Leave Bhagulpore—Kunker—Colgong—Himalaya, distant view of—Cosi, mouth
of—Difficult navigation—Sand
storms—Caragola-Ghat—Purnea—Ortolans—Mahanuddee, transport of pebbles,
etc.—Betel-pepper, cultivation of—Titalya—Siligoree—View of outer
Himalaya—Terai—Mechis—Punkabaree—Foot of mountains—Ascent to
Dorjiling—Cicadas—Leeches—Animals—Kursiong, spring vegetation
of—Pacheem—Arrive at Dorjiling—Dorjiling, origin and settlement
of—Grant of land from Rajah—Dr. Campbell appointed
superintendent—Dewan, late and present—Aggressive conduct of the
latter—Increase of the station—Trade—Titalya fair—Healtby climate for
Europeans and children—Invalids, diseases prejudicial to.
I took as it were, a new departure, on Saturday, April the 8th, my dawk
being laid on that day from Caragola-Ghat, about thirty miles down the
river, for the foot of the Himalaya range and Dorjiling.
Passing the pretty villa-like houses of the English residents, the
river-banks re-assumed their wonted features the hills receded from the
shore; and steep clay cliffs, twenty to fifty feet high, on one side,
opposed long sandy shelves on the other. Kunker was still most
abundant, especially in the lower bed of the banks, close to the (now
very low) water. The strata containing it were much undulated, but not
uniformly so; horizontal layers over or under-lying the disturbed ones.
At Colgong, conical hills appear, and two remarkable sister-rocks start
out of the river, the same in structure with those of Sultangunj. A
boisterous current swirls round them, strong even at this season, and
very dangerous in the rains, when the swollen river is from
twenty-eight to forty feet deeper than now. We landed opposite the
rocks, and proceeded to the residence of Mr. G. Barnes, prettily
situated on one of the conical elevations characteristic of the geology
of the district. The village we passed through had been recently
destroyed by fire; and nothing but the clay outer walls and
curious-looking partition walls remained, often white-washed and daubed
with figures in red of the palm of the hand, elephant, peacock, and
tiger,—a sort of rude fresco-painting. We did not arrive till past
mid-day, and the boat, with my palkee and servant, not having been able
to face the gale, I was detained till the middle of the following day.
Mr. Barnes and his brother proved most agreeable companions,—very
luckily for me, for it requires no ordinary philosophy to bear being
storm-stayed on a voyage, with the prospect of paying a heavy demurrage
for detaining the dawk, and the worse one of finding the bearers given
to another traveller when you arrive at the rendezvous. The view from
Mr. Barnes’ house is very fine: it commands the river and its rocks;
the Rajmahal hills to the east and south; broad acres of indigo and
other crops below; long lines of palm-trees, and groves of mango,
banana, tamarind, and other tropical trees, scattered close around and
in the distance. In the rainy season, and immediately after, the snowy
Himalaya are distinctly seen on the horizon, fully 170 miles off.
Nearly opposite, the Cosi river enters the Ganges, bearing (considering
its short course) an enormous volume of water, comprising the drainage
of the whole Himalaya between the two giant peaks of Kinchinjunga in
Sikkim, and Gossain-Than in Nepal. Even at this season, looking from
Mr. Barnes’ eyrie over the bed of the Ganges, the enormous expanses of
sand, the numerous shifting islets, and the long spits of mud betray
the proximity of some very restless and resistless power. During the
rains, the scene must indeed be extraordinary, when the Cosi lays many
miles of land under water, and pours so vast a quantity of detritus
into the bed of the Ganges that long islets are heaped up and swept
away in a few hours; and the latter river becomes all but unnavigable.
Boats are caught in whirlpools, formed without a moment’s warning, and
sunk ere they have spun round thrice in the eddies; and no part of the
inland navigation of India is so dreaded or dangerous, as the Ganges at
its junction with the Cosi.
Rain generally falls in partial showers at this season, and they are
essential to the well-being of the spring crops of indigo. The stormy
appearance of the sky, though it proved fallacious, was hailed by my
hosts as predicting a fall, which was much wanted. The wind however
seemed but to aggravate the drought, by the great body of sand it
lifted and swept up the valleys, obscuring the near horizon, and
especially concealing the whole delta of the Cosi, where the clouds
were so vast and dense, and ascended so high as to resemble another
element.
All night the gale blew on, accompanied with much thunder and
lightning, and it was not till noon of the 9th that I descried my
palkee-boat toiling down the stream. Then I again embarked, taking the
lagging boat in tow of my own. Passing the mouths of the Cosi, the gale
and currents were so adverse that we had to bring up on the sand, when
the quantity which drifted into the boat rendered the delay as
disagreeable as it was tedious. The particles penetrated everywhere, up
my nose and down my back, drying my eyelids, and gritting between my
teeth. The craft kept bumping on the banks, and being both crazy and
leaky, the little comfortless cabin became the refuge of scared rats
and cockroaches. In the evening I shared a meal with these creatures,
on some provisions my kind friends had put into the boat, but the food
was so sandy that I had to bolt my supper!
At night the storm lulled a little, and I proceeded to Caragola Ghat
and took up my dawk, which had been twenty-eight hours expecting me,
and was waiting, in despair of my arrival, for another traveller on the
opposite bank, who however could not cross the river.
