Harper's New Monthly Magazine. No. XVI.—September, 1851—Vol. III

At four next morning, having got our rifles and double-barreled guns ready, we sat down, expecting the arrival of our last night's friend. He came, after sundry messages had been sent after him, and with him his fidus Achates. The head of hair which this fellow had defies all description. It was curled into a thousand little corkscrews, each consisting of about twelve hairs, and varying from three to six inches in length, darting out at all angles from his head like the quills of an angry porcupine. Giving each of these guides a spare gun, we started in silence, and nothing but the cracking of some ill-natured stick, or the cry of a wild bird we had started from its roost, gave warning of our progress.

The excitement we felt can not be described, when we first got sight of our game feeding in a tank, about a quarter of a mile from us. Imagine a herd of sixty or more spotted deer grouped in every imaginable way in a grassy bottom, some under the branches of stately tamarind trees, some drinking at the edge of the water; some lying down, little dreaming of the greedy and remorseless eyes so eagerly watching their repose. Our gun-bearers now altered our direction in order to gain the lee of their position; and a few anxious moments brought us again in sight of the deer, and not more than two hundred yards from a stately stag, the outlying picket of their troop. Looking to our locks, we now took the place of guides, and began cautiously to advance.

By this time it was past five. The sun had not yet risen, but the light was quite sufficient to distinguish every twig and blade, and the increased noise of the awakening spoonbills and water-fowl served considerably to conceal our careful approach. A hundred yards are now passed – twenty more would make success a certainty – when crash went a dead branch under a leathern sole, and the whole herd at once are roused from their careless attitudes. The stag I had just marked, at once prepared for flight; but, stopping to sniff the wind, fell under my first bullet. My friend's gun also brought down a fine buck, just as he was starting at the report of my shot. The herd are now off; but still two fall as they press forward; one, never to rise.

Thus ended our first morning's sport, and having gathered our game together, we left a fellow in charge, to drive off the jackals, and other wild beasts, while we joyfully wended our way back to the encampment to dispatch a dozen of our men to bring in the spoil, and to recruit ourselves with a hearty breakfast.

As we had expected, we found the whole village, ladies and all, at the tent, looking with curiosity at our apparatus, and bringing scanty supplies of milk, eggs, and fowls, which they exchanged for a few charges of powder, and a bullet or two. Here money is of little value, for they grow all the food they require in the Palmyra tree and paddy-field. A few yards of cloth last them for years, and what taxes they pay to government are generally brought in, in kind.

The sun, between nine o'clock and four, is too powerful to allow of our being out, so we read and talked till the lengthened shadow of the tent showed us that the time of action was again come. I took a stroll with my rifle as companion, and returned about seven o'clock with a fine doe. My friend had not shot any deer; but a young pea-fowl and some hares made a goodly show at our dinner. As we had another kind of sport for the night, we did not waste much time over this meal, and were ready by eight, P.M., to take possession of our olies, or watching-places.

