CHAPTER XXI.

We remained the following day, and accompanied the colonel, and one or two of his officers, to a grand entertainment, given by the Nawaub of Bengal, at his palace of Moorshedabad, in honour of the festival of theBaira. The whole station had, I believe, received invitations, through the Governor-General’s agent at the court of his highness, and a grand spectacle was expected.

We left Burhampore, in a landau, in the afternoon, and after an agreeable drive through a level and wooded country, partly on the margin of a considerable lake, called the Motee Jheel, reached the city of Moorshedabad, and entering a lofty gateway, found ourselves in the enclosure or domain in which the nawaub’s palace is situated.

This building is a lofty structure, in the European style, on the banks of the river, and bears the name of theAina Mahl, which, if I am not in error, means the “Palace of Mirrors.”

The whole scene was animated and striking, and particularly so to me, being the first thing of the kind I had seen in India.

Groups of richly-dressed Mahomedans, exhibiting a grand display of shawls, turbans and jewels; retainers and connections of the nawaub, or dignified inhabitants of the city; armed men, attired in the picturesque costume of the native soldiery of India, with shields, swords, and matchlocks; Abyssinian slaves, and Bengalese in their flowing muslin robes, constituted the native portion of the assembly. Amongst these were a numerous body of English officers, in their scarlet uniforms, and ladies elegantly dressed.

On the terrace of the noble house, overlooking the Baghiriti, stood the nawaub and his little court, their jewels and muslins contrasting with the plain blue coat and simple garb of the Governor-General’s agent and other civilians about him.

Tables were laid out in the palace, profusely covered with wines and refreshments, in the European style; old hands and griffins, fair sex and civilians, seemed all determined to enjoy themselves, and to give his nabobship a benefit; to sweat his claret, as a slight off-set to the sweating his ancestors had given to ours in the Black Hole of Calcutta.

In the courts or pavilions below, Pulwahns, or athletæ, exhibited feats of strength; jugglers displayed their tricks, and two or three mimics enacted the sale of a horse to an Indian Johnny Raw, a sort of Brentford tailor, as far as I was able to judge from their action, expression, and the applause they elicited from the bystanders, with great humour and effect.

As night drew on, the whole place was illuminated, exhibiting a blaze of light; the party, native and European,were congregated on the terrace to look at the sports. A grand pyrotechnic display followed; the rockets whizzed in the air, and the blue lights shed their spectral glare around.

I was delighted: this is worth seeing, methought.

Anon, the river was covered with countless lamps in motion on its surface, and, soon after, a fairy palace, or structure forming one mass of gorgeous light, came gliding down the current, passing beneath the terrace.

The whole effect was beautiful and striking. I have hardly ever before or since seen anything of the kind which pleased me more.

The costumes and buildings of the East, and possibly of all semi-barbarous countries, harmonize well with pageantry and spectacle; all is in keeping, and nought appears to wound the sense of fitness and congruity. Not so, it strikes me, in our own country, where the pomp and glitter of the Middle Ages form strange patchwork with spinning-jennies and the homely toggery of our utilitarian and go-ahead times. Fancy going to a tournament by a railroad, or seeing a mailed champion riding cheek by jowl with a Kennington “’bus,” or one of Barclay and Perkins’s drays. If we must have splendour, let it be in unison with the age.

The next day, having replenished our stores with several additions from the colonel’s garden and farm-yard, for it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge this liberality—a truly Indian virtue—we once more resumed our voyage.

Burhampore, like most of the great military stations of India, is intended to operate as a check on a large and important city; not that from Moorshedabad—once the capital of Bengal, a place long since sunk into comparative insignificance—much danger is now to be apprehended. It is the head-quarters of a brigade, partly composed of European troops.

The barracks and officers’ quarters are superb, and form a vast square, of which the former constitute theface farthest from the river; that nearest to it is a continuous range of handsome houses and gardens, with colonnades and verandahs, occupied by civilians and superior military officers.

There are also other ranges of buildings running perpendicular to the river, partly barracks and in part officers’ quarters. The whole is separated from the Baghiriti by a broad bund, or esplanade. The sepoy lines are about a mile inland, but the officers reside in the quarters, or in the fine bungalows scattered about.

The scene here in the evening was very lively; soldiers exercising in the square; officers riding on horseback, or driving in gigs; the band playing on the esplanade; groups promenading; in short, I was pleased with the place, and should have had no objection to have terminated my voyage there.

The morning of our departure, we were besieged by the vendors of silk piece-goods and handkerchiefs, as also of ivory toys and chessmen, for both of which this place and its neighbour, Cossim Bazar, have acquired a great reputation.

Some of the chessmen shown us were large beyond anything of the kind I had ever seen before; so much so, that to play with an irascible man with such ponderous and massive pieces might be unsafe.

The natives of India, it appears to me, though possessed of infinite perseverance and ingenuity, have no natural taste (at least, if they have any, it greatly wants cultivation); as respects progress in the fine arts, they appear on a par with our Anglo-Saxon ancestors at the time of the Conquest, and their sculpture, carving, and painting (and probably their music), in their leading and more marked peculiarities and defects, bear a considerable resemblance to those of such remains as we have of the olden time of England. It is, however, probable that the rude dawnings of knowledge are everywhere pretty much alike, though marked with more or less of native vigour and genius.

