A day or two after this, my bearer gave me a little rose-coloured
billet, which had been left for me, of which missives (though not always
_couleur de rose_) there is a vast circulation in India—almost all
communications from house to house, and family to family, being carried
on in this way.
The note was from Miss Lucinda; it was written in a delicate crow-quill
hand, and sealed with a dainty device (“_qui me néglige, me perd_”), or
something of that sort, and contained an invitation, in her mamma’s
name, to a _soirée musicale_, on the following evening.
“Here is an invitation (a provoke), Tom” said I, “from your friend, the
stout gentlewoman; shall we go?”
“Oh, certainly,” was the reply. “I have a similar one. Mrs. Brownstout’s
parties are amongst the most agreeable at Barrackpore; her guests are
always well selected and well assorted—the grand _desiderata_ of all
social meetings. I like her and her daughters amazingly, having
uniformly received the most unaffected kindness from both. The old lady,
indeed, looks upon me as her son, and, if there were not insuperable
obstacles in the way, Frank,—_entendez-vous?_—I might become so in
reality.”
“Perhaps, Tom,” said I, “that’s what she is manœuvering to effect.”
“No,” replied he; “she is above-board, and incapable of such a
proceeding; she is no schemer—would be glad, no doubt, to marry her
girls to worthy men, in an open, honest way; but would scorn to effect
it by little crooked arts: never, Frank, if you please, say a word to
the prejudice of Mrs. Brownstout in my presence.”
“Why, Tom,” said I, astonished, “what’s the matter with you? You’re
warm, my dear fellow; I meant no offence to you, and as for—”
“Say no more, say no more,” said Tom, stopping my mouth; “you were
jesting, and I was hasty; but I cannot bear the shadow of an imputation
on those I regard. If any one said a word against you, Frank, I’d floor
him.”
I was touched by my friend’s generous warmth. “You’re a worthy fellow,
Tom,” said I, squeezing his hand; “but pray heaven we may be spared the
necessity of showing our love for one another in that way, though we
have battled pretty often in each other’s defence in times past. Do you
remember, by-the-bye, the joint-stock pummelling we gave Jack Grice, the
cobbler, when at old Thwackum’s?”
“Ha! ha! I do, indeed, Frank; the fellow thought he had us out of
school, and in a _cul de sac_; but he caught a brace of Tartars.”
At the appointed hour, the next evening, we found ourselves at Mrs.
Brownstout’s bungalow. From the number of palankeens and return buggies
we met, on our entering the domain, or compound, we were led to infer
that the party was pretty numerous, which proved to be the case.
Having deposited our hats in the hall or verandah, which, by the way,
was full of hookhas of various degrees of splendour—a luxury then more
indulged in than at present—we entered the well-lighted saloon, or
reception room; and I confess I was agreeably surprised at the elegance
and propriety of the _tout ensemble_.
It is a pleasant sight, in a distant land, thus to meet a social
assembly of your countrymen and women, young and old, enjoying music and
conversation, and the pleasing refinements of the Western world.
A group of Barrackpore belles occupied one portion of the apartment—a
gay parterre—in which, however, the sun flower and the lily greatly
predominated over the rose.
In front of them, and standing in groups here and there, were numerous
officers of the different regiments at the station, fine, handsome young
fellows, for the most part, in the bloom of life, on whom the sword, and
time, and care, and the airs of the death-concocting jungles, had yet to
do their work. There they were, laughing the light laugh of the careless
heart, and doing and saying all those things, the exact counterpart of
which, perhaps, had been said and done in that very bungalow by many a
set as jocund as they, who had gone before them, had run their brief
Indian career, died, and been forgotten.
Then, as a sort of counterpoise to the youth of the party, were certain
portly colonels and majors, button-holding in corners over grave
discussions of off-reckonings, changes of stations, &c., their goodly
and well-matured persons contrasting with those of the slender youths
around—as do the gnarled and bulky oaks of many a winter, with the tall
and slender saplings of the forest.
Then there was a jovial old surgeon from the north of the Tweed, who
took snuff out of a mull, and cracked the driest of jokes in the
crabbedest of tongues; and two or three _distingué_-looking civilians,
temporary visitants to Barrackpore, exhibiting, in the studied
simplicity of their attire and well-tied cravats, a striking contrast to
the gay uniforms of the military—who, poor fellows, too often illustrate
the proverb, that “all is not gold that glitters;” and hence, indeed,
the civilian consoles himself for wanting it on his coat, by the
comfortable consideration that he has _quantum suff._ of it in his
pocket.
