CHAPTER XXIII.
The cornet took me with him to breakfast and dine with his friend, the old invalid general commanding at Chunarghur. This was my first Christmas Day in India; the weather was as cold as an English October, and I enjoyed the trip.
The pretty invalid station of Chunarghur is a few miles from Sultanpore, on the opposite bank of the river; as you approach it, the fort, crowning a lofty table rock, and abutting on the Ganges, has, with its numerous Moorish buildings and lines of circumvallation, a very striking and picturesque effect; and its reddish hue and that of the rock contrast pleasingly with the verdant gardens and white residences of the European inhabitants.[49]
The general, a hoary old Indianized veteran, gave my friend, with whom he appeared to be on intimate terms, a very hearty reception. It being Christmas Day, he had mounted his red uniform coat, which, from the hue of the lace, and other unmistakable signs, it was very clear, had been laid up in ordinary for a considerable time; but though his upper works were European, all below indicated one who had imbibed, in the course of fifty or sixty years’ service, a taste for the luxurious appliances of an Indian existence. His legs, like those of Colonel Lolsaug, were encased in voluminouspajammas, which finished off with a pair of Indian gilt slippers.
We had a capital breakfast, at which an abundance of solid cheer, interspersed with glasses of amber jelly, and garnished with evergreens and flowers, “jasmin and marigolds,” produced a truly Old English effect.
The old general leaned back in his easy chair, stretched his legs on a morah, smoked his magnificent hookha, and prepared to receive a host of people waiting outside to pay their respects.
In India, Christmas Day is called by the natives our “Burra Din,” or great day. Our native soldiers and dependants attend in their best attire, to pay their respects, and present, according to their means, littlenuzzursor gifts, as tokens of good-will and fidelity. Your Kansaman brings a basket of sweetmeats; the shepherd, a kid from the flock; the gardener, a basket of his choicest fruit, flowers, and vegetables; the bearers deck the bungalow with evergreens, or plant a young tree in front of the door, and so forth.
It is a pleasing homage to master and his faith; and altogether, with the temperature of the weather and the solidity of the fare, tends strongly to awaken bygone recollections of youth, and all the charities and endearments of our island home at that delightful and merry season.
Thechick, or blind, being now rolled up, aposseof venerable veteran native officers entered, exhibiting on their persons the various obsolete costumes of the Indian army of half a century back, gradually approximating from the uncouth attire of the sepoy of the olden time, with its short vandykedjangheeas, half-way down the thigh, cut-away coat, and ludicrous triangular-fronted cap, to the more perfect Europeanized dress at present worn.
Each bore on his extended palm a folded-up handkerchief, on which lay a certain number of gold mohurs or rupees, which the old general, contrary to the usual custom in such cases, groped off, and laid beside him in a heap, having previously touched his forehead, by way of acknowledging the compliment.
Besides the pecuniary offering, many of the veterans held their swords to the general and my friend, who touched them, and then their foreheads. This pretty custom is universal amongst the military of India and Persia, and is finely expressive of a soldier’s fidelity and devotion. He offers you his sword; what can he more?
After the military had entered, various civil functionaries, connected with the bazaar and garrison, and the general’s domestic servants, all arrayed in their holiday attire, were ushered in, and made their salaams and gifts. The latter were set aside in the room, and formed a goodly display of oranges, pomegranates, sweetmeats, sugar-candy, &c., enough wherewith to set up the store of a general dealer in a small way.
Last of all, several trays were brought in, each covered with an embroidered roomal or handkerchief; the bearers, having arranged these on the floor, withdrew the coverings with a grand air, as much as to say, “There! what do you think of that?” and a magnificent display of good things appeared. The Kansaman whispered the old general; the old general smiled, and my friend laughed. It was a Christmas gift from Begum Sahib, his pious left-handed Moosulmanee wife, and whose funds had supplied, as I before mentioned, the magnificenttazeeaat Sultanpore, Benares.
Whilst its examination was going on, I thought I perceived a few curious eyes peeping from behind the curtain, which concealed thesanctum sanctorumof thezenan khaneh, or female apartments.
After the whole party had retired, and the general and my friend had resumed their chat and their hookhas, I observed the aforesaid curtain once more on the move, and, immediately after, the figure of an old withered Indian lady, covered with a profusion of rings and jewels, with a pair of garnet-coloured trousers of formidable dimensions, and a milk-whitedoputta, or scarf, over her head, issued therefrom.
