On the evening of my arrival at Dinapore, I was sitting on the roof of
my boat, observing the _dobees_, or washermen, thumping their clothes,
natives cleaning their teeth with primitive tooth-brushes of stick, and
other similar sights which diversify the animating scene of an Indian
ghaut, when the distant and inspiring strains of a full military band
broke upon my ear. “Egad!” thought I, “there’s some fun going on; a
promenade, no doubt, with all the beauty and fashion of Dinapore
assembled; I’ll go and see.”
I ordered Ramdial to bring out the _jubba walla coortie_ (the laced
jacket), which had never yet graced my person in any public assembly. A
splendid thing it was, with a huge silver epaulet, and “tastily turned
up with a brimstone-coloured lapelle;” I thought there could hardly be
its fellow in all Dinapore. A neat white waistcoat, crimson sash (tied
in a _dégagé_ knot under the fifth rib), coatee over all, hat a shade on
one side, and flourishing a clean bandanna in my hand, with a sprinkling
of lavender upon it, _me voilà_, an ensign of the first water.
I soon reached the scene of attraction in the principal square, and a
lively scene it was. There were congregated groups of officers, chatting
and laughing around belles seated in tonjons; others, three or four
abreast, promenading backwards and forwards, hands behind them, and
examining the structure of their legs; gigs and carriages drawn up,
their occupants attentively listening; syces walking their masters’
chargers up and down; chuprassies, silver-stick men, and other native
servants, mingled with the throng of sepoy orderlies and European
soldiers in undress.
I mingled with the crowd, and promenaded too; but, alas! I knew no one;
and who so solitary as he who, amongst a crowd, experiences the
sickening reflection that there is no one of the many assembled with
whom he holds the slightest community of thought or feeling!
The shades of evening were deepening—the assembly thinning—the _finale_,
“God save the King,” was playing—busy memory had awakened thoughts of
those who did regard me, far, far away—and I was waxing thoughtful and
sad, when I suddenly heard the sound of a familiar voice.
I turned, and recognized in the speaker my shipmate and brother-cadet,
honest Grundy. I sprang forward to address him.
God knows—for it is hard to answer for that fickle and selfish thing,
the human heart, which has rarely the courage to brave the “world’s
dread laugh,” and follow its own more generous dictates—whether I should
always have done it with equal promptitude, for Grundy, in a mere
fashionable sense, was not an acquaintance to be proud of; but now I
stood in need of sympathy, and there are seasons when anything in the
shape of a friend is acceptable—when we are not fastidious, and are
overjoyed to exchange greetings with aught in the shape of humanity.
“Grundy, my boy,” said I, facing him, “don’t you know me?”
Grundy stared vacantly for a moment, for I was considerably
metamorphosed by my new habiliments; but soon recognizing me, his
features relaxed into an expression of good-humoured delight.
“Odds life, Gernon! is that you, man?” said he, grasping my hand; “why
whaur the dickens are you from?”
I soon satisfied him, and he told me he was now doing duty with a
regiment at Dinapore, and lived in a bungalow not very far off.
“Are you alone, Grundy?” said I.
“Alone!” replied my friend with a sigh; “oh, no; there are six of us in
the bungalow—Griff Hall, as they call it—all young hands, none of us a
year in the country, and a tearing life we lead; it does not suit me at
all, though, and I mean to leave them as soon as I can get another place
and a quiet man to chum with.”
“Yes, I know your pacific habits, Grundy, and wonder how you got amongst
such a set; who and what are they?”
“Why, there’s first, Mr. McScreechum, an assistant surgeon; three
infantry ensigns, besides myself, and a Lieut. Fireworker,[43] of
artillery. I think they are all mad, particularly the doctor, for such a
man for mischief I never met with in all my born days. But, Gernon, lad,
I hope you will stay for a day or two, at least,” said he, slapping me
on the shoulder; “for it glads my heart to see you again, man.”
I accepted Grundy’s invitation, and we proceeded to Griff Hall.
We found the doctor, with two or three others, on the _chabootra_, or
terrace, of the bungalow, all laughing and joking. The former, a huge
fellow, six feet two, with a freckled face and a carroty poll, in the
act of compounding a glass of brandy-and-water. Grundy presented me as
his friend on the way to join my regiment.
“Glod to see ye, sir; glod to see ye,” said the doctor, presenting me
his shoulder-of-mutton hand; “we’ll use you weel at Griff Hall, sir, and
eeneetiate ye intoo oor Eleuseenian mesteries. What’s for dinner,
Larking?” said he, turning to a slender, pale youth, in a red camlet
raggie; “what have ye got for a treat to-night? Nae mair of your d——d
skeenny kid and tough goat mutton I hope. Ah! ye’r a braw chiel to cater
for a gentleman’s mess.”
“I’ll resign my post to you with pleasure, doctor, if not satisfied with
my proceedings,” replied the caterer; “but I think things will be better
to-day, for I have given Rumjohn a good trouncing for palming that stuff
upon us yesterday. I’ll tell you what there is, doctor, by-the-bye, a
capital rooee muchee,[44] for I secured it myself this morning.”
“Weell,” said the doctor, “a rooee muchee’s nae bad thing, if it’s
frash.”
At this moment, three more ensigns, inmates of Griff Hall, hove in
sight, rattling up on tattooes, or galloways—tits combining some
pleasant varieties of fiddle-head, goose-rump, swish-tail, &c.
In India, every one (_i.e._, European officer) must keep a piece of
horse-flesh of some sort or other, though it must be allowed that
griffins, for obvious reasons, were never remarkable for possessing
superior studs. As the new-comers approached, full canter and shuffle,
the doctor put forth a screech, compounded of an Indian war-whoop and a
view halloo, by way of welcome: the fun was evidently beginning.
One of the ensigns on the terrace jumped down into the road, took his
hat off his head, whirled it round, and hooted loudly, to make his
friends’ horses bolt or shy. The doctor, too, seizing a sort of long
besom which stood in an angle of the bungalow wall, darted forward with
it to aid in putting the detachment to the rout.
“Doctor, what the deuce are you about, man?” shouted the immediate
object of his attack; “don’t be so infernally ridiculous.”
“Stir him oop with the lang pole,” roared the doctor, nothing daunted;
“stir oop the bombardier’s wonderful animal.”
And so saying, he poked the besom under the tail of the tattoo, who
resented this rear attack by launching out his heels, jerked off the
Lieut. Fireworker’s cap, and finally bolted, with his rider
half-unseated, across the compound, amidst the shouts and laughter of
his comrades, the doctor, with his wild red locks flying, and his feet
in slippers, pursuing him with his besom at the _pas de charge_.
McScreechum soon returned, puffing and blowing, and flourishing his
besom, and the Lieut. Fireworker shortly after joined the group, having
disposed of his runaway Bucephalus, but with a countenance darkly
portentous of mischief.