Particularly conspicuous amongst the company assembled at Mrs.
Brownstout’s, was a jocose old collector, the life and soul of the
party, who, being remarkably ill-favoured, and very good-natured, seemed
to feel himself privileged, without danger of misconstruction, to be
wondrously facetious with the young ladies, whom he roundly declared
were all in love with him, and gave him no rest or peace with their
incessant attentions.
“There now you see, there it is,” said he, starting pettishly away, and
looking piteously and appealingly to the company, as Miss Maria touched
his elbow, and asked him to take some tea; “there it is again; you see
she won’t let me alone.”
I learnt afterwards that he had been an old friend of the deceased
major, with whom he had hunted and shot, and drank pale ale, on and off,
for five-and-twenty years; that he was, moreover, Maria’s godfather, and
the true friend of the family, by whom he was consulted on all weighty
and important matters. Though a systematic drole or humourist, he was at
bottom a man of sound judgment and extensive knowledge, and the most
benevolent of human kind.
Shortly after we had entered, Mrs. Brownstout met us with a greeting
which amply made up in cordiality for whatever it might want in
refinement, and from Maria and Lucinda we received kind nods of
recognition, though too busy to do more. There they were in all their
bravery, doing the honours of the tea-table, exhibiting the albums and
the caricatures, and endeavouring to make every one at home and
happy—cheerful within the limits of propriety and good sense, attentive
to all, with kindness and the most obliging tact.
“You’re right, Tom,” said I, “in your estimate of this family; the
mother is, though a little blunt, a worthy woman, and the girls are
dear, sweet creatures; I declare I’ve a good mind to marry them both.”
“Both! Are you quite sure that either of them would have you?”
“But Tom, by the way,” I continued, “to change the subject from my loves
to yours, is not that Miss Julia Heartwell?” directing, at the same
time, his attention towards that young lady, who hitherto, from her
position, had escaped our observation: “how lovely she looks this
evening, with her tiara of white roses!”
Tom coloured: “So it is,” he replied; “I did not expect to meet her
here.”
So saying, and after a pause to muster courage, Ensign Rattleton moved
across the room; a fine, well-made, broad-shouldered young fellow he was
too, and in his tight, well-fitting raggie, or Swiss jacket (one of the
neatest turnouts of Messrs. Gibson and Pawling), his small and
gracefully-tied sash, his white Cossack trousers, and grenadier wings
(of which he was especially proud), it would have been difficult to
conceive a more elegant figure, or one in which youth, strength, and
symmetry were more happily blended.
Tom evidently did not wish to appear marked and particular, or to excite
more observation than could be well avoided; he consequently made his
approaches very gradually, speaking to some other young ladies of his
acquaintance in the group before he addressed the _objet aimée_.
I marked the pretty Julia, who, though doubtless aware of the motive,
bit her lip, and seemed ill to bear even this assumed indifference. True
love is a brittle affair, and, like a box of china, must be managed
“with caution.”
Tom, however, at length approached; many a curious eye was upon them,
and now, “rebel nature” unfurled her crimson flag, and the little god of
love beat his rat-tat-too; in other words, the conscious blush
overspread the lovely Julia’s countenance, and the palpitations of her
bosom told full plainly all that was passing in the little heart
beneath.
Ensign Rattleton, with an attempt at unconcern, presented his hand, and
a seat being unoccupied by her side, he rather awkwardly (for he was not
himself) slid into it.
Poor Tom! his efforts at composure, marred by the consciousness that he
was the object of observation—his blushes and her tell-tale looks of
mingled tenderness and admiration, were all too palpable to escape
notice.
“Its all up with him,” said the caustic old bachelor captain whom I had
met at the colonel’s, giving me a slight touch with his elbow; “as dead
a case of splice as I ever saw in my life—well, humph!—better let it
alone, and remain as he is. He’ll think so too when the _butchas_
(children) and the bills come tumbling in together by-and-by.”
