Saharunpore, Sunday, March 11, 1838.
THISis a small station, only two ladies, one of whom is Miss T.; she came out last year to join a brotherhere, who is quite delighted to have her, and she seems very contented with her quiet life; but everybody is contented with their stations at the foot of the hills. They stay the cold season here, and go in twelve hours up to Mussoorie, where most of them have their regular established homes, so they escape all hot weather. Miss T. and her brother and the other Saharunpore gentlemen came out to meet us, and G. and I stopped at Captain C.’s to see an immense collection of fossils, all proving that our elephants of the present day were ‘little Chances’ of the olden time. G. had a durbar, and in the afternoon we went to the Botanical Gardens, which are very shady and nice; and we sent the band there, as the Saharunporites do not often hear music. It is a pretty little station.
Kerni, March 15.
G. has been out tiger-hunting from the two last stations. They never had a glimpse of a tiger, though here and there they saw the footprints of one. One of the days the thermometer was at 90° in our tents, but G. stayed out the whole day, and said he did not feel the heat.
Mussoorie, Sunday, March 18.
On Thursday evening we went on to Deyrah, too late to see anything, but Friday morning the beauty of the Himalayas burst upon us. We were encamped just under the mountains—too much under them to see the snowy range, but still nothing could be more beautiful than the first view of the range, and no wonder one hates plains. Colonel Y. had us out early in the morning to see his little Ghoorka regimentmanœuvre. Most of the men are about five feet six, with little hands and feet in proportion. All the mountaineers are very small creatures, but they make excellent little soldiers; and the Ghoorkas beat our troops at this spot twenty-five years ago, and killed almost all the officers sent against them. Now they are our subjects they fight equally well for us, and were heard to say at Bhurtpore that they really thought some of our soldiers were nearly equal to themselves. They look like little black dolls. They are quite unlike natives. There is a regular fool attached to the regiment, who had stuck a quantity of wild flowers in his helmet, and came up and saluted G. with a large drawn sword in a most ridiculous manner. After that we went to see a Sikh temple, where there was a great festival, and about a hundred fakeers, the most horrid-looking monsters it is possible to see. They never wear any clothes, but powder themselves all over with white or yellow powder, and put red streaks over their faces. They look like the raw material of so many Grimaldis. At eleven, the two ladies and five gentlemen of the station came to visit us; and at four, G. and I set off, under Colonel Y.’s auspices, to see a cavern that has just been discovered about four miles from this, and which was found out in a very odd way. One of the soldiers had murdered his havildar out of jealousy, and escaped, and was taken, after a fortnight’s search, in this cave, nearly starved to death. It is just the place where Balfour of Burley would have hid himself. I have not enjoyed a drive so much for ages, and it was through such a beautiful country—such hills andvalleys! I wish we might settle at Deyrah for the rest of the term of our transportation. One of the worst parts of this journey is that we never can go even two yards from the camp without an officer with G. on account of the petitioners. When we got near the cave we found Colonel Y., Dr. G., and Captain M. at the entrance of a dark grotto, through which a stream was running. ‘Nothing to walk through,’ Colonel Y. said, ‘not more than two feet deep, or two feet and a half at most,’ and so in they all went; but my bearers luckily declared they could carry the tonjaun through, and they contrived it, though sometimes one tumbled down, and then another, and I had once to sit at the bottom of it to prevent my head being knocked off by the rocks. It was a beautiful cavern about 500 yards long, and at the other end there was a tent, where G. and Colonel Y. had wisely established dry clothes, but the others who had not taken this precaution were glad to gallop home as fast as they could.
Yesterday we started at half-past five in the carriage, came five miles to the foot of the hills; then the gentlemen got on the ponies, and F. and I into our jonpauns, which might just as well be called tonjauns—they are the same sort of conveyances, only they swing about more, and look like coffins. The mountaineers run up the hills with them in a wonderful manner. We were two hours going up precipices which, as Vivian Grey says, ‘were completely perpendicular, but with perhaps a slight incline inwards at the bottom,’ and then we reached Colonel G.’s bungalow at Mussoorie. Such a view on all sides of it! Nothingcould be grander—good fires burning—and a nice sharp wind blowing. Pleasant!
We found our Bengalee servants, who had come on the day before, very miserable. They had slept in the open air and were starved with the cold, and were so afraid of the precipices that they could not even go to the bazaar to buy food. I dare say to people who have never even seen the smallest rise in the ground, not even a molehill, these mountains must be very terrific.
While she was dressing me, Rosina was mimicking F.’s jemadar, who is in a particular state of fear. ‘There was poor Ariff, he buy great stick, and he put stick out so, and then he put his foot by it, and then he say, “Oh! what me do next, me tumble if me move me stick or me foot."’ I thought we should have been alarmed by what Miss T. said of her fears, but we went out on our ponies in the evening and cantered along the paths quite easily, though it is ugly looking down. One stumble, and horse and all must roll down out of sight. But, to be sure, how beautiful the hills are! I am certain I shall grow strong again in a week at Simla, and as for ever being well in the plains, that is an evident impossibility, so far as I am concerned.
Mussoorie, Monday, March 19.
We went to the little Mussoorie church yesterday morning. The bearers are steady men, I have no doubt, but still I wish they would not race with each other; for at the sharp corners where they try to pass, the outer jonpaun hangs over the edge, and I don’t altogether like it. In the afternoon we took abeautiful ride up to Landour, but the paths are much narrower on that side, and our courage somehow oozed out; and first we came to a place where they said, ‘This was where poor Major Blundell and his pony fell over, and they were both dashed to atoms,’—and then there was a board stuck in a tree, ‘From this spot a private in the Cameronians fell and was killed.’ Just as if there were any use in adding that he was killed, if he fell—anybody might have guessed that. Then ——, who lived up here for three years, said he would take us home by a better path, and unluckily it was a worse one, and we had to get off our ponies and lead them, and altogether I felt giddy and thought much of poor Major Blundell! But it is impossible to imagine more beautiful scenery. This morning we went to breakfast with Colonel M. and saw the whole extent of the snowy range, and very fine it is. It is a clever old range to have kept itself so clean and white for 5,000 years. As we came back we met Mars, who is quite happy here, with Ariff after him. I asked him what he was doing. ‘Je veux absolument faire monter ce pauvre Ariff là haut.’—‘Do you like going, Ariff?’ I said.—‘No, ladyship.’—‘Don’t you think the hills very beautiful?’—‘No, ladyship, very shocking;’ and he made a face of such utter nausea it was impossible to help laughing. Mars said afterwards that Ariff flung himself on the ground and declared nothing should induce him to take another step. My jemadar in consequence was particularly puffed up about it, though I believe he disliked his walk quite as much. ‘I been to the Hospital, been to Macdonald Sahib, been everywhere where ladyship has been. PoorAriff, he fear much!’ and he walked out with a smile of self-complacency at his superior courage.
