Two great sources of attraction to young men existed in Calcutta at the
time of which I am now writing (upwards of twenty-five years ago), and
do still exist, for anything I know to the contrary, Tulloh’s and other
auction-rooms, and the China bazaar. At the former almost daily sales
took place of every kind of property from a ship to a penknife, a rabbit
to an elephant; in the latter, all the heterogeneous commodities of an
American store were to be seen mingled pell-mell—raspberry jam, Milroy’s
saddles, best pickles, regulation-swords, wall-shades, China dishes,
hog-spears, Harvey’s sauce, &c.—of which, however, more anon. Catalogues
of the various articles to be disposed of at the day’s sale at Tulloh’s
are (or were) left daily at the houses in or near Calcutta, and made
their appearance, regularly with the newspapers at the break-table,
tempting to extravagance, by stimulating latent desires or creating
fictitious wants.
In our commercial country and its dependencies, where Plutus is the
deity chiefly adored, it seems proper and strictly in character that the
pulpits connected with his worship, however remotely, should be ably and
efficiently filled. Here, in England, we know this to be generally the
case, and what lustre the eloquence of some of our leading auctioneers
has shed on the profession; how truly, indeed, more than one of them
merit the praise which Johnson, happily quoting from Horace, bestowed on
the genius of Goldsmith:—“_Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit._”
There was no lack of this shining talent, oratorical power, and
technical tact, amongst the auctioneers of Calcutta, seasoned with
humour, pathos, or persuasion, according to the occasion. How often have
I heard the merits of a venerable steed proclaimed; his infirmities and
defects (with a delicate regard to his presence) lightly touched upon,
or at most so disposed, like the shades in a picture, as to heighten and
improve the general effect! How frequently have I been pleasantly
reminded of the good old maxim “_de mortuis nil nisi bonum_,” when
listening to the commendations of a batch of dead and ullaged beer! And
how often tempted to make an investment in a cheap “gross of green
spectacles,” “a lot of damaged huckaback,” or the like, from a strong
impression, fostered by the auctioneers persuasive eloquence, “that they
might some day come into use,” a contingent probability largely insisted
upon!
What a Herculean task it is to conjure money out of some people’s
pockets! Consummate tact is requisite to effect this end. What a world
of machinery must be put in motion before the movable crank, the owner’s
hand, finds its way into that pecuniary receptacle! A bungler may fumble
for a month and not find the motive spring, whilst an adept will touch
it in a moment. Yes, I see no reason on earth why the auctioneers should
not rank with the liberal professions. Does not the craft combine, in an
eminent degree, many of the leading features of those professions, which
(always considering the predominant turn of the national mind)
unaccountably rank higher in public estimation—the special pleading of
the lawyer, the eloquence of the senator, and the business-like airs of
the merchant? Does not the auctioneer, like another Charles Martel—ay,
and with the same weapon, too—knock down his lots with as much effect as
the soldier does his? Does he not pronounce orations over the dead, as
has been already shown, and display a beautiful morality in covering, as
with the mantle of charity, a multitude of defects? Is not his “going,
going, gone,” too, a brief and pithy sermon, touchingly calculated to
remind us of our common mortality?
And in all these, are not the functions of a higher pulpit strikingly
exercised? Ought he not to be a poet, painter, critic—in short, a man of
taste and general information, or how is he to descant with effect on
the merits of his multifarious wares? Should he not be a phrenologist,
that he may suit his arguments to the several developments of his
bidders; a physiognomist, that he may judge of the effect by the
unerring index of the countenance, whether rallying, bantering,
bullying, or wheedling, is the cue; and a casuist, that he may reconcile
his mind to the various tricks of the trade? and, finally, should he not
have a deep insight into human nature in general, and know well its
various assailable points? “Shall I say, 1,000 rupees for you, sir, for
that Arab? no animal can look better, well mounted, I assure you; he
will suit your weight and figure to a nicety—was ridden by the Hon.
Capt. Dangle, just gone home, a gentleman very much of your appearance,
sir, and who lately, to borrow the language of our immortal bard, was
wont on our course here ‘to witch the world with noble horsemanship,’
upon that very Arab. Sir—shall I take your bid?” A complaisant nod—the
business is done. “Thank you, sir—1,000 rupees for the Arab—going,
going, gone!”