Each was provided with a bottle of very weak grog, blankets, guns, and a small piece of ember; for the natives are afraid to be out at night without fire to keep away devils. Thus fortified, we proceeded to the edge of the tank, which had proved so fatal in the morning to the deer, and found a round hole dug in the ground, between the water's edge and the jungle; it was about two feet deep, with the earth it had contained thrown up as a breastwork, and some loose branches strewn before it, so as to screen the hunter from sight, and make the ground look natural. This was to be my sleeping-place, so into it I crept, and curling myself up to adapt myself to its shape, began meditating on the comforts of a four-poster at home, and on the luck my friend would meet with, at his watching-place, which they told me was half a mile distant. Gradually my thoughts began to give way to faint images of bygone scenes – I was riding a hurdle-race at Colombo – dancing the deux-temps at Government House – shooting ducks at Bolgodda – playing whist at the mess – when "Ani, Ani," struck on my ear, and sure enough, there they were – sixteen splendid elephants standing on the other side of the tank, drinking its thick waters, or filling their trunks with the mud, jetting it over their huge backs. But how to get at them? My friend was on that side; so off I set, in hopes of catching him before he began his attack. By dint of great exertion, I got round just as he was starting for the onslaught; but still we were too far off to do any good by shooting at them, so down we went on our hands and knees, to crawl nearer to our unsuspecting foes. All went well at first. By the moonlight their backs – now covered with white mud – looked strangely ghost-like, and they loomed twice their natural size in the hazy atmosphere. We were now within twenty paces of them, and I was still crawling on, when a scuffle behind me suddenly drew away my attention – my friend's gun-bearer had got frightened; and, judging that we were already near enough, was trying to make off with the gun; unfortunately, as he turned, he was caught by the heel, and in the struggle the gun was discharged. I saw it was of little use firing, as the startled elephants were already on the move; but taking aim at the nearest, an old one, with her punchi, had the luck to bring her down on her knees. Delusive hope! she quickly rose again; and in an instant, the far-off crashing of the jungle was all that told us of the reality of our late encounter. Anathematizing heartily our cowardly follower, we returned to the olies, and sought comfort in the sleep from which we had been so fruitlessly aroused. The growling of the bears fighting for the yellow fruit under the iron trees, mixed with the mournful belling of the bucks, was our melodious lullaby.

It must have been some hours afterward that I was again aroused by my watchful companion, who pointed out two splendid elks, a doe and a buck, within sixty paces of my lair. To indemnify me for my last failure, these both fell before my fowling-piece, which is second to none for smooth-bore ball-practice; so I returned about three, A.M., to the tent to rest, as we were to begin another day's work with a thirteen miles' march to Tanicolam.

Thus passed seven days, during which we visited Coolvellan, Tanekai, and several other Tamil villages, shooting spotted deer, wild boar, bears, chetas, and elks at night, and deer, hares, peacocks, alligators, and jungle-fowl by day; sometimes bivouacking under the spreading shade of a tamarind tree, sometimes by the side of a lonely tank among the lemon grass and reeds, which thickly ornament its thorny margin. The eighth morning saw us journeying homeward, regretting the shortness of our leave, but consoling ourselves with the thought, that when duty calls we must obey. We had traveled fifty miles south of Jaffna, into solitudes where white faces had, perhaps, never before been seen – our bag was respectably filled: eighteen spotted skins bore testimony to our skill; and what with alligators and boars' heads, surmounted by peacocks' tails, our party made a brilliant re-entrance into the northern capital.

A VISIT TO ROBINSON CRUSOE

I am not going to describe savage life, or uninhabited islands: what I have to say relates to most civilized society, and to no island whatever. My object is simply to "request the pleasure" of the reader's company in a short excursion out of Paris: an arrangement which secures to him the advantage of visiting a place which is beneath the notice of the guide-books, and to myself the society of that most desirable of companions – one who allows me to engross the entire conversation.

Imagine, then, a party of Englishmen in Paris, rising one morning with the general desire to "do something to-day." Having done nothing for several weeks except amuse themselves – having been condemned to continual festivity, the necessity for some relaxation became imminent. We had been to see every thing that we cared to see, and every body who cared to see us, with a little over in both cases. We had filled "avant scène" boxes until the drama became a bore, and had reclined in cafés until their smoke became a nuisance. We had scoured the Boulevards by day, and the balls by night; "looked in" at the monuments with patronizing airs and at the shops with purchasing propensities. We had experienced dinners both princely and penurious; fathomed mysterious cartes from end to end, and even with unparalleled hardihood had ventured into the regions of the prix-fixe. We had almost exhausted every sort of game, active and sedentary; at billiards, we had exploded every cannon, possible and impossible, and reposed on every "cushion," convenient and inconvenient. One desperate youth had even proposed that we should addict ourselves to dominos; but, we were not far enough gone for that: the suggestion was received on all sides with that sensation of horror which shipwrecked mariners manifest when one of the party proposes to dine off the cabin-boy. No: we must find materials of amusement less suggestive of tombstones, that was clear, even if we perished miserably without their assistance.

