in the colony. But
these burned telegraph poles held a tragedy of their own; for they
were always caused by a fire lighted at their base as the very last
resource of a starved and dying traveller to attract attention. I fear
I was just as grieved when, as sometimes happened, it turned out to be
a convict, who was making a desperate and fruitless effort to escape,
as when it was an explorer who perished. The routine followed was that,
as soon as the line became interrupted, two workmen with tools and two
native police officers would set out from the hut, one of each going
along the line in opposite directions until the “fault” was found. As
the huts or stations were at least a hundred and fifty miles apart, and
the dry burning desert heat made travelling slow work, this was often
an affair of days, and I was assured that the relieving party never yet
found the unhappy traveller alive. All this is now quite a thing of the
dark and distant ages, for a railway probably now runs over those very
same sand plains, and no doubt Pullman cars will be a luxury of the
near future.

I wonder, however, if the natives of those North-west districts still
contrive, from time to time, to possess themselves of the insulators,
which they fashion with their flint tools into admirable spear-heads.
Also if they have at all grasped the meaning of those same telegraph
poles. In the days I speak of, they considered the white man “too much
fool-um,” as the kangaroos could easily get under this high fence,
which was supposed to have been put up to keep them from trespassing!

It must have been towards the end of 1889 that men began to hope the
statement of an eminent geologist, made years before, was going to
prove true, and that “the root of the great gold-bearing tree would be
found in Western Australia.” Reports of gold, more or less wild, came
in from distant quarters, and although it was most desirable to help
and encourage explorers, there was great danger of anything like a
“rush” towards those arid and waterless districts from which the best
and most reliable news came.

One of the many “gold” stories which reached us just then amused me
much at the time, though doubtless it has settled into being regarded
as a very old joke by now. Still it is none the less true.

A man came in to a very outlying and distant station with a small
nugget, which he said he had picked up, thinking it was a stone, to
throw at a crow, and finding it unusually heavy, examined it, and lo!
it was pure gold. Naturally there was great excitement at this news,
and the official in charge of the district rushed to the telegraph
office and wired to the head of his department, some five hundred
miles away in Perth: “Man here picked up stone to throw at crow.” He
thought this would tell the whole story, but apparently it did not, for
the answer returned was: “And what became of the crow?”

Diggers used to go up the coast, as far as they could, in the small
mail steamers, and then strike across the desert, often on foot,
pushing their tools and food before them in a wheelbarrow. Naturally,
they could neither travel far nor fast in this fashion, and there was
always the water difficulty to be dealt with. Still a man will do and
bear a great deal when golden nuggets dangle before his eyes, and some
sturdy bushmen actually did manage to reach the outskirts of the great
gold region. The worst of it was that under these circumstances no one
could remain long, even if he struck gold; for there was no food to
be had except what they took with them. As is generally the case in
everything, one did not hear much of the failures; but every now and
then a lucky man with a few ounces of gold in his possession found his
way back to Perth. Nearly all who returned brought fragments of quartz
to be assayed, and every day the hope grew which has since been so
abundantly justified.

It happened now and then that a little party of diggers who had been
helped to make a start would ask to see me before they set out, not
wanting anything except to say good-bye, and to receive my good
wishes for their success. Poor fellows! I often asked about them, but
could seldom trace their career after a short while. Once I received,
months after one of those farewell visits, a little packet of tiny gold
nuggets, about an ounce in all, wrapped in very dirty newspaper, with a
few words to say they were the first my poor friends had found. I could
not even make out how the package had reached me, and although I tried
to get a letter of thanks returned to the sender, I very much doubt if
he ever received it.

However, one day a message came out to me from the Governor’s office to
say H. E. had been hearing a very interesting story, and would I like
to hear it too? Nothing would please me better, and in a few minutes
the teller of the story was standing in my morning room, with a large
and heavy lump, looking like a dirty stone, held out for my inspection.
I wish I could give the whole story in his own simple and picturesque
words, but alas! I cannot remember them all accurately. Too many waves
and storms of sorrow have gone over my head since those bright and
happy days, and time and tears have dimmed many details. However, I
distinctly remember having been much struck by the grave simplicity of
my visitor’s manner, and I also noticed that, although it was one of
our scorching summer days, with a hot wind blowing, he was arrayed in
a brand-new suit of thick cloth, which he could well have worn at the
North Pole! He seemed quite awed by his good fortune, and continually
said how undeserved it was. But I suppose this must have been his
modesty, for he certainly appeared to have gone through his fair share
of hardships. He had been one of what the diggers called “the barrow
men,” and had held on almost too long after his scanty supplies had run
short.

The little party to which he belonged had been singularly unfortunate;
for, although they found here and there a promise of gold, nothing
payable had been struck. At last the end came. This man had reached
the very last of his resources without finding a speck of gold, and
although men in such extremity are always kind and helpful to each
other, he could not expect any one to share such fast dwindling stores
with him. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to turn back on the
morrow, whilst a mouthful of food was still left, and to retrace his
steps, as best he might, to the nearest port. He dwelt, with a good
deal of rough pathos, on the despair of that last day’s fruitless work
which left him too weak and exhausted to carry his heavy tools back to
the spot they called “camp.” So he just flung them down, and as he said
“staggered” over the two or three miles of scrub-covered desert, guided
by the smoke of the camp-fire. Next morning early, after a great
deal of sleep and very little food, he braced himself up to go back
and fetch his tools, though he carefully explained that he would not
have taken the trouble to do this if he had not felt that his pick and
barrow were about his only possessions, and might fetch the price of a
meal or two when it came to the last.

I have often wondered since if the impression of the Divine mercy and
goodness, which was so strong in that man’s mind just then, has ever
worn off. He dwelt with self-accusing horror on how he had railed at
his luck, at Fate, at everything, as he stumbled back that hot morning
over his tracks of the day before. The way seemed twice as long, for,
as he said, “his heart was too heavy to carry.” At last he saw his
barrow and pick standing up on the flat plain a little way off, and
was wearily dragging on towards them, when he caught his toe against
a stone deeply imbedded in the sand, and fell down. His voice sank to
a sort of awestruck whisper, as if he were almost at Confession, as
he said, “Well, ma’am, if you’d believe me, I cursed awful, I felt as
if it was too hard altogether to bear. To think that I should go and
nearly break my toe against the only stone in the district, and with
all those miles to travel back. So I lay there like Job’s friend and
cursed God and wanted to die. After a bit I felt like a passionate
child who kicks and breaks the thing which has hurt him, and I had
to beat that stone before I could be at all quiet. But it was too
firm in the sand for my hands to get it up, so in my rage I set off
quite briskly for the pick to break up that stone, if it took all my
strength. It was pretty deep-set in the ground, I assure you, ma’am;
but at last I got it up, and here it is—solid gold and nearly as big as
a baby’s head. Now, ma’am, I ask you, did I deserve this?”

He almost banged the rather dirty-looking lump down on the table
before me as he spoke, and it certainly was a wonderful sight, and
a still more wonderful weight. He told me he had searched about the
neighbourhood of that nugget all day, but there was not the faintest
trace of any more gold. So, as he had no time to lose on account of
the shortness of the food and water-supply, he just started back to
the coast, which he reached quite safely, and came straight down to
Perth in the first steamer. The principal bank had advanced him £800
on his nugget, but it would probably prove to be worth twice as much.
I asked him what he was going to do, and was rather sorry to hear that
he intended to go back to England at once, and set up a shop or a
farm—I forget which—among his own people. Of course, it was not for me
to dissuade him, but I felt it was a pity to lose such a good sort of
man out of the colony, for he was not spending his money in champagne
and card-playing, as all the very few successful gold-finders did in
those first early days. I believe the purchase of that one suit of
winter clothing in which to come and see the Governor had been his only
extravagance.

That was the delightful part of those patriarchal times—only fifteen
or twenty years ago, remember—that all the joys and sorrows used to
find their way to Government House. I always tried to divide the work,
telling our dear colonial friends that when they were prosperous and
happy they were the Governor’s business, but when they were sick or
sorrowful or in trouble they belonged to my department; and thus we
both found plenty to do, and were able to get very much inside, as it
were, the lives of those among whom our lot was cast for more than
seven busy, happy years.




IX

WESTERN AUSTRALIA—_Continued_


There had never been a bushranger in Western Australia before Bill
(I forget his “outside” name) appeared on the scene, and I don’t
suppose there will ever be another. If any one may be said to have
drifted—indeed, almost to have been forced—by circumstances into a path
of crime and peril, it was this same unlucky Bill. Until his troubles
came he was always regarded as rather a fine specimen of a colonial
youth. Tall, strong, and good-looking, apt at all manly sports and
exercises, he was adored by the extremely respectable family to which
he belonged, and who brought him up as well as they could. For Master
Bill must always have been a difficult youth to manage, and from his
tenderest years had invariably been a law unto himself.

At school he had formed a strong friendship with another lad of his
own age, who was exactly opposite to him in character, tastes, and
pursuits, but nevertheless they were inseparable “mates,” and all
Bill’s people hoped that the influence of this very quiet, sedate
youth would in time tame Bill’s wild and lawless nature. As the boys
grew into their teens it became a question of choosing a career, and
the quiet boy always said he wanted to get into the police. That was
his great ambition, and a more promising recruit could not be desired.
It came out afterwards that when the lads discussed this subject the
embryo policeman often observed: “If you don’t look out, Bill, and
alter your ways, I’ll be always having to arrest you.” Bill laughed
this suggestion to scorn, not that he had any intention of amending
his ways, but he could not believe that any one who knew his great
physical strength and utter recklessness would dare to lay a hand on
him. The ways he was advised to amend consisted chiefly in worrying the
neighbours, with whom he lived in constant feud and Border warfare. No
old lady’s cat within a radius of five miles was safe from him, and he
chased the goats and harried the poultry, and generally made himself a
first-class nuisance all round.

The strange thing was that, in spite of this strong instinct of
tormenting, Bill was universally acknowledged to be a splendid
“bushman”—that is, one familiar with all the signs and common objects
of the forests. He would have made an ideal explorer, and could have
lived in the Bush in plenty and comfort under conditions in which any
one else would have starved or died of thirst. It seemed odd to find
in the same youth this passionate love of Nature and familiarity with
her every wild bird or beast, and a certain amount of cruelty and
callousness.

Time passed on, and one of the boys at least got his heart’s desire and
was enrolled in the very fine police force of Freemantle. Bill could
not be induced to settle to any profession, though his knowledge of
bush-craft and his superb powers of endurance would have insured him
plenty of well-paid employment as an explorer or pioneer in the unknown
parts which were just beginning to be opened up in our day, for the
first faint whispers of the magic word “gold” were being brought to the
ears of the Government.

Just about this time one of the neighbours imported a special breed
of fowls, which Bill forthwith proceeded to torment in his leisure
moments. The owner of the unhappy poultry bore Bill’s worrying with
patience and good nature for some little time, but at last assured
him that he would take out a summons against him if he persisted in
harrying his sitting hens. Bill’s answer to this was buying a revolver
and announcing that he would certainly shoot any one who attempted to
arrest him. Of course, no one believed this threat, and in due time
the summons was taken out, and the task of making the arrest devolved
upon his friend and school-mate, who warned him privately that he would
certainly do his duty and that he need not hope to escape. Bill fled
a few miles off and kept out of the way for a little while. No one
wanted to be hard on the youth for the sake of his very respectable
family, and a good deal of sympathy was expressed for them; also, every
one hoped and believed that this little fracas would sober Master Bill
down, and that he might yet become a valuable member of the community.

However, one Sunday evening, just at dusk, Bill was hanging about the
poultry yard with evil intent, when he suddenly perceived his friend
in uniform and on duty the other side of a low hedge. The owner of the
fowls had asked for a constable to watch his place, and, as ill luck
would have it, Bill’s friend was sent. The two boys looked at each
other for a moment across the hedge, and then the policeman said:—

“Now, Bill, you had better come along quietly with me; there’s a
warrant out against you, and I’ve got to take you to the police
station.”

“If you come one step nearer, I’ll shoot you dead,” answered Bill.

“That’s all nonsense, you know,” the poor young constable replied, and
began pushing the hedge aside to get through it. Bill drew his revolver
and shot the friend and playmate of his whole life dead on the spot. He
then rushed back to his own place, and, hastily collecting some food
and cartridges, was off and away into the heart of the nearest “bush”
or forest, the fringe of which almost touched even the principal towns
in those days.

It is hardly possible to imagine the state of excitement into which
this crime threw the primitive little community. Murders were
comparatively rare, and I was told that they were almost always
committed by old “lags,” men who had begun as convicts perhaps
thirty-five or forty years before, and had generally only been let out
a short time before on a ticket-of-leave. But this catastrophe was
quite a fresh departure, and called forth almost as much sympathy for
the relatives of the wretched Bill as for those of his victim. The
native trackers set to work at once and picked up Bill’s trail without
any difficulty, but the thing was to catch him. No Will-o’-the-wisp
could have been more elusive, and he led the best trackers and the most
wary constables a regular dance over hills and valleys, through dense
bush and scrub-covered sand, day after day. News would come of the
police being hot on his tracks thirty miles off, and that same night
a store in Freemantle would be broken into, and two or three of its
best guns, with suitable cartridges, would be missing. As time went
on the various larders in Perth were visited in the same unexpected
manner, and emptied of their contents. Bill never took anything except
ammunition, food, and tobacco, but whenever the police came up with
his camping-ground—often to find the fire still smouldering—they
always found several newspapers of the latest dates giving particulars
of where he was supposed to be.

In the course of the many weeks—nine I think—that this chase went on,
the police often got near enough to be shot at. One poor constable
was badly wounded in the throat, so that he could never speak above
a whisper again, and another was shot dead. But Bill was never to be
seen. Sometimes they came on his “billy” or pannikin of tea, standing
by the fire, and another time he must just have flung away his pipe
lest its smell should betray him. One is lost in amazement at his
powers of endurance, for he could have had no actual sleep all that
weary while. The general plan of campaign was to keep him always
moving, so as to tire him out. What strength must he have possessed to
do without sleep all that time, and to cover such fabulous distances
day after day. The police themselves, or rather their horses, and even
the trackers, got quite knocked up, in spite of a regularly organised
system of relief; so what must it have been for the hunted boy, who
could never have had any rest at all?

It was the year of the first Jubilee, and numerous loyal festivities
were taking place during all the time of Bill’s chase. Of course,
June is the Antipodean midwinter, and cold and wet had to be reckoned
with, as well as very bad going for both horse and man, and great
fatigue for the pursuers. Bill apparently thought the Jubilee ought
in some way to do him good, and he used to stick notices up on trees
with his terms fully set forth. One proposition was that he should be
let off entirely because of the Jubilee. Another notice stated that he
would give himself up to _me_, if he was guaranteed a free pardon. The
grim silence with which all these tempting offers were received must
have exasperated the young ruffian, for after a time these bulletins
breathed nothing but melodramatic threats of vengeance, especially
against the Governor, and he began to attempt to carry them out in many
ways.

But the wickedest idea to my mind was the plan he evidently formed of
wrecking the special trains which were to convey almost all the Perth
people down to Freemantle, some thirteen miles away, in the middle
of the Jubilee week. The citizens of the Port were determined to
show themselves every bit as loyal and exultant as we were in Perth,
and had bidden the Governor and the officials, as well as the rest
of the little society, to a fine ball at their grand new Town Hall.
The railway authorities and the police were quite alive to the risks
we should all run; every precaution was taken, and especially not a
whisper was allowed to creep out as to Mr. Bill’s murderous intentions.
A pilot engine went first the night of the ball, and the best native
trackers were “laid on” the line. Next morning’s daylight showed how
much all this vigilance and care had been needed, for in numerous
places Bill’s footsteps could be tracked down to the rails, and large
branches of trees, rocks, and other handy impediments lay within a foot
of the line, and he must have been hunted off when quite close many
times during that cold wet night. I believe I was the only woman in the
long special train who knew of Mr. Bill’s intentions, and I confess
I found it somewhat difficult to conceal a tendency to preoccupation
and to start at slight sounds. However, it would have quite spoiled
the Freemantle ball if the least breath of the risk to the guests from
Perth had got abroad, so all the men bore themselves as Englishmen
do—quietly and serenely—and I had to hide my nervousness for very
shame’s sake. Especially when we were coming back, quite late, and I
saw how tired and sleepy every one was, the thought would cross my
mind of wonder if the poor watchers on the outside were as tired as
we were, and so, perhaps, not quite so much on the alert. My private
fears proved groundless, happily, but I can never forget the relief
of finding myself (and my far dearer self) safe in our beautiful home
again that night. I had felt so wretched at the ball when I looked at
my numerous pet girl friends dancing blithely away, and thought of the
dangers which might easily beset their homeward road.

By this time every one, especially those whose larders had been raided,
took the keenest interest in Master Bill’s capture, and the local
papers were full of his hairbreadth escapes. I remember a paragraph
which interested me very much stated that once, when, “from information
received,” the police had drawn quite a _cordon_ round his lair and
were creeping stealthily towards it, a bird suddenly uttered a piercing
shrill note; and one of the trackers, learned in bush-lore, remarked
that their chance of catching him then was gone, for that bird would
have warned him, as it never uttered its cry except when it saw a
stranger suddenly. I may mention here that I never rested until I heard
that bird’s note myself, and I spent the next summer in organising
bush picnics, and then wandering away as far as I dared in order to
alarm the bird by a sudden appearance. At last one day, when I had very
nearly succeeded in losing myself in the bush, a sudden shrill note
terrified me out of my life. If the bird was frightened so was I, for
it was a most piercing cry.

At last the end came; at earliest dawn one morning Bill, resting on
a log in the bush without even a fire to betray him, opened his eyes
to the sound of a command to “put up his hands,” and saw half-a-dozen
carbines levelled straight at him a few yards off. He showed fight to
the last, and managed before holding up his hands to fire a shot at the
approaching constables, wounding one of them in the leg. The men rushed
in, however, and he was soon overcome and handcuffed and brought into
Perth. But the most curious part of the story lies in the universal
sympathy and, indeed, admiration immediately shown by the whole of our
very peaceable and orderly little community for this youth. Of course,
the officials did not share this strange sentimentality, for they
regarded Master Bill and his exploits from a very different point of
view, and I used really to feel quite angry, especially with my female
friends, who often asked me if I was not “very sorry” for the culprit?
My sympathies, I confessed, were more with the families of his victims,
especially the poor policeman with his mangled throat, whom I had often
seen in my weekly visits to the hospital. When I expressed surprise
at the interest all the girls in the place took in the young ruffian,
the answer always was: “Oh, but he is so brave.” It appeared to me the
bravery lay with his captors!

He was duly tried, but the jury did not convict him of premeditated
murder, and in face of the verdict he could only be sentenced to
imprisonment for some years. Master Bill’s captivity did not last very
long on that occasion, for he watched his opportunity, sprang upon
the warder one day knocking him senseless, scrambled over the wall of
the exercise ground, near which chanced to be a pile of stones for
breaking, and so got away. Then the pendulum of Public Opinion—that
strange and unreliable factor in human affairs—swung to the other side,
and a violent outcry arose, and Bill’s immediate death was the least of
its demands. He was caught without much difficulty that time, however,
and it was curious to find no one taking the least interest in his
second trial, which resulted in a lengthy and rigorous imprisonment.
Poor wretch! I believe even I ended by being “sorry” for him and his
wasted life, with all its splendid possibilities.

Another tragedy was enacted in the North-west not long after Bill’s
adventures had ended; and yet, terrible as this incident was, one could
hardly help an ill-regulated smile.

I wonder how many people realise that Western Australia holds a million
square miles within its borders. True, most of it is, as Anthony
Trollope said, only fit to run through an hour-glass, being of the
sandiest sort of sand. But then, again, all that that sand requires
to make it “blossom like a rose” is water. Given an abundant supply
of water, and all those miles of desert will grow anything. You have
only got to see the sand-plains as they are called, _before_ the winter
rains and _after_ them. These sand-plains are just a sort of tongue or
strip of the great Sahara in the middle of the Island Continent which
runs down—some seventy miles wide—towards the sea-shore three or four
hundred miles to the north-west of Perth.

The rumours of gold which had begun to fill the air during our day,
necessitated first, telegraph stations, and then the establishment of
outlying posts of civilisation; the nucleus of what are already turned
or turning into flourishing towns. I have always declared that when
there were three white men in any of these distant spots, the first
thing they started was a race-meeting, with a Governor’s Cup or Purse
(value about £5), and then next would come a Rifle Association, with a
Literary Institute to follow, to all of which H.E. would be invited to
subscribe. However, the outlying settlement I speak of had not attained
to these luxuries, for it consisted of only one white man. He combined
the offices of Warden and Magistrate and Doctor, and several other
duties as well; but he must have led a truly Robinson Crusoe sort of
life, poor man. I should mention that these settlements had always to
be close to the sea-shore in order to keep in touch, by means of the
little coasting steamers, with a base of supply. This gentleman—for
he was a man of unblemished character as well as of education and
refinement—had not a creature to speak to beyond a few half-tamed
natives, except when the steamer touched—once a month, I believe—at
his little port. He was a splendid shot and a keen sportsman, but there
was not much scope for his “gunning” talents, and seagull shooting
formed one of his few amusements.

One fine evening he was lazily floating in a light canoe about the
bay, with a native to paddle, whilst he looked out for a difficult
shot, when the man suddenly pointed to an object on a rock some fifty
yards from the shore which he announced was a “big-fellow” gull. It
did look rather large for a gull, but the sportsman thought it might
be some other sort of strange sea-bird, and, after carefully adjusting
the sight of the rifle and taking most accurate aim, he fired. To his
horror the crouching object gave a sort of upward leap and then fell
flat. Poor Mr. —— seized the oar and paddled with all speed to the
spot, to find a white man lying dead with his bullet through his heart.

One can hardly realise the dismay of the involuntary murderer, for
anything so unexpected as the presence of any human being in that
lonely spot with darkness coming on, and a difficult path, from rock
to rock, to be retraced to the shore, cannot be imagined. There was
nothing for it but to take the body into the boat and return home.
The most careful inquiries carried on for months failed to elicit the
slightest information as to that lonely victim’s identity. He had not
a mark of any sort on his clothing, nor a scrap of paper about him,
which could throw the least light on his name or history. No one knew
that another white man was in the district at all. If he had dropped
from the sky on to that rock he could not have been more untraceable.
It was all tragic enough, but what made me smile in the midst of my
horror at the details of the story—of which I first saw the outline
in a local newspaper—was to hear that Mr. —— had sat as coroner on
the body, also fulfilled the duties of the jury, then became police
magistrate, and finally brought himself down to Perth as the author of
the “misadventure.” Of course, there was no question of a trial, for it
was the purest and most unlucky accident, regretted by Mr. —— more than
by any one else. No advertisements or amount of publicity given to the
story ever threw the least light on the poor man’s name or antecedents.
Of course, here and there letters came from individuals who thought
they saw their way to _exploiter_ the Government and extract some sort
of money compensation for the death of their hastily adopted relative,
but as their story invariably broke down at the very outset—in which
case they generally lowered their demands by next post from £1000 to
10s.—no ray of light was ever thrown on the mystery of how that white
man came to be sitting quietly on those rocks at sunset that evening.

I fear these two stories have been rather of what an Irish servant of
mine once called “a blood-curling” nature, so I must end with a less
tragic note.

During one of the many war scares in which we have indulged any time
these twenty years, a couple of her Majesty’s gunboats were watching
the Australian coast, or rather watching any suspicious craft in
those waters. As is often the case along that coast, they had met
with dreadful weather, and had been buffeted about and their progress
greatly delayed, so by the date the harbour I speak of was reached
ample time had elapsed for war to be declared, and it had seemed
imminent enough a week before, when the ships had left their last port
of call. Now this great bay held a sort of inner harbour which would
have been very convenient to an enemy for coaling, and where in fact
large stores of coal were kept on board hulks. So it was quite on the
cards that if war had broken out during those few blank days, the enemy
might have made a pounce for the coal, more especially as in those days
the harbour was absolutely undefended. Now, I am told, it bristles with
big guns!