Rajpore, Wednesday, March 21.
We came down from Mussoorie Monday afternoon with great success, but the change in an hour from cold to heat made us all deaf to begin with, and half the servants were sick, and in the middle of the night I took one of my attacks of spasms. I always think Dr. D. in his heart must wish that they would begin twelve hours sooner. He always has to get up at one in the morning, and the spasm lasted till past three—such an inconvenient time when we have to march at half-past five. I really thought this time I should not have been able to go on, but somehow it always can be done when it cannot be helped; and as all the tents were ready at the next station, I went for the first time in a palanquin—it saves the trouble of dressing, and I just moved from the bed into it. G. went out shooting again this morning on positive information of a tigress and three cubs, but as usual they could not be found. However, they have had some very good shooting.
Thursday, March 22.
We had a great deal of rain last night; and so when we came to cross the Jumna this morning it was not fordable, and there never was such a mess—only three boats for all our camp. Two poor men were drowned in the night trying to swim over, and one or two camels were carried away, but found again. Then the road was so bad the carriage was not available, and I came part of the way on the elephant, which, as I wasnot strong, shook me to atoms. We crossed at last, and then it appeared that everything had been drenched in the night, and there was not a bed nor a sofa to lie down on. Luckily, Rosina lent me her charpoy, a sort of native couch, and Dr. D. got a medicine chest, and gave me some laudanum, and now I am better again; but of all the troubles in life for ‘an ailing body,’ I think a march the most complete. It is a pouring day, but luckily very cool. Chance has been very ill for the last week, and I have made him over to-day to the surgeon of the body-guard, who has bled him, and says he can cure him.
Friday, March 23.
We must luckily halt here three days, for half the people and things are still on the other bank. I am better to-day, and Chance is in a more hopeful state. As you will hear from us several times by the overland packet before this comes to hand, I may as well send this off without coming to the interesting crisis of Chance’s fate; but as the inflammation in his dear little chest is supposed to be subdued, you may feel tolerably easy. I, as usual, wind up with the observation that your last letter was dated August 5—seven months and three weeks old.
Camp, Nahun, March 26, 1838.
ISENToff my last Journal from Rajghaut, March 23. We got all our goods over the river on Friday evening,and marched Saturday, 24th. The regiment and the cavalry went the straight road, and we made an awfully long march of seventeen miles towards the hills. It was the last day of the dear open carriage, which has been the only comfort of my life in this march. Nothing is so tiresome as all the miserable substitutes for it—three miles of elephant and four of tonjaun, and then a pony. Both men and cattle get so tired in a long march, or when they are employed every day. The road is very pretty all through the Dhoon, and much cooler than the plains. Chance is better, thank you. I knew you would feel anxious about him. His constitution is dreadfully Indianised; but perhaps the hills, and a judicious change of diet, may be of use. However, he is done for as an English dog; he is just the sort of dog you see at Cheltenham.
We came up to Nahun yesterday morning by means of elephants and jonpauns. The road was very steep, but nothing like that to Mussoorie. The Rajah of Nahun met us at the last stage, and came up the hill with us to-day. He has his palace at the top, a sort of hill fort, and about 100 soldiers—imitations of our soldiers—and a band of mountaineers, who played ‘God save the Queen’ with great success. He is one of the best-looking people I have seen, and is a Rajpoot chief, and rides, and hunts, and shoots, and is active. Nothing can be prettier than the scenery, and altogether Nahun is the nicest residence I have seen in India; and if the rajah fancied an English ranee, I know somebody who would be very happy to listen to his proposals. At the same time, they do say that the hot winds sometimes blow here, and that hismountains are not quite high enough; and those points must be considered before I settle here.
This morning we have been to see the palace, which is an odd collection of small rooms, painted and gilded in curious patterns—of course, no tables and chairs; and indeed theonlypiece of furniture in the house was an English barrel-organ, and in one of the rooms downstairs there was a full-grown tiger, tolerably tame, and a large iron pot full of milk for his dinner.
Naramghur, March 28.
We rejoined the other camp this morning. We came down the mountains from Nahun on Monday afternoon with great success as far as we were concerned, but a great many of the camels suffered from it, and we passed several utterly unable to move. G. and I rode the last five miles. By remaining at Nahun till the afternoon, we reduced ourselves to one tent—all the others were obliged to go on for to-day’s use, and there is something particularly uncomfortable in a general tent.
One chair and table for G. at one end, with a supply of office boxes, two sofas for F. and me, with a book a-piece, and two cane chairs for A. and B., each pretending to read, but looking uncomfortable and stiff. I missed my old parasol about three days ago, and discovered to-day that Jimmund had applied to my jemadar for it, because he thought Chance’s ailments were brought on by the sun; and Wright says she passed him to-day marching down the hill with Chance in one hand and the parasol held over him with the other—a pretty idea. This morning I came on in thepalanquin, a wretched substitute for the carriage, but anything is better than sitting bolt upright before breakfast—in fact, it is quite impossible.
W. has had great sport at last—at least, everybody says it is great sport. I cannot imagine anything more unpleasant. They found six tigers at once in a ravine. Two charged W.’s elephant, and three General E.’s; one of them disturbed a hornet’s nest, and W. says he has since taken fifty stings out of his face. The bank of the ravine gave way, and he and his elephant came down within a yard of one tiger, which was however too much wounded to do any harm. Altogether the party have killed eight, and are coming back very much delighted with having been very nearly eaten up, and then stung to death.
Raepore, Thursday, March 29.
Only five more days. I get such fits of bore with being doddled about for three hours before breakfast in a sedan-chair, that I have a sort of mad wish to tell the bearers to turn back and go home, quite home, all the way to England. I wonder if I were to call ‘coach’ as loud as I could, if it would do any good. It would be a relief to my feelings. An unfortunate Brahmin came to Dr. D. at Nahun in the most horrible state of agony, from that disease of which poor Mr. —— died. Dr. D. had him carried down, and yesterday he attempted the cure. Anything so horrible as the man’s screams I never heard; indeed, I thought it was some animal, and sent out to ask what was the matter. It was the longest and worst operation Dr. D. said he ever witnessed, but the man insistedon it. His family have cut him off, but if he lives, it will be very easy to give him all he wants. He is very ill, and had to be carried on thirteen miles in a dhoolie.
Friday, March 30.
