‘Or to see it by moonlight--when mellowly shines

The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines,

When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,

And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars

Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool shining walks where the young people meet.’[6]

As we lingered under the shade of the green-leaved trees, I endeavoured

to make a sketch, and thought I had succeeded pretty well. Seeing M’Kay

pass near me, I called, and asked her how she liked my drawing. As she

did not answer, I said,

‘You know where that is?’

Poor M’Kay was always anxious to give pleasure to anyone, so she said,

in her pleasant Scotch voice,

‘Oh yes, sir; that’s your bungalow at Murree.’

Alas for my fine sketch of the Cashmere mountains!

Time fled very pleasantly in our gipsy encampment. The scene was

occasionally varied by the presence of the Maharajah as he went past in

his gilded barge, followed by his courtiers in large and picturesque

boats. Sometimes we paid visits to the gardens of Shalimar, and rested

during the heat of the day in Nourmahal’s Pavilion. This pavilion is

built of marble, and the pillars which support it are of black marble.

It is in the centre of a reservoir of clear water, and there are one

hundred and forty-four large fountains springing from it.

‘Th’ Imperial Selim held a feast

In his magnificent Shalimar:

In whose saloons, when first the star

Of evening o’er the waters trembled,

The valley’s loveliest all assembled;

All the bright creatures that, like dreams,

Glide through the foliage, and drink beams

Of beauty from its fount and streams.’[7]

Now all is silent. The palace is forsaken, and the gardens deserted.

But, happier than our old Scotland, the nightingale is heard among the

trees which surround this fairy place; although, according to a Scotch

assistant-surgeon, there are nightingales in our Highland homes. The

surgeon being asked to describe one, he gave his impression of the

lovely songster in these terms:--

‘It’s got a heed like a caat: aboot the beegness of a pigion; and flits

aboot at night; and cries, hewt! hewt!’

We could linger no longer among the fine forest of chenars near that

beautiful lake, so our camp was broken up, and we reluctantly departed

for the Scind Valley. We were fortunate in having the moon to light

us on our way. Very beautiful was the lake enshrined among the giant

hills. As we moved slowly along, a storm rushed up, sweeping the waters

into real waves. The flash of the lightning was incessant, and the roar

of the thunder never ceased as it rattled among the mountains. But the

storm passed almost as suddenly as it had arrived.

We allowed our boatmen to take us wherever they liked best, only

stipulating that we should find ourselves halted in the morning at some

suitable camping-ground for breakfast.

Sunbul was the place they selected, and there we breakfasted under

the shade of some wides-preading sycamores. There was little variety

in our food. We carried with us tea, and a few tins of soup, which we

only used on the march. Besides these, my wife had a small store of

dainties, which only saw light on special occasions. We trusted for

the rest to the fowls and eggs of the country. Potatoes and bread,

which were always plentiful, we had to send for to Srinagur. Milk

was abundant; but beef we never saw. Bulls and cows being sacred, we

might have answered, as the Irishman did, when asked to dinner by Dan

O’Connell:

‘Come to dinner, a quiet dinner. Ye’ll get nothing but potatoes and

beef.’

‘Bedad,’ answered Paddy, ‘I’ll come. It’s the same dinner I have every

day--_barrin’ the beef_.’

After a two hours’ halt, we proceeded on to Manusbul Lake, passing

through a narrow canal, and under a very ancient one-arched bridge.

The canal is about a mile long, and then you emerge into the clearest

water of this most picturesque lake. In the shallow parts the lotus

abounds, the leaves of which are very long and of great diameter. We

saw on our left an elevated table-land, at the foot of which is the

village of Manusbul. Near this hamlet are the ruins of Bádsháh Bágh,

an old palace built by Jehángir for his wife, the lovely Nourmahal. On

the right, a low range of hills extends from high mountains. We landed

and paid a visit to the guardian of the lake, a very holy fakeer, with

a gentle, good expression of face, who is spending his life digging

himself a grave. When we were there, he had tunnelled out some fifty

feet, and as he was then a man in the prime of life, if he is still

alive, he must have burrowed a long way in. Whatever fruit happens to

be in season in the valley at the time of a visitor’s advent, this holy

man will give it in greater perfection than it can be procured anywhere

else.

The mosquitoes were very troublesome here, so we embarked again, and

floated away over the clear deep water of the lake, and finally arrived

at Ganderbul, where our horses awaited us. We encamped for the night in

a tope of fine trees, and next morning continued our march up the Scind

Valley. The river Scind was still in flood, and two bridges had been

swept away, and the waters were over the lower path, so we decided to

proceed to Noonur, which is only three miles from Ganderbul, and there

to halt. The distance being so short, we thought it better to walk,

and never did a march seem longer than this one. There was no shade,

and we were on a narrow path in the midst of rice-fields. The sun beat

down piteously on the marshy ground, from which exhaled a stifling air.

At length we arrived at Noonur, which is a pretty, English-looking

village, nestling among fruit-trees and chenars. Our four tents were

pitched under the shade of one of these nobles of the forest. The

horses were picketed at a little distance off, near a walnut-tree, and

a tiny stream of clear and sparkling water ran past our encampment.

Here we were regularly beset by ‘shikarries,’ the gamekeepers of the

valley.

We had reached the bear country. I selected one of these men,

a nice-looking fellow, who had only one ‘chit,’ or letter of

recommendation, but that one was most satisfactory, the writer

testifying to all that was said in favour of ‘Jan of Kangan.’ On being

asked for his other ‘chits,’ he said they were left in his home in the

mountains--‘But surely,’ he added, ‘that was sufficient;’ and so he was

engaged, and we were spared the continual announcement, ‘A shikarrie

waits.’ Our new gillie made himself useful, bringing us any amount of

unripe mulberries. M’Kay also went off into the woods, and returned

with basketfuls of cooking pears and apples. We remained at Noonur some

days--quiet, dreamy, unremarkable days.

One morning our honest gamekeeper was brought before me like a

prisoner, guarded by three other greatly roused shikarries. They

salaamed most respectfully, and inquired if the sahib had engaged this

man, the prisoner, as ‘Jan of Kangan.’ He was not the said Jan of

Kangan, for Jan of Kangan was the man who now addressed ‘your royal

highness, the provider of the poor.’ This fellow was a common coolie,

who had stolen Jan’s ‘chit’--here were the others to prove what he had

said was not true. The false Jan was speechless, and had nothing to

say. He had not the ready wit of an Irish soldier-servant I once had,

whom I found telling a most palpable falsehood. On being afterwards

accused by me of saying what was not true, be drew himself up to

military attention and said, ‘Plase, sir, I lost my prisince of mind.’

The only drawback to Noonur was an excessively holy fakeer, who

appeared at unexpected moments, gesticulating furiously, evidently

perfectly mad. The Cashmerians looked on him with intense respect, and

our servants told us that the Maharajah had begged the holy man to come

and live with him, and had offered him beautiful presents, but the

fakeer had refused his highness’s offers, and had thrown the gifts in

his face.

We had not had any rain for a week, so the Tickedar was summoned,

and coolies ordered. Bitterly cold it was at half-past three in the

morning, as we felt our way out of the tent ropes, and we were only

too glad to walk and keep our blood circulating. When day broke, we

had fairly entered the Scind Valley, in which we overtook numbers of

flat-faced, Chinese-looking coolies, all laden, travelling generally in

the employment of some merchant back to Ladâk.

At first the path was good, but we were soon in difficulties. The river

had carried away one part of the track, and in others the water had

overflowed and then receded, leaving a most slippery road. So there was

nothing for it but to ride our horses into the river, the Scind, which

had covered the whole of the low ground. At last we had to retrace our

steps, clamber up the mountain-side, and hit off another approach to

the bridge. Many misgivings assailed us when about a mile from where

our guide told us was Kangan. We saw what was evidently a sahib’s horse

grazing, and its syce squatting on the bank opposite to us. We asked

him why he was there. He did not dare to face the waters, he said, so

he was waiting till the river subsided, or till his sahib returned. On

we rode beside the foaming torrent to a place where it widened into

three branches. The chokedar called a halt; we had arrived at the

bridges. There were two very rapid rivers to cross, which we had to do

by wading, and then the main body was bridged. A native went first,

and, although the waters surged around him, he was able to hold his own

against the tide.

So we followed on our horses. Having crossed in safety the two

branches, we then came to the bridge, a pile of loose stones on either

side, round which the waters madly rushed. It supported a frail ladder,

turfed over in some places, the sods kept down by heavy stones that

weighed the trembling structure down to the waves. However, M’Kay must

have got over, for there was no trace of her, and our advance-guard

of coolies and servants had also certainly managed to get across.

We dismounted, and handed the nags to their respective syces. Nila

climbed the pile of loose stones supporting the bridge like a cat, and

fearlessly followed the syce over the troubled waters, hopping over

holes in the neatest possible fashion. But Silver Tail, more impetuous,

made a rush at the stone-work, to the vast alarm of his syce, who saw

the near approach of a watery grave, and held on with all his might to

his charger’s head, shouting for assistance. But at length they both

got over all safe. My wife held on to one end of a stick, while the

chokedar had the other end firmly grasped in his hand. She landed all

right from this swaying structure, which had no parapet, and through

which the furious flood was plainly visible beneath.

In my opinion the dogs gave us most trouble in our efforts to get over

this rickety structure. We were all rejoiced when we were assembled on

the Kangan side of the river, and, when everything was fairly over the

bridge, we continued on our way to where our tents were pitched under

the shade of some walnut-trees, and where M’Kay was ready to receive us

with the welcome ‘doctor.’

The valley of the Scind is narrow, but the scenery is very grand and

beautiful. On each side rose lofty mountains whose summits were covered

with snow, and whose precipitous sides are clothed with forests of

deodars. Lower down chestnut, sycamore, and walnut-trees take the

place of those giant firs. Villages surrounded by cultivated land

are sprinkled here and there on the banks of the river; fruit-trees

afford a welcome shade, and the green carpet of grass a pleasant place

on which to pitch the wanderer’s camp. We enjoyed our luncheon very

much, for in honour of the occasion my wife produced some of her most

precious stores, and we had among other dainties a Stilton cheese and a

bottle of milk punch; so we decided to devote the remainder of the day

to rest and quiet enjoyment under the shade of a huge walnut-tree.

I smoked a cigar, while my wife, by the aid of my glasses, examined

every nook and corner of the high mountain which towered above us.

All of a sudden she exclaimed, ‘I see a bear!’ and there, far up on

the hill-path, a bear and her cub were plainly seen. It was a pretty

picture, for the mother was playing with her child, rolling it over

and running away, then coming back and falling down, while the little

cub jumped over her. Well, I did not go after them. Perhaps the milk

punch and the cheese prevented me; anyway, I left them alone, but a

brother officer, arriving soon after, encamped not far from us, and he

went and shot the cub and then the mother, but nearly lost his life

in doing so, for the old bear was so furious when her cub was killed

that she charged my friend at a moment when his rifle was not loaded.