Of perspective, proportion, &c., they know little or nothing, and of this we had amusing examples, both in the carving and some pictures which were here offered us for sale, and which latter, in the richness of their colours and gilding, brought strongly to mind the illuminations of old missals, except that, in the false perspective and utter disregard of proportion, they beat them completely, outdoing Hogarth’s illustration of that ludicrous confusion into which an ignorance of these things is wont to lead the graphic tyro: full views at once of three sides of a square building, flat roof inclusive, visible from below; chiefs, in gorgeous apparel, seated on carpets as large as the adjoining garden, and holding “posies to their noses;” antelopes scampering over hills somewhat smaller than themselves; groups of figures taller than the buildings, with dislocated limbs, and legs like wooden stocking stretchers; water reversing the laws of hydrostatics, and running up-hill, and objects increasing with the distance.

Miss Belfield’s critical eye was shocked by these performances, though otherwise amused; and for my part, I do not think I enjoyed a heartier laugh since I was a griffin.

So completely vitiated is the native eye, by being accustomed to these deformities, that the majority of Indians can often make little or nothing of a European drawing; and I have often, in my post-griffinish days, seen one of them take a pencil sketch in his hand, turn it round about this way and that, and finally settle to its examination when upside downwards.

The Hindus, in these respects, seem more deficient than the Mahomedans, though, like the ancient Egyptians, in their ghauts, temples, and other works, they exhibit the vast and minute in perfection, showing what numbers and perseverance can effect without the aid of taste.

The Baghiriti, at Burhampore, narrows at the commencement of the cold season to a moderately broad stream, and was now fast falling, so that we were led tosuppose some difficulty in getting into the great Ganges at the point of junction, some days’ journey higher up. Sometimes this part becomes absolutely impracticable for large boats, which are then obliged to effect the passage by another branch.

As we approached the great river, our journey became rather one by land than by water. The river had fallen to the depth of a few inches in some parts, we were pushed by main force, by our indefatigable dandies, over sandy shallows, of miles in extent.

This was a labour, however, to which they had evidently been accustomed, and most philosophically did they set about it: planting their backs against the broad Dutch-built stem of the budgerow, they worked us along by almost imperceptible degrees, with insufferable yelling, groaning, and grunting, varied occasionally by the monotony of “Tan a Tooney hy yah!”

After ados-à-dosing it in this style for some days, we had at length the satisfaction to find ourselves fairly hacked out of the scrape, and riding in the Ganges.

The Ganges! Strange were my emotions as I gazed on the broad expanse of that famed and once mysterious river, with whose name were associated so many of my early ideas of Brahmins, Gentoos, burning widows, and strange idolatries! Alas! the romance of the world is fast departing. Steam, commerce, and conquest, are making all things common, and soon they will leave no solitary spot on this globe of ours where the imagination may revel undisturbed amidst dim uncertainties and barbaric originalities. There wants but a gin-shop on Mount Ararat, or a spinning-jenny on Olympus, to complete the work of desecration.

A day or two more brought us in sight of the blue mountains, or hills of Rajmahal, a great relief to the eye, after having been so long accustomed to the unvarying level of Bengal.

The low lands at the foot of these hills are well stocked with game, the neighbouring jungles affording themsecure shelter. Everything is here to be found, from the rhinoceros to the quail. Here I shot my first chikor, a splendid bird, of the partridge kind, but twice the size of ours.

Accompanied by the trusty Ramdial and Nuncoo, with a few dandies whom I had pressed into my service as beaters, I sallied out one morning with the determination to make a day of it.

After walking some distance inland, and to within a few miles of the hills, I found myself in an extensive, flat, marshy tract, which had evidently a short time before been covered by the periodical inundations, to the depth of eight or ten feet.

This tract was covered with long coarse grass, a sort of reeds, which, having lost the support of the water, were prostrated like lain corn. Through these I was making my way, my beaters actively employed on both sides of me, when, suddenly, a noble bird rose, with a rare clatter, from under my feet; before I could cock my gun and close an eye, he was at a good distance from me; nevertheless, being a fair mark, I fired, and dropped him.

I was delighted, on picking up my sport, to find it a fine massive bird, of the partridge kind, bigger than a red grouse; in short, as I afterwards learned from the captain, the chikor[35]above described. I reloaded and advanced; and in a few moments flushed another, which I was equally fortunate in killing.

Immediately after the discharge of my barrel, and whilst standing on the prostrate reeds, I heard a rustling, and felt a movement close to me. I thought it was another bird, and cocked my remaining barrel, to be ready for him; instead, however, of a chikor, an enormous boar, caked with dried mud, and whom doubtless I had roused from a luxurious snooze, burst forth almost from under my feet, to my very great astonishment.

His boarship’s ear was most invitingly towards me; Ihad no time to reflect on the danger of provoking such an enemy, in such a place—no rock, stump, or “coign of vantage,” behind which I could have evaded his charge, had he made one—but instantly poured the contents of my barrel into his acoustic organ, at the distance of two or three yards. But the fellow was almost as tough as the alligator, whose end I formerly described: the shot produced apparently not the slightest effect beyond a shake of the head and a quickening of his pace.

Away he went over the country, floundering through the mud and pools in great style, Teazer, for some distance, hard on his heels, but with no serious intention, I imagine, of catching such a Tartar.