The fact was, that under the influence of the sunshine and flowers – the lustre and languor of the most bewildering of capitals, I was fast subsiding into a state of collapse. I felt a dash of the infatuation of the lotus-eater, in his

" – land that seemed always afternoon."

In our case – for we were all alike – instead of afternoon, we seemed to be in a perpetual state of "the morning after." It was at length agreed that we should enter the first public conveyance we could find that was leaving Paris.

The conveyance destined to receive us was, in appearance, a cross between the English omnibus of domestic life and the French diligence, that has, alas! nearly disappeared; a fat, heavy vehicle, drawn by a couple of strong little hacks, with a driver who gave himself diligence airs, and cracked his whip, and smoked his pipe most ostentatiously.

The first thing we learned on taking our seats was, that we had better have gone by the railway; that is to say, if we intended only going as far as Sceaux, and were pressed for time. We replied, that we were going wherever the omnibus choose to take us, and time was no object. These observations were elicted by a good-humored old man, with a clear, hale, weather-beaten face, which he had contrived to shave to a most miraculous point of perfection, though it was as wrinkled as the boots of any groom. His dress was poor and threadbare in the extreme; and in England he might have passed for a broken-down carpenter; but he, nevertheless, wore the cordon of the eternal Legion of Honor.

The omnibus, he said, went as far as Longjumeau, a place which we were all anxious to see, as being associated with a certain postillion, with big boots, and a wonderful wig, who sang a peculiar song with immense rapidity, accompanied by jingling bells, a crackling whip, and a perpetual post-horn. To our great regret, however, we learned that this distinguished individual was not likely to be seen at Longjumeau, the natives of which had probably never heard of his existence. It was too bad, however, to allow the illusion as to the existence of our old friend to be thus dispelled; so we easily succeeded in persuading ourselves that the popularity of the postillion doubtless kept him continually on the move, and that his native place was, after all, the place where we should have remembered it was least likely to find him.

We proceeded on our way in the most approved style of French omnibuses – with a great deal of clatter, a great deal of confusion, and very little speed. The country any where within a mile or two of Paris, is not very inviting – level wastes of barren ground, with occasionally an oasis in the shape of a brick-kiln, or something equally ornamental; dusty roads, planted with rows of little trees, and bounded by high walls, covered with quack advertisements. The passenger gazes out of window about once every ten minutes, hoping for a little variety; but as far as the waste, the trees, the walls, and the quack advertisements are concerned, he might believe himself still in the same spot. Accordingly, the wise tourist generally seeks amusement inside the vehicle, as we did on the occasion in question – by encouraging the passengers to sing country songs, and contributing ourselves something of the kind toward the general hilarity.

At last – after an hour's jolting and stumbling, and hallooing, and cracking, on the part of omnibus, horses, driver, and whip – something like open country begins to make its appearance – with occasionally an attempt at foliage and cultivation. We have just time to congratulate ourselves upon the change – with a slight regret at the absence of hedges and green lanes – when the omnibus stops at an accommodation of rustic restaurants, schools for young ladies, billiard-rooms, tobacconists' shops, and one church, which we are told is Sceaux. Here we alight, after an exchange of affectionate flatteries with our fellow passengers, who are bound to Longjumeau, and make our way, as a matter of course to the park. But previously a bell at the railway station announces the arrival of a train from Paris, and we have an opportunity of observing the perfect working of this pretty little line – the serpentine course of which is, at first sight, calculated to strike horror into the engineering mind – how the carriages perform impossible curves in perfect safety, and finally accomplish something very like a figure of eight at the terminus, without any relaxation of speed. The manner in which this is accomplished is principally by providing the engines with small oblique wheels, pressing against the rails, in addition to the usual vertical ones. The carriages, too, are so constructed, that both the fore and hind wheels may turn freely under them; and each carriage is connected with its neighbor by a kind of hinge, which effectually prevents a separation, while it affords every facility for independent motion. Thus almost any curve can be accomplished, and it is next to impossible that the train can come off the rails. But for this contrivance, the railway, condemned to a straight line, would probably never pay, and all the pretty places where it has stations, would lose half their visitors.