It was late of a full-moon night when these vessels crept quietly into
the outer harbour. All looked peaceful enough, and the lamp in the
lighthouse shone out as usual. It did not take long to decide that a
small armed party had better pay a surprise visit to that lighthouse
and learn what had taken place during the last week or so in its
neighbourhood. The young officer who told me the story described most
amusingly the precautions taken to avoid any noise, and to surround
the lighthouse whilst he and some others went in to see what was to
be found inside. Only one solitary man met them, however, who stood
up and saluted stolidly, but offered no shadow of resistance, and all
seemed _en règle_. The next thing, naturally, was to question this
lighthouse-keeper, but to every demand he only shook his head. The
stock of foreign languages which had accompanied that expedition was
but small, however, and a shake of the head was the only answer to the
same questions repeated in French and German. It was therefore decided
to take the silent man back to the gunboat (leaving a couple of men in
charge of the light), and see whether, as my informant said, they could
“raise any other lingo” on board. But by the time the ship was reached
the doctor and not the schoolmaster was required, for the poor man was
found to be in an epileptic fit. Daylight brought a little shore-boat
alongside with his wife in it, who gave them all a very disagreeable
quarter of an hour, for the lighthouse-keeper was deaf and dumb, and
could not imagine what crime he had committed to be taken prisoner in
that summary fashion. He knew nothing of wars or rumours of wars, but
tended his lamps carefully, and his wife had been allowed, under the
circumstances, to share his solitude. She had only left him for a few
hours, and when she returned at earliest dawn, and found her husband
gone and a couple of sailors in charge of the lighthouse, it did not
take her long to rush down the hill, get into her boat, and so on board
H.M.S. ——. I believe she expected to find her spouse loaded with irons,
and on the eve of execution, instead of being comfortably asleep in a
bunk, with a good breakfast awaiting him.

When the story was finished I remarked to the teller: “Quite an
illustration of Talleyrand’s ‘Surtout, point de zèle,’ isn’t it?” And
the young officer shook his head sadly, as much as to say that it was
indeed a wicked world. I fancy that “wiggings” had followed.




X

THE ENROLLED GUARD


The wheel of Time brought round many changes during our eight years
stay in Western Australia, all making for progress and improvement.
Under the latter head the disbandment of the old Enrolled Guard must be
classed; but it was really a sad day for the poor old veterans, and the
Governor determined to try and make the parting as little painful as
possible. So, on the thirty-first anniversary of the battle of Alma, he
invited all the non-commissioned officers and men to a mid-day dinner
at Government House in Perth. Our best efforts could only collect
fifty-three, and many of these were very decrepit, poor old dears. They
were nearly all that were left of the soldiers who had been brought out
to guard the convicts fifty years before, and who, when convicts were
no longer sent out to Western Australia, were induced to remain, in
what was then a very distant and unknown colony, by gifts of land and a
small pension. Some were enrolled as a Guard for Government House and
other public buildings, and it was the remains of this little force,
gradually grown too infirm and decrepit for even their light duties,
who had, on that bright spring morning, to give way to the smart
up-to-date young policemen.

The step had been contemplated for some little time, and we had just
returned in 1885 from a short visit to England, during which there
had been an opportunity for my husband to mention the subject to his
Royal Highness the late Duke of Cambridge, then Commander-in-Chief. It
will not surprise those who remember the deep interest in the British
soldier always shown by H.R.H. to hear that the Duke listened with
great attention to all that was told him, asked many questions, and
ended by saying, “Well, give them all my best wishes, and tell them how
glad I was to hear about them.” It is needless to say that these kind
and gracious words formed the text as it were of the little parting
address made by the Governor after the parade which preceded the
dinner, and it was touching to see how gratified the veterans were. In
spite of the old habits of discipline which they were all doing their
very best to remember and act upon, there was a movement and a murmur
all down the ranks, and I strongly suspect there was something very
like a tear.

It was, indeed, a pathetic sight, as all _last_ things must always be,
to see these old men in their quaint, antiquated uniforms, shouldering
their obsolete rifles, and to realise this was the very last time they
would ever stand in rank as soldiers. On every breast gleamed medals,
and there were two Victoria Crosses. Men stood there who had fought
both in the Crimea and the Indian Mutiny, as well as in China, Burmah
and New Zealand, and now it was all over and done with, and they would
never step out to the dear old familiar tunes any more.

Still we did our best to keep up their spirits, and not to allow the
occasion to become at all a mournful one. Both the Governor and their
own Commandant said kind and cheering words to them, and they were soon
marching off to the big ball-room which had been given as military a
character as possible.

If I had at all realised what the united ages of my guests would have
amounted to, I think I should have had all the roast beef and turkey
passed through a mincing-machine, for I soon foresaw difficulties in
that way. We, _i.e._ my large band of girl-friends and I, waited on
them, and the gentlemen carved. It was difficult to get the men to
choose what they wanted to eat, for the general answer to their young
waitresses was, “Bless your pretty heart, I’ll have just whatever you
likes, and thinks I can bite!”

Of course, the repast ended with the one toast of the “Health of her
Majesty the Queen,” with musical honours and equally, of course, it was
cheered and shouted at to the echo, and one felt it was by no means
a perfunctory and empty ceremony, for every man there had fought and
bled for her. Then we gave them each a pipe (they called it either a
“straw” or a “dhudeen” according to their nationality) and a stick of
tobacco, and left them in charge of our house steward, who gave a most
amusing account afterwards of how they had at once begun to fight their
battles over again, for many of them had been brought from other parts
of the Colony for this occasion and had not met for a long time. Their
reminiscences were somewhat grisly it seems, for Pat would relate how
he had “bayoneted a nagar” in Africa or New Zealand, capped by Mike’s
announcement that he “took the shilling fifty years ago, served in six
general engagements, was twice wounded, and three times nearly kilt.”
Whereas Dick would only regret that he had served twenty years, eleven
months and thirty days, and claimed sympathy on the ground that if
he had served “tin days more, bad luck to me if I wouldn’t have had
another pinny a day on me pintion.” But why he did not put in that ten
days extra service never seems to have come into the story.

I do not know whether, unlike his comrades, Mickey’s teeth were still
serviceable, but he boasted that, although he was sixty-six years old,
he “hadn’t a grey hair in me head, and I can run, jump or leap with
’ere a man in barracks! There boys, hurroo!” Paddy was only a soldier
for two years, but he had been badly wounded at Sebastopol and spent a
long time in hospital; an experience which he would not have missed for
the world however, for the Queen visited him there and gave him a silk
handkerchief hemmed by herself. “D’ye hear what I say, boys? The Queen
hemmed it with her own fingers and I’ve got it still, and it’s to be
buried with me, so it is.”

Then there were reminiscences of the dinner on the Alma day. “We had
raw pork served out with biscuit, and divil a stick of wood to cook
the meat with.” The V.C. man who had ridden in the Charge of the Light
Brigade could only remember a raw onion as having formed his rations on
that day, but he spoke fondly of it.

If I had felt any doubts as to whether the entertainment had been a
success they would have been dissipated by the question put to me
whenever I came across an old Enrolled Guardsman afterwards. No matter
what I spoke of he invariably brought the subject round to that dinner
and ended it with, “I suppose you’d hardly be thinking of giving us
another party like that, would you now, mum?” It rather went to my
heart to say I was afraid not, but I really believe it was the meeting
each other and talking over old times which they had so enjoyed. That
is all nearly twenty years ago, and I sadly fear there are but few
of our guests of that day still alive, and when I think of how many
dear ones who stood by my side that day, not old and decrepit like the
soldiers, but in the full flush of youth and health and strength, have,
like them, gone into the Silent Land, I wonder at my own courage in
writing at all of those happy days.




XI

TRINIDAD


Trinidad had nearly completed its first century of British rule when
we went there in 1891, for it was in February 1797 that the British
Fleet, eighteen vessels in all, under Admiral Harvey came through the
Bocas, carrying a land force of nearly 8000 men under General Sir
Ralph Abercromby. The Spanish Governor, Chacon, felt that no defence
was possible, for he only had at his command a small, passing squadron
of five ships and about 700 soldiers. So, with an amount of practical
common-sense and humanity which might be borne in mind with advantage
at the Hague Conference, he surrendered to the tremendous odds brought
against him. Not a single life was lost in this change of flags; but
the Spanish Admiral, Apodoca, burned his ships sooner than give them
up. Chacon seems to have been an excellent Governor, and to have done
much for his colony before he had to yield to _force majeure_. Indeed,
it always struck me in looking over the history of Trinidad that it had
been exceptionally fortunate in its Governors. Colonel Thomas Picton
was its first English proconsul, and though, as might be expected,
somewhat high-handed and hasty in his dealings, especially with the
natives, the colony made great progress under his rule; but it only
lasted six years, which was considered a short time to manage the
affairs of a colony in those days. It is a fact, however, that when Sir
Thomas Picton fell at Waterloo, he was practically under trial for the
alleged murder of two slaves in Trinidad. The case was only standing
over for further evidence. Certainly, things—justice among other
things—seem to have been done in a loose and free-and-easy way in the
early days of the last century!

The Governor _par excellence_ of Trinidad, however, is, and always
will be, Sir Ralph Woodford, although Lord Harris and Sir Arthur
Gordon run him very close in enduring popularity of the best sort. But
Sir Ralph was truly a born empire-maker. He was so young, too—only
twenty-nine—when he began (in 1813) his fifteen years of hard work in a
tropical climate. It must have been extremely difficult to change the
whole state of affairs, even the language—for it was not until his day
that English was used in the Law Courts and that the minutes of the
“Cabildo”—the precursor of our Legislative Council—were kept in the
new tongue. Poor Sir Ralph died at sea on his way to England in 1828,
and it is sad to think how completely his valuable life seems to have
been thus early sacrificed to the ignorance of the commonest rules of
health. But he would not leave his work in time, and so died in harness
very shortly after he had been persuaded to leave his beautiful and
beloved colony.

Lord Harris did not take up the reins of government until 1846, only
eight years after slavery had been abolished, so he had to deal with
as complex a state of affairs as Picton or Woodford. But he ruled
splendidly and successfully until 1854, and it was delightful to hear,
nearly half a century afterwards, how well the numerous reforms and
systems he had started still worked.

All this time the various Governors had dwelt in many and different
Government Houses, all more or less near the site of the present
one. Don José Maria Chacon, captain in the Spanish Navy, and his
predecessors seem to have lived on the side of a neighbouring hill,
but it is difficult to trace even the foundations of that house, for
when once “the jungle is let in” it soon covers up and does away with
bricks and mortar. Then came a strange and ugly little dwelling where
the pastures of the Government farm now spread, and that was succeeded
by a house of sorts (of which I could find no pictured record) in the
Botanical Gardens. That must have been near where the present beautiful
dwelling stands, for whenever I said what a pity it was that the
stables should be so near the house, I was always told that they were
a survival of a former Government House in the same spot. But the
jungle also seemed to have been let in on the minds of my informants,
for I never could elicit any accurate information about that house.
Sir Ralph Woodford lived in a large Government House in Port of Spain,
used as Government Offices and burned in the late riots, but the really
historical Government House in Trinidad will always be the Government
Cottage about a quarter of a mile away, still in the Botanical Gardens,
where Sir Arthur Gordon lived and Kingsley wrote his “At Last.” Nothing
now remains of what must have been a picturesque and romantically
pretty little dwelling but the swimming-bath and an outbuilding used
as a cottage for the house carpenter. But I often used to go and look
up the valley with “At Last” in my hand, and try to identify the trees
described. The ravine or dell immortalised by Kingsley has, however,
suffered many changes from the woodman’s axe and forest fires, for the
only tree I could ever recognise is the big Saman outside the ballroom
windows.

_A propos_ of the existing building, “I call this a tropical
palace,” was the remark made to me several times a day by one of our
numerous—shall I say globe-trotting?—guests, who certainly ought
to have been a judge of palaces. And there was some truth in the
criticism as applied to the present Government House at Trinidad.
Because the popular idea of a palace is that it is not a very
comfortable dwelling, and chiefly constructed with a view to first
impressions. This “palace,” however, is really a beautiful house,
and stands in the large Botanical Gardens of Port of Spain. It has a
charming view over the wide savannah in front, and is sheltered from
the cold north winds by the low, beautifully wooded hills behind. The
natives say of this same wind, which is so alluringly fresh and cool,
“vent de nord, vent de mort,” and the chill it brings to the unwary,
especially at night, is doubtless accountable for many of the local
colds and fevers. Nothing can be much more beautiful than the first
effect of the entrance hall to this Government House, and the long
vista through the large saloon and ballroom beyond ends with a glimpse
of that magnificent Saman tree on whose wide-spreading branches grows
what Kingsley so aptly calls—speaking of this same tree—“an air-garden.”

To my mind that tree was quite one of the sights of those beautiful
gardens. Beneath it flourishes a small grove of nutmeg-trees, and tall,
spreading palms, all of which seem mere shrubs and bushes compared
to its lofty splendour. When it is loaded with its pink feathery
blossoms, it attracts every bird and insect in the island, but our
winter visitors never really saw that tree in its full beauty, for
the wondrous air-garden growth did not develop until after the first
heavy rains. Then it is indeed wonderful to see the sudden spikes of
brilliant blossom, the fantastic orchid growth, and the marvellous
wealth of ferns clustering and drooping all along the massive branches.
I endured great anxiety lest the weight of the wet verdure should break
down these giant limbs, for the wood is rather soft and unsubstantial.
However, no such calamity has yet occurred.

But to come back to the tropical palace. It was certainly an ideal
house for entertaining. I always declared that the balls gave
themselves, and there never was the slightest trouble in arranging
any sort of party in the large rooms, which were always as cool as
possible after sunset. The ballroom was lofty, open “to all the airts
that blow,” and possessed a perfect floor. Then when you have Kew
Gardens for decorative purposes growing outside your windows, there is
not much difficulty in producing a pretty effect. Indeed, the entire
house was arranged for coolness, from the great hall which went up the
whole height of the building, to the wide verandahs which surrounded
it on three sides. But in the bedroom accommodation there is a woeful
falling-off, and I was often at my wits’ end to know how to house the
numerous guests who flock to these “Summer Isles of Eden” every winter.
There is no place in the house for English servants, and your own and
your visitors’ servants can only be put up in some of the guest-rooms.
There is one magnificent bedroom which is called “the Prince’s Room,”
as H.R.H. the present Prince of Wales inhabited it during his last
visit, in 1891. But it is a very hot room, and if you are to coax any
cool air into it you must resign yourself to keeping your doors wide
open. The suite of rooms generally used by the Governor are at the end
of another long corridor, and, though good, comfortable, and certainly
the coolest in the house, are so close to the stables that one hears
the horses stamping and fidgetting all night, especially when the
vampire bats are tormenting them. The only back staircase in the house
also passes close to these rooms, so they can hardly be described as
quiet or private. Still, it was a very pretty house, and I took great
pride and delight in hearing it admired.

It is not until one lives in a place oneself that one realises in what
degree it is accessible. Certainly I never thought I should welcome
many English friends coming out to Trinidad just for a little change
after influenza! But that constantly happened, and beautiful yachts
often looked in there for a few days, to say nothing of training ships
of all nationalities. The attraction to them was the placid nature
of the Gulf of Paria, which made it an ideal playground, or rather
schoolroom, for them, and many intricate evolutions on its smooth
surface have I been invited to witness. There I beheld with interest as
well as amusement the young idea being taught how to shoot torpedoes as
well as to lay or find mines and other fiendish contrivances.

It always amused me, especially with the foreign vessels, to watch the
degree of ardour with which the naval cadets pursued their deep-sea
studies. But the most ardent and promising pupil who ever visited our
shores was a young Japanese prince, who, if his proficiency of those
ten-year-old days is any guide, ought certainly to have played a very
distinguished part in the present struggle with Russia. Anything like
that boy’s thirst for knowledge and anxiety to do every other cadet’s
work I never beheld. He was studying at that time on board a German
training ship, but he told me he hoped to go for a second course of
instruction to an English one. His captain said he had never seen any
cadet work so hard or so conscientiously, and his one waking thought
was to make himself acquainted with every detail of his profession.

The naval cadets of every nation were always free to spend their shore
leave at Government House, and play tennis or amuse themselves in the
beautiful gardens in any way they liked, for the thought of my own boys
made me anxious to provide a safe and pleasant play-place for them,
and it delighted me to see how much they liked coming up to us. The
huge fresh-water swimming-bath in the grounds counted for a great deal
in their simple amusements, as did the iced “lime-squash” afterwards.
The little prince came but seldom, and if I asked after him, I was
always told, “Oh, he is doing so and so’s work.”

One beautiful evening we were going to take tea on board this same
German man-of-war, and I noticed in the launch which was sent to tow
our own barge a grimy little figure working away at the miniature
stoke-hole. “Who is that?” I asked. “That? oh, that’s the Prince, of
course. He begged to be allowed to come and stoke for you. He wanted to
learn just how that furnace went.”

Prince K. did not seem to know how to play tennis, nor could he dance,
and I do not believe his idea of amusement extended beyond his ship’s
side. At his Captain’s request we gave him a formal dinner-party,
receiving and treating him just as we would our own royalty. Poor boy,
he went through it all courageously, but it must have been a terrible
infliction, for he could not speak one word of English, and even his
knowledge of German was scanty. He brought two gentlemen of his suite
with him, and depended on them for translation. They both spoke French
as well as English tolerably well, but as far as appearance went the
little Prince had decidedly the advantage, and looked very high-bred
in his plain and correct evening dress, but it was the only time I
ever saw him out of uniform. He maintained a true Oriental gravity all
through dinner, and it was quite a revelation of his real expression of
face when the Governor, after the usual toast of the Queen’s health,
proposed that of the Emperor of Japan, and one of his gentlemen, whom
I had taken the precaution of putting near him, told him of the terms
of the toast. The lad sprang to his feet at once, and with really
a beaming countenance bowed low, first to the Governor and then to
the rest of the company. He looked absolutely delighted, and it did
not need his Secretary’s whispered comment of “His Highness ver much
please” to tell me how gratified he was.

But after dinner things became terribly dull for him, poor boy. He did
not dance, nor seem to care about music or anything else which was
going on, so it fell to my share to walk him about the large _salon_,
and show him whatever I thought might possibly interest him. Of course,
his two gentlemen were in close attendance, or we should indeed have
suffered conversational shipwreck. When I arrived at an enormous
elephant’s foot, I thought we had now certainly reached a turning-point
in the tide of boredom which had evidently set in for the poor youth.
But in spite of my explanation of how the big beast had fallen to my
eldest son’s rifle and various exciting details of the said fall, all
duly passed on by the other gentlemen, I could not see the faintest
trace of interest or even of comprehension in that immovable ivory
countenance. At last the Secretary murmured: “Highness not know
elephant ver well.” This was indeed despairing, but my eye was caught
by a clumsy little ebony model of an elephant, which I seized as an
object-lesson, handing it to the Secretary, and saying, “Please explain
to his Highness that _this_ is an elephant.” The Prince murmured some
words in reply which were translated to me as: “Ah, I see! a large sort
of pig.”

After this I felt I must let things take their course, and I have no
doubt the polite adieux which soon followed were as great a relief to
the guest as they were to me.

The greatest daytime treat I could ever give my guests was to send
them round the Botanical Gardens under the escort of the gifted
superintendent. They always returned hot and thirsty, but with their
hands full of treasures. I think a freshly-gathered nutmeg, with its
camellia-green leaves and its apricot-like fruit, enlaced with the
crimson network we know later as mace, procured them the greatest joy
of all. Then came breathless accounts of the soap-nut with which they
had washed their hands, of the ink galls with which they had written
their names, of orchids growing beneath long arcades—“Out of doors
you know!”—of palms of every size and sort and description, each more
lovely than its neighbour, of strange _lianes_ which, dropping down
from lofty trees and swinging in the breeze, are caught and twisted by
Nature’s charming caprice into the most fantastic shapes imaginable.

There are many advantages connected with the Government House standing
in these beautiful gardens, but it cannot be said to conduce to its
privacy. I always pined for “three acres and a cow” to myself, but I
never got it! A tiny iron fence, six inches from the ground, marked
out the tennis-courts, and certain narrow limits beyond, which were
supposed to be private, and little iron notice-plates repeated the
idea. But if any enterprising tourist wished to enlarge his sphere of
observation, none of these trifles stood in his or her way, and I have
sometimes been awakened at daylight by vociferous demands, just outside
my bedroom window, to know “where the electric eel lived.” Poor thing,
it did not live anywhere latterly, for it had died; but there was no
persuading the energetic visitor, who only had a couple of hours in
which to “do” the Botanical Gardens, that I had not secreted it in my
bathroom.

I must hasten to add, however, that it was only the tourist who
sometimes harried us, for it seemed well understood by the people of
the island that a certain small space round Government House was
private ground, and we never had the least difficulty with even the
numerous nurses and babies who flocked, for whatever fresh air was
going, to these charming gardens where the capital police band plays
twice a week. We often strolled about this public part of the gardens
on Sunday afternoons, when many people were about, and I enjoyed it
thoroughly, until it came to the final “God save the Queen,” and then
I confess I always felt surprised and indignant to see how few hats
were taken off. Every white man, from the Governor downwards, stood
bare-headed of course, from the first note to the last, so did the
ever-courteous foreign visitor; but hardly a well-clad, well-fed young
coloured man followed their example. I was always deeply ashamed at
visitors seeing this lack of loyalty or manners (I don’t know which).
I observed the elder black men nearly always uncovered, but the dark,
gilded youth of Port of Spain certainly did not.

One does not realise how close Trinidad is to Venezuela until one goes
there. My very first drive showed me a fine mountain range blending
beautifully with the fair and extensive landscape.

“I thought there were no really high mountains in Trinidad!” I
exclaimed in surprise.

“But those are not in Trinidad,” was the crushing answer; “they are on
the mainland, which is only twenty miles off, just there.”

I little thought, that day, how anxiously I should watch the political
horizon of Venezuela! But as the supply of beef depended on the
numerous revolutions or threatenings of revolutions, I grew to take the
liveliest interest in those social convulsions, and I became an ardent
advocate of peace at almost any price—of beef.

I always longed yet never made time, I am sorry to say, to go up one of
the numerous mouths of the Orinoco which run into _our_ Gulf, the Gulf
of Paria; many of our guests made the excursion, getting up as far as
Bolivar in one of the comfortable, almost flat-bottomed river steamers
which provide an excellent service. The accounts brought back were
always so glowing that I longed to go, but home duties and home ties
pinned me firmly down.

Venezuela seems to be a perfect land of Goshen compared to even our
tropical luxuriance, and the cocoa-pods, bananas, and plantains brought
back from the mainland were, without the least exaggeration, quite
twice as large as those grown on the island. “But, then, what would you
have?” I was asked. “Trinidad is only a little bit of South America
which the Orinoco has washed off from the mainland.” If this be so,
then the mighty stream dropped several of the pieces on the way, for
there are many islets, some five miles or more away from Trinidad, and
towards the Bocas or mouths of the great river. These little islands
are a great feature of Trinidad, and splendid places for change of
air or excursions. They all have houses on them, and one tiny islet
may, I think, claim to be the smallest spot of earth which holds a
dwelling. It is just a rock, on the top of which is perched a small but
comfortable and compact house. Beyond its outer wall is, on one side,
a minute plateau about ten or twelve feet in length, and that is all
the exercise-ground on the island. I was assured it was the favourite
honeymoon resort, which certainly seemed putting the capabilities of
companionship of the newly-married couple to a rather severe test!
Fishing, boating, and bathing are the resources at the command of the
islet visitors, and the air is wonderfully fresh and cool on these
little fragments of the earth’s surface. Whenever I could make time
it was my great delight to take the Government launch with tea and a
party of young friends to one of these islets, and it was certainly a
delightful way of spending a hot afternoon.

Trinidad is a great place for cricket, and boasts a beautiful ground
belonging to a private club. First-class teams often go out there
to play matches, and I used to see incessant cricket practice going
on on the savannah in front of Government House. Certainly that
savannah is a splendid “lung” to the low-lying town, and the people
of Trinidad may well be proud of it. On its south-western side is a
small walled enclosure; it is the graveyard of the original Spanish
owners of the soil, and a large sugar estate once stood where races
are run and cricket played nowadays. The living owners have all,
long ago, disappeared; only the dead remain in their peaceful little
resting-place under the shade of the spreading trees which grow inside
the low wall.

