I must here interrupt the thread of my narrative, in order to give a few
particulars respecting my host and his family, which may serve as
samples of the olden time of India.
The general was the youngest of the ten sons of Sir Gerald Capsicum, a
fire-eating baronet of a “rare ould ancient Irish family,” and was sent
to India about anno 1750, with little more than his sword, his brogue,
and the family love of fighting wherewith to assist him on in the world.
The general’s career had been varied, and he had gone through all the
adventures, public and domestic, which usually happened to those whose
lot, in respect to time and place, had been similarly cast.
I have said the general was an Irishman; it follows as a natural
consequence, that he was extremely susceptible of the tenderest of
passions; and as in his early days there were few white dames in the
land, like many others he e’en put up with a black one—attached himself
to Sung Sittara Begum (the “Queen of Stars”), one of the gazelle-eyed
daughters of Hind.
This union, though not cemented by the forms of marriage, was, on the
whole, more harmonious and enduring than many that are. I say on the
whole; for if tradition may be depended on, the Queen of Stars was wont,
now and then, to exhibit traits of vivacity, which were rather of a
_striking_ than of a pleasing nature. With these trifling breaks, the
union long harmoniously subsisted, and was not finally dissolved till
the angel of death, one fine day, summoned the Begum to the seventh
heaven.
By the Begum, the general had Major John Capsicum, an officer in the
service, and commanding the forces of his highness Ram Row Bhow Punt,
the Jam of Ghurrumnugger, a Mahratta potentate of small note, whose
territories it might be difficult to discover in the map; secondly,
Augustus, an indigo planter in the district of Jessore, commonly called
by the general’s native servants (who, like all the rest of the
fraternity, were not _au fait_ at European names) “Disgustus Sahib;” and
Mrs. Colonel Yellowly, a lady of high and indomitable spirit, who died
some years before the period to which I am referring, and of whom I
could learn little more from record or tradition than that she was
rather celebrated for the manufacture of Chutnee and Dopiajah curry,
talked a good deal of a certain _terra incognita_ called “home,” and
ultimately went off rather suddenly,—as some affirm, from chagrin in
consequence of having a point of precedence decided against her, arising
out of a dispute with Lady Jiggs at a presidency party as to who _de
jure_ should first come in or go out.
The stickling for precedency, by the way, is a disorder very prevalent
in colonial dependencies; and like gravitation, which increases with the
squares of the distance, its intensity seems to be governed by a
somewhat similar law, and to exist in an inverse ratio to the apparent
cause for it.
Long after the general had passed his fiftieth year, he married the
mother of the amiable widow (a nonpareil grafted on a crab), by all
accounts a charming person, who, yielding to importunity, took old
Capsicum to gratify the ambition of worldly parents, in whose opinion
wealth and rank are all that are essential to connubial happiness.
Poor thing! she gave her hand, but her heart was another’s. The
worm-i’-the-bud was there, and soon did the business. Opportunity
offered—nature was too powerful for the colder suggestions of duty—she
eloped with the man she loved; but even love cannot flourish in an
atmosphere of scorn. Mankind are intensely gregarious. Shunned—deserted
by her own sex, who, like birds (though from more obvious cause), peck
their wounded fellows to death—she died in a lone outpost, and the winds
of the jungles pipe over her solitary grave.
“C’est bien difficile d’être fidèle
A de certains maris, faits d’an certain modelle,
Et qui donne à sa fille un homme qu’elle haït.
Est responsable au Ciel pour le mal qu’elle fait.”
Admirable Molière! you never penned a more striking truth. Parents,
ponder it well.
The general, after the lapse of some years, with the characteristic
valour of the Capsicums, boldly ventured, a short time before I knew
him, on a second marriage; but here he caught a Tartar. Mrs. Capsicum
the second was an Irish lady (woman I should perhaps say), who came
out to India avowedly on spec., with the full determination of
marrying a good establishment, with comfortable reversionary
prospects, however they might happen to be encumbered. She made play
at the general, sang “Erin mavourneen” and “Cathleen O’More,” talked
of the Callaghans and Brallaghans, revived the general’s boyish
reminiscences of the green hills of Sligo, and ultimately led him, or
rather had him carried, to the hymeneal altar! Of love—the proper
cement of the marriage-union—there was none, on her side at least.
But to return to my narrative.
The widow and I had not been long engaged in conversation (which, as I
before hinted, was becoming rather interesting), when we heard the
scrape of a violin outside in the passage.