That Brahmin is better, and Dr. D. thinks he will live. We had a melancholy letter to-day, with an account of poor Mr. S.’s death. He died of abscess on the liver—of India, in fact. I think his health had begun to fail before we left Calcutta, but we had not heard of his being ill till a week ago. I am very sorry on all accounts. He was an excellent man, and very much to be loved; and then she is left with eleven children, of whom three only are provided for. It is melancholy to think how almost all the people we have known at all intimately have in two years died off, and that out of a small society. None of them turned fifty; indeed, all but Mr. S. between thirty and forty. Mr. C., who is with us, was saying yesterday that he had been stationed a few years ago at Delhi. ‘I liked it; we were a very large party of young men, but I am the only survivor.’ And he is quite a young man.
That Brahmin is very much better, and Dr. D. has no doubt he will recover. The Brahmins’ diet leaves them so little susceptible of fever, that if they do not sink under an operation they recover rapidly. G. held a sort of durbar to-day, in which he gave the soubadars (or native officers) of the regiment which has escorted us, shawls and matchlocks, the same to the cavalry, and to the native officers of our bodyguard.They have all conducted themselves most irreproachably during this long march, and they are a class of men who ought to be encouraged. There were about thirty of them in all; and at the end, after praising them and their respective colonels, he poured attar on their hands and gave them paun, which they look upon as the greatest distinction.
They were extremely pleased, and all our servants were quite delighted, and said that ‘our lordship was the first that had ever been so good to natives.’ I am glad it went off so well, for the idea, between ourselves, was mine; and as there is a great jealousy and great fear about liberality, it was disapproved of at first by the authorities, but G. took to it after a day or two, and I mentioned it surreptitiously to ——, who manages that part of the department. G. is quite of opinion that there is too much neglect of meritorious natives, and that it is only marvellous our dominion over them has resisted the system of maltreatment, which was even much more the fashion than it is now. Even now it is very painful to hear the way in which even some of the best Europeans speak to those Rajpoot princes, who, though we have conquered them, still are considered as kings by their subjects, and who look like high-caste people.
Sabathoo, Monday, April 2.
On Saturday evening, at Pinjore, we gave a farewell dinner to all the camp, and went after dinner to some beautiful gardens belonging to the Puttealah rajah. He is not here himself, but he had had these gardens lit up for us, and the fountains were playing, and allthe best nautch-girls had been sent from Puttealah, and altogether it was a very magnificent fête.
People may abuse nautching, but it always amuses me extremely. The girls hardly move about at all, but their dresses and attitudes are so graceful I like to see them. Their singing is dreadful, and very noisy.
We went on to Barr the next afternoon; it is such a hot place that we wished to have as few hours of it as possible. We found —— nearly exhausted by the labour of passing on our goods; every camel trunk takes on an average eight men, and we have several hundred camel trunks of stores alone. Colonel T., the political agent, had, however, arrived with a reinforcement of coolies, and everything was progressing. That Brahmin is so much better that Dr. D. sent him home from here, and we gave him all that he required for his expenses. We were called at half-past three this morning—is not that almost too shocking? human nature revolts from such atrocities—and at four we were all stowed away in our jonpauns and jogging by torchlight up some perpendicular paths, which might be alarming, but I could not keep awake to see.
We were four hours coming to Sabathoo. Colonel T. provided us with a house. We have had sundry alarms that our beds were gone straight to Simla. Some of the servants knocked up, but upon the whole it has been a less alarming expedition than Sir G. K. said we should find it. Colonel T. has asked all Sabathoo, consisting of nine individuals, to meet us, which we could have spared, considering we are to be up at half-past three again to-morrow.
Simla, April 3.
Well, it really is worth all the trouble—such a beautiful place—and our house, that everybody has been abusing, only wanting all the good furniture and carpets we have brought, to be quite perfection. Views only too lovely; deep valleys on the drawing-room side to the west, and the snowy range on the dining-room side, where my room also is. Our sitting-rooms are small, but that is all the better in this climate, and the two principal rooms are very fine. The climate! No wonder I could not live down below! We never were allowed a scrap of air to breathe—now I come back to the air again I remember all about it. It is a cool sort of stuff, refreshing, sweet, and apparently pleasant to the lungs. We have fires in every room, and the windows open; red rhododendron trees in bloom in every direction, and beautiful walks like English shrubberies cut on all sides of the hills. Good! I see this is to be the best part of India.
April 7.
This must go to-morrow. Simla is still like Major Waddell, ‘all that is brave, generous, and true.’ G. and I took such a nice ride yesterday round the highest mountain, to which is given the sublime name of Jacko; but Jacko is a grand animal. You may be quite comfortable about our healths here, as far as climate goes; it is quite perfection, and altogether the Himalayas are sweet pretty little hills. I have just unpacked your picture, which has been four months in a camel trunk, and is more like you than ever.
Simla, Good Friday, April 13, 1838.
IHADbetter make a beginning at last. A heap of sea letters came this morning, and, amongst others, one of your dearbookswhich I have been pining for, and a Journal from E. to me, and from T. to F., of the 20th of January, and Mr. D.’s to me the same date; so now I begin to know all about you again—your young days of 1837, and your old age of 1838. I begin to catch an idea of your character—but the state of confusion I have been in for four days between these two packets! There was Miss Ryder the Second reigning in the schoolroom, and I without an idea whether the usurper Capplische had been dethroned and beheaded, or whether it had been a regular succession, a natural death of Capplische, and a young Ryder mounting the throne in right of her descent.
Then Charley was going back to Eton. I never knew you thought of sending him there at all. I went all about the house, asking about him and his school. The old khansamah could not recollect; the jemadar thought it must be just what the Lady Sahib thought; the aides-de-camp would ‘write and ask at once’ (their favourite phrase), but still it was not clear—and now I have your letter of reasons and intentions. Then Newsalls had become ‘home,’ your shell, your manor-house, and you had never explained it to me. Now that I see the damask bed-room, and the girls’ rooms, and the library, I am better, though I still think itwould have been a delicate attention if you had described cursorily my room. A southern aspect you will of course attend to; I shall be chilly! This dear Simla! it snowed yesterday, and has been hailing to-day, and is now thundering, in a cracking, sharp way that would be awful, only its sublimity is destroyed by the working of the carpenters and blacksmiths, who are shaping curtain rods and rings all round the house. It has been an immense labour to furnish properly. We did not bring half chintz enough from Calcutta, and Simla grows rhododendrons, and pines, and violets, but nothing else—no damask, no glazed cotton for lining—nothing. There is a sort of country cloth made here—wretched stuff, in fact, though the colours are beautiful—but I ingeniously devised tearing up whole pieces of red and of white into narrow strips, and then sewing them together, and the effect for the dining-room is lovely, when supported with the scarlet border painted all round the cornice, the doors, windows, &c.; and now everybody is adopting the fashion.
