Слике страница
PDF
ePub

were some verses to a woman, beginning-" Shes'e gone, whose nerve could rein the swiftest steed." And so she is, we thought, when we came across the simple grave of poor Miss Gilbert. There, too, with a huge sleepy lion above it, was Wombwell's, "the menagerist;" but Lord Lyndhurst's we could not find. The catacombs were very dreary; some of the empty ones were filled with sawdust, and others with flower-pots, and their doors emblazoned with the inverted ironwork flambeaux, hung creakingly on their hinges. "Sir Benjamin Hawes, K.C.B.," a name well known in Parliamentary warfare, caught our eye. Side by side were two records of death from very different toil. "H. Morton's" stone told how he went down a victim to his love of art, when just on the eve of becoming an A.R.A.; and the other how a soldier never rallied from the fatigues of Sir John Moore's retreat from Corunna.

"There's Tom Sayers coming with music," said a man, suddenly breaking off from the contemplation of a grave over which a little man in a pea coat and velvet mob cap was reading a MS. service. Away went all the people, leaving four or five mourners; and now the solemn strains of the Dead March grew louder and louder, and the tray of nodding plumes was silently demanding entrance at the gate. The big mastiff, with crape on its collar, sat on its own old cushion in the deserted four-wheeler, whose whip bore a small crape streamer, as, in fact, many an omnibus driver's did that day. When the gates were re-opened for the musicians the crowd made their rush. The police wavered, then they rallied, and got the gates closed within a yard; but the crowd "came again on the post," and the police were fairly swept away before them. For a few minutes Bobbydom seemed paralyzed, while fully a thousand poured in, and some of the younger blues on the outskirts made wild snatches at boys. Then their chief, a yellow-haired laddie, rushed up and rallied them, and the forty on the inside closed their ranks with the grave-diggers and " and the whole force of the establishment;" some climbed over the rails, to strengthen the supports on the outside, and break the pressure; and after a desperate effort, the bolt was in its place once more. Nothing can be more untrue than the statements which have been put out about this part of the day's proceedings. The rush was made so quietly, that those who were in the chapel assure us that they heard no noise. No one tried to get in with the hearse or the carriages, but the crowd did "make their effort," when the gates were again opened to admit the band. And can we wonder at it? There were hundreds of respectable people in the crowd who had come far and near, and who had not a chance of getting in unless they could press near enough to the gate to present a card, or be recognised by the grave-diggers, as having a grave, or be passed by Mr. Bos Tyler. People may forget their cards, they may bury at Kensall, Norwood, or Brompton, and what's more, they mayn't be on visiting terms with Bos. No doubt the cemetery company, dreading the effects of a great crowd, were right in trying to keep them out, but there was nothing so very "ruffianly" in a quiet push to get in if they had the chance, behind the band, who came spinning in as if shot from a catapult, the drum rolling on the ground, like a great wheel.

We saw exactly what went on from the mound in front of the gate, and we should say (judging from what we have read) that the

"ruffianism" was quite mild by the side of what used to take place in the scramble of lords and ladies of high degree at the Queen's Drawing. room. As to the scenes at the grave side before the corpse arrived, or after the ceremony we know nothing. It was morally impossible that such a crowd could be gathered near one spot in a cemetery without doing some harm, but there was nothing to mar the procession to and from the grave, and if a policeman had only had the sense to take the tree in charge and prevent boys from trying to get into it for a better look, we could have heard every word of the service. The chapel service was over, and the procession formed behind the coffin, which bore the poor wasted relics of our Thomas Cœur de Lion. The father, "Old Tan," looked quite a handsome aquiline-nosed old man, with no trace of the labourer about him, but far more like a venerable prebend or master of a college; but the real interest centred on "the wife" of the dead man, from whom he had been separated for some years. She had come early to the cemetery, and asserted her claim; and there she marched, no doubt under surveillance, with no widow's cap on, behind all the mourners, side by side with the dog. You heard every one saying "That's her! that's her, next to the woman in the brown shawl;" and a little sturdy woman she was. Probably a good deal could be said on both sides."