The great lion of Sceaux is its park, where the chateau, built by Colbert, and subsequently associated with persons of no less importance than the Duc du Maine and Madame de Montespan, was flourishing before the first revolution. Art has here been somewhat ungrateful to nature; the one has furnished the tallest of trees and the thickest of bosquets; but the other has clipped them with more than her usual want of taste, and through the latter, has cut avenues, ingeniously imitative of railway tunnels – of which the pastoral effect may be imagined. On Sundays and Thursdays, during the summer, crowds flock from Paris to the balls which are held in this park – where there is also a tolerable gathering of rustic simplicity from the country round. Then it is that all the colored lamps, which now by daylight look so dingy, are brilliantly lighted up; the dirty stucco statues gleam like alabaster; the seedy drapery becomes golden and gorgeous; the grimy decorations are festive and fairy-like; and the smoky-looking glass column in the centre glitters like an immense diamond – reflecting the surrounding scene with a thousand flattering and fantastic variations.

But what about Robinson Crusoe? All in good time. Robinson is now something less than two miles off, if the information of our decorated friend may be relied upon; and perhaps the sooner we join him the better. Accordingly, with Sceaux behind us, and the prospect of dinner before us, we proceed gayly on foot through roads as rustic in appearance as the inevitable brick walls and unavoidable quack advertisements will allow them to be, and arrive at last at our journey's end – without meeting on our way with any incidents of travel more exciting than the sight of two countrymen and a windmill.

Here, then, we are, at last, at Robinson. Robinson, then, is a place, and not a person? But what relation has this to De Foe's Robinson Crusoe? Simply this; that the spot is the most romantic – the most picturesque – and was the most desolate within so short a distance of Paris; and it has been called "Robinson," as a tribute at once to these united charms, and to the merits of a work which is as popular in France as in its native country. The surname "Crusoe" the French throw aside, as they do every thing which they can either not pronounce, or not understand – refusing in particular to swallow any thing like a name which does not become the mouth, on the wise principle which leads every animal but the donkey to reject thistles.

The fame of the place, however, has by degrees rendered its name inapplicable. Its romantic and picturesque qualities it still retains, but its desolation is no more. It is Robinson Crusoe's island with the spell broken – the loneliness of thirty years profaned. It is Robinson Crusoe's island monopolized by common-place colonists, who have set up cafés and restaurants. It is Juan Fernandez captured by the savages, who appear there in the shape of the bourgeoisie, or as pert-looking young Frenchman, in varnished boots, escorting transparent bonnets. It is Robinson Crusoe's island, in fact, with a dash of Greenwich.

In common with all those who land in any sort of island, civilized or savage, our first impulse was to secure dinner. For this purpose, we betook ourselves to the most imposing restaurant of the place. Gueusquin was the name I think, of the Bois d'Aulnay. Here, in the midst of a rustic and not too French style of garden, laid out upon an eminence, stands a building which has all the aspect of the most primitive of farms. It is dedicated to Robinson Crusoe, as may be seen from the verses conspicuously painted up over the door:

"Robinson! nom cher à l'enfance,Que, vieux, l'on se rappelle encore,Dont le souvenir, doux trésor,Nous reporte aux jours d'innocence."

On entering we see Robinson Crusoe on every side – that is to say, all the walls are devoted to his adventures: we see multiplied in every corner the well-known goat-skin costume, pointed cap, and umbrella. Here is Crusoe outside his hut, tending his flock; there he is shooting down the savages from behind a tree. In one panel he starts back at the sight of the foot-mark in the sands, in the attitude of the leading actor of the Gymnase, to express violent surprise at the important intelligence conveyed to his mind by that powerful print. Over the window, he is feeding his goat; close to the door, he notches his calendar, or, not inappropriately, cuts his stick. He welcomes to the lonely isle the astonished white men, beside the stove; and once more steps on his native soil, just over the mantle-piece. Crusoe is every where. He is engraved on the spoons, painted on the plates, and figured on the coffee-cups. His effigy reclines upon the clock; his portrait on the vases peers through the flowers. So completely do his adventures seem associated with the place, that we almost expect to see him in his own proper person, with his parrots and dogs about him; discussing his goat's flesh at one of the rude tables, which might have been fashioned by his own hand; or busy kindling a fire upon the tiled floor, which might also be of home manufacture.