“Dr. McScreechum,” said he, “I’ll thank you, sir, not to take such
liberties with me in future, for I will not put up with them.”
“Stir him oop with the lang pole,” said the doctor, still flourishing
his besom.
“Others may submit to them, but I will not.”
“Stir him oop with the lang pole,” again replied McScreechum.
All joined the medico in rallying the indignant lieutenant out of his
wrath. The good-humoured Scotchman brewed and presented him a glass of
grog, to allay the fury of “the black dog,” as he termed it.
“A soft answer turneth away wrath,” saith the proverb, and on the same
principle, even a practical joke, though ever to be avoided, may be so
softened by a little tact as to allay the anger which, in nine cases out
of ten, it is sure to excite.
All these wild doings at an end, and matters properly composed, we
adjourned to the dining-room, being summoned by a rather dingy-looking
butler, or khanseman, very much resembling the worthy who has been
recorded in these pages as having so suddenly decamped with my
plate-chest.
Six wall-shades with oil glasses, a long table occupying the centre of
the room, and about as many chairs as guests, constituted the sum total
of the furniture.
In accordance with the almost universal custom of the military circles
in India, camp fashion was the order of the day—that is, each gentleman
had his own plates, knives and forks, and glasses, with a brace of
muffineers, containing pepper and salt, flanking the same; these last,
of every variety of size and shape, of glass, silver, or pewter, with a
corresponding variety of patterns in the cutlery and plates, constituted
as motley a show as can well be imagined.
The servants, too, were of the Rum-Johnny order—a dissolute, dirty set
of Mahomedans, whom I have before described—those usually picked up by
young officers on account of their speaking the English language, a
qualification which is pretty certain to insure their rejection by old
Indians. The dingy attire and roguish looks of these fellows harmonized
well with the style of the entertainment.
The doctor took the head of the table; the noble fraternity of Griff
Hall and their guests were soon seated. The khanseman-jee appeared,
staggering under a huge dish, which he deposited at the head of the
table; having done so, he lifted up the cover with the air of a
major-domo, and there smoked the rooee muchee already mentioned.
“Wha’s for fesh?” asked the doctor, plying the fish-knife with the
vigour of an Irish bricklayer when handling his trowel. “Wha’s for fesh?
Here’s a bonnie fellow; ‘a sight like this is gude for sair een,’ as my
old father, the provost, used to say.”
The rooee muchee was in great request, and other viands followed, all
very good of their kind, I thought, and proving the efficacy of the
rattan in some cases. Great was the talking and laughing, and the dinner
sped merrily. Never has it been my lot to encounter a more
light-hearted, thoughtless, and jovial set of fellows than the inmates
of Griff Hall.
The cloth removed, hookhas bubbled; the bottle passed freely, and the
conversation became animated; among other things, the scenes and
flirtations at the band that evening were passed in review.
“Who noticed Miss Simper, the new spin, talking to that old fellow,
MacGlashum?” said Ensign O’Toole, a young Hibernian; “sure I hope she’s
not going to take that broken-winded old fellow.”
“By my saul, I don’t know,” replied Ensign MacClaymore; “but I think if
she gets a major, and a gude Scotchman to boot, she could na do better.”
“Faith, I think she’d find an Irishman suit her better than an old or a
young Scotchman aither: oh, an Irishman’s heart for the ladies!”
“Meaning yourself, I suppose,” retorted the Highlander, dryly; “you
Paddies think there’s nought like yeer’sels in the world.”
“Faith, now, I don’t think we’ve half the consait of your Scotchmen, at
all,” replied O’Toole, “though a grate dale more to be proud of. Where
will you find janius like that which auld Ireland has produced—such
poets, statesmen, and haroes?”
“Proud!” said the other contemptuously; “hooever may fall short in those
respects, thank Gude, auld Scotland was never conquered,—never
conquered, sir, as some other countries have been.”
“I’ll tell you the reason,” said the other bitterly; “the poor beggarly
country was never worth the trouble and expense of conquering.”
“Eh! sir,” said the young Caledonian, his eyes flashing fire, “what’s
that you say, sir? I’ll no sit here and listen to that. What do you
mean, sir?”
“Mean!” retorted the other, sternly, “just what I’ve said, Ensign
MacClaymore, and so just make your most of it; if you’ve more to add,
let it be outside.”
Several attempts were made to check this angry dialogue, but in vain.
All was now confusion; the angry patriots half arose, and darted fierce
looks at each other across the table, their more peacefully disposed
neighbours endeavouring to quiet and retain them in their seats. Things
were fast verging towards “war, horrid war.”
Dr. McScreechum now arose, like Satan in Pandemonium, thumped the table
to engage attention, and with the voice of a Stentor, proclaimed
silence, and called the belligerents to order.
“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, “silence if you please, and listen to me.
I am the moderator of this assembly, and by vairtue of the pooers
confided to me, I proclaim _pax_. I’ll have na quarrelling here; doun
wi’ your foolish naytionalities; aren’t we all kintramen and brithers,
as my gude old father, the provost, used to say? You, Donald
MacClaymore, and you, Denis O’Toole, I’ll fine you each a dozen of
claret, and proclaim you baith ootlaws of Griff Hall, unless you shak
hands, like sensible fellows; shak hands, ye fire-eating donnard deevils
ye, and then I’ll gee ye a sang. ‘Auld lang syne, my dear, for a’ lang
syne.’ Wha’s for a sang?” This seasonable interruption, in the doctors
peculiar way, turned the tide of war. A furious drumming on the table
followed; glasses danced and jingled, and “Auld lang syne for ever!”
resounded through the hall. MacClaymore and O’Toole caught the spirit of
the movement, shook hands across the table, and the glorious Scottish
air broke forth splendidly, like an elegy over buried animosities.
The doctor, half-seas-over, was now completely in his element; his huge
red head rolled from side to side, and one eye, half shut, leered with
Bacchanalian philanthropy around the table.
Thus he stood, his arms crossed, and holding the hand of each of his
right and left neighbours, as he worked them up and down with a force
and energy proportioned to the varying sentiments of that celebrated
ditty, which has to answer for being the proximate cause of more boozing
and maudlin sentimentality than any ever written; for oh, that potent
collocation of words, “for auld lang syne,” goes direct to the exile’s
heart, particularly when softened by the genial glass; touches its
tenderest chords, and awakens, like the “Ranz de vaches,” the sweetest
and most soul-subduing reminiscences of youth, and all its
never-to-be-forgotten associations.
After this bout, anchovy toasts and broiled bones were put in
requisition, Ensign O’Toole insisted upon mulling a saucepanful of port,
to keep the beer and claret warm. At length, some fell asleep in their
chairs; others, including Grundy and myself, dropped off to bed, though
abused by the peep-o’-day boys for our recreant qualities.