Having accomplished thirty miles, I halted at 9 a..m. on the following
morning at Purnea, quitting it at noon for Kishengunj. The whole
country wore a greener garb than I had seen anywhere south of the
Ganges: the climate was evidently more humid, and had been gradually
becoming so from Mirzapore. The first decided change was a few miles
below the Soane mouth, at Dinapore and Patna; and the few hygrometrical
observations I took at Bhagulpore confirmed the increase of moisture.
The proximity to the sea and great Delta of the Ganges sufficiently
accounts for this; as does the approach to the hills for the still
greater dampness and brighter verdure of Purnea. I was glad to feel
myself within the influence of the long-looked-for Himalaya; and I
narrowly watched every change in the character of the vegetation. A
fern, growing by the roadside, was the first and most tangible evidence
of this; together with the rarity or total absence of _Butea,
Boswellia, Catechu, Grislea, Carissa,_ and all the companions of my
former excursion.
Purnea is a large station, and considered very unhealthy during and
after the rains. From it the road passed through some pretty lanes,
with groves of planted Guava and a rattan palm (_Calamus_), the first I
had seen. Though no hills are nearer than the Himalaya, from the
constant alteration of the river-beds, the road undulates remarkably
for this part of India, and a jungly vegetation ensues, consisting of
the above plants, with the yellow-flowered Cactus replacing the
Euphorbias, which were previously much more common. Though still 100
miles distant from the hills, mosses appeared on the banks, and more
ferns were just sprouting above ground.
The Bamboo was a very different species from any I had hitherto met
with, forming groves of straight trees fifteen to twenty feet high,
thin of foliage, and not unlike poplars.
Thirty-six miles from Purnea brought me to Kishengunj, when I found
that no arrangements whatever had been made for my dawk, and I was
fairly stranded. Luckily a thoughtful friend had provided me with
letters to the scattered residents along the road, and I proceeded with
one to Mr. Perry, the assistant magistrate of the district,—a gentleman
well known for his urbanity, and the many aids he affords to travellers
on this neglected line of road. Owing to this being some festival or
holiday, it was impossible to get palkee-bearers; the natives were busy
catching fish in all the muddy pools around. Some of Mr. Perry’s own
family also were about to proceed to Dorjiling, so that I had only to
take patience, and be thankful for having to exercise it in such
pleasant quarters. The Mahanuddee, a large stream from the hills, flows
near this place, strewing the surrounding neighbourhood with sand, and
from the frequent alterations in its course, causing endless disputes
amongst the landholders. A kind of lark called an Ortolan was abundant:
this is not, however, the European delicacy of that name, though a
migratory bird; the flocks are large, and the birds so fat, that they
make excellent table game. At this time they were rapidly disappearing;
to return from the north in September. I had just got into bed at
night, when the bearers arrived; so bidding a hurried adieu to my kind
host, I proceeded onwards.
_April 12._—I awoke at 4 a.m., and found my palkee on the ground, and
the bearers coolly smoking their hookahs under a tree (it was raining
hard): they had carried me the length of their stage, twelve miles, and
there were no others to take me on. I had paid twenty-four pounds for
my dawk, from Caragola to the hills, to which I had been obliged to add
a handsome douceur; so I lost all patience. After waiting and
entreating during several hours, I found the head-man of a neighbouring
village, and by a further disbursement induced six out of the twelve
bearers to carry the empty palkee, whilst I should walk to the next
stage; or till we should meet some others. They agreed, and cutting the
thick and spongy sheaths of the banana, used them for shoulder-pads:
they also wrapped them round the palkee-poles, to ease their aching
clavicles. Walking along I picked up a few plants, and fourteen miles
further on came again to the banks of the Mahanuddee, whose bed was
strewn with pebbles and small boulders, brought thus far from the
mountains (about thirty miles distant). Here, again, I had to apply to
the head-man of a village, and pay for bearers to take me to Titalya,
the next stage (fourteen miles). Some curious long low sheds puzzled me
very much, and on examining them they proved to be for the growth of
Pawn or Betel-pepper, another indication of the moisture of the
climate. These sheds are twenty to fifty yards long, eight or twelve or
so broad, and scarcely five high; they are made of bamboo, wattled all
round and over the top. Slender rods are placed a few feet apart,
inside, up which the Pepper Vines climb, and quickly fill the place
with their deep green glossy foliage. The native enters every morning
by a little door, and carefully cleans the plants. Constant heat, damp,
and moisture, shelter from solar beams, from scorching heat, and from
nocturnal radiation, are thus all procured for the plant, which would
certainly not live twenty-four hours, if exposed to the climate of this
treeless district. Great attention is paid to the cultivation, which is
very profitable. Snakes frequently take up their quarters in these
hot-houses, and cause fatal accidents.
Titalya was once a military station of some importance, and from its
proximity to the hills has been selected by Dr. Campbell (the
Superintendent of Dorjiling) as the site for an annual fair, to which
the mountain tribes resort, as well as the people of the plains. The
Calcutta road to Dorjiling by Dinajpore meets, near here, that by which
I had come; and I found no difficulty in procuring bearers to proceed
to Siligoree, where I arrived at 6 a.m. on the 13th. Hitherto I bad not
seen the mountains, so uniformly had they been shrouded by dense
wreaths of vapour: here, however, when within eight miles of their
base, I caught a first glimpse of the outer range—sombre masses, of far
from picturesque outline, clothed everywhere with a dusky forest.
