points as we lazily glided over the smooth surface of the noble river.
Native settlements as on the previous day, were located when and where
the banks were flat enough to admit of easy cultivation. The Singalese
do not believe in hard work; and, as I explained before, where he can
grow a few cocoa-nut trees, he has only need to provide for the time
that elapses between the planting of the nut and the first crop. After
that, he and his surroundings are amply provided for.
On the third day we reached our destination. Like a great many
other alluvial diggings, these mines are devoid of interest. Some
straggling huts, a poor, ill-fed lot of natives and Moormen—very few
of the latter, who are merely there to pick up, as cheap as they
can, any fairly good stone found. The best part of this excursion is
the journey on the river, and more particularly that going up, when
everything has the _cachet_ of novelty.
Had we known the topography of the island better, we might have
gone back to Colombo by train. However, in this as in many other
instances, experience had to be bought. We did not pay much for
this—indeed, our return to Kalatura was a dream. Making a start at
dusk, we reached our hotel the next day before tiffin. We slept nearly
all the way back. What with the current and the sweeps, we travelled
at a rare pace.
The summing up of our excursion is—a charming, and certainly most
inexpensive trip, which I strongly urge all globe-trotters to make
on the same lines, returning to the city overland; and above all,
beware of the vendors of precious stones at the mines. If you have
to be swindled (which you are sure to be) let it be done in Colombo.
The cut glass you purchase there has at all events the appearance of
genuine stones, whereas at the mines you will fill your pockets with
rough pebbles—_warranted_ genuine sapphires, cat’s eyes, rubies, or
moon-stones—intrinsically worth a rupee a cart-load for gravelling
garden walks, but utterly valueless for any other purpose. Indeed,
_the_ only drawback to Ceylon—and, for the matter of that, the whole
of India—is the abominable bore a visitor is subjected to from the
myriads of swindling dealers who actually persecute him from morning
till night, and beset him everywhere he goes. I had the satisfaction
in one solitary instance to pay one of that tribe in his own coin.
During one of our morning drives to the Cinnamon Gardens, some hawkers
kept pace with our horse, flinging bouquets of flowers, cinnamon
walking-sticks, &c., into the carriage, and asking most outrageous
prices for their wares. I had exhausted my stock of small change, but
wanted to secure one of the bunches of flowers offered; and finding
in my purse my Melbourne season ticket for the Opera—a very natty,
small, red morocco card, with a bright gold coat of arms on the
cover—I tendered it to the fellow, who greedily took it in payment
for his bouquet. When he had it examined by an expert, he called at
the hotel next day and endeavoured to get a refund, and was much
crestfallen to find that for once he was “had.”
The Indian mail having arrived—the Siam, under the command of my very
old friend, Captain Ashdown—I moved on board with bag and baggage for
Calcutta, taking Madras _en route_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
INDIA.
[Illustration]
I.
_MADRAS._
This city, though of some interest in many ways, is not one likely
to prepossess a visitor in favour of the great Indian Empire. The
anchorage is an open roadstead, and the process of landing is most
abominable, though worthy of notice.
As soon as the steamer drops anchor she is surrounded by hundreds of
huge, unwieldy-looking boats—or rather barges—each manned by a dozen
or more naked Indians, who swarm the decks, deafen one with their
screams, and pester passengers to take the brass token bearing the
number of their licensed ferry-boat. These extraordinary boats are
built of bark—_sewn_ together, not nailed, so that they may stand the
shock of being hurled by the waves or breakers on to the strand.
It needs some nerve to submit to this mode of landing, but being the
inevitable, one has to submit. The seats in the boat are lower than
the gunwale, and to these the passenger has to hold on as best he
can; the pullers ply their paddles (not oars) vigorously towards the
beach, where the sea breaks furiously. When within fifty or sixty
yards from shore the boat is taken up by the rollers. She is steered
stem on, the helmsman keeping a sharp eye on each coming wave. The
pullers, at his command, back water until a suitable roller appears,
when a vigorous pull keeps the boat on its crest until she is carried
by it high and dry on the shingle; but ere she grounds the men
simultaneously jump over-board and by their united efforts carry boat
and contents beyond the reach of the next wave, which, if it overtook
it, would annihilate the frail vessel. Each dripping nigger then
offers “a back” to passengers belonging to the stronger sex, and “a
chair” to the ladies—in this undignified manner did I make my first
appearance in the great Indian Empire.