Away we went, heartily tired, leaving a few choice spirits to keep it
up, the doctor talking in thick and almost inarticulate tone about
“Sheshero’s Epeestles to Hatticus.”
“You may well be tired of such a life as this,” said I, next morning;
“it would kill me in a week; how do you stand it?”
“Why,” replied Grundy, “I keep as clear of it as I can; besides, it is
not very often that we have quite such a jollification as we had last
night; however, the eternal racket we have does not suit me, and I shall
cut it as soon as I can; it goes against my conscience, too, to witness
some of the tricks they play upon one another. One day they hanged one
of the lads for fun by the punkah rope till he was black in the face;
and about a month ago sent a sub., a poor soft fellow, a voyage on the
Ganges in an open boat; and as he did not return for a week, it was a
mercy he was not starved or drowned.”
“How was this, Grundy?” said I.
“Why, the doctor and the lads were always poking fun at him, and making
him a _boot_ (butt). One night, something such another as last, they
made him believe he had been insoolted, and must fight. Sawney said he
would rather take an apology, but they told him it was quite impossible
that the affront could ever be washed out but with the blood of one of
them. They said it must be settled immediately, and went out with
lanterns to the back of the bungalow. The unfortunate lad was in a
dreadful fright, but they made him fire; the pistols were loaded with
powder only, but his antagonist fell; they said he had killed his man,
and must fly immediately, or, if he fell into the hands of the civil
power, he would inevitably be hanged. They hurried the poor young fellow
off the ghaut, put him on board a fishing-canoe, telling him to row for
his life till he came to some station, one hundred miles or so down the
river, where he would have a better chance of a fair trial, and must
give himself up. It was about a week before he was brought back to
cantonments, burnt as black as a tinker. There was a terrible kick-up
about it, and well there might be, for ’twas a cruel joke. The doctor
and all the parties concerned were threatened with a court-martial; but,
somehow or other, it all blew over.”
Pranks such as these are now, I believe, happily rare in India, as
everywhere else; but those who remember the country twenty or thirty
years ago will doubtless be able to recall many such manifestations of
boyish folly.
It is not desirable that youth should be converted prematurely into
thoughtful philosophy; care, in the ordinary course of things, will
come, soon enough, and need not be hastened; but I am an advocate for
its buoyancies being restrained within moderate bounds, that with it fun
should not be allowed to degenerate into mischief or cruelty, wit in
vulgarity, and friendly intimacy into coarse familiarity and practical
joking.
We breakfasted very late, and the tenants of Griff Hall dropped in one
by one _en déshabille_, evincing painful symptoms of the previous
night’s debauch—red eyes, trembling hand, and glued lips. One took a
dose of seidlitz, another five grains of calomel, and as for appetite,
there was none.
These are a few of the early effects of intemperance; its ultimate
consequences are not so briefly described.
I remained but one day more at Dinapore, which was partly devoted to
reporting my arrival, _en route_ to join—a measure enjoined on all
military voyagers, but not always attended to. I also saw the troops,
European and native, at brigade exercise, &c.; and in the evening
witnessed a tattoo race—officers riding their own ponies. This was a
very comical affair.
It was a little before sunset when Grundy, the Lieutenant Fireworker
(who had entered his pony), and I, walked down to the course, which is
situated a little behind the cantonment, being separated from it by a
dry nullah,[45] over which there are one or two bridges.
We found a great number of the inhabitants of the cantonment—some in
gigs, some on horseback, and others on foot—assembled to witness the
sport.
There was a good show of ponies, some of them certainly “rum’uns” to
look at, but, as was fully proved in the sequel, “devils to go.” Long
tails and swish tails, stumps, crops, and wall-eyes were there in
perfection. The young officers who were to ride them, amongst whom I
recognized more than one of the inmates of Griff Hall, marched about in
their top boots and velvet hunting-caps, cracking their whips with
countenances expressive of the full sense they entertained of the awful
contest in which they were about to be engaged.
Some, too, tightened their ponies’ girths; others passed their hands
down their fore-legs, as if to rub out the knots and clean the back
sinews; some put their arms lovingly round their animals’ necks, or
gratified their love of tormenting by pinching the flanks of their
steeds, and enjoying their abortive attempts to bite.
Amongst this throng was a very remarkable character, well known at
Dinapore, the clerk of the course, or whatever other name properly
appertains to the master of the ceremonies on such occasions. He was a
little, old, sun-dried, invalid sergeant, of a meagre form, but most
determined spirit. I was greatly amused by the consequential air of the
diminutive old fellow, as he stumped about in a rusty hunting-cap,
cracking a tremendous whip, and clearing the environs of dogs, boys, and
all other interlopers.
The time for the race having arrived, the young men mounted, some in red
jackets, some in white, and others in full jockey attire. The clerk of
the course ranged them all in proper order; eagerness was in every eye
as they bent forward, impatient for the word. Ladies stood up in
carriages, and many a neck was outstretched to catch a glimpse of the
start: when at last a thundering “Ready,” “Off,” from the little
mummified sergeant, and away flew the tattoos, “Punch,” “Cocktail,” and
“Mat-o’-the-Mint,” and many a nameless steed besides. Such digging,
spurring, and straining; such crossing and jostling as was there! one
pushing ahead for a space, and then another passing him, and so on!
When the whole troop had got about half-way round (it was a sweepstakes,
round the course), the leading pony bolted, and was followed by all the
rest, entering the gates leading to a bungalow, the first of a series
there commencing; there they very deliberately drew up, where doubtless
they had often drawn up before, when carrying their masters on their
rounds of morning visits.
Intense were the roars of laughter which issued from the spectators
assembled, occasioned by this little episode. Haul, dig, pound, and
spur, and they were again placed, and off—but ah! the unlucky fates! the
meridian of another bungalow entrance no sooner reached, than away with
them again, follow my leader, like a flock of sheep through a gap, or a
string of wild geese.
I thought verily I should have died outright, and as for honest Grundy,
and many of my neighbours, they stamped and roared till the tears ran
down their cheeks.
All this time we could see, though the distance was considerable, that
the jockeys were hard at work, getting their tattoos once more under
weigh through the opposite segment of road leading from the attractive
bungalow, the other horn, as it might have been termed, of the dilemma.
The course regained, away they went once more: the struggle was becoming
warm; they had turned the curve, and were in a line with the
winning-post; bettors were now on the _qui vive_—“ten to one on
Cocktail”—the little sergeant squatting bands on knees, taking a
judgmatical observation, when lo! no sooner had they reached a certain
bridge before mentioned, leading in a rectangular direction to
cantonments, than away they sidled, and at last one and all made a fair
bolt of it, right before the wind, for “home, sweet home.”