She stood for a moment, placed her finger archly onher lips, as a signal for my friend to be silent, and then gliding slowly towards the veteran, whose back was turned towards her, she placed her long dark slender hands, sparkling with rings, over his eyes.
“Halloa!” said the old gentleman, “who have we here? what rogue is this?” smiling pleasantly, and knowing all the while who it was.
The old lady laughed, withdrew her hands, and stood before him.
“General Sahib,” said she, in Hindustanee, “I am come to make my salaam to you on yourBurra Din.”
She now took a chair; my friend the cornet, who evidently knew her well, made her a respectful salaam, and they held a very animated conversation together, of which, from their eyes being directed towards me ever and anon, I guessed myself to be the subject. I was a modest youth in those days, and felt a little embarrassed at the idea of being overhauled and discussed in an “unknown tongue.”
The cornet said: “The Begum has been asking about you; she says you look very young; quite achokra(boy), and have a verygureeb(quiet) look, though, she dares to say, you are a bit of anut cut(roguish fellow) for all that.”
“Pray tell her,” said I, “that she does me too much honour, and that I really want language to express the extent of my obligation. As for the first fault, time doubtless will correct it; with respect to the other, you may say it is an hereditary complaint in our family.”
The cornet explained, or tried to explain; the old lady laughed, nodded her head, and said it was “burra taiz bhat” (a very smart reply). She now retired to her apartment, after a fresh round of salaaming between her and the cornet.
“I thought,” said I, when she had gone, “that it was not usual for native ladies to exhibit themselves in that way.”
“Nor is it,” said he, “generally; but age and othercircumstances lead to exceptions in this as well as in everything else. Besides,” added he, “though the old lady is both rich and devout, she does not, of course, hold a foremost place in native estimation.”
The general, who had left us for a few moments, now returned, and after some little conversation, of which she was the subject, being spoken of in a laudatory strain, “Well, now,” said he, as if he had been revolving the matter deeply, “I don’t know, but I consider that old woman as much my wife as if we had had a page of Hamilton Moore read over to us. My faithful companion for forty years, and the mother of my children!”
“But,” said the cornet, “your friend the Padre, you recollect, when he was passing, took dire offence at her making her appearance one day when he was here; do you recollect that, general? You had quite a scene.”
The general here emitted a panegyrical effusion touching the whole clerical body, and the scrupulous Padre in particular, which, however, I will not repeat.
After tiffin, the general, the cornet, and myself, went out to visit the fort and the neighbourhood, which I had a desire to see; the former, being old and infirm, rode in histonjon(a sort of chair-palankeen); my friend and I were on horseback.
The fort of Chunarghur, to which we ascended from the town side by a somewhat steep road, occupies the summit of a table rock, some hundred feet above the surrounding country, and terminating abruptly on the river side. A strong wall, defended by numerous towers, runs round the edge, and the interior contains modern ranges of barracks, magazines, &c., and some fine masses of old buildings, in the Moorish style of architecture, characterized by the cupolas, horseshoe arch, &c.
The views on all sides are extensive and interesting: on the one, you look down upon the roofs of the closely-built native town, its temples and intermingled foliage, and tall bamboo pigeon-stands, with the whitehouses and luxuriant gardens of the adjacent station, the broad Ganges skirting the verdant slopes in front, and stretching away through many a sandy reach towards Benares; on the opposite side, above the fort, a rich and cultivated country, waving with crops, adorned with mango groves, and dotted here and there with old mosques or tombs, extends far in the distance, traversed by bold sweeps of the river, which, sprinkled with many a white sail, or strings of heavy boats, advancing with snail-like pace against the current, glistens brightly below.
The general pointed out to me the particular part of the wall where we made our unsuccessful assault in the year 1764, with some other lions of the place; after which we left the fort by another gateway, and a somewhat zigzag descent, on the opposite side to that on which we had entered.
In passing a guard of invalids, however, before emerging, I was highly entertained to see the old veterans, who were rather taken by surprise, hobbling out from their pipes and repose in a mighty pother, to present arms to the general, which they managed to effect before he had left them far behind, with a most picturesque irregularity.
Chunar, some thirty or forty years before the period to which I am adverting, had been, I believe, one of our principal frontier stations, and the head-quarters of a division, though then, as now, scarcely occupying a central point in the immense line of the British dominions on this side of India. The cantonments of this large force were situated on the plain last noticed, above the fort, and present small station, though almost every trace of it has long disappeared, at least of the abodes of the living, for the mansions of the dead still remain nearlyin statu quoto tell their pensive tale.