Siligoree stands on the verge of the Terai, that low malarious belt
which skirts the base of the Himalaya, from the Sutlej to Brahma-koond
in Upper Assam. Every feature, botanical, geological, and zoological,
is new on entering this district. The change is sudden and immediate:
sea and shore are hardly more conspicuously different, nor from the
edge of the Terai to the limit of perpetual snow is any botanical
region more clearly marked than this, which is the commencement of
Himalayan vegetation. A sudden descent leads to the Mahanuddee river,
flowing in a shallow valley, over a pebbly bottom: it is a rapid river,
even at this season; its banks are fringed with bushes, and it is as
clear and sparkling as a trout stream in Scotland. Beyond it the road
winds through a thick brushwood, choked with long grasses, and with but
few trees, chiefly of _Acacia, Dalbergia Sissoo,_ and a scarlet fruited
_Sterculia._ The soil is a red, friable clay and gravel. At this season
only a few spring plants were in flower, amongst which a very
sweet-scented _Crinum,_ Asphodel, and a small _Curcuma,_ were in the
greatest profusion. Leaves of terrestrial Orchids appeared, with ferns
and weeds of hot damp regions. I crossed the beds of many small
streams: some were dry, and all very tortuous; their banks were richly
clothed with brushwood and climbers of Convolvulus, Vines, _Hiræa,
Leea, Menispermeæ, Cucurbitaceæ,_ and _Bignoniaceæ._ Their pent-up
waters, percolating the gravel beds, and partly carried off by
evaporation through the stratum of ever-increasing vegetable mould,
must be one main agent in the production of the malarious vapours of
this pestilential region. Add to this, the detention of the same
amongst the jungly herbage, the amount of vapour in the humid
atmosphere above, checking the upward passage of that from the soil,
the sheltered nature of the locality at the immediate base of lofty
mountains; and there appear to me to be here all necessary elements,
which, combined, will produce stagnation and deterioration in an
atmosphere loaded with vapour. Fatal as this district is, and
especially to Europeans, a race inhabit it with impunity, who, if not
numerous, do not owe their paucity to any climatic causes. These are
the Mechis, often described as a squalid, unhealthy people, typical of
the region they frequent; but who are, in reality, more robust than the
Europeans in India, and whose disagreeably sallow complexion is
deceptive as indicating a sickly constitution. They are a mild,
inoffensive people, industrious for Orientals, living by annually
burning the Terai jungle and cultivating the cleared spots; and, though
so sequestered and isolated, they rather court than avoid intercourse
with those whites whom they know to be kindly disposed.
After proceeding some six miles along the gradually ascending path, I
came to a considerable stream, cutting its way through stratified
gravel, with cliffs on each side fifteen to twenty feet high, here and
there covered with ferns, the little _Oxalis sensitiva,_ and other
herbs. The road here suddenly ascends a steep gravelly hill, and opens
out on a short flat, or spur, from which the Himalaya rise abruptly,
clothed with forest from the base: the little bungalow of Punkabaree,
my immediate destination, nestled in the woods, crowning a lateral
knoll, above which, to east and west, as far as the eye could reach,
were range after range of wooded mountains, 6000 to 8000 feet high. I
here met with the India-rubber tree (_Ficus elastica_); it abounds in
Assam, but this is its western limit.
From this steppe, the ascent to Punkabaree is sudden and steep, and
accompanied with a change in soil and vegetation. The mica slate and
clay slate protrude everywhere, the former full of garnets. A giant
forest replaces the stunted and bushy timber of the Terai Proper; of
which the _Duabanga_ and _Terminalias_ form the prevailing trees, with
_Cedrela_ and the _Gordonia Wallichii._ Smaller timber and shrubs are
innumerable; a succulent character pervades the bushes and herbs,
occasioned by the prevalence of _Urticeæ._ Large bamboos rather crest
the hills than court the deeper shade, and of the latter there is
abundance, for the torrents cut a straight, deep, and steep course down
the hill flanks: the galleys they traverse are choked with vegetation
and bridged by fallen trees, whose trunks are richly clothed with
_Dendrobium Pierardi_ and other epiphytical Orchids, with pendulous
_Lycopodia_ and many ferns, _Hoya, Scitamineæ,_ and similar types of
the hottest and dampest climates.
The bungalow at Punkabaree was good—which was well, as my
luggage-bearers were not come up, and there were no signs of them along
the Terai road, which I saw winding below me. My scanty stock of paper
being full of plants, I was reduced to the strait of botanising, and
throwing away my specimens. The forest was truly magnificent along the
steep mountain sides. The apparently large proportion of deciduous
trees was far more considerable than I had expected; partly, probably,
due to the abundance of the _Dillenia, Cassia,_ and _Sterculia,_ whose
copious fruit was all the more conspicuous from the leafless condition
of the plant. The white or lilac blossoms of the convolvuluslike
_Thunbergia,_ and other _Acanthaceæ_ were the predominant features of
the shrubby vegetation, and very handsome.