Fortunately for him, however, another sportsman came up to the rescue,

and Bruin received a bullet which finished her.

There were several bears seen during our halt at this charming

camping-ground. I went out several times to shoot, but was not

successful. My shikarrie generally got me out of bed about three in the

morning, and we sallied forth by the light of the moon, and climbed up

one of those steep mountains on which my wife had spied the mother and

child. The bears came down during the night from their haunts in the

mountains to feed on the ripe mulberries in the valley.

My shikarrie’s plan was to take me up the mountain before dawn, and

to post me behind a rock where the bears were likely to pass, as they

always returned up the mountain from the valley when the day broke. I

may safely say that, on these occasions, I never saw a bear. A strong

smell of a menagerie was sometimes perceptible, and the broken branch

of a mulberry-tree would give evidence that Bruin had been there; but I

was never fortunate enough to get a shot at one. I think the fur of the

American bears finer than that of the Cashmerian ones.

CHAPTER XII.

THE RESIDENT OF CASHMERE.

GOND--OFFICER OF THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS--A STATE PRISONER--OUR

GASCON CAPTAIN--SILVER TAIL--M’KAY ON EASTERN MOUNTAIN

SCENERY--THE WALLOOR LAKE--PALHALLAN--OUR CHOKEDAR--TAKEN

FOR WANDERING JUGGLERS--VALE OF GULMURG--OUR CAMPING

GROUND--A FAVOURITE EXCURSION--HOSPITALITY OF THE RESIDENT OF

CASHMERE--POLLY THE PUG--CALLING THE MARES HOME--HINDOOS AND

ANIMAL SUFFERING--EFFECTS OF CAMPAIGNING ON SERVANTS.

CHAPTER XII.

We left Mamur and encamped at Gond, intending to proceed to Sonamurg,

but I did not feel at all well, so we had to give it up. The scenery

had become wilder and grander at every turn round each rugged cliff,

and then the mountains seemed to close entirely, so that there was

apparently no possibility of getting further on, till a turn of the

path led us to where the valley widened into a green enclosure. On our

way we got lots of apricots, the trees being fairly weighed down with

their yellow load.

Gond is a very wild place. Our tents were pitched close to a brawling

stream that clamoured so loudly as it hurried past to join the Scind

that we could hardly hear ourselves speak. My wife, accompanied by

the dogs, proceeded alone for about five miles up the valley. She

brought back a glowing account of glorious combinations of mountain,

wood, and river. The intense stillness of the place imparted a feeling

of solemnity to the scene. While my wife was on her way a figure

appeared, at first wholly unrecognisable, face burned red, and hair

a perfect thatch, dress indescribable. This was an officer of the

Connaught Rangers. How amazed I was when my wife returned to our camp

with this singular-looking being. He had been to Leh, and was full

of stories of his adventures. He had walked thirty miles that day.

As he had left his servants behind, we made an impromptu bed for him

in our spare tent. He told us he had seen a state prisoner at a fort

called Tillet, a man tall in height, cramped up in an iron cage where

he could not sit upright. My friend measured this cruel prison, and,

as far as I remember, his conclusion was that it was only four feet

high, and narrow in proportion. The poor man had been immured there

for years. At the time of the death of Gholab Sing (the father of the

present Maharajah) the prisoner plotted to raise another branch of the

family to the throne, his intention being that the prince who now

reigns was to have been slain. The plot was discovered, and the unhappy

author of it was condemned to a life-long incarceration in an iron

cage. It is so long ago since the story was told on the valley of the

Scind river by this wandering Ranger, that now my written description

of the event seems quite tame; but at the time his portrait of the

unfortunate wretch he had seen, and the measurement of the cage which

he had marked on his stick, made us all thrill with horror, and we made

a fresh inroad on the fluids in my wife’s stores. I hope my friend had

no difficulty in getting off his boots, as I might have chaffed him as

I was once chaffed myself.

In the Crimea, during the last winter there, my old friend and comrade,

Nat Steevens, and I built, with the aid of one of the Rangers, named

Hopkins, a very good man, ‘a moighty foin house,’ consisting of two

rooms, divided by a very thin partition. Nat resided in one room, while

I was possessor of the other. Nat said to me one morning:

‘I always can tell when you have been dining out.’

I innocently inquired, ‘How?’

‘Because,’ said Nat, ‘I can hear you say to your servant, on your

return from one of those festive parties, “_Schnopkins_, pull off

my boots!”’

We had great difficulties in procuring any food, and at length I had to

send in to Srinagur, to Baboo Mohas Chander, requesting him to give me

a Sepoy orderly, to get us supplies. After his arrival, we did better;

for we got what there was to be had--small, half-fed sheep--but we had

to pay double for everything, owing to our new attendant. I do not

believe the peasants gained by the change; for our ‘Gascon captain,’

as we named him, was a great swaggerer, and pocketed most of the money

himself.

We had to cross the Scind river twice, on our return journey, to enable

us to get to a better path than the one we came by, and we met with no

mishaps till we reached a tributary of the river. It came brawling down

from the mountains, a goodly sized stream. My wife was walking, and

Silver Tail, with the side-saddle on, was being led by the syce. They

came to a rickety bridge, where the impetuous pony, as usual, made a

rush. The syce checked him, but down went Silver Tail into the water,

and rolled twice over in the flood! The knowing rascal seemed rather to

enjoy it, and swam to a shallow place, where he coolly began to drink,

allowing the alarmed syce to catch him. Not a scratch was on him, nor

was the little demon strained in the least. My wife’s saddle was, of

course, very wet, but uninjured.

We arrived early at our camping-ground at Mannur, and M’Kay started off

on an expedition up a mountain at the back of our tents. It towered

up many thousand feet, and from its summit a view could be obtained

over the ridge on the other side of the Scind Valley, right away to

Srinagur, Gulmurg, and Baramoula.

It was some hours before M’Kay rejoined us. We had seen her, through

my glasses, climbing steadily on; and, when she returned, her account

of the splendour of the panorama she must have gazed on was short and

pithy.

‘There was nothing to be seen at the top but more mountains, and

villages. As to the wonderful height, there was not a mountain of the

lot to be compared in size, or anything else, with the mountains at the

back of my father’s house in Sutherlandshire.’

The heat in the valleys was becoming oppressive, so we determined to

move up to higher ground. We turned our steps, in the first place,

towards Srinagur, there to make all arrangements for a protracted

expedition. Baboo Mohas Chander strongly recommended us to retain the

services of the Sepoy, so the Gascon captain remained with us. We left

Srinagur by boats on a lovely moonlight night, and drifted down the

Jhellum with little aid from our crew. The tinkling sound of zitaras,

mingled with laughing voices, came on the breeze, and added to our

enjoyment as we floated along, inhaling the perfume from the flowers in

the gardens on the banks of the river. The grim old temples, black with

age and decay, were softened in the moonlight, and the squalid wooden

houses appeared almost cheerful as seen in that sweet evening hour.

In the morning, we entered the Walloor Lake, and crossed over to

our landing-place at Palhallan. The mosquitoes were more voracious

than usual, and positively attacked our mosquito-nets in millions,

but, baffled in their attempts to come through, they howled outside.

From Palhallan we walked to Wangan, where the horses met us, they

having come round by land. Our Gascon captain was in great force, and

swaggered about, trying to get coolies. His moustache had an extra

curl, and he proved--by his overbearing ways--a great addition to

our importance, as every article of food was charged nearly double

to us. Our other retainer was a chokedar, full of conceit, and what

the Americans call _bounce_. When we landed at Palhallan, this

man buckled on his sword, and swung my gun, in its leather-case, over

his shoulder, arming himself also with a long pole, on which he fixed

an old Union Jack belonging to me; and marched with pompous gravity

in front of our party, greatly to our amusement, but not much to our

edification.

As we passed through a village, the little naked children rushed

forth clapping their hands and shouting: ‘Ho! tomasha wallah. Ho!’ To

be taken for a party of travelling jugglers increased the delight,

but not the dignity of the wanderers. Before daylight the march was

begun, and when morning broke we had left the low land, and were

beginning the ascent of the real mountains. A slight shower brightened

everything. The note of the cuckoo, so home-like and sweet, the

fir-trees refreshed by the rain, the balmy, bracing morning air, all

made our hearts rejoice. We toiled up through pine forests, among which

were many fine deodars blasted by lightning. We arrived in due time

at Baba-murchi, where we were met by two of my brother officers, who

were looking out for us, and welcomed us with the intelligence, ‘We

have breakfast ready for you,’ a most satisfactory meeting. Need I say

how we appreciated the meal provided for us by these two kind friends,

one of whom now rests in his grave in India; but we were longing for

news of the outside world, not having met anyone in our brief halt at

Srinagur. They told us of rumours of disturbances among the hill tribes

near Peshawur, always an anxious report for officers on leave, as, if

anything serious breaks out, it means recall to the plains. However,

the air of Cashmere makes one look on the bright side of things, and it

was with wills resolved thoroughly to enjoy our holiday as long as it

lasted that we got on our horses and proceeded on our way.

For two or three miles our road continued ascending through pine

forests, but at length, like

‘Lord Lovel’s brier-er-r,

It couldn’t get high-er-r,’

so we began the short descent to the Vale of Gulmurg. Gulmurg means the

‘meadow of flowers,’ and in few places in the world except Cashmere

could such a pleasant spot be found.

The long, narrow green valley, on whose sweet grass many mares and

foals were grazing, is traversed by a clear stream of pure water. On

each side of the valley are high broad banks, on which grow lofty

deodars. On one side the bank goes up, still covered with pines, till

it joins the hill behind it, and then it rises upward and upward till

it reaches the line where the snow always lies. In snug nooks above the

valley were to be found various tents.

Gulmurg is the most favourite resort for the less adventurous visitors

to Cashmere. It was a pretty sight, for the encampments were many, and

each one had some decoration, either of arbours or flags, to enliven

the scene.

We had some difficulty in finding a good camping-ground, for a rather

large terrace was required, not only for our own accommodation, but

also for our retainers and the ponies. At last we were satisfied. For

some time we had ample occupation in arranging our gipsy camp. Our

tents were cosily pitched beneath some giant deodars, more than sixty

feet high. It occurred to the syces, both good men, whom I had had in

my service for long, that the ponies might be led down the valley to

enjoy a good feed of grass. It was an unlucky thought, for no sooner

did the nags find themselves in the neighbourhood of the mares than,

casting decorum to the winds, they squealed, and kicked, and pranced

most gallantly. The men held on to their charges as long as they could,

but at last I saw the discomfited grooms prostrate on the ground, and

our excited horses tearing away after the long-tailed denizens of the

valley. It was next day before they were recovered. By many a bite and

cut, we saw that their advances had not been too well received.