We paid a visit to this now remote and forgotten burying ground (or rather to one of them, for there are two) a mile or two beyond the fort; and I confess, albeit ajuvenile, that I was touched at the sight of these lonely mementoes of the fact, that a bustling military cantonment, of which hardly a vestige remains, once occupied the immediate vicinity.
How changed is now the scene from what it was in thequi hyedays of our fathers! The clang of the trumpet, the roll of the drum, and the gleaming ranks, have long given place to more peaceful sounds and sights; the creak of the well-wheel, and the song of the ryot, as he irrigates his fields, supply the place of the former. Grain now waves where troops once manœuvred, whilst the light airs of the Ganges pipe, amidst the white mausoleums, the dirges of those who “sleep well” beneath, many of the once gay inhabitants of the scene:—
“Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.”
“Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.”
“Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.”
“Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;
Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.”
There are few things which address themselves more strongly to the feelings than the sight of the tombs of our countrymen in a far distant land. In the cemetery to which I am referring, now rarely visited, it being out of the track of travellers, where grass and jungle are fast encroaching, and time and the elements are pursuing their silent dilapidations, many a Briton—many a long forgotten Johnson and Thompson—quietly repose, far from the hearths of their fathers.
I have since more than once visited this and similar places, which may be compared to wrecks which the onward flow of our advancing power leaves behind it, and as I have stood and mused amongst them, have pleased myself by indulging in dreamy speculations touching the histories of the surrounding sleepers (for all have their little histories), of all their hopes, fears, and cares, here for ever laid at rest.
We extended our excursion to some distance beyond the cemetery, and visited the mausoleum of a Mahomedan prince or saint, the history of which I have forgotten. I have now only a faint remembrance of its mosaic andlattice-work—its inlaid scrolls from theKoran—the sarcophagus covered with an embroidered carpet, the lamps around, and the ostrich eggs suspended from the vaulted roof.
On returning home to the old general’s house, rather late, we found two or three of his friends, invalid officers of the garrison, assembled to do justice to his roast beef and other Christmas fare. A very social party we had; the general “shouldered his crutch,” and the invalid guests gave us plenty of Indian legendary lore; all hearts expanded under the influence of good cheer, and a couple of bottles of “Simkin Shrob” (Champagne), which the general produced as if it had been so much liquid gold, reserved for high days and holidays.
A glass or two of champagne is your grand specific for giving the blue devils theirquietus, and liberating those light and joyous spirits which wave their sparkling wings over the early wine-cup and the genial board; but, like other ephemeræ, soon pass away, drowned, perhaps, like flies, in the liquid from whence they spring, leaving but a pleasing remembrance of their having once existed.
The next morning, after breakfast, the cornet and I rode back to Sultanpore, and in a few days I bade him adieu, and in a short time found myself sound in wind and limb, but quite out ofrootie mackun(“bread and butter”), and other river stores, in sight of the far-famed fortress of Allahabad, at the confluence of the Jumna and Ganges.
The view of this fortress, with its lofty walls and numerous towers, is, as you approach it, very striking; one sees few such imposing masses in England; and as for our feudal castles, few of them are much bigger than the gateways of such places as I am describing.
The fort which occupies the point where these two famous rivers meet, though perfectly Oriental in its general character, has been “pointed,” and strengthened in accordance with the principles of European fortification,particularly on the land side. It is impregnable to a native force, and one of the principal depôts of the Upper Provinces. This, as is well known, is one of thePrayagas, or places of Hindoo pilgrimage.
During the greatMelah, or fair, which subsequently it was often my lot to witness, the concourse of people who assemble here from all parts of the Hindoo world, from the Straits of Manaar to the mountains of Thibet, is prodigious. The sands below the fort exhibit, on that occasion, a sea of heads, intersected by lines of booths, and here and there an elephant or a camel towering above the congregated mass.
The point where the all-important regenerating dip is effected, is covered by the many-coloured standards of the Brahmins and Fakeers, looking at a distance like a dahlia show, or a gaudy-coloured bed of tulips.
In crossing over to the fort, in my bolio, I was forcibly struck by the very different appearance in the water of the two streams. The one, the Jumna, deep, blue, and pure; the other, the Ganges, yellow and turbid. It was curious to observe them blending in many a whirlpool and eddy—the flaky wreaths of the dirty old “Gunga-Jee” infusing themselves into the transparent element of the sister river.
