DEPARTURE FROM THE HILLS.
“HE ONLY IS DEAD WHOSE NAME IS NOT MENTIONED WITH RESPECT[33].”
“THE DAYS OF DISTRESS ARE BLACK[34].”
Family Sorrows—The Snowy Ranges after the Rains—Hill
Birds—The Park—Hill Boundaries—Stables on Fire—Opening of
the Keeree Pass—Danger of passing through it—Dēobund—Return
to Meerut—The Tomb of Jaffir Sāhib—Chiri-mars—Country
Horses—The Theatre of the 16th Lancers—Colonel Arnold’s
Farewell Ball—His Illness—Opinions respecting the War—The
Lancers ordered to Afghānistan—Ghurmuktesur Ghāt—Country
Boats—Khobarah, the Hill Dog—Sancho—A Dilemma—Gūnths—Knocked
over by a Buffalo—Fathīgarh—Dhobīs—Cawnpore—Sāl and Teak
Trees—Deism—Points of Faith—The Power of the Brahmāns—A
Converted Hindū—Sneezing an Ill Omen—The Return of the Pilgrim.
_1838, Sept. 8th._—I made arrangements with my relative to march across
the mountains to Simla, a journey of fifteen days from Landowr, and was
looking forward with delight to all the adventures we should meet with,
and the crossing the river in a basket suspended on a rope fastened
across the stream; but he, an old mountaineer, would not permit me to
begin the journey until the khuds—which are unwholesome during the rains,
and full of fever—should be fit to pass through. A friend had given me
the use of a house for some months beyond Simla, and I was anxious to
visit that part of the country. In the interval we formed a party to see
the mountains at the back of Landowr, and I sent out my hill tents to the
interior.
In the evening I was riding alone at Mussoorī, when I met Captain L⸺;
there was an embarrassment and distress in his manner that surprised
me: he quitted his party, and led my pony away from the walk, where the
people were in crowds, and when we were alone informed me of the death of
my beloved father. I had received no letters from home: this melancholy
event had been known some days at Mussoorī, but no one had had the
courage to tell his child. With what pain I reflected on having so long
postponed my return home! Letters from Allahabad confirmed the melancholy
news, and my kind husband urged my return to England instantly, to see my
remaining and widowed parent.
I recalled my tents and people from the interior; and from that moment
the thoughts of home, and of what time it would take from the Himalaya to
Devonshire, alone filled my thoughts. It was decided I should sail from
Calcutta the next cold season.
The weather had become most beautiful; the rains had passed away, and the
most bracing air was over the Hills. I spent my time chiefly in solitude,
roaming in the Hills at the back of Landowr; and where is the grief that
is not soothed and tranquillized by the enjoyment of such scenery? The
rains had passed away, and had left the air clear and transparent; the
beauty of the Snowy Ranges, whose majestic heads at intervals flushed
brightly with the rose-tints that summer twilight leaves upon their lofty
brows,—or rising with their snowy peaks of glittering whiteness high
above the clouds, was far greater than I ever beheld before the departure
of the rains.
Look at the outline of the highest range of the Himalaya, and picture to
yourself its grandeur and its beauty, which are not to be fully enjoyed
in the society of others, in the midst of the gaiety of a party. Seek the
highest point of the lone mountains, and the shade of the deep forests,
whose beautiful foliage is varied by majestic pines, ever-green oaks, and
brilliant rhododendrons. In solitude gaze on the magnificence of such a
scene:
“Look through nature up to nature’s God:”
“Commune with thine own heart, and be still.” Let none be near to break
the reverie: look on those mountains of eternal snow,—the rose-tints
linger on them, the white clouds roll below, and their peaks are sharply
set upon a sky of the brightest, clearest, and deepest blue. The rushing
wing of the black eagle—that “winged and cloud-cleaving minister, whose
happy flight is highest into heaven,”—may be heard above. The golden
eagle may be seen below, poised on his wing of might, or swooping over a
precipice, while his keen eye pierces downward, seeking his prey, into
the depths of the narrow valley between the mountains. The sweet notes of
the Hill birds are around you; and the gay butterflies, enamoured of the
wild flowers, hover over their blossoms.
Who may describe the solitary loveliness, the speaking quietude, that
wraps these forest scenes? Who may tell how beautiful they are? Who that
loves solitude does not enjoy the
“⸺ dewy morn, and od’rous noon, and even
With sunset, and its gorgeous ministers?”
Who can look unmoved on the coronets of snow that crown the eternal
Himalaya? Who can gaze without delight on the aërial mountains that pour
down the Ganga and Yamuna from their snow-formed caves?
“My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars,—all that springs from the great Whole,
Who hath produced and will receive the soul.”
“I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost
Which is nature’s, and may be
Untainted by man’s misery.”
There, indulge in solemn vision and bright silver dream, while “every
sight and sound from the vast earth and ambient air” sends to your heart
its choicest impulses: gaze on those rocks and pinnacles of snow, where
never foot of common mortal trod, which the departing rose-tints leave in
colder grandeur, and enjoy those solemn feelings of natural piety with
which the spirit of solitude imbues the soul.
“Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion?”
“On accuse l’enthousiasme d’être passager; l’existence serait
trop heureuse si l’on pouvait retenir des émotions si belles;
mais c’est parce qu’elles se dissipent aisément qu’il faut
s’occuper de les conserver.”
“Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains,
They crown’d him long ago,
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.”