All around, the hills rise steeply five or six thousand feet, clothed
in a dense deep-green dripping forest. Torrents rush down the slopes,
their position indicated by the dipping of the forest into their beds,
or the occasional cloud of spray rising above some more boisterous part
of their course. From the road, at and a little above Punkabaree, the
view is really superb, and very instructive. Behind (or north) the
Himalaya rise in steep confused masses. Below, the hill on which I
stood, and the ranges as far as the eye can reach east and west, throw
spurs on to the plains of India. These are very thickly wooded, and
enclose broad, dead-flat, hot and damp valleys, apparently covered with
a dense forest. Secondary spurs of clay and gravel, like that
immediately below Punkabaree, rest on the bases of the mountains, and
seem to form an intermediate neutral ground between flat and
mountainous India. The Terai district forms a very irregular belt,
scantily clothed, and intersected by innumerable rivulets from the
hills, which unite and divide again on the flat, till, emerging from
the region of many trees, they enter the plains, following devious
courses, which glisten like silver threads. The whole horizon is
bounded by the sea-like expanse of the plains, which stretch away into
the region of sunshine and fine weather, in one boundless flat.
In the distance, the courses of the Teesta and Cosi, the great drainers
of the snowy Himalayas, and the recipients of innumerable smaller
rills, are with difficulty traced at this, the dry season. The
ocean-like appearance of this southern view is even more conspicuous in
the heavens than on the land, the clouds arranging themselves after a
singularly sea-scape fashion. Endless strata run in parallel ribbons
over the extreme horizon; above these, scattered cumuli, also in
horizontal lines, are dotted against a clear grey sky, which gradually,
as the eye is lifted, passes into a deep cloudless blue vault,
continuously clear to the zenith; there the cumuli, in white fleecy
masses, again appear; till, in the northern celestial hemisphere, they
thicken and assume the leaden hue of nimbi, discharging their moisture
on the dark forest-clad hills around. The breezes are south-easterly,
bringing that vapour from the Indian Ocean, which is rarefied and
suspended aloft over the heated plains, but condensed into a drizzle
when it strikes the cooler flanks of the hills, and into heavy rain
when it meets their still colder summits. Upon what a gigantic scale
does nature here operate! Vapours, raised from an ocean whose nearest
shore is more than 400 miles distant, are safely transported without
the loss of one drop of water, to support the rank luxuriance of this
far distant region. This and other offices fulfilled, the waste waters
are returned, by the Cosi and Teesta, to the ocean, and again exhaled,
exported, expended, re-collected, and returned.
[Illustration: Punkabaree, Sikkim Terai, and Balasun River.]
The soil and bushes everywhere swarmed with large and troublesome ants,
and enormous earthworms. In the evening, the noise of the great
_Cicadæ_ in the trees was almost deafening. They burst suddenly into
full chorus, with a voice so harshly croaking, so dissonant, and so
unearthly, that in these solitary forests I could not help being
startled. In general character the note was very similar to that of
other _Cicadæ._ They ceased as suddenly as they commenced. On the
following morning my baggage arrived, and, leaving my palkee, I mounted
a pony kindly sent for me by Mr. Hodgson, and commenced a very steep
ascent of about 3000 feet, winding along the face of a steep,
richly-wooded valley. The road zigzags extraordinarily in and out of
the innumerable lateral ravines, each with its water course, dense
jungle, and legion of leeches; the bite of these blood-suckers gives no
pain, but is fo1lowed by considerable effusion of blood. They puncture
through thick worsted stockings, and even trousers, and, when full,
roll in the form of a little soft ball into the bottom of the shoe,
where their presence is hardly felt in walking.
Not only are the roadsides rich in plants, but native paths, cutting
off all the zigzags, run in straight lines up the steepest hill-faces,
and thus double the available means for botanising; and it is all but
impossible to leave the paths of one kind or other, except for a yard
or two up the rocky ravines. Elephants, tigers, and occasionally the
rhinoceros, inhabit the foot of these hills, with wild boars, leopards,
etc.; but none are numerous. The elephant’s path is an excellent
specimen of engineering—the opposite of the native track, for it winds
judiciously.
At about 1000 feet above Punkabaree, the vegetation is very rich, and
appears all the more so from the many turnings of the road, affording
glorious prospects of the foreshortened tropical forests. The prevalent
timber is gigantic, and scaled by climbing _Leguminosæ,_ as _Bauhinias_
and _Robinias,_ which sometimes sheath the trunks, or span the forest
with huge cables, joining tree to tree. Their trunks are also clothed
with parasitical Orchids, and still more beautifully with Pothos
(_Scindapsus_), Peppers, _Gnetum,_ Vines, Convolvulus, and _Bignoniæ._
The beauty of the drapery of the Pothos-leaves is pre-eminent, whether
for the graceful folds the foliage assumes, or for the liveliness of
its colour. Of the more conspicuous smaller trees, the wild banana is
the most abundant, its crown of very beautiful foliage contrasting with
the smaller-leaved plants amongst which it nestles; next comes a
screw-pine (_Pandanus_) with a straight stem and a tuft of leaves; each
eight or ten feet long, waving on all sides. _Araliaceæ,_ with smooth
or armed slender trunks, and _Mappa_-like _Euphorbiaceæ,_ spread their
long petioles horizontally forth, each terminated with an ample leaf
some feet in diameter. Bamboo abounds everywhere: its dense tufts of
culms, 100 feet and upwards high, are as thick as a man’s thigh at the
base. Twenty or thirty, species of ferns (including a tree-fern) were
luxuriant and handsome. Foliaceous lichens and a few mosses appeared at
2000 feet. Such is the vegetation of the roads through the tropical
forests of the Outer-Himalaya.