Here I laid in a store of eggs, bread, poultry, mutton, and the like—of the latter I purchased a magnificent hind-quarter from a bazaar kussai, or butcher, who came staggering on board with it, patting and attitudinizing it, and after pointing out its incomparable beauties, its masses of fat, and the fine colour of the lean, &c., let me have it for four rupees, just three rupees eight annas more than it was worth.
A few days brought me to Currah Munickpoor, where I found a sub, on solitary outpost duty, who looked upon my arrival as an agreeable break to the monotony of his life—a perfect Godsend—and treated me with uncommon hospitality. I found him a very pleasant fellow, and his manner of life—smoking, eating, shooting,&c.—so much to my taste, that it did not require any very urgent solicitation on his part to induce me to spend two or three days with him.
I dined with him at his bungalow, some short distance inland, on the first day, when he showed me the objects worthy of notice in the neighbourhood, and thinking this a good opportunity to dress my hind-quarter of mutton, I invited him to partake of it next day, on board my bolio.
My acquaintance was a “mighty hunter,” as most young Indian officers are. He shot, fished, and kept a pack of mongrels, and a greyhound or two, with which he hunted the hare, fox, and jackal; he was also a great adept in the use of the pellet-bow, in the mode of discharging which he obligingly gave me some lessons.
I am not aware whether this sort of bow is known in Europe or not. If it were as generally made use of amongst boys in England as by young men in India, we should certainly have a fearful number of blind and one-eyed gentry amongst the population.
This bow is generally made of a split bamboo, which, being highly elastic, renders it peculiarly adapted to the purpose; it has two strings of catgut, which, at about a foot from one extremity, are kept separate by a small piece of stick, about an inch and a half in length, the ends ingeniously secured between the strands of the string; immediately opposite to that part of the bow grasped by the hand, and which is well padded, there is a small piece of leather, about two square inches in size, sewn to the two strings, and presenting its flat surface to the handle; in this a pellet of hard, dried clay is placed, and being seized by the thumb and forefinger of the right hand, is then discharged at the object.
The great danger of the tyro is that of striking the thumb of the left hand, within an inch or two of which the ball must always pass, though by the practised bowman a collision is always avoided by giving the wrista peculiar turn or twist. The force with which the ball goes, when thus propelled, is surprising; and uncommon accuracy in striking an object may be in time acquired by a due regulation of the hands and eye. I have brought down with the pellet-bow pigeons and kites, when on the wing, from a great height, and cut off the heads of doves and sparrows sometimes as completely as if it had been done with a knife.
As my friend and I strolled in the tamarind grove, near to which my boat was moored, he exhibited his skill upon the squirrels and paroquets, much to my astonishment.
“Will you let me have a shot?” said I, eagerly.
“Certainly; but have you ever attempted it before?”
“Never,” I replied; “but there appears to be no difficulty in it whatever.”
“’Tis far more difficult than you imagine,” he replied; “it was months before I got into the way of it; here,” he continued, “if you are determined, you must. Now, twist your wrist thus, or you will infallibly hit your thumb: there, so!”
“Oh! I see,” said I; and immediately seized the bow.
A dove sat invitingly on a neighbouring bough; I gave a long pull and a strong pull, and, och! hit my thumb a whack that bared it to the bone. Away I tossed the pellet-bow to the distance of about twenty yards, thrust the mutilated member into my mouth, and immediately fell to dancing something very like Jim Crow. In a little time the agony subsided; I had swathed the ex-member in fine linen, when Fyz Buccas came to summon us to dinner.
“Come along, sir,” said I; “I hope you can dine off a hind-quarter of mutton and a Bombay pudding.”
“Nothing can be better,” said he; “but where did you get your meat?”
“I bought it of a bazaar fellow at Allahabad, and a splendid joint it is.”
My companion, more experienced in the tricks of India than myself, smiled incredulously, and then looked a little grave.
“I hope they have not given you a made-up article.”
“Made-up!” said I; “I don’t understand you.”
“Why,” he replied, “these bazaar rascals stuff and blow up their meat, and use half a dozen other different ways of taking in the unwary passenger.”
“’Pon my life,” said I, “you frighten me; if this my best bower fails, we shall go plump on the rocks of short commons, that’s certain.”
