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should produce the right hand of the maroon. Now, as flesh will not keep sweet more than a day in those hot climates, the Indian cut off the dead maroon's hand; dried it over a slow fire, and then packed it in the pegall, to be produced at head-quarters when the promised reward was claimed.
This is the true history of dried hands having been found in the pegalls of the Indians—a discovery, certainly, at first sight, suspicious enough to fasten on these natives of Guiana the unenviable reputation of being genuine cannibals.
If negroes do not, as St. Francis Xavier was assured they did, feed upon their friends and relatives, it seems certain that they have a yearning for dog's flesh:
On a plantation about twenty miles up the river Demerara there lived an Irish gentleman, of a merry turn, and of noted hospitality. Having just received from Scotland an uncommonly fine terrier, he was wishful to try its mettle. A lieutenant of artillery, being himself a great dog-fancier, was duly informed of this dog's arrival; and he was invited to pass a day in the Irish gentleman's house, and to bring his own terrier with him, in order that the two dogs might join in mortal combat. Myself and three others were asked to join the party, and we all embarked at Stabroek, in the Irish gentleman's tent-boat.
On our arrival at the plantation, unfortunately, the Scotch terrier was missing, nor could anybody conjecture what was become of him. A batch of newlyimported slaves having been located on the property, a hint was given that possibly the dog might have found its way, against its will, into one of their huts. This was actually the case. With a long stick thrust through it from stern to stem, the dog was found half-roasted at the fire. It had not been skinned; neither had the intestines been taken out. So there it was, woodcock-like, and would soon have been ready for the negroes' dinner.
One could hardly have conceived a scene more ludicrous. The Irish gentleman raved with vexation; the lieutenant of artillery shrugged up his shoulders as he viewed the smoking dog; and we ourselves, confiding in the Irishman's known good-humour, laughed most immoderately. Thus ended the expected diversion at the Irish gentleman's plantation, verifying the old Spanish proverb in "Don Quixote," ," "there is nothing certain in this life; sometimes a man goes in quest of one thing, and finds another."
The Lord of Walton Hall has, like most English country gentlemen, been partial in his younger days to the manly and exhilarating sport of fox-hunting. He gives a most animated description of the pleasures of the chase, with some neat and characteristic little touches in reference to the habits of Reynard. In his old days he, like other veterans, rakes up the memory of incidents that have happened now some time ago: Some five-and-fifty years ago I was at a fox-hunt which I shall never forget. We threw off with customary pomp and zeal, but ended with a farce ludicrous in the extreme. It so affected the noble owner of the hounds that he lost all temper, and made grimaces as though he had been stung by pismires.
In the afternoon, after a good run, we found ourselves on the extensive line of covers which stretch from Newmillerdam up to Woolley Edge, through King's-wood and Bush-cliff. The fox was obstinate, and would not break cover, but stuck closely to the woods at Newmillerdam, nor could the united discord (if I may be allowed the expression) of hounds, and horns, and merry men on foot, cause him to quit his chosen quarters. More than an hour was spent in chasing him to and fro, but without success. Now he was on the edge of the wood; then back again to its deepest recesses, and so on, puzzling both dog and man.
I happened to be resting quietly on my horse in one of the rides, when old Reynard, panting and bewildered, with his once handsome brush now wet and dirty, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, wished to cross the path; but on
seeing me he stopped short, and stared me full in the face. "Poor little fellow," said I to him, "thy fate is sealed! Thy strength has left thee! in a few minutes more thou wilt be torn in pieces." He then shrank back again into
the wood, as if to try another chance for life.
The noble lord now rode up to the spot where I was waiting, and said that, as they could not force the fox into the open fields, he had made up his mind to have it killed in cover, and that he had given the necessary orders; which, however, were not fulfilled according to my lord's intention, as you shall shortly learn.
We were about two hundred yards from the king's highway, when a butcher; who was going on it, thought that he might tarry for a while, and enjoy the sport. So he and his dog got over the hedge, and came softly up to where we had stationed ourselves. At that unlucky moment Reynard made his appearance, so completely exhausted, that I was convinced his "last day's run was over." In a moment the butcher's dog, a gaunt and over-fattened cur without a tail, flew at poor Reynard, and killed him outright, the hounds coming up just in time to snarl and quarrel for his bleeding carcase, which they devoured before the huntsman had made his appearance.
Thus ended this day's sport-most certainly, its termination was humiliating. greasy butcher's dog, the lowest of its race, came up just in the nick of time to give the death-blow; ay, to accomplish which the best-bred hounds in Christendom had spent the livelong day:
"Ea turba, cupidine prædæ,
Per rupes, scopulosque, adituque carentia saxa,
Quà via difficilis, quaque est via nulla, feruntur."
But so it sometimes happens. In our own ranks we have occurrences most sad and mortifying. Thus Charles XII., the courageous King of Sweden, fell by an unknown hand.
"His fall was destined to a foreign strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand."