To return for a moment to the Botanical Gardens. Within the limits
of the so-called private part is a small plot of ground planted with
vegetables for the Governor’s use. In my eyes it was chiefly remarkable
for the three large, coarse sort of bean-vines which grew at its
entrance, and which were further decorated at the top of the stick
round which they clung (in very tipsy fashion) by an empty bottle and
some tufts of shabby feathers. These aids to horticulture being quite
new to me, I inquired their use, and was assured they constituted the
Obeah police of the garden, and that so long as those vines grew there,
no young lettuce or tomato or yam would be stolen from that garden;
and certainly theft was never assigned as the reason for the scanty
contents of the gardener’s daily basket. It was always the time of year
or the weather.

I used to feel very envious when some of the older residents would
speak of these gardens as having been the home of the humming-bird.
Alas! the lovely little creatures are seldom to be seen there now,
in spite of the protective legislation of many years past. But the
ruthless tourist will always buy a humming-bird’s nest, especially
with its two sugar-plum-like eggs in it, so the enterprising black boy
keeps a sharp look-out for these articles of commerce. Soon after we
first went there, I found a wee nest on a low branch of a tree close to
Government House, with a darling little bird sitting in it. I peeped
cautiously very often during the next few days, and the young mother
grew so accustomed to my visits that she would let me stand within
a yard of the bough. At last some microscopic fragments of eggshell
appeared on the moss beneath, and on my next visit, when the little hen
was away getting food, I beheld a thing very like a bee with a beak.
This object seemed to grow amazingly every few hours, so that in a week
it looked quite like a respectable bird. Imagine my rage and despair
when I found one morning the branch broken off and the baby bird dead
on the ground. My sweet little nest had been taken for the sake of the
sixpence it would fetch next time a tourist-laden yacht came in!

A much happier fate attended a humming-bird which built its nest in
a small palm growing in a friend’s drawing-room. I paid many visits
to that drawing-room during the bird’s occupancy, and anything so
interesting as its manners and customs cannot be imagined. Instead
of bringing material from outside for the nest, the tiny builder
requisitioned the floss silk from an embroidered cushion and the wool
from a ball-fringe. The nest, unusually gay in colour, hung down a
couple of inches from one of the serrated points of the palm leaf;
but when I was first invited to come and look on, it was not quite
completed to the feathered lady’s satisfaction, for she still darted in
and out of the open windows and about the room.

The master of the house, at my request, seated himself in his usual
arm-chair and opened his newspaper, and I made myself as small as I
could in a distant corner. Our patience was soon rewarded, for there
was the little bird balancing itself with its vibrating wings just
above the newspaper. However, as no building material was forthcoming
from that source, she flashed over to my corner, and, quicker than the
eye could follow, had snatched a thread of silk from a work-table and
was off to her work again. The little creature got quite tame, and
her confidence was well placed, for nothing could exceed the charming
kindness of her host and hostess. The eggs were laid and hatched in
due time, and the master of the house told me he used to get up at the
day-dawn and open his drawing-room window to let the little mother out
to get food for her babies. This necessitated his remaining the rest
of the morning in the drawing-room, as he said it would not have been
safe to have left it. I naturally thought he feared for the safety of
his wife’s pretty things, but oh, no—what he guarded was the nest, lest
it should meet the fate of mine and be stolen.

It was on this occasion I found out what humming-birds feed on. The
popular idea is that they live on honey, and attempts have often been
made to keep them in captivity on honey, or sugar and water, with the
result that the poor little birds died of starvation in a day or two.
The honey theory has sprung from seeing the birds darting their long
bills and still longer tongues into the cups of honey-bearing flowers.
What they are getting, however, is not honey, but the minute insect
which is attracted and caught by the honey.

I never saw any but the commonest sort of humming-bird during my stay
in Trinidad, and very few of those, and I was told that even in the
high woods it was rare now to behold them. In spite of the stringent
ordinance against killing _colibris_, I fear many skins are taken
away every year by the tourist, especially by the scientific tourist.
Never can I forget my feelings when, on bidding adieu to a delightful
foreign _savant_, he informed me that he had enjoyed his trips into the
interior of the island immensely, and had collected many interesting
specimens of flora and fauna, including a _hundred humming-bird
skins_! I nearly fainted with horror, but my one effort then was to
prevent this dreadful boast reaching the Governor’s ears, for I felt
sure that international complications of a very grave character would
have followed.

Pages might be written on the scientific value of the beautiful gardens
which surround this tropical palace, as well as of the opportunity they
afford of studying insect life. At first it is disappointing to see so
few flowers in them, but in the summer the large trees are covered with
blossom, and, in fact, the flowers may be said to have taken refuge up
the trees from the all-devouring ants. But the serious business of the
gardens is really to make experiments in the growth and cultivation
of the various economic products of the island—raising seedling
canes, coffee, and cocoa, and determining which variety would most
successfully repay culture. It is a mistake to regard them only from
the ornamental point of view, though their beauty is very striking, for
they are chiefly valuable for their practical results.




XII

TRINIDAD—_Continued_


Besides the humming-birds there were many less welcome denizens of
the Gardens. There were ants of every species known to even Sir John
Lubbock. Parasol ants, who occasionally took a fancy to my dinner-table
decorations, especially if the beautiful and brilliant _Amherstia_
were used. I have often been requested to say what was to be done with
long lines of myriad ants ascending by one leg of the dinner-table
and descending by another, each carrying a good-sized bit of scarlet
petal tossed airily over his shoulder! Anything so quaint as these
processions of gay colour marching across the white cloth cannot be
imagined. It was a case of “Tiger in station, please arrange,” and
there was just as little to be done except to give up the _Amherstia_.
These ants occasionally took a fancy to the flowers on my writing-table
also, but we never seriously interfered with each other. I naturally
thought that the ants ate these leaves and petals, but they only chew
them up and spread them out like manure on the feeding-grounds near
the nests. From this sort of cultivation a minute fungus-like growth
springs, and on _that_ they feed. So destructive are their operations
that a functionary is specially retained in the Botanical Gardens to
follow them up and discover and destroy the nests, which are generally
at a very great distance from the scene of their labours, and I often
watched with interest a lantern apparently creeping along the ground of
a dark night.

What I really wanted to see was a raid of Hunter ants. I had read a
fascinating description in a book of early days in Trinidad, of a
domiciliary visit paid to the author’s house in the country, which she
and her children had hastily to vacate at earliest dawn, taking with
them their pet birds and a kitten, which the slave-women, who warned
them to “turn out sharp,” declared would be devoured if left behind.
The Hunter ants spent the whole of that day inside the house, clearing
it of every lizard, mouse, cockroach, beetle, and such small deer. The
writer describes the ants as having wings when they first appeared;
but when their day of gorging was over they emerged wingless, and
rested in vast dark masses in her garden. They had not touched anything
except the small reptile and insect colonies, which, we must remember,
were likely to flourish under the deep thatched roof of those days,
long before galvanised iron or shingles from America were known. The
writer goes on to say that at dawn next day she heard strange and weird
screams from numerous small sea-gulls, who, in their turn, were making
an excellent breakfast off the fat Hunter ants. Such scenes as this
are hardly ever to be met with in these days, for the houses are so
different, and more of the high woods are cleared every year.

On these hillsides cocoa is grown very successfully by the small
cultivator. I have often, during our excursions up the lovely lonely
valleys within an easy drive of Port of Spain, watched the process,
which seemed very primitive. The clearing appeared to entail far the
most labour, in spite of as much burning as was compatible with the
lush-green foliage. Banana-suckers were the first things planted round
the hole which held the young cocoa plant, to shade it; next came
small trees of the _madre di cocoa_, or _bois immortel_, which are
indispensable to a cocoa plantation. This tree is at all stages of its
growth a very straggling one, and can give but little shade. I suspect
it is chiefly valuable from its draining properties, for the fact
remains that cocoa steadily declines to flourish anywhere without its
_madre_.

Anything so beautiful as the hills towards San Fernando in the very
earliest spring when the dense woods of _bois immortel_ are in full
blossom cannot be imagined. At sunset the whole country-side glows
with a radiance which looks like enchantment, and the green effect
of this beautiful tropic island then merges over those low hills
into a vivid scarlet, melting away into the indigo shadows of the
quick-falling dusk. Cocoa is a most beautiful crop, for the broad
glossy leaves do not at all conceal the large brilliant pod, which
grows in an independent manner, in twos and threes, right out of the
stem or the thickest branches. At no time of year are the trees quite
bare of pods, which are of various colours. I have often seen a pale
green pod, a scarlet one, and a rich dark crimson or brilliant yellow
pod growing quite happily side by side; of course they were all in
different stages of ripeness, but that did not seem to matter at all,
and cocoa-picking appeared always going on.

Those drives up the valleys were always delightful, and we found that
different patois seemed to be spoken in places half a mile apart and
with only a low ridge between. Up one valley a sort of spurious Spanish
would be heard, up another Creole French, whilst a hybrid Hindustani
was the language of a third cleft in the hills. We made great friends,
however, with the different races, and the children always rushed out
to greet us.

An especial beauty of those valleys were the fire-flies and what are
locally called the fire-beetles—large hard-backed creatures with eyes
like gig lamps and a third light beneath, which only shows when
they fly. My ardent desire all the time I was in Trinidad was to get
a specimen of a rare fire-beetle, which is said to have a luminous
proboscis. I did want that beetle dreadfully, and offered frantic
rewards all up the valleys for a specimen. Needless to say I was
regarded more or less as a lunatic, and the carriage was often stopped
either by children waving an ordinary beetle snapping violently in
its efforts to escape, or by a grinning policeman who saluted and
tendered me a common fire-beetle tied up in a corner of his blue
pocket-handkerchief. I once tracked with infinite pains and trouble a
specimen to its owner, but, alas! it was dead and half-eaten by ants.

By the first week in January the fire-flies disappear, and are not
to be seen again before the heavy May rains have fallen. Then they
come forth in full beauty, and it certainly is a wonderful sight as
one drives home in the short gloaming, for every blade of grass holds
many tiny sparkles, winking in and out with a bewildering effect. The
fire-beetles chiefly haunt the lower branches of the cocoa groves,
where they look like small lamps swinging among the trees. Indeed
the magnifying effect of the damp atmosphere beneath these bushes is
so powerful that I often found it difficult to believe that some one
carrying a lantern was not stepping down the bank towards us. I once
kept some of these beetles, fed them with sugar-cane, and sprinkled
them with water every day; but they soon lost their brilliancy, and I
felt it so cruel to retain them in a dark prison, that I emptied them
on the _Thunbergia_ outside the verandah railing. One of my prettiest
girl-guests used often to wear a dagger in her hair made of these
fire-beetles, ingeniously harnessed together with black thread, and
they showed brilliantly amid her dark braids, even beneath the ballroom
chandeliers.

Nor did any winter visitor ever see the wonderful mass and succession
of flowering trees, for they do not cover themselves with sheets
of brilliant blossom until after the rainy season begins. I was
disappointed in the actual flowers to be found in the Gardens. Even
the imported ones do not manage much of a blossom, and bulbs, &c.,
have to wage an incessant warfare against the all-devouring ant. It is
for this reason I suspect that the flowers confine themselves to high
trees, where they are safe from the ants, for they certainly make but a
languid attempt to grow in the ground. In vain I steeped the seeds of
my particular favourites in a strong solution of quassia. That was all
very well for the actual seed, but the ants only deferred their meal
until my poor little plants were a couple of inches high.

I will not dwell here on my private sentiments regarding the
cockroaches, for I feel that I should pass the grounds of permissible
invective if I attempted to describe my feelings towards the creatures
who devoured or defaced the bindings of all my favourite books. Nothing
daunts them or keeps them away; they seem to thrive and fatten on all
the destructive powders of which I used to lay in large stores for
their undoing. They would take the poison and the cover of my book as
well, and ask for more! How can you deal with creatures who fly in at
the window and run, literally, like “greased lightning”? Their fiendish
cleverness must be seen to be believed; how they will dart to a knot of
exactly their own colour in the polished wooden floor, and lie still as
death under your eyes!

Next to the cockroaches might be ranked as irrepressible torments the
mole-crickets, who would not allow of a lawn anywhere. There were some
beautiful grass tennis courts in these Botanical Gardens, costing an
appalling sum to keep in tolerable order—thanks to the crickets which
burrow like moles and devour like locusts and hatch out in myriads. I
used often to see a small army-corps of little black boys on the tennis
grounds headed by tall coolies with watering-pots of strong soapsuds
which they poured on the ground. This _douche_ brought the mole-cricket
out of his hall door in a great hurry, to be snapped up and flung into
a bucket of water by the attendant imp. But it was very difficult to
keep them down, even by these means, and the lawns had to be dug
up and replanted constantly. It is impossible to keep the rapacious
insect-world in order in a climate which, for certainly half the year,
resembles an orchid-house watered and shut up for the night.

The Harlequin beetle is, no doubt, quite as destructive as his less
gaudy brethren, but one forgives him a good deal, partly because of his
brilliant beauty, and partly because his depredations are carried on
chiefly underground. Then the shady places are always made glorious by
large slow-moving butterflies of gorgeous colouring and quaint conceit,
such as transparent round windows let in, as it were, amid their
brilliant markings.

Any one who fears bats should not visit “Iëre, or the home of the
humming-bird” (as the Indians told Sir Walter Raleigh Trinidad was
called), for all sorts and conditions of bats abound. The fruit-eating
variety is greatly attracted to the Botanical Gardens by the star-apple
trees growing there. I always feared lest sentence should be passed
against these beautiful trees with their copper-beech-like foliage,
on account of the bats, who, by the way, don’t seem ever to eat the
fruit where it grows, but always carry it off and devour it in another
tree. The Vampire bat is a great deal bigger than the ordinary bat,
but mosquito netting is quite sufficient protection in a house, and
the stables are generally guarded by galvanised wire netting, and
if ordinary care is taken about not leaving stable-doors open after
sundown, the horses do not suffer; but when did a negro groom ever
think of a detail of that sort?

It was very amusing to watch the native bees going back to their hive
at dusk. I don’t know how they had been persuaded to take up their
abode in a box fastened against the wall of the Superintendent’s office
in the Botanical Gardens; but the colony was in a very flourishing
condition when I was taken to view it at sundown, and it had evidently
established Responsible Government. The bees themselves were small and
shabby, regarded _as_ bees, and did not trouble to make more honey than
enough for their daily needs; they scouted the idea of storing it, for
there were lots of flowers all the year round, and no wintry weather
to provide against. Their chief anxiety seemed to be to keep their
hall-door shut, and they were very particular on that point. When I was
watching them, the great mass of the bees had already gone into the
hive, and only an occasional loiterer was to be seen creeping in at a
very small hole.

“Now here comes the last bee,” said my companion. “Look carefully at
him.” So I did, and saw that the little creature was carrying a pellet
of mud nearly as big as himself. It was too big to go in at the hole,
so he had to break bits off; but he twice picked up some of the
fragments which had fallen down, and stuffed them also into the hole.
Then he went in himself, and the Superintendent opened a sliding panel
commanding a view of this hall-door, at which three or four bees were
busily working, blocking it up with the mud pellets.

“They do that every night,” I was told, “and open it the first thing
in the morning.” I wanted very much to know what would happen if any
belated bee turned up afterwards, but the story did not say.

English bees were introduced into the island many years ago, but they
have lost most of their thrifty ways, and become demoralised by the
flower wealth all the year round. They also decline to be confined in
hives, which I dare say they find too hot, and so they build wherever
they like. An enormous colony had settled years and years before,
evidently, under the flooring of one of the cool north verandahs of
Government House. As long as they went in and out from outside it did
not matter, but latterly they took to pervading the verandah inside and
violently assaulting the passers-by. This was too much to bear often,
so the house-carpenter and his assistants were set to work to prise up
the boards of the verandah. They chose a cloudy day when the bees would
be out, taking advantage of the comparative coolness, but they soon
found that many boards had to come up, for the comb was thickly formed
everywhere. At last all the verandah floor was up, and I certainly
never saw such a sight. Yards and yards of comb! Most of it black and
useless, nearly all quite empty of honey (that was for fear of the
ants), and hardly any bee-bread even. When the men went away to their
breakfast the orioles, who must have been watching the proceedings with
deep interest, came down from the _Flamboyant_ outside the window, and
had a sumptuous breakfast off the immature bees. There was a terrible
revenge, however, when the bees returned later, and the workmen had to
retreat hastily. I found upon that occasion that silver quarter-dollars
made the best salve for bee-stings.

When we first went to Trinidad our evening drives often led us past
fields of sugar-cane, which seemed even then fast falling out of
cultivation, and long before we left—in 1896—they had been replaced by
plantations of Guinea grass, which appeared to thrive extremely well,
and for which there was an excellent market in and near Port of Spain.
The land was evidently worn out for sugar-cane, but answered capitally
for this tall grass, on which all four-footed beasts seem to thrive.

Much has been written and preached about the terrible fondness of
the West Indian negro for smart clothes; but if he had not that
passion—with which surely the modern fine lady can well sympathise—it
would be extremely difficult to get him or her to work. Why should he,
in a climate where bodily exertion is very undesirable, and where food
and shelter grow, so to speak, by the roadside?

They expend vast sums on their wedding festivities, at which the guests
are expected to appear in perfectly new garments. I once offered a
comely young black housemaid leave of absence to go to her brother’s
marriage, but she declined on the score of expense. Now I had seen
this girl, a week or two before, very smartly dressed for a friend’s
wedding, so I said:—

“But surely you have still got that beautiful hat and frock you wore at
Florinda’s marriage the other day?”

Aurelia gave me a shocked glance as she answered:—

“Oh, lady, me can’t wear _that_!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“All peoples very much offended if I wear same dress to their wedding;
must be quite new every things.”

And nothing I could urge had the least effect in shaking her resolution
not to disgrace her family by appearing in garments which had done duty
before on a similar occasion. I always noticed at the cathedral that
every female member of the very large and devout coloured congregation
had on her head a hat which must have cost a good deal more than my own
bonnet. From a picturesque point of view the effect of the coloured
women’s spotlessly clean white dresses and brilliantly flowered and
ribboned hats was excellent, though doubtless the political economist
would have sighed. I once asked a friend where and how these smart
damsels obtained their patterns, for nothing could be more correct or
up-to-date than their skirts and their sleeves.

“Oh, the washerwomen set the fashions here, especially yours. It is
very simple: when you send a blouse or a muslin or cotton dress to
the wash—and these women wash beautifully—the laundress calls in
her friends and neighbours, and they carefully study and copy that
garment before you see it again; and the same thing happens with the
gentlemen’s tennis flannels, and other garments.”

But the most amusing, and absolutely true, story I heard was this one:—

Our house steward told me that, when he was superintending the moving
of our numerous boxes and packages on the return from our short annual
visit to England, he noticed on the wharf one of the young black men
employed who was unusually active in dealing with the luggage. Nothing
could be a greater contrast to the ordinary sleepy loafer, who used to
smoke and talk a good deal more than he worked. This youth was strong
and smiling, and made nothing of handling any big boxes which came in
his way, so most travellers rewarded his good-humoured exertions by an
extra sixpence for himself.

A couple of years later Mark was missing from the landing jetty. No
one knew what had become of him, nor could the most anxious inquiries
elicit any information. At last one day, when my informant was in one
of the principal “Stores,” as the excellent and comprehensive shops
of Port of Spain are called, there suddenly entered his friend Mark,
smiling as ever, and still dressed in his primitive working garments of
three old sacks—two for his “divided skirts,” and one with a hole cut
in it for his head to go through, and worn as a sleeveless smock-frock.
Before any questions could be asked, Mark took one of the assistants
aside, and began to choose, very carefully and deliberately, an entire
outfit of black cloth clothes. He evidently knew exactly what he
wanted, and paid for each article, as he selected it, from a roll of
five-dollar notes, which, for want of a pocket, he carried in his hand.
The broad-cloth suit was followed by other indispensable garments, and
finally a pair of lavender gloves, shining boots, a tall hat, a slender
umbrella, and even a showy gilt watch-chain were purchased, and the
happy possessor of a complete rig-out of “Europe clothes” left the
store with only a few cents to put in his new and numerous pockets. He
was often seen afterwards in this fine suit of clothes walking about
the Gardens when the band was playing, but, so far as any one knows, he
has never done a stroke of work since!




XIII

RODRIGUES


“The deaf, cold official Ear” used to be a favourite phrase in the
Crown Colonies in my day, and referred, of course, to the Ear of
Downing Street; but even then it seemed to me a very undeserved
reproach, for, so far as my own experience went, or rather the
experience of my dear husband, it was only necessary to bring a
grievance—small or large—before that much-abused department for at
least an attempt to be made to remedy it directly.

Take the case of Rodrigues as an example. It had been for many years a
“most distressful” _dépendance_ of Mauritius. Once upon a time—early
in the nineteenth century—it was a favourite sanatorium of the East
Indian squadron, and ships were constantly calling there to leave sick
or wounded sailors and take away the convalescents. For, until 1814
brought peace and the Treaty of Paris, a good deal of fighting went on
in that part of the Indian Ocean, Bourbon and L’Ile de France being the
prizes of the victor.

Apropos of those same prizes, I have always heard that L’Ile de France,
as Mauritius used to be called in those days, was only captured by
stratagem, and that its protecting circle of reefs, quite as effectual
as a chain of torpedoes, had kept the British frigates cruising outside
for many a weary day. There was no reliable chart, and, naturally,
no pilot was forthcoming. At last, very early one morning, a pirogue
was sighted, and a smart man-of-war’s boat intercepted it before the
shelter of the coral girdle could be gained. Its solitary occupant was
a young fisherman, who was directly taken to the admiral’s ship, and,
with great difficulty and with the aid of what was to him an enormous
bribe, persuaded to guide the landing-party’s boats through difficult
passages to a suitable and unexpected landing-place. The choice lay
between that and death, and the lad chose life and wealth. But I was
assured that from that day to this the poor man and his descendants had
been regarded as outcasts, with whom no one in the conquered island
would have any dealings.

Then, as to Bourbon, the story goes that it was given back to the
French by that same Treaty of Paris owing to a mistaken idea at our
own Colonial Office that it was a West Indian island, instead of lying
only a hundred miles south of Mauritius. So ever since 1814 poor little
Rodrigues has been deserted by her naval visitors, and Port Mathurin
had welcomed only two men-of-war in the sixty-five years which had
passed before our visit.

The real bad times, however, set in with the abolition of slavery,
for it is the sort of climate where one need not work, or only work
very little, to live. The sugar and coffee estates soon fell out of
cultivation, as did the cotton and even the vanilla bean, which grows
so easily, and the island seems to have come in for more than its fair
share of hurricanes. Then the want of communication and a market for
exports completed the tale of its trouble; and when an unusually dry
season killed the rice crops, something very like a famine set in. This
had happened several times before our day, and relief for the moment
had, of course, been sent.

But when, one day in the middle of the hurricane season of 1881, a
wretched little open boat struggled across the 350 miles of Indian
Ocean, bringing the island pilot and another sailor with a piteous
tale sent by the magistrate in charge, of the hunger and distress
which prevailed in Rodrigues, the Lieutenant-Governor of Mauritius
felt that nothing but a personal visit and inquiry into the cause of
the constantly recurring evil would satisfy his Government. So an
application was made at once through the Colonial Office for the loan
of a man-of-war to visit the afflicted little island. There was no
telegraph nearer than Aden twenty-three years ago, so, although the
matter was taken in hand at once in Downing Street, it was early
in June of the same year before it could be finally arranged. A
small gunboat was all that had been asked for, and lo! the flagship
herself—the stately _Euryalus_—was put at the Lieutenant-Governor’s
disposal through the courtesy of the admiral of the East Indian
station, who made an official visit of his own to Madagascar fit in
with the date of the proposed trip to Rodrigues.

I have felt this little explanation to be necessary of how we came to
be standing on the poop of H.M.S. _Euryalus_ that lovely afternoon of
June—the best mid-winter month. Our party had been kept as small as
possible, for there was only the accommodation reserved for the admiral
and his flag-lieutenant vacant, and our good bishop had begged to come
to look after the spiritual needs of his small flock in that distant
part of his diocese.

