The cornet took me with him to breakfast and dine with his friend, the
old invalid general commanding at Chunarghur. This was my first
Christmas Day in India; the weather was as cold as an English October,
and I enjoyed the trip.
The pretty invalid station of Chunarghur is a few miles from Sultanpore,
on the opposite bank of the river; as you approach it, the fort,
crowning a lofty table rock, and abutting on the Ganges, has, with its
numerous Moorish buildings and lines of circumvallation, a very striking
and picturesque effect; and its reddish hue and that of the rock
contrast pleasingly with the verdant gardens and white residences of the
European inhabitants.[49]
The general, a hoary old Indianized veteran, gave my friend, with whom
he appeared to be on intimate terms, a very hearty reception. It being
Christmas Day, he had mounted his red uniform coat, which, from the hue
of the lace, and other unmistakable signs, it was very clear, had been
laid up in ordinary for a considerable time; but though his upper works
were European, all below indicated one who had imbibed, in the course of
fifty or sixty years’ service, a taste for the luxurious appliances of
an Indian existence. His legs, like those of Colonel Lolsaug, were
encased in voluminous _pajammas_, which finished off with a pair of
Indian gilt slippers.
We had a capital breakfast, at which an abundance of solid cheer,
interspersed with glasses of amber jelly, and garnished with evergreens
and flowers, “jasmin and marigolds,” produced a truly Old English
effect.
The old general leaned back in his easy chair, stretched his legs on a
morah, smoked his magnificent hookha, and prepared to receive a host of
people waiting outside to pay their respects.
In India, Christmas Day is called by the natives our “_Burra Din_,” or
great day. Our native soldiers and dependants attend in their best
attire, to pay their respects, and present, according to their means,
little _nuzzurs_ or gifts, as tokens of good-will and fidelity. Your
Kansaman brings a basket of sweetmeats; the shepherd, a kid from the
flock; the gardener, a basket of his choicest fruit, flowers, and
vegetables; the bearers deck the bungalow with evergreens, or plant a
young tree in front of the door, and so forth.
It is a pleasing homage to master and his faith; and altogether, with
the temperature of the weather and the solidity of the fare, tends
strongly to awaken bygone recollections of youth, and all the charities
and endearments of our island home at that delightful and merry season.
The _chick_, or blind, being now rolled up, a _posse_ of venerable
veteran native officers entered, exhibiting on their persons the various
obsolete costumes of the Indian army of half a century back, gradually
approximating from the uncouth attire of the sepoy of the olden time,
with its short vandyked _jangheeas_, half-way down the thigh, cut-away
coat, and ludicrous triangular-fronted cap, to the more perfect
Europeanized dress at present worn.
Each bore on his extended palm a folded-up handkerchief, on which lay a
certain number of gold mohurs or rupees, which the old general, contrary
to the usual custom in such cases, groped off, and laid beside him in a
heap, having previously touched his forehead, by way of acknowledging
the compliment.
Besides the pecuniary offering, many of the veterans held their swords
to the general and my friend, who touched them, and then their
foreheads. This pretty custom is universal amongst the military of India
and Persia, and is finely expressive of a soldier’s fidelity and
devotion. He offers you his sword; what can he more?
After the military had entered, various civil functionaries, connected
with the bazaar and garrison, and the general’s domestic servants, all
arrayed in their holiday attire, were ushered in, and made their salaams
and gifts. The latter were set aside in the room, and formed a goodly
display of oranges, pomegranates, sweetmeats, sugar-candy, &c., enough
wherewith to set up the store of a general dealer in a small way.
Last of all, several trays were brought in, each covered with an
embroidered roomal or handkerchief; the bearers, having arranged these
on the floor, withdrew the coverings with a grand air, as much as to
say, “There! what do you think of that?” and a magnificent display of
good things appeared. The Kansaman whispered the old general; the old
general smiled, and my friend laughed. It was a Christmas gift from
Begum Sahib, his pious left-handed Moosulmanee wife, and whose funds had
supplied, as I before mentioned, the magnificent _tazeea_ at Sultanpore,
Benares.
Whilst its examination was going on, I thought I perceived a few curious
eyes peeping from behind the curtain, which concealed the _sanctum
sanctorum_ of the _zenan khaneh_, or female apartments.
After the whole party had retired, and the general and my friend had
resumed their chat and their hookhas, I observed the aforesaid curtain
once more on the move, and, immediately after, the figure of an old
withered Indian lady, covered with a profusion of rings and jewels, with
a pair of garnet-coloured trousers of formidable dimensions, and a
milk-white _doputta_, or scarf, over her head, issued therefrom.