“Oh, never mind,” said he; “at the worst, my place is not far off, and there is abundance of prog there; besides, I can eat bazaar mutton, or goat, or anything else at a pinch, particularly if there is a good glass of Hodgson to wash it down.”
This dialogue was cut short by the entry of the mutton; it certainly did not look as respectable mutton should look. I seized the carver, eager to know the worst, and gave a cut; the murder was out, and so was the wind; the unhappy mutton falling into a state of collapse.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the sub: “I thought as much; now try that mass of fat containing the kidney, and you will have farther evidence of the skill with which an Indian butcher can manufacture a fat joint of mutton.”
I made a transverse incision into the membraneous sac, and there lay a beautiful and compact stratification of suet, skin, and other extraneous matters, which I extractedseriatimat the point of my fork. I confess I was thunderstruck at this profligacy of the heathen, which is, however, common enough.
Currah is an interesting spot, abounding in picturesque ruins; and good sporting is to be had there, the neighbourhood abounding in hares, wild pea-fowl, grey partridges, and quail; the best cover in which to find the latter is, my friend told me, the soft feathery undergrowthof grass to be found in the indigo fields. In some of the islands of the Ganges, black partridge, florikin, and hog-deer are to be met with, and there are also plenty of wolves and hyænas amongst the ruins, for those who are fond of such sport.
The town of Currah, about fifty miles above Allahabad, is situated on the Ganges, close to its banks, and presents to the view a confused mass of mud buildings, buried in the foliage of numerous neem, peepul, and tamarind trees; interspersed with these are several temples, musjids, or mosques, as also some houses of stone or brick, displaying a considerable appearance of comfort and convenience for this part of India.
The vicinity is much cut up by deep ravines, formed by the annual rains in their descent, through the loose soil, to the river. A little below the town are the remains of a considerable fort, which from the Ganges has rather a picturesque appearance; its gateway, and some lofty circular bastions, are in a very tolerable state of preservation.
Lower down still, on the spot where I moored, are some pretty Hindoo mundils or temples, from which ghauts or flights of steps lead to the river; these are overhung by noble trees, principally the tamarind, shedding a cool and refreshing shade over the spot.
Here I planted my chair on one or two evenings, with my friend the sub, beneath the shade of these trees, and, soothed into a state of tranquillity by the cooing of numerous doves, which fill the groves, I gazed on the boats as they glided down the stream, and yielded up my mind to the influence of tranquil and pleasing emotions. I thought of home—my mother—the widow—when I should be a captain—and other things equally remote and agreeable.
The tamarind, to my taste, is the most beautiful tree of the East—not even excepting the banyan—the foliage, which is of a delicate green, droops in rich and luxuriant masses, like clusters of ostrich plumes—overhanging apiece of water, or half-enveloping some old mosque, durgah, or caravanserai—with the traveller’s horse picketed in its shade, or the group of camels ruminating in repose beneath it—nothing can be more picturesque.
This tree, beneath which no plant will grow, seems to be a great favourite with the natives, but particularly with the Mahomedans; it is almost invariably to be found near their mosques and mausoleums; and amongst them, I suspect, holds the place the yew, or rather the cypress, does with us—an almost inseparable adjunct of the tomb:
“Fond tree, still sad when others’ griefs are fled.The only constant mourner o’er the dead.”
“Fond tree, still sad when others’ griefs are fled.The only constant mourner o’er the dead.”
“Fond tree, still sad when others’ griefs are fled.The only constant mourner o’er the dead.”
“Fond tree, still sad when others’ griefs are fled.
The only constant mourner o’er the dead.”
A nest of Brahmins is comfortably established in and about the ghaut and temple above mentioned, the duties of which latter they perform; these, with bathing, eating, sleeping, and fleecing European passers-by, constitute the daily tenor of theirharmlesslives. They regularly levy contributions from European travellers who pass this way, and make, I suspect, rather a good thing of it.
Their course of proceeding is as follows: one of the fraternity, with all the humility of aspect which characterized Sterne’s monk, waits upon the traveller with a little present of milk, fruit, or a pot of tamarind preserve—the last, by the way, uncommonly good there—this, in a subdued tone, and with a low salaam, he tenders for acceptance, and at the same time produces for inspection a well-thumbed volume—of which it might truly be said, in the language of the Latin grammar, “Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo”—partly filled with names, doggrels, and generally abortive attempts at the facetious. In this the traveller is requested to record his name, the date of his visit, with the addition of as much epigram as he can conveniently squeeze out, or of anyextemporeverses he may chance to have by him ready cut and dry for such occasions.