“Zounds!” said the sergeant, “if they bea’nt all off agin, I’m a
Dutchman.”
And off sure enough they were, amidst renewed peals of laughter. I doubt
if any race ever produced half the amusement. “They are gone, they are
gone, and never will return.”
This was literally the case with some; but several of the heavy sailers
managed to tack, and came in amidst the half-mad shouts of unexpected
winners, proving truly that “the race is not always to the swift,” and
that the best-founded expectations may be unexpectedly disappointed.
Two or three races on a smaller scale followed; but all was flat after
the _unique_ scamper I have attempted to describe; pleasure and
excitement had expended themselves, and were not to be renewed
immediately. Under these circumstances, Grundy and I bent our steps
towards the band, accompanied by the young artillery officer, who,
having proved the winner, was in high spirits.
Our dinner this evening passed off far more soberly than that of the
preceding one. The doctor was evidently suffering from a reaction of the
vital spirits, and on more than one occasion seemed disposed, like a
certain old gentleman when he was sick, to be religious and sentimental.
After a bottle or two of Hodgson, however, and a due proportion of
claret, he rallied, and proposed a round game at loo, as a mode of
passing the evening, which was joyfully assented to by the whole party.
The tables were consequently cleared, wine-glasses, &c., were placed on
teapoys and side-tables, and to work we all proceeded, keeping it up
till two in the morning, when I retired _minus_ a very considerable
pinch of General Capsicums “snuff,” with a firm determination to cut
cards from that time for evermore: a resolution which I religiously
kept—till the next time temptation came in my way.
At the time to which my Memoirs refer—and I am not aware that any
material change has since taken place—gambling was unfortunately too
prevalent in India. I have known nearly the whole of a small station,
ladies inclusive, keep it up for weeks, alternately at each other’s
houses, rarely missing a day.
The party would assemble after breakfast, and having distributed fish,
and set pen and ink to write I O U’s, would commence business in good
earnest. Tiffin would constitute a break, and after being rather
impatiently despatched, operations would be resumed, and continued till
time for the evening’s drive. After this, and dinner over, another round
of this absorbing amusement would close the day.
What a world of bad feeling in men, of keenness and unfeminine
cupidity in women, have I seen elicited on those occasions, and what
studies for the curious in physiognomy; what expressions of various
kinds have I observed in the faces of the party, when the hour drew
near for inditing I O U’s and settling the accounts of Dr. and Cr.;
what earnest pleadings for another round on the part of the losers,
and conscientiously-expressed determinations to retire to rest on the
part of the winners!
Cards and dice are pests, the offspring of idleness, and the parents of
vice and crime. They are the concomitants of semi-barbarism, and their
gradual disappearance is one of the indices of advancing civilization
and mental improvement. I began to think this one night after losing Rs.
1,100 at hazard and double-or-quits, and the impression has continued to
gain strength ever since.
Next morning, after breakfast, I bade adieu to Griff Hall and honest
Grundy; had my hand almost squeezed to a jelly by the good-natured son
of the provost, and, repairing on board my bolio, was soon once more
under weigh for the “far west.”
Very different, however, were the feelings which now attended my onward
progression. I had lost my kind and pleasant Mentor, Captain Belfield,
and his amiable maiden sister. There were no more social rambles, no
more agreeable disquisitions, no more tours in search of the
picturesque, no more chess.
I felt how insufficient my own thoughts were to supply the _hiatus_
caused by their absence, and mentally ejaculated, as I occupied my
lonely cabin at night, with poor Alexander Selkirk,
“Oh, solitude, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?”
I cannot quit the subject of my two friends without saying a few more
words regarding them. I have already stated briefly that Captain
Belfield and his sister afforded a fine example of that tender
attachment—that perfect love and affection which should ever subsist
between persons so nearly connected. They truly lived for each other,
and the imparting of mutual pleasure seemed to constitute one of the
highest gratifications of their lives. It was quite refreshing to
observe the warmth and cordiality with which they met in the morning, as
she, the picture of neatness and refined simplicity—the very beau ideal
of the real English gentlewoman—stepped from the sleeping apartment of
the budgerow, whilst he, closing his ponderous Sanscrit or Persian
folio, and laying it on the breakfast-table, would rise with extended
hand and a cheerful smile to greet her. Then at night, too, after the
short but fervent prayer to the Father of all, which the captain himself
would offer up extempore, how attentively would he light her taper, and
then with a tender salute commend her to her chamber and repose.
If two or three can love in this way, I have since sometimes thought,
why not all the world? but all the world, my good griffin, are not
brothers and sisters. True, true; I had forgotten that. The more, alas!
the pity.
Though, however, the hearts of the pair were thus united, there was not
an equal accordance in all their sentiments and opinions. This, however,
though productive of numerous discussions, never led to acrimonious
disputes. They agreed to disagree. Nature had cast the brother and
sister in the same mental mould, to borrow a phrenological term (which I
do with respect); the organization was equal. The same fine sense and
kindliness of disposition in both; but circumstances had favoured in
different degrees the development of their respective qualities.
Benevolence, veneration, and ideality must have been large in both,
though the captain had evidently been at pains to curb the vagaries of
the latter. He had left his home a mere boy, with his mind almost a
blank sheet, on which anything might have been inscribed. Whilst others
his contemporaries plunged into idleness and dissipation, he, by some
chance, flew to the solace of books. In them he studied that mystery of
mysteries—man, comparing, as life advanced, the living manifestations of
his character with all that he found recorded of his acts; he perused
the works of historians, theologians, and metaphysicians, on all sides
of all questions; and arrived at one grand conclusion, which is, that
truth is a very hard thing to get at, and, like the ideal good of
Goldsmith’s Traveller, “allures from far, and as we follow, flies.” He
certainly sought it ardently, though he could not felicitate himself, he
said, exactly in having yet found the “true truth.” A self-taught
genius, who thought vigorously, and expressed himself strongly, he was,
no doubt, somewhat of an Utopian; at least such I know Captain Marpeet
thought him.