At about 4000 feet the road crossed a saddle, and ran along the narrow
crest of a hill, the top of that facing the plains of India, and over
which is the way to the interior ranges, amongst which Dorjiling is
placed, still twenty-five miles off. A little below this a great change
had taken place in the vegetation, marked, first, by the appearance of
a very English-looking bramble, which, however, by way of proving its
foreign origin, bore a very good yellow fruit, called here the “yellow
raspberry.” Scattered oaks, of a noble species, with large lamellated
cups and magnificent foliage, succeeded; and along the ridge of the
mountain to Kursiong (a dawk bungalow at about 4,800 feet), the change
in the flora was complete.
The spring of this region and elevation most vividly recalled that of
England. The oak flowering, the birch bursting into leaf, the violet,
_Chrysosplenium, Stellaria_ and _Arum, Vaccinium,_ wild strawberry,
maple, geranium, bramble. A colder wind blew here: mosses and lichens
carpeted the banks and roadsides: the birds and insects were very
different from those below; and everything proclaimed the marked change
in elevation, and not only in this, but in season, for I had left the
winter of the tropics and here encountered the spring of the temperate
zone.
The flowers I have mentioned are so notoriously the harbingers of a
European spring that their presence carries one home at once; but, as
species, they differ from their European prototypes, and are
accompanied at this elevation (and for 2000 feet higher up) with
tree-fern, Pothos, bananas, palms, figs, pepper, numbers of epiphytal
Orchids, and similar genuine tropical genera. The uniform temperature
and humidity of the region here favour the extension of tropical plants
into a temperate region; exactly as the same conditions cause similar
forms to reach higher latitudes in the southern hemisphere (as in New
Zealand, Tasmania, South Chili, etc.) than they do in the northern.
Along this ridge I met with the first tree-fern. This species seldom
reaches the height of forty feet; the black trunk is but three or four
in girth, and the feathery crown is ragged in comparison with the
species of many other countries: it is the _Alsophila gigantea,_ and
ascends nearly to 7000 feet elevation.
Kursiong bungalow, where I stopped for a few hours, is superbly placed,
on a narrow mountain ridge. The west window looks down the valley of
the Balasun river, the east into that of the Mahanuddee: both of these
rise from the outer range, and flow in broad, deep, and steep valleys
(about 4000 feet deep) which give them their respective names; and are
richly wooded from the Terai to their tops. Till reaching this spur, I
had wound upwards along the western slope of the Mahanuddee valley. The
ascent from the spur at Kursiong, to the top of the mountain (on the
northern face of which Dorjiling is situated), is along the eastern
slope of the Balasun.
From Kursiong a very steep zigzag leads up the mountain, through a
magnificent forest of cbesnut, walnut, oaks, and laurels. It is
difficult to conceive a grander mass of vegetation: the straight shafts
of the timber-trees shooting aloft, some naked and clean, with grey,
pale, or brown bark; others literally clothed for yards with a
continuous garment of epiphytes, one mass of blossoms, especially the
white Orchids _Cælogynes,_ which bloom in a profuse manner, whitening
their trunks like snow. More bulky trunks were masses of interlacing
climbers, _Araliaceæ, Leguminosæ, Vines,_ and _Menispermeæ,_ Hydrangea,
and Peppers, enclosing a hollow, once filled by the now strangled
supporting tree, which had long ago decayed away. From the sides and
summit of these, supple branches hung forth, either leafy or naked; the
latter resembling cables flung from one tree to another, swinging in
the breeze, their rocking motion increased by the weight of great
bunches of ferns or Orchids, which were perched aloft in the loops.
Perpetual moisture nourishes this dripping forest: and pendulous mosses
and lichens are met with in profusion.
Two thousand feet higher up, near Mahaldiram (whence the last view of
the plains is gained), European plants appear,—Berberry, _Paris,_ etc.;
but here, night gathered round, and I had still ten miles to go to the
nearest bungalow, that of Pacheem. The road still led along the eastern
slope of the Balasun valley, which was exceedingly steep, and so cut up
by ravines, that it winds in and out of gulleys almost narrow enough to
be jumped across.
It was very late before I arrived at Pacheem bungalow, the most
sinister-looking rest-house I ever saw, stuck on a little cleared spur
of the mountain, surrounded by dark forests, overhanging a profound
valley, and enveloped in mists and rain, and hideous in architecture,
being a miserable attempt to unite the Swiss cottage with the suburban
gothic; it combined a maximum of discomfort with a minimum of good
looks or good cheer. I was some time in finding the dirty housekeeper,
in an outhouse hard by, and then in waking him. As he led me up the
crazy verandah, and into a broad ghostly room, without glass in the
windows, or fire, or any one comfort, my mind recurred to the stories
told of the horrors of the Hartz forest, and of the benighted
traveller’s situation therein. Cold sluggish beetles hung to the damp
walls,—and these I immediately secured. After due exertions and
perseverance with the damp wood, a fire smoked lustily, and, by
cajoling the gnome of a housekeeper, I procured the usual roast fowl
and potatos, with the accustomed sauce of a strong smoky and singed
flavour.[30]
[30] Since writing the above a comfortable house has been erected at
Senadah, the name now given to what was called Pacheem Bungalow.