When night came, the scene was very picturesque. The large fires,

always lit, near every camp reminded me of old campaigning days. We

had our huge log fire, and the moon rose soft and silvery from behind

the dark woods, a bright gleam occasionally piercing the gloomy

darkness of the thick forest, which loomed grandly between us and the

cloudless sky. It is like a dream recalling these pleasant hours, for

the inevitable discomforts are all forgotten, and memory reproduces the

bright side alone.

One of our favourite excursions was to the end of the valley by which

we had come in, and then into the woods, along a narrow path through

lordly pines, to an open vista made by the Resident. The view was very

beautiful; the far-off mountains were often hid in mist, but sometimes

at sundown the lofty Hurra-Mukh showed his snowy head, and the clouds

faded away like a veil lifted from his god-like brow. Then the

magnificent ice-clad giant, flushed in the rosy sunset glow, quickly

shrouded himself again in a covering of impenetrable clouds. Beneath us

was the green plain, through which the broad Jhellum shone like a band

of silver, and the Walloor Lake seemed but very small indeed. Villages

were dotted here and there. In the far distance a gleam of light showed

Srinagur’s Fort and the golden-roofed palace glistening in the sun’s

departing rays.

Our constant companion was a large Thibetian dog--poor fellow, he

always kept at a respectful distance, but followed us on all occasions,

fascinated by our lady pack of canine charmers. He appeared to have no

master, and we were told that he was the self-constituted guardian of

the mares, which graze everywhere at Gulmurg, against the wild beasts

that prowl down from the heights above. We liked the shaggy old dog,

which never came too near; but one day we missed him, and were told

that this honest old watch had been shot, so his troubles were over.

It must be difficult for the keepers to know to whom the different

horses belong. Most of them are the property of the Maharajah, but some

are not. I suppose they have a distinguishing mark.

The Resident of Cashmere, Colonel Cracroft, was most prince-like in his

ideas of hospitality. No one could be more courteous and kindly than

were both he and his wife. They endeavoured in every way to promote our

amusement and good-fellowship. A hearty welcome was given to everyone

who was bid to their hospitable board. Cricket was established as well

as archery; polo was also greatly patronised.

Time flew gaily among the woods and flowers of Gulmurg. It was a pretty

sight to see the care-takers of the innumerable mares and foals call

their horses home at the fall of day by the sound of a long-prolonged

cry which the guardians gave. A stampede ensued, and from hidden nooks

and glens numbers of mares gallopped towards the man whose voice they

knew. Some moved with a long stride, while others cantered quietly,

followed by their little foals. From our green hill it was amusing

to note the different manœuvres these wild horses went through. They

formed up in troops, and changed front in a compact form. The place to

which they had been called was not enclosed, but was at the entrance

of the valley, and no straggling was allowed, owing to the dread of

wild beasts. One day I saw a great number of vultures collected in the

valley immediately in front of our position; with my glasses I could

see that a poor little foal had died, and that its carcase was being

devoured by these horrid foul scavengers of the East; but my disgust

can be imagined when through the same glasses I saw Polly, the pug,

enjoying herself quite as much as the gorged carrion crows. If there

was not a row soon established at that detestable feast, it was not the

fault of our servants, for the Gascon captain, chokedar, and syces, led

on by M’Kay, charged down among these festive guests. Polly was seized,

and washed, and rubbed, and if anyone had been ill, and wanted castor

oil, Polly, if she could have spoken, would have informed any inquirers

where most of the bottle had gone to. Polly was a very greedy little

animal. At a croquet-party given by General Dunsford at Peshawur we

were all deeply engaged showing our science at that now obsolete game,

when, happening to turn round, I saw the pug on the table, surrounded

by strawberries and sugar, which she did not appreciate, but up to the

eyes in a large jug of cream, which had been provided by our hospitable

host for his guests.

On a knoll in the valley, across the clear running stream, a little

church, constructed of deodars and green branches, had been erected.

Here every Sunday a small congregation assembled, and it was very

touching to join in the service in this far-off beautiful land. The

clergyman was chaplain to the 79th Highlanders, and he took great

interest in his little church in the vale.

We were going one Sunday to the morning service, when we passed on the

way a young horse with a broken leg, a very pitiable sight. The poor

animal was trying to hobble along, its fore leg, which was broken,

hanging powerless. The poor beast was evidently suffering great agony.

A message was sent off at once to the native in charge at Gulmurg, but

his answer was that he had received no _hookem_ to destroy the

horse. So Colonel Macpherson, of the Ghoorkas, took the case into his

own hands, and the suffering animal was shot. The Hindoos are very

careless about animal suffering though they avoid taking their lives. I

have often seen at Cawnpore a worn-out camel lying all alone near the

river Ganges, a small supply of food beside the forsaken beast. It is

impossible to imagine a picture of desolation more complete than the

dying camel alone on the river’s bank.

We made many excursions from Gulmurg, once to the range of mountains

one thousand feet above our valley. The path was very steep, but we

were rewarded when in about two hours we arrived at Killun, another

plateau above Gulmurg. But our route was higher up, and we passed banks

covered with every kind of wild flowers. The breeze was cold as it

came over the ice. The view of the valley and the distant Thibetian

mountains was very splendid. Beneath us was green Gulmurg, with its

white tents dotted here and there. Above us were glaciers and perpetual

snow. In a shaded nook near the frozen stream we established our

bivouac; a _pâté de foie gras_, together with some black bottles,

was placed in the snow, and, in due time, we enjoyed a luncheon fit

for a king. One of our party naïvely remarked that after luncheon

in these high altitudes the ground seemed to rise towards him. We

had no attendants with us, so we helped ourselves. Gipsy life, like

campaigning, makes servants forget the required polish of every-day

life.

In 1858, the Rangers marched into Lucknow. A brother-officer and myself

were dining with the Commissioner, Sir R. Montgomery. My friend was

seated between the hostess and another lady, and was making himself

very agreeable, delighted to be in ladies’ society again, after

wandering about the country for months in pursuit of rebels. Dinner

over, dessert was discussed, when, to my friend’s dismay, his servant,

who had been campaigning with his master, stole gently behind his

chair, and, with great care, placed beside his plate an old black cutty

pipe and a ‘screw of cavendish,’ wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper.

The murg of Killun is too high up to be frequented as a camping-ground;

supplies are very difficult to be got, everything having to be carried

up from the bazaar which the Resident had got established for the

necessaries of life at Gulmurg. Rain is more frequent there than lower

down. But, all the same, it is a capital place for a picnic. We often

dined with the Resident and his wife, whose camp was pitched high up

on the green hill which overlooks on one side Gulmurg, and on the

other the Happy Valley. Our departure after dinner on dark nights was

remarkable, and like a triumphal procession. The ‘Gascon captain’ and

the ‘Chokedar’ were both in attendance with blazing flambeaux of pine

wood, which burn like lamps, owing to the liquid turpentine which they

contain. One preceded us, armed to the teeth, while the other followed,

with his head all wrapped up to keep out the cold air. Occasionally

a difference of opinion arose between the rival light-bearers as to

the correctness of the path to pursue. The ponies usually decided the

question by taking a line of their own, and the joyful welcome of our

four dogs proved that the log-fire we had been making for was the

right one. We were struck by the absence of small birds. The woods are

silent during the day, but at night large owls scream with a weird and

mournful sound.

Much as we were enjoying our life at Gulmurg, we felt, if we were

thoroughly to explore the Valley of Cashmere, there was no more time

to linger; so reluctantly the order was given to strike tents and to

move on. We returned to Srinagur for a few days before starting again

on another expedition. Great part of our time was passed in Summad

Shah’s shawl-room, where we chose some beautiful shawls for friends

at home and for my wife. Nothing combines lightness with warmth so

perfectly as a chuddar--there is no more comfortable dressing-gown

than a choga, the ordinary dress of a better-class native. Of course,

we had an immense deal of bargaining to go through, but we had a fair

idea of what we ought to give both for shawls and dressing-gowns. On

the true Cashmerian principle of no business transaction being possible

without ‘backsheesh,’ the chief man of our boat’s crew anxiously, and

apparently as a matter of course, watched our purchases, he being

entitled to a percentage on the same, and so also was my bearer. My

wife, too, claimed that a something should be thrown in with the

shawls, and Summad Shah presented her with a pretty silk many-coloured,

hand-worked table-cover. I think all parties were satisfied.

CHAPTER XIII.

TRAVELLING IN CASHMERE.

VISIT TO ISLAMABAD--AVANTIPORE--KUNBUL--PITCHING OUR

CAMP--TRAVELLING CAMP FASHION--PALACE OF SIRKARI BAGH--ANUT

NAG, THE SACRED SPRING--SHAWL MANUFACTORY--VISIT TO THE GARDEN

AT ATCHIBUL--IRISH ACUTENESS--PLEASURE GARDEN--PICNIC IN THE

RUINS OF MARTUND--SACRED SPRING OF THE BOWUN--A PUNDIT EAGER FOR

BACKSHEESH--EXPEDITION TO THE LOLAB--REVIEW OF THE MAHARAJAH’S

TROOPS.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Khansama having announced that his part of the preparations for a

fresh start were complete, after dinner on a fine summer’s evening,

our squadron of boats left Srinagur. We had decided on paying a visit

to Islamabad. Our crew, as usual composed of a whole family, towed our

big boat up the winding river. Had we gone by land with the horses,

we should in an hour have done what it took us by boat much longer to

accomplish, the river twists and winds in such a tortuous manner. This

is the part of the Jhellum that we looked on from the heights of Tukht

Suliman, and whose serpented bends gave the idea for the well-known

pattern on Cashmere shawls.

At night, as usual, we halted, and in the early morning continued

our voyage, towed against the stream. We passed the day in a truly

lazy manner, enjoying the balmy breeze as we glided noiselessly along,

all Nature basking in soft repose. We passed green woods and rocky

eminences, every now and then sighting the road. We got fresh fish from

men who had merely to take the trouble of casting a net and hauling up

lots of one-pounders. We came to a picturesque ruined village, all in

decay, once the capital town of Cashmere, named Avantipore, after King

Avante Verna. We passed under a fine old wood bridge at Bajahara, and

floated past ruined mosques and gardens--for once upon a time it was a

place of vast repute.

On the second day, in the afternoon, we arrived at Kunbul. There was

more than usual fuss at that landing-place, for a great English lord

was about to embark for Srinagur, and all honour was to be shown to

him, by order of the Maharajah. Owing to this redoubtable party, we

had some difficulty in getting coolies, and the ‘Gascon captain’ had

to twirl his moustaches and look very fierce before we could get our

proper number. My wife and I walked on in the cool evening hour. Our

road was along the banks of a stream hid by flowering shrubs and long

grass. The fields looked well cultivated and green.

It was a pleasant walk, and we soon arrived at an orchard of

fruit-trees, underneath the shade of which our camp was to be pitched.