The scene is still vividly before me; the profound calm of everything
after the noise and bustle of our reception on board were over, of
which the only trace was the smoke of the saluting cannon still curling
over the calm water. _We_ seemed to be stationary, and the lovely
hills, with their deep purple shadows, their glistening waterfalls, and
the vivid green of the fields of sugar-cane in the valleys, appeared to
be slowly gliding away under the most exquisite sunset sky. But all too
soon the _Euryalus_ had made her way through the crowded harbour of
Port Louis to what seemed a gate in the wall of coral reef, and headed,
a few moments later, out to sea. A sea beautiful to behold, indeed, but
of so rough-and-tumble a nature that the dinner-party that evening was
but small. In fact few of our party showed up much during the three
days of alternate rolling and pitching across that rough bit of water,
with a strong head-wind from south-east. We had really been making
the best of our way all the time because the captain was very anxious
to get in early on the 28th to celebrate her Majesty’s coronation. No
sooner, therefore, had we dropped anchor in the open roadstead opposite
Port Mathurin than the royal standard flew out from our main, and
the gallant old ship was, in a moment, dressed from stern to bow in
gay flags. At noon a royal salute pealed out over the water—but this
is anticipating a little, for long before noon every available boat
was crowding round the _Euryalus_. The magistrate had come on board
directly; so had two very agreeable Roman Catholic priests. Every one
concerned in the matter was soon deep in the arrangement of details
connected with our official landing.

As I had nothing to do except to put on my best bonnet at the proper
time, I had plenty of leisure to admire the tiny island, which, with
no other land to dwarf it, looked quite imposing from the deck of the
_Euryalus_. It was difficult to believe that the highest hill I could
see was only 1800 feet above the sea-level, for the beautiful clear
atmosphere seemed to magnify everything, as if one were looking at it
through water. And there were ravines plainly marked, each with its
little tumbling cascade, and a great deal of bright green foreground,
which we afterwards found was not the inevitable sugar-cane, but a
coarse, rather rank grass, affording excellent grazing for cattle.
Indeed, Rodrigues could supply Mauritius entirely with beef if only
there were proper communication, but as matters then stood our supply
used to come chiefly from Madagascar by weekly steamer.

It was really like an English April day, even to the bite in the
air whenever the sun was absent during the constant scudding
squalls—squalls which kept the poor reception committee in a state of
anguish and anxiety not to be described. Most of them had come on board
to arrange details, and were condemned to watch their beautiful arches
and masts and flags being most roughly handled by the sou’-wester.
I did my best to comfort any one who came my way by predictions of
a fine afternoon, and to assure them that business—stern, serious
business—was the real object of the visit. The heart-breaking part of
it all, however, was to find that the entire population of Rodrigues
insisted on regarding the gaily-dressed ship, the royal salute, even
the royal standard, as all being part and parcel of the show, and in
the Lieutenant-Governor’s honour. I never can forget the horrified
faces both of poor dear F. and the flag-captain of the _Euryalus_ when
this fact dawned on them. They were quite tragic over it, and thought
me most heartless for laughing at the mistake.

The alternations of sun and shower showed up with curious clearness the
water-path which a boat would need to follow between the ship and the
shore. It was traced quite distinctly, as if in a very devious track
of indigo, through the bright blue water and the white tips breaking
on the coral reefs, whilst every here and there a wee islet, on which
earth and grass-seed were quickly finding their way, had pushed its
head up. It seemed an object-lesson on the very beginning of things.
The worst of all this was that the big ship could not come at all near
the shore, and, as we were always to sleep on board, the little voyage
twice a day entailed a good deal of forethought on account of the tide.

However, both weather and tide were highly favourable by three o’clock
that same afternoon, when the official landing took place with perfect
success. I could not help glancing triumphantly at the now radiant
reception committee as, with hardly a breath of air stirring and not a
cloud in the sky, we stepped out of the admiral’s barge. Needless to
say, the entire population of Rodrigues were crowded on the little
wharf, which was gaily carpeted with red and roofed with palm branches.
Even the two _condamnés_, representing the evil-doers of the community,
stood in the background in friendly converse with their gaoler, who
would not on any account miss the show. Our friend the pilot was there
also in great form, and it seemed he had been taking to himself the
credit of having arranged the visit. He was not in carpet slippers this
time, however, which was a pity; for, if he had only known it, the
carpet slippers in which he had been forced to present himself before
the Lieutenant-Governor, after his terrible voyage in February, had, as
he called it, _abîméd_ his feet, and, adding a certain dramatic touch
of reality to the tale of suffering—counted for something in the end.

A resplendent guard of honour of Marines had preceded us, and so had
the ship’s band. “Ces Messieurs avec les trompettes” became at once
first favourites, and remained so to the end. Primitive and friendly
as it all was, there yet was no escaping the inevitable addresses,
which had to be in French, as that is really the language of the little
island, though I fear it was not of the purest Parisian type. Happily,
I could perceive no traces of famine or even of hard times in the
crowds which surrounded us. All seemed fat, and buxom, and beaming. I
looked anxiously at the children, for I remember the heart-breaking
sight the poor little ones had presented when I had passed through an
Indian famine district long years before the Rodrigues visit. These
babies were as plump as ortolans, and as merry as crickets.

Friendly and almost universal handshaking brought the affair to an
end—“une vraie fête de famille,” as I heard it called—and we were
free to adjourn to the magistrate’s pretty house for a welcome cup of
tea. The moment it had been hastily swallowed and F. had got out of
his gold-laced coat, he and the magistrate adjourned to the little
court-house close by and plunged at once into business, being with
difficulty hailed forth in time to return on board for a very late
dinner. Nothing had any effect on their movements except threats of
the falling tide. In fact, the state of the tide governed—not to say
tyrannised over—our arrangements that whole week. “Pray be punctual
to-morrow morning, on account of the tide,” was the last thing I heard
at night, and no engagement on shore could be made until the state
of the water at a given hour was ascertained. In spite, however,
of punctuality and care, we had to make some ridiculous _trajets_,
beginning in great pomp in the admiral’s barge, changing half-way into
smaller boats, then into canoes, and finally being piloted through
the shallows standing on a tiny plank laid across a stout leaf and
propelled by a swimmer; yet one always arrived dry-shod though much
agitated.

We had only a very few days to stay in Rodrigues, for the _Euryalus_
had to return to Madagascar to pick up her admiral; but there were two
things which must absolutely be accomplished during our visit. One was
an expedition to “The Mountain” to visit the good priests and make a
closer acquaintance with the needs of that particular district, and the
other was to have a day’s sport. This, I must add, was chiefly in the
interests of our kind naval hosts, for I honestly believe that both F.
and the magistrate would have greatly preferred a long and happy day in
the court-house, hard at work.

The mountain excursion entailed our leaving the ship at eight o’clock
of a lovely morning. In fact, the bad weather seemed to have ceased
with our landing, and it proved ideally calm and beautiful all that
week. As no wheeled vehicle, or horse to draw it, exists on Rodrigues,
_chaises à porteurs_ were provided for the two ladies of the party,
and all the gentlemen walked. For the first five miles the road was
excellent, having, indeed, been a “relief work” during one of the
famines. It zigzagged up the steep hill-sides very easily, and wound
through natural groves of oranges and lemons, plantains and palms,
which afforded a welcome shade. The small houses—_cases_, as they are
called—looked trim and pretty, each with its “provision ground” of yams
and sweet potatoes, and one soon got high enough to look over them on
to the little town nestling among trees, with large patches of bright
green grass between it and the sea. The _Euryalus_ made a stately
object in the foreground, and dwarfed the little fishing-boats and
pirogues which swarmed around her to the size of toys. I noticed that
the sails of these tiny craft were stained with much the same vivid
colours one sees at Chioggia, and the colouring of both sky and sea was
truly Italian, as were the “soft airs of Paradise,” which made walking
a pleasure.

Still, many halts were called, ostensibly to admire the charming
panorama, but also to pick wild oranges and other juicy fruits.
Flowers, more or less wild, grew in profusion all round us, and I was
soon laden with beautiful blossoms.

We were already a large party when we started, and our enormous “tail”
increased as we passed through each hamlet. The last part of the road
proved merely a mountain track over rough boulders, and all felt glad
when the hill-top was reached and we were once more on a tolerably
level track. The village of Gabrielle appeared to have availed itself
of every inch of cover from the summer hurricanes, and each ravine or
dip in the ground was occupied by a little _case_ and garden. A fine
triumphal arch awaited us here, beneath which stood the two abbés, with
the whole population of the district as a background. Such a smiling
crowd, and such a cordial welcome!

After the inevitable address, an attempt was made to raise “le
God-save” (as it is always called in Mauritius), but its tones were
wavering and uncertain, and the tune showed a tendency to turn into the
“Old Hundredth,” so it was somewhat of a relief when it was succeeded
by a local hymn of welcome, which they all knew, and which was given
with great heartiness and lung power. The refrain “Et vivat! et vivat!”
was most spirited, and went really well.

By this time, however, we all felt very hungry, and were glad to be
taken to the presbytery, close to the little chapel, where _déjeuner_
awaited us. Wild kid, poultry, eggs, and fruit made up an excellent
meal, followed by perfect coffee; and then the serious business of the
day began.

I betook myself to the sheltered side of a _case_, where I could view
the sort of open-air meeting which was going on to leeward of the
chapel, and of which F. and the priests formed the central figures.
An interpreter had to be found, for the island has a patois of its
own, different even from that of Mauritius. This interpreter was an
Irishman, and his gestures were so dramatic that I could really make a
good guess at the story which was being unfolded; but I felt somewhat
puzzled when, towards the end, he flung his old hat on the ground and
danced on it. I wondered if he was asking for Home Rule! All the men in
the settlement had crowded round F. and the priests, so I found myself
the centre of a large gathering of the women of Gabrielle. Children
were there in numbers, but had no chance of getting near me, and there
was always the difficulty of the language. What my smiling jet-black
friends seemed most curious about was my “civil status,” and that of
the other lady. “Madame ou Ma’amzelle?” was the incessant question to
both of us. I singled out one extraordinarily ugly but beaming and big,
fat girl to put the same question to, and I can never forget the droll
air of coquetry with which she laid one black finger against an equally
black cheek, turned her head aside, and murmured bashfully, “Moi, je
suis Modeste.”

This out-of-door parliament lasted a couple of hours, and by that time
all the burning questions and even the grievances had been laid before
the Lieutenant-Governor, and it was necessary to make a start if we
were to catch the tyrant tide. So the procession re-formed, only with
the _chaises à porteurs_ left out, for we ladies preferred to walk
down, especially at first; and off we set, the priests leading, our
little party next, and a dense crowd everywhere. They all sang hymns,
winding up with the first we had heard, and lusty shouts of “Et vivat!
et vivat!” pursued us almost to the bottom of the hill. Never was a
more affectionate leave-taking, and the expressions of gratitude to F.
for the trouble he had taken were really most touching. We carried the
dear abbés back to dine on board with us, as there was yet much to be
discussed.

The next day was supposed to be one of rest as far as exercise
went, and whilst F. was busy indoors with work, I was taken by the
magistrate’s wife round the little town of Port Mathurin to visit the
school and the tiny hospital, as well as to return the calls of some
of the leading ladies. It is a very healthy island apparently, much
more so than Mauritius, but then it is not so desperately overcrowded
as its big sister. The chief complaint I heard was of the idleness and
inertia of the people themselves, and of how difficult it was to induce
them to do anything except dawdle—good-humouredly enough—through their
lives. Of course, this partly accounts for the famine and distress.
They just live from day to day, and make no sort of provision for even
the morrow, still less the rainy or hurricane day.

There certainly was no inertia, however, on the part of the children at
a christening service the bishop held in the schoolroom that afternoon.
Such vigorous protests against the sacred rite could not be imagined,
and it was difficult to get through it on account of the noise of the
children’s shrieks. The mothers did not seem in the least distressed
or alarmed at the outcries of their offspring; indeed, one black lady
remarked to me—I was the universal godmother—“C’est peut-être M. le
Diable qui s’en va?” I can’t think why the children were so terrified,
because the bishop christened the babies first, and all was calm and
holy peace until I attempted to lead up a small boy of about four years
old. He started a wild yell and frantic struggles, in which all the
others joined, till at last I felt inclined to take part in the chorus
of sobs myself. The bishop’s tact and gentle patience were marvellous,
but did not avail to allay the fears of the neophytes.

Our last day at Rodrigues held, indeed, hard work, for we spent it from
an early hour _en chasse_, the paraphernalia of which might have served
for at least a small punitive expedition. Such munitions of war, in the
shape of guns and cartridges! and the commissariat was on an equally
liberal scale. This excursion took us quite to the other side of the
island, and we crossed a little bay to get to it, so a small fleet of
fishing-boats had been commandeered for the occasion. This brought us
in touch with most of the fisherfolk, and F. seized the opportunity of
thoroughly investigating their needs and wants.

There is really a good deal of game on the island; deer, partridges,
and wild guinea-fowl were promised us; but, alas! we had reckoned
without the first lieutenant of the _Euryalus_, who availed himself of
our absence to have a thoroughly happy day with his big guns, the noise
of which drove every beast and bird as far away as possible. However,
there was still the long delightful day in the open air, and it was
always possible to get shade beneath the vacoas, a sort of palm, common
also in Mauritius, of whose fibre sacks, baskets, and lots of useful
things are made. But the _Latanier_ is the maid-of-all-work among
palms. All the little _cases_ are built and thatched with it, its fibre
makes excellent rope, and doubtless it could be turned to many other
uses.

In spite of our really enormous luncheon, we were bidden to a banquet
on our return to Port Mathurin, and that day actually ended with a
ball! We had made ourselves independent of the tyranny of the tide for
once, and had brought our evening things on shore with us, so a very
sunburnt and sleepy group in uniforms and ball dresses made the best
of their way on foot to the court-house somewhere about nine o’clock,
and absolutely danced with spirit and vigour until the coxswain put his
head in at the door and murmured, “Tide’s falling, sir.” It was just
about midnight, and we all fled like so many Cinderellas. No need to
wrap up, for a lace scarf was sufficient on such a balmy night, and
the moonlight felt quite warm.

We certainly would not have been allowed to take so hurried a departure
had it not been settled that we were to breakfast on shore next
morning and make our real farewells then. The guard of honour and the
_trompettes_ preceded us once more, and there was a sort of attempt
at an official “send-off.” But the islanders took the matter into
their own hands this time, and I really believe every human being in
Rodrigues came to see us off, and to thank and bless “_Excellence_” for
having paid them so long a visit. The _condamnés_ were there too, and
solemnly promised me to be models of good behaviour for the future. My
numerous god-children were now (scantily) clothed, but in their right
minds, and their mothers tried hard to get them to express their regret
for having been _si méchant_; but that part of the performance did not
come off. However, they got their bags of sugar plums all the same.

The inevitable address was got through in dumb show, and we were
followed not only to the water’s edge but into the water itself by the
affectionate farewells of all the poor people. It was so touching, the
way they brought gifts. Modeste was there with oranges and eggs in each
hand. Indeed, I may mention here that eggs, however fresh, are very
embarrassing tokens of affection when given in dozens. I presented
all mine to the fo’castle, as well as sundry sacks of oranges; and as
for my bouquets, they would have stocked a flower-shop. It was quite
with difficulty we pushed off at last. Fortunately, the tide allowed
the admiral’s barge to come up to the little jetty, for I am sure if we
had started on a palm leaf, as we sometimes did, there would have been
disasters and wet feet, to say the least of it.

By the time the _Euryalus_ was reached, she was found to be ringed
round by boats of all sorts and sizes, and it was quite difficult to
get, first on board and then off. “Et vivat!” rang out in great force
on every side, and even a tremulous “God-save”; but the hearty thanks
and benedictions were the pleasantest sounds. At last the screw turned,
and the fine old ship headed once more for the wide ocean. The boats
and waving kerchiefs were soon dwarfed into so many dots on the dancing
waves, and in an hour or two we had looked our last on Rodrigues.

The wind was fair for going back, and the voyage proved quite smooth as
well as very pleasant. “Ces Messieurs avec les trompettes” discoursed
delightful music to us after dinner, and the soft moonlight lasted
all the way back. The dear old _Euryalus_ has gone the way of old
ships, but has happily left a smart successor to her name and fame.
Regular communication (that is to say, as regular as the hurricanes
will allow) has been established with Rodrigues, and it must be more
prosperous, for I see by the latest returns that the population has
doubled itself since that delightful visit.




XIV

COLONIAL SERVANTS


My very first experience of the eccentricities of colonial servants
dates a good deal more than half a century ago, and the scene was laid
in Jamaica, where my father then held the office of “Island Secretary”
under Sir Charles—afterwards Lord Metcalfe—the Governor. It was
Christmas day, and I had been promised as a great treat that my little
sister and I should sit up to late dinner. But the morning began with
an alarm, for just at breakfast-time an orderly from one of the West
Indian regiments, then stationed in Spanish Town, had brought a letter
to my father which had been sent upstairs to him. I was curled up in
a deep window-seat in the shady breakfast-room, enjoying a brand-new
story-book and the first puffs of the daily sea-breeze, when I heard a
guttural voice close to my ear whispering, “Kiss, missy, kiss.” There
stood what seemed a real black giant compared with my childish stature,
clad in gorgeous Turkish-looking uniform with a big white turban and a
most benignant expression of face, holding his hand out, palm upwards.

I gazed at this apparition—for I had only just returned to Jamaica—with
paralysed terror, while the smiling ogre came a step nearer and
repeated his formula in still more persuasive tones. At this moment,
however, my father appeared and said, “Oh yes, all right; he wants
you to give him a Christmas-box. Here is something for him.” It
required even then a certain amount of faith as well as courage to
put the silver dollar into the outstretched palm, but the man’s joy
and gratitude showed the interpretation had been quite right. I did
not dare to say what my alarm had conjured up as the meaning of his
request, for fear of being laughed at.

As well as I remember, at that Christmas dinner-party—and it was a
large one—the food was distinctly eccentric, edibles usually boiled
appearing as roasts and _vice versâ_. The service also was of a
jerky and spasmodic character, and the authorities wore an air of
anxiety, which, however, only added to the deep interest I took in
the situation. But things came to a climax when the plum-pudding,
which was to have been the great feature of the entertainment, did
not appear at its proper time and place, and a tragic whisper from
the butler suggested complications in the background. My father said
laughingly, “I am sorry to say the cook is drunk and will not part
with the plum-pudding,” so we went on with the dinner without it. But
just as the dessert was being put on the table there was a sound as of
ineffectual scrimmaging outside, and the cook—a huge black man clad in
spotless white—rushed in bearing triumphantly a large dish, which he
banged down in front of my father, saying, “Dere, my good massa, dere
your pudding,” and immediately flung himself into the butler’s arms
with a burst of weeping. I shall always see that pudding as long as I
live. It was about the size of an orange and as black as coal. Every
attempt to cut it resulted in its bounding off the dish, for it was as
hard as a stone. Though not exactly an object of mirth in itself, it
certainly was “a cause that mirth was in others,” and so achieved a
success denied to many a better pudding.

Several years passed before I again came across black servants, and the
next time was in India. I was not there long enough, nor did I lead a
sufficiently settled life, to be able to judge of the Indian servant of
that day. Half my stay in Bengal was spent under canvas, and certainly
the way in which the servants arranged for one’s comfort under those
conditions was marvellous. The camp was a very large one, for we were
making a sort of military promenade from Lucknow up to Lahore—my
husband being the Commanding Officer of Royal Artillery in Bengal—but
I only went as far as the foot of the Hills and then up to Simla. It
was amazing the way in which nothing was ever forgotten or left behind
during four months’ continuous camp-life. All my possessions had to be
divided, and, where necessary, duplicated, for what one used on Monday
would not be get-at-able until Wednesday, and so on all through the
week. No matter how interesting my book was, I could not go on with it
for thirty-six hours—_i.e._ from, say Monday night till breakfast-time
on Wednesday morning. I could have a new volume for Tuesday, but the
interest of that had also to remain in abeyance until Thursday. Still,
I would find the book precisely where I laid it down, and if I had put
a mark, even a flower, it would be found exactly in the right place.

I always wondered when and how the servants rested, for they seemed
to me to be packing and starting all night long, and yet when the new
camping-ground was reached the head-servants would always be there in
snowy garments, as fresh and trim as if they came out of a box. There
were two sets of under-servants, but the head ones never seemed to be
off duty.

We started with the first streak of daylight, and there was no choice
about the matter, for if you did not get up when the first bugle blew,
your plight would be a sorry one when the canvas walls of the large
double tent fell flat at the sound of the second bugle, half-an-hour
later. The roof of the tent was left a few moments longer, so one had
time for hot fragrant coffee and bread and butter before starting
either on horse or elephant back. I generally rode on a pad on the
_hathi’s_ back for the first few miles while it was still dark, and
mounted my little Arab some six or eight miles further on. The marches
were as near twenty-five miles daily, as could be arranged to suit the
Commander-in-Chief’s convenience as to inspections, &c.

Everything was fresh and amusing, but I think I most delighted in
seeing the modes of progression adopted by the various cooks. Our
head-cook generally requisitioned a sort of gig, in which he sat in
state and dignity, with many bundles heaped around him. Part of his
cavalcade consisted of two or three very small ponies laden with
paniers, on top of which invariably stood a chicken or two, apparently
without any fastenings, who balanced themselves in a precarious manner
according to the pony’s gait. No one seemed to walk except those who
led the animals, and as the camp numbered some 5000 soldiers and quite
as many camp-followers the supply-train appeared endless.

Just as we neared the foot of the Himalayan range, where the camp was
to divide, some of us going up to Simla, leaving a greatly lessened
force to proceed to Lahore, smallpox appeared among our servants. I
wonder it did not spread much more, but it was vigorously dealt with
at the outset. I had as narrow an escape as anybody, for one morning,
while I was drinking my early coffee and standing quite ready to start
on our daily march, one of the servants, a very clever, useful Madras
“boy” whom I had missed from his duties for several days, suddenly
appeared and cast himself at my feet, clutching my riding-habit and
begging for some tea. He was quite unrecognisable, so swollen and
disfigured was his poor face, and I had no idea what was the matter
with him. He was delirious and apparently half-mad with thirst. The
doctor had to be fetched to induce him to let me go, and as more than
once the poor lad had seized my hands and kissed them in gratitude for
the tea I at once gave him, I suppose I really ran some risks, for
it turned out to be a very bad case of confluent smallpox. However,
all the same, he had to be carried along with us in a dhooly until we
reached a station where he could be put into a hospital.

But certainly the strangest phase of colonial domestics within my
experience were the New Zealand maid-servants of some thirty-five years
ago. Perhaps by this time they are “home-made,” and consequently less
eccentric; but in my day they were all immigrants, and seemed drawn
almost entirely from the ranks of factory girls. They were respectable
girls apparently, but with very free and easy manners. However, that
did not matter. What seriously inconvenienced me at the far up-country
station where my husband and I had made ourselves a very pretty and
comfortable home was the absolute and profound ignorance of these
damsels. They took any sort of place which they fancied, at enormous
wages, and when they had at great cost and trouble been fetched up to
their new home I invariably discovered that the cook, who demanded
and received the wages of a _chef_, knew nothing whatever of any sort
of cooking and the housemaid, had never seen a broom. They did not
know how to thread a needle or wash a pocket-handkerchief, and, as I
thought, must have been waited on all their lives. Indeed, one of my
great difficulties was to get them away from the rapt admiration with
which they regarded the most ordinary helps to labour. One day I heard
peals of laughter from the wash-house, and found the fun consisted in
the magical way in which the little cottage-mangle smoothed the aprons
of the last couple of damsels. So I—who was extremely ignorant myself,
and had no idea how the very beginnings of things should be taught—had
to impart my slender store of knowledge as best I could. The little
establishment would have collapsed entirely had it not been for my
Scotch shepherd’s wife, a dear woman with the manners of a lady and
the knowledge of a thorough practical housewife. What broke our hearts
was that we had to begin this elementary course of instruction over
and over again, as my damsels could not endure the monotony of their
country life longer than three or four months, in spite of the many
suitors who came a-wooing with strictly honourable intentions. But the
young ladies had no idea of giving up their liberty, and turned a deaf
ear to all matrimonial suggestions, even when one athletic suitor put
another into the water-barrel to get him out of the way, and urged that
this step must be taken as a proof of his devotion.