She stood for a moment, placed her finger archly on her lips, as a
signal for my friend to be silent, and then gliding slowly towards the
veteran, whose back was turned towards her, she placed her long dark
slender hands, sparkling with rings, over his eyes.
“Halloa!” said the old gentleman, “who have we here? what rogue is
this?” smiling pleasantly, and knowing all the while who it was.
The old lady laughed, withdrew her hands, and stood before him.
“General Sahib,” said she, in Hindustanee, “I am come to make my salaam
to you on your _Burra Din_.”
She now took a chair; my friend the cornet, who evidently knew her well,
made her a respectful salaam, and they held a very animated conversation
together, of which, from their eyes being directed towards me ever and
anon, I guessed myself to be the subject. I was a modest youth in those
days, and felt a little embarrassed at the idea of being overhauled and
discussed in an “unknown tongue.”
The cornet said: “The Begum has been asking about you; she says you look
very young; quite a _chokra_ (boy), and have a very _gureeb_ (quiet)
look, though, she dares to say, you are a bit of a _nut cut_ (roguish
fellow) for all that.”
“Pray tell her,” said I, “that she does me too much honour, and that I
really want language to express the extent of my obligation. As for the
first fault, time doubtless will correct it; with respect to the other,
you may say it is an hereditary complaint in our family.”
The cornet explained, or tried to explain; the old lady laughed, nodded
her head, and said it was “_burra taiz bhat_” (a very smart reply). She
now retired to her apartment, after a fresh round of salaaming between
her and the cornet.
“I thought,” said I, when she had gone, “that it was not usual for
native ladies to exhibit themselves in that way.”
“Nor is it,” said he, “generally; but age and other circumstances lead
to exceptions in this as well as in everything else. Besides,” added he,
“though the old lady is both rich and devout, she does not, of course,
hold a foremost place in native estimation.”
The general, who had left us for a few moments, now returned, and after
some little conversation, of which she was the subject, being spoken of
in a laudatory strain, “Well, now,” said he, as if he had been revolving
the matter deeply, “I don’t know, but I consider that old woman as much
my wife as if we had had a page of Hamilton Moore read over to us. My
faithful companion for forty years, and the mother of my children!”
“But,” said the cornet, “your friend the Padre, you recollect, when he
was passing, took dire offence at her making her appearance one day when
he was here; do you recollect that, general? You had quite a scene.”
The general here emitted a panegyrical effusion touching the whole
clerical body, and the scrupulous Padre in particular, which, however, I
will not repeat.
After tiffin, the general, the cornet, and myself, went out to visit the
fort and the neighbourhood, which I had a desire to see; the former,
being old and infirm, rode in his _tonjon_ (a sort of chair-palankeen);
my friend and I were on horseback.
The fort of Chunarghur, to which we ascended from the town side by a
somewhat steep road, occupies the summit of a table rock, some hundred
feet above the surrounding country, and terminating abruptly on the
river side. A strong wall, defended by numerous towers, runs round the
edge, and the interior contains modern ranges of barracks, magazines,
&c., and some fine masses of old buildings, in the Moorish style of
architecture, characterized by the cupolas, horseshoe arch, &c.
The views on all sides are extensive and interesting: on the one, you
look down upon the roofs of the closely-built native town, its temples
and intermingled foliage, and tall bamboo pigeon-stands, with the white
houses and luxuriant gardens of the adjacent station, the broad Ganges
skirting the verdant slopes in front, and stretching away through many a
sandy reach towards Benares; on the opposite side, above the fort, a
rich and cultivated country, waving with crops, adorned with mango
groves, and dotted here and there with old mosques or tombs, extends far
in the distance, traversed by bold sweeps of the river, which, sprinkled
with many a white sail, or strings of heavy boats, advancing with
snail-like pace against the current, glistens brightly below.
The general pointed out to me the particular part of the wall where we
made our unsuccessful assault in the year 1764, with some other lions of
the place; after which we left the fort by another gateway, and a
somewhat zigzag descent, on the opposite side to that on which we had
entered.
In passing a guard of invalids, however, before emerging, I was highly
entertained to see the old veterans, who were rather taken by surprise,
hobbling out from their pipes and repose in a mighty pother, to present
arms to the general, which they managed to effect before he had left
them far behind, with a most picturesque irregularity.