Having made his literary contribution, and returned the valuable miscellany to its owner, in whose favour the traveller’s romantic feelings are perhaps warmly excited, particularly if, like me, a “tazu wulait” (literally, a fresh-imported European), with some St. Pierre-ish notions of the virtuous simplicity of Brahmins and Gentoos, he begins to discover, from the lingering, fidgety, expectant manner of his sacerdotal friend, that something remains to be done—in fact, that a more important contribution is required—and that the “amor nummi” is quite as rife in a grove on the banks of the Ganges as anywhere else in this lucre-loving world. On making this discovery, he disburses his rupee in a fume, and all his romantic ideas of hospitable Brahmins, primitive simplicity, children of nature, &c. &c., vanish into thin air.
My friend the sub lent me a pony, and, accompanied by dogs, servants, and guns, we traversed a good deal of the surrounding country in search of game and the picturesque.
The country, for miles around Currah, is thickly covered with the ruins of Mahomedan tombs, some of great size, and combining, with much diversity of form, considerable elegance and architectural beauty. Two or three of these, more striking than the rest, are erected over the remains of peers or saints; one of these latter is, I was told, Sheik Kummul ud Deen, a very holy man, who, doubtless, in his day rendered good service to the cause of Islam, by dint, probably, of that very cutting and convincing argument theshumshere.[50]The adjacent village of Kummulpore derives its name from him.
Kurruck Shah, I learnt from my young friend, who was a bit of an antiquary, was the name of another peer of remarkable sanctity, who lies buried near the town of Currah; his durgah or shrine, which we visited, is situated in the midst of an extensive paved court, nearly encompassed by shabby whitewashed buildings, shadedby two or three gigantic trees, some of the arms of which were leaning for support on the buildings they had so long shaded, like parents claiming in age the support of their children—their natural props. It has, we were told, an establishment of peerzadas, or attendant priests, and land attached for their support, the supply of oil for the lamps, &c.
I could never learn clearly or positively the cause of so vast a congregation of tombs as this neighbourhood exhibits, many square miles being covered with them; but my companion was told by villagers whom he questioned on the subject, that they covered the remains of the slain who fell in a great battle. As, however, the dates on the tombs are of various periods, this must have been the hardest fought battle on record—or the process of interment singularly slow.
Joking apart, to trust to theon ditsand traditions of untutored peasants in any country is far more likely to lead to error than to enlighten, in nine cases out of ten.
Having much enjoyed my three days’ halt at Currah, I once more pursued my onward course, my hospitable host sending down to my boat a profusion of butter, fresh bread, and vegetables, for my voyage, with a piece of mutton, on the integrity of which he told me I might confidently rely: this was, at all events,puffingit in a proper manner.
I found the country between Currah and Cawnpore to contain nothing particularly remarkable; groves, ghauts, mud-built towns, ravines, and sand-banks constituted its leading features. On one of the latter, one fine cold evening, I performed the funeral obsequies of the one-eyed bull-dog, who had been long in a declining state; the climate evidently did not agree with his constitution, and he slowly sunk under its effects. The interment was conducted by Nuncoo Matar, and Teazer, now constituting the sum total of my kennel, stood by whilst his companion Sully was receiving those last attentions at our hands.
At Cawnpore I put up with the major, who, the reader may remember, was one of our passengers in theRottenbeam Castle. He was a most worthy, gentlemanly fellow, as great a griffin as myself, though likely to continue so to the end of the chapter, for two very good reasons: one, because he had passed that age after which, as I have before stated, in an early part of these memoirs, the process of accommodation to Indian habits becomes an exceedingly difficult one; and secondly, because he had the honour to belong to one of H.M.’s regiments, in which it must be sufficiently obvious, without my troubling the reader or myself with an elaborate explanation, that a knowledge of Indian manners, language, and customs is not so likely to be acquired as in a sepoy corps, where a European is brought into constant contact with the natives.
The major, who was accustomed to the best society of England, had a considerable admixture of the exquisite in his composition; but it sat so easily upon him he did not know it, and being natural, was consequently agreeable.
I would not have it inferred, exactly, that I think all things which are genuine must necessarily please, but that nature is always a redeeming feature, and when associated with what is in itself excellent, it constitutes the master-charm.