A venerable old fellow, the head man of the village, came up to us,

and with profound salaams conducted us to our ground. In the twinkling

of an eye the place was swept clean, and then began the clatter of

tent-pegs being knocked into the ground. The servants placed every

table and box in exactly the same corners of the tents as they had

occupied when our camp was pitched at Gulmurg. No life can be more

comfortable when travelling than camp-fashion, make as long or as short

a day’s journey as you like. You sleep on your bed in your own room,

and are waited on by your own servants. Now, however luxurious and well

appointed an hotel may be, you have not your own odds and ends round

you; the waiters do not know your ways, and the pillows are sometimes

distracting.

We passed several pleasant days at Islamabad, making excursions in

the neighbourhood, and visiting the various objects of interest in

the town. There is a palace here, called Sirkari-Bagh, in which the

Maharajah and his ladies repose, on their way to Srinagur from Jumrood.

It is not a very interesting building, but there is a nice fruit

garden, surrounded by a high wall.

The Barradurrie of the town is close to the Anut Nag, and is encircled

by a high wall, which encloses a vast space about sixty or seventy

yards square. The sacred spring, Anut Nag, issues at the foot of a hill

which overlooks the town, and is received into a tank, from whence it

flows through a canal into a lower tank. It then continues its course

by another canal to the outside of the high wall, where it rushes forth

in a fine cascade about seven or eight feet high. The tanks and canals

are full of tame fish, which are regularly fed by the faqueers, and

are considered very sacred. The Sonur Pookur is a stone tank, not very

far from Anut Nag, and the stream which flows to it has its source in

the hill overlooking Islamabad. There are two other streams, one of

which is sulphurous. The medicinal properties of this mineral water are

peculiar in their effects.

The Barradurrie is a picturesque, though not over clean-looking

wooden edifice, round the entrance of which numerous curious faqueers

establish their bivouac. We preferred our camping-ground, and remained

there.

Whilst here, we visited a shawl manufactory, the entrance to which was

situated in an unwholesome quarter of the town. The perfume was not

that of roses, and the workers were miserable-looking objects, with

sore eyes. It was curious to see these squalid creatures employed at

that intricate work, which in time produces shawls of great value. The

small squares shown to us were of most beautiful fabric, and no doubt

the weak eyes which gazed on us got the lacklustre look from hard work

at the looms. The rugs and carpets made at Islamabad are much cheaper

than those sold by the merchants at Srinagur, though in reality most of

them are made here. We bought several handsome hearth-rugs, besides a

long, warm blanket, called ‘loué,’ peculiar to Cashmere.

The old tickedar was very civil, and brought us to his house, where his

wife and daughters came and gazed with smiling faces at my wife. After

a great deal of good-will dumb-show, which reminded me of the ‘Bono

Johnny’ of old Crimean days, we left the delighted family open-mouthed

with admiration.

The environs of Islamabad are very pretty. There are pleasant rides

through gardens near the river, and a long avenue of poplar-trees

extends for more than a mile through green pastures.

Next day we determined to visit Atchibul, where there is a beautiful

pleasure-garden, laid out by the Emperor Shah-Jehan, and we were told

there was a summer-house in the centre of the grounds, where we could

rest. The charm of our gipsy life was that we were enabled to start

whenever we pleased. My wife and M’Kay made all arrangements for a

picnic, and the amiable tickedar provided coolies on the shortest

notice to carry our food. As our expedition was only to last one day,

the tents were not struck. When M’Kay brought the tea at an early hour,

we anxiously asked how the weather was looking, and felt proportionably

delighted when we were informed that it was very fine. Clouds had been

gathering the day before, and rain appeared imminent. We mounted our

horses, and sallied forth. M’Kay accompanied us on foot, all our dogs,

plus two puppies, came also. Our way lay through the rather dirty town,

and we were very pleased when we emerged from narrow lanes to green

orchards in the open country.

After crossing the river, we followed the right bank along which the

road continued. Then our path lay through rice-fields, very treacherous

to ride over. Our horses constantly sank in the boggy ground. In front

of us were mountains, whose summits were covered with dark clouds when

we started, but, as the day went on, rain and fleecy mist succeeded

the lowering curtain, and, as if by magic, the mists faded away, and

left the clear outline of the green hills painted on the autumn sky.

As we advanced on Atchibul, a hill clothed with young deodars rose

grandly before us, and, as we approached the gate of the gardens, we

passed under magnificent chenars. The entrance is rather formal, but

the Pavilion, situated in the centre of a tank of clear water, is very

charming.

A civil old fellow bade us welcome in the name of the Maharajah, and,

after bringing us some fine peaches, left us to ourselves. In a short

time the _jets d’eau_ which surrounded us began to play, and

continued doing so all the time we were there. The day was warm, as the

sun had conquered the clouds, and the splashing music of the waters was

soothing and thoroughly Eastern. The old gardener brought us grapes,

peaches, and plums, so we passed a few hours very happily, having

brought a supply of books. The fruit which is to be got in India is

not equal to what we have cultivated at home in hot-houses. There are,

of course, certain fruits peculiar to the country, such as mangoes,

bananas, and oranges, which we cannot surpass, but as a cart-horse may

be a very fine animal, yet in refinement cannot be compared with a

thorough-bred, neither can the natural produce of the soil be compared

with the highly-cultivated results of skill. In Cashmere there is an

abundance of the fruits of the earth when they are in season. No high

walls and locked doors are required to keep out thieves, or to prevent

visitors from wandering about among the extensive garden-paths.

But at home it is different. A friend of mine in the south of Ireland

was taking some ladies to see his very fine hot-houses. When they

reached the garden, the door was found to be locked, and the key was

there, but in the inside. Great perplexity was felt on the part of

the Irish host how to get in. He shouted to the gardener, and a voice

answered, but not much to the purpose. There was much excitement and

confabulation as to how the party outside the walls was to be admitted.

Finally a happy thought struck the master. ‘Whisper, Pat!’ he shouted,

‘throw the key over the wall, and we shall let ourselves in.’ So, with

many a ‘Stand clear--are ye ready?’ whiz the key came over the wall,

and, with considerable triumph, our friend said, ‘Now we’ll get in!’ It

had never occurred to any of them that the easiest way would have been

to unlock the door on the inside.

Several notabilities of Islamabad came to pay their salaams, among

them a Sikh officer from Peshawur, who went into ecstasies about the

place, and concluded by saying, ‘Oh, if the English were possessors

of this land, what a paradise it would be!’ The hill which rises in

the background is covered with young deodars, which the Maharajah

preserves most strictly, and which add very much to the quiet beauty

of the scene. In the time of the Emperor Shah-Jehan, when this

pleasure-garden was trimly kept, when the cascades were full of water,

and everything was cared for, this place must have been unsurpassed in

loveliness. The spring of water in this rare old garden is considered

the finest in Cashmere, and the water sparkles in its clear purity when

poured into a glass.

Atchibul only requires careful looking after, for the ground is

fertile; peaches, quince, plums, and grapes grow in abundance in its

orchards. The day was far spent as we rode away, and as we passed

through the curious gate which divides Shah-Jehan’s garden from the

outward world we both exclaimed, ‘How often shall we look back with

pleasure on our day at Atchibul!’ Our path homewards was the same by

which we came in the morning. The shades of night had closed round us

before we reached the camp.

Our next picnic was to the wonderful ruins of Martund. M’Kay was left

in charge of the camp, and we started in the morning towards the

village of Bowun, which is about six miles from our ground, on the

northern side of what is called in Cashmere a kuraywah, or table-land.

These kuraywahs vary in height from three to four hundred feet, and in

length from one to five miles. They are divided from each other by wide

ravines, through which flow mountain streams. The upper part, which is

generally bare and flat, is composed of very rich soil. The scenery is

not very grand, and the path skirts along the foot of the kuraywah, on

which the temple of Martund is built.

In due time we arrived at the sacred spring of Bowun, whose holy waters

are received in a large tank full of tame fish. On the one side of

this tank is a temple, from which emerged a very holy man, in search

of backsheesh. We did not respond to his appeals, but a stout khansama

belonging to an English family in Cashmere, seemed a great find; for he

had to pay for everything. First he was mulcted of his coin to provide

food for the fish, then he had to pay before he was allowed to kneel

down to try to embrace a fish, which, as he was stout and rather old,

I need not say he did not succeed in doing. I then saw him paying for

admittance into the temple, to be blessed by the holy man. The last

I saw of him was when he was surrounded by little boys shouting for

backsheesh. The limp state of his money-bag, however, showed that he

had no more to give.

Yet why should we laugh at this poor Hindoo. It was faith that carried

him on, faith as powerful as that which inspires the pilgrims of

Russia to leave their homes, and crowd the Church of the Sepulchre at

Jerusalem, and the same faith as that which caused the martyrs of old

to smile as the fire was lit to consume their bodies. Magnificent old

chenars are near the sacred spring.

There were so many faqueers here that we determined not to halt, as

these gentlemen are not particular about wearing any clothes, and

despise soap and water. We declined all offers of a guide, for our

ancient tickedar had provided us with a coolie who knew the road. So

we turned our backs on Bowun, fully convinced that Nature was most

bountiful to this beautiful land, but that man ruined it by extortion

and folly.

We proceeded by a very steep path to the top of the kuraywah, on which

are the ruins of Martund. The view was fine. In the far distance we

saw the woods of Atchibul on one side, and in front the green entrance

to Kunbul. Martund is a wonderful place. Vigne says in his ‘Travels

in Cashmere,’ ‘As an isolated ruin, this deserves, on account of its

solitary and massive grandeur, to be ranked, not only as the first

ruin of the kind in Cashmere, but as one of the noblest among the

architectural relics of antiquity that are to be seen in any country.’

And what did we see? We went out on a calm summer evening on a rocky

coast, where Nature had cast about in endless confusion great rocks of

ponderous size; that is what we seemed to see, but these massive blocks

of stone and masonry, tumbled about in magnificent disorder, once on

a time formed walls surrounding the temple. The temple still stands,

in spite of the loss of its surroundings, which have succumbed to the

gales and storms of ages. It rears its noble front in proud grandeur

and disdain of overwhelming and destructive time. We entered this

ancient edifice through a gateway. It seemed to us to be built on a

cruciform plan. The aisle was there, and, towards the east, the altar

recess, while at each corner the cross was completed by projecting

spaces like chapels. On the walls of stone were strange figures cut,

but the roof in most parts had failed, and the blue sky formed the

canopy overhead.

There was something pathetic in finding ourselves alone in this

monument of by-gone days. Those who once worshipped in this very grand

building must have been some of the great ones of the world, and now

their very existence is unknown. The knowledge of who they were is but

dimly seen through the ages of the past. Were it not for these grand

mementoes which outlived the memory of those who worshipped in them,

who now would think of them?