After the New Zealand experiences came a period of English life,
and I felt much more experienced in domestic matters by the time my
wandering star led me forth once more and landed me in Natal. In spite,
however, of this experience, I fell into the mistake of taking out
three English servants, whom I had to get rid of as soon as possible
after my arrival. They had all been with me some time in England, and
I thought I knew them perfectly; but the voyage evidently “wrought
a sea change” on them, for they were quite different people by the
time Durban was reached. Two developed tempers for which the little
Maritzburg house was much too small, and when it came to carving-knives
hurtling through the air I felt it was more than my nerves could stand.
The third only broke out in folly, and showed an amount of personal
vanity which seemed almost to border on insanity. However, I gradually
replaced them with Zulu servants, in whom I was really very fortunate.
They learned so easily, and were so good-tempered and docile, their
only serious fault being the ineradicable tendency to return for a
while—after a very few “moons” of service—to their kraals. At first I
thought it was family affection which impelled this constant homing,
but it was really the desire to get back to the savage life, with its
gorges of half-raw meat and native beer, and its freedom from clothes.
It is true I had an occasional very bad quarter of an hour with some of
my experiments, as, for instance, when I found an embryo valet blacking
his master’s socks as well as his boots, or detected the nurse-boy
who was trusted to wheel the perambulator about the garden stuffing a
half-fledged little bird into the baby’s mouth, assuring me it was a
diet calculated to make “the little chieftain brave and strong.”

I think, however, quite the most curious instance of the thinness
of surface civilisation among these people came to me in the case
of a young Zulu girl who had been early left an orphan and had been
carefully trained in a clergyman’s family. She was about sixteen years
old when she came as my nursemaid, and was very plump and comely, with
a beaming countenance, and the sweetest voice and prettiest manners
possible. She had a great love of music, and performed harmoniously
enough on an accordion as well as on several queer little pipes and
reeds. She could speak, read, and write Dutch perfectly, as well as
Zulu, and was nearly as proficient in English. She carried a little
Bible always in her pocket, and often tried my gravity by dropping on
one knee by my side whenever she caught me sitting down and alone, and
beginning to read aloud from it. It was quite a new possession, and she
had not got beyond the opening chapters of Genesis and delighted in the
story of “Dam and Eva,” as she called our first parents. She proved an
excellent nurse and thoroughly trustworthy; the children were devoted
to her, especially the baby, who learned to speak Zulu before English,
and to throw a reed assegai as soon as he could stand firmly on his
little fat legs. I brought her to England after she had been about a
year with me, and she adapted herself marvellously and unhesitatingly
to the conditions of a civilisation far beyond what she had ever
dreamed of. After she had got over her surprise at the ship knowing its
way across the ocean, she proved a capital sailor. She took to London
life and London ways as if she had never known anything else. The only
serious mistake she made was once in yielding to the blandishments of
a persuasive Italian image-man and promising to buy his whole tray of
statues. I found the hall filled with these works of art, and “Malia”
tendering, with sweetest smiles, a few pence in exchange for them. It
was a disagreeable job to have to persuade the man to depart in peace
with all his images, even with a little money to console him. A friend
of mine chanced to be returning to Natal, and proposed that I should
spare my Zulu nurse to her. Her husband’s magistracy being close to
where Maria’s tribe dwelt, it seemed a good opportunity for “Malia”
to return to her own country; so of course I let her go, begging my
friend to tell me how the girl got on. The parting from the little
boys was a heart-breaking scene, nor was Malia at all comforted by the
fine clothes all my friends insisted on giving her. Not even a huge
Gainsborough hat garnished with giant poppies could console her for
leaving her “little chieftain”; but it was at all events something to
send her off so comfortably provided for, and with two large boxes of
good clothes.

In the course of a few months I received a letter from my friend, who
was then settled in her up-country home, but her story of Maria’s
doings seemed well-nigh incredible, though perfectly true.

All had gone well on the voyage and so long as they remained at Durban
and Maritzburg; but as soon as the distant settlement was reached,
Maria’s kinsmen came around her and began to claim some share in her
prosperity. Free fights were of constant occurrence, and in one of
them Maria, using the skull of an ox as a weapon, broke her sister’s
leg. Soon after that she returned to the savage life she had not known
since her infancy, and took to it with delight. I don’t know what
became of her clothes, but she had presented herself before my friend
clad in an old sack and with necklaces of wild animals’ teeth, and
proudly announced she had just been married “with cows”—thus showing
how completely her Christianity had fallen away from her, and she had
practically returned, on the first opportunity, to the depth of that
savagery from which she had been taken before she could even remember
it. I soon lost all trace of her, but Malia’s story has always remained
in my mind as an amazing instance of the strength of race-instinct.

My next colonial home was in Mauritius, and certainly the servants of
that day—twenty years ago, alas!—were the best I have ever come across
out of England. I am told that this is no longer the case, and that
that type of domestic has been improved and educated into half-starved
little clerks. The cooks were excellent, so were the butlers. Of
course, they had all preserved the Indian custom of “dustoor” (I am not
at all sure of the spelling) or perquisite. In fact, a sort of little
duty was levied on every article of consumption in a household.

I never shall forget the agony of mind of one of my butlers at having
handed me a wrong statement of the previous day’s “bazaar.” I had
really not yet looked at it, but he implored me with such dreadful
agitation to let him have it back again to “correct” that I read it
aloud before him, to his utter confusion and abasement. The vendor
had first put down the price paid him for each article, and then the
“dustoor” to be added; needless to say, I was to pay the difference,
and the tax had been amply allowed for in the price charged. As “Gyp”
would say, Tableau!

Curiously enough, it was the dhoby or washerman class which gave
the most or rather the only trouble. They—_i.e._ the washerman
and his numerous wives—fought so dreadfully. Once I received a
petition requesting me in most pompous language to give the youngest
or “last-joined” wife a good talking to, for in spite of all
corrections—that is, beatings—she declined entirely to iron her share
of the clothes, and had the effrontery to say she had not married an
ugly old man to have to work hard. The dhoby on his side declared he
had only incurred the extra expense and bother of a fourth and much
younger wife in order that the “Grande Madame’s” white gowns might be
beautifully ironed, fresh every day.

I handed the letter—almost undecipherable on account of its ornate
penmanship and flourishes—to the A.D.C. who was good enough to help me
with my domestic affairs, and he must have arranged it satisfactorily,
for when he left us hurriedly to rejoin his regiment, which had been
ordered on active service, he received a joint letter of adieu from all
the dhobies, wishing him every sort of good fortune in the campaign,
and expressing a hope that he might soon return with “le croix de la
reine Victoria flottant de sa casaque.” Rather a confusion of ideas,
but doubtless well meant.

In spite, however, of the general excellence of Mauritius servants,
my very dignified butler at Réduit cost me the most trying
experience of my party-giving career. Once upon a time I had an
archery meeting at Réduit, and a dance afterwards for the young
people. This programme—combining, as it did, afternoon and evening
amusements—required a certain amount of organisation as to food. The
shooting was to go on as long as the light lasted, and it was thought
better to have the usual refreshments in the tents during that time,
and then an early and very substantial supper indoors so soon after the
dancing began as the guests liked to have it.

There used in those days to be an excellent restaurant in Port Louis
which furnished all the ball suppers. The cost was high, but all
trouble was saved, and the food provided left nothing to be desired.
The manager of the “Flore Mauricienne” never made a mistake, and only
needed to be told how many guests to provide for; everything was then
sure to be beautifully arranged. So I had no anxieties on the score of
ample supplies of every obtainable dainty being forthcoming. Great,
therefore, was my surprise, when, after the first batch of guests had
been in to the supper-room, I was informed in a tragic whisper that
everything looked very nice in there, but that there was no second
supply of food to replenish the tables. This seemed impossible, and I
sent for the butler and demanded to know what had become of the supper.
“Monsieur Jorge” smiled blandly and, waving his hands in despair,
ejaculated “Rien, rien, Madame,” repeatedly. So, although I had not
intended to go in to supper myself just then, I hastened to the scene.
There were the lovely tables as usual, a mass of flowers and silver,
but with empty dishes. I felt as if it must be a bad dream from which I
should presently awake, but that did not make it less terrible at the
moment. Of course the A.D.C.s were active and energetic, but they could
not perform miracles and produce a supper which they had themselves
ordered and knew had arrived, but which seemed to have vanished into
thin air. Tins of biscuits were found and sandwiches were hastily cut,
and every one was most kind and good-natured and full of sympathy for
me.

If “Monsieur Jorge” and his myrmidons had appeared in the least tipsy,
the situation would have been less perplexing, but except a profound
and impenetrable gravity of demeanour every servant seemed quite right.
My guests danced merrily away, and hunger had no effect on their gay
humour, but the staff and I (who had had no supper) were plunged in
melancholy.

The moment our telegraph clerk came on duty next morning a message was
sent to Port Louis (eight miles off) asking the manager of the “Flore”
what had become of his supper, and by the time I came down to breakfast
that worthy had appeared on the scene, and, more versed in the ways
of Mauritian servants than any of us were, had elicited from Monsieur
Jorge that he remembered putting the numerous boxes of supper away
carefully, but where, he could not imagine. The night before he had
insisted that he had placed all the supper there was, on the tables. So
a search was instituted, and very soon the melancholy remains of the
supper were discovered hidden away in an unused room. All the packing
ice had, of course, melted, and jellies, &c., were reduced to liquid.
There was about fifty pounds’ worth of food quite spoiled and useless,
most of it only fit to be thrown away. The manager’s wrath really
exceeded mine, and he stipulated that not one of the crowd of servants
should have a crumb of the remains of that supper, which I heard
afterwards had been given to the garden coolies. As a matter of fact,
I believe Monsieur Jorge _was_ somewhat tipsy, and it took the form of
complete loss of memory. But it was a dreadful experience.

From the “belle isle de Maurice” we went to Western Australia, where
we arrived in the middle of winter, and the contrast seemed great in
every way, especially in the domestic arrangements, for servants were
few and far between and of a very elementary stamp of knowledge. I
tried to remedy that defect by importing maid-servants, but succeeded
only in acquiring some very strange specimens. In those days Western
Australia was such an unknown and distant land that the friends at home
who kindly tried to help me found great difficulty in inducing any good
servant to venture so far, and although the wages offered must have
seemed enormous, the good class I wanted could not at first be induced
to leave England. Later, things improved considerably and we got very
good servants, but the first importations were very disheartening. I
used to be so amazed at their love of finery. To see one’s housemaid
at church absolutely covered with sham diamonds, large rings outside
her gloves, huge _solitaire_ earrings, and at least a dozen brooches
stuck about her, was, to say the least of it, startling; so was the
apparition of my head-cook, whom I sent for hurriedly once, after
dinner, and who appeared in an evening dress of black net and silver.
I also recognised the kitchen-maid at a concert in a magnificent pale
green satin evening dress, which, taken in conjunction with her scarlet
hair, was rather conspicuous. Of one gentle and timid little housemaid,
who did not dazzle me with her toilettes, I inquired what she found
most strange and unexpected in her new home—which, by the way, she
professed to like very much.

“The lemons, my lady, if you please.”

“Lemons!” I said; “why?”

“Well, it’s their growin’ on trees as is so puzzlin’ like, if you
please.”

“Where else did you expect them to grow?” I inquired.

“I thought they belonged to the nets. I’d always seen them in nets in
shops, you know; and lemons looks strange without nets.”

My next and last experience of colonial servants was in Trinidad. By
this time I had gained so much and such varied experience that there
was no excuse for things not working smoothly, and as I was fortunate
in possessing an excellent head-servant who acted as house-steward
I had practically no trouble at all, beyond a little anxiety at any
time of extra pressure about the head-cook, who had not only heart
disease, but when drunk flew into violent rages. Our doctor had warned
the house-steward that this man—who was a half-caste Portuguese from
Goa—might drop dead at any moment if he gave way to temper and drink
combined. So it was always an anxious time when balls and banquets and
luncheons followed each other in quick succession. On these occasions,
besides his two permanent assistants, G. was allowed a free hand as
to engaging outside help. But he seemed to take that opportunity to
bring in his bitterest foes, to judge by the incessant quarrels,
all of long standing, which poor Mr. V. (the house-steward) had to
arrange. I only did the complimenting, and after each ball supper or
big dinner sent for the cook and paid him extravagant compliments
on his efforts. That was the only way to keep him going, and things
went well on the surface; but there were tragic moments to be lived
through when the said cook had refreshed himself a little too often,
and about midday would declare he had no idea what all these people
were doing in his kitchens, and, arming himself with a rolling-pin,
would drive them forth with much obloquy. I chanced to be looking out
of my dressing-room window one day when he started a raid on the _corps
d’armée_ of black girls who were busily picking turkeys and fowls for
the next night’s ball supper. I never saw anything so absurd as the way
the girls fled into the neighbouring nutmeg-grove, each clasping her
half-picked fowls and scattering the feathers out of her apron as she
ran with many “hi! hi’s!”

I really began to think it would be necessary to summon the police
sentries to protect them, for G. was flinging all sorts of fruit and
vegetables at them, and had quite got their range. However, as Mr.
V. emerged from his office and began to inquire of the cook if he
was anxious to die on the spot, I only looked on. At first there was
nothing but rage and fury on the cook’s part, to which Mr. V. opposed
an imperturbable calm and the emphatic repetition of the doctor’s
warning. Then came a burst of weeping, caused, G. declared, by his
sense of the wickedness of the human race in general and “dem girls”
in particular. After that a deep peace seemed to suddenly descend on
the scene, and the cook returned to his large and airy kitchens, still
weeping bitterly. Mr. V. vanished, the picking girls reappeared one
by one, and, cautiously looking round to see if it was safe to do so,
took up their former positions under shady trees. Presently I saw other
forms stealing back into the kitchens, from which they too had been
forcibly ejected; and then I heard the cook’s voice start one of Moody
and Sankey’s hymns, with apparently fifty verses and a rousing chorus.
After that I had no misgivings as to the success of the supper.

We succeeded, as it were, to most of our servants, for they had
nearly all been at Government House for some years, and at all events
knew their duties. I met one functionary, whose face I did not seem
to know, on the staircase one day, and inquired who he was. “Me
second butlare, please,” was the answer. The first “butlare” was an
intensely respectable middle-aged man, of apparently deeply religious
convictions, and I always saw him at church every Sunday, and he was a
regular and most devout communicant. Judge, then, of my surprise and
dismay, when, poor Jacob having died rather suddenly of heart disease,
I was assured that four separate and distinct Mrs. Jacobs had appeared,
each clad in deepest widow’s weeds, and each armed with orthodox
“lines” to claim the small arrears of his monthly pay. But I am afraid
that similar inconsistencies between theory and practice are by no
means uncommon in those “Summer Isles of Eden.”




XV

INTERVIEWS


My experience of being interviewed began many years before the
invention of the present fashion of demanding from perfect strangers
answers to questions which one’s most intimate friend would hesitate to
ask. My interviewers had not the smallest desire to be informed as to
what I liked to eat or drink, or at what hour I got up of a morning.
The conversation on these occasions used to be strictly confined to my
visitor’s own affairs. Perhaps “strictly” is not the word I want, for
I well remember that my greatest difficulty at these interviews was to
keep the information showered on me at all to the subject in hand, and
to avoid incessant parenthetical reminiscences of bygone events.

Both in Natal and Mauritius we lived so far away from the town that it
was too much trouble for the interviewer to seek me out, nor indeed do
I remember hearing of cases which needed help and advice there so often
as at other places.

My real _début_ in being interviewed was made in Western Australia
some twenty years ago in the dear old primitive days, when I felt that
I was the squire’s wife and the rector’s wife rolled into one, and most
of the troubles used to be brought straight to me. Indeed, so numerous
were my visitors of this class that a special room had to be set aside
in which to receive them; and certainly, if its walls had tongues as
well as ears, some droll confidences might be betrayed by them.

But I must confess I began badly. Almost my first visitor in that room
was a “pensioner’s” widow. There can be very few “pensioners” left now,
for fifteen years ago, when we left dear Western Australia, hardly
thirty of the old “Enrolled Guard” survived. The colloquial name by
which they were known in those latter days was Pensioner, though it
does not really express their status.

Fifty years ago a large military force had been sent out to the Swan
River Settlement—all that was then known of a colony now a million
square miles in extent—to guard the convicts asked for by the first
settlers to help them to make roads and bridges and public buildings.
After twenty years the deportation of convicts to Western Australia
ceased, and the troops were withdrawn.

As, however, it was desirable to induce respectable settlers to make
the colony their home, special advantages had been offered to soldiers
to remain and take up free grants of land. Many of those who had wives
and families accepted the offer, and, whenever they proved to be sober
and industrious men, did extremely well. In addition to the liberal
grants of land, each man was given a small pension, and ever since the
convicts left his military functions had been confined to mounting
guard at Government House. Even that slight duty came to an end,
however, during our stay, and smart young policemen replaced the old
veterans in out-of-date uniforms, their breasts covered with numerous
medals for active service in all parts of the globe.

But to return to my first interviewer—an old Irishwoman, very feeble
and very poor, her man long since dead, and the children apparently
scattered to the four winds of heaven; the grant of land sold, the
money spent, the pension always forestalled, and the inevitable
objection to entering the colonial equivalent for “the House.” To more
practised ears it would no doubt have sounded a suspicious story, but
it went to my heart, and I gave the poor old body some tea and sugar,
an order for a little meat, and—fatal mistake—a few shillings. Next day
there was a coroner’s inquest on the charred remains of my unfortunate
friend, who had got, as it seems she usually did, very drunk, and had
tumbled into her own fireplace. Every one seemed to know how weak and
foolish I had been in the matter of even that small gift of money,
and the newspapers hinted that I must be a Political Economist of
the lowest type! So pensioners’ widows tried in vain to “put the
com-mether” on me after that experience.

“If you please, my lady, an ’Indoo wants to speak to you,” ushered in a
little later my next interviewer. I beheld a small, trim, and cleanly
clad little man entering at the door. His request was for a pedlar’s
licence. I timidly pointed out that I did not deal in such things, and
that he must have been wrongly advised to apply to me for the document.
This brought on a rambling story, very difficult to comprehend until I
furbished up the scanty remains of my own knowledge of Hindustani. I
then gathered that my friend was somewhat of a black sheep in character
as well as complexion, and had so indifferent a record in the police
sheets that he could not get a licence to start a hawker’s cart unless
some one would become security for his good behaviour. He explained
very carefully how he could manage to raise sufficient money to stock
his cart, but no one would go security for him. I knew that hawkers
made quite a good living in the thinly populated parts of the colony,
and he seemed desperately in earnest in his desire to make a fresh
start and gain his bread honestly. I told him that I would consult
the Commissioner of Police and see him again; which I did, with the
result that I went security for his good conduct myself! No doubt it
was a rash thing to do, but I wanted him to have another chance, and
I impressed on him how keenly I should feel the disgrace if he did
not run straight. “Very good, lady Sahib; I won’t disgrace you,” were
his last words in his own language; and he never did. It all turned
out like a story in a book, and two or three times a year my “Indoo”
turned up, bringing a smiling little wife and an ever-increasing series
of babies, to report himself as being on the high road to fortune, if
not actually at her temple gate. It was one of the most satisfactory
interviews that little back room witnessed.

Sometimes I had a very bad quarter of an hour trying to explain to the
relatives of prisoners that I did not habitually carry the key of the
big Jail in my pocket, and so was unable to go up that very moment,
unlock its door, and let out their, of course, quite wrongfully tried
and convicted friends. I have often been asked, “Why did you see these
weeping women at all?” but at the time it was very hard to refuse,
for, in so small a community as it then was, one knew something of the
circumstances, and how hardly the trouble or disgrace pressed on the
innocent members of the family. Sympathy was all there was to give, and
it was impossible to withhold that.

Looking back on those interviews one sees how comedy treads all through
life on the heels of tragedy, and I am sure to a listener the comic
element, even in the most pathetic tales, would have been supplied
by my legal axioms. I used to invent them on the spot in the wildest
manner, and I observed they always brought great comfort, which is
perhaps more than can be claimed for the real thing. For instance,
when I was very hard put to it once to persuade a weeping girl who had
flung herself on her knees at my feet, and was entreating me to at once
release her brother, who was in prison for manslaughter, that I had no
power to give the order she begged for, I cried, “Why, my poor girl,
the Queen of England could not do such a thing, how much less the wife
of a Governor? I dare not even speak to my husband on the subject.” I
have often wondered since if the first part of that assertion was true.
The second certainly was.

Although I could not promise to overthrow the action of the Supreme
Court in the high-handed manner demanded of me, still I have never
regretted my habit of seeing these poor women and listening to their
sad stories. It really seemed to comfort them a little to know how
truly sorry I felt for them, and I always tried to keep up their own
self-respect, and so help them over the dark days. I had very few
demands on me for money, which was seldom needed for such cases; only
when illness—rare in the beautiful climate—supervened, was that sort of
aid at all necessary.

But my interviewers did not invariably consist of supplicants against
the course of justice. When it was found that a visit to me did not
affect in any way the carrying out of the just-passed sentence, my
petitioners fell off in numbers, for which I was very thankful.
Sometimes I received visits of the gratitude which is so emphatically
a sense of favours to come, but I very soon learned the futility of
attempting to deal with those daughters of the horse-leech, and cut
their visits as short as I could.

Once, however, after a brief interview with a fluent and very red-faced
lady, leading a demure little boy by the hand, a great and bitter cry
was raised in my establishment, and I was implored by my housemaids
not to “see any more of them hussies.” The lady in question said she
came to thank me for letting her dear, innocent, good little boy out
of the reformatory. In vain I protested that I knew nothing whatever
about the matter. The boy had been one of six or seven little waifs
who had been sent to the reformatory on Rottnest Island, where we
always spent our summers. These children used to come down to me every
Sunday afternoon for a sort of Bible lesson, which I tried to make as
interesting as I could; but beyond their names I knew nothing about
them. I found that they were well taught and cared for, and, as they
could not possibly escape from the island (I never heard that they
had ever tried to do so), were allowed a good deal of liberty after
the hours spent in school or the carpenter’s shop. I presume this
boy’s sentence had expired in due course, and that he had returned
to his loving mother; hence the wail from my distracted handmaidens,
who found empty clothes-lines in the back-yard, through which these
visitors had departed, taking with them all the socks, stockings, and
pocket-handkerchiefs of the whole household. As a feat of legerdemain
it certainly deserves credit for the rapidity with which it was done,
as well as the way the articles had been hidden so as to escape the
sentries’ eyes. I don’t know what happened to the lady, who I heard
was quickly caught, but I saw the little boy, looking as cherubic as
ever, the next summer when we went over to Rottnest. The subject was,
however, never alluded to between us, and he used to get his stick of
barley sugar as did the others after the Bible lesson was ended.

Once I had a visit from a delightful old gentleman who certainly
possessed the nicest “derangement of epitaphs” I have ever met with in
real life. And he was so proud of his choice language, and repeated his
distorted expressions so constantly, that I don’t know how I preserved
the smallest show of gravity. He was an office-keeper of some sort,
and was threatened with the loss of his post for neglect of duty. “You
know, my lady, it’s with regard to that there orfice fire. I never
did know fires was my special providence, never. No one could be more
partikler than me about my dooty. Why, when we was over at Rottnest
last year, I was always a prevaricating with the shore for orders.
There was never no inadvartences about me, never;” and so on. I wish I
could remember half his flowers of rhetoric.

There was, however, one class of interviewer of whom I saw far too many
specimens during the last year or two of my stay in Western Australia.
The colony had been making great progress in every direction. The first
indications of its splendid gold-fields were passing from vague rumours
to hopeful facts. Railways were being rapidly pushed on to every point
of the compass, work at high wages was plentiful, and every week
brought shiploads of men for the railways and all other public works.
As a rule, I believe, the immigrants were fairly satisfactory, and I
heard of the various contractors gladly absorbing large numbers of
workmen. In many instances these men brought their wives and families
with them, and it was with the modern colonist’s wife that my troubles
began.

I had heard wonderful stories of the struggles and hardships of the
early settlers, and admired the splendid spirit in which the older sons
and daughters started empire-building. One dear old lady showed me the
packing-case of a grand piano, which she declared she should always
treasure, as she had brought up a large and healthy family in it.