Chunar, some thirty or forty years before the period to which I am
adverting, had been, I believe, one of our principal frontier stations,
and the head-quarters of a division, though then, as now, scarcely
occupying a central point in the immense line of the British dominions
on this side of India. The cantonments of this large force were situated
on the plain last noticed, above the fort, and present small station,
though almost every trace of it has long disappeared, at least of the
abodes of the living, for the mansions of the dead still remain nearly
_in statu quo_ to tell their pensive tale.
We paid a visit to this now remote and forgotten burying ground (or
rather to one of them, for there are two) a mile or two beyond the fort;
and I confess, albeit a juvenile, that I was touched at the sight of
these lonely mementoes of the fact, that a bustling military cantonment,
of which hardly a vestige remains, once occupied the immediate vicinity.
How changed is now the scene from what it was in the _qui hye_ days of
our fathers! The clang of the trumpet, the roll of the drum, and the
gleaming ranks, have long given place to more peaceful sounds and
sights; the creak of the well-wheel, and the song of the ryot, as he
irrigates his fields, supply the place of the former. Grain now waves
where troops once manœuvred, whilst the light airs of the Ganges pipe,
amidst the white mausoleums, the dirges of those who “sleep well”
beneath, many of the once gay inhabitants of the scene:—
“Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;
Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.”
There are few things which address themselves more strongly to the
feelings than the sight of the tombs of our countrymen in a far distant
land. In the cemetery to which I am referring, now rarely visited, it
being out of the track of travellers, where grass and jungle are fast
encroaching, and time and the elements are pursuing their silent
dilapidations, many a Briton—many a long forgotten Johnson and
Thompson—quietly repose, far from the hearths of their fathers.
I have since more than once visited this and similar places, which may
be compared to wrecks which the onward flow of our advancing power
leaves behind it, and as I have stood and mused amongst them, have
pleased myself by indulging in dreamy speculations touching the
histories of the surrounding sleepers (for all have their little
histories), of all their hopes, fears, and cares, here for ever laid at
rest.
We extended our excursion to some distance beyond the cemetery, and
visited the mausoleum of a Mahomedan prince or saint, the history of
which I have forgotten. I have now only a faint remembrance of its
mosaic and lattice-work—its inlaid scrolls from the _Koran_—the
sarcophagus covered with an embroidered carpet, the lamps around, and
the ostrich eggs suspended from the vaulted roof.
On returning home to the old general’s house, rather late, we found two
or three of his friends, invalid officers of the garrison, assembled to
do justice to his roast beef and other Christmas fare. A very social
party we had; the general “shouldered his crutch,” and the invalid
guests gave us plenty of Indian legendary lore; all hearts expanded
under the influence of good cheer, and a couple of bottles of “Simkin
Shrob” (Champagne), which the general produced as if it had been so much
liquid gold, reserved for high days and holidays.
A glass or two of champagne is your grand specific for giving the blue
devils their _quietus_, and liberating those light and joyous spirits
which wave their sparkling wings over the early wine-cup and the genial
board; but, like other ephemeræ, soon pass away, drowned, perhaps, like
flies, in the liquid from whence they spring, leaving but a pleasing
remembrance of their having once existed.
The next morning, after breakfast, the cornet and I rode back to
Sultanpore, and in a few days I bade him adieu, and in a short time
found myself sound in wind and limb, but quite out of _rootie mackun_
(“bread and butter”), and other river stores, in sight of the far-famed
fortress of Allahabad, at the confluence of the Jumna and Ganges.
The view of this fortress, with its lofty walls and numerous towers, is,
as you approach it, very striking; one sees few such imposing masses in
England; and as for our feudal castles, few of them are much bigger than
the gateways of such places as I am describing.
The fort which occupies the point where these two famous rivers meet,
though perfectly Oriental in its general character, has been “pointed,”
and strengthened in accordance with the principles of European
fortification, particularly on the land side. It is impregnable to a
native force, and one of the principal depôts of the Upper Provinces.
This, as is well known, is one of the _Prayagas_, or places of Hindoo
pilgrimage.
During the great _Melah_, or fair, which subsequently it was often my
lot to witness, the concourse of people who assemble here from all parts
of the Hindoo world, from the Straits of Manaar to the mountains of
Thibet, is prodigious. The sands below the fort exhibit, on that
occasion, a sea of heads, intersected by lines of booths, and here and
there an elephant or a camel towering above the congregated mass.
The point where the all-important regenerating dip is effected, is
covered by the many-coloured standards of the Brahmins and Fakeers,
looking at a distance like a dahlia show, or a gaudy-coloured bed of
tulips.
In crossing over to the fort, in my bolio, I was forcibly struck by the
very different appearance in the water of the two streams. The one, the
Jumna, deep, blue, and pure; the other, the Ganges, yellow and turbid.