Had the brute resented the earwigging I gave him, as he might easily have done, a pretty little white cenotaph, on the nearest eminence, “Hic jacet Frank Gernon,” and an invitation to the humane traveller to drop a tear in passing, would have been the probable result.

After bagging one or two more chikors, I proceeded to the foot of the hills, or rather of a spur proceeding from them, and soon found myself on the skirts of a most tigerish-looking jungle: tall yellow grass, sombre pools, with reedy margins, interspersed with irregular patches of bush and tree jungle, ramifying from the densely-wooded hills above. I would not have insured a cow there, for a couple of hours, for ninety nine and a half per cent. of her value.

I paused ere I ventured to plunge into these dreary coverts; but my hesitation was but momentary. It is an established fact that, in love, war, or the chase, wherever danger presents itself,

Griffinsrush in,Whereold handsfear to tread.

Griffinsrush in,

Whereold handsfear to tread.

Besides, there were Teazer and the bull, and half a dozen black fellows,ready picked, constituting long odds in my favour, even should a hungry tiger appear.

In short, I entered, and was soon forcing my way, gunin hand, through this most perilous locality, my heart in my mouth, and in a feverish sort of tip-toe expectation that, in a second, I might find myself hurried off,à la Munro, by the waistband of my breeches.

Things stood thus, my party a little scattered, and all advancing through the reedy margin of a winding piece of water (well stocked with alligators, I had not the slightest doubt), when a shout, a yelp from Teazer, a violent rush, a glimpse of some animal, an instinctive discharge of my gun, and a huge hog-deer rolled head-over-heels at my feet; all the work of an instant, into which was compressed as much alarm (for verily I thought it was one of the royals) as would have served (diluted into anxiety) for seasoning six months’ ordinary existence.

Truly proud was I of my exploit, as the hog-deer, doubled-up, lay kicking at my feet, in the agonies of death. By a fortunate chance, I had lodged the whole charge of shot under his shoulder.

Never was griffin more elated. “What will the captain now say?” thought I; “no more jeers or undervaluing of my sporting qualifications after this!”

My first care now, after slinging the deer, was to get out of the jungle—for this successful feat had given a new relish to existence, and I felt indisposed to run more risks. His legs were soon tied; a young tree was cut, and thrust through them; and, supported by four men, I proceeded in triumph to my budgerow.

“Well, Mr. Gernon, you have indeed been fortunate this time,” said Miss Belfield.

The kind captain also congratulated me on my success, but warned me against venturing on foot in such places again, as, in fact, I had really incurred considerable risk. In return, I favoured them with a detailed account of my whole day’s operations.

The hog-deer, being a very bulky animal, served to feast the whole crew and domestics, his throat having been cut when he fell, without which operation no Mahomedan would have touched him. We also had some collops ofthe flesh, which were tolerably good, though not to be compared to an English haunch of venison.

I am not writing a book of travels, so shall touch but lightly on the scenes and occurrences which presented themselves on our subsequent route to Dinapore, where my friends and I parted—they remaining there, I, after a time, continuing my onward course to the capital of the Moguls.

Hitherto, our route had lain through Bengal, a country of mud huts and inundations; but we were now approaching a higher level, and one inhabited by a finer race, living in a superior climate, and where the Mahomedan spirit, which approaches nearer to our own, has imparted its more enduring traces in the shape of substantial towns, and more lasting, though still decaying monuments and edifices. Captain Belfield had excited our curiosity by his account of the ruins of Rajmahal, the some time transient capital of Bengal, during the reign of the Emperor Aurungzebe, and we consequently indulged in pleasing anticipations of the rambling and sketching we were to enjoy there.

It was evening when we approached that place; the sun was setting gloriously on the Ganges as we moored our boats in a little bay near the ruins, on one horn of which stood an old grey mosque, partially hidden by tangled shrubs and jungle, and the tapering and feathery bamboo—one, perhaps, of the greatest and most striking ornaments of Indian scenery.

“William,” said Miss Belfield, “you must positively remain here to-morrow, for I can never consent to leave all these fine old ruins unsketched behind me.”

Her brother willingly consented to her wish, and a delightful day of it we had, rambling, pencil in hand, amongst decaying mosques and dilapidated palaces, where the voice of the imaun, or the sounds of revelry, had long given place to the hootings of that mocker of human vanity, the owl.

There are not, in the whole round of the feelings andsensations, any to me so exquisitely, yet sadly pleasing, as those that arise in the mind when we wander amidst the deserted courts of kings, and the monuments of departed power and glory: how strongly do they link us with the past, and how powerfully does the imagination, with such a footing, “body forth” the things that were, but are not!

Captain Belfield, who, like his sister, as I afterwards discovered, was somewhat of a poet, though in most things a matter-of-fact man, amused himself, while we were sketching, in composing the following lines:—

Lines on the Ruins of Rajmahal and the Palace of the Sungy Dulaun, some time the Capital of Bengal.