Pacheem stands at an elevation of nearly 7300 feet, and as I walked out
on the following morning I met with English looking plants in
abundance, but was too early in the season to get aught but the foliage
of most. _Chryosplenium,_ violet, _Lobelia,_ a small geranium,
strawberry, five or six kinds of bramble, _Arum, Paris, Convallaria,
Stellaria, Rubia, Vaccinium,_ and various _Gnaphalia._ Of small bushes,
cornels, honeysuckles, and the ivy tribe predominated, with _Symplocos_
and _Skimmia, Eurya,_ bushy brambles, having simple or compound green
or beautifully silky foliage; _Hypericum,_ Berberry, Hydrangea,
Wormwood, _Adamia cyanea, Viburnum,_ Elder, dwarf bamboo, etc.
The climbing plants were still _Panax_ or _Aralia, Kadsura, Saurauja,
Hydrangea,_ Vines, _Smilax, Ampelopsis, Polygona,_ and, most beautiful
of all, _Stauntonia,_ with pendulous racemes of lilac blossoms.
Epiphytes were rarer, still I found white and purple _Cæloynes,_ and
other Orchids, and a most noble white Rhododendron, whose truly
enormous and delicious lemon-scented blossoms strewed the ground. The
trees were one half oaks, one quarter Magnolias, and nearly another
quarter laurels, amongst which grew Himalayan kinds of birch, alder,
maple, holly, bird-cherry, common cherry, and apple. The absence of
_Leguminosæ_ was most remarkable, and the most prominent botanical
feature in the vegetation of this region: it is too high for the
tropical tribes of the warmer elevations, too low for the Alpines, and
probably too moist for those of temperate regions; cool, equable, humid
climates being generally unfavourable to that order. Clematis was rare,
and other _Ranunculaceæ_ still more so. _Cruciferæ_ were absent, and,
what was still more remarkable, I found very few native species of
grasses. Both _Poa annua_ and white Dutch clover flourished where
accidentally disseminated, but only in artificially cleared spots. Of
ferns I collected about sixty species, chiefly of temperate genera. The
supremacy of this temperate region consists in the infinite number of
forest trees, in the absence (in the usual proportion, at any rate) of
such common orders as _Compositæ, Leguminosæ, Cruciferæ,_ and
_Ranunculaceæ,_ and of Grasses amongst Monocotyledons, and in the
predominance of the rarer and more local families, as those of
Rhododendron, Camellia, Magnolia, Ivy, Cornel, Honeysuckle, Hydrangea,
Begonia, and Epiphytic orchids.
From Pacheem, the road runs in a northerly direction to Dorjiling,
still along the Balasun valley, till the saddle of the great mountain
Sinchul is crossed. This is narrow, stretching east and west, and from
it a spur projects northwards for five or six miles, amongst the many
mountains still intervening between it and the snows. This saddle (alt.
7,400 feet) crossed, one is fairly amongst the mountains: the plains
behind are cut off by it; and in front, the snows may be seen when the
weather is propitious. The valleys on this side of the mountain run
northwards, and discharge their streams into great rivers, which,
coming from the snow, wind amongst the hills, and debouche into the
Teesta, to the east, where it divides Sikkim from Bhotan.
Dorjiling station occupies a narrow ridge, which divides into two
spurs, descending steeply to the bed of the Great Rungeet river, up
whose course the eye is carried to the base of the great snowy
mountains. The ridge itself is very narrow at the top, along which most
of the houses are perched, while others occupy positions on its flanks,
where narrow _locations_ on the east, and broader ones on the west, are
cleared from wood. The valleys on either side are at least 6000 feet
deep, forest-clad to the bottom, with very few and small level spots,
and no absolute precipice; from their flanks project innumerable little
spurs, occupied by native clearings.
My route lay along the east flank, overhanging the valley of the Rungmo
river. Looking east, the amphitheatre of hills from the ridge I had
crossed was very fine; enclosing an area some four miles across and
4000 feet deep, clothed throughout with an impenetrable, dark forest:
there was not one clear patch except near the very bottom, where were
some scattered hamlets of two or three huts each. The rock is
everywhere near the surface, and the road has been formed by blasting
at very many places. A wooded slope descends suddenly from the edge of
the road, while, on the other hand, a bank rises abruptly to the top of
the ridge, alternately mossy, rocky, and clayey, and presenting a good
geological section, all the way along, of the nucleus of Dorjiling
spur, exposing broken masses of gneiss. As I descended, I came upon the
upper limit of the chesnut, a tree second in abundance to the oak;
gigantic, tall, and straight in the trunk.