It was curious to observe them blending in many a whirlpool and eddy—the
flaky wreaths of the dirty old “Gunga-Jee” infusing themselves into the
transparent element of the sister river.
Here I laid in a store of eggs, bread, poultry, mutton, and the like—of
the latter I purchased a magnificent hind-quarter from a bazaar kussai,
or butcher, who came staggering on board with it, patting and
attitudinizing it, and after pointing out its incomparable beauties, its
masses of fat, and the fine colour of the lean, &c., let me have it for
four rupees, just three rupees eight annas more than it was worth.
A few days brought me to Currah Munickpoor, where I found a sub, on
solitary outpost duty, who looked upon my arrival as an agreeable break
to the monotony of his life—a perfect Godsend—and treated me with
uncommon hospitality. I found him a very pleasant fellow, and his manner
of life—smoking, eating, shooting, &c.—so much to my taste, that it did
not require any very urgent solicitation on his part to induce me to
spend two or three days with him.
I dined with him at his bungalow, some short distance inland, on the
first day, when he showed me the objects worthy of notice in the
neighbourhood, and thinking this a good opportunity to dress my
hind-quarter of mutton, I invited him to partake of it next day, on
board my bolio.
My acquaintance was a “mighty hunter,” as most young Indian officers
are. He shot, fished, and kept a pack of mongrels, and a greyhound or
two, with which he hunted the hare, fox, and jackal; he was also a great
adept in the use of the pellet-bow, in the mode of discharging which he
obligingly gave me some lessons.
I am not aware whether this sort of bow is known in Europe or not. If it
were as generally made use of amongst boys in England as by young men in
India, we should certainly have a fearful number of blind and one-eyed
gentry amongst the population.
This bow is generally made of a split bamboo, which, being highly
elastic, renders it peculiarly adapted to the purpose; it has two
strings of catgut, which, at about a foot from one extremity, are kept
separate by a small piece of stick, about an inch and a half in length,
the ends ingeniously secured between the strands of the string;
immediately opposite to that part of the bow grasped by the hand, and
which is well padded, there is a small piece of leather, about two
square inches in size, sewn to the two strings, and presenting its flat
surface to the handle; in this a pellet of hard, dried clay is placed,
and being seized by the thumb and forefinger of the right hand, is then
discharged at the object.
The great danger of the tyro is that of striking the thumb of the left
hand, within an inch or two of which the ball must always pass, though
by the practised bowman a collision is always avoided by giving the
wrist a peculiar turn or twist. The force with which the ball goes, when
thus propelled, is surprising; and uncommon accuracy in striking an
object may be in time acquired by a due regulation of the hands and eye.
I have brought down with the pellet-bow pigeons and kites, when on the
wing, from a great height, and cut off the heads of doves and sparrows
sometimes as completely as if it had been done with a knife.
As my friend and I strolled in the tamarind grove, near to which my boat
was moored, he exhibited his skill upon the squirrels and paroquets,
much to my astonishment.
“Will you let me have a shot?” said I, eagerly.
“Certainly; but have you ever attempted it before?”
“Never,” I replied; “but there appears to be no difficulty in it
whatever.”
“’Tis far more difficult than you imagine,” he replied; “it was months
before I got into the way of it; here,” he continued, “if you are
determined, you must. Now, twist your wrist thus, or you will infallibly
hit your thumb: there, so!”
“Oh! I see,” said I; and immediately seized the bow.
A dove sat invitingly on a neighbouring bough; I gave a long pull and a
strong pull, and, och! hit my thumb a whack that bared it to the bone.
Away I tossed the pellet-bow to the distance of about twenty yards,
thrust the mutilated member into my mouth, and immediately fell to
dancing something very like Jim Crow. In a little time the agony
subsided; I had swathed the ex-member in fine linen, when Fyz Buccas
came to summon us to dinner.
“Come along, sir,” said I; “I hope you can dine off a hind-quarter of
mutton and a Bombay pudding.”
“Nothing can be better,” said he; “but where did you get your meat?”
“I bought it of a bazaar fellow at Allahabad, and a splendid joint it
is.”
My companion, more experienced in the tricks of India than myself,
smiled incredulously, and then looked a little grave.
“I hope they have not given you a made-up article.”
“Made-up!” said I; “I don’t understand you.”
“Why,” he replied, “these bazaar rascals stuff and blow up their meat,
and use half a dozen other different ways of taking in the unwary
passenger.”
“’Pon my life,” said I, “you frighten me; if this my best bower fails,
we shall go plump on the rocks of short commons, that’s certain.”