Another grievance that took Wright and me by surprise was, that of all our head tailors whom we had brought from Calcutta, none had ever seen the drapery of a curtain. Bengal has no curtains; so Wright had to cut out everything herself. It is in these times of emergency that the value of the European servants rises. Giles has nailed up every curtain himself. G. has made over to him the care of the garden, and he is perfectly happy with it, and in a state of the greatest importance. ‘I hope we may have rain to-night, ma’am, and I can bring a few asparagus from my garden; and perhaps you will just look at these tickets.I can manage common things, but my lord’s hard names for flowers quite puzzle me.’ The kitchen garden is at least half a mile off, down one of the steepest hills, and Giles has been to tell me that unless he has a pony he really cannot be as much in the garden as he should wish. His horse was left with Webb. I have told him to ride for the present a pony that was sent to G. by one of the hill rajahs, one of what we in our patois call the Mizzer horses, and I fondly hope that if old B. sees Giles on it, he will roll down a precipice with the shock. He will think we are going to appropriate the Mizzers.
This is the first day I have been out of my room, or hardly out of bed, for a week.
April 22.
I am quite well again now, thank you, and have begun riding and walking again, and the climate, the place, and the whole thing is quite delightful, and our poor despised house, that everybody abused, has turned out the wonder of Simla. We brought carpets, and chandeliers, and wall shades (the great staple commodity of India furniture), from Calcutta, and I have got a native painter into the house, and cut out patterns in paper, which he then paints in borders all round the doors and windows, and it makes up for the want of cornices, and breaks the eternal white walls of these houses. Altogether it is very like a cheerful middle-sized English country-house, and extremely enjoyable. I do not mean to think about the future (this world’s future) for six months. It was very well to keep oneself alive in the plains by thinking of the mountains,or to dream of some odd chance that would take one home—there is no saying the odd inventions to go home that I had invented—but now I do not mean to be imaginative for six months.
Runjeet Singh wants to see Dr. D., and so he is to accompany Mr. ——, W., and M., who go in about a fortnight, to take G.’s compliments, &c. I was asking Dr. D. who was to keep in our little sparks of life while he is away, and he does not seem to know yet.
April 29.
There never was such delicious weather, just like Mr. Wodehouse’s gruel, ‘cool, but not too cool;’ and there is an English cuckoo talking English—at least, he is trying, but he evidently left England as a cadet, with his education incomplete, for he cannot get further thancuck—and there is a blackbird singing. We pass our lives in gardening. We ride down into the valleys, and make the syces dig up wild tulips and lilies, and they are grown so eager about it, that they dash up the hill the instant they see a promising-looking plant, and dig it up with the best possible effect, except that they invariably cut off the bulb. It certainly is very pleasant to be in a pretty place, with a nice climate. Not that I would not set off this instant, and go dâk all over the hot plains, and through the hot wind, if I were told I might sail home the instant I arrived at Calcutta; but as nobody makes me that offer, I can wait here better than anywhere else—like meat, wekeepbetter here. All the native servants are, or have been, sick, and I do not wonder. We have built twenty small houses since we came, and havelodged fifty of our servants in these outhouses. Still, there were always a great many looking unhappy, so I got J. to go round to all the houses and get me a list of all who were settled, and of those whose houses were not built, and I found there were actually sixty-seven who had no lodging provided for them. I should like to hear the row English servants would have made, and these are not a bit more used to rough it. There is not one who has not his own little house at Calcutta, and his wife to cook for him; so they feel the cold and their helplessness doubly, but they never complain. We have got them now all under tents, and their houses will be finished before the rains, but in the meantime I wonder they are all so patient. We have given several dinners, and one dance, which was an awful failure, I thought, but they say the Simlaites liked it. If so, their manners were very deceptive.
Simla, May 7.
We have had the Sikh deputation here for nearly a week. The durbar was put off from Saturday, as we had on Saturday and Sunday two regular hill rainy days, an even down-pour, that was a great trial to the flat mud roofs, and a thick mist quite up to the windows. It is the sort of thing that lasts for two months during the rains, but it has no business to come misting into our houses now. However, the clearing up on Sunday was worth seeing. The hills were so beautiful and purple, and such masses of white clouds sailing along the valleys. The Sikh deputation came on Monday. There are six principal people, one of them a young cousin of Runjeet Singh’s, andanother a fakeer who is Runjeet’s chief confidant and adviser, and a clever man. He is dressed outwardly as a fakeer ought to be, in coarse brown cloth; but if that opens a little, there is underneath a gold dress embroidered in seed pearl. Captain M. and I arranged the rooms according to our own fancy, and we made out a much better-looking durbar than when —— takes our house in hand, and desecrates it with ugly white cloth, to ensure the natives taking off their shoes. We covered the rooms with scarlet linen, which looked very handsome, and equally ensured that etiquette, and saved the appearance of a drying-ground. It is not like a common durbar for tributaries, who are dismissed in five minutes, but this lasted an hour. G., in a gilt chair, in the centre, the six Sikh chiefs and Mr. B. at the right hand, and all the envoys, forty of them, in full dress and solemn silence, in a circle all round the room, and in the folding-doors between the two rooms a beautiful group of twelve Sikhs, who had no claim to chairs, but sat on the floor. And before this circle G. has to talk and to listen to the most flowery nonsense imaginable, to hear it translated and retranslated, and to vary it to each individual. It took a quarter of an hour to satisfy him about the maharajah’s health, and to ascertain that the roses had bloomed in the garden of friendship, and the nightingales had sung in the bowers of affection sweeter than ever, since the two powers had approached each other. Then he hoped that the deputation had not suffered from the rain; and they said that the canopy of friendship had interposed such a thick cloud that their tents had remained quite dry, which was touching, only it did sohappen that the tents were so entirely soaked through that Runjeet Singh had been obliged to hire the only empty house in Simla for them. Their dresses were beautiful, particularly thesquattinggroup in the centre, and it is a great pity there was no painter here.
Wednesday, May 9.
