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Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Four.
Saint George’s Day.

At Kondie, in the church dedicated to the patron saint of England, lie interred the remains of Woosen Suggud, and thither, according to wont, the despot proceeded on Saint George’s day. The sepulchre of the departed monarch is screened from gaze amid a sombre grove of evergreen juniper, assuming the shapes, some of the cedar, others of the cypress and the yew:—

    “Dark trees still sad when others’ grief is fled,
    The only constant mourners o’er the dead.”

Kings alone are honoured with a coffin. Manufactured of sweet wood, and perforated with many apertures, it is placed on stone trestles amid clouds of frankincense, and after a season removed into the mausoleum; the walls of which are usually bedaubed with clumsy designs, intended to commemorate the exploits in the hunting field, the military actions, and the heroic achievements of the royal occupant. His Majesty’s orisons at the shrine of his father being concluded, he turned his steps to the palace, now fast falling to decay, which formed the scene of the assassination of the despotic tyrant. Surrounded by the former capital of Shoa, it occupies the bleak summit of one of the loftiest mountains in the range, and commands a magnificent prospect over the greater portion of Efát. Mamrat, now diminished from thirteen to one thousand feet, no longer loomed a giant. Through the clouds which flitted across its stern bosom lay revealed the only path by which the royal treasures are accessible; and the white peak of Wóti, rising from dense masses of timber, and terminating in a basaltic column, now formed the most conspicuous feature in the rugged landscape.

“You observe those woods,” inquired His Majesty, pointing after a long silence to the gloomy forests which stretched away towards the long white storehouses of Arámba: “they conceal a cavern into which no creature can enter and five. The man who should venture one step beyond the entrance would be seen no more. If a dog goes in, or a bird, or even a serpent, it will surely die. There is no bottom to that cave, and none can say whither it leads. Formerly people went to cut wood in the neighbourhood. A man lost his way, and was unheard of for months. His friends believed him dead. They mourned for him, and scratched their temples, and he was forgotten. Suddenly he re-appeared, reduced to a skeleton, and looking like a ghost. They brought him to me to know what should be done with him. He had lived like the guréza upon wild berries, and when I asked him what he had seen, he replied that he had seen the devil. Wóti is a bad place, and the forests take fire, and all my subjects fear to go thither.”

A catastrophe of this nature had recently taken place; and a quantity of fuel stored for the royal kitchen having been destroyed, it was the king’s present object to ascertain the extent of damage sustained. Ayto Wolda Hana exerted his cracked voice in loud complaints of others, and so that himself escaped the much-dreaded censure, the old man evidently cared not much who suffered. Herein he was so far successful, that the sub-governor of the district was fined in the amount of one hundred dollars, about ten times the value of property destroyed, and every male inhabitant of the neighbourhood received sentence of imprisonment.

The cold summit of Kondie is clothed with heather and with the jibera, a lofty species of lobelia, which attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet. As it is believed to exert a prejudicial effect upon the passer by, and often to cause death, the royal cortege waged active war against every plant by the way-side—His Majesty in person sustaining a part in hostilities designed to counteract the evil influence. Bands of warriors charging on horseback, delivered their spears simultaneously, and the doomed tree, if not cut over, was at least transfixed by a score of shafts. Excelling in skill, the monarch betted heavily upon every throw, and rarely did he lose. At forty yards the lance left his hand with unerring precision, and perforating the soft pulpy stem immediately below the bushy head, often passed quite through, to fall on the other side.

“Where did the commander learn to throw a spear?” he suddenly exclaimed in merry mood, elevating his voice, and looking round towards the spot on which I was taking share in the proceedings. “Now, Gaita,” he continued, as I approached, “I will give you a mule if you hit that tree, and if you do not, by the death of Woosen Suggud you shall forfeit your best rifle.” Frequent practice having rendered me tolerably expert, my first lance fortunately passed through the stem, and the second threw its crown upon the ground. His Majesty was obviously satisfied; but whilst the mule completely escaped his treacherous recollection, my “best rifle,” alas! had been already doomed to change hands. It remained but a brief period in those of the lawful proprietor, and Ayto Habti, the master armourer, was to be seen the very next morning engraving on the barrel with punch and hammer certain ominous Amháric characters, signifying, “Sáhela Selássie, who is the Negoos of Shoa, Efát, and the Galla.”

Hunting down the partridge with dogs occupied the residue of the day. Parties stationed themselves at intervals along the heather-grown slopes of the hills, where the bird abounds, and by dint of unceasing persecution kept the victim selected so perpetually on the wing, that after three or four long flights it was unable to rise again. Many were thus killed with sticks, or taken alive; but wherever His Majesty was............
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