“Oh, never mind,” said he; “at the worst, my place is not far off, and
there is abundance of prog there; besides, I can eat bazaar mutton, or
goat, or anything else at a pinch, particularly if there is a good glass
of Hodgson to wash it down.”
This dialogue was cut short by the entry of the mutton; it certainly did
not look as respectable mutton should look. I seized the carver, eager
to know the worst, and gave a cut; the murder was out, and so was the
wind; the unhappy mutton falling into a state of collapse.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the sub: “I thought as much; now try that mass of
fat containing the kidney, and you will have farther evidence of the
skill with which an Indian butcher can manufacture a fat joint of
mutton.”
I made a transverse incision into the membraneous sac, and there lay a
beautiful and compact stratification of suet, skin, and other extraneous
matters, which I extracted _seriatim_ at the point of my fork. I confess
I was thunderstruck at this profligacy of the heathen, which is,
however, common enough.
Currah is an interesting spot, abounding in picturesque ruins; and good
sporting is to be had there, the neighbourhood abounding in hares, wild
pea-fowl, grey partridges, and quail; the best cover in which to find
the latter is, my friend told me, the soft feathery undergrowth of grass
to be found in the indigo fields. In some of the islands of the Ganges,
black partridge, florikin, and hog-deer are to be met with, and there
are also plenty of wolves and hyænas amongst the ruins, for those who
are fond of such sport.
The town of Currah, about fifty miles above Allahabad, is situated on
the Ganges, close to its banks, and presents to the view a confused mass
of mud buildings, buried in the foliage of numerous neem, peepul, and
tamarind trees; interspersed with these are several temples, musjids, or
mosques, as also some houses of stone or brick, displaying a
considerable appearance of comfort and convenience for this part of
India.
The vicinity is much cut up by deep ravines, formed by the annual rains
in their descent, through the loose soil, to the river. A little below
the town are the remains of a considerable fort, which from the Ganges
has rather a picturesque appearance; its gateway, and some lofty
circular bastions, are in a very tolerable state of preservation.
Lower down still, on the spot where I moored, are some pretty Hindoo
mundils or temples, from which ghauts or flights of steps lead to the
river; these are overhung by noble trees, principally the tamarind,
shedding a cool and refreshing shade over the spot.
Here I planted my chair on one or two evenings, with my friend the sub,
beneath the shade of these trees, and, soothed into a state of
tranquillity by the cooing of numerous doves, which fill the groves, I
gazed on the boats as they glided down the stream, and yielded up my
mind to the influence of tranquil and pleasing emotions. I thought of
home—my mother—the widow—when I should be a captain—and other things
equally remote and agreeable.
The tamarind, to my taste, is the most beautiful tree of the East—not
even excepting the banyan—the foliage, which is of a delicate green,
droops in rich and luxuriant masses, like clusters of ostrich
plumes—overhanging a piece of water, or half-enveloping some old mosque,
durgah, or caravanserai—with the traveller’s horse picketed in its
shade, or the group of camels ruminating in repose beneath it—nothing
can be more picturesque.
This tree, beneath which no plant will grow, seems to be a great
favourite with the natives, but particularly with the Mahomedans; it is
almost invariably to be found near their mosques and mausoleums; and
amongst them, I suspect, holds the place the yew, or rather the cypress,
does with us—an almost inseparable adjunct of the tomb:
“Fond tree, still sad when others’ griefs are fled.
The only constant mourner o’er the dead.”
A nest of Brahmins is comfortably established in and about the ghaut and
temple above mentioned, the duties of which latter they perform; these,
with bathing, eating, sleeping, and fleecing European passers-by,
constitute the daily tenor of their _harmless_ lives. They regularly
levy contributions from European travellers who pass this way, and make,
I suspect, rather a good thing of it.
Their course of proceeding is as follows: one of the fraternity, with
all the humility of aspect which characterized Sterne’s monk, waits upon
the traveller with a little present of milk, fruit, or a pot of tamarind
preserve—the last, by the way, uncommonly good there—this, in a subdued
tone, and with a low salaam, he tenders for acceptance, and at the same
time produces for inspection a well-thumbed volume—of which it might
truly be said, in the language of the Latin grammar, “_Qui color albus
erat, nunc est contrarius albo_”—partly filled with names, doggrels, and
generally abortive attempts at the facetious. In this the traveller is
requested to record his name, the date of his visit, with the addition
of as much epigram as he can conveniently squeeze out, or of any
_extempore_ verses he may chance to have by him ready cut and dry for
such occasions.