“Oh, here is my father,” said Mrs. Delaval, “coming from his room. Now
remember my caution.”
I was about to reply, but she laid her finger on her lip expressively,
as much as to say, “Another time; he’s here.”
The old general now entered, with a black velvet sort of nightcap stuck
rakishly on his head, and playing rather jauntily “St. Patrick’s Day in
the Morning,” to which he hummed an accompaniment—his voice displaying,
as usual, all that vigour in its tones which, as I have before remarked,
afforded so striking a contrast to his dried-up and time-worn frame: as
he entered with his spindle shanks, huge frill, voluminous upper works,
pigtail, and velvet cap, I thought I never saw a droller figure. Still
the gallant bearing and nonchalance of the little old Irishman, who
evidently was unconscious of anything at all out of the way in himself,
rather neutralized any feeling of disrespect which his figure was at
first calculated to excite.
On seeing me, he finished off the saint with a few galloping flourishes,
pushed the fiddle on the table; transferred the stick to his left hand,
and made a rapid advance, or rather toddle, towards me, with his right
extended.
“Hah, sur, I’m glad to see you,” said he; “Mr. Gernon, I believe? Very
happy indeed to have your company, sur; shall be glad to show you ivery
attintion in ivery sense of the word, sur, for the sake of my old friend
Sir Toby; and I doubt not,” he continued, with a low bow of the old
school and a smile, “that I shall be able also to add, on your own.”
As he made this courteous speech and inclination, his eye lighted on a
letter lying on the table, which quickly threw the irritable old fellow
off his balance, and put the courtier to flight.
“Why,——mee heart, Cordalia,” he thundered out in a voice that startled
me; “by all that’s good, that egragious ass, Ramdial, has gone without
the letter. A man naid have the timper of an angel to dale with these
fellows.”
Mrs. Delaval, to cut the affair short, rose immediately from her seat,
and taking the letter, called a servant to the head of the stairs, and
quickly rectified the omission.
“Thank ye, Cordalia, mee love,” said the old general as she returned;
“thank ye, mee darling;” and taking her hand and drawing the graceful
creature towards him, he imprinted a kiss on her cheek.
There’s no use mincing matters—I certainly envied him the privilege.
This little interruption over, I returned to a speech which, having
previously worded and fashioned in rather a superior style, I thought it
a pity should be lost.
I said, after a hem or two, that I felt deeply obliged for his cordial
reception of me, that I should study to deserve his good opinion, and to
realize the gratifying anticipations he had so obligingly expressed, &c.
&c.
“Ye will, sur; ye will, sur,” said the general; “I’ve not the laste
doubt of it; and, plase God, we’ll some day see you as accomplished a
soldier as was your poor uncle, the colonel.”
“What! sir,” said I, pleased with the discovery, and with no fear that
_he_ was about to come Chattermohun over me; “did you then know my
uncle, Colonel Gernon?”
“Know him!” said the general, with energy and warmth—“I did, and right
well too; we were in Goddard’s march together and the Rohilla campaign,
and in many places besides. Yes,” he continued, warming as he went on,
“poor Pat Gernon and I have broiled under the same tint and fought under
the same banner, ay, by G——, and mounted the same brache together; yes,”
added he, clutching his fiddlestick, and looking as fierce as if he was
bursting through the fire and carnage of an assault, “I think I now hear
the shouts of the inimy, and see your brave uncle lading on his gallant
Sapoys through fire and smoke, his beaver in one hand and his sword in
the other. Ah,” he went on, touched and overcome, whilst his eye
moistened, “them were the days: the thought of them—it is now long, long
back—and of all my old companions gone, comes over me sometimes like a
faint air or a summer’s drame. Know your uncle! Ay did I, and a braver
soldier or a better man (though he had his faults, and who the divil has
not?) never broke the bread of life.”
I felt a sensation of choking, whilst all the ancient blood of the
Gernons mantled in my cheeks, as I listened to the veteran’s animated
laudation of my deceased relative.
“Well, sur,” continued the general, suddenly changing the subject, and
as if a little ashamed of the weakness and enthusiasm into which he had
been betrayed, “and how did you lave my old friend, Sir Toby? Is he as
fond of his bottle and his rubber as he used to be? I think he played
the best hand at whist of any man I ever knew.”
“I believe, sir,” said I, “that Sir Toby’s habits are unchanged in those
respects; though I am unable to speak much of him from personal
knowledge, having obtained the letter of introduction which I have had
the honour to deliver to you through the kindness of a mutual friend.”