I firmly believe in first impressions, and have no doubt that my
landing at Madras “pig-a-back” on a nigger had a baneful influence on
my judgment of the place. I certainly did not feel much impressed by
it, and was glad to find myself once more on the deck of the Siam, and
still more so to feel the motion of the screw as she veered round and
shaped her course for Calcutta.
When the steamer reaches the “mouths of the Ganges,” one becomes
impressed with a feeling of admiration for this gigantic portion of
the British Empire—all one has read or heard of India comes uppermost
into one’s mind. A glance at the map now laid on the table of the
chart-room of the steamer shows the immensity of that sheet of water
pouring into the Bay of Bengal, arising from the melted snow of the
Himalayas—that marvellous wall of snow which separates the two great
empires, India and China; fertilising an immense territory, upon which
swarms a teeming population of three hundred and fifty-four millions
of human beings, now subject to the rule of Queen Victoria!—a small
hand wielding a mighty sceptre.
[Illustration]
II.
_THE GANGES._
Steaming up the Hooghly—perhaps the most intricate of all
navigations—the ship is handed over to a pilot—not such as one is used
to in other places. The pilots of the Hooghly are “swell” officers,
highly salaried, clad in gorgeous naval uniforms. They come on board
with bag and baggage, a retinue of black servants, and while on
board—more like admiral than pilot—take full command of the ship.
The intricacies of this navigation may be readily gathered from the
fact that the channels of the river change almost daily—the process of
silting, due to the amount of soil carried by this enormous volume of
water, is constant, but erratic. It is only by the constant use of the
lead that the pilot can steer a safe course.
Accurate calculations have proved that the silt carried by the Hooghly
amounts to 40,000 millions of cubic feet of solid earth per annum. Not
only have the channels been altered from time to time, but within the
memory of British settlers in India the entire beds of some of these
mighty rivers have been completely displaced.
For instance, the city of Rajmahal—once the Mahomedan capital of
Bengal—was not many years back selected to be the spot where the
railways should tap the river system. The river has now turned away
in a different direction, and left that town high and dry seven miles
from its bank. This is one instance only amongst scores of similar
vagaries of this great stream.
The sanctity of the Ganges is another item of great interest. From
its source in the Himalayas to the mouths in the Bay of Bengal, its
banks are holy ground. Each point of junction of the main stream with
a tributary has special claims to sanctity; but the tongue of land
where the Ganges and the Jumna unite is the true “Praág”—the place of
pilgrimage—to which hundreds of thousands of devout Hindus repair to
wash away their sins in the sanctifying waters.
To die and be buried on the river bank is the last wish of millions
of natives. Even to exclaim “Gangá, Gangá!” on his death-bed, at a
distance of hundreds of miles from that river may—in the opinion of
Hindu devotees—atone for the sins of a whole life.
Whilst steaming towards the great City of Palaces one has ample time
to read up the history of the noble river—to learn of its birth in
a Himalaya snow-bed 13,800 feet above the level of the sea, where
it first assumes its course, barely 29 feet wide, and _fifteen
inches_ deep. During the first 180 miles of its course it drops to an
elevation of 7,024 feet. At this point (Hardwar) it has already gained
a discharge of 7000 cubic feet _per second!_ During the next 1000
miles of its journey seawards, the Ganges collects the drainage of its
catchment basin, and reaches Rajmahal, 1170 miles from its source. It
has here a high flood discharge of 1,800,000 cubic feet of water per
second, and an ordinary discharge of 207,000 cubic feet—the longest
duration of flood being about forty days.
The maximum discharge of the Mississippi is 1,200,000, that of the
Nile only 362,000, and that of the Thames 6600 cubic feet of water
per second. I take these figures from L. D. A. Jackson’s “Hydraulic
Manual,” as illustrating the great supremacy of the Ganges. The mouth
we are now steaming up is 20 miles broad, with a minimum depth in the
driest season of 30 feet, yet it is but one of the many openings which
spread over 200 miles on the sea coast of Bengal. In endeavouring
to convey an idea of the Ganges, we must dismiss from our minds any
lurking comparison of its gigantic stream with other rivers we might
be familiar with in any other part of the world.