One morning, Grundy and I breakfasted together in my room, which was
within a few doors of his own, when one of the afore-mentioned
catalogues found its way into our possession.
“Grundy,” said I, “whilst I despatch this fish and rice, as you appear
to have done, do just read what there is for sale to-day at the auction.
I have a feeling that I want something, though, hang me if I can exactly
tell what it is.”
Grundy commenced, and read as follows:—“Lot 1st. Three fine alderney
cows.”
“Deuce take the cows,” said I; “push on.”
“Three calves belonging to ditto.”
“Fire away.”
“Three Cape sheep, of the Doombah breed.”
“Doombah breed! that sounds well; egad, I think I must have a bid for
the sheep—what comes next?”
“A noble French mastiff, two bull-dogs, two wire-haired Scotch terriers,
and a greyhound bitch with pup, just imported by the _Founderwell_.”
“That’s the ticket,” I exclaimed, with eagerness; “I’ll have some of the
dogs, if they go reasonably—that’s a settled point—for there’s rare
hunting to be had, I hear, on the way up.”
Grundy ran down several columns more of live and dead stock; and there
were many things, without which I found I could not comfortably exist
for twenty-four hours longer, though, I must confess, I had not thought
of them before.
“By-the-bye,” drawled Grundy, “talking of dogs, there was a black fellow
at my door just now with one for sale.”
“Was there?” I eagerly asked; “what sort of an animal, and what did the
fellow want for it?”
“Why,” said my friend, “I think it was a sort of a terrier; but if you
choose, I’ll get my servant to call the man; he can’t be very far off.”
“Do,” said I, “send for him.”
In a few moments, the arrival of the dog and man was duly announced, and
both were admitted to my apartment. The vendor was one of those black,
dirty, low-caste natives, generally attached to European corps, and
denominated “cookboys.” Dress—a soldier’s old castoff coat, a dirty
cloth round his loins, and a skull-cap on his head. As for the dog, he
is not, perhaps, so easily described; he was reddish, stood high on the
legs, and had a wild look; his tail and ears, however, were clipped in a
very _varment_ sort of manner, evincing decided science in the operator;
and his owner assured me, in broken English, that he was “berry high
caste dog,” a thoroughbred terrier; his name Teazer, and a capital
fellow to worry a cat or a jackal.
The creature did not certainly look altogether like the terriers I had
been in the habit of seeing in England; but still, the state of the ears
and tail, the name, and above all, the qualifications, were strong
_primâ facie_ proofs that he was one. As for the points of difference,
they might, I thought, have resulted from the influence of climate,
which, as it alters the appearance of the European biped very
considerably, might, I very logically inferred, have a similar effect on
the quadrupeds imported, or their descendants, in the first or second
generation at least. In short, I bought him for Rs. 10, and a great
bargain I thought I had; tied him up to the leg of my cot, intending
that he should form the _nucleus_ of a future pack. I was, however,
destined very shortly after to be put a good deal out of conceit of him.
A few days after I had made my purchase, Captain Marpeet dropped in, and
took a seat on my cot as he was wont. Hearing the rattling of a chain
underneath, he said,
“What the deuce have you got here, Gernon?”
“A dog,” said I; “a terrier I lately bought.”
“A terrier! eh? Let’s have a look at him.”
Teazer, on being summoned, came out from under the bed, gave himself a
shake, and, on seeing Marpeet, who was strange to him, and rather an
odd-looking fellow to boot, incontinently cocked up his nose and emitted
a most lugubrious howl, one with which the Pariars[9] in India are wont
to serenade “our chaste mistress, the moon.”
“Halloo,” said Marpeet, with a look of surprise, “where on earth did you
get this beast? Why, he’s a regular terrier _bunnow_.”[10]
“A terrier _bunnow_,” said I, “what’s that?”
“Why,” rejoined the captain, “he’s a thorough Pariar docked and cropped
to make him look like a terrier; it’s a common trick played upon griffs,
and you’ve been taken in, that’s all. What did you give for him?”
“Why, ten rupees,” I replied; “and I thought I had him remarkably
cheap.”
“Cheap!” said the captain, with infinite contempt; “he’s not worth five
pice; kick him out! hang him!”