“You see, my dear, my piano was not much use to me in those days, and I
don’t know what became of it, but the case made a splendid crêche for
the babies.” And on every side I saw instances of difficulties overcome
and hardships borne with the same indomitable pluck and cheerfulness.
But the modern colonist’s wife is a very different lady. We seem to
have educated the original woman off the face of the earth, and we have
got instead a discontented, helpless sort of person, who is wretched
without all the latest forms of civilisation, who wants “a little ’ome”
where she can put her fans and yellow vases on the walls, and sit
indoors and do crewel work.

One woman wept scalding tears over the cruel fate which brought her to
a country as yet innocent of Kindergartens. She had two sweet little
girl-babies, certainly under three years old, who looked the picture of
rosy health. I tried to comfort her by saying that surely there was no
hurry about their education.

“Oh no, it’s not the schooling I mind, ma’am,” she sobbed; “it’s the
getting ’em out of the way. They do mess about so, and I want ’em
kept safe and quiet out of the house.” This elegant lady’s hardships
consisted in being required to go a hundred miles or so up the railway
line to live in a little township, where her husband had highly paid
work. She wished me to tell him that she could not possibly go away
from Perth, though she despised our little capital very heartily. I
declined to interfere, and told her she ought to be ashamed of herself,
so she ended the interview by sobbing out that “she did think a lady as
was a lady might feel for her.”

“And what can I do for you?” was my question to a neat, rather nervous
young woman, who said she was Mrs. Jakes.

“Well, mum, would you be so good as to ask his Excellency to order Mr.
——” (the great contractor of that day) “to send my ’usband back to me.”

“Why?” I inquired.

“Well, mum, Jakes, he wants me to go up the line ever so far and live
in a bush, leastways in a tent, and I never can do it.”

“Dear me, why not?” I inquired. “Many of my friends camp out in the
bush, and like it very much. Why don’t you go?”

With a deeply disgusted glance at my cheerful aspect Mrs. Jakes
answered with dignity, “I don’t ’old with living among wild beasts,
mum, and Jakes ought to be ashamed of ’isself asking a decent woman to
go and live in bushes with lions and tigers.”

As soon as I could speak for laughing, I assured Mrs. Jakes that
the forests of Western Australia were absolutely innocent of such
denizens, but she did not seem to willingly believe my assertions, and
left me much disappointed at my advice to go up and join her husband,
who was perfectly well and happy, and working for excellent wages.

I stopped at that very same road-side station later, in one of my
spring excursions after wild flowers, and I inquired if Jakes was
still working there. “Yes; he is a capital man, and is now foreman,
getting over two pounds a week.” So then I asked to be conducted to
his tent, which I found pitched in a lovely sylvan glade, and there,
to my great satisfaction, I saw Mrs. Jakes preparing his tea. She was
fain to confess that bush-life was very different from her alarming
anticipations of it. She looked ever so much better herself, and the
children, whom I carried off to tea with me—only on account of the
buns—were as rosy as the dawn.

Some of my interviews were too sad to be spoken of here: interviews
in which I had often to helplessly witness the awful creeping back to
the capacity for suffering which is the worst stage in that long _viâ
dolorosa_.

One terrible night, spent in walking up and down the shore at Rottnest
with a distracted lighthouse-keeper, who had just heard that his
young wife had been wrecked and lost on her way out to him, can never
be forgotten. The poor man was literally beside himself. His mates
brought him down to me, declaring that they could not manage him,
and felt sure he meant to jump into the sea. There was not much to
be said, so we paced the shore in the moonlight outside my house in
silence. I did not dare to leave him for a moment, and it was not until
I saw the smoke of the kitchen fire very early in the morning that
I took him indoors, gave him some hot tea, and made him go and lie
down. He promised me, like a child, “to be good,” and kept his word
bravely—poor, heart-broken mourner.

And then there was my “loving boy Corny,” a red-headed imp of mischief,
whose mother used, when he “drove her past her patience,” to bring
him to me to scold. Poor Corny’s mischief was only animal spirits
unemployed, and we became great friends. The difficulty was to induce
Corny to go to school or to learn anything, but it chanced that I was
going to England for a few months, and Corny declared himself grieved,
so I promised to write to him regularly, if he would learn to write
to me, which he did with ease, clever little monkey that he was, and
signed himself as above. From what I knew of Corny I strongly suspect
he would be one of the very first to volunteer for service in South
Africa. Our troublesome boys generally make splendid “soldiers of the
Queen,” and bestow their troublesomeness on her enemies.

Instead of interviews, which were seldom or never asked for in the
next colonies we went to, I was assailed by letters, which, however,
were chiefly directed to the Governor, who passed on some to me to
inquire into, though the Inspector-General of Police made short work
of those submitted to him. A visit from a constable to the suppliant’s
address would generally discover the existence of a very different
state of affairs from what was represented in the piteous application.
A youthful and starving family, afflicted by divers strange maladies,
would resolve itself into a comfortable old couple, who could not even
be made the least ashamed of their barefaced imposture.

The language employed in these begging letters was of the finest,
if not always the most intelligible. I sometimes wondered in what
dictionary they found the words they used. For instance, here is a
literal copy of what I imagine was meant for a sort of appeal from a
decision on a very barefaced case of imposture. “We rectitudely beg to
recognise our hesitation of his Excy^s dogma thereon.”

Perhaps the most wonderful of these epistles purported to come from
an old woman who begged for money, and detailed her ill-success in
obtaining an order for a coffin for her daughter, who, she declared,
was “in a ridiculous condition on the roof of her cottage.” This
statement seemed to open up such a vista of horrors that a mounted
policeman was at once despatched to inquire into the case. It was then
found that the young lady was in rude health and wanted the money for
toilette purposes.

One of the most unsatisfactory interviews I ever had was in one of
those languid sunny isles. My interviewer was a nice, pretty young
widow, slightly coloured, who had lost her excellent husband under
very sad and sudden circumstances. Of course, help was forthcoming for
the moment, but it was suggested that I should try to find out from
her how she could be helped to earn her own living. She appeared at
the stated hour, most beautifully and expensively dressed, and had
charming, gentle manners. But any one so helpless I never came across.
She seemed to have received a fairly good education, but to be quite
incapable of using it. I asked if she would undertake the care of
little children. “Oh, no!” she “did not like children.” Could she set
up as a dressmaker? “Oh, no!” she “did not like dressmaking,” and so
on through every sort of occupation. There were plenty of openings for
any talent of any sort which she might possess. At last, in despair, I
asked if she had a plan of her own, and it seems she had, but the plan
consisted in my making her a handsome weekly allowance out of a large
fund which she had been told I had at my disposal. This I energetically
denied, so at last she wound up by asking if I would order a certain
insurance office to pay her a small sum for which her husband’s life
had been insured. I suggested that no doubt she would receive the money
in due time without my interference. But she thought not, “Because the
premiums had not been paid lately, as she always wanted the money for
something else.” Dress, I should think.

I often wish I had kept any of the wonderful letters we received upon
every sort of subject. One was addressed to “Sa Majesté le Roi de
Trinidad,” and contained a request for a decoration or order of some
unknown kind. Another, with a similar address, only asked for stamps.
It appeared later that both these epistles were intended for the other
Trinidad, which at present is only inhabited by hermit-crabs, and
certainly could not be expected to furnish either commodity.




XVI

A COOKING MEMORY


I often think, as I pass the handsome and substantial building in
Buckingham Palace Road, known as the National School of Cookery, how
much it has grown and developed since my day, nearly thirty years ago.

That was indeed the “day of small things,” for we started work in a
series of sheds, lent by the trustees of the South Kensington Museum,
in Exhibition Road, near what used to be the temporary site of the
Royal School of Art Needlework. The idea originated with the late Sir
Henry Cole, and was one of the many excellent plans he conceived and
started. As often happens, the first outcome of Sir Henry’s scheme
proved widely different from his original intention; but on the whole
there is no doubt that the teaching of the National School of Cookery
has worked a great improvement in our culinary ideas and knowledge.

Sir Henry at once gathered a strong working committee together,
including the late Duke of Westminster, the late Lord Granville, Mr.
Hans Busk, Sir Daniel Cooper, Mr. (Rob Roy) McGregor and many other
experts. I was asked to be the first Lady Superintendent, to my deep
amazement, for I have never cared in the least what I ate, provided
it was “neat and clean.” I was a very busy woman in those days, and
it seemed difficult to give the necessary time to the school, from 10
A.M. to 4.30 P.M. every day except Saturday afternoon. I have, however,
never regretted the extra work my acceptance entailed, for it was of
incalculable benefit to me to learn Sir Henry Cole’s method of dealing
with subjects, and to watch his habits of patient attention and care of
even the minutest details.

We started with very little money to our credit—as well as I remember,
less than two hundred pounds; but Sir Henry had thorough confidence
in the depth of the purse of the British public. This confidence
was abundantly justified, for want of money was never one of the
difficulties besetting our earliest efforts towards teaching a better
kind of cooking. We at once set to work to provide ourselves with
really good cooks, and in this respect we were exceptionally fortunate,
for three out of the five young women we selected remained with us many
years, and indeed they were all very satisfactory. The only thing I had
to teach them was how to impart their knowledge, for they jibbed, as
it were, at the idea of having to speak aloud, especially to ladies.
There were dreadful moments when I feared I should never be able to
induce them to accompany their lessons by a few explanatory words,
loud enough to be heard, at every stage of the dish. I acted a whole
benchful of pupils of every grade of ignorance before them, without
eliciting anything beyond painfully deep blushes or an occasional
laugh. So long as I was the only imaginary pupil we did not make much
progress; but at last I left them alone, to get on their own way,
with just two or three clever girls as their first pupils, whom I
had previously begged to ask every sort of question about the very
beginning of things.

It is pleasant to think that my successor—who is still the lady
superintendent of the school—was one of those same pupils, and so took
an early part in removing one of the greatest difficulties. In spite
of much impatience on the part of the public, who were, as usual,
possessed by an erroneous idea of what the work of the school aimed at,
we had to devote some weeks to this same teaching of the teachers, and
organisation of what was to be taught.

There was no difficulty about providing ranges and stoves of every sort
and kind, for the makers of such wares offered us numerous samples. It
was, however, necessary for the five cooks to sit in judgment on each
novelty, and decide whether it was worth accepting, for of course
we wanted to use the best sort of cooking apparatus, but yet not to
depart too much from familiar paths. We felt sure it would be of no
use teaching beginners to cook on a stove or range which, from its
costliness or some other reason, would be rarely met with. Every sort
of cooking utensil was also offered to us free of expense, besides many
and various kinds of patent fuel; but this latter gift was invariably
declined with thanks by the cooks, who would have none of it.

Sir Henry Cole had foreseen that we ought to begin at the very
beginning, so the first thing taught was how to clean a stove with all
its flues, puzzling little doors, &c. Then it was ordained that the
practical pupil was to be shown how to clean, quickly and thoroughly,
saucepans, fryingpans, and in short all kitchen utensils. This was
followed by a course of scrubbing tables and hearths. The morning
lessons were devoted generally to the acquisition of this useful
knowledge, supplemented by little lectures on choosing provisions,
and how to tell good from bad, fresh from stale, and so forth. In the
afternoons—for the poor cooks had to be given an interval of rest and
refreshment—the lessons were given in two ways: by demonstration,
where the instructor prepared the dish before her class from the
beginning, and the pupils watched the process and took notes; or
else by practical experience, where they prepared and cooked the dish
themselves under the cook’s superintendence.

In those early days we attempted the cooking only of simple food; such
as soups and broths, plain joints, simple entrées, pastry, puddings,
jellies, salads, and such like. One day was set apart entirely for
learning “sick-room cookery,” and this was found to be very popular,
only the pupils invariably began by asking to be shown how to make
poultices! I soon observed that each of these very nice cooks of ours
excelled in just _one_ thing, and so they had to fall into line, as
it were, and the soup-lesson would be given by the expert in soups,
and so all through. Fortunately one dear, nice little woman had a
perfect genius for sick-room cookery, and that day’s lessons were
confided entirely to her. Not one of them, however, could make really
good pastry, for we aimed at producing the very best of everything
we attempted. I tried in vain to get it right, until I mentioned my
difficulty to Lord Granville, who at once sent his _chef_ down to give
private lessons to the cook whose ideas on pastry were most nearly
what we wanted. This was a great help and of immense benefit; but I
was much amused when, a week or two after, as I was sitting in my
little office—all very shabby and inconvenient, but we were too deeply
interested to mind trifles—a most elegant young gentleman appeared,
faultlessly attired, and carrying a large envelope, which, with a
beautiful bow, he tendered to me.

“What is this?” I inquired.

“A State Paper on Pastry, Madam,” was the answer, and the bearer of the
important document proved to be the _chef_ himself, who had taken the
trouble to commit his lesson to paper.

At last everything was ready, and one fine Monday morning the school
opened its doors to a perfect rush of pupils. We ought to have been
happy, but Sir Henry certainly was not, for these same pupils were by
no means the class he wanted to get at. Fine ladies of every rank, rich
women, gay Americans in beautiful clothes, all thronged our kitchens,
and the waiting carriages looked as if a smart party were going on
within our dingy sheds. It was certainly a very curious craze, and
I can answer for its lasting the two years I was superintendent. I
asked many of the ladies why they insisted on coming to learn how to
clean kitchen ranges and scrub wooden tables, as nothing short of a
revolution could possibly make such knowledge useful to them, and I
received very curious answers. One friend said it was because of their
Scotch shooting-box, where such knowledge would come in very handy; but
this statement has never been borne out by any subsequent experience
of my own. Others said they wanted to set an example. Some stated that
their husbands wished it; but I cannot imagine why, as they were all
people who could afford excellent cooks.

For a long time we could not get one of the class we wanted, nor did a
single servant come to learn, though the fees were purposely made as
low as possible—in fact, almost nominal for servants. We also wished to
get hold of the class of young matron who is represented in _Punch_ as
timidly imploring her cook “not to put lumps in the melted butter,” but
even they were very shy of coming. Sometimes, I think, they were really
ashamed of their stupendous and amazing ignorance, for it was in that
rank we found, when we did catch one or two, that the most absolute
want of knowledge of the simplest domestic details existed. Whether or
no it is due to the many schools of cookery which now happily exist
all over Great Britain, I will not venture to say; but surely it would
be impossible nowadays for any young woman to give me the answer one
of our earliest pupils gave. She was very young and very pretty, and
we all consequently took the greatest interest in her progress; but
alas! she was privately reported to me as being a most unpromising
subject. One day, when her lesson was just over, I chanced to meet her
and inquired how she was getting on. She took the most hopeful view,
and declared she “knew a lot.” I next asked her to tell me what she had
learned that day.

“Oh, let me see; we’ve been doing breakfast dishes, I think.”

“And what did you learn about them?”

“I learned”—this with an air of triumph—“that they are all the same
eggs which you poach or boil. I always thought they were a different
sort of egg, a different _shape_, you know!”

I think one of my greatest worries was the way in which the British
middle-class matron regarded the National School of Cookery as an
institution for supplying her with an excellent cook, possessing all
the virtues as well as all the talents, at very low wages. Every post
brought me sheaves and piles of letters entering into the minutest
details of the writers’ domestic affairs, and requesting—I might
almost say ordering—me to send them down next day one of the treasures
I was supposed to manufacture and turn out by the score. In vain I
published notices that the school was not a registry office, and that
no cooks could be “sent from it.” Sometimes I tried to cope with any
particularly beseeching matron by writing to explain the nature of the
undertaking, and suggesting that she should send her cook, or _a_ cook,
to learn; but this always made her very indignant. At last I found the
only way to get rid of the intolerable nuisance of such correspondents
was to answer by a lithographed post-card, stating that the school
did not undertake to supply cooks. This missive appeared to act as
a bombshell in the establishment; for apparently the existing cook
immediately gave warning, eliciting one more despairing shriek of “See
what you have done,” to me, from the persevering mistress. I was not,
however, so inhuman as to launch this missile until I had many times
said the same thing, either by letter or by enclosing printed notices
of the work and plan of the school.

I often wonder we had not more accidents, considering the crass
ignorance of our ladies. Oddly enough, the only alarming episode came
to us from a girl of the people, one of four who had begged to be
allowed to act as kitchen-maids. Their idea was a good one, for of
course they got their food all day, and were at least in the way of
picking up a good deal of useful knowledge. These girls also cleaned
up after the class was over, so saving the poor weary cooks, who early
in the undertaking remarked, with a sigh, “The young ladies do make
such a mess, to be sure!” Well, this girl, who was very steady and
hard-working, but abnormally stupid, saw fit one morning to turn on
the gas in certain stoves some little time beforehand. The sheds were
so airy—to say the least of it—that there was not sufficient smell to
attract any one’s attention, and the gas accumulated comfortably in
the stoves until the class started work. It chanced to be a lesson in
cooking vegetables, and potatoes were the “object.” About twenty-five
small saucepans had been filled with water and potatoes, and the next
step was to put them on to boil. I was not in that kitchen at the
moment, or I hope I should have perceived the escape, and have had the
common-sense to forbid a match being struck to light the gas in certain
stoves. But I was near enough to hear a loud “pouf,” followed by cries
of alarm and dismay, and I rushed in while the potatoes were still in
the air, for they went up as high as ever they could get. Happily no
one was hurt, though a good deal of damage was done to some of the
stoves; but it was a very narrow escape, owing doubtless to the space
and involuntary ventilation of these same sheds. In the midst of my
alarm I well remember the ridiculous effect of that rain of potatoes.
Every one had forgotten all about them, and their re-appearance created
as much surprise as though such things had never existed.

I am afraid the object of much of the severity of cleanliness taught
in the morning lessons was to discourage the numerous fine and smart
ladies who beset our doors, though Sir Henry had always declared
it was only to test their intentions. I always made a round of the
kitchens after work had been started, and it was really touching to
see beautiful gowns pinned back and covered by large coarse aprons,
and jewelled hands wielding scrubbing brushes. Once, as I came round
the corner, I heard one of the cook teachers say to a fair pupil who
was kneeling amid a great slop of soapy water, and calling upon her to
admire the scrubbing of a kitchen table, “No, my lady, I’m afraid that
won’t do at all. You see her ladyship” (that was I, _bien entendu_) “is
a tiger about the legs!” I certainly had no idea such was my character.

I wonder what has become of all the certificates gained, with a great
deal of trouble and fatigue, by strict and lengthy examinations, which
used to be so proudly exhibited, framed and glazed, in stately mansions
thirty years ago.

Of course there were absurd proposals made to us of all sorts and
kinds. It was suggested by some wiseacres that we should instruct both
the army and navy, to say nothing of the merchant service. I entreated
to be allowed first to teach the ordinary middle-class cook of the
British Empire, before I soared to the instruction of its gallant
defenders. True, that same cook was a very shy bird to catch, and
I really never caught her in the two short years of my management;
but I am glad to know that my successor has since managed to attract
and teach the exact class we always wanted to reach. The odd thing
is, that the cooks generally did not want to be taught, and I have
constantly known of lessons being declined, even when they were offered
at the expense of the mistress. No reason whatever against the method
of the school was given, and the refusal seemed to spring merely
from a dislike to be taught: “Thank you, ma’am; I had rather not,”
being the general formula. I know of one or two instances where an
excellent teacher had been sent down from the school by special request
to a small town some thirty miles from London, but when the various
mistresses in the neighbourhood attempted to form a class of pupils
from their own servants and at their own expense, they were met on all
sides by flat refusals, and assurances that the cooks would rather
give up their situations than join a cooking class. Those were among
the early and the most disheartening difficulties of the school. If we
could only have infused the desire for culinary knowledge, which seemed
suddenly to take possession of the ladies, into the minds of their
humbler sisters, how glad we should have been!

I cannot conclude this paper without telling of one of my own most
confusing experiences, the problem of which has never been solved. One
day I received a letter stating that the writer was most anxious to
become a pupil of the school. It was from a young curate in a distant
and out-of-the-way part of the north (I think) of England. I never
read a more clever and amusing letter, describing his sufferings in
the food line at the hands of the good woman who “did” for him in his
modest lodging. He was evidently desperate, and professed himself
determined to learn how to cook, so as to be independent of this dame.
But although I assured him of my profound sympathy and pity, I had
at the same time to decline him as a pupil, alleging that we did not
teach men at all. Letter after letter followed this pronouncement of
mine, each one droller than the last, though the poor man was evidently
in deadly earnest all the time. He pleaded and besought in the most
eloquent words, assuring me of his harmless nature and wishes, offering
to send testimonials as to character, &c., from his bishop, or his
rector’s wife, anything, in short, that I required to convince me of
his worthiness. I had no time, however, to waste on so fruitless,
though so amusing, a correspondence, and I had to cut it short, by
merely repeating the rule, and declining peremptorily to go on with the
subject. I had nearly forgotten all about it, when, one morning, some
weeks later, my deputy-superintendent came into my office and said:—

“There is such a queer girl among the new pupils this morning.”

“Is there? What is she like?” I asked rather indifferently, for a
“queer girl” was by no means unknown in the crowded classes.

“Well, she is so big and so awkward, as if she had never worn
petticoats before, and has such huge hands and feet, and quite short
hair with a cap, and, oh! such a deep voice. But she works very hard,
and is rushing through her lesson at a great rate.”

“What is her name?” I asked, as a light seemed suddenly to dawn on me.

“Miss—Miss—oh, here it is,” said the deputy-lady, holding out the
counterfoil of her book of receipts for fees. “She sent me up a
post-office order for the fees some little time ago, but there was no
room for her in any class until to-day.”

I looked at the name, rather a remarkable one, though I have quite
forgotten it, turned to the letter-book, and, lo, it was the same as
the curate’s! I did not say anything to my second in command, but
made an opportunity for going into the kitchen where the “queer girl”
would be at work. No need to ask for her to be pointed out, for a more
singular-looking being I never beheld, working away with feverish
energy. The cook who was giving the lesson told me afterwards that
the dismay of that pupil was great at being first set to clean stoves
and scrub tables, and that “she” had piteously entreated, in a deep
bass voice, to be shown at once how to cook a mutton chop. The set of
lessons were also much curtailed in that instance, for the queer girl
did not appear after the end of that week, instead of going on for
another fortnight.

There is every reason to believe that the National School of Cookery—in
which I must always take a deep interest—is much nearer now to
fulfilling its original design of constant and careful instruction in
the difficult art of cooking than it was in those early but amusing
days, and its many constant friends and supporters must rejoice
to see how it has emerged from that chrysalis stage and become a
self-supporting concern, doing steady excellent work in the most
unobtrusive manner.




XVII

BIRD NOTES


A great reaction of feeling in favour of the mongoose has set in since
Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s delightful story of “Rikki-tikki,” in the “First
Jungle Book,” presenting that small animal in an heroic and loveable
aspect. But to the true bird-lover the mongoose still appears a dreaded
and dangerous foe. It is well known that its introduction into Jamaica
has resulted in nearly the extermination of bird life in that island,
and the consequent increase of insects, notably the diminutive tick,
that mere speck of a vicious little torment.

There are, I believe, only a very few mongooses in Barbados, and
strong measures will doubtless be adopted to still further reduce
their number; for no possible advantage in destroying the large
brown rat which gnaws the sugar-cane can make up for the havoc the
mongoose creates in the poultry yard, and, indeed, among all feathered
creatures. It has also been found by experience that the mongoose
prefers eggs to rats, and will neglect his proper prey for any sort
or size of egg. He was brought into Jamaica to eat up the large rat
introduced a century ago by a certain Sir Charles Price (after whom
those same brown rats are still called), instead of which the mongoose
has taken to egg and bird eating, and has thriven on this diet beyond
all calculation. Sir Charles Price introduced his rat to eat up the
snakes with which Jamaica was then infested, and now that the mongoose
has failed to clear out the rats, some other creature will have to be
introduced to cope with the swarming and ravenous mongoose.

It was therefore with the greatest satisfaction I once beheld in the
garden at Government House, Barbados, the clever manner the birds
circumvented the wiles of a half-tame mongoose which haunted the
grounds.

Short as is the twilight in those Lesser Antilles, there was still, at
midsummer, light enough left in the western sky to make it delightful
to linger in the garden after our evening drive. The wonder and beauty
of the hues of the sunset sky seemed ever fresh, and every evening
one gazed with admiration, which was almost awe, at the marvellous
undreamed of colours glowing on that gorgeous palette. Crimsons,
yellows, mauves, palest blues, chrysoprase greens, pearly greys, all
blent together as if by enchantment, but changing as you looked and
melting into that deep, indescribable, tropic purple, which forms the
glorious background of the “meaner beauties of the night.”