We were at home yesterday evening. I went to see Miss R. in the morning, and she told me that the ladies at Simla had settled that they would not dance, because the Sikh envoys were asked, and they had no idea of dancing before natives. Considering that we ask forty natives to every dance we give at Calcutta, and that nobody ever cares, it was late to make any objection; and Miss R. said that she begged to say that being in deep mourning, and not naturally a dancer, she meant to dance every quadrille, if there were any difficulty about it, just to show what she thought of their nonsense. However, they all thought better of it before the evening. There were only three ladies out of the whole society absent, and an absolute difficulty about room for the dancers; and our aides-de-camp had quite a rest, from the ladies being engaged for seven or eight quadrilles. The Sikhs were very quiet and well-behaved. Two of them had seen English dancing before, and were aware that the ladies were ladies, and not nautch-girls; and I hope they explained that important fact to the others. If not we shall never know it, as there are hardly any of them that speak even Hindustani. I own, when some of the dancers asked for a waltz, which is seldom accomplished, even in Calcutta, I was afraid the Sikhsmight have been a little astonished; and I think Govind Jus gave Golaub Singh a slight nudge as General K—— whisked past with his daughter; but I dare say they thought it pretty. The victim G. talked to Ajeet Singh viâ Mr. B. all the evening, and occasionally I tried a little topic to help him, but they would not like much talk from a woman. The poor ignorant creatures are perfectly unconscious what a very superior article an Englishwoman is. They think us contemptible, if anything, which is a mistake. Mr. B. said he had never met with greater quickness in conversation than in that young Ajeet Singh. G. said that he regretted his ignorance of their language prevented his acquiring so much information respecting the maharajah as he wished, to which Ajeet Singh answered, that the Lord Sahib possessed the key of all knowledge in his natural talents and sense. I said to Mr. B., ‘Tell them that you are, in fact, Lord A.’s key of knowledge, as you expound everything to him.’ He translated this in his usual literal way, and Ajeet Singh paid him some compliment in return, and added, ‘But though the rays of the sun strike the earth, it is from the sun itself that the beam draws its light.’ They are all in a horrid fright of their master, which is not surprising. G. asked their opinion about a boat, one of the beautiful snake-boats with one hundred rowers which he is going to build as a present to Runjeet, and he wanted them to say what colours, ornaments, &c., would please him; but they declined giving any opinion on a subject that they had not been instructed to speak upon, and Mr. B. said he actuallyheardAjeet Singh’s heart beat from fear that he mightbe led into any advice that might be repeated to Runjeet. Amongst the presents they brought there is such a lovely bed, with silver posts and legs, and yellow shawl curtains and counterpanes, and just the size for our little rooms at Kensington Gore. They can be had at Lahore for fifty pounds, and I certainly mean to bring one home. The silver is laid on very thin, and the shawls are not fine shawls, but the effect is very pretty.
Friday, May 11, 1838.
WEwent yesterday to the Sikh camp to see their troops. W., F., and I went on first, for when G. comes with his tail on there is such a kicking and fighting amongst the horses, that it is not pleasant with a thousand feet of precipices on one side of the road. G.’s horse was more than usually vicious, and came to a regular fight with Sir G.’s. I wish everybody would stick to their ponies in this country. The Sikhs had pitched a very pretty shawl tent for us, with a silver chair and footstool for G.; and the hills all round, with the Sikhs’ showy horses and bright dresses in the foreground, made as pretty a picture as it is possible to see. Their soldiers were something like our recruits, I thought, and their firing on horseback was very inferior to that of the local corps we saw on our march. Ajeet Singh joined in the firing at a mark, and seemed to shoot better than any of hisfollowers, but there were always two or three of them who fired at the same time as he did, to make things quite certain. We had to ride home as hard as we could to be in time for a great dinner, and only had ten minutes for dressing. This morning G. had another durbar for a farewell to the deputation, and for giving presents in exchange of theirs. After the Sikhs had retired there were some hill rajahs introduced, rather interesting. One was the brother of an ex-rajah, whose eyes had been put out by the neighbour who took his territories. Another had been dethroned by Goulâb Singh, who is one of the most powerful chiefs, except Runjeet, and a horrid character. Half his subjects are deprived of their noses and ears. This poor dethroned man, after a little formal talk, suddenly snatched off his turban and flung it at George’s feet, and then threw himself on the ground, begging for assistance to get back his dominions. He cried like a child, and they say his story is a most melancholy one, but the Company are bound not to interfere. They can only give shelter in their territories.
Monday, May 14.
We had such a dreadful sermon at church yesterday from a strange clergyman. Mr. Y. always preaches here in the morning, and F. and I go in the afternoon to the church, when he has generally preached again; but yesterday this sick gentleman took it into his head he was well enough to preach. He is rather cracked, I should think, though Y. declares not; but I never will go again when he is to preach. He quoted quantities of poetry, and when he thought any of itparticularly pretty, he said it twice over with the most ludicrous actions possible. Then he imitated the voice with which he supposed Lazarus was called to come forth, and which he said must have been very loud, or Lazarus would not have heard it, and so he hallooed till half Simla must have heard. Then he described an angel appearing—‘a fine trumpeter;’ and he held out his black gown at its full extent, to show how the angel’s wings fluttered. All round the church people’s shoulders were shaking and their faces hid, and there was one moment when I was nearly going out, for fear of giving a scream. It was a most indecent exit at last. Even Sir G. R. came out, wiping his eyes, and I came home in one of those fits of laughing and crying which we used to have about ‘Pleasant but not correct,’ or such like childish jokes, which always ended by giving you a palpitation. W. and Captain M. went yesterday with the Sikhs on their way to Runjeet.
Thursday, May 17.
I have had a great deal to write and to copy for G. this week, and am amazingly backward in my letters, and I opine it must be the knowledge of that fact which has induced the Bombay Government not to advertise any steamers. Monday we had a great dinner. There is a very pretty Mrs. —— up here—a sort of Malibran in look, but more regularly pretty, who also dined with us. Her husband cannot get leave from his office, and she is come up with two children, who look thoroughly Indianised. I always think those wives who are driven by health to be so many months away from their husbands, are rather ina dangerous situation in this country, where women are seldom left to take care of themselves; but she seems to be a very nice person, and there is something in extreme beauty that is very attractive. On Tuesday we dined with the Commander-in-Chief, in order to attend Capt. Q.’s wedding; it was got up with great care by the R.s. It went off remarkably well—Miss S. looked very pretty. Miss R., one bridesmaid, is rather handsome, and Miss T., the other, is a very handsome girl, but would have looked better if she had not ridden up from Barr (forty-two miles of the steepest hills) without stopping, whereby the sun had literally burnt all the skin off her shoulders through her habit. I lent her a blonde shawl, but it could not conceal the state of things. Most men talk of riding twenty miles in these mountains as a great feat, and I never can understand the extraordinary exertions that women sometimes make—and without dying of it, too.
There was no crying at the wedding, and the young couple went off in two jonpauns, carried one after the other. There was no spare house in Simla, and they had meant to go into tents, but Captains N. and M. handsomely offered their house, which is the most retired and one of the best here.
Saturday, May 19.