Ye mould’ring corridors and halls,Which o’er the steep your shadows cast;Ye ruins drear, which sad recallThe faded glories of the past:Where the lone trav’ller pensive sighs,And light winds pipe at evening hour,Low blending with the lapwing’s cries,The requiems of departed power:How changed your aspect, since of oldGay orient pageants filled your bound,And trumpet and Nagara[36]toldOf regal state that reign’d around.Here Sujah,[37]in his happier hour,Poor victim of a brother’s hate!Enjoy’d the transient sweets of power,Bright contrast to his darker fate.Here Heav’n display’d its vengeful ire,And Meerun[38]felt the fatal blow;Here fell the retributive fire,That laid the foul assassin low.Where once the minstrel’s voice was heard,Now nightly sounds the jackal’s yell;There hoots the melancholy bird,Grim cynic of the darksome cell.Within the Harem’s latticed screen,Where beauty once its radiance shed,No bright eyes, save the owl’s are seen—The rank green jungle rears its head.A carcanet of gems—the snakeLies coil’d where jewell’d beauty prest,Unwinding, seeks the tangled brake,Or fierce erects his horrid crest.Column and arch, with sculpture traced,Crush’d by the peepul’s[39]circling folds,Like writhing Laocoon embraced,Art dies—and nature empire holds.Hail, sombre fabric! type of lifeOnce gay and smiling, now forlorn;Wreck of thyself, with ruin rife,Of all thy first attractions shorn.Like some volcano—dead its fires—Here now no more the passions rage;Ambition, hate, or fierce desiresLong past—no longer conflicts wage.Sadly thou breath’st the moral old,Earth’s vanities—man’s chequer’d lot,By seers and sages often told,In life’s fierce tumults soon forgot.As o’er the mould’ring wrecks of timeWith silent step we pensive steal,In every land, in every clime,Oh! say, whence spring those thoughts we feel?Why hush’d the passions? touch’d the heart?What prompts us all our state to scan?What animates each better part?Why breathe we love and peace to man?’Tis that awhile withdrawn from cares—Earth’s cares, with strife and sorrow fraught,—Sweet contemplation lowly bearsHer treasures to the mint of thought.In such a frame—in stilly toneWaked fancy hears these words exprest,“Oh, pilgrim! this is not your home,—Look upwards for thy place of rest.”

Ye mould’ring corridors and halls,

Which o’er the steep your shadows cast;

Ye ruins drear, which sad recall

The faded glories of the past:

Where the lone trav’ller pensive sighs,

And light winds pipe at evening hour,

Low blending with the lapwing’s cries,

The requiems of departed power:

How changed your aspect, since of oldGay orient pageants filled your bound,And trumpet and Nagara[36]toldOf regal state that reign’d around.Here Sujah,[37]in his happier hour,Poor victim of a brother’s hate!Enjoy’d the transient sweets of power,Bright contrast to his darker fate.

How changed your aspect, since of old

Gay orient pageants filled your bound,

And trumpet and Nagara[36]told

Of regal state that reign’d around.

Here Sujah,[37]in his happier hour,

Poor victim of a brother’s hate!

Enjoy’d the transient sweets of power,

Bright contrast to his darker fate.

Here Heav’n display’d its vengeful ire,And Meerun[38]felt the fatal blow;Here fell the retributive fire,That laid the foul assassin low.Where once the minstrel’s voice was heard,Now nightly sounds the jackal’s yell;There hoots the melancholy bird,Grim cynic of the darksome cell.

Here Heav’n display’d its vengeful ire,

And Meerun[38]felt the fatal blow;

Here fell the retributive fire,

That laid the foul assassin low.

Where once the minstrel’s voice was heard,

Now nightly sounds the jackal’s yell;

There hoots the melancholy bird,

Grim cynic of the darksome cell.

Within the Harem’s latticed screen,Where beauty once its radiance shed,No bright eyes, save the owl’s are seen—The rank green jungle rears its head.A carcanet of gems—the snakeLies coil’d where jewell’d beauty prest,Unwinding, seeks the tangled brake,Or fierce erects his horrid crest.

Within the Harem’s latticed screen,

Where beauty once its radiance shed,

No bright eyes, save the owl’s are seen—

The rank green jungle rears its head.

A carcanet of gems—the snake

Lies coil’d where jewell’d beauty prest,

Unwinding, seeks the tangled brake,

Or fierce erects his horrid crest.

Column and arch, with sculpture traced,Crush’d by the peepul’s[39]circling folds,Like writhing Laocoon embraced,Art dies—and nature empire holds.Hail, sombre fabric! type of lifeOnce gay and smiling, now forlorn;Wreck of thyself, with ruin rife,Of all thy first attractions shorn.

Column and arch, with sculpture traced,

Crush’d by the peepul’s[39]circling folds,

Like writhing Laocoon embraced,

Art dies—and nature empire holds.

Hail, sombre fabric! type of life

Once gay and smiling, now forlorn;

Wreck of thyself, with ruin rife,

Of all thy first attractions shorn.

Like some volcano—dead its fires—Here now no more the passions rage;Ambition, hate, or fierce desiresLong past—no longer conflicts wage.Sadly thou breath’st the moral old,Earth’s vanities—man’s chequer’d lot,By seers and sages often told,In life’s fierce tumults soon forgot.

Like some volcano—dead its fires—

Here now no more the passions rage;

Ambition, hate, or fierce desires

Long past—no longer conflicts wage.

Sadly thou breath’st the moral old,

Earth’s vanities—man’s chequer’d lot,

By seers and sages often told,

In life’s fierce tumults soon forgot.

As o’er the mould’ring wrecks of timeWith silent step we pensive steal,In every land, in every clime,Oh! say, whence spring those thoughts we feel?Why hush’d the passions? touch’d the heart?What prompts us all our state to scan?What animates each better part?Why breathe we love and peace to man?