Miss Belfield had been reared in the elegant seclusion, but subject to
the somewhat contracting influences of an English country life (nature,
if I may so express it, seems to have intended nations as well as
individuals to be gregarious), enjoying in her father’s pretty vicarage
her pets, her flowers, and the agreeable and polished society of the
superior gentry of the vicinity. In the neighbouring village she
dispensed her little charities, assuaged the sorrows of the poor and
needy, and did all the good she could in her limited sphere; but of the
sufferings of the world on a grand scale she knew not much, and as
little understood, perhaps, their real causes and remedies. High as were
her qualities of heart and intellect—and admirably would she write and
speak on all matters on which she allowed them free scope—she was not
(and who is?) without a defect; hers was one frequently to be met with
amongst the most amiable and estimable of our countrywomen, a gentle
intolerance and quiet assumption of infallibility on those subjects on
which a very little reading and reflection ought, perhaps, to convince
us that we should hold our opinions with the most trembling diffidence—I
mean religion, and other kindred subjects relating to the powers and
duties of mind, and the great interests of society, but particularly the
former. This would evince itself in the expression of extreme pity and
commiseration for the obstinacy or delusion of those who conscientiously
differed from her in such matters, she, by her manner, never seeming to
entertain the smallest shade of suspicion that she herself might be in
error. This spirit, partially veiled by the graces of her manner, the
kindness of her heart, and the evident rectitude of her intentions, did
not look so ill as the ugly monster intolerance generally does; still it
was her dark side, and but ill accorded with the general good sense by
which she was characterized; her reading on these points had been as
exclusive as her brother’s had been general.
Equally holding to certain fundamental points, they were both anxious to
regenerate mankind, but were widely opposed in respect to the means to
be employed for that purpose. The captain looked primarily to schools,
lectures, locomotion, and the wide diffusion of commerce and
intelligence, and thought if man fell by eating of the tree of
knowledge, he figuratively was destined to rise by a repetition of the
act. Miss Belfield principally relied on the multiplication of churches
and Sunday-schools, the extension of missionary labours, the early
conversion of the Jews, and the like. He thought that religion was the
first subject to which an instructed mind would direct its attention.
Miss Belfield, on the contrary, considered it the very last on which, if
not forced upon him, he would seek to be informed. She considered man as
radically vicious, that suffering was necessary to try him, and that it
was perhaps better to preach resignation to evils, than to waste time in
vain attempts to diminish them materially. Her brother differed, too, in
this, and thought that happiness was quite as well calculated to fit us
for heaven as misery; and that it was almost a libel on the Deity to
suppose that the thanks and praises of a rejoicing heart would not be as
acceptable as those emanating from one bowed down by sorrow and
suffering. He thought that the evils inseparably annexed to our
condition, such as death, sickness, and the loss of those tenderly
beloved, were trials sufficient, without our unnecessarily increasing
the load by fictitious ones—clearly the result of our follies,
contentions, and prejudices.
He used to compare society, as at present constituted, to a body of
undisciplined troops, composed of jarring detachments, under incompetent
leaders, and amongst whom the finest military qualities and powers are
neutralized or impaired by want of concert and organization.
“Educate your masses,” he would say, “for without you do that no
conceivable form of government will produce happiness to the governed.
Construct the finest piece of mechanism you may, on the strictest
principles of art, if the material is rotten and unsound, it must give
at some point—the due antagonism of its springs will be destroyed, and
it will not work.”
This diversity of views, which I have endeavoured to describe, used to
give rise, as I have already stated, to numerous animated discussions.
I used to listen to these collisions of intellect, during the evenings
we passed together, with much interest; and when I could see my way
through the _pros_ and _cons_, was wont sometimes to venture an opinion,
to which the captain and his sister always listened with eagerness, as
if anxious to know how the matter would strike on my young and
unsophisticated mind.
Some of these discussions, that is, the substance of them, I still
remember, and had I space, and were this the place for them, I might
here be tempted to record.
Lest my reader may be inclined to think otherwise, I must here state, in
justice to the good captain, now no more, that he was no leveller; he
considered perfect equality as impracticable as to construct a perfect
column without a base and a capital, and that the fabric of society must
ever fine away to a point, but that instead of being, as at present,
founded, in great part, on misery, prejudice, indigence, and ignorance,
it might be made to rest on the solid basis of virtue and happiness.
His grand axiom was—and he used frequently to repeat it to his
sister—“If by reading, observation, and reflection, I have learnt
anything respecting my fellow-creatures, it is this: that eight-tenths
of their sufferings have been and are entirely of their own creation,
and that it is within the powers of the human mind to diminish the
amount of moral and physical evil to an incalculable extent. The upper
classes appear to govern the world, but in reality it is the ignorance
and prejudice of the ‘tyrant majority’ which rule it. In these, the more
educated find what physically Archimedes sought—the fulcrum to move the
world: the head is the governing part of the body, but we all know how a
disordered stomach will affect it.”
I had but little more intercourse with the good captain and his sister
during my stay in India, though we met now and then, and maintained an
occasional correspondence. He, poor fellow, was never destined to
revisit his native land, for after saving a small competence, and just
as he was preparing to return, death, by one of its most appalling
agents—cholera-lodged a detainer against him, and instead of enjoying
the easy evening of life he had fondly anticipated amongst the scenes of
his boyhood, he was destined to fill a cold tenement, six feet by two,
in St. John’s churchyard, Calcutta.
’Tis not for me to describe Miss Belfield’s feelings on this occasion;
indeed, who can describe the anguish of heart, the utter desolation,
which the loss of a brother or a sister, endeared by union of sentiment
and every tender association of youth, necessarily occasions? I learnt
that she almost sunk under the blow; and a few, very few lines, which
she wrote me shortly after, told forcibly the extent of her sorrows, and
indicated the gratifying fact that she considered I had a right to
participate in them.
Well, years rolled away. I returned home, with a broken constitution,
and a _lack_ of rupees, in the English sense of the term;[46] and some
time after that event received the following letter:—
“Swines-Norton, June 10th, 18—.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN GERNON,
“I have for some time been aware of your return to your native land,
having heard of you from mutual friends. Pray, when your avocations
will allow of your leaving London, endeavour to visit my retirement. I
have a small room in my cottage at your service, and shall enjoy great
pleasure, in some respects a sorrowful one, in meeting you again, and
in reviving old recollections of those days when first we became
acquainted. I will reserve all further communications till we meet; in
the meantime am,
“My dear Captain Gernon,
“Yours most truly,
“A. BELFIELD.”
“To Brev. Capt. Gernon,
“5, Peppercorn-buildings,
“Pimlico.”
I was not long in finding out Miss Belfield’s retreat. The Highflyer
coach dropped me at the Bull, a foaming, rampant fellow, the only thing
evincing any signs of life and animation in the small sleepy village of
Swines-Norton, in ——shire. A few smock-frocked clowns, a bandy-legged
ostler, and a recruiting-sergeant, who seemed wofully out of his
element, loitered in front of the little inn as I descended.
“What luggage had you, sir?”
“Nothing but a small carpet-bag.”
“Come, Bill, bear a hand, and get the gentleman’s bag out of the hind
boot.”
The bandy-legged ostler soon disengaged my property; the spruce bluff
coachman clutched his reins and cracked his whip, and made the
over-frisky off-leader dance a saraband.
“Has Davy brought up that there black mare?” said the landlord,
sauntering out with his pipe and tankard of half-and-half.
“Yes; he’s down there along o’ Tom at the Blackbird.”