I arrived at Dorjiling on the 16th of April; a showery, cold month at
this elevation. I was so fortunate as to find Mr. Charles Barnes
(brother of my friend at Colgong), the sole tenant of a long,
cottage-like building, divided off into pairs of apartments, which are
hired by visitors. It is usual for Europeans to bring a full
establishment of servants (with bedding, etc.) to such stations, but I
had not done so, having been told that there was a furnished hotel in
Dorjiling; and I was, therefore, not a little indebted to Mr. Barnes
for his kind invitation to join his mess. As he was an active
mountaineer, we enjoyed many excursions together, in the two months and
a half during which we were companions.
Dr. Campbell procured me several active native (Lepcha) lads as
collectors, at wages varying from eight to twenty shillings a month;
these either accompanied me on my excursions, or went by themselves
into the jungles to collect plants, which I occupied myself in drawing,
dissecting, and ticketing: while the preserving of them fell to the
Lepchas, who, after a little training, became, with constant
superintendence, good plant-driers. Even at this season (four weeks
before the setting in of the rains) the weather was very uncertain, so
that the papers had generally to be dried by the fire.
The hill-station or Sanatarium of Dorjiling owes its origin (like
Simla, Mussooree, etc.) to the necessity that exists in India, of
providing places where the health of Europeans may be recruited by a
more temperate climate. Sikkim proved an eligible position for such an
establishment, owing to its proximity to Calcutta, which lies but 370
miles to the southward; whereas the north-west stations mentioned above
are upwards of a thousand miles from that city. Dorjiling ridge varies
in height from 6,500 to 7,500 feet above the level of the sea; 8000
feet being the elevation at which the mean temperature most nearly
coincides with that of London, viz., 50°.
Sikkim was, further, the only available spot for a Sanatarium
throughout the whole range of the Himalaya, east of the extreme western
frontier of Nepal; being a protected state, and owing no allegiance,
except to the British government; which, after the Rajah had been
driven from the country by the Ghorkas, in 1817, replaced him on his
throne, and guaranteed him the sovereignty. Our main object in doing
this was to retain Sikkim as a fender between Nepal and Bhotan: and but
for this policy, the aggressive Nepalese would, long ere this, have
possessed themselves of Sikkim, Bhotan, and the whole Himalaya,
eastwards to the borders of Burmah.[31]
[31] Of such being their wish the Nepalese have never made any secret,
and they are said to have asked permission from the British to march
an army across Sikkim for the purpose of conquering Bhotan, offering
to become more peaceable neighbours to us than the Bhotanese are. Such
they would doubtless have proved, but the Nepal frontier is considered
broad enough already.
From 1817 to 1828 no notice was taken of Sikkim, till a frontier
dispute occurred between the Lepchas and Nepalese, which was referred
(according to the terms of the treaty) to the British Government.
During the arrangement of this, Dorjiling was visited by a gentleman of
high scientific attainments, Mr. J. W. Grant, who pointed out its
eligibility as a site for a Sanatarium to Lord William Bentinck, then
Governor-General; dwelling especially upon its climate, proximity to
Calcutta, and accessibility; on its central position between Tibet,
Bhotan, Nepal, and British India; and on the good example a
peaceably-conducted and well-governed station would be to our turbulent
neighbours in that quarter. The suggestion was cordially received, and
Major Herbert (the late eminent Surveyor-General of India) and Mr.
Grant were employed to report further on the subject.
The next step taken was that of requesting the Rajah to cede a tract of
country which should include Dorjiling, for an equivalent in money or
land. His first demand was unreasonable; but on further consideration
he surrendered Dorjiling unconditionally, and a sum of 300 pounds per
annum was granted to him as an equivalent for what was then a worthless
uninhabited mountain. In 1840 Dr. Campbell was removed from Nepal as
superintendent of the new station, and was entrusted with the charge of
the political relations between the British and Sikkim government.
Once established, Dorjiling rapidly increased. Allotments of land were
purchased by Europeans for building dwelling-houses; barracks and a
bazaar were formed, with accommodation for invalid European soldiers; a
few official residents, civil and military, formed the nucleus of a
community, which was increased by retired officers and their families,
and by temporary visitors in search of health, or the luxury of a cool
climate and active exercise.
For the first few years matters went on smoothly with the Rajah, whose
minister (or Dewan) was upright and intelligent: but the latter, on his
death, was succeeded by the present Dewan, a Tibetan, and a relative of
the Ranee (or Rajah’s wife); a man unsurpassed for insolence and
avarice, whose aim was to monopolise the trade of the country, and to
enrich himself at its expense. Every obstacle was thrown by him in the
way of a good understanding between Sikkim and the British government.
British subjects were rigorously excluded from Sikkim; every liberal
offer for free trade and intercourse was rejected, generally with
insolence; merchandise was taxed, and notorious offenders, refugees
from the British territories, were harboured; despatches were detained;
and the Vakeels, or Rajah’s representatives, were chosen for their
insolence and incapacity. The conduct of the Dewan throughout was
Indo-Chinese; assuming, insolent, aggressive, never perpetrating open
violence, but by petty insults effectually preventing all good
understanding. He was met by neglect or forbearance on the part of the
Calcutta government; and by patience and passive resistance at
Dorjiling. Our inaction and long-suffering were taken for weakness, and
our concessions for timidity. Such has been our policy in China, Siam,
and Burmah, and in each instance the result has been the same. Had it
been insisted that the terms of the treaty should be strictly kept, and
had the first act of insolence been noticed, we should have maintained
the best relations with Sikkim, whose people and rulers (with the
exception of the Dewan and his faction) have proved themselves friendly
throughout, and most anxious for unrestricted communication.
