CHAPTER IX.
When the little party reached home, they found Mrs. Ashton and Edward waiting to receive them. The sun was shining brightly; and, indeed, all appearance of rain had vanished, and an open carriage was at the door.
The children’s eyes sparkled with delight as the driver assisted them to get into it; then came a large basket, which must be accommodated with a place; papa’s telescope, mamma’s travelling-cloak, more clothing for the children, and lastly, papa and mamma themselves.
“Now we are off!” cried Lewis. “Papa, have you told the man which way we are to go?”
His father nodded assent.
“Edward,” said Helen, “you look very knowing; I do believe you are in the secret.”
“Oh! it is no secret now,” Edward said: “we are on the road to the Dyke, and I have been helping mamma this morning to prepare for the trip; only I would not talk about it, for fear the weather should disappoint you.”
“I will try to bear disappointments better,” said Lewis, who had not forgotten the incident of the morning; “and then papa and mamma will not be afraid of letting me know their plans.”
“Well,” interrupted Helen, “I must say I like excursions better when they are quite unexpected, as this was.”
“So do not I,” said Edward, “there is a great deal of enjoyment in thinking of, and preparing for, them beforehand.”
“Then,” said his father, “it seems you and Helen are both satisfied; but there is one pleasure still which may belong to us all; and you seem quite to have forgotten it.”
“Oh! papa,” cried Lewis, “you mean the pleasure of retrospection: every one likes the pleasures of retrospection.”
“Then, my boy,” said his father, “it should be our constant desire, so to pass each day and hour as that the retrospect may, at least, give us no cause for pain.”
“I think we shall all be very happy to-day; do not you, dear aunt?” asked Helen.
Mrs. Ashton smiled as she repeated:
“Say, is this a time to be gloomy and sad,
When all nature is smiling around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And joy springs from the blossoming ground?”
“This may well be called ‘blossoming ground,’” said Helen. “Look, aunt, there is my favourite little ivy-leaved campanula, and the star-thistle in abundance.”
“Yes,” replied her aunt, “and if I mistake not, you will find on the hill-side, near the Dyke, the musk-ophrys, which you were wishing for, to put in your herbal, and some species of orchis.”
“Helen,” said Lewis, “if you care so much for such common weeds as these, I wonder what you would say to the plant captain Manning told us about the other day, with blossoms as large as—let me see—as large round as the flower-bed before your parlour-window: you would be puzzled to get an herbal huge enough for such a giant-specimen.”
“I think,” said Helen, good-humouredly, “I should say that you and captain Manning were laughing at me.”
“Well, then, if you are so unbelieving,” replied Lewis, “ask papa; I suppose you can trust him.”
Mr. Ashton happened to have in his pocket, the number of the Penny Magazine which contained an account of this curious plant; and he read it to the wondering Helen:—
“In 1818, Doctor Arnold discovered, in the island of Sumatra, a flower which he named Rafflesia Arnoldi; and which an author has called with much justice, ‘the magnificent Titan of the vegetable kingdom.’ The human mind, indeed, had never conceived such a flower: the circumference of the full-expanded flower is nine feet, its nectarium is calculated to hold nine pints, the pistils are as large as cows’-horns, and the entire weight of the flower is calculated to be fifteen pounds.”
“Look, look, Helen!” exclaimed Edward, as soon as his father had ceased to read, “there must be a rabbit-warren near. There they go; two, three, four rabbits; and there are two men with guns on their shoulders coming up the side of the hill. Papa, I do wonder any one can like to make such a disturbance among the poor little creatures, just for their own amusement: it would be much more diverting to me, I am sure, to see them gambol and frolic over these green hillocks. Ah, there are their pretty young ones, running as fast as their little legs will carry them, by the side of their mother.”
“Run, run, little ones!” cried Helen, forgetting the wonderful flower, in her anxiety for the rabbits. “Now they have popped into a hole; but, oh! I am afraid it is of no use, for those sportsmen have a dog with them, and they will be sure to catch some of the innocent creatures.”
“Helen,” asked Lewis, archly, “do you never eat rabbit-pie when it comes to table?”
“Oh! yes,” said Helen, “I do, it is true; but, Lewis, I would rather not think about that now; and if the poor animals must be killed for our food, I am sure it might be done in a more humane manner than hunting them with dogs and guns.”
Lewis could not deny this.