And Nelson, too, the bravest of the brave, was slain by an ignoble musket-ball. And latterly, no one will ever know what fatal hand deprived us of our valiant General Cathcart, in the Crimean desolating conflict.-"Sic transit gloria mundi."
If our Nimrod-earl had carried in his hand a battle-axe and not a huntingwhip, I saw by his ungovernable rage at what had happened, that nothing could have saved the butcher's dog (which, with its master, had regained in haste the king's highway) from utter extermination.
We would almost venture upon a bite from a mad dog, if a pilgrimage in search of wourali would introduce us to the curiosities of Walton Hall and Walton Park, and to the sterling qualities of their ingenious and ingenuous owner. It appears that Reynard has been beforehand with us in penetrating into the precincts of the naturalist's domain, and Mr. Waterton relates the incident as follows:
Justice to myself, and to the pets which have the range of my park, forced me to become the executioner of the largest and sleekest fox that, perhaps, was ever seen in these Vandal regions of Yorkshire's West-Riding district.
We have a park wall so high that neither fox nor hound can surmount it without assistance. There had been a snow-storm in the morning; and, as the keeper was going his rounds, he observed a sheep-bar, commonly so called, reared against the wall. Fearing mischief from without, he requested the farmer to remove it during the day, lest poachers or "varment" might take advantage of its position, and thus find a commodious way over the wall into the preserve-not of game only, but of many other animals. The farmer said
he would attend to the bar, but, somehow or other, he forgot to do so, and thus the sheep or stack-bar remained just where it had been placed.
Although the night was cold and rainy, Reynard found himself obliged to turn out of his den and to cater for his numerous family. Coming up to the bar in question, he mounted on it, and thence sprang on to the wall itself. Seeing Paradise below him, he must, no doubt, have longed vehemently to partake of the dainties which he was sure it contained. In fact, having lost his usual caution when out a prowling, he gave way to the temptation, and took a desperate leap into the park, which consists of two hundred and sixty acres. All his movements were clearly visible the next morning by the prints of his feet in the snow, which had fallen in the early part of the night.
Here, then, Reynard, by his own rashness, became a prisoner for the remainder of his days: a voluntary exile into a little St. Helena, where he lived and died.
A few years before this transgression on the part of incautious Reynard, my friend, Mr. Carr, of Bunston Hill, near Gateshead, had made me a present of two very fine Egyptian geese.
They were great beauties, and wonderfully admired by everybody who saw them. During the season of frost and snow they were admitted into the saddleroom at night for the sake of warmth. Sometimes, however, they failed to make their appearance at the door, but this did not cause us any apprehension, as we knew that they were safe from harm.
On the morning after Reynard had made his desperate descent into our elysium one of the geese was missing, the keeper having just sounded the alarm that there was a fox in the park. On search being made, the remains of the Egyptian goose were found at the foot of an aged sycamore-tree, whilst all around the prints of a fox's feet were visible in the snow. By their irregularity we conjectured that Reynard had had tough work ere he mastered the goose. There could be no doubt whatever but that he had been exercising his vicious calling, and had made a dainty meal upon the luckless bird. We were in a dilemma of no ordinary kind. The state of the weather was too frosty to suit our sportsmen. Neither dared we to open the park doors lest proscribed enemies, such as rabbits, &c., should gain admittance, and thus cause a second evil as bad as the first. Nor could Reynard be allowed to enjoy any longer his present position, as the remaining Egyptian goose, fowls, ducks, and game, must inevitably have fallen a sacrifice to his unbounded voracity. Wherefore, running the risk of our foxhunters' high displeasure, and quite prepared to be considered by that part of the Nimrod community (which sometimes does not see things in their true light) as a modern Vandal, I signed old Reynard's deathwarrant, to be put in execution without loss of time. Whereupon a springgun, by way of scaffold, with a heavy charge of buck-shot (to answer the purpose of a rope) was put down with studied science in order that a stop might be put to the intruder's career for ever.
As we read in the famous ballad of "Chevy Chase:"
"Against Sir Hugh Montgomerie,
So right the shaft was set,
The grey-goose wing, that was thereon,
In his heart's-blood was wet."
So was our implement of death pointed at Sir Reynard. A little before two o'clock on the following morning, a tremendous explosion announced that the gun had gone off. Reynard, in his rounds, having come in contact with the wire in ambush, fell dead as Mark Antony, the contents of the gun having passed quite through his heart. Thus the unfortunate brute paid the final penalty for his unnecessary intrusion into the realm of prohibition.
With this little story we must conclude our notice of this last volume of Watertoniana, still hoping that it may not be the last, by many, of such an entertaining series.
HOW SHALL WE PREACH?
BY E. P. ROWSELL.
My brain is on fire. A horrid deed is in my mind. I will execute it. I lay violent hands on a richly-beneficed clergyman-I take him into a luxuriously furnished room, thrust him into an easy-chair by the fireside, and stir the fire vigorously. I drag near to him a table, and place thereon a decanter of fine old crusted port and a large wine-glass. I kick an ottoman to his feet, and then savagely I rush from the apartment, locking the door behind me. Maliciously chuckling, I dart round to the window, and peeping through, proceed to take my wretched captive's picture.