A single one of its many tributaries—the Jumna—has an independent
existence of 860 miles, with a catchment basin of 118,000 square
miles, and starts from an elevation at its source of 10,849 feet above
sea-level.
As a factor in the commercial welfare of India the Ganges plays an
important part. Until the opening of the railways its waters formed
the almost sole channel of traffic between Upper India and the
sea-board. The products not only of the river plains, but even those
of the central provinces, were all brought by this route into Calcutta.
Notwithstanding the revolution caused by the railways, the heavier and
more bulky staples of the country are still carried by water, and the
Ganges still ranks as one of the great waterways in the world. Many
millions of people live by the river traffic along its margin.
Besides this, the Ganges is a river of great historic cities.
Calcutta, Patna, and Benares are built on its banks; Agra and Delhi on
those of its tributary, the Jumna; and Allahabad on the tongue of land
where the two streams meet.
[Illustration]
III.
_CALCUTTA._
I must now close the interesting book, “Hunter’s Indian Empire,”
which I was perusing. We are nearing our destination. Steamers, tugs,
sailing ships, native crafts of various sizes and design, all give
evidence that we are drawing near a great emporium of trade, and a
metropolitan city.
As we turn the next bend a glorious panorama develops itself before
us. The last rays of a tropical sun illuminate the distant city—the
gilded domes, the church spires, the forest of masts, framed in
gorgeous green foliage, disclose to our eyes the great Eastern city of
Calcutta. A few moments more and our big ship is moored alongside the
P. and O. Company’s Jetty at Garden Reach.
This _dépôt_ of the great leviathan company is necessarily at some
distance from the city. The great tonnage and immense length of the
P. and O.’s ships, and their enormous consumption of coal, makes it
imperative that they should stop at Garden Reach to land passengers,
and coal prior to making their way up to town, whence they start on
their outward-bound journey.
All is now bustle and confusion. The wharf is full of gharrys of every
class seeking fares to the city. To the uninitiated the gharry is
anything but a tempting vehicle; but throughout India it is, with the
palanquin (or, as it is better known, the “palky”) the only public
conveyance to be had. The latter, from its name, can be imagined; but
the gharry is quite a specialty—a square, black box, some five feet
in every face, more or less suspended on very indifferent springs
(_less_ rather than _more_), perched on four very questionable wheels
which, when in motion, waddle about as if every turn would be their
last. I am now describing the best class of gharry. There are _four_.
I leave it to the reader to sketch out the _fourth_. What may be said
of the conveyance pales into insignificance when a close inspection
is bestowed on the horses, and more particularly the harness. In the
latter there seemed to me to be a total absence of leather or buckles.
Bits of rope, a good deal of rope-yarn, twisted rags, predominate;
but all these are quite sufficient to hold the cattle and set the
vehicle in motion. The poor, wretched brutes have not the least
appearance of life in them. The _tout ensemble_ is complete when the
Jehu is perched on the box. The “livery” consists of a few yards of
dirty cotton stuff, sometimes wound round his loins—when not round
his head as a turban. “Coachy” never has another vestige of clothing,
but he is never without an umbrella!—blue, red, white, or green.
This indispensable article he freely makes use of, either to poke
the horses with, or to protect himself from the rain; and in order
to do so effectually he squats on the box, umbrella in one hand and
reins in the other. On such occasions the strip of cotton goods which
constitutes his sole garment is carefully put under the box cushion
to be kept dry. His skin may get wet, but the “rag” never.
When one gets used to gharrys they are all right, but it takes some
time to do it. Like many other Indian “dainties,” it is an acquired
taste. Besides other shortcomings, the gharry driver is not only
thoroughly ignorant of English; but, to make matters worse, has not
the remotest knowledge of locality. When I got my valise safely tied
on one of these charming conveyances, I told the driver to take me to
the Great Eastern Hotel. We made a start, and after half-an-hour’s
jostling from side to side I saw that I was not getting any nearer to
town, and naturally attempted to argue the point with my driver, who
was in high argument with his assistant—there are always two for a
two-horse gharry, one for every horse. All the reply I could elicit
was “Acha, sahib,” which I have learned since means “All right.”