All right—crack—whisp—a nod to the pretty chambermaid at the
window—ya-hip! and away bowled the Highflyer, leaving me “alone in my
glory,” saving and except the drowsy specimens of humanity
afore-mentioned.
“Can you tell me where a lady named Miss Belfield resides?”
“Miss Bulfield—Miss Bulfield—be that she, Jem, as lives furder end o’
Tinker-pot-lane?”
“The lady, I mean,” said I, “returned from India some years ago, and
resides in something cottage, but I have forgotten the name.”
“All right, sir, that’s she—now you mentions the Heast Hinjies. I knows
she’ve a-got a parrotkeet—jist go on to the church, and then turn to
your right hand, and keep straight on as ever you can go ’til you comes
to a lane; when you be at the top o’ that, get over the stile and go
across the footpath till you comes to the furder end o’ the field, and
then anybody’ll tell you where Myrtle Cottage is.”
“Thank you, my man,” said I.
And I forthwith set out on my voyage of discovery. It was a sweet
summer’s evening, glorious, tranquil, sad. I heard with delight the
cuckoo’s voice, the tinkle of the sheep-bell, and the cry of the
jackdaws, as they sported about the burnished vane of the old
weather-stained steeple. I was in no hurry, but loitered in the quiet
village churchyard, where naught was moving save some two or three
little ragged sheep; and oh! who could describe the sensations, the
sadly pleasing, confused, but undefinable sensations, which crowded upon
me during the little half-hour that I spent there?
Seated on an old grey tombstone, alone, and looking up at that rustic
monitor, the village clock—whilst the soft summer air played on my face,
and soothing rural sounds fell on my ear—the events of my past life, the
images of friends departed—all I had done and left undone—passed like
visions—dissolving views—before me. Brother Indians, try sometimes,
after your period of toil is o’er, the effect of a summer’s musing in a
rural churchyard—’twill calm the perturbation of your spirits, place
things in their true lights before you, and act as oil on troubled
waters. But, to be brief, I found Miss Belfield’s cottage—neat, modest,
elegant, and retiring, just as I remembered herself. The parrot screamed
in the little hall, and a very antiquated dowager of a spaniel, with an
opaque eye, emitted a husky bark as I entered.
“Be pleased to take a seat, sir,” said the tidiest and modestest of
little maids, “and my mistress will be with you immediately.”
I took a seat—my spirits were in a flutter, almost bordering on pain.
The door opened, and the hand of Miss Belfield was locked in mine. We
both started a little.
“Most truly glad to see you,” said she, with deep emphasis, her eyes
full of tears. I placed my other hand over the one of hers which I held
in my grasp, and answered her by a soft and earnest pressure, which told
how deeply I reciprocated the feeling.
“Well,” said she, smiling, after a pause, “I suppose we must not
compliment each other on looks, for I am almost afraid to think how long
it is since we parted—but I hope our mutual regard has not suffered by
the lapse of time.”
I assured her that my respect and esteem for her were as fresh as ever.
Years and ill-health had given me a slight curve in the shoulders. The
freshness of my complexion had long been converted into a delicate
yellow; my hair was grey beyond the power of Macassar oil to restore,
and crows’ feet had dug their ineffaceable marks at the angles and
corners of my face.
Miss Belfield’s eyes I once or twice caught resting on me, as if
involuntarily—for she instantly averted them on their encountering mine.
She was doubtless comparing me to my former self—and exclaiming
inwardly, “Oh! what a falling off is here!”
If she was struck by my changed appearance, I was no less so with hers.
Time and Care, rival ploughmen, had deeply furrowed her brow—her
_embonpoint_ was gone; and the iron-grey locks peeped here and there
through the muslin of her cap. Still, as of old, the ease, the urbanity,
the refinement, and, at the same time, the simplicity of the
gentlewoman, shone in Miss Belfield as conspicuously as ever.
As we stood near the fire, and during the pause which followed the
ardour of question and answer incident to a first meeting, Miss Belfield
drew my attention to a portrait over the mantelpiece; it was that of an
officer, in somewhat old-fashioned regimentals.
“Do you know that?” said she, in a subdued and choked tone, pointing to
it with her finger.
I did indeed; ’twas my old friend, the good, the kind, and thoughtful
captain. There he sat, serenely, with his book half-opened and resting
on his knee, just as he was wont to look in days of yore, when I rattled
into his budgerow, after one of my shooting excursions.
“Come,” said Miss Belfield, gently withdrawing me from its
contemplation, “lunch awaits us in the next room, and you must require
refreshment.”
I must reserve a more detailed account of Miss Belfield for some future
part of my autobiography,—that devoted to England; let it here suffice
to state, that after a week’s visit to my amiable friend—one
characterized by every thing that was pleasing—I returned to London,
having first promised to repeat my visits from time to time, to draw and
botanize, and talk of old times; and settle, over a cup of Howqua’s
mixture, the great questions now agitating the world. But to proceed.
I passed the old fort and station of Buxar, where a few invalids doze
out the evening of their Indian existence, and saw some European
veterans, almost as black as the natives, with large mushroom hats,
bobbing for fish on the banks of the river, and in due time reached
Ghazepore, the station of one of H.M. regiments.
Here I found my shipmate, Ensign O’Gorman. The ensign, on whom I called,
received me as an Irishman and a British officer in the royal service
might be supposed to do. Could a volume say more for its warmth and
cordiality? I dined with him at his mess, at which urbanity, kindness,
and good cheer combined their attractions to render this one of the
pleasantest evenings I had spent in India. Oar ship adventures were
discussed; our fellow-passengers were passed in review, and we were
supremely happy.
“By the way,” said I, rather carelessly, “have you heard what has become
of Olivia Jenkins?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear she is married?”
“Married!” I exclaimed, and a mouthful of pillaw stuck _in transitu_ in
my œsophagus, nearly producing a case of asphyxia.
“Good heavens! you don’t say so?”
“Oh, it’s a fact,” said O’Gorman; “but what’s the matter? you appear
unwell.”
“Oh, I am quite well,” said I; “but let’s take a glass of wine.”
I tossed off a bumper, and felt relieved.
“And so—little—Olivia—Jenkins—is actually—married? Good heavens! only
think of that!”
“Why, sure,” said the ensign, smiling, “there’s nothing very strange in
a pretty girl getting married; but,” added he, looking hard at me, and
after a pause, “I suspect you were a little touched in that quarter
yourself; am I not a true diviner?”
“I acknowledge it,” said I; “I did like that girl. Good heavens! and so
little Olivia Jenkins is actually married!”
The ensign pressed me to stay with him a week, but I was forced to
decline his hospitality, and resumed my onward route the next morning.
In a few days I reached Benares—Kasi, the splendid—the Jerusalem or
Mecca of the Hindoo world. What a treat to look upon a picture of human
existence, just as it probably was when Alexander the Great was a little
chap!