F. has heard from W., who had been assisting at the evening firing at a mark, which is a constant practice with the Sikhs. Ajeet Singh put in one of his spears at forty yards’ distance, and another at sixty, and put a mangoe on the head of one. He firedtwenty times without hitting either. W. hit the mangoe at the second shot, and then hit the other spear three times running, and then thought it better to say he was tired, and could not shoot any more; so the Sikhs all said ‘Wah! wah!’ and were pleased. Dr. D. says the thermometer is at 96° in their tents with tatties, and outside there is a perfect simoom. Poor things! it is so pleasant here. All Dr. D.’s medicines and instruments have been stolen from his assistant’s tent. The stomach-pump was cut to pieces by the thieves—such a blessing for Runjeet’s courtiers! He tries all medical experiments on the people about him. How they would have been pumped!
Simla, Wednesday.
It appears the Journal I sent off to you last Saturday will probably pass a month at Bombay, where this may still find it. G., in the plentitude of his power, ordered off a steamer to the Persian Gulf, for the Persians are behaving very ill to us, and the second steamer, which was to have supplied its place and to have taken the overland mail, is disabled. The weather, for Simla, is wonderfully hot—I should say painfully so, if I did not recollect the plains. Dr. D. writes word that in their houses at Adeenanuggur (Runjeet’s abode), with tatties and every possible precaution, the thermometer ranges from 102° to 105°. Calcutta never gets up to that, and then it is comparatively cool there at night; whereas, these hot winds are just the same all through the twenty-four hours. W. does not mind them—at least, he says anything is better than Simla.
Thursday.
Our band played again yesterday at their new place, and it is a most successful attempt for the good of society, very much aided yesterday by the goodness of the strawberry ice. The weather is so dry and hot that Giles allowed us to have as many strawberries as could be picked, as they are all dying away. The strawberries here are quite as fine as in England, but they last a very short time. I never saw anything so pretty as the shrubs are just now. Both pink and white roses in large masses, and several other quite new shrubs. When we were riding yesterday we saw some coolies in the road with boxes on their heads, and I said, ‘Let us go to them and persuade them that one of those boxes is ours;’ and when we rode up there was one directed to G. We made sure it contained those bonnets of Mr. D.’s, which we have been looking for so long, but it turned out to be books, and a very neat selection—Ernest Maltravers, the Vicar of Wrexhill, Uncle Horace, Kindness in Women, &c., and some very amusing magazines.
We had read the Vicar of Wrexhill last week; I think it such a clever book, though wicked. Those bonnets must come at last. I never see those coolies come trotting along, having traversed half India, unwatched and unguarded, without having the greatest respect for their honesty and perseverance. They get about three rupees per month (six shillings), or sometimes four, for walking six hundred miles with a heavy box on their heads.
Saturday, June 9.
We went to the play last night. There is a littlesort of theatre at Simla, small and hot and something dirty, but it does very well. Captain N. got up a prospectus of six plays for the benefit of the starving people at Agra, and there was a long list of subscribers, but then the actors fell out. One man took a fit of low spirits, and another who acted women’s parts well would not cut off his mustachios, and another went off to shoot bears near the Snowy Range. That man has been punished for his shilly-shallying; the snow blinded him, and he was brought back rolled up in a blanket, and carried by six men also nearly blind—he was entirely so for three days, but has recovered now. Altogether the scheme fell to the ground, which was a pity, as the subscriptions alone would have ensured 30l.every night of acting to those poor people. So when the gentlemen gave it up, the ‘uncovenanted service’ said they wished to try. The ‘uncovenanted service’ is just one of our choicest Indianisms, accompanied with our very worst Indian feelings. We say the words just as you talk of the ‘poor chimney-sweepers,’ or ‘those wretched scavengers’—the uncovenanted being, in fact, clerks in the public offices. Very well-educated, quiet men, and many of them very highly paid; but as many of them are half-castes, we, with our pure Norman or Saxon blood, cannot really think contemptuously enough of them. In former days they were probably a bad class, but now a great many Europeans have been driven, by the failures of the banks here, to take that line, and amongst them are several thorough gentlemen. There were at least fifty of them in one camp attached to Government, and I never saw better behaved people.Some had horses, some gigs, and some their nice little wives in their nice little palkees; two wives and two families packed up together, for economy, with the two husbands riding by the side of the carriage. And then in the evening we used to hear A. and B., &c., disputing and lamenting that they could not allow Mr. V. and Mr. Z., and so on, to sit down in their presence. Well! I dare say it is all right, or at least we are all equally wrong, for they are not allowed to enter Government House; and I see how it would be impossible to ask awhiteMr. and Mrs. Smith, though they are better looking than half the people we know, without hurting the feelings of a half-black Mr. Brown. Even at the theatres they have distinct places. Now they have wisely taken to the stage, a great many of thegentrywere even above going to see them act. However, we went, and lent them the band, and the house was quite full—and they really acted remarkably well, one Irishman in particular. There is a son of Mr. F.’s amongst them. We always in camp used to call him Sophia; he looked like an actress dressed up in men’s clothes—little ringlets, and a little tunic, and a hat on one side. They have got Sophia to act their heroines, and she looks quite at her ease restored to her female style of dress, and is, I dare say, equally a good clerk in General C.’s office. The play was over soon after ten.
Wednesday, June 13.
The weather is very hot here now, much hotter than an English summer; at least nobody can go out after seven or before six, and the nights are very close; but of course everybody says it is a most extraordinaryseason, as they always do in India. It must end in rain soon; if it does not, the famine of this unfortunate country will be worse than ever. Captain M. and Mr. B. have both been ill with the dreadful heat at Adeenanuggur, and Dr. D. seems very anxious to get them away from there. I am quite sorry for the doctor. He left his little terrier here at his own house; it was a particularly clever little dog, and he doted on it, and there is very little doubt that it was eaten up, but whether by leopard or hyena remains a mystery. He will be wretched about it, and it places the happiness of the owners of little dogs generally on a wretchedly insecure footing.
We have had a slight disturbance in our household, the first serious one since we sent away those servants at Benares for taking presents. This time it was rather our fault. The Puttealah Rajah always sends, with his fruit and vegetables, various bottles, some containing rose water, and the others some sort of spirits. We ought to have broken the last, but we told the native servants to divide everything amongst them, and one of the kitmutgars, who got for his share a bottle of these spirits, asked some of the others to dine with him, took great care to drink nothing but water himself, and persuaded two others to get very drunk with what he called sherbet, and then they began to quarrel. It is such an extreme disgrace for a Mussulman to be drunk, and so degrading in the eyes of all the others, that J. turned them off forthwith. I was against it, as it had been a trick upon them, and partly our fault, but I only insisted on the giver of the feast being turned off too. As these men have only four shillingsa week for themselves and families, of course they can save nothing, and if they are turned away at a distance from home they really may die of starvation. They went crying about for three or four days, and tried Giles and Wright, who could not interfere; and at last they watched me into my room yesterday, and came with two or three of the head servants to speak for them. I never can resist them; they cry, and knock their heads against the ground, and always make use of such touching expressions—that they are so very wicked, and so very unhappy, and that God forgives everybody their faults, and that they must and will die if they are not forgiven. However, I was very firm, and said I knew it was no use asking Major J., and that I never could look upon them again as respectable servants, and that none of the old servants ever gave them such an example, and would not like to associate with them. But then the old ones turned against me; and then I said, I would give them money to take them home, and then they cried still more about the disgrace; so at last I said I would ask Major J., though I was sure it was of no use, &c. Sometimes he does take it amiss; but this time he said, in his own diplomatic way, that in fact he had sent them to me, for he knew I should not resist their grief, and ashehad sent them away he did not know how otherwise to help them. Giles, to whose department they belong, had been miserable about them.