We are interrupted in the midst of this inspection, by the question where we will dine? Where? Any where. This is the salle à manger, is it not? Certainly; but we can dine up a tree in the garden if we please. In that case we do please, by all means, provided the climbing is easy, and there are good strong branches to cling to. The garçon smiles, as he conducts us to the garden, and introduces us to the resources of the immense tree in the centre. Here we are instructed to ascend a staircase, winding round the massive trunk, and to choose our places, on the first, second, or third "story." This dining accommodation we now find to consist of a succession of platforms, securely fixed upon the vast spreading branches, surrounded by a rustic railing, and in some cases covered with a thatched umbrella, of the veritable Robinson Crusoe pattern. With the ardor of enthusiasts, who know no finality short of extremes, we spurn the immediate resting-places, and ascend at once to the topmost branch. Here we find a couple of tables laid out, and seats for the accommodation of about a dozen persons. A jovial party of the savages before alluded to, in glazed boots, and transparent bonnets, are already in possession of one of the tables; the other is at our disposal.

The soup now makes its appearance, not borne upward by the waiters, but swung upward in enormous baskets, by means of ropes and pulleys; and we speedily bawl down, with stentorian voices – according to the most approved fashion of the habitués– our directions as to the succeeding courses, which are duly received through the same agency. Everybody now gets extremely convivial, and we, of course, fraternize with the savages, our neighbors. At this period of the proceedings, some of the boldest of our party venture upon obvious jokes relative to dining "up a tree" – a phrase which, in England, is significant of a kind of out-of-the-way existence, associated with pecuniary embarrassment; but, I need scarcely add, that these feeble attempts at pleasantry were promptly put down by the general good-sense of the company. The Frenchmen, bolder still, now indulged in various feats of agility, which had the additional attraction of extreme peril, considering that we were more than a hundred feet from the ground. The tendency of the Robinsonites, in general, toward gymnastic exercises is very sufficiently indicated by the inscription – "Défense de se balancer après les Paniers" – which is posted all over the tree. To my mind the injunction sounded very like forbidding one to break one's neck.

Being already a hundred feet from the ground, the united wisdom of our party had, by this time, arrived at the opinion that we should descend; an operation at all times less easy than ascension – more especially after dinner. The feat, however, was satisfactorily accomplished, after a pathetic appeal on the part of two or three of my friends for another quarter of an hour to sentimentalize upon the magnificent view – rendered doubly magnificent in the declining sun – of distant Paris, with its domes and towers, and light bridges, and winding river; and the more immediate masses of well-wooded plantations, and well-cultivated fields. I should have mentioned that we had to drag away the youngest of these sentimentalists by main force – which rendered our safe descent somewhat marvelous under the circumstances.

We had now to decide upon our mode of return to Paris – a work of time, owing to the numerous distracting facilities. A short walk was pronounced to be desirable, and a walk to Fontenay-aux-Roses delightful above all things. So we set forward accordingly – our way lying "all among the bearded barley" – like the road to "many-towered Camelot." At Fontenay-aux-Roses, which, strangely enough, does justice to its name, lying in a huge nest of roses, of all degrees of deliciousness, we were fortunate enough to find that vehicular phenomenon – in the existence of which I had never before believed – the "last omnibus." This was promptly monopolized; and my next performance, I fancy, was to go to sleep; for, on being informed that we were again in Paris, I seemed to have some recollection of a recent dinner on the top of a tree, with Robinson Crusoe, who was appropriately decorated with a pink bonnet and a parasol.

THE WHITE SILK BONNET

BY ELIZABETH O'HARA

"Thirty-five shillings, did you say, Mrs. Grey? I am afraid that is too dear; and yet it is really a love of a bonnet."