Lucinda now, at the desire of some of the company, gave us some charming
airs to the accompaniment of the guitar, which she touched with peculiar
grace; Maria afterwards warbled to the piano, and finally, by particular
desire, sung a lively native song, the burthen of which was “_Hilly
milly puniya_,” the great delight of the old collector, who stood over
her, shaking his head, beating time with his hands, as if quite at home
in the matter, and occasionally footing it in a mincing burlesque way,
which I was afterwards told was a jocular imitation of the Indian nautch
girls, with whom this song is a favourite; it constituting one of that
mellifluous variety, with which I have often since heard them “startle
the dull ear of night.”
A good deal of merriment was caused by the collector’s animated
earnestness, and the young hands cried “_encore!_” One of his friends,
an old colonel, present, exclaimed,
“Why, you nautch superbly, Dilkhoob (for that was his name); I did not
expect such activity at your time of life.”
“Ah! don’t I—don’t I?” said the merry old gentleman. “But what do you
mean, sir, by my time of life? five-and-twenty only last birthday! We
young fellows must be always in action—always in action.”
“You both play and sing, do you not, Miss Heartwell?” said Maria,
addressing herself to Julia.
Julia, of course, said “very little,” that she hardly ever played,
“excepting at home;” and that, moreover, she was just then haunted by
the vocalist’s malific genius, a cold.
The facetious collector now seated himself near a very lovely young
woman, who, I learnt from Tom, was the adjutant’s lady; a pleasant
_tête-à-tête_ followed; the lady seemed highly amused; the adjutant
himself, who was a friend of Dilkhoob, soon joined them.
“Well, sir, here you find me,” said the old gentleman, “flirting with
your wife. Sir, I love your wife.” The adjutant smiled (it was almost a
_mauvaise plaisanterie_). “Yes, I’ve a right to love her, sir; I’m not
forbidden to love her as long as I don’t covet her; and so I will love
her, sir.”
The gentlemen laughed—the ladies looked into their fans—but it was only
honest Dilkhoob, the privileged man.
Miss Heartwell now sat down to sing, Tom, in the most exemplary and
obsequious manner, selecting her book and turning over the leaves.
Julia then drew off, deliberately, first from one hand and then from the
other, her silk gloves, of a texture almost as light and delicate as
gossamer or a spider’s web (which she placed on the piano), displaying
two of the whitest, softest, and most beautifully turned little hands
that I think I ever beheld; I doubt if Sir Roger de Coverley’s widow’s
could have equalled them.
Having run these delicate fingers—like a bevy of white mice—rapidly over
the keys, as if to ascertain the force and tone of the instrument, she
paused, looked up, and, with a sort of girlish waywardness, said,—
“Well, now, what am I to sing?”
Tom, with infinite obsequiousness, pointed with his finger to an air he
had selected—it was Moore’s exquisite song, “Those Evening Bells,” a
song which will endure as long as man retains a right perception of the
touching and the beautiful, and which expresses, in the happiest
language, what thousands have felt, when that inexplicably sad and sadly
pleasing music, the chime of distant bells floating softly over hill and
dale, falls on the listening ear.
Sweet bard of Erin! embodier of our tenderest thoughts—translator of our
dumb emotions—fixer of those painted bubbles of the soul which before
thee burst at the touch of words—how many exiles have thy glorious songs
made glad! how many solitudes have they cheered! how many pensive
spirits have they soothed and delighted! how oft have thy soul-breathed
words, sung to the strains of old, and falling on the finest chords of
the heart, awakened all its noblest responses, to liberty, patriotism,
love and glory! Immortal is thy fame, for it is deeply rooted in human
hearts and human sympathies, and long after thou hast joined the choir
above, may thy melodious strains float down the stream of time to
delight the latest posterity!
Julia sung this sweet air, and several others, with a feeling and pathos
which convinced me she was not the soulless belle I had at first
imagined; indeed, as she sung, every noble and generous emotion beamed
from her lovely face.
No wonder poor Tom was far gone _à la Chatelar_ though things with him
had a somewhat happier termination; as it was, he hung enamoured over
her, delighted evidently with the sensation her singing had produced,
and, “music being the food of love,” as we have it on the best
authority, banqueting evidently on this very exciting _pabulum_.
Miss Heartwell having resigned her seat, overwhelmed with praises and
acknowledgments, another young lady was prevailed upon to occupy it.
Several other songs followed, when there was a pause.