Saturday, June 14, 1838.
MYlast Journal departed this life on Tuesday last, and since then we have had almost unceasing rain, with a great deal of thick white fog, which I rather affection; it somehow has a smell of London, only without the taste of smoked pea-soup, which is more germane to a London fog, and consequently to my patriotic feelings. The rain last night washed down one house, and killed the man in it; and the roads have been carried down into the valleys, and the rocks washed into the roads, so that somehow our geography is not so clear as it was; but still it is cool, and what else is there that signifies in India?
My Journal must be so very dull here, that I am thinking of converting it into a weekly paper. We do not even give any dinners now (not that they would make any difference). I was thinking how much journals at home are filled with clever remarks, or curious facts, or even good jokes, but here it is utterly impossible to write down anything beyond comments on the weather, I declare I never hear in society anything that can be called athing—not even an Indian thing—and I see in Sir James Mackintosh’s Life, which I am just finishing for the third time, that, in his Indian journal, there is nothing but longings after home, and the workings of his own brain, and remarks on books; whereas, in his English and Paris journals, there are anecdotes and witticisms of other people, and a little mental friction was going on.
I am interested in Indian politics just now, but could not make them interesting on paper. Herât is still defending itself, but the Russians are egging on the Persians, and their agents are trying to do all the mischief they can on our frontier. Two Russian letters were intercepted, and sent to G. yesterday; highly important, only unluckily nobody in India can read them. The aides-de-camp have been all day making facsimiles of them, to send to Calcutta, Bombay, &c., in hopes some Armenian may be found who will translate them. It would be amusing if they turned out a sort of ‘T. and E. Journal;’ some Caterina Iconoslavitch writing to my uncle Alexis about her partners.
I went through the thick fog this morning to visit the R.s, and found them in a great fuss. They had been trying to get news in every direction without success. ‘Pray, is it true what we heard yesterday morning, that the Governor-General had said he would burn Herât if he could?’ I said it sounded plausible, as he probably did not wish Herât to fall into the enemy’s hands. ‘Well, but then we heard that the Governor-General had said, in the afternoon, that he was against any warlike measure whatever; that contradicts the morning story.’ I recommended that they should always believe the afternoon anecdotes, because G. sees people in the morning, and he sees nobody after luncheon, so that what he says to other people might be less than the truth, but that what he says to himself, in the afternoon, must clearly be the real state of the case.
Sunday, June 17.
Still pouring! and our congregation consisted of only eight people besides Mr. Y.; but it cleared at five, and we rode all round ‘Jacko,’ the imposing name of our highest mountain, as hard as we could canter. The hills werereallybeautiful to-night, a sea of pinkish white clouds rolling over them, and some of their purple heads peering through like islands. It was a pleasure to look at anything so beautiful and so changeable. The clouds drew up like curtains in massy folds every now and then, and there were the valleys grown quite green in three days, just tinged with the sunbeams, the sun itself hidden; and thewant of shapefor which these hills are to blame on common occasions was disguised by all this vapoury dress. I love hills, but I have discovered by deep reflection that we are such artificial animals, that the recollections of art are much more pleasing and stronger in my mind than those of nature. In thinking over past travels, Rubens’ ‘Descent from the Cross’ at Antwerp, and Canova’s ‘Magdalene,’ and one or two Vandycks at Amsterdam, and parts of Westminster Abbey and of York Minster, come constantly into my thoughts; and I can see all the pictures at Panshanger, particularly the Correggio, and many of those at Woburn and Bowood, as clearly as if they were hanging in this room. There is a bit of grey sky in that ‘Descent from the Cross’ I shall never forget, whereas Killarney, and the Rhine, and the Pyrenees are all confused recollections, pleasant but not clear. And I am sure that in this country, though I do not admire Indian architecture, I shall recollect every stone ofthe Kootûb and every arch about it, when these mountains will be all indistinct. In short, notwithstanding that ‘God made the country and man made the town,’ I, after the fashion of human nature, enjoy most what God has given, and remember best what man has done. How do you feel about nature and art? Don’t you love a fine picture? After all, it is only nature caught and fixed. Another thing is, that all my associations with pictures and statues are those of pleasant society, and friends, and good houses, and youth and happiness, though I should love them for their own sakes too.
Simla, Wednesday, June 20.
I sent off another lump of Journal last Saturday, but somehow I feel none of those last letters are sure of reaching you. They will be drowned going overland, after the contrarious way of the world. We might have had your April packet by this time, but the Bombay dâk has not been heard of at all for five days, and it is supposed the rivers have overflowed and that all your dear little letters are swimming for their lives. Our rains have begun, but they are not very different from English rains—at least hitherto it has been fine half the day. On Saturday morning they began with a grand thunder-storm, and a great splash of water, which would have been pleasant only that it took a wrong direction, and somehowsettledin my ceiling, from which it descended in a variety of small streams, after the fashion of a gigantic shower-bath, on my carpet, tables, &c. Giles rushed in at the head of a valiant band of khalasses (Indian house-maids of the male gender), and carried off my books andpictures, and nothing was hurt, only you know your face might have been entirely washed out, which, as there is not another like it within 15,000 miles, would have been an irreparable calamity. The rest of the house behaved itself beautifully, and my room was put to rights in twenty-four hours. The instant these leaks are discovered, the flat roofs are covered with natives thumping away at the mud of which they are composed, as if noise were no grievance. A strange delusion!
Friday, June 22.
I must copy out an extract from the ‘Loodheeana News,’ Runjeet’s ‘Morning Chronicle,’ which Captain M. translated from the original Persian.