The major gave me a room in his bungalow, to which I soon had all my valuables transferred from the bolio. The same day the manjee came up to make his salaam, and demand the balance of what was due to him for his boat. He was accompanied by his sable crew, jolly fellows, who had carried me on their shoulders over many a nullah, and plunged many a time and oft in the Ganges for me, to pick up a bird.
There they were, “four-and-twenty blackbirds all in a row,” in the major’s verandah, squatted on their hams, and dressed in their best attire. Every face had become familiar to me; I knew most of their names, theirpeculiarfortes, from the purloineren passantofkuddoos[51]and cucumbers, the thief in ordinary to the mess, to the instructor of the paroquets, and the cook to the crew, and associated one or more of their names with almost every sporting adventure or exploit in which I had been engaged on my way up—a long four months’ trip.
It is true I subjected them occasionally to the rigorous discipline of the Marpeetian code; in other words, thrashed them soundly when they hesitated to plunge into an alligatorish-looking pool after a wounded dabchick, or capsized my griffinship, as happened once or twice, when staggering with me Scotch-cradle fashion, gun and all, through the shallows, to my bolio; but the good-natured, placable creatures soon forgot it, and we were on the whole very good friends. I believe they knew I was a griffin, and, cognizant of the infirmities of that singular animal, made allowances for me, particularly as I gave them sometimes, by way of compensation, a rupee or a feed ofmetais(sweetmeats).
Oh paying the manjee, he tied up the rupees carefully in the corner of his turban, and made me a low salaam; his crew also bowed themselves to the earth. So much for business. He then put up his hands, and with an agreeable smile, and in an insinuating tone, said something which I desired Ramdial to explain, though I partly guessed its purport.
“What does hemuncta(want), Ramdial?”
“Hebola(says) ifSahib Koosheewill please give himbuckshish.”
“Yes, yes; we’ll give him some boxes—paunch rupee bus?” (Rs. 5 enough, eh?)
“Han Sahib(yes, sir)bus(enough).”
Having, in my usual piebaldlingua franca, thus consulted my keeper of the privy purse, I ordered him to disburse a gratuity of Rs. 5 amongst the crew, which they gratefully received, with many salaams. Thus weparted, never more to meet, and thus wound up my aquatic journey from the presidency to Cawnpore.
The curtain is now about to rise on act the last of my griffinage, and it may be some consolation to those who have sat thus long to witness the performance, that they are approaching thedénouement, the grand flourish of trumpets andexeunt omnes.
Cawnpore is the head-quarters of a division, and the station of several thousand troops of all arms—with some slight addition, indeed, of native troops, a force can be despatched almost immediately from this station with which hardly any Indian army of the present day could successfully contend in the open field.
At the period embraced by these memoirs, a regiment of dragoons, two of native cavalry, one of European, and three of native infantry, horse and foot, artillery, pioneers, engineers, &c., &c., constituted the amount of the military force at Cawnpore. The station itself has a bad name amongst Indian stations, and richly does it deserve it. Dust, ravines, and mangy black pigs are the most striking features of the cantonment; and the neighbouring country is flat, arid, and peculiarly uninteresting.
The society is large, and time is killed here pretty much in the same way as in other large stations—private and mess parties, masquerades and fancy dress-balls, and private theatricals.
I passed a week with the hospitable major, which was principally devoted to making the necessary preparations for my march. I had nearly emptied the general’s snuff-box; had no pay due; and was consequently obliged to consider economy in my purchases, and to relinquish all ideas, if I ever had them, of travellingen seigneurorà la nawaub.
The first thing was to purchase a nag, and the major in this undertook to assist me—and thereby hangs a tale. He intimated to one of his regimental functionaries that a young gentleman wanted a pony; and straightway arare assortment of Rosinantes in miniature made their appearance in the compound. I never beheld the phrase of “raw head and bloody bones” so completely reduced to matter-of-fact before as in some of thesebitingsatires on the equine race, most of them grass-cutters’ tatoos—the quintessence of vice and deformity—a breed peculiar to India, and the very pariar of horses.[52]
“Try this fellow, Gernon,” said the major, laughing; “I think he’ll do for you.”
The major little thought how near he was to the mark. On his so saying, I mounted, or rather threw my leg over a very angular backbone, and seizing a primitive bridle of string or cord, solicited an onward movement with a “gee-up.”