In this same garden there chanced to be a couple of low swinging seats
just opposite a large tree, which I soon observed was the favourite
roosting place of countless numbers of birds. Indeed, all the fowls
of the air seemed to assemble in its branches, and I was filled with
curiosity to know why the other trees were deserted. At roosting time
the chattering and chirruping were deafening, and quarrels raged
fiercely all along the branches. I noticed that the centre of the tree
was left empty, and that the birds edged and sidled out as far as ever
they could get on to its slenderest branches. All the squabbles arose
from the ardent desire with which each bird was apparently filled to
be the very last on the branch and so the nearest to its extreme tip.
It can easily be understood that such thin twigs could not stand the
weight of these crowding little creatures, and would therefore bend
until they could no longer cling to it, and so had to fly off and
return to search for another foothold. I had watched this unusual mode
of roosting for several evenings, without getting any nearer to the
truth than a guess that the struggle was perhaps to secure a cool and
airy bed-place.

One hot evening, however, we lingered longer in what the negro gardener
called the “swinggers,” tempted by the cool darkness, and putting off
as long as possible the time of lights and added heat, and swarming
winged ants, and moths, and mosquitoes. We had begun to think how
delightful it would be to have no dinner at all, but just to stay
there, gently swaying to and fro all night, when we saw a shadow—for at
first it seemed nothing more—dart from among the shadows around us, and
move swiftly up the trunk of the tree. At first I thought it must be a
huge rat, but my dear companion whispered, “Look at the mongoose!” So
we sat still, watching it with closest attention. Soon it was lost in
the dense central foliage, and we wondered at the profound stillness of
that swarming mass of birds, who had not long settled into quiet. Our
poor human, inadequate eyes had, however, become so accustomed to the
gloom by its gradual growth, that presently we could plainly observe
a flattened-out object stealthily creeping along an out-lying bough.
It was quite a breathless moment, for no shadow could have moved more
noiselessly than that crawling creature. Even as we watched, the bough
softly and gradually bent beneath the added weight, but still the
mongoose stole onwards. No little sleeping ball of feathers was quite
within reach, so yet another step must needs be taken along the slender
branch. To my joy that step was fatal to the hopes of the brigand
beast, for the bough dipped suddenly, and the mongoose had to cling to
it for dear life, whilst every bird flew off with sharp cries of alarm
which effectually roused the whole population of the ærial city, and
the air was quite darkened round the tree by fluttering, half-awakened
birds.

It was plain now to see the reason of the proceedings which had so
puzzled me, and once more I felt inclined to—as the Psalmist phrases
it—“lay my hand on my mouth and be still,” in wonder and admiration of
the adaptable instincts of birds. How long had it taken these little
helpless creatures to discover that their only safety lay in just such
tactics, and what sense guided them in choosing exactly the one tree
which possessed slender and yielding branch-tips which were yet strong
enough to support their weight? They were just settling down again
when horrid clamorous bells insisted on our going back into a hot,
lighted-up house, and facing the additional miseries of dressing and
dinner. Though we carefully watched that same tree and its roosting
crowds for many weeks, we never again saw the mongoose attempt to get
his supper there, so I suppose he must also be credited with sufficient
cleverness to know when he was beaten.

A Toucan does not often figure in a list of tame birds, and I cannot
conscientiously recommend it as a pet. Mine came from Venezuela and
was given to me soon after our arrival in Trinidad. It must have been
caught very young, for it was perfectly tame, and, if you did not
object to its sharp claws, would sit contentedly on your hand. The body
was about as big as that of a crow, but it may be described as a short,
stout bird, with a beak as large as its body. Upon the shining surface
of this proboscis was crowded all the colours certainly of the rainbow,
blended in a prismatic scale. The toucan’s plumage would be dingy if it
were not so glossy, and it was of a blue-black hue with white feathers
in the wings and just a little orange under the throat to shade off the
bill, as it were. Some toucans have large fleshy excrescences at the
root of the bill, but this one and those I saw in Trinidad had not.

The toucan was, however, an amiable and, at first, a silent bird. He
lived in a very large cage, chiefly on fruit, and tubbed constantly.
But the curious and amusing thing was to see him preparing to roost,
and he began quite early, whilst other birds were still wide awake. The
first thing was to carefully cock up—for it was a slow and cautious
proceeding—his absurd little scut of a tail which was only about
three or four inches long. This must in some way have affected his
balance, for he never moved on the perch after the tail had been laid
carefully back. Then, later in the evening, he gently turned the huge
unwieldy bill round by degrees, until it too was laid along his back
and buried in feathers in the usual bird fashion. By the way, I have
always wondered how and why the myth arose that birds sleep with their
heads _under_ their wings? A moment’s thought or observation would show
that it is quite as impossible a feat for a bird as for a human being.
However, the toucan’s sleeping arrangements resulted in producing an
oval mass of feathers supported on one leg, looking as unlike a bird as
it is possible to imagine. When he was ruthlessly awakened by a sudden
poke or noise, which I grieve to state was often done—in my absence,
needless to say—I heard that he invariably tumbled down in a sprawling
heap, being unable to adjust the balance required by that ponderous
bill all in a moment.

For many months after his arrival the toucan was at least an
unobjectionable pet and very affectionate. He used to gently take my
fingers in his large gaudy bill and nibble them softly without hurting
me, but I never could help thinking what a pinch he might give if he
liked. His inoffensive ways, however, only lasted while he was very
young, for in due course of time he began to utter discordant yells and
shrieks, especially during the luncheon hour. This could not be borne,
and the house-steward—a most dignified functionary—used to advance
towards the cage in a stately manner with a tumbler of water concealed
behind his back which he would suddenly fling over the screaming bird.
The toucan soon learned what Mr. V.’s appearance before his cage meant,
and always ceased his screaming at the mere sight of an empty tumbler.
These sudden douches, or else his adolescence, must have had a bad
effect on his temper, for he could no longer be petted and played with,
and any finger put within reach of his bill suffered severely. Then he
got ill, poor bird, and the Portuguese cook was called in to doctor
him. But the remedies seemed so heroic that I determined to send the
toucan away. I could not turn him loose in the garden on account of his
piercing screams, so he was caught when asleep, packed in a basket, and
conveyed to the nearest high woods, where he was set at liberty, and I
can only hope he lived happy ever after, as a less gaudy and beauteous
variety of toucan is to be found in those virgin forests.

As might naturally be expected, there are many beautiful birds in the
large botanical gardens of Trinidad in the midst of which Government
House stands. It used to be a great delight to me to watch the darting
orioles flash past in all their golden beauty, and some lovely,
brilliantly blue, birds were also occasionally to be seen among the
trees. I was given some of these, but alas! they never lived in
captivity, and after one or two unsuccessful efforts I always let them
out of the cage. The ubiquitous sparrow was there of course, and so was
a rather larger black and yellow bird called the “qu’est-ce que dit?”
from its incessant cry.

In these gardens the orioles built their large clumsy nests of dried
grass without any precaution against surprises; but I was told that in
the interior of the island, where snakes abound, the “corn-bird”—as he
is called up-country—has found it expedient to hang his nest at the
end of a sort of grass rope some six feet long. This forms a complete
protection against snakes, as the rope is so slightly put together that
no wise serpent would trust himself on it. Sometimes the oriole finds
he has woven too large a nest, so he half fills it with leaves, but
after heavy rains these make the structure so heavy that it often falls
to the ground, and from this cause I became possessed of one or two of
these nests with their six or eight feet of dangling rope. Anything so
quaint as these numerous nests swinging from the topmost branches of
lofty trees cannot well be imagined. It is impossible to reach them by
climbing or in any other way except shooting away the slender straw
rope, which rifle-feat might surely rank with winning the Queen’s Prize
at Bisley!

It has always interested me to examine birds’ nests in the different
colonies to which the wandering star of my fate has led me, and I
have observed a curious similarity between the houses made with and
without hands. For instance, take a bird’s nest in England, where
human habitations are solid and carefully finished, and you will see
an equal finish and solidity in the neatly constructed nest with its
warm lining and lichen-decorated exterior. Then look at a bird’s nest
in a colony with its hastily constructed houses made of any slight
and portable material. You will find the majority of birds’ nests
equally makeshift in character and style, just loosely put together
anyhow with dried grass, and evidently only meant for temporary use.
I saw one such nest of which the back must have tumbled out, for a
fresh leaf had been neatly sewn over the large hole with fibre. In
strong contrast, however, to such hastily constructed bird-dwellings
was a nest of the “schneevögel” which came to me from the foot of the
Drakenberg Mountains in Natal. Beautifully made of sheep’s wool, it
had all the consistency of fine felt. It was a small hanging nest, but
what I delighted in was the little outside pocket in which the father
of the family must have been wont to sit. The mouth of that nest was
so exceedingly small that at first I thought that no bird bigger than
a bee could possibly have fitted into it, but I found that it expanded
quite easily, so elastic was the material. One could quite picture the
domestic comfort, especially in so cold and inhospitable a region, of
that tiny _ménage_.

I always longed to make a journey to the north-west of Western
Australia expressly to see the so-called “bower-bird” at play. This
would have necessitated very early rising on my part, however, for
only at dawn does this bird—not the true bower-bird, by any means—come
out of his nest proper, and lie on his back near the heap of snail
shells, &c. which he has collected in front of his hastily thrown-up
wind-shelter, to play with his toys. It is marvellous the distance
those birds will carry anything of a bright colour to add to their
heap, and active quarrels over a brilliant leaf or berry have been
observed. A shred of red flannel from some explorer’s shirt or blanket
is a priceless treasure to the bower-bird and eagerly annexed. But the
wind-shelter of coarse grass always seemed to me quite as curious as
the heap of playthings. The photographs show me these shelters as being
somewhat pointed in shape, very large in proportion to the bird, and
with an opening something like the side-door in a little old-fashioned
English country church. This habit of hastily throwing up wind-shelters
is not confined to this bird only. I was given some smaller birds from
the interior of Western Australia, and at the season of the strong
north-west gales—such a horrible, hot wind as that was—I found my
little birds loved to have a lot of hay thrown into their big cage
with which in a single morning they would build a large construction
resembling a huge nest, out of all proportion to their size. At first
I thought it was an effort at nest-building, but as they constantly
pulled it to pieces, and never used it except in a high wind, it was
plain to see that their object was only to obtain a temporary shelter.

Next to the brilliant Gouldian finches, which, by the way, were called
“painted finches” locally, I loved the small blue-eyed doves from the
north-west of Australia better than any other of my feathered pets.
These little darlings lived by themselves, and from the original pair
given to me I reared a large and numerous family. They were gentle and
sweet as doves should be, of a lovely pearl-grey plumage, with not only
blue eyes, but large turquoise-blue wattles round them, so that the
effect they made was indeed blue-eyed. They met with a tragic fate, for
I turned some eight or ten pair loose in the large garden grounds of
the Perth Government House. Alas! within a week of their being set at
liberty not one was left. They were much too confidingly tame to fend
for themselves in this cold and cruel world. Half-wild cats ate some,
hawks pounced on others, but the saddest of all the sudden deaths arose
from their love of me. Whenever I was to be seen, even inside the
house, a dove would fly to me and dash itself against the plate-glass
windows, falling dead in the verandah. They did not seem able to judge
distance at all, and it was grievous to know they met their death
through their devotion to their mistress and friend.

A dozen miles to windward, opposite the flourishing port of Freemantle,
Western Australia, lies a little island with a lighthouse on it, known
on charts and maps as Rottnest. It is astonishing what a difference of
temperature those few miles out to sea make, and on this tiny islet
was our delightful summer home, for one of the earliest governors had
built, years before, a little stone house on a charming site looking
across the bay.

I was comparatively petless over there, for I could not well drag large
cages of birds about after me, when it was difficult enough to convey
chickens and ducks across the somewhat stormy channel, so I hailed
with delight the offer, made by a little island boy, of a half-fledged
hawk, as tame as it is in a hawk’s nature to be. There was no question
of a cage, and I am sure “Alonzo” would not have submitted to such an
indignity for a moment, so he was established on a perch in a sheltered
corner of the upstair verandah outside my bedroom door. I fed him at
short intervals—for he was very voracious—with raw meat, and he took
rapid gulps from a saucer of water; but he sat motionless on his perch
all day, only coming on my hand for his meals. This went on for two or
three weeks, when one morning at earliest daylight I heard an unusual
noise in the verandah, and just got out in time to see my little hawk
spreading his wings and sailing off into space. He had, however, been
wise enough to devour all the meat left in readiness for his breakfast.
Of course I gave him up for lost and went back to bed thinking sadly
of the ingratitude and heartlessness of hawk nature. I certainly never
expected to see my bird again, but a few hours later, as I was standing
in the verandah, I stretched out my hand as far as I could reach, when
lo! the little hawk dropped like a stone from the cloudless blue and
sat on my arm as composedly as if he had never left the shelter of his
home. It is needless to say that the return of the prodigal called
forth the same rapturous greeting and good dinner as of yore. After
that it became an established custom that I should every evening put a
saucer of chopped-up raw meat on a table in the verandah just outside
my window, and a pannikin of water to serve for the hawk’s early
breakfast, but he foraged for himself all day, coming back at dusk
to roost in the verandah. It was curious to watch his return, for he
generally made many attempts before he could hit off the exact slope
of the roof so as to get beneath it. After each failure he would soar
away out of sight, but only to return and circle round the house until
he had determined how low to stoop, and then like a flash he darted
beneath the projecting eaves. Apparently it was necessary to make but
the one effort, for there was no popping in and out or uncertainty,
just one majestic swoop, and he would be on his perch, as rigid and
unruffled as though he had never left it.

When our delicious summer holiday was over, and the day of return to
the mainland fixed, it became an anxious question what to do with
the hawk. To take him with us was of course out of the question, but
to leave him behind was heart-rending. Not only should I miss the
accustomed clatter of saucer and pannikin at earliest streak of dawn,
but not once did I ever hold my hand out during the day that he did
not drop on it at once. He never could have been far off, although no
eye could follow him into the deep blue dome where he seemed to live,
poised in the dazzling sunshiny air. But “Alonzo” settled the question
for himself a couple of days before we left, by suddenly deserting
his old home and leaving his breakfast untouched. We watched in vain
for his return on two successive evenings, nor did he drop on my hand
for the last two days of our stay. I then remembered that on the last
evening he had come home to roost I had noticed another hawk with him,
and rather wondered if he intended to set up an establishment in the
verandah. But I suppose the bride-elect found fault with the situation,
and probably said that, though well enough for a bachelor, it was not
suitable for the upbringing of a family, and so the new home had to be
started in a more secluded spot, and the sheltering roof knew its wild
guest no more.

I am afflicted with a cockatoo! I can’t “curse him and cast him out,”
for in the first place I love him dearly, and in the next he is a
sort of orphan grandchild towards whom I have serious duties and
responsibilities. And then he arrived at such a moment, when every
heart was softened by the thought of the Soudan Campaign with its
frightful risks and dangers. How could one turn away a suppliant
cockatoo who suddenly and unexpectedly presented himself on the eve
of the Battle of Omdurman, with a ticket to say his owner had gone
up to the front and he was left homeless in Cairo? It would have
been positively brutal, and then he was the friendliest of birds! No
shyness or false pride about _him_. He had already invited my pretty
little cook to “kiss him and love him,” and was paying the housemaid
extravagant compliments when I appeared on the scene. To say he flew
into his grandmother’s arms is but feebly to express the dutiful
warmth of his greeting. In less than ten minutes that artful bird had
taken complete possession of the small household, and assumed his place
as its head and master. Ever since that moment he has reigned supreme,
and I foresee that he will always so reign.

But he certainly is the most mischievous and destructive of his
mischievous species. Nothing is safe from his sudden and unexpected
fits of energy. I first put him in a little conservatory where he had
light and air, and the cheerful society of other birds. This plan,
however, only worked for two or three days. One Sunday morning I was
awakened by ear-piercing shrieks and yells from Master Cockie, only
slightly softened by distance. These went on for some time until I
perceived a gradual increase of their jubilant note, which I felt sure
betokened mischief, so I hastily got myself into a dressing-gown and
slippers and started off to investigate what trouble was “toward.” It
was so early that the glass doors were still shut, and I was able to
contemplate Master Cockie’s manœuvres unseen. The floor of the little
greenhouse was strewn with fern-leaves, for gardening, or rather
pruning, had evidently been his first idea. The door of his travelling
cage—which I had left overnight securely fastened—lay flat on the
pavement, and Cockie with extended wings was solemnly executing a
sort of _pas seul_ in front of another cage divided by partitions, in
which dwelt a goldfinch and a bullfinch side by side. Both doors were
wide open and the bullfinch’s compartment was empty, but the goldfinch
was crouched, paralysed with terror, on the floor of his abode. He
evidently wanted to get out very badly, but did not dare to pass the
yelling doorkeeper, who apparently was inviting the trembling little
bird to come forth. The instant the artful villain perceived me, he
affected perfect innocence and harmlessness, returning instantly to his
cage, and commencing his best performance of a flock of sheep passing,
doubtless in order to distract my attention. How could one scold with
deserved severity a mimic who took off not only the barking dogs and
bleating sheep, but the very shuffle of their feet, and the despairing
cry of a lost lamb. And he pretended great joy when the bullfinch—more
dead than alive—at last emerged from the shelter of a thick creeper
where he had found sanctuary, asking repeatedly after his health in
persuasive tones.

I gave up the cage after that and established him on a smart stand in
the dining-room window; for I found that the birds in the conservatory
literally could not bear the sight of him. A light chain securely
fastened on his leg promised safety, but he contrived to get within
reach of my new curtains and rapidly devoured some half-yard or so of
a hand-painted border which was the pride of my heart. Then came an
interval of calm and exemplary behaviour which lulled me into a false
security. Cockie seemed to have but one object in life, which was to
pull out all his own feathers, and by evening the dining-room often
looked as though a white fowl had been plucked in it. I consulted a
bird doctor, but as Cockie’s health was perfectly good, and his diet
all that could be recommended, it was supposed he only plucked himself
for want of occupation, and firewood was recommended as a substitute.
This answered very well, and he spent his leisure in gnawing sticks of
deal; only when no one chanced to be in the room he used to unfasten
the swivel of his chain, leave it dangling on the stand, and descend
in search of his playthings. When the fire had not been lighted I
often found half the coals pulled out of the grate, and the firewood
in splinters. At last, with warmer weather, both coals and wood were
removed, so the next time Master Cockie found himself short of a job
he set to work on the dining-room chairs, first pulled out all their
bright nails, and next tore holes in the leather, through which he
triumphantly dragged the stuffing!

At one time he went on a visit for some weeks and ate up everything
within his reach in that friendly establishment. His “bag” for one
afternoon consisted of a venerable fern and a large palm, some library
books, newspapers, a pack of cards, and an armchair. And yet every one
adores him, and he is the spoiled child of more than one family.




XVIII

HUMOURS OF BIRD LIFE

    “Birds in their little nests agree.”


Dr. Watts, though doubtless an excellent and estimable divine, must
have had but little experience of the ways and manners of birds when
he wrote this oft-quoted line. Birds are really the most quarrelsome
and pugnacious creatures amongst themselves, though they are capable of
great affection and amiability towards the human beings who befriend
them.

I have always been a passionate bird-lover, and have had opportunities
of keeping, in what I hope and believe has been a comfortable
captivity, many and various kinds of birds in different lands. My
first experience of an aviary on a large and luxurious scale was in
Mauritius, many years ago, and was brought about by the gift of a
magnificent and enormous cage, elaborately carved by Arab workmen. It
was more like a small temple than anything else. But the first steps to
be taken were to make it, so to speak, bird-proof, for the ambitious
architect had left many openings in his various minarets and turrets,
through which birds could easily have escaped.

Regarded as a cage it was not a success, for it was really difficult
to see the birds through the profuse ornamentation of the panelled
sides. However, I stood it in a wide and sunny verandah, and proceeded
to instal the birds I already possessed in this splendid dwelling. I
had brought some beautiful little blue and fawn-coloured finches from
Madeira, and I had a few canaries. Gifts of other birds soon arrived
from all quarters; a sort of half-bred canary from Aden—there were a
dozen of those—and many pretty little local birds. I made them as happy
as I could with endless baths, and gave them, besides the ordinary
bird seed, bunches of native grasses, and even weeds in blossom, which
they greedily ate. The little Aden birds would not look at water for
bathing purposes. They came from a “dry and thirsty land, where no
water is,” and evidently regarded it as a precious beverage to be kept
for drinking. They had to be accommodated with little heaps of finely
powdered earth, in which they disported themselves bath-fashion, to the
deep amazement of the other birds.

But how those birds quarrelled! At roosting-time they all seemed to
want one particular spot on one particular perch, and nothing else
would do. All day long they quarrelled over their baths and their
food, and the only advantage of the ample space they enjoyed was to
give them more room to chase each other about. They all insisted on
using one especial bath at the same moment, and would not look at any
other, though all the baths were exactly alike. One fine day a batch of
tiny parrakeets from a neighbouring island arrived, and I congratulated
myself on having at last acquired some amiable members of my bird
community. Such gentle creatures were never seen. With their pale-green
plumage and the little grey-hooded heads which easily explained their
name of “capuchin,” they made themselves quite happy in one of the many
domes or cupolas of the Arab cage. In a few days, however, a mysterious
ailment broke out among all the other birds. Nearly every bird seemed
suddenly to prefer going about on one leg. This did not surprise me
very much at first, as the mosquitoes used to bite their little legs
cruelly, and I was always contriving net curtains, &c., to keep these
pests out. At last it dawned on me that many of the canaries had
actually only one leg. An hour’s careful watching showed me a parrakeet
sidling up to a canary, and after feigning to be deeply absorbed in
its own toilet, preening each gay wing-feather most carefully, the
little wretch would give a sudden swift nip at the slender leg of its
neighbour, and absolutely bite it off then and there. Of course I
immediately turned the capuchins out of the cage with much obloquy,
but too late to save several of my poor little pets from a one-legged
existence.

I had also several parrots and cockatoos, but they had to be kept as
much as possible out of earshot, for their eldritch yells and shrieks
were too great an addition to the burden of daily life in a tropic land.

There was one small grey and red parrot, however, from the West Coast
of Africa, which was different from the ordinary screaming green and
yellow bird. This was certainly the cleverest little creature of its
kind I have ever seen. Dingy and shabby as to plumage, and with a
twisted leg, its powers of mimicry were unsurpassed. It picked up
everything it heard directly, and my only regret was that it appeared
to forget its phrases very quickly. Before it had been two days in
the house it took me in half-a-dozen times by imitating exactly the
impatient peck at a glass door of some tame peacocks, who always
invited themselves to “five o’clock-er.” I used to go to the door and
open it; of course to find no peacocks there, for they were punctuality
itself, and never came near the house at any other time. After the
pecks—exactly reproduced as if on glass—came an impatient note,
followed by the exact cry of an indignant peacock. I believe that grey
parrot had the utmost contempt for my mental powers, and delighted in
victimising me.

I was a constant sufferer in those days from malarial fever, and when
convalescent and comfortably settled on my sofa in the drawing-room,
the parrot would first gently cough once or twice, then sigh,
and finally, in a weak voice, call “Garde, Garde.” This was to a
functionary who lived in the deep verandahs, and whose mission in life
seemed to be the regulating of the heavy outside blinds made of split
bamboo. The next sound would be the awkward shuffling of heavy boots
(for the “Garde” usually went barefoot, except when in uniform and on
duty), followed by “Madame.” Then my voice again, “Levez le rideau.”
“Bien, Grande Madame.” Then you heard the creak of the pulleys as the
curtain was raised, followed by the Garde’s tramping away again, all
exactly imitated.

The A.D.C.’s way of calling his “boy” (generally a middle-aged man) was
also faithfully rendered, beginning in a very mild and amiable voice,
rising louder as no “boy” answered, and finally a stentorian “boy”
produced a very frightened and hurried “’Ci, Monsieur le Capitaine,
’ci.” I grieve to say this performance generally ended with a confused
and shuffling sound as of a scrimmage.