We prepared to pass the hot hours of the day in this sacred retreat,

delighted to be left alone to our thoughts, which must, under the

circumstances, be somewhat solemn. Our hopes of solitude were doomed to

disappointment, for, entering the portals of the temple, a salaaming

figure advanced, and, having arrived at a respectful distance, squatted

down on the ground before us. He was a young, well-dressed Pundit,

and, as we were actually reposing in a Hindoo temple, we received

him courteously, though, like many callers, his absence would have

been preferable to his presence. He observed that the ruins were very

large, to which undoubted fact we, of course, agreed. He produced a

long roll of parchment signed by many names, and pointed with pride to

the signature of Vigne. This roll had belonged to his father. He then

brought out several ‘chits’ or characters, and requested me to give him

one. Being rather puzzled what to write, I looked over the numerous

sheets of note-paper, one of which particularly attracted my attention.

‘This is to certify that Pundit--is the greatest bore and nuisance I

ever met. Signed ----.’ They were all to the same effect. Having never

met this worthy man before in my life, and being most anxious to get

rid of him, I wrote, ‘This to certify that Pundit--is the son of his

own father,’ and signed it. He received this certificate with great

pleasure; but, as he did not understand a word of English, I cannot

make out what good he could possibly derive from it. I bowed him out,

as is the custom in the East, and sincerely hoped we had seen the last

of him.

We passed a very quiet day, and when the sun began to sink to rest

we prepared to leave this grand old monument of ancient Cashmere. We

sallied forth from the venerable ruin, and who should be there but the

Pundit? He said a good deal, but all I could make out was backsheesh.

So we gave him a small silver coin, and he asked for more, ‘as his

day was spoilt.’ The quiet and the calm of the time-worn temple was

forgotten, and with wrath we turned away from this extortionate beggar,

and, with ruffled tempers, began our return march to Islamabad. Instead

of retracing our steps to Bowun, we continued along the kuraywah

on which Martund is built. After riding for two or three miles, we

descended a steep path and entered again the road on which we had been

in the morning.

As the evening was very close, we dismounted, and, seating ourselves

under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, we made our syces take the

horses to a clear, running stream close to our resting-place, and our

thirsty nags enjoyed a cool drink. As there was no water to be had at

the temple, a coolie carried a serai of drinking water for us. But the

shades of night warned us to loiter no longer, so we remounted, and

soon found ourselves once more in our pleasant camping-ground.

Our time in Cashmere was drawing very near to its end. We began to

count the days of our holiday. One more expedition we resolved to make,

to the Lolab, said to be a beautiful and fertile valley, situated on

the north-western side of Cashmere. As the way to it was partly on our

return journey, we sent off our horses to meet us at Sopoor. Our return

to Srinagur was uneventful. We floated down the stream from Kunbul,

where we embarked. There seemed to be a calm everywhere, and, as we

stole past gardens, the perfume of flowers came to us on the breeze,

and the sound of children’s voices was toned down to music by distance.

We remained a day or two at Srinagur, during which time a grand parade

of the Maharajah’s troops took place, and his army nearly came to

grief, for somehow or other the ammunition in one of the men’s pouches

took fire, and a most extraordinary scene ensued, as the fire went

down the whole of one of the ranks, and some men were badly wounded. I

daresay the men would do well enough if called on to fight, but their

ideas of discipline are different from ours.

It came on to rain one day, and a sentry posted near where we were

taking shelter coolly took off all his clothes and waited till the

storm was over till he dressed again! Baboo Mohas Chander came to see

us, and looked quite sorrowful at our departure; but he showed his

white teeth with delight when we expressed our hopes of returning some

day to Cashmere. He gave us some skinny fowls and a tray of sweetmeats,

and then vanished from our sight. In all probability I shall never

see the Baboo again, and can say with truth that he always was most

courteous to us and attentive to our wants. But oh, how we loathed the

skinny fowls! The very sight of chicken was enough to make us shudder.

Now in England a chicken is a delicacy--not so, however, in Ireland.

Many years ago, the dépôt of the Rangers marched all through Ireland,

and we never could get anything to eat at the inns on which we were

billeted but cock and bacon. At length we really had cock and bacon

on the brain. It was always our question, on arriving at the inn,

when the waiter appeared, ‘Pat, what can we have for dinner?’ and

the invariable answer was, ‘Anything yer honour chooses to order.’

‘Well, then, we’ll have a roast leg of mutton.’ ‘Faith, sorr, there’s

not a sheep been killed for the last month or two.’ ‘Oh, then,’ we

frantically exclaimed, ‘roast beef.’ ‘Sorra a bit of beef at all, at

all.’ ‘What _can_ we have?’ we all shouted in despair. ‘Cock and

bacon, sorr,’ triumphantly roared our present tormentor.

Fish at Srinagur was very difficult to be procured. The large mahseer

are coarse food, and no fish were allowed to be caught between the two

bridges on that part of the river on which the palace is situated, as

the soul of the Maharajah’s father now dwells in a fish. The Maharajah,

who is very attentive to his religious duties according to his light,

visited the faqueer’s temple every day.

CHAPTER XIV.

FAREWELL TO CASHMERE.

LAST WANDERINGS IN CASHMERE--LALPARI--RETURN TO MURREE--A

MURREE CART--RETURN TO MILITARY LIFE--FEVER IN THE

REGIMENT--DEATH OF M’KAY--ORDERED TO AGRA--INTELLIGENCE OF

ELEPHANTS--GOATS--REGIMENTAL PETS--A DRUNKEN OLD GOAT--HUNTING

REBELS--THE VALUE OF A FLOGGING--SAPIENT JACKDAWS--PAINFUL

TIDINGS--BRIGADIER NICHOLSON--ENGLISH STORES--LAHORE--FLIGHT OF

LOCUSTS--FLOCKS OF GEESE.

CHAPTER XIV.

And now the time was come to bid adieu to Srinagur. In the cool

evening hour we floated away, under the bridges and past the old

temples, till we came to Sopoor, where we found our horses, and our

tents pitched. Next day commenced our last wandering in Cashmere. It

was a fine bracing morning when we rode away to Arwun, where some

iron-works have been established. We went through green fields and

orchards and vineyards; a cool breeze tempered the heat of the sun. But

a thunderstorm came on, with a gale of wind, which lasted but a short

time, leaving us, however, rather dishevelled. Our path next day still

continued through fields and orchards, and then we climbed a steep

hill, at the other side of which was a good road, which brought us to

Kundee, amid scenery that recalled the Alps.

Next day we continued our journey to Lalpari, where we found a house,

in which we took possession of some empty rooms, and established

ourselves for a few days. The weather was very good all the time we

lingered here, and the walks under the shade of the fruit-trees in the

cool and invigorating air was a strengthening tonic before beginning

again the busy scenes of military life in the plains.

During one of our rides, we came on the camp of Colonel Bright of

the 19th Regiment, who, with his wife, was enjoying a _dolce far

niente_ existence in the green valley before returning to work once

more. The regiment to which the colonel belonged had been associated

with the Rangers in many a quarter at home and abroad. Officers and men

of both corps were sworn friends, and during the Crimean campaign the

19th, 77th, and 88th formed the left brigade of the light division, and

were like one regiment.

It was a pleasant feature among the old battalions of the _ancien

régime_ the friendship which existed between them, and which feeling

had descended for years like an article of faith. On the other hand,

animosity, that sometimes existed between two regiments, was also an

hereditary feeling. There is one corps now, under some new name in Her

Majesty’s army, which never meets with the 88th without a serious row

among the men from a feeling of hostility which began in the Peninsular

war.

We made the most of our days in the Lolab, for we well knew that it

was the last scene in our Cashmerian experiences, and most thoroughly

we enjoyed our remaining hours in that peaceful, beautiful valley. At

last the time came for us to start on our return journey. We met with

no special adventures on our way, and after ten days’ march we found

ourselves again cordially welcomed at Colonel Brown’s house at Murree.

The cart to take us down the hill to Rawul Pindee had been secured

weeks before our arrival; for at the close of the leave season there

is always a great rush for conveyances. A Murree cart is a very low,

strong-built dog-cart, with canvas roof, most suitable for bad roads.

They are usually well horsed with a pair of strong ponies, which

travel at full speed, and accomplish the distance down in four hours.

At Rawul Pindee we chartered a dawk-gharry, and after the inevitable

difficulties occasioned by unbroken horses refusing to start, we

arrived at Nowshera, where we once more began the busy life of soldiers

in the plains during the cold weather. It was the middle of October,

and the weather was very pleasant. The thermometer in the verandah at

4 p.m. stood at 78°, in the drawing-room 66°. But during that season

there was an immense deal of fever in the Peshawur valley, two-thirds

of the regiment suffering from it. It was just the ordinary prostrating

Indian fever, not by any means of a deadly nature. The men went to

hospital for a few days, and came out well, though weak.

When M’Kay announced one evening that she had got ‘the fever,’ we

thought nothing of it; she was so strong and sturdy. It was only the

doctor’s imperative orders that made her remain in bed; she was so

unwilling to leave her work undone. But instead of shaking off the

fever as others did, and getting up at the end of a few days, she

sank, and, before we quite realised the calamity that was threatening

us, she was gone. Her death was a real grief to us; she had so

thoroughly identified her interests with ours that we felt we had lost

a friend. The sergeants of the 88th volunteered to carry her to her

last resting-place in her grave at Nowshera, far from the home in the

Highlands of Scotland she was so fond of.

We had only a year to remain in India before our turn for home service

came round, and one day the order was received that the 88th Regiment,

Connaught Rangers, was to hold itself in readiness to proceed to

Kurrachee. The years we had spent in India had been passed in the

north-west provinces and the Punjaub, and we all regretted that our

last year of Indian service was to be in the Bombay Presidency, as

it entailed the necessity of parting with our carriages, furniture,

&c., before we set out on our long journey. However, we had no choice,

and Indian fashion-lists were made out of all our possessions and

sent to the regiment that was to succeed us at Nowshera. Carriages

and horses were advertised in the papers, and it was with the barest

necessaries of life, minus even our fine tents, as I had accepted

a good offer for them, and had borrowed two from the commissariat

for our march to Loodiana, that we rode away before the regiment to

our first camping-ground at Akhara. I there received a telegram from

head-quarters changing our destination from Kurrachee to Agra--a

most welcome order, had it come a little sooner, as the sale of our

possessions would not have taken place, and present loss and future

expense would have been saved to every one of us; for carriages,

horses, and furniture were all required at Agra. However, as it was,

we were glad to hear we were to have another year in the north-west

provinces, and in such a good quarter as Agra.

In former marches, during the Mutiny time, a number of elephants were

attached to our battalion, but now we only had camels. The former were

very amusing to watch; their ways are so peculiar. When I went to visit

them on the line of march when halted, the mahout in charge would

shout out to them ‘salaam!’ and then all their trunks would go up in

the air. These great animals were each fastened by a thin chain bound

round the hind fetlock, and attached to a tent-peg, driven into the

ground. I have been often amused to see how much they disliked flies or

mosquitoes. When troubled by these tormentors, they would take up a lot

of dust in their trunks, and throw it on their backs, and give a gentle

little squeal, which, coming from such a huge frame, was intensely

comical. I have seen a mahout fearlessly leave his baby in charge

of an elephant. Sweeping a space clear within reach of the animal’s

trunk, and placing the black child before him, he departed with the

warning, ‘kubbardar’ (take care), which the huge creature, perfectly

understanding, anxiously watched if the baby tried to crawl beyond the

assigned limit, and gently swept it back with his trunk, if it did.