There is an account of the arrival of our Mission at Adeenanugger, and then it goes on to say: ‘On the following day the Maharajah, having alighted in his silver ornamented bungalow, had an order sent through his counsellors and enlightened sages, that the state elephants adorned with golden howdahs should be sent for the purpose of bringing the Mission to the durbar. The newswriters report that before the arrival of the deputation, the troops of the Maharajah, covered from head to foot with silver, jewels, and all manner of beautiful clothes, were drawn up before his doors, and such was their appearance that the jewel-mine, out of envy, drew a stone upon its head, the river sat upon the sand of shame, and the manufacturers of the handsome cloths of Room (Constantinople) and Buper pulled down their workshops. The voices of the praise singers were raised from earth to heaven, and thus they spoke—“O God, may the gardens of these twomighty kingdoms continue prosperous and flourishing to the end of time! May the enemies of these two rivers of justice and liberality, which day by day receive the waves of victory from the whole world, perish in the stream! May the friends of these two clouds of power, which day by day shower down jewels on the inhabitants of the world, ever be victorious!" As soon as the customary forms of meeting had been gone through, the gentlemen of the Mission were seated on silver chairs. Nearly two hours were occupied in asking questions regarding the health of the Governor-General. After this a letter from his lordship, locked up in a jewelled box, andevery word of which was fullof the desire for an interview with the Maharajah, was presented. The deputation then retired. We shall have more to say regarding this next week.’
What delights me in that is that G.’s health should occupy two hours of enquiry. His illnesses have never been half so long, luckily.
Thursday, June 28.
I have had a letter from Dr. D., who gives a wretched account of their sufferings; the thermometer had been for three days ranging from 107° to 110°. He says W. had at last given in, and announced that hecouldnot live twenty-four hours more, but that he had left him sitting under a fountain, smoking his hookah, and in very good spirits; he had little doubt he would live grumbling on. He is sending Captain M. home, and he will be here probably in a week, which I am very glad of. Dr. D. says that he considers him in a precarious state, though his lungs are not yet attacked,but he is so reduced that another week of such weather would be too much for him.
They are all very much occupied in burying a live native—a man who has been described in various travels, who says he has the power of existing in a trance, and who has made a vow to be buried for twelve years. We have seen a great many people who have seen him buried, a guard placed and even a house built over the grave, and who have seen him dug up again at the end of two months apparently a corpse, but he comestoagain. Dr. D. was quite incredulous, but says in his letter to-day that after hearing all the witnesses, and seeing the man, he has become quite a convert. They were all going to attend the burying in the afternoon, and the man had desired that he might not be dug up till the Governor-General’s arrival at Lahore next November. He offered to come and be buried here, but Runjeet did not approve of it.
We had a musical dinner yesterday, a borrowed pianoforte and singing, and two couples who accompany each other. The flute couple I think a failure, but they are reckoned in this country perfectly wonderful; and they whispered quite confidentially, ‘I suppose you are aware that before —— came out to this country, the famous Nicholson said he could teach him nothing more.’ I suspect when he goes back the famous Nicholson will find he may throw in a lesson or two with good effect. The other couple are beautiful musicians.
Monday, July 2.
Captain P.’s house was robbed last night of about 80l.worth of plate. One of his own servants is supposed to have done it, but there was another house at the other end of Simla broken open at the same time, and robbed of the same amount of plate, so there must be a gang of robbers in the bazaar, much to ——’s disgrace. It is considered quite a shocking thing to have a robbery in India—pilfering is commendable and rather a source of vanity, but a robbery of an European is a sort of high treason in all native states, and the town pays for that loss.
Simla, Wednesday, August 8, 1838.
IOUGHTto have begun again sooner, as my last Journal was sent off this day week, but it appears it will have to wait at Bombay till the eighth of next month, so, as you may receive two at once, it will be rather in your favour if one week is omitted.
It has rained almost literally without ceasing, with constant fog; but if it is clear for ten minutes the beauty of the hills is surpassing; such masses of clouds about them and below them, and they are so purple and so green at this time of year.
August 18.
We had to go to another play last night. Luckily they only acted two farces, so we were home at ten, but anything much worse I never saw. There were three women’s parts in the last farce, and the clerks had made their bonnets out of their broad straw hatstied on; they had gowns with no plaits in them, and no petticoats norbustles. One of them, a very black half-caste, stood presenting his enormous flat back to the audience, and the lover observed, with great pathos, ‘Upon my soul! that is a most interesting-looking littlegurl.’
It seems very uncertain when our next overland packet will come. The steamers could not get there, and there is nothing but an Arab sailing-vessel to bring the letters here. I have no faith in the Arabs as postmen. I had two here yesterday to draw. They followed Captain B. from Cabul, and are genuine ‘Children of the Desert.’ They are very unlike our quiet natives, and laughed so much all the time, that I could hardly draw them; but they make excellent sketches. I often wish for Landseer here.
Wednesday, Aug. 22.
There! this must go. We had a great dinner on Monday, and another fainting lady. Somebody always faints here. I myself believe that, though they do not like to say so, it is thefleasthat make them ill. You cannot imagine the provocation of those animals during the rains. W. was really ill for two days with them—irritation and want of sleep—and was obliged to see Dr. D. The worst of it is, that the more the house is cleaned and tormented, the worse the fleas get. They belong to the soil, and even the flower-garden is full of them. They say that plague is to cease next month, which is a comfort.
A box of new books arrived yesterday, just as we were at the last gasp—and such a good set! Perhapsthe Annuals might have been left out, but other people like to see them; and then, by great good luck, we had not seen one of the other books, though they had been nine months coming. ‘Lady Annabella,’ ‘Ethel Churchill,’ ‘Pascal Bruno,’ &c. We are now in that age of literature. I wish you would buy on my account a copy of ‘La Marquise de Pontange’ and ‘Le Père Goriot,’ and send them out, and I wish you would send yourself out with them. That would be therealbook to read over again.
[A portion of the Journal being lost, these letters of the same dates are here inserted, to carry on the narrative.]
Letter to the Countess of B.
Simla, August 20, 1838.
My dearest Sister,
I am going to run off a few short letters to-day and to-morrow, just to show what I would have done, if letters would ever go—but they won’t. They say there is an accumulation of three months’ letters lying at Bombay. There has been a monsoon, and a want of coals, and a burst boiler, and every sort of excuse. I wish, when you are driving about, you would just call at the dockyards[C]in your neighbourhood, and mention that we are not at all satisfied with the steamers they send us out; that you think yourself, their last bowsprits are a shame to be seen, and you might add, that if you do not get your letters a little moreregularly, you really must speak about employing some other cast-iron men. Somehow, out of four steamers at Bombay, there has not been one available, and we are now expecting our letters of June by some Arab proa, or some sailing-vessel. We mayexpect, I fancy, with a witness! I have not much news for you, as I doubt (though I think you a wonderfully clever woman) whether you are quite up to thenuancesof the Cabul and Candahar politics.