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Updated: June 5, 2025
Monday's issue was awaited with unwonted eagerness, interested as we were in the gauntlet flung at Lennox Street. But the gauntlet had been taken up; there was no paper forthcoming; it was suppressed; the "Military Situation" proscribed its freedom. This was not altogether unexpected; but a more prudent counsel would have let the Press alone.
Besides, I had been away on a country- house visit from the Saturday to the Monday, and had missed Monday's Times. I was therefore immensely surprised when Mr. Hutton, from the depths of his beard, asked me in deep tones whether I had seen The Times of Monday, and what was said therein about my Privy Council article.
Now, as I have said, I had become engaged, and my cousin, Miss Kate Thornton, to whom I was betrothed, lived at Stockport, at a distance of more than two hours from Leeds. I had been in the habit of visiting Stockport almost every Saturday, returning to my duties on Monday morning. This leader-writing for Monday's paper threatened to interfere with this arrangement.
This deceit was a large confession of his own timidity in dealing with his crew, and it marked the beginning of a long struggle with deceived and mutinous subordinates, which forms so large a part of the record of his subsequent career. The result of Monday's sail, which he knew to be sixty leagues, he noted as forty-eight, so that the distance from home might appear less than it was.
They left London in a nice warm, comfortable, rich-padded, swelly carriage at four, and before dark they were letting everything go, putting on the oilies, driving through the open in front of it under a treble-reefed storm jib, praying hard for their lives in last Monday's gale, and wishing to God they had stayed at home all in the four hours.
Buntingford and Geoffrey were especially thoughtful and preoccupied. At last the former, after smoking a while without speaking, got up with the remark that he must see to some letters before post. "Oh, no!" pleaded Helena, intercepting him, and speaking so that he only should hear. "To-morrow's Whitsunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday. What's the use of writing letters?
In the rear of this great plantation there are eighteen thousand additional acres of cane-brake which are being slowly reclaimed.... We extended our ride into this jungle, on the borders of which, in the unfinished clearing, I saw plantations of "negro corn," the sable cultivators of which seem to have disregarded the symmetry practised in the fields of their master, who allows them from Saturday noon until Monday's cockcrow for the care of their private interests....
He really belonged to Jem but was much attached to Walter also. He was lying beside Walter now with nose snuggled against his arm, thumping his tail rapturously whenever Walter gave him an absent pat. Monday was not a collie or a setter or a hound or a Newfoundland. He was just, as Jem said, "plain dog" very plain dog, uncharitable people added. Certainly, Monday's looks were not his strong point.
This model speech was incessantly interrupted by tremendous cheering and frantic demonstrations of delight, one great fellow almost crushing the Governor in his enthusiastic embrace. This ended, he entered a carriage, and was driven through the blackened, smoking scenes of Monday's devastations; through fresh vistas of outrage, of the day's execution; bland, gracious, smiling.
Surprise Hill is a square-topped kopje, from 500 feet to 600 feet high, between Thornhill's Kopje and Nicholson's Nek. It overlooks Bell's Spruit and the scene of "Mournful Monday's" worst disaster. From Leicester Post, where two guns were always kept turned on it, the distance is 4,100 yards just the full range of our field guns. From Observation Hill it is hardly 2,500 yards.
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