It was very amusing, when out riding, to meet an elephant. My horse

had not the least fear of them, but some nags grow quite wild at their

approach. So elephants have been taught to scuttle away on the approach

of equestrians, and hide themselves. I have often seen a monster

rushing behind a wall, and stand there, with its eyes just over the

fence, looking as wise as possible, and full of mischievous fun. We

had a goodly number of animals belonging to ourselves: horses, dogs,

goats, and poultry. The goats are a necessary of life; for their milk

is the only kind procured in most places in India. Their feeding is

a simple business. A man goes out with a large flock of them in the

early morning, and, after they have picked up a subsistence in the

open country, they are returned to their various bungalows before

milking time in the evening. I had, one time, a very curious goat--poor

Nan--who was killed by a jackal. In the hot weather at Cawnpore, when

the evening came, and all the doors and windows were opened that the

weary inhabitant of the bungalow might emerge, half dead, to breathe

the outer air, and to recline for a short time in one of those long

easy-chairs made of cane, my goat would be sure to make her appearance

at my elbow, and whisper a gentle, subdued ‘ma-a!’ I knew perfectly

what she wanted: a good-sized tumbler of brandy and water; after

drinking every drop of which, her spirits became very lively, and she

danced about on her hind-legs, and really was a drunken old goat.

These were the days of hunting rebels. The Rangers formed part of a

column under command of Colonel G. V. Maxwell. The camel-corps, under

Colonel Ross, Rifle Brigade, was attached to the column. We were

ordered to a place called Ackberpore, there to await orders. Sir Hugh

Rose was triumphantly marching through India, and then was approaching

Calpee, a stronghold of the rebels not far from where we were then

encamped. With our column was a civilian magistrate, who had all power

to punish ill-doers in the most summary way. Ross’s camel-corps was

ordered away on what was called a ‘dour,’ or expedition in search of

rebels. He marched early in the morning.

I was in my tent that same day, when some of the men of the 88th came

up, leading my goat Nan, and marching prisoner a native. They stated

that the man had been trying to get Nan to go with him, and that she

had resented this very much, which attracted their notice, and then

they recognized the colonel’s goat, so they seized the robber, and

brought him prisoner. Not one of us understood a word the man said,

so I desired the soldiers to take the native and hand him over to

the magistrate sahib. When they arrived at the civilian’s tent, the

magistrate was just mounting his horse to proceed on some duty, so

the order was given to have the thief placed in some safe place till

the official’s return. I thought no more of the affair, as it was out

of my hands, and old Nan was reposing close to my tent. Next morning,

I received an indignant note from Ross, informing me that when the

camel-corps was marching off in the morning, he had seen my goat

straying away, and that he had desired one of his coolies to take it

to the 88th camp and give it to the colonel sahib. The native, as I

have described, had been taken prisoner, but the very sad part of the

story has to come. The magistrate had not believed the coolie’s story,

and had ordered him to be flogged and turned out of camp. Naturally,

Colonel Ross was much displeased, and I was equally distressed, but I

explained matters, and sent the poor man a good present of rupees, and

I received a letter saying that the coolie was quite pleased, and would

willingly be flogged every day for the same amount.

The common crow or jackdaw of India is a most sapient bird. I have

often watched them holding counsel together, apparently hatching

plots, and the conclusion of their consultation always seemed to end

in a shout of raven delight. My wife and I were sitting outside our

bungalow one evening, and my old dog Nelly had either stolen or been

presented with a mutton bone, which she was enjoying. Two jackdaws

appeared on the scene, and hopped about in front of Nelly, evidently

with a view to getting her bone; but she made sudden rushes at them,

and away they flew, laughing. After a bit one of the rascally birds

advanced very near, so near that Nelly thought she could catch him,

and made a rush, at the same time leaving her bone, when down came the

other bird to seize the prey; but Nelly was too quick for them, and got

back to her prize. A fresh noisy conference then ensued between the

two villainous conspirators, which chattered and laughed, and again

flew away. Next time they renewed the attack, one of them danced before

Nelly, while the other hopped up in the rear, and actually took hold

of the old dog’s tail. This was too great an insult. Nelly flew round

indignantly, and pursued the insulting miscreant, when in a trice the

other crow popped in and flew away with the mutton bone, old Nelly

returning quite abashed, and evidently not appreciating our laughter at

all.

The march down country was conducted in the same way as it had been

four years ago, when we came up from north-west provinces; the heavy

baggage, married people, and impedimenta going on the day before. As I

have already said, we had got rid of everything we could before leaving

the Punjaub. So it was with deep dismay I received the tidings that

greeted us when we rode into camp at Hattee, two marches from Nowshera,

that robbers from the hill tribes had come down during the night and

emptied several of my boxes, carrying off my best uniform and almost

all my valuables. It was inconceivable how the robbery could have been

effected, as my bearer lay between the boxes that were broken into. Of

his honesty I never had a suspicion. There is always, however, a silver

lining to every dark cloud, and ours in this case was, that it would

have been a much heavier loss if my wife’s boxes had been carried off,

containing, as they did, diamonds and other jewels. I may here mention

that some months after the robbery I got back my blue patrol jacket,

which had been found by the police in a suspected house in Peshawur;

but nothing else was ever recovered, and for the rest of the march, so

far as I was concerned, it did not take many carts to carry my baggage.

During all the remainder of my stay in India, I was haunted with this

robbery, for it seemed to me that I never asked for anything, but I was

told it had been carried off by the hill tribes.

The day before we marched into Rawul Pindee we were halted at

Janee-ke-Sung, near Brigadier Nicholson’s monument. The brigadier was

a _preux chevalier sans peur_. I have often read the inscription

on his tomb at Delhi, where he fell at the siege in 1857; but he lived

long enough to know that the enemy had been beaten and their stronghold

taken. He was only thirty-five years old when he fell, but he had

obtained a most wonderful influence among the natives of the north, by

whom he was both feared and loved. There is a sect in existence called

after his name, who worship his memory.

Our next halt was at Rawul Pindee, and at the wonderful _store_

that provided all sorts and kinds of ‘English goods,’ from candlesticks

to flannel shirts, I was able to replenish my exhausted wardrobe.

These ‘English stores’ are one of the great features of Indian life.

I daresay now, with a railway up to Peshawur, home goods are cheaper,

but in the days of which I write everything of English manufacture

was enormously dear, and there was apt to be a tarnished, spotted

appearance in the goods that made their acquisition a doubtful

pleasure. The merchants conducted business in a very superior manner.

To appear behind their own counter was a thing unheard of. In short,

ready money in those days was not the way of the country. Even the

collections at church were made with slips of paper and a pencil, the

money being called for next day.

I have an amusing letter in my collection from one of the store-keepers

in the Punjaub. An officer in the Rifle Brigade, having ordered a

forage-cap, addressed the letter to Mr. ----, shopkeeper, &c., from

whom he received the following reply:--

‘SIR,--I will do our best in having a forage-cap made up for

you as kindly desired. I would, however, remark that we prefer not

being addressed as “shopkeepers,” as we have no claim to such.’

From Rawul Pindee we tramped on past various camping-grounds to

Goojerat, where we spent many rupees on presents for home friends.

Goojerat is celebrated for its inlaid gold on iron-work. I got a very

handsome brace of pistols and various knick-knacks done in the same

style. Near our camping-ground was the scene of the great battle of

that name. Of course the cultivation of the fields has altered the

appearance of the surrounding country. Our march along the high-road

was varied by crossing the rivers of the Punjaub, which at this season

had dwindled into small, deep, rapid streams, traversed by bridges of

boats. But it was heavy work for men and animals getting over the wide

reach of deep sand that we met with on each side of the streams. It was

as much as could be accomplished in one day.

Six days after crossing the Chenab, we arrived at Shadera, and encamped

near Jehangir’s tomb. Runjeet Sing took away all the marble of the tomb

to make the gardens of Shalimar. It is about two miles from Lahore, the

capital of the Punjaub, which stands on the opposite bank of the Ravi,

and, like most Indian towns of any pretensions, looks more imposing

in the distance than it does when you explore it. But Lahore is very

majestic. It is eight miles in circuit, and is surrounded by a high

wall flanked by bastions and by a broad moat. There are some very fine

mosques here, notably the mosque of Padshah, with its lofty minarets

and cupolas, and of Vizier Khan, covered with painted and lacquered

tiles. The bazaars were good, and some of the work of Lahore, such as

the lacquered work and the gorgeous shawls sewn with gold and silver

threads, are well worth buying.

I met with a sad misfortune while halted at Shadera. We were exploring

the lovely gardens round Jehangir’s tomb, in which everything was in a

state of wildest luxuriance. A protruding thorn branch fastened itself

in my one red tunic, and inflicted injuries too deep for the most

skilful tailor to be able to make a neat mend. More sorely than ever

did I feel the evil wrought me by those thievish hill-tribes. Though it

was only the end of February, it was getting very hot in tents, and the

sun was already high before the morning marches were accomplished. The

dusty encampment at Meau Meer was very disagreeable, not a green leaf

or a tree near us; we had to stop here to change our carts; our last

important halt before completing our march.

My wife and I let the regiment get a day ahead of us when we reached

Ferozepore, as we stayed with an old friend who welcomed us most

warmly. It is a pretty green station, once the British boundary. We

saw here the most wonderful flight of locusts pass over the place. The

whole air was darkened with them. I can only compare the effect to that

of a blinding snowstorm; but the colour was grey instead of white. All

the populace turned out with tin pots, kettles, drums, and tom-toms to

prevent the enemy settling, and the main body passed the station in

about an hour, but thousands of stragglers kept flying after them all

the afternoon, and many thousands more dropped exhausted. The natives

collect the fallen, and make curries of them, which is not at all a

bad dish; but woe to the green fields if they be allowed to alight

on them--not a blade of grass or green leaf escapes these fearful

marauders.

The next flight of winged things we saw was a flock of wild geese, so

numerous that the whole goose tribe seemed to be emigrating to more

temperate zones.

CHAPTER XV.

THE HIMALAYAS.

AGRA--LETTER-WRITERS IN BAZAAR--A DILEMMA--THE RAJAH OF

ULWAR--THE TAJ-MAHAL--DESERTED CITY OF PALACES--FUTTEHPORE

SEKRI--RAILWAY TRAVELLING--THE SEWALLIC RANGE--THE

HIMALAYAS--THE SNOWY RANGE--DEHRA--THE TRAINING

SEASON--CHOLERA--PROCLAIMING BANNS OF MARRIAGE--PRESAGES OF A

STORM.