“Well, never mind how ye got it, so that ye did get it. I am extramely
happy that it has been the manes of introducing to my acquaintance the
nephew of my old companion in arms, to whom, by the way, you bear a
strong resemblance: so now,” he continued, “talk to my daughter, or
amuse yourself in any way ye plase till tiffin, and I’ll do the same;
this is liberty hall, where every man does as he plases. Cordalia, my
love, where is your mother?”
“I have not seen Mrs. Capsicum, sir, this morning since breakfast,”
replied Mrs. Delaval; “but I believe she has gone out to pay some
visits.”
“Has she?” said the general dryly; “well, now, I thought I noticed a
remarkable stillness over the house.”
This was said in a manner, I thought, which smacked of what may be
termed a bitter mirth.
This conversation had scarcely terminated, when we heard a loud and
angry voice on the stairs or landing; and next moment, in sailed Mrs.
Capsicum Secunda, with a face that would have made a fine study for a
Hecate, a Gorgon, a Fury, or any other of those celebrated characters,
in whose countenances the ancients were wont to depict all the wildest
play of the passions. Mrs. Delaval turned pale, the old general looked
dismayed, and I, for my part, groped for my hat, thinking I might
doubtless be _de trop_ and better out of the way before the family
breeze sprung up, and of which there were such alarming indications.
Mrs. Capsicum seated herself majestically—her lip quivered with rage,
and an unhappy poodle, who came to be caressed, and received a sweeping
blow from her foot, which caused him to throw a ludicrous somerset. Now,
thought I, “look out for squalls.”
General Capsicum knew, probably from experience, that his spouse would
generally have the last word, but on the present occasion he was
determined (or deemed it politic) to have the first.
“Mrs. Capsicum, mee dear,” said he, in a deprecating tone, “you don’t
appear to persave our young friend here, Mr. Gernon” (wishing clearly to
throw me out as a tub to the whale). The lady measured me with a
momentary glance, and made the stiffest conceivable inclination,
accompanied by a look of the concentrated essence of vinegar and
brimstone; it was positively annihilating.
After certain premonitory symptoms of Mrs. Capsicum’s passion, out it
came:—
“Ginrel Capsicum,” said she, “aither I lave your house, or that rascal
Khoda Buccas, coachmaun, laves your service.”
She then proceeded to detail some neglect of which the unfortunate Jehu
had been guilty. The general tried to mollify her, but without success,
and Khoda Buccas was summoned to the “presence” to answer for his
misdeeds: in he came, with a low salaam, and trembling from head to
foot.
The general was about to open the charges when Khoda Buccas, who knew
all about it beforehand, broke in upon him, and, with the full energy of
alarm and great volubility, entered clamorously on his defence.
“_Mera kooch kussor nuheen Kodabund_ (No fault of mine, servant of the
Lord, and protector of the poor), but _Bijlee Goorah_ (the horse
Lightning), was sick (_sick maun Hogeya_),[12] and then the roan had
lost her hind shoes, _Gureebpurwar_. Here and there, all over the
bazaar, your slave hunted for the blacksmith, and could not find him. At
last your slave found him, and said, ‘Come quick and shoe _Summon
Goorah_ (the roan horse), for the lady will want the carriage, and her
disposition is a little warm (_misaj tora gurrum_), and your slave will
be beat and get into trouble;’ and so he said to me ‘Brother,’ said he,
&c., &c., and so I was late.”
This and a good deal more, as explained to me by Mrs. Delaval, was the
rambling defence of Khoda Buccas, coachmaun. The old gentleman seemed
disposed to admit its sufficiency; but madame peremptorily ordered off
the unhappy charioteer, with the comfortable assurance that he should be
flogged and dismissed.
Oh, tyranny, thou propensity of ungenerous souls! like Othello’s love,
thou growest with indulgence; till, like to every other evil, thou at
last evokest the spirit that lays thee low!
Well, the storm at last having fairly subsided, the general hobbled to
the couch, and took up a paper, as if glad for a season to retreat
within himself. Mrs. Delaval and I carried on a conversation in an
under-tone, whilst Mrs. Capsicum in silence digested her choler.
The silence was interrupted by the entrance of a native servant, who,
with closed hands, and in a manner profoundly respectful, said something
in an under-tone to the beebee sahib.
“Ginrel Capsicum,” said Mrs. C., as the servant withdrew, “here is your
son Augustus arrived.”
“Is he?” said the old general, jumping up and throwing down the paper;
“faith, then, I’m glad of it, and ye haven’t told me a pleasanter thing
for a long time, my deer.”