Having made his literary contribution, and returned the valuable
miscellany to its owner, in whose favour the traveller’s romantic
feelings are perhaps warmly excited, particularly if, like me, a “_tazu
wulait_” (literally, a fresh-imported European), with some St.
Pierre-ish notions of the virtuous simplicity of Brahmins and Gentoos,
he begins to discover, from the lingering, fidgety, expectant manner of
his sacerdotal friend, that something remains to be done—in fact, that a
more important contribution is required—and that the “_amor nummi_” is
quite as rife in a grove on the banks of the Ganges as anywhere else in
this lucre-loving world. On making this discovery, he disburses his
rupee in a fume, and all his romantic ideas of hospitable Brahmins,
primitive simplicity, children of nature, &c. &c., vanish into thin air.
My friend the sub lent me a pony, and, accompanied by dogs, servants,
and guns, we traversed a good deal of the surrounding country in search
of game and the picturesque.
The country, for miles around Currah, is thickly covered with the ruins
of Mahomedan tombs, some of great size, and combining, with much
diversity of form, considerable elegance and architectural beauty. Two
or three of these, more striking than the rest, are erected over the
remains of peers or saints; one of these latter is, I was told, Sheik
Kummul ud Deen, a very holy man, who, doubtless, in his day rendered
good service to the cause of Islam, by dint, probably, of that very
cutting and convincing argument the _shumshere_.[50] The adjacent
village of Kummulpore derives its name from him.
Kurruck Shah, I learnt from my young friend, who was a bit of an
antiquary, was the name of another peer of remarkable sanctity, who lies
buried near the town of Currah; his durgah or shrine, which we visited,
is situated in the midst of an extensive paved court, nearly encompassed
by shabby whitewashed buildings, shaded by two or three gigantic trees,
some of the arms of which were leaning for support on the buildings they
had so long shaded, like parents claiming in age the support of their
children—their natural props. It has, we were told, an establishment of
peerzadas, or attendant priests, and land attached for their support,
the supply of oil for the lamps, &c.
I could never learn clearly or positively the cause of so vast a
congregation of tombs as this neighbourhood exhibits, many square miles
being covered with them; but my companion was told by villagers whom he
questioned on the subject, that they covered the remains of the slain
who fell in a great battle. As, however, the dates on the tombs are of
various periods, this must have been the hardest fought battle on
record—or the process of interment singularly slow.
Joking apart, to trust to the _on dits_ and traditions of untutored
peasants in any country is far more likely to lead to error than to
enlighten, in nine cases out of ten.
Having much enjoyed my three days’ halt at Currah, I once more pursued
my onward course, my hospitable host sending down to my boat a profusion
of butter, fresh bread, and vegetables, for my voyage, with a piece of
mutton, on the integrity of which he told me I might confidently rely:
this was, at all events, _puffing_ it in a proper manner.
I found the country between Currah and Cawnpore to contain nothing
particularly remarkable; groves, ghauts, mud-built towns, ravines, and
sand-banks constituted its leading features. On one of the latter, one
fine cold evening, I performed the funeral obsequies of the one-eyed
bull-dog, who had been long in a declining state; the climate evidently
did not agree with his constitution, and he slowly sunk under its
effects. The interment was conducted by Nuncoo Matar, and Teazer, now
constituting the sum total of my kennel, stood by whilst his companion
Sully was receiving those last attentions at our hands.
At Cawnpore I put up with the major, who, the reader may remember, was
one of our passengers in the _Rottenbeam Castle_. He was a most worthy,
gentlemanly fellow, as great a griffin as myself, though likely to
continue so to the end of the chapter, for two very good reasons: one,
because he had passed that age after which, as I have before stated, in
an early part of these memoirs, the process of accommodation to Indian
habits becomes an exceedingly difficult one; and secondly, because he
had the honour to belong to one of H.M.’s regiments, in which it must be
sufficiently obvious, without my troubling the reader or myself with an
elaborate explanation, that a knowledge of Indian manners, language, and
customs is not so likely to be acquired as in a sepoy corps, where a
European is brought into constant contact with the natives.
The major, who was accustomed to the best society of England, had a
considerable admixture of the exquisite in his composition; but it sat
so easily upon him he did not know it, and being natural, was
consequently agreeable.
I would not have it inferred, exactly, that I think all things which are
genuine must necessarily please, but that nature is always a redeeming
feature, and when associated with what is in itself excellent, it
constitutes the master-charm.