These political matters have not, however, prevented the rapid increase
of Dorjiling; the progress of which, during the two years I spent in
Sikkim, resembled that of an Australian colony, not only in amount of
building, but in the accession of native families from the surrounding
countries. There were not a hundred inhabitants under British
protection when the ground was transferred; there are now four
thousand. At the former period there was no trade whatever; there is
now a very considerable one, in musk, salt, gold-dust, borax, soda,
woollen cloths, and especially in poneys, of which the Dewan in one
year brought on his own account upwards of 50 into Dorjiling.[32] The
trade has been greatly increased by the annual fair which Dr. Campbell
has established at the foot of the hills, to which many thousands of
natives flock from all quarters, and which exercises a most beneficial
influence throughout the neighbouring territories. At this, prizes (in
medals, money, and kind) are given for agricultural implements and
produce, stock, etc., by the originator and a few friends; a measure
attended with eminent success.
[32] The Tibetan pony, though born and bred 10,000 to 14,000 feet
above the sea, is one of the most active and useful animals in the
plains of Bengal, powerful and hardy, and when well trained early,
docile, although by nature vicious and obstinate.
In estimating in a sanitory point of view the value of any
health-station, little reliance can be placed on the general
impressions of invalids, or even of residents; the opinion of each
varies with the nature and state of his complaint, if ill, or with his
idiosyncracy and disposition, if well. I have seen prejudiced invalids
rapidly recovering, in spite of themselves, and all the while
complaining in unmeasured terms of the climate of Dorjiling, and
abusing it as killing them. Others are known who languish under the
heat of the plains at one season, and the damp at another; and who,
though sickening and dying under its influence, yet consistently praise
a tropical climate to the last. The opinions of those who resort to
Dorjiling in health, differ equally; those of active minds invariably
thoroughly enjoy it, while the mere lounger or sportsman mopes. The
statistical tables afford conclusive proofs of the value of the climate
to Europeans suffering from acute diseases, and they are corroborated
by the returns of the medical officer in charge of the station. With
respect to its suitability to the European constitution I feel
satisfied, and that much saving of life, health, and money would be
effected were European troops drafted thither on their arrival in
Bengal, instead of being stationed in Calcutta, exposed to disease, and
temptation to those vices which prove fatal to so many hundreds. This,
I have been given to understand, was the view originally taken by the
Court of Directors, but it has never been carried out.
I believe that children’s faces afford as good an index as any to the
healthfulness of a climate, and in no part of the world is there a more
active, rosy, and bright young community, than at Dorjiling. It is
incredible what a few weeks of that mountain air does for the
India-born children of European parents: they are taken there sickly,
pallid or yellow, soft and flabby, to become transformed into models of
rude health and activity.
There are, however, disorders to which the climate (in common with all
damp ones) is not at all suited; such are especially dysentery, bowel
complaints, and liver complaints of long standing; which are not
benefited by a residence on these hills, though how much worse they
might have become in the plains is not shown. I cannot hear that the
climate aggravates, but it certainly does not remove them. Whoever is
suffering from the debilitating effects of any of the multifarious
acute maladies of the plains, finds instant relief, and acquires a
stock of health that enables him to resist fresh attacks, under
circumstances similar to those which before engendered them.
Natives of the low country, and especially Bengalees, are far from
enjoying the climate as Europeans do, being liable to sharp attacks of
fever and ague, from which the poorly clad natives are not exempt. It
is, however, difficult to estimate the effects of exposure upon the
Bengalees, who sleep on the bare and often damp ground, and adhere,
with characteristic prejudice, to the attire of a torrid climate, and
to a vegetable diet, under skies to which these are least of all
adapted.
It must not be supposed that Europeans who have resided in the plains
can, on their first arrival, expose themselves with impunity to the
cold of these elevations; this was shown in the winter of 1848 and
1849, when troops brought up to Dorjiling were cantoned in newly-built
dwellings, on a high exposed ridge 8000 feet above the sea, and lay,
insufficiently protected, on a floor of loosely laid planks, exposed to
the cold wind, when the ground without was covered with snow.
Rheumatisms, sharp febrile attacks, and dysenteries ensued, which were
attributed in the public prints to the unhealthy nature of the climate
of Dorjiling.
The following summary of hospital admissions affords the best test of
the healthiness of the climate, embracing, as the period does, the
three most fatal months to European troops in India. Out of a
detachment (105 strong) of H.M. 80th Regiment stationed at Dorjiling,
in the seven months from January to July inclusive, there were
sixty-four admissions to the hospital, or, on the average, 4-1/3 per
cent. per month; and only two deaths, both of dysentery. Many of these
men had suffered frequently in the plains from acute dysentery and
hepatic affections, and many others had aggravated these complaints by
excessive drinking, and two were cases of delirium tremens. During the
same period, the number of entries at Calcutta or Dinapore would
probably have more than trebled this.