As o’er the mould’ring wrecks of time

With silent step we pensive steal,

In every land, in every clime,

Oh! say, whence spring those thoughts we feel?

Why hush’d the passions? touch’d the heart?

What prompts us all our state to scan?

What animates each better part?

Why breathe we love and peace to man?

’Tis that awhile withdrawn from cares—Earth’s cares, with strife and sorrow fraught,—Sweet contemplation lowly bearsHer treasures to the mint of thought.In such a frame—in stilly toneWaked fancy hears these words exprest,“Oh, pilgrim! this is not your home,—Look upwards for thy place of rest.”

’Tis that awhile withdrawn from cares—

Earth’s cares, with strife and sorrow fraught,—

Sweet contemplation lowly bears

Her treasures to the mint of thought.

In such a frame—in stilly tone

Waked fancy hears these words exprest,

“Oh, pilgrim! this is not your home,—

Look upwards for thy place of rest.”

A tear trembled in Miss Belfield’s eye as she read her brother’s verses; they had touched some tender chord, and the feelings they expressed were evidently in unisonwith her own; she arose and retired to her cabin, her head slightly averted, to conceal her emotion. As she passed, the captain fondly stretched out his hand towards her; she seized and pressed it—it was all the commentary she made.

The ruins of Rajmahal are not very extensive, nor are the buildings of any extraordinary magnitude or beauty; nevertheless, some mosques, and two or three old gateways, in the Moorish style of architecture, which seems everywhere to have preserved its original character—from Delhi to Morocco—are highly picturesque.

Captain Belfield, who was well acquainted with the place and its history, acted as our Cicerone, pointing out the most remarkable buildings; amongst these, by far the most considerable was the palace erected by that crafty and most consummate villain Aurungzebe, of which there are some very considerable remains, halls, baths, courts, &c., also the tomb of Meerun, the assassin of Surajah Dowlah.

Rajmahal was the residence and capital of the unfortunate Sultan Sujah, one of the brothers of Aurungzebe. The tragic end of this prince, amongst the wilds of Arracan, is touchingly related by the accurate historian Bernier, whose history of this family is a perfect romance. The relator has traversed the wild forests in Arracan towards Myamootie, where the hapless Mogul prince is supposed to have met his fate.

There are Mahomedans naturalized in Arracan, who differ in many respects from the aborigines, though they wear a similar garb. They are supposed to be descendants of those followers of Sultan Sujah, who escaped the massacre described by Bernier, and were retained in slavery by the Mughs.

When the city of Arracan was captured by the British, the head of the Mahomedan inhabitants, singularly enough, bore the name of Sujah. The writer remembers him well, and a wily fellow he was, playing, on the approach of the army, a well-managed double game, withBritish and Burmese, which was to benefit himself, whichever party succeeded.

Poor Sultan Sujah! the howling forests of Arracan must have presented a melancholy contrast to the marble halls of the palace of Aurungzebe! Like Sebastian of Portugal (to whose fate his own bore some resemblance), he was long believed to be alive, and fondly looked for by his adherents in India, and several impostors appeared to personate him.

Rajmahal has long fallen from its palmy state, and what remains of the town is ruinous, and thinly inhabited. Leaving this place, we continued our route, having the woody ranges of hills on our left, at various distances from the bank of the river.

At Sicrigully, a low spur of the hills touches the Ganges, crowned at its eminence with an old mosque or tomb; beneath is a small bungalow, for travellers, and hard by, a straggling village.

Here I was gratified by the sight of a brother sportsman, in the person of an Indian hunter, or shekarri. He was a little, spare, black creature, a native of the hills (a race perfectly distinct from the people of the plains), armed with a matchlock, whilst sundry bags and pouches adorned his person. He brought a fawn and a brace of jungle fowls, which he offered for a rupee, and some English powder and shot.

The jungle fowl are the domestic cock and hen in a wild state, of which there are many varieties in the East, though they are not often found in the jungles far beyond the tropics. The plumage of the cock bird is rich, varied, and beautiful, far more so than that of the civilized chanticleer; the hens, however, are generally of a uniform dun or slate colour, having callow bluish wattles, and spots of the same colour around the aural orifices. These were the first I had ever seen, though I had heard them in the Sunderbunds, and was not a little surprised to learn from the captain that they were not only game, but capital shooting also, and what to many may be considered astill further recommendation, very good eating to boot—of this, indeed, we had next day satisfactory proof.

So completely, however, are the cock and hen associated with scenes of civilized life, so perfectly are the highly respectable couple identified with man and his comforts—the stack and barn-yard—that it is almost impossible to fancy them wild, or still more to “make game” of them.

I recollect well, in after-times, the extraordinary feeling I experienced on contemplating the first jungle cock I ever shot. I had heard him sound his bugle-horn just before—a plain, matter-of-fact, Englishcock-a-doodle-doo; and there he was, with his comb, bright red wattles, and fine, curved, drooping tail, lying dead at my feet.

It required the full consideration that I was in a wild forest in India, to convince me that I had not done one of those “devilish deeds” perpetrated now and then at ’Igate and ’Ampstead, by adventurous gunners from the vicinity of Bow Church.