There used also to be an orderly on duty outside the Governor’s office,
who, once upon a time, was afflicted with a violent cold in his head.
This malady, and his primitive methods of dealing with it, made him
a very unpleasant neighbour, so his Excellency requested the Private
Secretary to ask for another orderly _without_ a cold in his head. Of
course this was immediately done, and the desired change made, but not
before Miss Polly had taken notes. Next day I was startled by the most
violent outburst of sneezing and coughing in the verandah, followed by
other trying sounds. I next heard a plaintive and deeply injured voice
from the Governor’s office—it must be remembered that every door and
window is always wide open in a tropic house.

“I thought I asked for that man to be changed.”

This brought the Private Secretary hurriedly out of his room, to be
confronted by a small grey parrot, who wound up the performance by
a sort of sob of exhaustion, and “Ah! mon Dieu!” the real orderly
standing by, looking as if he was considering whether or no he ought to
arrest the culprit.

One likes to have parrots walking about quite tame, free and
unfettered, but it is an impossibility if a garden or any plants are
within reach, for the temptation to go round and nip off every leaf and
blossom, and even stem, seems irresistible to a parrot or a cockatoo.

Soon after I went to Western Australia, in 1883, I was given a pair
of beautiful cockatoos called by the natives “Jokolokals.” They did
not talk at all, but were lovely to look at, and as they had never
been kept in a cage and were reared from the nest, they were perfectly
tame and their plumage most beautiful, of a soft creamy white, with
crest and wing-lining of an indescribable flame tint. I never saw such
exquisite colouring, and they looked charming on the grass terraces
during the day, and for a while roosted peaceably in a low tree at
night.

But one morning, early, I was told the head-gardener wished to speak to
me, and he was with difficulty induced to postpone the interview until
after breakfast. I tremble to think what the expression of that grim
Scotch countenance would have been at first! It was quite severe enough
when I had to confront him a couple of hours later. The Jokolokals had
employed a long bright moonlight night in gardening among the plants
with which the many angles and corners of the wide verandahs were
filled, and such utter ruin as they had wrought, especially among the
camellias! Not only had every blossom been nipped off, but they had
actually gnawed the stems through, and few pots presented more than an
inch or two of stalk to my horrified eyes. After that—on the principle
of the steed and the stable-door—the beautiful villains were put in a
large aviary out of doors, and revenged themselves by awaking me every
morning at daylight by fiendish yells. The gardener’s cottage was out
of earshot.

I had also a very large cage of canaries, in which they lived and
multiplied exceedingly. In a country where there are no song-birds
a canary is much prized, and every year I gave away a great many
young birds. There was also another large cage with small (and very
quarrelsome) finches, including many brilliant Gouldian finches
from the North-west (they call them Painted finches there), a tiny
zebra-marked finch, and many different little birds kindly brought to
me from Singapore and other places.

However, to return for a moment to the cockatoos. The large white
Albany cockatoo, which has a very curved beak and wide pale-blue
wattles round the eye, talks admirably, and is easily tamed if taken
young. In spite of its ferocious beak it is really quite gentle, and
mine—for I had several—were only too affectionate, insisting on more
petting and notice than I always had time to bestow.

There were often garden-parties in the lovely grounds of the Government
House at Perth, and at one of the later ones some of my guests came
to me complaining, as it were, of the weird utterances of the Albany
cockatoo, who lived with other parrots in a kind of wire pagoda among
the vines. “What does he say?” I asked laughingly. “He wants to know
if we like birds,” was the answer. So I immediately went down to the
cage, and was at once asked by the cockatoo in a very earnest voice,
“Do you like birds?” Alas for the want of originality in the human
race! He had heard exactly that remark made by _every_ couple who came
up to the cage, and had adopted it. My little son taught that bird to
call me “Mother,” and it never used the word to any one else. If I ever
passed the cage without stopping to play with or pet the cockatoos, I
was greeted with indignant cries of “Mother,” which generally brought
me back, and the moment I opened the door the big cockatoo would throw
himself on his back on the gravel floor, that I might put the point of
my shoe on his breast and rub his back up and down the gravel. I never
could understand why they all loved that mode of petting.

But the Australian magpie is one of the most delightful pets,
and can be trusted to walk about loose, as he does not garden.
“Break-of-day-boys” is their local name, and it fits them admirably.
At earliest dawn only do you hear the sweet clear whistle which is
their native note. They learn to whistle tunes easily and correctly,
but nothing can be compared to their own note. They are exactly like
the English magpie in appearance, only a little larger. I had a very
tame one, which had been taught to lie on its back on a plate with its
legs held stiffly up as if it were dead. I have a photograph of it in
that attitude, and no one will believe me when I assure them the bird
was alive; not even its open and roguish eye will convince them. I only
wish the sceptics had been by when I clapped my hands to signify that
the performance was over, and Mag jumped up like a flash of lightning
and made for the nearest human foot, into the instep of which she would
dig her bill viciously. It must have been her idea of revenge, for she
never did so at any other time; and she scattered the spectators pretty
swiftly, I assure you.

Dear, clever Mag was lost or stolen just before we left Perth. I
intended to have brought her to England, but one morning I was informed
by the sentry that he could not see her anywhere, and she always kept
near him. Further and anxious inquiries elicited that she had been
observed following a newspaper boy near the back-gate. The police
were communicated with, and the result was my being confronted at all
hours of the day and night by an indignant and rumpled magpie tied up
in a pocket-handkerchief, who loudly protested that we were absolute
strangers to each other. And so we were, for among the numerous arrests
made of suspicious characters among magpies, not one turned out to be
my poor Maggie.

But I must not loiter too long over my West Australian aviary, in
spite of the great temptation to dwell on those dear distant days. I
brought a small travelling-cage of Gouldian and other lovely finches
from the neighbourhood of Cambridge Gulf home with me. What I suffered
with that cage during a storm in the Bay of Biscay no tongue can tell.
However, they all reached London in safety, and in due time were taken
out—also with great personal trouble and difficulty—to Trinidad. Here
they were luxuriously established in four large wired compartments
over the great porch of Government House. No birds could have been
happier. The finches had one compartment all to themselves, so had the
canaries; whilst the laughing jackass, another Australian magpie, and
a beautiful Indian hill mynah occupied a third compartment, the fourth
being brilliantly filled by troupials, morichés, and sewing crows from
Venezuela, besides many lovely local birds of exquisite plumage.

In each compartment stood large boxes and tubs filled with growing
shrubs, whilst creepers, brought up from the luxuriant growth at the
pillars below, were twined in the fine meshes of the netting. Of course
there were perches and nests, all sizes and at differing heights.
It was really one man’s business to attend to them, but they were
beautifully kept. Every morning the grasscutter brought in a large
bunch of the waving plume-like seed of the tall guinea grass; and they
had plenty of fresh fruit, in which they greatly delighted. Of course
they quarrelled over it all, and a fierce battle would rage over half
an orange, of which the other half was utterly neglected.

The canaries led a commonplace existence and had only one adventure. I
had noticed that for some few weeks past the numbers of these little
birds seemed rather to diminish than increase at their usual rapid
rate. But I saw so many hens sitting on nests very high up that I
accounted for the small number in that way. However, one day a perch
fell down, and the black attendant went into the cage with a tall
ladder to replace it. Presently I heard a great scrimmage and many
“Hi! my king!” and other agitated ejaculations, which soon brought me
to the spot. It was indeed no wonder that my poor little birds had
been disappearing mysteriously, for there was a large, well-fed, but
harmless snake. It must have got in through the mesh when quite young
and small, but had now grown to such stout proportions that escape
through the wire netting—which would only admit the very tip of my
fourth finger—was impossible, and it was easily slain. The snake was
found coiled on a ledge too high up to be easily perceived from below.

Soon after that episode the little finches underwent a sad and
startling experience. One morning the coachman brought me in a
beautiful little bird of brilliant plumage which I had never seen
before. It had been caught in the saddle-room, and was certainly a
lovely creature, though unusually wild and terrified. However, I was
so accustomed to new arrivals soon making themselves perfectly at home
and becoming quite tame, that I turned the splendid stranger into the
finches’ compartment with no misgivings, and went away, leaving them
to make friends, as I hoped. About half-an-hour later I passed the
tall French window, carefully netted in, which opened on the corridor,
and through which I could always watch my little pets unperceived.
My attention was attracted by two or three curious little feathered
lumps on the gravelled floor. On closer examination these proved to
be the heads of some of my especial favourites, which the new arrival
(a member of the Shrike family, as I discovered too late) had hastily
twisted off. Besides these murders he had found time to go round the
nests and turn out all the eggs and young birds. My dismay and horror
may be imagined, but I could not stop, for luncheon and guests were
waiting. I hastily begged a tall Irish orderly who was on duty in the
hall to catch the new-comer and let him go. Now this man loved my birds
quite as much as I did, and seemed to spend all his leisure-time in
foraging for them. They owed him many tit-bits in the shape of wasps’
larvæ or the nursery of an ants’ nest nicely stocked, or some delicacy
of that sort. There was only time for a hurried order, received in grim
silence, but when I was once more free and able to inquire how matters
had been settled, all I could get out of O’Callaghan was: “I’ve larned
him to wring little birds’ necks.”

“Did you catch him easily?” I inquired.

“Quite easily, my lady, and _I_ larned him.” This in a voice trembling
with rage.

“What have you done to him?” No answer at first, only a murmur.

“But I want to know what has happened to that bird,” I persisted.

“Well, my lady, I’ve larned him;”—a pause; “I’ve wrunged _his_ neck.”

So in this way rough and ready justice had been meted out to the
wrong-doer very speedily.

Perhaps of all my birds the one I called the Sewing Crow was the most
amusing. It was a glossy black bird about the size of a thrush, with
pale yellow tail and wing-feathers, and curious light blue eyes with
very blue rims. It was brought from Venezuela, and its local Spanish
name means “The Rice-bird,” but it never specially affected rice as
food, preferring fruit and mealworms. I had several of these crows,
but one was particularly tame, and rambled about the house seeking for
sewing materials. I found it once or twice _inside_ a large workbag
full of crewels, where it had gone in search of gay threads, with
which it used to decorate the wire walls of an empty cage kept in
the verandah outside my own sitting-room. The extraordinary patience
and ingenuity of that bird in passing the wool through the meshes of
the wire can hardly be described. I suppose it was a reminiscence of
nest-building, because it always worked harder in the springtime. It
had a great friend in a little “moriché,” black and yellow also, but
of a more slender build, and with a very sweet whistle. The “moriché,”
too, was perfectly tame and flew all about the house, and it was very
comic to watch its efforts at learning embroidery from its friend. It
arrived at last at some sort of cage decoration, but quite different
from that of the crow, who evidently disapproved of it, and often
ruthlessly pulled the work of a laborious morning on the “moriché’s”
part to pieces. Now the “moriché” knew better than to touch the crow’s
work, though he often appeared to carefully examine it.

One day the crow must have persuaded the moriché to help him to roll
and drag a reel of coarse white cotton from the corridor of the
work-room, across the floor of my sitting-room, into the verandah. I
saw them doing this more than once, and had unintentionally interfered
with the crow’s plans by picking up the reel and returning it to the
maids’ work-basket. However, one afternoon the crow got rid of me
entirely, and on my return from a long expedition I found both the
crow and moriché just going to roost in the empty cage, which was
really only kept there for them to play in. I then perceived what the
reel of cotton, which was again lying on the verandah floor, had been
wanted for. The crow had sewn a straw armchair with an open-patterned
seat securely to the cage by nine very long strands, and was sleepily
contemplating the work with great satisfaction. It was quite easy to
see how it had been managed once a start was made with the cotton; but
it must have entailed a great deal of flying in and out with the end of
the cotton, for it had not been broken off. Of course I left the chair
in its place, and it remained untouched for some months; but I always
had to use it myself, lest any one should move it too roughly, and so
break the connecting strands which had cost my little bird so much
labour and trouble.

The most popular of my birds, however, was certainly the laughing
jackass, who dwelt in company with the magpie and the mynah. Unhappily
a misunderstanding arose, when I was away in England, between these two
birds, once such great friends. If I had only been there to adjust the
quarrel, all might have gone well; but the magpie, after many days of
incessant battle, I was told, fell upon the mynah and killed it. It
was curious that they should have lived together for a couple of years
without more than the ordinary share of bird-quarrels. I do not know
what active share the jackass took in this affair. I always doubted his
intentions towards that mynah, and he always regarded it with a bad
expression of eye, but as he was very slow and cumbrous of movement I
thought the mynah could well take care of himself. The only time the
laughing jackass ever showed agility was when a mouse-trap with a live
mouse in it was taken into his cage. With every feather bristling he
would watch for the door of the trap to be opened, when he pounced on
the darting mouse quicker than the eye could follow, and killed and
swallowed it with the greatest rapidity. Once a mouse escaped him,
and the magpie caught it instead, and a more absurd sight could not
be imagined than the magpie flitting from perch to perch, holding the
mouse securely in his beak, through which he was at the same time
trying hard to whistle; whilst the jackass lumbered heavily after him,
remonstrating loudly, for the magpie did not want to eat the mouse, and
he did.

It always amused me to see the jackass take his bath, though it
was rather a rare performance, whereas all the other birds tubbed
incessantly. I had a large tin basin full of water placed just beneath
one of the lowest perches, and when the jackass intended to bathe he
descended cautiously to this perch and eyed the water for some time,
uttering—with head well thrown back—his melancholy laugh. As soon as
his courage was equal to it he suddenly flopped into the water, as if
by accident, and then scrambled hastily out again. After repeating
these dips many times he seemed to think he had done all that was
necessary in the washing line, and scrambled up to a sunny corner where
he could dry and preen his beautiful plumage.

Yes, my birds were the greatest delight and amusement to me for many
years, and I had nearly a hundred of them when my happy life in that
beautiful tropical home came to a sad and abrupt end. Many of my
friends have often asked me if I did not regret leaving my birds; but
as I left everything that the world could hold for me in the way of
happiness and interest and work behind me at the same time, the loss of
the birds did not make itself felt just then. I miss them more now than
I did at first, but I believe they have nearly all found kind and happy
homes, where they are cherished a little for my sake as well as for
their own, the dear things!




XIX

GIRLS—OLD AND NEW


“Comparisons are odious” we know, but yet when one gets past middle age
one is constantly invited to make them.

My life is brightened and cheered by many girl friends, and there is
nothing about which they show a more insatiable curiosity than my own
girlhood.

I think it is the going back so constantly to that distant time, and
being forced by my imperious pets to drag every detail out of the
pigeon-holes of memory, which has impressed so forcibly on me the
superiority of the modern girl.

I began to answer their questions with the full intention of proving
to the contrary, but alas, in the course of the talks, I often felt
how heavily handicapped we had been. I am afraid the first point upon
which I had to dilate was our clothes, the description of which always
provoked peals of laughter. It is to be presumed that pretty women set
the fashions and that they suited them, but the rigour of the fashion
laws prescribed that every one should wear exactly and precisely
the same gown or bonnet, with, of course, disastrous results as to
appearance. Then we all had to dress our hair in precisely the same
way. The ears especially were treated as though they were monstrous
deformities, and had to be carefully concealed. What the modern girls
find most difficult to believe is that these same fashions lasted
for three or four years without the slightest change, so there was
no escape from an unbecoming garment. Of course I impressed upon my
laughing audience, with all the dignity at my command, that we looked
extremely nice, and at all events were quite contented with our
appearance.

If I could not defend the colours and cut of the material provided
for our bodies, still less could I champion the diet prescribed for
our minds. Looking back on it all I see there was the same cardinal
error; the want of recognition of any individuality. As in our frocks
so in our studies, no allowance whatever used to be made for our
different natures. In fact, the great aim of every mother and teacher
was to make her girl exactly and precisely like every other girl. No
matter in what direction your tastes and talents lay, you had to plod
through the same list of what was called “accomplishments.” The very
word was a misnomer, for nothing was really accomplished. A girl’s
education was supposed to be quite “finished” (Heaven save the mark!)
at about sixteen or seventeen, but if she were studiously inclined,
or even dimly suspected that she had not exhausted all the treasures
of knowledge, she would have found it difficult to pursue any course
of study. And the idleness of that stage of girlhood was one of its
greatest dangers. A reaction from the practical days of our own
grandmothers had set in, and there was no still-room, or work-room,
or any branch of domestic education to which we could turn to find an
outlet for our energies.

A girl with any musical talent could of course go on practising, and
had a chance of achieving something, but art education must have been
at its lowest ebb half a century ago. It is difficult to believe that
a “drawing class” of that day generally consisted of a dozen girls or
so meeting at the house of some rising or even well-known artist. The
great point seemed to be his _name_. Drawing materials and every other
facility, except instruction, used to be provided by our “master.”
Perhaps the poor man recognised the hopelessness of his task, but he
certainly let us severely alone even in our choice of subjects. We were
only asked to copy other drawings, and I well remember selecting, as my
first attempt at painting, a most ambitious sketch of a pretty Irish
colleen with a pitcher on her head emerging from a ruined archway. I
dashed in her red petticoat and blue cloak with great vigour, but took
little pains with her uplifted arm or bare legs. They must indeed have
been curious anatomical studies, for I recollect the master heaving a
deep sigh, if not a groan, as I presented my drawing for his criticism.
But he made no attempt whatever to teach me how to do better, only took
possession of my picture, kept it a few days and returned it—what was
called “corrected,” though we never knew where our faults lay.

Our “fancy work” was truly hideous also, and as useless as it was
ugly. It makes one’s heart ache to think of the terrible waste of time
and eyesight which our awful performances in wool work and crotchet
entailed. Hardly any girl was taught to do plain sewing, and I really
think one of my keenest pangs of regret for my misspent youth in the
way of needlework was caused the other day, by my youngest girl friend
telling me that at her school she was taught to cut out and make a
whole set of baby clothes, as well as garments for older children.

Our amusements were few and far between, but we took to them a
freshness and keenness of enjoyment which I suspect is often lacking
in the much amused damsel of the present day. But then, on the other
hand, “vapours” had gone out of fashion, and “nerves” had not yet been
invented, so one never heard of rest cures being prescribed for young
matrons!

I am thankful to say that the day of tight lacing and small appetites
was over before I became aware of the dangers I had escaped, but I
remember the pity with which I listened to my poor young mother’s
stories of how she was required to hold on to the bedpost while her
maid laced her stays, and how she often fainted after she was dressed.

I am often asked what exercise we were allowed to take. We rode a great
deal, though girls were hardly ever seen in the hunting field, and
I wonder we survived a ride on a country road, considering that our
habits almost swept the ground. We had no out-door game except croquet,
which was just coming into fashion, and was pursued with a frenzy quite
equal to that evoked by ping-pong or any other modern craze. Of course,
there was always walking and dancing, though over the latter there
still hung a faint trace of the stately movements of the generation
before us. We all did elaborate steps in the quadrille, and although
the waltz was firmly established in the ball-rooms of my youth, it was
a slow measure compared to the modern rush across the room. The polka
woke us all up, and we hailed its pretty and picturesque figures with
enthusiasm.

I often hear of the iniquities of girls of the present day, but I don’t
come across those specimens, and I confess that I honestly believe the
modern girl, as I know her, to be a very great improvement on the
early Victorian maiden. To begin with, she is much nicer and prettier
to look at, because she can suit her dress and her _coiffure_ to her
individuality. Then she is not so dreadfully shy—not to say _gauche_,
as we were, because she is not kept in the school-room until the hour
before she is launched into society, as ignorant of its ways as if she
had dropped from the moon.

I distinctly remember being reproached for my want of “knowledge of
the world,” when I had not even the faintest idea what the phrase
meant. When I came to understand it, it seemed a rather unreasonable
criticism, for I certainly should have been regarded with horror had I
made any attempt to acquire such knowledge on my own account.

Now—so far as my experience goes—the up-to-date girl has pretty and
pleasant manners, and is not secretly terrified if a new acquaintance
speaks to her. She is more sure of herself, and has the confidence
of custom, for she has probably been her mother’s companion out of
school hours. I fear girls are not quite as respectful and obedient to
their elders as we used to be, although the days of “Honoured Madam”
and “Sir” had passed away with the generation before mine. Still the
modern mother seems quite content with her pretty girl, and it is
often difficult to distinguish between them, but I always observe the
daughter is the most proud and delighted if “Mummie” is taken for her
elder sister.

Then the New Girl is so companionable. Her education has been conducted
on very different lines to ours, and she does not dream of giving
up her studies because she is no longer obliged to pursue them. Her
individual tastes have been given a chance of asserting themselves, and
I am often told of “work” gone on with at home. In fact her education
has really taught her how to go on educating herself. Of course I am
speaking of intelligent girls, and I am happy to think they are far
more numerous than they were even one generation ago. There will always
be frivolous, empty-headed girls, but with even them I confess I find
it very difficult to be properly angry, as they are generally so pretty
and coaxing.

The delightful classes and lectures on all subjects and in all
languages now so common were unknown in my day, to say nothing of the
numerous aids to difficult branches of knowledge. Even history was
offered to us in so unattractive a form that although we swallowed,
so to speak, a good deal of it, we digested little or none. Poetry
was generally regarded as dangerous mental food, and, perhaps to our
starved natures, it may have been. Our reading was most circumscribed,
and everything was Bowdlerised as much as possible. I am not sure,
however, that miscellaneous reading does not begin too soon now, and
certainly I am often astonished at the books very, very young girls are
allowed to read. In this respect I confess I think the old way safer,
to say the least of it.

In considering the subject of the new ways of girls, however, one must
bear in mind how many more girls there now are, and that marriage is
not the invariable destiny of every pretty or charming girl one meets.
The consequence is girls certainly do not talk and think of future or
possible husbands as much as they used to a couple of generations ago.
Such talk was quite natural and harmless under the old conditions,
but I must say it seems healthier and nicer that now it should be the
merits of the favourite “bike,” or the last “ripping” run, or the
varying fortunes of golf or hockey, or even croquet, which claims their
attention when they get together. I often wonder how a man could have
encumbered himself with any of us as his life’s companion! It is true
that he had not any option, but still we must have been rather trying.
I know of one girl who amazed her husband by appearing before him the
first Sunday morning after their marriage, with her Prayer Book, which
she handed to him with the utmost gravity, and standing up with her
hands clasped behind her back, in true school-girl fashion, proceeded
to rattle off the collect, epistle, and gospel for the day, having no
idea she was doing anything the least unusual!

The only comfort I have in looking back on our crudeness and ignorance
is that we were really good girls. That is to say we were trained to be
unselfish, and certainly we were obedient and docile, though in many
ways what would now be called silly. Still, we were as pure minded and
innocent as babes, and quite as unworldly. No doubt this white-souled
state sprang from crass ignorance, but who shall say that it was
not good to keep us from tasting the fruit of that terrible Tree of
Knowledge as long as possible?

“You must have been dears,” is the verdict with which a talk of these
distant days is often ended by my laughing critics. And I feel inclined
to say, “Well, and you are dears, too,” so I suppose that is the real
solution of the question.


THE END


  Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
  Edinburgh & London


FOOTNOTES:

[1] “Station Life in New Zealand,” Macmillan.

[2]

    “Now under heaven all winds abated,
      The sea a settling and foamless floor,
    A sunset city is open-gated,
      Unfastened flashes a golden door.
    Cloud-walls asunder burst and brighten
      Like melted metal in furnace blaze;
    The lava rivers run through and lighten,
      The glory gathers before my gaze.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Eastward an isle, half sunken, sleeping,
      Crowns the sea with a bluer crest;
    Vine-clad Terceira!—but I am keeping
      A tryst to-night with the wondrous west.
    What there is wanting of purple islands,
      Lo! golden archipelagoes,
    Coasts silver shining, and inner highlands,
      Long ranges rosy with sunny snows.

           *       *       *       *       *

    All glowing golds, all scarlets burning,
      All palest, tenderest, vanishing hues,
    All clouded colour and tinges turning,
      Enrich, divide, the double blues;
    O’erleaning cliffs and crags gigantic
      And in the heart of light one shore
    Such as, alas! no sea Atlantic
      To bless the voyager ever bore.”


[3] Now F. M. Viscount Wolseley.

[4] 12th Duke of Somerset.

[5] The late Sir Thomas Cockburn Campbell, Bart., and the Hon. H.
Parker, K.C.

[6] Lieut.-Colonel Crole-Wyndham, C.B., 21st Lancers.


Transcriber’s Notes:

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.





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