These words were scarcely uttered, when a dark black-whiskered man, of a
frank and ingenuous countenance, with a hunting-cap on his head, and a
whip in his hand, entered the room, and running up to the old general
and seizing his extended hand in both his own, in a manner which bespoke
genuine warmth and affection, exclaimed:
“How are you, sir? quite recovered, I hope, from your last attack?”
“Well, my boy, well!” said the general, his eyes sparkling with pleasure
as he measured his stalwart dark offspring from head to foot, as if in
some doubt as to whether he could really be the sire of such a brawny
chiel. “Well! and right glad to see you here; how did you come?”
“Why, I left the factory early this morning, sir,” said “Disgustus;”
“came on as far as the Budlampore ghaut in the pinnace; from that I
drove the buggy down to the Thannah, and there I found Golaub in
waiting; I rode him in here at a rattling pace—confounded hot work it
was, though; and I expect I’ve rather taken the shine out of the Arab.”
“That’s well,” said the general, “and now be sated. Augustus, my young
friend, Mr. Gernon; Mr. Gernon, my son, Mr. Augustus Capsicum.”
I bowed with English formality, but the hearty man of blue did not
appear to understand that sort of thing, but came up and shook me by the
hand; asked me if I was lately arrived, and said he was glad to see me.
This was a pleasing trait, and showed me the frankness of his
disposition.
After some little conversation with his mother-in-law, with whom it was
easy to perceive he was no particular favourite, and a lively chat with
his lovely and generous-minded sister, who it was equally obvious loved
her dark brother, in spite of the bend sinister in his escutcheon,[13]
General Capsicum again addressed his son:
“Well, Augustus,” said he, “what are the prospects of indigo this year?
how does the blue look?”
“Oh! fair, sir, very fair. If we have no further rise of the river, and
get a few light showers, and the rain does not fall too long to wash the
colour out of the plant, and this wind continues, we shall do very well
this year. The price is well up, Rs. 300 a maund for the best, and I
think we shall make 600. The plant looks beautiful on the Chuckergolly
churs—at least it did till the Bobberygunge Talookdar’s cows and
buffaloes got into it. However, after all, I think we shall, on the
whole, have a capital season.”
“That’s well,” said the general. “Egad, I think we’ll see you go home
with your plum, Augustus, yet.”
“Home, sir!” said Augustus; “I know of no home but India. Here I was
born, and here, please God, I will die, however singular the
determination.”
Tiffin was now announced, and we descended to the dining-room. Tiffin,
or lunch, is in Bengal a delightful meal, suitable in its character to
the climate, which renders the supererogatory one of dinner,
particularly in the hot season, with its hecatombs of smoking meat and
general superfluity of viands, often very much the reverse.
The tiffin on the whole passed off very agreeably. Mrs. Delaval
described society as it exists in the Madras presidency, and much she
had seen and heard there. Augustus told us of a recent battle-royal, a
sort of Bengalee Chevy Chase, which had been fought between his
followers and those of a neighbouring Zumeendar, by way of settling the
right to some disputed beegahs of indigo; in which many crowns were
cracked, and astonishing feats of chivalry displayed on both sides.
But the parts of his conversation which most delighted me, were the
accounts he gave of sundry wild hog and buffalo hunts, which after
deducting about 50 per cent. on account of embellishments—for sportsmen,
like poets, must be allowed some considerable latitude in that way—were
really very exciting. In fact, I told him I was dying to have a touch at
the hogs and buffaloes myself, and that I hoped it would not be long
before I fleshed my maiden spear on a few of the former.
This looked rather like a fish for an invitation to the Junglesoor
Factory, and I won’t swear that I was wholly without design on the
worthy indigo planter’s hospitality in making the remark; whether he,
viewed it in this light, or not, I cannot say, but he promptly said he
should be happy to gratify my longing in that line, if I would go and
spend a fortnight with him at his factory.
I replied, “I should be delighted to accompany him, if I could obtain
leave.”
“Oh!” said he, “that difficulty can easily be overcome; my father, I
dare say, will give you a note to a friend of his in the
adjutant-general’s office, who’ll procure you leave at once.”
“I shall have a grate dale of pleasure in so doing,” said the general;
“but Augustus, now, I entrate you, lade the young man into no scrapes:
and don’t let us hear of his being gored by a buffalo, or ate up by a
tiger, or killed by some of them brutes of horses of yours.”
“Oh! no,” said Augustus, laughing and winking at me; “well take care of
all that, sir.”