[ocr errors]

It

The grave, which was dug very deep in the sand, was under a laburnum tree, and there was Bob Travers, who is matched against Jem Dillon (also present) in April, conspicuous beneath it. was strange to see a body of men, who think of little but cross-counters and vicious upper-cuts looking so pensive. We saw Nat Langham, in his red Garibaldi shirt, just press forward to take his last look, as he stood near the foot of the grave, with Harry Brunton; and there was hardly "a manly sport " which had not sent some professor or other to see the little Champion laid to rest. There was no Lamartine to say a word over him. Dickens and Thackeray had done that already, and "England's Champion had fallen a victim to England's curse" was the true text of the hour. Alas! for Whitechapel brandy and Haymarket champagne ! And so the sad procession filed back again, Mrs. Sayers by the side of the dog. A man outside begged us to "show our respect for a penny,” and offered us a funeral flower. A man and woman screeched, and took pennies as fast as they could clutch them for a song, about the "little Brighton Brickey," which they sang to the tune of Uncle Ned:

"Then lay down the belt so low,

And the gloves on the tombstones throw;

In the praise of Sayers sing,

He was an honour to the ring,

But he's gone to the shades below,"

was its chorus; and no doubt it will be hummed in boosing kens, where they are not particular about grammar. And so they laid poor Tom to rest on that brief November day. It seemed to us an array of ex-champions. It began with the lusty Tom King, and as we toiled along the Tottenham road, the last fighting face that met us was old Jem Ward's in his white cravat flitting past in a four-wheel.

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

SPORT IN CEYLON..

BY COL. W. W. TURNER, C.B., 97TH REGIMENT.

СНАР. І.

Arrive at Ceylon-Quartered at Colombo-The Cinnamon Gardens-Start for Ruanwellè The Kalany Ganga-Hangwellè-Lose the way-The ChetahFound by natives-Ruanwellè.

In 1843 my regiment returned from India, and I was the senior subaltern of "the break," and placed on half-pay. As we had been for the two previous years on active service against the enemy in the field, it was very difficult all at once to settle down with nothing to do. My enforced idleness did not however last long, and I joined my new regiment in Ireland.

The officers were all strangers to Indian life, and to the excitement that gives such a charm to the life of Indian sportsmen; but they listened eagerly to my accounts, and longed to prove the truth of what I described. An opportunity soon offered, for we were ordered to Ceylon, that most beautiful and best-stocked of all shooting countries. Eagerly did we set to work arming, according to fancy; some with rifles, some with guns, and some laying out their spare cash in greyhounds, deer-hounds, &c., for the deer coursing, that we had been told was first-rate.

We embarked, and after a long and tedious voyage of four months, with only a week's run at the Cape to break the monotony, sighted the "Haycock," and the mountains in the interior of Ceylon. Our destination was Colombo, where we accordingly landed, and were quartered in the Fort. This has been already described by abler pens than mine, and I therefore at once pass to what will be more in accordance with the title of this paper.

Having settled down into quarters, and pestered every one we met with our eager inquiries after elephants, we found that we were still many a mile distant, and that it would require a month's leave to get at their whereabouts with any chance of sport. This, as I was one of the last for leave, at once determined me to try the shooting round about Colombo.

About 1 miles south of the Fort, near the Galle road, lie the Cinnamon Gardens. They are intersected by many good roads, and afford the pleasantest rides and drives in the neighbourhood. Why they are called "gardens" it is difficult to explain, for they are entirely uncultivated, aud are nothing more or less than cinnamon jungle, in parts very dense, and matted and bound together by climbing mosses, creepers, and ferns of every kind and size; while in other parts they are bare, with stunted and unhealthy-looking cinnamon bushes growing here and there. In these, quail abound; while in the dense parts are numerous spotted deer (the Indian axis) and hares, and also many of the little mouse deer;" while amongst the forest trees that grow thickly about these gardens are monkeys, innumerable parrots, and four kinds of pigeon-the common dove, or "kobaiza ;" the wood pigeon, or "mail

66

F F

agoya:" a dark green pigeon, very bitter to the taste, called the "battagoya ;" and another pigeon of a light green colour, always in large flocks, the name of which I have forgotten.

In these cinnamon gardens, then, was my morning or evening walk or ride, and in them I killed great numbers of quail, hares, and pigeons. But the great attraction was the chance of a deer. Months passed on, yet I had not even seen one, though their tracks were plain enough. I therefore wrote to England for a couple of foxhounds, and in the mean time turned my attention to snipe shooting.

From 4 to 12 miles on every side of Colombo you can get tolerable sport from September to April. At a place called Jayelle, on the Negombo road, a good shot may bag his thirty couple in the day; it is however a sport that is sure to tell on the constitution, and produce fever. There is also first-rate duck and teal shooting at Bolgoddi Lake, on the Galle road, about 23 miles south of Colombo.

I had now been four months in an island swarming with every kind of game and wild beast, from a quail to an elephant, and yet had done nothing but bag hares, snipe, &c. I was thoroughly sick of it, or more correctly speaking, "regularly froze for hair," and determined to make a push for ten days' leave: not that I expected to do much in the way of sport, or even to see an elephant, but I thought I might by chance hear one, and should at all events see something of the country, for I was completely tired of the Fort and the monotony of garrison life. My leave was granted.