“Papa,” said Helen, “once allowed me to keep rabbits, but you may be sure I never had any of my pets killed. It was such pleasure to watch the pretty creatures, and feed them every day; and then you cannot think how busy the old doe was in making a nest for her little ones. She chose the softest hay she could find, and when she had munched out all the hard parts, she stripped some of the thick warm down from her own breast to spread over it. At first, she covered up her young ones so closely that I could not see them; and papa told me not to disturb the nest: indeed, I should have been quite afraid to do so, for Minny, who was so gentle in common, used to try to bite me whenever I went near the nest, until her little ones grew larger and stronger and then she would let me take them in my hand and feed them.”
“This is the case with many animals, my dear Helen,” said her aunt; “indeed, the attachment which some creatures manifest to their young is so strong, that they will die rather than abandon them. I recollect once reading an anecdote respecting an American sow, which pleased me much; because in her care for her offspring she evinced a degree of sagacity, which we are apt not to give the species credit for possessing. This animal was accustomed to pass her days in the woods, with a numerous litter of pigs, but to return regularly to the house in the evening, to share with her family a substantial supper. One of her pigs was, however, quietly slipped away to be roasted; in a day or two afterwards, another; and then a third. It would appear that this careful mother knew the number of her offspring, and missed those that were taken from her; for after this she came alone to her evening meal. This occurring repeatedly, she was watched coming out of the wood, and observed to drive back her pigs from its extremity; grunting with so much earnestness, and in a manner so intelligible, that they retired at her command, and waited patiently for her return.”[2]
The children were much amused with this anecdote.
Edward asked Helen, what became of her rabbits at last.
Helen said, “that when she went to school, her little pets were all given to farmer Johnstone’s daughter, Susan. Minny and Bob were still alive and well, and the little ones they had nursed so tenderly were grown as large as themselves.”
And now Mr. Ashton told the little party, they must leave the carriage, and ascend the lofty rampart which they saw before them; and which, he said, was reported to have been formerly used as a place of security for the distressed Britons, when invaded by their powerful foes, the Romans; being still known by the designation of the Poor-man’s-wall. The intrenchment, which is accessible only by a narrow projection to the south, is surrounded by a broad ditch.
Having reached the summit of the mount, the lovely and extensive prospect which opened to the view, was an ample compensation for the fatigue of ascending. The undulating verdant downs, the boundless ocean, and the distant view of hill, and dale, and wood, altogether formed a prospect more picturesque and beautiful than the children had ever beheld.
The day was clear; and papa’s telescope was in great request.
Mr. Ashton pointed out the romantic view of the extensive weald of Sussex, and parts of Hampshire, Surrey, and Kent adjoining.
At last, when the scenery, far and near, had been admired again and again, when the boys had made the tour of the Dyke as often as they pleased, and Helen had filled her handkerchief with the musk-ophrys, and other wild-flowers, the happy party left the attractive spot, and were soon reseated in the carriage.
“Not homeward-bound yet, papa!” exclaimed Lewis.
“I thought,” returned his father, “you would not object, now that we are so near, to see the little village of Poynings; particularly as there are some remains of antiquity in the neighbourhood, which, perhaps, may interest you.”
“Thank you! thank you!” exclaimed the children, one and all.
The name of the village of Poynings, is derived from two ancient British words, descriptive of its situation; pou, country, and ings, downs: that is, the plain country under the Downs. The church is a large and ancient edifice; it is built in the form of a cross, with a tower in the centre. The ruins Mr. Ashton spoke of, were those of some stupendous building raised in ancient times, which tradition relates was the seat of the barons of Poynings.
On their return, Mr. Ashton pointed out to his companions, the ruins of an encampment, called Hollingbury Castle, or Hill.
“The rampart,” he said, “which was once strong and high, is now much dilapidated, Three tumuli have lately been discovered, containing some Roman coins; they were probably raised over the bodies of some who fell in battle. How different a scene these peaceful Downs now present: on this very spot where, perhaps, once resounded the din of war, nothing but the pleasant tinkling of the sheep-bell, or the lark’s shrill notes of joy, reach the ear. The bodies of thousands of human beings, who fell victims to avarice, ambition, or revenge, then strewed the plain, where now the solitary herd-boy tends the flock; while beneath us, on the dark blue ocean, which once bore to our devoted land the hostile fleets of an invading foe, we may mark the sails of distant vessels, laden with the blessings of commerce, the fruits of industry and peace. My children, how thankful we should be, that our lot has been cast in such favoured times; and, whilst permitted to enjoy these gifts, let us never forget the debt of gratitude we owe to the bounteous Giver.”