After several stoppages, and the invariable “Achas,” I found myself
at Ballygunge, one of the suburbs of Calcutta, where, by sheer luck,
I met that most useful of all British institutions—a policeman!—who
administered a few cuts of his cane to my drivers, and a wholesome
admonition, which caused them to land me at last at the door of the
Great Eastern.
The first step into Eastern life—the most important, if one wishes
to get on safely and peaceably in India—is the engagement of a
“kitmugar.” This is the servant which one _must_ have, even at an
hotel, where food and a bed are provided, but no attendance whatever.
Everyone needs this kitmugar, who makes your bed, waits on you hand
and foot, and, if he be a good man, never leaves you, day or night.
He has the privilege of robbing his “Barra sahib,” but he takes good
care that nobody else does it; and this, let me assure you, is a very
important matter in that most interesting country, where the European
is looked upon as “fair game” by the three hundred and sixty odd
millions of natives.
Next to the engagement of the kitmugar comes the hiring of a
“Victoria” and the two other inevitable attendants, viz., coachman and
groom. I was particularly lucky in this. An Assam tea planter had just
left the hotel, and at the recommendation of the manager I secured the
lot—kitmugar, victoria, and coachman—who proved excellent servants
during the whole period of my first stay in Calcutta. Master Hassam
was a fair English scholar, as sharp as they make them, knew every
hole and corner in this immense city, and was a perfect “terror” at a
dinner party, when he could fight his way amongst all other servants,
and secure for his “Sahib” the daintiest tit-bits of every dish, the
best brands of wine, and the biggest lumps of ice. He was quite _au
fait_ at bargaining—knew the run of the bazaars—and nothing of any
interest could be held within fifty miles without his being able to
get us in as “dead-heads.” The amount of lying and romancing he must
have had recourse to must have been something astounding.
Wherever I went the natives made way, and granted me a reception
which surprised me, until I discovered that Hassam was trading on
the “Exhibition ticket,” which was becoming the talk of India, and
Calcutta in particular. Being the kitmugar of the “Barra sahib” of
the Exhibition cast a lustre on him which he took good care to keep
in the very highest state of polish, inasmuch as he had in view the
perquisites of patronage from the hundreds of tradesmen, artisans,
and others seeking employment. The rascal knew what he was about. If
he did pluck a feather here and there off my back, he took them by
handfuls off those who tried to interview me on business; and wherever
we went amongst natives he made the most of his chance to “show off”
his sahib, and get both his share of the honour and glory, as well as
the whole of the “backsheesh.”
During the Doorgha Pooja and other great religious festivities, which
in November keep the whole of India—but more particularly Calcutta
and other cities on the banks of the sacred rivers—in a state of
excitement and gorgeous displays, we had a pretty lively time of
it. Day and night we had to attend processions, Nautch dances,
fireworks, and gatherings the description of which would cast into
the shade tales from the “Arabian Nights.” No one but those who have
visited India during the period I am alluding to, can have the least
conception of the scenes we witnessed. A city of upwards of a million
of inhabitants—with an increase of more than double that number—all
clad in gay colours, thronging the thoroughfares day and night in
such dense crowds that one could almost walk on their heads; bands
of music, heading hundreds of glittering pagodas; images of gods and
goddesses of huge proportions being carried and paraded through the
streets, followed by dancers, mimes, imps, and devils, elaborately
painted and going on with the most extraordinary antics; balconies
and windows being loaded with people, gaily adorned in costly silks,
and glittering with jewels, gold and silver lace, spangled banners,
&c. For a whole fortnight this carnival continues incessantly, all
business is stopped, the whole population perambulates the streets
night and day, until at last the costly pagodas, the images of gods
and goddesses, wend their way to the river, where, in the midst of
the clanging noise of hundreds of bands of music, they are cast into
the waters of the sacred river, and Calcutta once more resumes its
every-day style of life.
Why Calcutta is called the city of palaces I never could realise.
Truly the houses in Chowringhee and in the European portion of the
city are large, lofty, and pretentious, but not in any way palatial.