CHAPTER XV.

It was the 9th of March when we reached Loodiana, having left Nowshera

the last day of January, and here we were at what was then the

terminus of the Indian railway. We got down to Agra in a couple of

days, breaking the journey at Meerut to let the men have their rations

cooked, and on the 13th of March we arrived at Agra, well pleased to

have reached our final destination.

The general at Agra, having been sent home on sick leave, I got command

of the brigade, which I retained till the 88th left the station on

their way to England. Agra is a very pleasant quarter, and although the

heat was great, yet we managed to keep our houses cooler than at Rawul

Pindee during the hot weather. India is so well known now that I shall

not minutely describe the early morning ride to welcome the only cool

breeze in the twenty-four hours, which is wafted like flowers strewn in

the path of the conqueror, the sun. Nor shall I dwell on the dark rooms

and the kuss-kuss tatties fixed into the window-frames, and always

kept wet by coolies dashing water on them. The sweet fresh perfume

these scented grass shutters gave forth was quite delightful. The day

passed quickly enough, and then, when the sun sank in the evening hour,

the doors and windows were all opened, and we sallied forth, pale and

exhausted, for a drive, to ‘eat the air’ on the Mall. The water-carts

had laid the dust and created a fictitious coolness. Energetic young

officers cantered past on their ponies to the tennis-court. The crows

sat on the branches with their beaks wide open, and the green paroquets

chattered merrily and flew past like a flash of light. On certain

evenings the residents at the station met each other at the band stand,

and listened to the regimental bands discoursing very good music. It

was wonderful, however, how everyone plucked up as the evening went on.

We were very fortunate in our domestics, many of whom had been with me

all the years I was in India. I never engaged any servant who could

speak English, as those who can do so are generally the worst of their

class. Our communication was necessarily limited, as I never mastered

more of the Hindostanee language than was sufficient to give orders.

One day I found on my dressing-table the following letter, evidently

written by one of the men in the bazaar who made letter-writing a

profession, and who no doubt had charged my house-bearer for the same:

‘HONOURED SIR,--I humbly beg to inform your honour that my

mother is so apprehended in a hard illness that she cannot sit and get,

and my wife will bring forth after some days. Wherefore I most humbly

beg to inform your honour that, if you kindly and graciously bestow

upon me the favour of leaving, I shall ever pray for your long life and

prosperity.--I am, sir, &c., &c., THAKUR, bearer.’

Taking into consideration the lamentable state of his family, I

bestowed the favour, and never saw Thakur again.

This letter reminds me of what took place at Cawnpore some years

before. The young Rajah of Ulwar (since dead) arrived at Cawnpore with

a large camp. The officers of the 88th wished to be civil to this young

native prince, so a card was dispatched, worded in the usual form:

‘Lieutenant-Colonel Maxwell and officers 88th (Connaught Rangers)

request the honour of his highness the Rajah of Ulwar’s company to

dinner,’ &c., &c., &c. My feelings may be imagined when I received the

following reply: ‘Moha, Rajah of Ulwar, and his company give thanks to

you, and excepted the dinner this evening, but requests to distribute

the rations to all men from the bazaar as Hindoo regulation, also we

are meet with you this evening at seven o’clock, March 19th, 1864.’

The Rajah’s company consisted of several hundred followers, for whom

I was expected to distribute rations in the bazaar! I forget how we

got out of the dilemma, but we certainly did not provide food for

the followers. The young noble came in a magnificent dress, covered

with jewels, accompanied by about twenty of the most fierce-looking

attendants, also arrayed in grand suits. His highness would eat

nothing, but seemed to appreciate cherry brandy, and caused me some

anxiety, as he insisted on drinking it out of a large claret-glass.

There are many interesting relics of by-gone grandeur in and near Agra.

Everyone has heard of the Taj-Mahal, but no one who has not seen it

can imagine the perfect beauty of this tomb. Built as it is of white

marble, in a climate which does not tarnish the purity of the stone, it

rises gracefully in clear lines from its surroundings of green trees

against the blue sky. But night is the time to see it, and we were

especially favoured when Lord Mayo paid his visit to Agra, and gave a

garden-party among the flowers and fruit-trees of this most romantic

spot. The guests were received in front of a temple in the gardens,

from which there is a fine view of the tomb. Suddenly a flood of

brightness came from blue lights lit upon the height in the background,

and the Taj stood out clear and distinct in startling beauty. Every

pinnacle and cornice of the exquisite marble of that most dream-like

monument of love was seen for a moment, and, as the light faded away,

the tomb glided back into a sepulchral gloom.

Near Agra there is a deserted city of palaces, called Futtehpore Sekri.

We drove there one evening, when the moon shone clear and bright,

and the air was cool and balmy. In five hours we reached the gates of

this ancient place. There was no one to receive us, for there are no

inhabitants. We took possession of Miriam’s palace, so stately, yet

quite deserted. The moon shone on white marble walls, and the noise our

servants made getting things ready for us re-echoed through the vast

and empty corridors. During the night the sound of jackals’ hideous

laughter was strange and uncanny, and the scream of some wild bird

startled the listener; no one but visitors like ourselves had rested

there for several hundred years, Futtehpore Sekri having been abandoned

for that period.

When the morning broke, we wandered about among massive ruins, and

everything looked different in the glowing sunshine; but still no

living being was to be seen, we were the sole inhabitants of the

palaces. I cannot attempt to give more than an idea of the forsaken

city.

Ackbar was the founder of Futtehpore Sekri, and he built it with

the full intention of making it the seat of government. His hall of

judgment is a curious erection, consisting of a single apartment,

with a massive pillar in its centre. He was throned on the summit,

and on four cross beams branching out from the centre were seated his

four principal ministers to administer laws to the world. There is the

hide-and-seek palace, full of tortuous passages, where the ladies of

the court amused themselves. In a court near this palace is Ackbar’s

chess-board. The pavement is laid in squares of marble, and tradition

says that the knights, bishops, and pawns were his queens. His durgah,

or holy palace, is a magnificent structure, with its splendid mosque

on one side, and on the other an enormous gate. In the durgah is the

exquisite marble shrine of a holy man. The elephant gate, guarded by

two monster elephants with intertwined trunks, has an uncommon effect.

Beyond it is a tower, bristling with very good stone imitations of

elephants’ tusks. From this tower Ackbar used to review his troops. We

had our friend, the Assistant-Commissioner at Agra, with us, and he

most kindly acted as cicerone, and told us what we were looking at.

In all my wanderings I never saw anything more entrancing than this

deserted city. The dry climate has not touched the red sandstone of

which the palaces are built, and we could imagine its streets swarming

with busy life, its edifices filled with the splendour of Ackbar’s

magnificence. But the dream faded away, and left the reality of utter

desolation.

Tradition says that Ackbar deserted his capital to satisfy the caprice

of a very holy faqueer who had been in possession before Ackbar made

his appearance. Certain it is that, as suddenly as they had come,

kings, queens, courtiers, nobles, followers, and men of lesser degree,

vanished away, taking up their quarters twenty-two miles off on the

banks of the sacred Jumna, and called the place Agra.

The general commanding, having been summoned away for some reason, I

got command of the division, and it became my duty--a very pleasant

one--to proceed to Mussoorie and Landour, to inspect the dépôt at

the latter-named station. It was no new ground to me, for I had paid

a visit to Mussoorie during the hot weather of several years, and I

was well acquainted with its many beauties. I was also glad to take a

farewell glance at old remembered haunts. My wife accompanied me. We

travelled by train as far as Seharanpore. In spite of all that has

been done to make railway travelling luxurious in the hot weather, it

is a terrible ordeal. The dust sifts through the closed, jalousied

windows in clouds, and, swiftly as we may fly through the air, it is

the atmosphere of a furnace that we breathe. Cases of heat apoplexy

were so common that at all the principal stations shells were ready for

the bodies of those who had succumbed, and at each stoppage a scrutiny

was made of every carriage to see who required assistance. We had a

huge block of ice with us to cool the atmosphere, so we arrived in

safety at the end of the railway part of our journey. A dāk-gharry

was waiting for us, and we rattled along the dusty high-road, past

miles and miles of ripe corn-fields.

In the distance, through the haze of heat, we saw the well-remembered

giant mountains of the Himalayas. Before reaching them an advance low

ridge of hills, known as the Sewallic range, has to be crossed. It is a

wild, jungly country. Tigers and huge snakes have their haunts in the

fastnesses of the Terai. At the Mohun Pass we changed from gharry to

doolies, and were borne at a steady trot by four bearers up and down,

the way abounding in huge boulders and rocks. They keep up a monotonous

chant as they move along, the words often applying to the burden. I was

not a light weight; and ‘Oh, the elephant! oh, the elephant!’ was the

refrain of their song, which changed occasionally to ‘Oh, the great

man, the great prince! Backsheesh from the great king.’

Dawn was breaking as we emerged from the pass, and apparently

immediately before us, though really fourteen miles distant,

towered the mighty Himalayas. A rest for a bath and breakfast at

the delightful, cool, and clean hotel at the foot of the mountains,

prepared us thoroughly to enjoy our steep climb up to Mussoorie. As we

rose higher and higher, we got, as it were, into the very heart of the

hills, and to us, direct from the breathless plains, the air seemed

strangely rarefied, and gave one a sensation of deafness, which passed

away after a short time. We were pleasantly lodged at a private hotel

not far from the club.

After the duty was performed which had brought me away from the heat

to the delightful temperature of the hills, we wandered about among

many well-remembered places, not forgetting Landour, where we had

passed some months a year or two before this visit. Mussoorie is the

fashionable part of this hill station, but is not to be compared with

Landour in purity of air and grandeur of scenery. In the early morning

there is nothing to equal the view. When the sun has just risen above

the mountains, and the soft breeze fans you gently, the distant sounds

are heard like far-off music, and it is difficult to realize--looking

down on the plains, which extend in the boundless horizon like a

glistening sea--that the thermometer, which marks 70° in this mountain

retreat, is registering well over 100° in the beautiful country on

which you are now gazing. Then on the other side of the heights, far

off in the heavens, tower the snowy range. In the world, there can

be nothing more superb than the view of the snowy range as it bursts

suddenly into sight, peak upon peak glittering bright and cold under

the cloudless sky. There is a hitherto unknown, intense feeling of

solemn awe as one gazes on the still grandeur of perpetual snow. Nearer

and nearer come mountains and valleys. Down hundreds of feet below

appears a silver line, so far off that it requires glasses to discover

the washer-men beating the clothes with fearful energy in the stream.

The mountain on whose spur Landour’s many cottages are gathered, is two

thousand feet higher than the one on which Mussoorie is built, and the

air is so exhilarating that one feels inclined to shout out for joy.

I was grieved to say farewell to this favoured spot, and often, when

a cold east wind is blowing, the remembrance of Landour and its soft,

sweet breeze comes back to my memory like a dream.