The silence was at length broken by the old collector, Mr. Dilkhoob,
marching up to our hostess, and addressing her, arms, a-kimbo, with
well-simulated sternness and severity, in the following manner:—
“Mrs. Major Brownstout,” said he, “I’ve a very serious cause of
complaint against you, madam, in which your daughters are in some degree
implicated, and in which I will venture to affirm I am joined by all the
rest of the young people in this party.”
A general smile and interchange of looks between those present was the
result of this speech, deemed evidently the precursor of something
merry.
“Well, Mr. Dilkhoob,” responded the old lady, who seemed perfectly to
understand him, “what is my transgression?”
“Why, madam,” said he, “I consider that you have acted in a most
unusual, a most inconsiderate, and a most extraordinary manner, in
inviting so many young folks to your house, myself among the number,
without giving them a dance;” the young men here rubbed their hands;
“but, madam, as it is never too late to amend our faults, and correct
our backslidings, I propose that we do now have a dance, and that my
friend here, Lieutenant and Adjutant Wigwell, be solicited to send
immediately for a part of his banditti—I beg pardon—band, I meant, in
order that we may ‘trip it as we go, on the light fantastic toe’ this
way,” said he, seizing the hands of the laughing dame, and cutting one
or two most ponderous capers.
“Bravo!” was repeated by many voices.
The motion was carried by acclamation, and Lieut. and Adjt. Wigwell
posted off an orderly for some of the musicians.
They soon made their appearance, and a fine swarthy set of fellows they
were, with their chimney-pot caps. There was a little preliminary
clatter in the verandah, and pitching of instruments, when suddenly
clarionet, cymbal, and trombone broke forth in a glorious and
soul-inspiring lilt.
Tables were removed, chairs thrust out, partners engaged, and the
younger portion of Mrs. Brownstout’s party—as if suddenly bitten by
tarantulas—were whirling and bobbing through the mazes of the merry
dance; I footing it away, with Maria for my partner, as well as the best
of them.
A neat supper, with songs, serious and comic, _à la mode Indienne_, and
the collector quite uproarious, terminated one of the pleasantest
evenings I had yet spent in Bengal.
Miss Julia went home in her palkee; Tom and I escorted her to her
bungalow on foot; the former making seven-league strides, in order to
converse a little by the way; I pelting away after him as vigorously as
the man with the steam leg, though not having an equal interest in such
violent locomotion.
The period was now approaching when I was to bid adieu to Barrackpore
for the Upper Provinces, and exchange the life of mingled drill and
gaiety, of which the foregoing little _tableaux_ may serve to give some
idea, for one of constant change from scene to scene, and more in
consonance with a roving disposition.
I was appointed to a regiment at Agra, but about to move to Delhi, the
capital of India, and which is, or was, associated in our minds with
all, or much, that is glorious and striking in Eastern history.
A Captain Belfield, of infantry, from Java, one of the Indian army of
occupation there, going up the country to a staff appointment, kindly
offered to take me under his wing, and afford me the benefit of his
experience.
Though a totally different man in every respect, he was a friend of
Marpeet, who sent me a letter of introduction to him; the conclusion of
it, which I afterwards saw, was rather characteristic of the captain:
“Gernon is a real good-hearted lad, but a devil of a griff; so you must
keep a sharp eye upon him as you go up together, that he does not shoot,
drown, or hang you or himself.”
A week before my departure, I got leave to go down to Calcutta, for a
couple of days, for the purpose of hiring a boat to take me up to the
great military station of Cawnpore, from whence I was recommended to
march. I had also a few necessaries to procure, as well as to take leave
of General Capsicum and the widow, of whom I had occasionally accounts
through the roundabout channel of my friend the indigo planter.
Battleton having matters of deep moment to attend to in Calcutta, one of
which I discovered was to order a splendid set of turquoises, bracelets,
brooch, ear rings, all complete, with other _bijouterie_, for the bride
elect (for Mrs. Brownstout’s hop had fairly brought on the matrimonial
crisis), he offered to accompany me.
One day, after breakfast, consequently, we proceeded to the ghaut, where
we hired a paunchway to take us to the City of Palaces, for the sum of
one rupee; and the tide being in our favour, we struck out into the
noble stream, and were soon on our way to our destination.