Now, whether it was that I touched a “tender point,” or being of greater specific gravity than a bundle of grass, I know not; but certainly I was no sooner in a “fix,” as the Yankees say, than the little devil emitted an appalling scream, clapped back his ears, and commenced a rapid retrograde movement, backing me into the midst of “seven devils” worse than himself.
In a moment, I had double that number of heels in full play around me, spite of the tatoo owners’ attempts to drive off their animals. A thundering broadside in the ribs of my Bucephalus, which damaged my leg considerably, and other notes of battle sounding around, convinced me speedily that the sooner my friend and I parted company the better. I consequently rolled off, and scrambled out of themêlée, receiving, in retreating, an accelerator in the shape of another kick on or about the region of theos coccygis. As for the major, he was almost in convulsions.
“Confound it, major, that’s too bad of you,” said I, “to get me on the back of that imp, and now to laugh at my misfortunes.”
“Oh! then, by dad, you must forgive me,” said he,his eyes still streaming; “but if it was my father himself I could not resist;” and again he laughed till he gave up through exhaustion.
This over, I proceeded to a more cautious selection, and finally bought a tolerably decent-looking animal for Rs. 25, and who, bating that his fore-feet were in the first position, was worth the money. A small tent, in India termed a routee, rather the worse for wear, I bought for Rs. 60, and this, with a Cawnpore-made saddle and bridle, a hackery, two bullock-trunks, and a pair of bangy baskets, constituted my turn-out for the march.
My friend the major kindly took me with him to messes and wherever he was invited.
These mess parties I then thought very pleasant, though I confess I should now derive very little pleasure from the scenes in which I was then wont to delight, particularly on what were considered public nights—toasting, speechifying, drinking, singing songs (many of the grossest description), roaring and screeching, with thefinaleof devilled biscuits, daybreak, pale faces, perhaps a quarrel or two, and half a dozen under the table, in a few words describe them.
Since those days, and twenty-five years are now equal to a century of the olden time as respects progress, things have improved; we have begun to learn in what true sociality really consists—even and tranquil interchange of thought, with a sprinkling of decent mirth, the genuine “feast of reason and the flow of soul”—to which eating and drinking, the mere gastronomic pleasures of the table, are considered as secondary rather than as principal sources of enjoyment.
The change, however, is yet but beginning; aldermen, it is true, have ceased to be inseparably associated (as twin ideas) with huge paunches and red noses—your seven-bottle men have enjoyed the last of their fame, which reposes with the celebrity of a Beau Brummel; but too much of the old Saxon leaven—the wine andwassail-loving and gormandizing spirit, with an excess of animalism in other respects—still characterizes us; and, little as it may be thought, is a serious hindrance to social and intellectual advancement.
The more exalted pleasures of the heart and intellect, let it be observed in passing, can only be enjoyed, individually and nationally, by those who can restrain their grosser appetites within moderate bounds. This great truth the Easterns of old perceived, though (like all truth when first discerned) it was pushed to a vicious extreme in this case—that of excessive mortification.
This inordinate love of that which administers gratification to the senses (allowable in a moderate degree) is, it appears to my humble apprehension, our prime national defect; it engenders a fearful selfishness and profusion—militates against that moderation and simplicity of character from which great things spring—marks a state of pseudo-civilization, and causes to be left fallow or but partially cultivated the field of the benevolent affections—the true source of the purest enjoyments.
When man shall be sought and prized for his qualities and virtues, and not for his mere adjuncts of wealth and station; when happy human hearts and smiling human faces shall have more real charms for the great and refined than thepirouettesof a Taglioni or the strains of a Rubini; when the glow of self-approval shall be able to battle with the fashionable sneer and the “world’s dread laugh,” and the duties of kindred and country shall take precedence of “missions to the blacks,” and the like; then, indeed, shall we be opening a new field for the mighty energies of our race, and entering on a happy millennium.
What a power to effect good, by leading the young and awakening spirit of the age into paths of peace, do the aristocracy of this country possess, if they would but use it! Standing on the vantage ground of fashion, wealth and station, they might infuse fresh moral and intellectual vigour into the nation, and stem, by all thatis liberal, ennobling, and refining, the somewhat sordid and mediocre influences of mere commercial wealth. “Truth,” from them, would prevail with “double sway;” whilst philanthropists in “seedy coats” may plead in vain with the fervour of a Paul and the eloquence of a Demosthenes. “What’s in a name?” says Shakespeare—“a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” There the immortal bard utterly belied his usual accuracy.