“Thank you,” said I; “but as I’ve bought him, I’ll keep him; he’ll help
to make up a pack, and I don’t see why he should not act up to his
assumed character, and hunt very well; you see he knows how to give
tongue, at all events.”
“Ha! ha!” said Marpeet; “come, that’s not so bad; but he’s a brute, upon
my life—a useless brute, kick him to the d—l.”
“No,” I rejoined, a little nettled to hear my dog abused after that
fashion; “I tell you I’ll keep him; besides, I have no acquaintance in
the quarter you mention, and should be sorry to send him where he would
be likely to annoy you again.”
Here were symptoms of downright insubordination. The captain stared at
me in astonishment, and emitted a long and elaborate “whew!”
“’Pon my honour, regular disrespect to your superior officer. Well,
after that, I must have a glass of brandy-pawny.”
“So you shall,” said I, “with all my heart; but you really were a little
too hard, and forgot the saying, ‘Love me, love my dog.’”
To return, however, from this little episode. Grundy and I, in pursuance
of our determination to visit the auction, got into our palankeens, and
soon found ourselves amidst the dust, noise, and motion of Tank Square,
near which the auction, or outcry (as it is more usually termed in
India) is held. A long covered place, something like a repository,
filled with palankeens, carriages, horses, &c., for sale, had to be
passed through before we reached the auction-room, where goods of all
kinds were disposed of. This we found crammed with natives, low
Europeans, black Portuguese, and others of the motley population of
Calcutta, mingled with a few civilians, and a “pretty considerable”
sprinkling of redcoats from Barrackpore or the fort, all more or less
intent upon the bidding.
The auctioneer, a good-looking man and remarkably fluent, was mounted on
his rostrum, and holding forth upon the merits of certain goods, which a
native assistant, on a platform a little lower than the pulpit, was
handing round for inspection. Grundy and I forced our way in, watching
anxiously to see if any thing “in our way” was exhibiting. At last, the
auctioneer took up a goodly-sized knife, with some dozen blades, &c.
These he opened daintily and deliberately, and then, holding up the
knife and turning it about, he said,
“Now here’s a pretty thing—a highly-finished article—a perfect _multum
in parvo_. Don’t all of you bid for this at once, gentlemen, if you
please. Here’s a large blade, you see, to cut bread and cheese with, a
small one to mend your pens, a corkscrew to open a bottle of Hodgson’s
pale ale when you are out shooting, tweezers to pull the thorns out of
your toes, pincers, file, gimlet—all complete. A most useful article
that, and (with marked emphasis, and an eye towards Grundy and me, which
made us exchange looks significant of purchase), one which no young
sportsman should be without.”
That was sufficient; I was determined to have it, and after an eager bid
or two, it was knocked down to me. I found afterwards, however, to my
extreme surprise and dismay, I had unconsciously purchased a lot of
three dozen of them, enough to set up a cutler’s stall in a small way.
There was no help for it, however; I was obliged to take them all,
though I determined in future to study well the catalogue before I
ventured on a bid.
The dogs, I found, had attracted the particular notice of more sportsmen
than myself. A young ensign from Barrackpore carried off the greyhound
hitch for Rs. 200, a little more than a month’s pay. A writer in the
buildings bought the French mastiff and the terrier, which went high,
and I was obliged to content myself with one of the bull-dogs, a
sinister-looking old fellow, with one eye, who went cheap, and would
have been cheaper still, had not Grundy, whom I requested to secure it,
bidden silently against me in the crowd several times before I had
providentially discovered my opponent. Poor beast! he died three months
after, on my way up, of _nostalgia_, I rather think, and I gave him
decent sepulture on a spit of sand in the Ganges.
From the auction we proceeded to the China bazaar.
“Grundy,” said I, as we went along, rather _nonchalamment_, “you need
not say anything to Captain Marpeet, about my buying those knives.”
“What knives?” he asked.
“I have my reasons for it,” said I, “that’s enough.”
Grundy promised to be mum.
The China bazaar! What Bengalee, military man in particular, who does
not know that attractive resort—that repository of temptations! What a
host of pleasant recollections it is calculated to revive!