The scenery between Calcutta and Barrackpore, a distance of sixteen or
eighteen miles, I thought then, and have always since considered,
extremely rich and picturesque; its characteristics are bold sweeps of
the broad Hoogly—banks agreeably diversified, with rich foliage of
various forms and tint—clumps of cocoa-nut and bamboo—groves of mango,
tamarind, and plantain. Here a ghaut, with crowds of bathers—there a
temple, or the white huwailie or kotee house of some European residing
on the banks.
We soon passed the Governor-General’s country residence, and the
extensive and beautifully wooded park adjoining, which has a fine effect
from the river; also, riding at anchor among other boats, and at some
little distance from the shore, we had a view of the state pinnace, or
_Soonamooky_, in which that high functionary makes his progresses to the
Upper Provinces. It was an elegant square-rigged vessel, with tapering
masts, painted a light green, if my memory is correct, and profusely,
though tastefully, gilded; hence, in fact, the name.
On we rowed with the rapid tide, and after coursing along two or three
hold sweeps of the river, Calcutta once more broke on my sight—the
native town—Howrah—the splendid white buildings of the European
quarter—its forest of shipping—swarming ghauts—multitudinous boats—and
all the ant-hill scene of commerce, hustle, and animation, opening upon
us in rapid succession, like the scenes of a diorama.
This approach to the City of Palaces, however, is by no means equal, in
my opinion, to that from the seaward side. Widely different were my
emotions when I next visited this spot.
After many years’ residence in the Upper Provinces, amongst rajahs, hill
forts and Hindoo temples, holy shrines and sacred prayagas, groves
resounding with the cry of the peacock, and Mahomedan ruins of departed
grandeur, exploring the haunts of the savage Bheel, and pursuing the
plundering Pindarry through the scenes of his maraudings, familiarized
with scenes, manners, and customs wearing the impress of a hoary
antiquity, and as far removed from the go-ahead things of European
civilization as it is possible to imagine, I once more found myself off
Calcutta.
With my mind thus saturated with new ideas—a sort of “sleepy hollow”
state having come over me, and the recollections of “father-land” fast
escaping from my still fondly tenacious grasp, the first sight of the
tall masts of the shipping, as they burst on my view, on rounding a
point, produced sensations of pleasure as hard to describe, as difficult
to be forgotten; nor were these feelings diminished, when, gliding past
the vessels themselves, I read “London,” “Liverpool,” and so forth, on
their sterns, and beheld the rough red-shirted tars, my ruddy stalwart
countrymen, as they gazed at us over the sides, or lounged in groups on
the forecastle, and thought that in very truth but a brief period had
elapsed since those fortunate fellows had been lying in some crowded
bustling port of my own dear native land, with “all her faults,” still
beloved and dear to me.
A visit subsequently to one of them served, by exhibiting once familiar
things, to awaken still more forcibly the recollections of Old England,
and to rekindle that love of country, which, next to that of God and
kindred, is, perhaps, the noblest feeling that can swell the bosom.
I will venture to say there are many of my Anglo-Indian brethren who
have experienced that which I have here feebly attempted to describe.
We landed at Chundpaul ghaut, a spot memorable in my eyes as that of my
disembarkation in Calcutta some two or three months before, and of my
incipient acquaintance with my grandiloquent factotum Chattermohun
Ghose.
From the ghaut we proceeded, in ticca palankeens, to the fort, where
Rattleton and I had been invited to take up our quarters with Lieut.
Rantipole, of the Zubberdust Bullumteers, then on duty there with his
company.
A wonderful place is Fort William, and a hard nut it will be for the
enemies of Old England to crack, if they should ever be induced to
attempt it, whether it be the wily Russian, the gallant Frenchman, or
Brother Jonathan himself.
It is exceedingly wrong to be proud—very wrong indeed—I know it; but,
nevertheless, I have always carried my chin at an angle of forty-five
degrees with the plane of the horizon, whenever I marched into that
bristling _place d’armes_. To other pens, less sketchy and discursive
than mine, I must leave its minute description.
Suffice it for my purpose here to observe, that its extent is vast, its
defences admirable, and though making little exterior show, its green
slopes once passed, a battery on the broad grin meets you at every turn,
as much as to say, “A-ha! I’ve caught you, eh!—_on ne peut pas passer
ici_;” in short, its guards, griffs, adjutants, and arsenals, crows,
causeways, cookboys and counterscarps, its mountains of balls and acres
of cannon, are all wonderful and astonishing.