As I glided past the swarming ghauts, where the pure-caste damsels, the
high-born Hindoo maidens, of this strange and antique land, displayed
their lovely forms, and laved their raven tresses in the sacred stream;
where the holy bramin and the learned pundit, seated cross-legged,
marked with ashes and pigments, pattered their Veds and Purans, I felt
this in all its force; whilst the blowing of the conch, or the tinkling
of bells, announced the never-ending round of _Poojah_ and devotion!
Here and there, the sacred Bull of Siva, and the _yoni_ and _lingam_,
festooned with wreaths of lotus or chumbalie, met the eye; whilst
crowded boats, jingling bylies (ruths or native carriages), armed
natives in the varied costumes of India (here assembling in the common
centre of religious hopes and duties), with an elephant or two
half-immersed, would serve to complete the foreground of this
interesting picture.
Behind arose, somewhat after the manner of those congregated
architectural masses in Martin’s pictures, though of course inferior in
the boldness of their proportions and general taste and magnificence of
the outline, the closely-wedged masses of this most curious and
old-world city; the continuity of buildings occasionally broken by
masses of foliage, or a cuneiform temple, with its tapering bamboo and
blood-red pennon.
High over all, in the centre of the city, on a natural eminence, towered
the celebrated mosque of Aurungzebe, with its two lofty minarets, which
command a magnificent prospect of the surrounding country. This mosque
is erected, it is said, on the site of a Hindoo temple of great
sanctity, which was previously desecrated by having the blood of a cow
sprinkled over it.
When the Mahomedans and Hindoos have a serious flare-up, the cows and
pigs are pretty sure to suffer for it. The one is held in the highest
veneration by the Hindoo, the other in utter abomination by the Moslem;
consequently, the killing of one in a mundil, and of the other in a
mosque, in pursuance of the _lex talionis_, generally constitutes the
crisis of a religious dispute.
Such is revenge, when passion and fanaticism are in the ascendant, and
such the _gusto_ with which, by contending religionists, the stab is
given in the most tender and vital part.
Having nearly cleared the city, I landed, accompanied by Ramdial Sirdar,
to take a peep at the interior of this strange place; and strange,
indeed, I found it. Streets swarming with people, and some so narrow
that one of our draymen could hardly work down them, unless edgeways.
Here, in the crowded chowks, waddled the huge braminy bull, poking his
nose into the bunyah’s grain basket, in disdainful exercise of his
sanctified impunity; whilst byraggies, fakeers, pundits, and bawling
mendicants, and much more, that I cannot here describe, made up a scene
as curious in itself, as striking and interesting to me from its
novelty.
In the course of my ramble, Ramdial gave me to understand that, if I was
desirous of an _hummaum_, or bath, after the Indian fashion, I could
have one at Benares for a rupee or two, which would purify my outer man,
besides being wonderfully agreeable. I had heard much of such baths in
the “Arabian Nights,” and in works of the like sort, and thought this a
good occasion to compare facts with early impressions; in short, I
determined to be parboiled, and having intimated the same to Ramdial, I
departed with him and my kidmutgar, after an early dinner, to the
_hummaum_, or Ghosul Kaneh.
This was a considerable distance from my boat, in a garden, in the
outskirts of the city. We entered the building, and Ramdial having
explained who I was and what I wanted, an attendant of the bath showed
me a small apartment, in which I was requested to disrobe. Having
_peeled_, a pair of curwah drawers, or _pajammas_, were given to me,
which descend about half-way down the thigh, and are tied in front with
a string.
All being ready, I, rather nervous, submitted myself to the guidance of
an athletic native, similarly habited to myself.
We passed through a narrow dark passage, and I began to look out for
adventures. The slave of the bath showed me into a little confined
apartment, some ten feet by four, filled with steam, on one side of
which were reservoirs of water of different temperatures, in separate
compartments, about (as well as I can recollect) breast-high.
Here I found another attendant, who, after sluicing a bowl or two of
water over my body, laid me out on a long board, occupying the centre of
the narrow apartment, and, aided by his companion, commenced rubbing me
with soap and pea-meal from head to foot.
This over, they proceeded to rub me down slowly with _keesahs_, or rough
gloves, bringing off flakes and _rouleaus_ of cuticle and epidermis
astonishing to behold. Flayed alive, they proceeded to shampoo and knead
me, producing the most pleasing and grateful sensations.
The strong man now bade me rise, and then and there began to play the
castanets on my vertebral column, beginning at the topmost articulation;
this he effected by placing his leg behind me, swinging my body gently
backwards and forwards, and then by a sudden jerk, the very reverse of
pleasant, producing the desired dislocation and its accompanying crack;
having done with the spine, he rung the changes on my toes, knees, and
fingers. To effect all this, he entwined his brawny limbs about me in a
most gladiatorial style, which was far from agreeable.
At length, after a few more sluicings, I was given to understand that my
purifications were at an end; something was then thrown over me, and I
was led back to the place from whence I came. There I dressed, and never
in my life experienced such a feeling of purity and buoyancy. I felt as
if a new man, cleansed mentally and bodily, and ready to open a fresh
account with the world.
My kitmudgar, Fyz Buccas, a worthy little fellow, had not been idle or
inattentive to my comforts during my absence; for no sooner had I
dressed, and was giving the last shake to a clean cambric
handkerchief—the _finale_ of the toilet in India—than he presented me
with a cup of hot coffee, which he had prepared outside, and brought in
afterwards my kalioun, which I had recently set up; taking this then in
my hand, and putting the mouth-piece between my lips, I stretched out my
legs, leaned my head back, and, half-closing my eyes, immediately
departed for the seventh heaven, in a cloud of odoriferous incense.
The following day brought me to Sultanpore, the station of a regiment of
native cavalry, about midway between Benares and Chunarghur. Here I
stayed a few days with a cornet, to whom I was the bearer of a letter.
There are no native cavalry lower than this in the Bengal presidency;
these, consequently, with the exception of the Governor-General’s
body-guard (who are differently attired), were the first I had seen of
that arm.
On the whole, this body of black dragoons pleased me well; their dress
was French grey, buckskin breeches, and long military boots, with high
blue mitre-shaped caps, terminating at the apex with a sort of
hemispherical silver knob; those of the native officers were covered
with red cloth, with silver mountings.
The European officers wore helmets (since changed to shakos), but in
other respects were dressed like their men. Some of the troopers were
tight, well-made fellows, and the native officers large, portly
gentlemen; but, if I may be allowed a pun, should say there were more
_Musulmans_ than _musclemen_ amongst them.[47]
Europeans in general _peel_ much better than natives, though the latter,
being generally taller and more equally-sized, look better, I think, in
a body; nevertheless, amongst the sepoys are frequently found men,
models of symmetry and muscular vigour, with whom few Europeans would be
able to cope. Their great degree of strength is, however, in general,
artificially induced by the continued practice of gymnastics, the
_magdas_, or clubs, and the use of the iron-stringed bow, &c.