These hills of Rajmahal, with their various attractions of scenery, wild inhabitants, and peculiar productions, constitute a very pleasant break to what many may deem the monotony of a voyage up the Ganges in a budgerow; for many days they presented to me successive novelties.

One evening, our boats moored at a place called Peer Pointee—a holy saint, orpeer, is interred on a neighbouring eminence—and in the evening, after sundown, the captain, his sister, and myself, took a stroll, in order to pay our respects to the shrine or tomb of his holiness.

To gain this, we had to ascend a low and rugged hill, on one side of which, about half-way up, is an old mosque, with an arcade in front, a pendant, doubtless, to the neighbouring durgah. The path was difficult, but we soon found ourselves on the spot where the holy man’s ashes are enshrined.

The tomb occupied the centre of a terrace, surrounded by a low wall. Lamps burnt around it, if I rightly remember, and the attendant fakeer told the captain, who communicated it to us, the legend of Peer Pointee, and thecause which obtained him his present celebrity. The particulars of the legend I have forgotten.

The fakeer assured the captain, that not only was the memory of the saint venerated by man, but that it was also held in great respect by the wild beasts of the adjoining jungles, particularly by the tigers, one of whom came regularly every Friday night, and swept up the floor of the durgah with his tail.

It happened that the day of our visit was the very one on which the tiger was wont to perform this office; Captain Belfield told the fakeer that he had a great desire to witness it, and had some intention of sitting up for the purpose. The fakeer assured him, however, that it would be utterly useless, for the animal had such an insuperable aversion for all but true believers, that, if any other were near, he would certainly not make his appearance.[40]

The next day we passed Puttergatta, a woody prominence, where there are some caves, and a pretty white Hindoo temple. I went on shore to examine them, and found Chattermohun Ghose paying his respects to a many-armed god, with goggle eyes, and a vermilion mouth, seated far back in the dim recess of a temple.

I have already hinted, that I had a regard for Chattermohun, so I thought this a favourable opportunity for converting him to Christianity, which I forthwith set myself about to achieve, breaking ground by a few pungent sneers at his idol. I found Chattermohun, however, a doughty polemic, and did not make the impression I expected.

“Master will believe what master’s father and mother have teach him for true; Hindoo man do same thing. S’pose I make change, then will lose caste—no one ispek to me; this very had thing; too much for family man.”

There was no making anything of him; he was obstinate, so I gave him up. I must not, however, omit one little incident, which my proselytizing efforts elicited.

“Master tell Hindoo religion got too many god—toomuch veneration for image. Master’s Europe religion have plenty god too.”

“What do you mean, you foolish fellow?” said I. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, sare, I know very well. I one Europe book got tell all about that.”

To cut the matter short, Chattermohun afterwards showed me his book, which was the Roman Pantheon, with cuts representing the deities of Olympus!

Passing the two picturesque rocks of Colgong, which stand out in the river, boldly breasting its current, we in due time reached the headland of Sultangunge, opposite to which is the romantic islet of Junghera, with its white temple and curious sculptures.

Here our budgerow was boarded by two sturdy beggars, who levy contributions from all passers-by; one of whom was the Hindoo fakeer from the rock, the other his Mahomedanvis-à-vis, of the main land, ministers of rival creeds, but agreed on that point on which we everywhere find an astonishing unanimity, theauri sacra fames.

The Mahomedan fakeer was a very venerable old man, with a long beard. He was seated on a decked portion of the boat, a tiger skin spread beneath him; a disciple in very good case, rowing the boat.

“Mr. Gernon,” said Miss Belfield to me, the next morning, “the scene of yesterday has induced me to try my poetic powers. Here,” said she, handing me a manuscript; “I have courted the Muse with somewhat more success than you did at Plassey. Pray read this, and give me your opinion.”

EVENING ON THE GANGES.

’Tis eve! by Ganges palm-clad shoreNow lightly sounds the dipping oar,As slow it breaks with sparkling gleamThe molten silver of the stream.And list! a song, in fitful notes,Soft o’er the tranquil current floats,Mingling its cadence, as it dies,With the lone hunza’s[41]mournful cries;(Sad cries, which, wafted on the gale,Seem like some pensive spirit’s wail;)The mûllah’s[42]song, ere, toil-oppress’d,He seeks his nook and evening rest.Afar Junghera’s rocky isle,Crown’d by the tapering temple’s pile.On rolls the sacred tide its courseMajestic from its mountain-source,Afar in dim and mystic glades—Which nought save pilgrim’s foot invades,’Midst ice-bound glens, where, cold and lone,Himaleh rears his snowy throne,High over realms chaotic hurled,The monarch of the mountain-world;Whilst, far away, a sheeted throngOf spectral peaks his state prolong;Cold, death-like, mutes on high they stand,Eternal nature’s pageant hand.Receiving homage as it goes,Onward the mighty current flows,Dispensing, as with regal hand,Its bounteous blessings o’er the land:Type of that power whose mercies flowO’er all this wildering scene below.But ah! too oft its noble tideBy horrid sacrifices dyed,Whilst bright self-immolating pyresShed o’er the stream their flickering fires.Now from cool groves, whose mellow shadesNo prying ray of light invades,The low, fond cooings of the doveTell ’tis the hour of peace and love;And light-winged zephyrs gently playO’er the Mimosa’s quivering spray.The setting sun its parting gleamSheds over Gunga’s sacred stream,Which seems to blush as waning lightConsigns her to the arms of night;And many a mosque and idol-faneReflect the crimson hue of shame,Which slowly seems to ebb awayThe vital tide of dying day.By yon blue mountain’s brow afarNow twinkles bright the evening star;Translucent ray! the brightest gemThat decks its glittering diadem.Now deeper shades invest the shore,The weary boatman rests his oar,Glides slowly, that his eye may seekThe shelter of some friendly creek.Abroad the night winds freely rove,And countless fire-flies deck the grove.Swift-winged brilliants! gems of light!Bright jewels of the tropic night,Than which the diamond of the mineIn richer lustre ne’er could shine!Now sparkling forth from nook and bay,Long-scattered fires succeed the day,And round them gathering, to their meal,The dusky forms of boatmen steal,Like wizard, demons of the wold,Who round a pile their orgies hold,Framing, on Scandinavian fell,Some direful charm or potent spell.The simple meal despatched, the songAnd merry drum the joy prolong;Or some light jocund tale gives birthTo honest bursts of simple mirth.At length, the song and story past,Silence profound succeeds at last,By every sound unbroken, saveThe turtle’s splash or rippling wave.Thus by life’s woes and cares opprest,The weary spirit sinks to rest,And ebon pall and marble tombInvest the closing scene with gloom.But cease not thus—in sombre guise.As o’er that darkling streamAnother sun shall haply rise,To cheer it with its beam.So, on the soul, its chast’ning o’er,Shall burst eternal light—The light that gilds that happy shore.Whose day shall know no night.