As we prepared to descend the mountain to Rajpore and Dehra, we had to

pass the club, where we saw the well-dressed young officers lounging

forth, on their way to the Mall, where all Mussoorie assembled to talk

sense or nonsense, as suited the occasion. Some delicate ladies and

children were in jampans, while others rode or walked.

At Dehra we got into our dāk carriage, and proceeded on our journey

to Agra. Dehra is a green and wooded station, with bungalows, most

of which have gardens round them; and, although sometimes fever and

cholera visited the place, it was not generally unhealthy. The great

attraction to many was that Dehra was the Newmarket of the north-west

provinces. The stables were filled during the hot weather with horses

in training for the first meeting of the season, which generally

took place in October. I had a stable in charge of Henry Hackney,

whose knowledge and care, added to his great honesty, made me fully

appreciate his value. My stable consisted of thirteen horses, and, as

the leave season began in April, I used to proceed to Dehra as early in

that month as I could get away. What a pleasant time it was! Up every

morning at sunrise, a light-hearted lot of fellows would meet in the

stand on the race-course, and there criticise the different horses as

they took their long slow gallops. When these performances were over,

coffee would be discussed, and then, before the sun had dried the dew

on the grass, the various members of that little coterie would disperse

to their several stables to see the horses rubbed down, and to get the

opinion of the different trainers. Some would then mount their hacks

and gallop off up the mountain to the Mussoorie Club, in time to eat

the good breakfast which early rising and exercise entitled them to

enjoy. I always liked the training season better than the race week,

for the watchful interest was over when that week came round, although

it was very satisfactory to win the rupees, which helped to pay the

expenses of the stable.

For days before the races took place, Dehra assumed a very gay

appearance. Tents were pitched everywhere, and the whole station

was excited and merry; and, when the first day came, four-in-hands,

dog-carts, carriages, and pedestrians assembled on the course. A week

after the races were over, Dehra looked deserted, for not only had all

the tents disappeared, but the leave season was past, and the Mussoorie

Club empty.

The natives in India do not flock to a race-course the way our

country-people do, nor do they take such interest in the sport as

Irishmen did. When I was quartered at Boyle, a sporting squire had a

horse called Harry Lorrequer, which was entered for a steeple-chase to

be run near our barracks. A young, fresh-looking Englishman had just

joined our dépôt as ensign, and the owner of Harry Lorrequer, having

seen him ride, liked his seat, and fancied the way he managed his

horse, so he asked the new-comer to ride for him. The young officer did

not know what he was undertaking when he agreed to pilot the nag in the

Boyle Steeple-chase. The day was fine, and a great crowd of countrymen,

staunch supporters of the owner of Harry Lorrequer, were assembled near

the temporary stand. They were all armed with shilelaghs, and were very

vehement in their declarations ‘that niver another horse would win’ but

their one. The start took place amid shouts of defiance, ‘the boys’ ran

like madmen over the course, but Harry had it all his own way, and won

in a canter. ‘The boys’ were frantic with delight; they crowded round

the winner, seized hold of the young Englishman, roaring and cheering

as if they were going to murder him, carried him on their shoulders

everywhere, and at length allowed the exhausted youth to escape.

Some days after, I was driving my young friend in my dog-cart, and

happened to stop at an inn on the road, when a quiet, mild-looking

Paddy touched his hat and said,

‘More power to ye, captin, ye rode fine the other day, yer honour.’

‘Oh, you were at the Boyle Steeple-chase,’ was the reply.

‘Is it me, sorr?--sure I was one of the boys that carried ye round the

coorse,’ said the countryman, cocking his hat, and looking surprised at

not being recognised.

‘If I had lost the race, what would you have done?’ was the question

then put by my friend.

‘Bedad, captin, I don’t know,’ replied the man, scratching his head;

‘but any way the other horse would never have been let to win. Yer

honour was quite safe to do it.’

My young friend’s face was a picture worth seeing.

Dehra, with all its pleasant memories, has some sad ones too. That

fearful scourge, cholera, lurks among green trees and dense vegetation,

and suddenly declares its dreaded presence. One autumn the station was

more than usually filled by owners of horses who had many stables.

The hotel was very comfortable, as Mr. Williams did all he could to

make the time pass pleasantly by attention to the cuisine and the

arrangement of his hotel. It consisted of two bungalows and extensive

stabling. My stables had thirteen loose boxes, and the whole of the

first floor in one of the bungalows was my dwelling-place. Captain

Dowdeswell, 7th Dragoon Guards, had a stable and lived in the other

bungalow in the compound. One morning I went as usual to the stand

on the race-course, and found those already assembled there in great

wonderment at the severe pace. Dowdeswell was taking one of his horses

round the course. As he passed the stand, I shouted to him that the

coffee was ready; but he only waved his hand, and then we saw him soon

after get on his pony and canter home. As usual, we dispersed, and I

well remember going to Dowdeswell’s bungalow in great spirits, for my

horses had done their gallops very well, and Hackney was confident

of success. The room opened on a verandah on the ground-floor, and I

called out Dowdeswell’s name, and, receiving no answer, went in, and

was greatly distressed to find that he was very ill.

As the doctor lived at some distance, I ordered my trap, and went off

to find Dr. Allan of the Ghoorkas, a most able man; but, although I

went to different places, I failed to meet him, so I left messages

asking him to come quickly to the hotel. I returned, only to be

summoned to Dowdeswell’s room; but he was dead. In less than four hours

that dreadful disease had carried him off. These sudden shocks amid a

gay and thoughtless party are very startling. The day before he was as

well as any of us assembled there. The next morning we saw him take his

last ride, and the following day he was in his grave!

It is surprising how time slips away in the quiet, drowsy atmosphere of

an Indian hot weather. The punkah waves to and fro for ever; the coolie

who pulls it sits outside in the verandah like a black machine wound

up. Meals must be eaten, but it is difficult to know what to order;

when the meat that comes in the early morning is unfit to be used in

the evening, we fall back a good deal on fowls, curry, quails fattened

by ourselves, and tinned provisions. What would the lady of a house

in India do without tinned provisions? The salmon which looks so well

at her ‘burra khana’ has journeyed from afar in hermetically sealed

boxes; in some ladies’ opinion, those who have never left the shores

of Hindostan, the use of these sealed dainties is quite general in the

highest society at home.

‘So you dined with the Queen?’ said one of these untravelled ladies to

some general officer lately returned from Britain. ‘I suppose that at

Her Majesty’s table there was nothing but tinned provisions.’

It is some years since the charming lady I allude to made this

remark. The constant communication between England and India must

have enlightened even those who have never left the country. In the

hot weather Sundays mark that the weeks are passing; there is little

else to do so. Divine service was at six in the evening, and the pale

congregation gathered under punkahs to follow the clergyman, who, under

his special punkah, read the service and preached a sermon. How very

much hotter he must have been than we, who were melting, I can answer

for, as I frequently officiated as clergyman in various quarters of

India, owing to the absence, from sickness or other cause, of the padré

sahib.

I remember on one occasion the clerk whispering that there were banns

of marriage to be proclaimed, and he only handed me the names of the

pair. I utterly forgot the words of the form to do this, and could not

find the place in the prayer-book; then, with startling distinctness,

the old Scotch formula came to my mind, which I had often heard in the

days of my boyhood: ‘There is a purpose of marriage between So-and-so,

of this parish, &c.,’ announcing the same, to the considerable

entertainment of some of my hearers. Occasionally, when the heat

seemed to have reached its highest pitch, the bearer would appear,

and ask leave to roll up the outside verandah chicks, as a storm was

coming. The air felt thick and heavy, and the breathless stillness was

overpowering. In a moment all was changed, and a raging tempest was

upon us. A dust-storm is a terrible sight--the whole atmosphere a red

mass, a whirlwind of dust, and all as dark as night around. I have

stood at the window looking out into the darkness, and felt that there

was some one beside me, without being able to distinguish who it was.

Then the rain came down in torrents--we sallied forth always with an

expectation of finding it cooler, but the sensation is that of a hot

vapour bath.

CHAPTER XVI.

OUR FINAL JOURNEY.

INDIAN HOSPITALITY--REMINISCENCES OF HINDOSTAN--MY

BEARER--A SPINSTER IN A DILEMMA--DEOLLALEE--OUR FINAL

JOURNEY--BOMBAY--VOYAGE IN THE JUMNA--ESCAPE OF A MINAR--LOSS

OF A PARROT--RETURN TO ENGLAND--ESCAPADE OF A YOUNG

OFFICER--ANECDOTE.

CHAPTER XVI.

On the 6th of November, 1870, the head-quarters of the Connaught

Rangers left Agra by train for Bombay. It was our last journey in

India. I had passed many pleasant years in the country, and I had

received great kindness from friends, many of whom I most probably

would never see again. Indian hospitality has not been over-rated. I

have been told that now-a-days there are so many railways that hotels

take the place of dāk bungalows; but in my time it was different,

and at the various halting-places the burra-sahib of the place

generally came himself to welcome any wanderer to his own house, and to

show him all the attention he possibly could think of. When I look back

at the days passed in Hindostan, the names of Lind, the Commissioner,

and Judge Spankie, of the High Court, stand out among a crowd of

others, and recall to my memory very happy days. So it was with mingled

feelings that I bid adieu to the burning plains.

At Allahabad I had to part with my bearer. I am certain it was with

mutual regret we went our different ways. I see now his erect figure

marching away out of the railway-station, laden, as usual, with his

beloved copper cooking-pots. He was a Hindoo, but more attentive to

his devotions than many an enlightened Christian. An honest, good man

like him, although a heathen, must surely have his reward. We were five

nights in the train before we reached Deollalee, from whence the final

departure for home is made. The train pulled up during the heat of the

day, and was put into a siding, while the men got their meals cooked.

Our first halt was at Allahabad. We spent the day with my friend, Judge

Spankie. Our last experience of Indian hospitality was in the house of

a friend whose unvarying kindness I shall never forget. Some of the

places we stopped at were merely railway-sidings; tents were standing

for the accommodation of the regiments. Our cook, who travelled down

country with us, always managed to give us a tolerable dinner, making

up a little mud fire-place beside the train, and, as a matter of

course, going through all the ordinary dishes.

Jubbulpore is a large station, and there we got into the hotel, which

was very full. A large party, newly arrived from home, were going up

country, among them half a dozen pretty, fresh, English girls. When we

were quartered at a certain station in India, there was only one ‘spin’

in the place, and she, poor thing, received such overwhelming attention

that quite inadvertently she was engaged to two men at the same time.

Deollalee, where our last few days in India were spent, was an immense

erection of wooden barracks and huts. Regiments newly arrived from home

were halted here, as well as those about to leave the country, and the

respective arrangements were made between the various departments of

the in-coming and out-going corps. The servants who had accompanied us

down country now left us, taking service with the new-comers.