I arrived at Sultanpore during the great Mahomedan festival of the
_Mohurrum_, and the cantonment, neighbouring bazaars, and villages, were
resounding with firing and shouting.
This festival, as is pretty well known to all in any degree acquainted
with Oriental history, is held in honour of the martyrdom of Hussain and
Hosein, the sons of Ali, who fell on the fatal field of Kerbela, a
catastrophe beautifully told by Gibbon, and which even he, who attaches
no belief to the pretensions of Mahomed, can hardly peruse without
emotion.
If such are the feelings of the infidel, what must be those of the
believer? The _Sunni_ makes it a season of silent grief and humiliation,
whilst the _Sheahs_, or followers of Ali, abandon themselves to the
wildest and most passionate demonstrations of sorrow.
_Tazeahs_, or representations of the shrine of Kerbela, of all sizes and
shapes, more or less richly adorned with gilding, &c., are borne daily
in procession for a period of many days, followed by crowds of the
faithful, shouting “Hussain! Hosein!” beating their breasts, and
indulging the most violent semblance of grief.
My friend, the cornet, drove me out one evening to witness the _tumasha_
(sport). As we approached the spot where the greatest concourse was
assembled, my ears were saluted by alternate shouts of what I was
subsequently informed were intended for the words “Hussain, Hosein,” but
uttered by the whole mass as sharply and compactly as a well-delivered
platoon fire, or the fitful escapes of steam from an engine.
The English soldier, with the natural proneness of honest John Bull to
effect a national assimilation whenever he can, calls these processions
“Hobson, Jobson;” and it is but fair to allow, that “Hussain, Hosein,”
when shouted forth in the manner described, sound exceedingly like
“Hobson, Jobson.”
On reaching the dense crowd, in the centre of which the tazeah, like a
ship on a heaving sea, rocked to and fro, a wild scene of excitement met
our view. Here were numbers of Mahomedan troopers, in their undress,
many of them carrying tulwars[48] under their arms, with fakeers,
servants, and bazaar people, all lustily lamenting the fate of Hussain
and Hosein.
The tazeah had a splendidly gilded dome, and in the front of it was the
figure of a strange creature, with the body of a camel, and a long
tapering neck, terminating with a female face shaded by jet black
ringlets; round the neck of this creature, which I take it was intended
to represent Borak, on which Mahomed made his nocturnal journey to
heaven, were strings of gold coins.
All this magnificence was supplied at the expense, I was told, of a
devout old begum, the left-handed wife of an invalid general at Chunar,
with whom, as will appear, I became subsequently acquainted.
On the seventh night of the _Mohurrum_, it is usual to celebrate the
marriage of Hussain’s daughter (nothing being perfect in this world
without a little love) with her cousin, a gallant partisan of the house
of Ali; Dhull Dhull too, the faithful steed of Hussain, his housings
stuck full of arrows, forms a part of the pageant, and serves to create
a still more lively image of the touching event which it is intended to
commemorate.
The Mahomedans, when worked up to a high state of religious excitement
and frenzy, on these occasions, are dangerous subjects to deal with;
very little would then induce them to try the temper of their blades on
the carcases of any description of infidel, Hindoo or Christian.
The relator was once at Allahabad when the great Hindoo festival of the
_Hoolee_, a sort of Saturnalia, and the Mahomedan _Mohurrum_ unluckily
fell together; and was present with the judge, Mr. Chalmers, when a
deputation from each of the religions waited upon him in connection with
the subject of the apprehended bloodshed and disturbance, in case the
processions of the two should meet.
The requests and the reasonings of the parties were highly
characteristic of the genius of their respective religions. The Hindoos
urged, mildly, that as their ancestors had possessed the country from
time immemorial, and long before the Mahomedans came into it, they did
not see why they should postpone the celebration of their religious
rites, because the former chose to take offence at them; they disclaimed
the slightest wish to insult or offend the Faithful, but contended for
their right to parade the city in procession, with music, &c., as of
old.
The Mahomedan moollahs, on their part, urged that, as the Hindoos were
kaffers and idolaters, it must be (and they put the case very feelingly
to Mr. Chalmers) exceedingly galling to them if they were allowed to
parade their music and processions near their mosques and tazeahs:
“Betwixt the wind and their nobility.”
The judge endeavoured to impress upon these last reasoners that the poor
Hindoos had virtually as good a right as they had to perform their
religious rites in their common city; and as for their being
unbelievers, they could with equal reason return the compliment.
All this, however, had no effect; they could neither perceive the reason
or justice of it, and declared their dogged determination to shut up
shop and suspend proceedings, unless the Hindoos were forced to postpone
theirs, or remove to a distance; to this the judge refused his assent,
declaring that both parties should have equal justice, and that he would
avail himself of both the civil and military power to keep the peace
between them.
Some time after the departure of these deputations, information was
brought that bodies of armed Mahomedans were coming into the town and
assembling at the barree, or residence of one of their principal men, a
great landholder, who was considered the head of the Sunnis there. The
judge immediately ordered his gig, begged me to step into it, and,
accompanied by a couple of orderly horsemen, we drove to his residence,
which was situated on the banks of the Jumna. It consisted of many
buildings irregularly disposed through one or more courts, in which were
also situated two or three small mosques.
On dismounting, and entering the first enclosure, we observed many
Musulmans, with heads inclined as if in profound thought, slowly moving
about, and habited in long black tunics, the mourning garb of the
Sunnis, with real or well-simulated looks of dejection. There we were
met by the Mahomedan chief, who appeared to deem himself insulted by the
suspicion which the unexpected visit implied.
“Follow me, Sahib,” said he, “and examine all the arms my place
contains; you will find they are few, and only loaded with powder, and
could not have been bought for the purpose you imagine.”
On saying this, or something to the same effect, he took us to where
several rows of matchlocks, rusty and dingy pieces of ordnance, were
piled. The judge said he had feared that it was their intention at night
to commence an onslaught on the Hindoos, and that he was determined to
preserve the peace. The chief disclaimed any such intention, but I well
recollect his concluding observation.
“Our religious observance,” said he, “is _gum_ (grief), theirs is
_shadee_ (uproar, literally ‘a wedding’), and they ought not surely to
be allowed to pass within our hearing; pray consider this;” and so
forth.
The result of all this was, that half a battalion and a couple of
six-pounders were ordered down to the city in the evening, and occupied
the chowk, or marketplace, during the night. This grievously offended
both parties, and they kept quietly within their several bounds. But for
this interference, there can be little doubt that blood would have been
spilt.