’Tis eve! by Ganges palm-clad shore

Now lightly sounds the dipping oar,

As slow it breaks with sparkling gleam

The molten silver of the stream.

And list! a song, in fitful notes,

Soft o’er the tranquil current floats,

Mingling its cadence, as it dies,

With the lone hunza’s[41]mournful cries;

(Sad cries, which, wafted on the gale,

Seem like some pensive spirit’s wail;)

The mûllah’s[42]song, ere, toil-oppress’d,

He seeks his nook and evening rest.

Afar Junghera’s rocky isle,

Crown’d by the tapering temple’s pile.

On rolls the sacred tide its course

Majestic from its mountain-source,

Afar in dim and mystic glades—

Which nought save pilgrim’s foot invades,

’Midst ice-bound glens, where, cold and lone,

Himaleh rears his snowy throne,

High over realms chaotic hurled,

The monarch of the mountain-world;

Whilst, far away, a sheeted throng

Of spectral peaks his state prolong;

Cold, death-like, mutes on high they stand,

Eternal nature’s pageant hand.

Receiving homage as it goes,Onward the mighty current flows,Dispensing, as with regal hand,Its bounteous blessings o’er the land:Type of that power whose mercies flowO’er all this wildering scene below.But ah! too oft its noble tideBy horrid sacrifices dyed,Whilst bright self-immolating pyresShed o’er the stream their flickering fires.Now from cool groves, whose mellow shadesNo prying ray of light invades,The low, fond cooings of the doveTell ’tis the hour of peace and love;And light-winged zephyrs gently playO’er the Mimosa’s quivering spray.The setting sun its parting gleamSheds over Gunga’s sacred stream,Which seems to blush as waning lightConsigns her to the arms of night;And many a mosque and idol-faneReflect the crimson hue of shame,Which slowly seems to ebb awayThe vital tide of dying day.By yon blue mountain’s brow afarNow twinkles bright the evening star;Translucent ray! the brightest gemThat decks its glittering diadem.

Receiving homage as it goes,

Onward the mighty current flows,

Dispensing, as with regal hand,

Its bounteous blessings o’er the land:

Type of that power whose mercies flow

O’er all this wildering scene below.

But ah! too oft its noble tide

By horrid sacrifices dyed,

Whilst bright self-immolating pyres

Shed o’er the stream their flickering fires.

Now from cool groves, whose mellow shades

No prying ray of light invades,

The low, fond cooings of the dove

Tell ’tis the hour of peace and love;

And light-winged zephyrs gently play

O’er the Mimosa’s quivering spray.

The setting sun its parting gleam

Sheds over Gunga’s sacred stream,

Which seems to blush as waning light

Consigns her to the arms of night;

And many a mosque and idol-fane

Reflect the crimson hue of shame,

Which slowly seems to ebb away

The vital tide of dying day.

By yon blue mountain’s brow afar

Now twinkles bright the evening star;

Translucent ray! the brightest gem

That decks its glittering diadem.

Now deeper shades invest the shore,The weary boatman rests his oar,Glides slowly, that his eye may seekThe shelter of some friendly creek.Abroad the night winds freely rove,And countless fire-flies deck the grove.Swift-winged brilliants! gems of light!Bright jewels of the tropic night,Than which the diamond of the mineIn richer lustre ne’er could shine!Now sparkling forth from nook and bay,Long-scattered fires succeed the day,And round them gathering, to their meal,The dusky forms of boatmen steal,Like wizard, demons of the wold,Who round a pile their orgies hold,Framing, on Scandinavian fell,Some direful charm or potent spell.The simple meal despatched, the songAnd merry drum the joy prolong;Or some light jocund tale gives birthTo honest bursts of simple mirth.At length, the song and story past,Silence profound succeeds at last,By every sound unbroken, saveThe turtle’s splash or rippling wave.Thus by life’s woes and cares opprest,The weary spirit sinks to rest,And ebon pall and marble tombInvest the closing scene with gloom.