The major gave me a room in his bungalow, to which I soon had all my
valuables transferred from the bolio. The same day the manjee came up to
make his salaam, and demand the balance of what was due to him for his
boat. He was accompanied by his sable crew, jolly fellows, who had
carried me on their shoulders over many a nullah, and plunged many a
time and oft in the Ganges for me, to pick up a bird.
There they were, “four-and-twenty blackbirds all in a row,” in the
major’s verandah, squatted on their hams, and dressed in their best
attire. Every face had become familiar to me; I knew most of their
names, their peculiar _fortes_, from the purloiner _en passant_ of
_kuddoos_[51] and cucumbers, the thief in ordinary to the mess, to the
instructor of the paroquets, and the cook to the crew, and associated
one or more of their names with almost every sporting adventure or
exploit in which I had been engaged on my way up—a long four months’
trip.
It is true I subjected them occasionally to the rigorous discipline of
the Marpeetian code; in other words, thrashed them soundly when they
hesitated to plunge into an alligatorish-looking pool after a wounded
dabchick, or capsized my griffinship, as happened once or twice, when
staggering with me Scotch-cradle fashion, gun and all, through the
shallows, to my bolio; but the good-natured, placable creatures soon
forgot it, and we were on the whole very good friends. I believe they
knew I was a griffin, and, cognizant of the infirmities of that singular
animal, made allowances for me, particularly as I gave them sometimes,
by way of compensation, a rupee or a feed of _metais_ (sweetmeats).
Oh paying the manjee, he tied up the rupees carefully in the corner of
his turban, and made me a low salaam; his crew also bowed themselves to
the earth. So much for business. He then put up his hands, and with an
agreeable smile, and in an insinuating tone, said something which I
desired Ramdial to explain, though I partly guessed its purport.
“What does he _muncta_ (want), Ramdial?”
“He _bola_ (says) if _Sahib Kooshee_ will please give him _buckshish_.”
“Yes, yes; we’ll give him some boxes—_paunch rupee bus?_” (Rs. 5 enough,
eh?)
“_Han Sahib_ (yes, sir) _bus_ (enough).”
Having, in my usual piebald _lingua franca_, thus consulted my keeper of
the privy purse, I ordered him to disburse a gratuity of Rs. 5 amongst
the crew, which they gratefully received, with many salaams. Thus we
parted, never more to meet, and thus wound up my aquatic journey from
the presidency to Cawnpore.
The curtain is now about to rise on act the last of my griffinage, and
it may be some consolation to those who have sat thus long to witness
the performance, that they are approaching the _dénouement_, the grand
flourish of trumpets and _exeunt omnes_.
Cawnpore is the head-quarters of a division, and the station of several
thousand troops of all arms—with some slight addition, indeed, of native
troops, a force can be despatched almost immediately from this station
with which hardly any Indian army of the present day could successfully
contend in the open field.
At the period embraced by these memoirs, a regiment of dragoons, two of
native cavalry, one of European, and three of native infantry, horse and
foot, artillery, pioneers, engineers, &c., &c., constituted the amount
of the military force at Cawnpore. The station itself has a bad name
amongst Indian stations, and richly does it deserve it. Dust, ravines,
and mangy black pigs are the most striking features of the cantonment;
and the neighbouring country is flat, arid, and peculiarly
uninteresting.
The society is large, and time is killed here pretty much in the same
way as in other large stations—private and mess parties, masquerades and
fancy dress-balls, and private theatricals.
I passed a week with the hospitable major, which was principally devoted
to making the necessary preparations for my march. I had nearly emptied
the general’s snuff-box; had no pay due; and was consequently obliged to
consider economy in my purchases, and to relinquish all ideas, if I ever
had them, of travelling _en seigneur_ or _à la nawaub_.
The first thing was to purchase a nag, and the major in this undertook
to assist me—and thereby hangs a tale. He intimated to one of his
regimental functionaries that a young gentleman wanted a pony; and
straightway a rare assortment of Rosinantes in miniature made their
appearance in the compound. I never beheld the phrase of “raw head and
bloody bones” so completely reduced to matter-of-fact before as in some
of these _biting_ satires on the equine race, most of them
grass-cutters’ tatoos—the quintessence of vice and deformity—a breed
peculiar to India, and the very pariar of horses.[52]
“Try this fellow, Gernon,” said the major, laughing; “I think he’ll do
for you.”
The major little thought how near he was to the mark. On his so saying,
I mounted, or rather threw my leg over a very angular backbone, and
seizing a primitive bridle of string or cord, solicited an onward
movement with a “gee-up.”