This place is situated at the back of Tank Square, and is enclosed by
walls, and entered by gates, at several points. The shops are in long
flat-roofed ranges, generally of (I believe) two stories, intersecting
each other at right angles; a margin of terrace, a foot or two from the
ground, runs along the front of the several shops or stores. Sheltered
here and there by an eave or thatched projection, seated in chairs,
cross-legged, and in other un-English attitudes, quite at their ease,
and smoking their pipes, the baboos, or shopkeepers, may be seen, each
opposite his emporium, into which they invite the numerous visitors to
the bazaar to enter, assuring them they will find everything they may
want “chip,” and of the first quality.
As Grundy and I sauntered down one of the streets, we were struck by the
appearance of one of the native shopkeepers, who, with an air of
courtier-like urbanity, invited us to enter his store. In stature, he
was about six feet three or four, stout in proportion; a muslin chudder
or toga was thrown over his shoulders, and a piece more round his waist,
but slightly concealing his brawny form; altogether he was the
finest-looking Bengalee I ever beheld; indeed, I thought it a pity such
thews and sinews, so well calculated for the tug of war, should be lost
in the inglorious inaction of the China bazaar. This worthy I afterwards
learnt was that celebrated character “Jawing Jack,” well known amongst
cadets for his _copia verborum_ and dignified address. Nature and
destiny had evidently been at cross-purposes in the management of Jack;
the former had clearly intended him morally for what he was physically,
a great man, but his stars had thwarted the design.
Jack rose from his chair as we drew near, overshadowing us striplings
with his Patagonian bulk. I, for my part (being then what is vulgarly
called a “lathy chap”), felt myself disagreeably _small_ beside him,
doubly so he being a “black fellow,” and thought I was under the
necessity of speaking pretty big, in order to make up for the
deficiency, and to place myself more on a level with him. “Jawing Jack”
had had large experience of griffs, and, though he treated us in a kind
of patronising manner, he cautiously avoided anything that might lead to
offence, and a consequent lowering of his own dignity.
There is a sly satire sometimes in the calm and imperturbable deportment
of the Asiatic, when dealing with the rattling, blustering, overbearing
European, which conveys a tacit censure well calculated to shame our
boasted civilization. “Lately arrived from Europe, gentlemen, I suppose?
Hope you are quite well? Will you please do me the honour to walk into
my shop—shall be happy to supply anything re-qui-red, at very reasonable
price. I have honour to be well known to all military gentlemen at
Barrackpore, and sell best of European articles, and no ‘Niverpool[11]
goods.’” Having rummaged “Jawing Jack’s” shop, and bought a few
articles, we took our departure, promising at parting to honour him with
our future custom.
The Bengalese have a wonderful deal of versatility and acuteness,
certainly not naturally the mental power and energy of the European; but
as they live temperately, and do not clog the intellectual wheels with
beef and malt liquor, the mental machinery is generally in capital
working order.
On returning to my quarters, I found a chupprassy, or messenger, with a
note from General Capsicum, acknowledging the receipt of a letter I had
sent him from his friend Sir Toby Tickle, and requesting my company to
tiffin and dinner on the following day, at his house at Garden Reach.
A little before the appointed hour, I ordered a palankeen, and proceeded
to the general’s residence, situated in a pleasant domain, some two or
three miles from Calcutta. On arriving, I was shown up-stairs into the
drawing room, which commanded a pleasant view of the Hoogly, with its
moving scene of boats and shipping, and a distant peep of Fort William.
I was standing gazing on the prospect, admiring the boats under sail
gliding from side to side, walking as it were the minuet of the waters,
the shadows skimming over the river, and the milk-white villas on the
opposite bank starting out from amidst the bright green of surrounding
groves, when the rustle of a gown and a slight touch on the shoulder
aroused me from my state of abstraction. It was the young widow of whom
I have already made mention, “the softened image” of the rough old
general, my Hibernian host.
“How do you do, Mr. Gernon?” said she, extending her hand with exceeding
frankness and smiling cordiality; “I am so glad to see you again and not
looking in any way the worse for your sojourn in Calcutta.” (Oh! that
our English pride and sensitiveness, those adamantine trammels of caste,
which strangle so many of our virtues, would let us have a little more
of that single-hearted openness “which thinketh no evil”—it is so
comfortable!) “Have you seen my father yet?” asked Mrs. Delaval, for
that was her name.