Now deeper shades invest the shore,

The weary boatman rests his oar,

Glides slowly, that his eye may seek

The shelter of some friendly creek.

Abroad the night winds freely rove,

And countless fire-flies deck the grove.

Swift-winged brilliants! gems of light!

Bright jewels of the tropic night,

Than which the diamond of the mine

In richer lustre ne’er could shine!

Now sparkling forth from nook and bay,

Long-scattered fires succeed the day,

And round them gathering, to their meal,

The dusky forms of boatmen steal,

Like wizard, demons of the wold,

Who round a pile their orgies hold,

Framing, on Scandinavian fell,

Some direful charm or potent spell.

The simple meal despatched, the song

And merry drum the joy prolong;

Or some light jocund tale gives birth

To honest bursts of simple mirth.

At length, the song and story past,

Silence profound succeeds at last,

By every sound unbroken, save

The turtle’s splash or rippling wave.

Thus by life’s woes and cares opprest,

The weary spirit sinks to rest,

And ebon pall and marble tomb

Invest the closing scene with gloom.

But cease not thus—in sombre guise.As o’er that darkling streamAnother sun shall haply rise,To cheer it with its beam.So, on the soul, its chast’ning o’er,Shall burst eternal light—The light that gilds that happy shore.Whose day shall know no night.

But cease not thus—in sombre guise.

As o’er that darkling stream

Another sun shall haply rise,

To cheer it with its beam.

So, on the soul, its chast’ning o’er,

Shall burst eternal light—

The light that gilds that happy shore.

Whose day shall know no night.

A few days more brought us to Boglipore, a very beautiful station, surrounded by rich park-like scenery.

Having visited the boiling spring of Seetacoond, to which a plentiful crop of legends is attached by the credulousnatives, filled a few bottles with the water, which is remarkable for its purity, and I believe medicinal virtues (though, as I was not much of a water-fancier at that time, I rather give this on report than from actual experience), we soon reached the ancient fortress of Monghyr, a place which cuts a considerable figure in Indian history, although more celebrated in modern times as the seat of an extensive manufactory of tea-kettles, turn-screws, toasting-forks, &c., as also of fire-arms, after European models.

These guns have occasionally winged a few griffs, and have consequently a bad name, though the vendors are willing to prove them in your presence. Nevertheless, though dirt-cheap, they are not often bought, except by the very green. There is no enjoyment in a suspected gun, any more than in a doubtful egg.

On bringing to at the ghaut, we perceived a regiment of chapmen, all eager to present their wares. One fellow carried a huge tea-kettle, another a double-barrelled gun, a third a chafing-dish and a handful of toasting-forks, a fourth a cage of beautiful green and blue birds from the hills, &c.

With these gentry I drove several bargains, assisted by Ramdial, who afterwards had to fight a few stout battles on his own account fordustoorie, or customary perquisites, claimed, though unwillingly allowed, on all disbursements in India.

A rare stock of valuables I had on leaving Monghyr, including three cages of birds, one of avidavats, all swept off, some time after, by a terrible epidemic, which found its way amongst them.

Here I observed, for the first time, a peculiar mode of capturing the river turtle; several natives paddled a light dingy or canoe along, one standing in the prow, with a light dart or harpoon in his hand; presently I saw a huge turtle raise his head above the water, and in an instant the harpooner flung his light weapon, having a cord attached, which reached its object with an unerring aim; all wasnow bustle, and in a few minutes I saw them haul in a turtle, which, as far as looks went, might have made an alderman’s mouth water.

As I am on the subject of harpooning, I may here mention a somewhat similar mode in which the natives catch the mullets. These fish, the most delicious and highly prized of the Ganges, swim in shoals in the shallows, with their heads partly above the surface of the water: the shape of which, by the way, and position of the large eyes, give them much the appearance of serpents—indeed, the first I saw, I took for a brood of water-snakes.

The dandie, or fisherman, whoever the sportsman may be, follows them in a crouching attitude, having in his hand a long light bamboo, terminating in a number of unbarbed spikes, fastened on like the head of a painting brush; and when within striking distance, he launches this slantingly amongst the shoal, transfixing one or two fish, perhaps, whilst the rest dive or swim off, and soon re-appear with their heads as before, above the water, and slowly stemming the current. I used to watch this operation with great interest, but could never make anything of it myself, though I often essayed.

The fort of Monghyr is of vast extent, though the walls are now in a decayed and dilapidated state; within the wide area are tanks, bungalows, and some fine houses on rising grounds, commanding fine views of the ruins, and the distant woods and hills, which latter here present a rather bold and serrated outline.

A few days more, and we were gliding past the great Mahomedan city of Patna, and in a short time after we found ourselves moored off the military cantonment of Dinapore—a second edition of Burhampore—and the station of a brigade of troops, European and native.

Here are two fine squares of officers’ quarters and barracks, with numerous bungalows to the rear of them, somewhat similar in their disposition and appearance to those at Burhampore.

Here, as I before mentioned, I was destined to part with my kind and amiable companions, who were engaged to visit a friend at Patna for a month before proceeding to their ultimate destination. Our leave-taking was marked by unequivocal proofs that we had become dear to one another; and both gave me little tokens of their remembrance.

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