Now, whether it was that I touched a “tender point,” or being of greater
specific gravity than a bundle of grass, I know not; but certainly I was
no sooner in a “fix,” as the Yankees say, than the little devil emitted
an appalling scream, clapped back his ears, and commenced a rapid
retrograde movement, backing me into the midst of “seven devils” worse
than himself.
In a moment, I had double that number of heels in full play around me,
spite of the tatoo owners’ attempts to drive off their animals. A
thundering broadside in the ribs of my Bucephalus, which damaged my leg
considerably, and other notes of battle sounding around, convinced me
speedily that the sooner my friend and I parted company the better. I
consequently rolled off, and scrambled out of the _mêlée_, receiving, in
retreating, an accelerator in the shape of another kick on or about the
region of the _os coccygis_. As for the major, he was almost in
convulsions.
“Confound it, major, that’s too bad of you,” said I, “to get me on the
back of that imp, and now to laugh at my misfortunes.”
“Oh! then, by dad, you must forgive me,” said he, his eyes still
streaming; “but if it was my father himself I could not resist;” and
again he laughed till he gave up through exhaustion.
This over, I proceeded to a more cautious selection, and finally bought
a tolerably decent-looking animal for Rs. 25, and who, bating that his
fore-feet were in the first position, was worth the money. A small tent,
in India termed a routee, rather the worse for wear, I bought for Rs.
60, and this, with a Cawnpore-made saddle and bridle, a hackery, two
bullock-trunks, and a pair of bangy baskets, constituted my turn-out for
the march.
My friend the major kindly took me with him to messes and wherever he
was invited.
These mess parties I then thought very pleasant, though I confess I
should now derive very little pleasure from the scenes in which I was
then wont to delight, particularly on what were considered public
nights—toasting, speechifying, drinking, singing songs (many of the
grossest description), roaring and screeching, with the _finale_ of
devilled biscuits, daybreak, pale faces, perhaps a quarrel or two, and
half a dozen under the table, in a few words describe them.
Since those days, and twenty-five years are now equal to a century of
the olden time as respects progress, things have improved; we have begun
to learn in what true sociality really consists—even and tranquil
interchange of thought, with a sprinkling of decent mirth, the genuine
“feast of reason and the flow of soul”—to which eating and drinking, the
mere gastronomic pleasures of the table, are considered as secondary
rather than as principal sources of enjoyment.
The change, however, is yet but beginning; aldermen, it is true, have
ceased to be inseparably associated (as twin ideas) with huge paunches
and red noses—your seven-bottle men have enjoyed the last of their fame,
which reposes with the celebrity of a Beau Brummel; but too much of the
old Saxon leaven—the wine and wassail-loving and gormandizing spirit,
with an excess of animalism in other respects—still characterizes us;
and, little as it may be thought, is a serious hindrance to social and
intellectual advancement.
The more exalted pleasures of the heart and intellect, let it be
observed in passing, can only be enjoyed, individually and nationally,
by those who can restrain their grosser appetites within moderate
bounds. This great truth the Easterns of old perceived, though (like all
truth when first discerned) it was pushed to a vicious extreme in this
case—that of excessive mortification.
This inordinate love of that which administers gratification to the
senses (allowable in a moderate degree) is, it appears to my humble
apprehension, our prime national defect; it engenders a fearful
selfishness and profusion—militates against that moderation and
simplicity of character from which great things spring—marks a state of
pseudo-civilization, and causes to be left fallow or but partially
cultivated the field of the benevolent affections—the true source of the
purest enjoyments.
When man shall be sought and prized for his qualities and virtues, and
not for his mere adjuncts of wealth and station; when happy human hearts
and smiling human faces shall have more real charms for the great and
refined than the _pirouettes_ of a Taglioni or the strains of a Rubini;
when the glow of self-approval shall be able to battle with the
fashionable sneer and the “world’s dread laugh,” and the duties of
kindred and country shall take precedence of “missions to the blacks,”
and the like; then, indeed, shall we be opening a new field for the
mighty energies of our race, and entering on a happy millennium.
What a power to effect good, by leading the young and awakening spirit
of the age into paths of peace, do the aristocracy of this country
possess, if they would but use it! Standing on the vantage ground of
fashion, wealth and station, they might infuse fresh moral and
intellectual vigour into the nation, and stem, by all that is liberal,
ennobling, and refining, the somewhat sordid and mediocre influences of
mere commercial wealth. “Truth,” from them, would prevail with “double
sway;” whilst philanthropists in “seedy coats” may plead in vain with
the fervour of a Paul and the eloquence of a Demosthenes. “What’s in a
name?” says Shakespeare—“a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
There the immortal bard utterly belied his usual accuracy.