I answered in the negative.
“Oh, then,” she continued, “he will be here immediately when he knows of
your arrival, for he is anxious, I know, to see you; he is somewhere in
the house, amusing himself with his violin. But pray, Mr. Gernon, be
seated,” she continued, “and tell me how you like India, now that you
have seen a little more of it.”
“I like it much,” I replied, “and never was happier in my life. I have
got my commission, and as soon as posted to a regiment, am off to the
Upper Provinces by water. I have some idea of applying for a particular
corps, but have not yet decided on that point: they say you should not
interfere with the operations of the Fates, but leave yourself to their
direction. What, madam,” continued I, “would you advise me to do?”
“Oh! really,” said Mrs. Delaval, smiling at the idea of my asking her
advice on such a point, “I fear I am incompetent to advise you, not
knowing all the circumstances of your position; you ought, of course, to
consider well before you act, and having so done, leave the result to
Providence. I am, however,” said she, somewhat seriously, “a decided
predestinarian, and believe that
‘There is a providence that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.’”
“It is a puzzling subject,” said I, “and one that is rather beyond me;
one if I remember rightly, that even bewildered the devils in
Pandemonium. However, I think the safest maxim to hold by is, that
‘conduct is fate.’”
This was rather a philosophical opinion for a griffin, but one which I
have always held, though young blood at that time and since has often
capsized the philosopher.
“Well, Mr. Gernon,” continued she, “you have my best wishes for your
happiness and success in life; all is _couleur de rose_ with you now;
may it ever so continue! Already,” said she, and the tear glistened,
“the clouds of life are beginning to pass over me.”
As she said this, she crossed her fair white hands on her lap, and the
widow’s eyes sadly dropped on her wedding ring, the little golden
circlet type of eternal fidelity. I understood it, and was silent.
Silence is preferable on such occasions, perhaps, to the commonplaces of
condolence. We both continued mute for some moments; she looking at her
ring, I out of the window.
At length, I ventured to say,
“Dear madam, do not deem me impertinent, I pray; but cheer up; remember,
as my Irish half-countryman beautifully expresses it, ‘every dark cloud
has a silver lining,’ and there are doubtless many, many happy days yet
in store for you.”
I should have premised, that Mrs. Delaval had lately lost her husband, a
fine young fellow, who fell in the storm of a small Polygar fort on the
coast, and Time had not yet brought that balm with which in due course
he heals the wounds of the heart, unless the very deepest. I was
certainly waxing tender, when the idea of Olivia, my poor abandoned
Olivia, crossed my mind. “What would Mrs. Grundy say,” thought I, “if
she knew of it?”
The widow gave her auburn locks a toss, made an effort at
self-possession, smiled through her tears, and was herself again.
“By-the-bye, Mr. Gernon,” said she, “though but a recent acquaintance, I
will assume the privilege of an old friend, and give you some little
information whilst we are alone, which may be of some advantage to you
in your intercourse with this family.”
I looked alarmed, not knowing what was forthcoming. She perceived what
was passing in my mind.
“You need not think, Mr. Gernon,” and she smiled, “that you have come
amongst giants or ogres, who are likely to form designs against your
life and liberty. Nothing quite so bad as that—no. What I wished to say
is, that my father is a man of warm and generous impulses, but violently
passionate and eccentric; and I entreat you to be cautious in what you
say before him, and do not press any subject if you find him evincing
impatience. If he likes he may serve you; but if he takes a prejudice,
he is exceedingly persecuting and bitter: a warm friend but an
inexorable foe. Mrs. Capsicum, to much vulgarity adds all my father’s
violence and irritability, with none of his redeeming qualities. You
must be submissive, and prove yourself a ‘good listener,’ or you will
have little chance of standing well with her.”
This was said with some little asperity of manner, plainly indicating
that the step-mother was not more popular than step-mothers generally
are.
“As for the others you will see here, you may safely be left to the
guidance of your own judgment and discretion in your conduct towards
them.”
I thanked Mrs. Delaval for her information, which, I saw, emanated from
the purest feeling of womanly kindness, and promised to be on my guard,
and endeavour to profit by it.