The Residence of the Viceroy, or that of the Governor of Bengal at
Alipore—and, for the matter of that, all and every one of the public
or private buildings—have a clean, gay appearance during the “cold
season”: that is, from December till March; but as soon as the rains
begin they all assume a dingy, woe-begone appearance, which casts
quite a gloom over the whole place.
Calcutta, during the four months above-named, is bright, lively,
enchanting—the climate most charming.
The Strand, after 4 P.M., thronged with carriages and horsemen—a gay
crowd, which, with the gay trappings of the four-in-hands and the
Oriental costume of many of the native princes quite eclipses even
Rotten Row or Longchamps.
But when the season is over—when vice-royalty and its cumbersome
_personnel_ have gone to Simla and Darjeeling—the gay butterfly loses
its bright colouring; nothing is left but the unsightly chrysalis. The
heat, the damp, with the ills which follow, renders the city anything
but a desirable place of residence.
British enterprise has got over the difficulty in some measure, and
for those who have to stay in the plains it is now an easy matter
to take an occasional run up into the hills—a truly wonderful piece
of engineering having conquered the most inaccessible perpendicular
walls of the Himalaya ranges. The Darjeeling railway—a 2ft. 6in. guage
zig-zag line, carries a mail and passenger traffic daily from Calcutta
to that sanatorium, 7000 feet above the sea level. This trip can be
accomplished in sixteen hours, and is full of incidents which make it
attractive. The first stage is on the broad guage railway to the banks
of the Ganges, which is crossed by a large steamer, on board which
dinner is served. On the other side begins the narrow guage line,
which runs through tea plantations as far as Kurseong.
[Illustration]
IV
_THE DENIZENS OF THE JUNGLE._
Saligoori—the lowermost station at the foot of the Himalayas—gives
one the first insight into the real Indian jungle, the habitat of
the far-famed Bengal tigers and still more dreadful cobra, besides
leopards, cheetahs, hyænas, wolves, foxes, and jackals, which, with
the wild hog, are reckoned the “big game,” which both natives and
Europeans chase for pastime.
The tiger, being the noblest, has the first claim—being _the_
characteristic beast of prey in India. The Bengal tiger is certainly
the finest of all mammals—its average length from the point of his
nose to the tip of his tail being twelve feet.
In many districts the natives consider the tiger as a sort of
protection to their crops, which it saves from destruction by the wild
animals on which he feeds. But when once he develops a taste for human
blood, the slaughter he works becomes truly formidable. The confirmed
man-eater is generally an old beast, disabled from overtaking his
usual prey, and seems to accumulate his tale of victims in sheer
cruelty rather than for food. A single tiger, now in the Zoological
Gardens at Alipore (Calcutta), is known to have killed 108 persons in
the course of three years. He was at last trapped, and caged in the
Zoo, and is by far the finest specimen of the species I have ever seen.
Many instances are recorded of even more frightful depredations. In
the hills, 13 villages were abandoned, and 250 square miles of country
thrown out of cultivation; in 1869, one of these dreadful animals
killed 137 people and stopped all traffic on a main public road for
several weeks, until the opportune arrival of an English sportsman,
who killed him.
Official records are kept of such matters. In 1877, 819 persons and
16,137 head of cattle were reported to have been killed by tigers;
on the other hand, 1579 tigers were destroyed by native hunters, and
£3777 paid in rewards, besides those killed by European sportsmen.
The leopard and cheetah are smaller and less dangerous to life. The
latter is often tamed for hunting purposes, as I shall explain anon.
The wolf, fox, jackal, and hyæna limit their depredations to flocks or
children, but being of a timid nature, are easily kept at bay.
The serpent tribe in India is numerous. They actually swarm in
gardens, and often intrude into the dwellings of the inhabitants,
principally during the rainy season. Certainly the majority are
harmless, but the bite of others is speedily fatal. The most to be
dreaded is the cobra-de-capello, or hooded snake. It seldom exceeds
three or four feet in length, and is about an inch and a quarter
thick. The Rupelian snake—about four feet long—is another whose bite
is almost instantaneous death. Sir Joseph Fraser states that no
antidote has yet been discovered to cure the bite of either of these
horrible reptiles.