Reader, do not expect anything in the way of sport with the monarchs of the forest, or you will be disappointed. I had made no arrangements for a sporting trip, engaged no companion, nor even chalked out for myself any particular line of country; all that I wanted was to get into the jungle and the vicinity of those beasts I had heard and read of so much, and longed to encounter. From all accounts the readiest way to do this was to take the old Kandy road by Hangwellè as far as Sittawaka, and thence branch off to Ruanwellè. My first care was to get a good map, and trace off the country round about Ruanwellè, and the road leading to it from Colombo; my next to cast plenty of bullets.

At 3 a.m., then, one lovely morning, I started on horseback, with my double-barrelled gun slung in a waterproof case at my back, and passed through the Fort into the pattah, or native part of the town. The moon was near the full, and so bright and cloudless that you could easily have read by her light. It wanted at least an hour and a half to daylight, and no one was astir; the streets were deserted and quite quiet; but the verandahs of the houses, as the moon shed her bright silvery light into the narrow streets, looked as if laid out with corpses, so still did the natives lie side by side, wrapped in their long white cumbleys. Here and there only were signs of life; where a fer natives gathered in a circle, pipe-stem in mouth, listening to the ro mance of some professional story-teller. Slowly I jogged along, caring little whither, and my thoughts influenced only by the scenes through which I passed.

On reaching the river Kalany, where it is crossed by a bridge of boats, rned sharp to the right, and followed the Hangwellè road. It runs i to the river as far as Hangwellè, a distance of 18 miles. For

many of these the road is delightfully shaded; while the delicious perfume of the orange, the shaddock, and areka trees lies heavy on the fresh morning air. The sun rose unclouded, like a great globe of fire, and though tempted to linger by the beauty of the views disclosed by the winding river, his bright beams warned me that time waits for no one, and that before he had run his fiery course I had many miles to go. This river, the Kalany Ganga, rises in the range of mountains near Adam's Peak, and through its whole course is very beautiful. As far as Yatteantotte its waters are clear and rapid, tumbling and leaping over their rocky bed, and here and there forming the most beautiful waterfalls. From Sittawaka to Mutwall, where it runs into the sea, a distance of 30 miles, it is navigable for barges. The country through which it winds is mostly flat, but its banks are well wooded by that most beautiful of all trees, the feathery bamboo. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the scene, dropping down this part of the river on a bright moonlight night. The deep shadows cast upon the waters by the clumps of bamboo and large forest trees, the noiseless gliding of the boat, the perfect stillness, unbroken save by the sighing of the wind through the bamboo's rustling leaves, and the hoot of the great horned owl. At such a time the mind falls into a state of dreamy thought, when recollections of the past arise, and you mourn over time misspent and disappointed hopes. When weighing the actions of that past, you start to find how puerile they have been-how little in accordance with the high and noble thoughts which arise in your mind when, undistracted by the sights and sounds of the haunts of men, they pass from the contemplation of Nature herself, in all her wild magnificence, to the contemplation of Nature's God. I have never been in a desert place, alone amidst Nature's wildness, without feeling indeed the words of the apostle, "Lord, it is good for us to be here."

Reader, pardon this digression; but I love the wilderness; it makes me feel a happier and a better man.

At 6 a.m. I dismounted at the verandah of Hangwellè Rest-house, and while the rest-house keeper prepared some fowl curry, I fed the pony, and then strolled out to look about me. The rest-house is situate in the middle of a small redoubt, surrounded by a deep dry ditch. This redoubt is on the highest point of the river bank, and completely commands the navigation. On the opposite side of the main road is a small straggling village, with a bazaar, where you can buy rice, eggs, rice-cake, plantains, oranges, &c.; and at the back of the village are some rambukan trees. This is one of the most delicious but tantalizing fruits in the island; it is somewhat like the horse-chesnut in shape, with a thick hairy rind. When on the trees it grows in bunches, and is green; but when ripe and gathered it turns a bright crimson; to eat it you must cut off a portion of one end, and then squeeze out the fruit. This, as far as it goes, is delightfully cool and refreshing, but it is as deceptive in appearance as a dried French plum, being nearly all

kernel.

Having followed a jungle path at the back of the village, and mistaken the turn back to the rest-house, I did not succeed in finding it again till near 2 p.m. Saddled at once, and pushed on for Sittawaka. The road winds among low hills, covered with impassable bamboo jungle, swarming with jungle-fowl that ran across the road every five

« ПретходнаНастави »