My victim lies quite still. His eyelids seem to be gradually closing as though in slumber. I mark the good man's smooth plump cheeks, with their purply tint, so indicative of fast and self-denial. I note his broad chest and portly person. Benevolence is shining in his every feature. He is murmuring. Gently I open the window. The sounds of "Deanery of Thumbstall" reach me. Yes yes I know to what those words refer. My victim is at present rector of Breakbone, head master of Breakbone College, and chaplain to the Earl of Breakbone. The Dean of Thumbstall is just deceased. My poor prisoner is dreaming of filling up his time by becoming Dean of Thumbstall. I close the window. One more look I give-a long, earnest look-and then my feelings overcome me, and I weep.
But what is this? It is Sunday morning, and while waiting for Jemima to accompany me to church, I have well-nigh fallen asleep. The fact is, that Jemima is a very long time preparing herself for church. I refer not to spiritual preparation, but to external embellishment. The female sex in our neighbourhood could not pray comfortably in dingy dresses, and the sermon could not penetrate their hearts if their heads were covered with bonnets of departed fashion.
We are in church, seated in a pew with five other worshippers. Alas, for my legs! Oh that I could fold them up and put them under the seat. Sorely does their acute discomfort distract my thoughts. The Rev. Mr. Simpkins is reading. Now I would not be rude to the Rev. Mr. Simpkins, but I suggest that if there be any reason why he can only read in manner as though he were going to burst into tears, it would be much better that he should unbosom himself to somebody rather than that he should perpetually torture us by an exhibition of such abject misery. You will say, perhaps, he is inclined generally to melancholy, and hint something about a poor curacy. But nay, the reverend gentleman has just been raised twenty pounds a year. He has a clear hundred now, and his wife can and does (but this is not commonly known) give lessons in drawing, so that his little family of half a dozen is thriving. That is what I hear, at least, from the rector, who, being a rich man himself, likes all connected with him to be well off, and invariably speaks very kindly of Mr. Simpkins-very.
But rich or poor, Mr. Simpkins, who can read very tolerably out of church, could read as well in church, if he liked. I fancy he thinks there would be an impropriety in reading in any other tone than that employed by the blind mendicants, who urge their affliction upon you in the most piteous strain, but who, by-the-by, singularly enough, thread their way through the busiest thoroughfares without the slightest difficulty or mischance. Mr. Simpkins, could the worm at your feet speak, and ask you not to crush it, I fancy you would listen more favourably to its prayer if delivered simply and unaffectedly, than if groaned out in manner highly suggestive of deceit and hypocrisy. I do declare, Mr. Simpkins, that if I were some great potentate, and you were to come before me, and began to ask a favour in your church tone, I would denounce you as a knave on the score of that voice only. Solemnity lies not in a melancholy drawl, and there is small savour of sincerity in a miserable whine. Not that you are singular, Mr. Simpkins. There is not one clergyman in a hundred who reads easily and naturally. There is a monstrous fancy for a made-up voice. The all-seeing eye, the ever open ear, the omniscient mind, must be assailed by fiction-thus practically saith Mr. Simpkins, and many of his brethren.
What is this noise? Oh, I see. The pew-opener is filling up the vacant seats in the pews. Those unfortunates who are being hurried along have been standing in the aisles hitherto, but now, in consideration of remembrances at Christmas, the pew-opener is disposing them as best she may. I passed a poor widow lady with a sickly-looking little girl as I came in. I am glad they will now get seats. I look round. Yes, they are seated, certainly-on a free bench, in the full draught of the door. The pew-opener has no recollection of any conversation with the widow lady last Christmas, closing with some such remark on her part as this: "Thank you, ma'am; very much obliged to you, ma'am ; a merry Christmas to you, ma'am, and a happy new year.' Therefore, in the absence of such remembrance, be thankful, oh widow lady and delicate little girl, that you can get seats at all in the sanctuary. hopeful that no circumstances of open bench or cutting draught may prevent your prayers ascending equally with those genteelly murmured by occupants of warm, well-furnished pews.
Jemima, when our Bobby this morning did violently pinch our little Emma, we were wroth. Emma, it was true, had much provoked Bobby. It was, to say the least, very unsisterlike to make a hole in his drum, to break his cart, to decapitate his horses, to cut his skipping-rope; still, as we said to him, "We ought to forgive those who injure us-not return evil for evil." And you, Jemima, followed up your teaching by withdrawing with Bobby to another apartment, whence issued afterwards acute cries from the child, as though something were in progress unpleasant to his feelings. Now, Jemima, Bobby is with us, and we are reading the Psalms for the day. Bobby looks up in wonder to my face, and indeed I cannot be surprised. To say that we are speaking ill of our enemies would be indeed a poor description of our pious employment. We are denouncing them in the most vigorous fashion in our power. Forgiving them, indeed! Wishing them well, indeed! We are calling down vengeance upon them in a strain so bloodthirsty and so cruel, that Bobby stares aghast. What shall I say to him when again he pinches little