Gazing on the Snowy Ranges, Mont Blanc sinks into insignificance in
comparison with the elevation of the eternal Himalaya.
_12th._—Anxious to attain a stock of health, to enable me to bear
my homeward journey, I commenced early rising, and was daily on my
gūnth at 5 A.M.; it was very cold in the early morning, so much so
that I often preferred walking. Captain Sturt, who is an excellent
draughtsman, promised me a sketch of the Hills ere my departure; this
pleased me greatly, as, perhaps, there is no country of which it is more
difficult to give a correct idea than that around Landowr. Two fine
eagles were brought to me, a golden and a black one; these I added to
my collection,—rather large birds to carry, but I shall have so much
luggage, it matters but little, a few chests more or less; every thing
belonging to the mountains is so interesting. These birds are continually
seen, especially at the back of Landowr. A pair of the Loonjee, the red,
or Argus pheasants of the Himalaya, have been given me: the bird has a
black top-knot, and the neck below has a most peculiar skin over it;
beyond which are crimson feathers, bright as gold; the breast is covered
with feathers, half red, half black, and in the centre of the black,
which is at the end of the feather, is a white eye. The feathers on the
back are of a _game_ brown, tipped with black, in which is also the white
spot: these birds are very rare and very valuable. I also received a fine
hawk, and some small birds of brilliant feather: also the heads and horns
of four _gooral_, the small wild deer of the Hills.
_20th._—First met Colonel Arnold, of the 16th Lancers; we talked of the
old regiment. Nothing pleases me so much as the kindness and affection
with which my relatives, who were in this gallant corps, are spoken of by
the old 16th.
_22nd._—Not having forgotten the Hill woman I saw on our return from the
waterfall, I rode alone to Būttah, hoping to catch sight of her, but
was disappointed: _en route_, my dog Sancho put up a nide of Kallinge
pheasants; they rose with a _phurr_,—as the natives call the noise of a
bird,—as of a partridge or quail suddenly taking wing.
_23rd._—Colonel Everest has a fine estate near Bhadráj, called “The
Park;” I rode over with a most agreeable party to breakfast there this
morning, and to arrange respecting some boundaries, which, after all, we
left as unsettled as ever; it put me in mind of the child’s play:—
“‘Here stands a post.’—‘Who put it there?’
‘A better man than you, touch it if you dare.’”
Boundaries in the Hills are determined, not by landmarks, but by the fall
of the rain; in the division of a mountain, all that land is yours down
which the rain water runs on your side, and on the opposite side, all the
land is your neighbour’s over which the water makes its way downwards.
Colonel Everest is making a road—a most scientific affair; the obstacles
to be conquered are great,—levelling rocks, and filling up khuds. The
Park is the finest estate in the Hills.
_25th._—I was fortunate in being able to procure camels, and sent off my
baggage from Rajpūr in time to allow the animals to return to Meerut to
be in readiness to march with the army there collecting for Afghānistan.
_26th._—A sā’īs cooking his dinner by accident set fire to my stables,
in which were five gūnths: the privates of the Lancers and Buffs, whose
barracks are a little higher up the Hill, were with us in a moment; they
saved the ponies, but the stable, which was formed of bamboo, mats, and
straw, was reduced to ashes. A few days afterwards our house was set on
fire; the men, who were always on the alert, put it out immediately.
_29th._—Having ascertained that the water in the Keeree Pass had
subsided, and that it had been open for three days, we determined to
quit Landowr for Meerut: accordingly a dāk and horses having been laid
for us, our party went down this morning to Rajpūr. It was a beautiful
ride, but when we reached the foot of the Hill the heat became most
unpleasant: such a sudden change from fires and cold breezes, to the
hot winds—for such it felt to us at Rajpūr—when we took refuge at Mrs.
Theodore’s hotel. She has stuffed birds for sale; her Moonāl pheasants
are very dear, sixteen rupees a pair; but they are not reckoned as well
prepared as those of Mr. Morrow, the steward at the hospital. Our party
being too large to proceed dāk in a body, it was agreed I should lead the
way, with Captain L⸺ as my escort. At 4 P.M. we got into our palanquins,
and commenced the journey: crossing the Deyra Dhoon it was hot, very hot,
and the sides of the palanquin felt quite burning. As the sun sank we
entered the Keeree Pass, where I found the air very cold; and it struck
so chillily upon me that I got out of the palanquin, intending to walk
some distance. The Pass is the dry bed of a mountain torrent, passing
through high cliffs, covered with fine trees and climbers; a stream here
and there crosses the road. During a part of the year it is impassable,
but the water having subsided, the road had been open three days.
It was a beautiful night, and a beautiful scene; I enjoyed it extremely,
and walked some distance, aided by my long paharī pole. Wishing my
escort to partake in the pleasure to be derived from such romantic and
picturesque scenery, I asked him if he would walk. He partially opened
the doors of his palanquin, and looking out, expressed his astonishment
at the madness of my walking in the Pass; said the malaria was so great
he had shut the doors of the palkī, and lighted a cigar to secure himself
from its influence, begged I would get into my palanquin, and keep the
doors closed as long as I was in the Pass. I followed his advice, but
the moonlight night often tempted me to open the doors, and I became
completely ill at times from the chill that fell upon my chest, like
the deadly chill of a vault, in spite of having wrapped myself up in
a blanket. At first I was unwilling to attribute it to the effect of
the air of the Keeree Pass, but having arrived at the end of it, these
uncomfortable feelings instantly disappeared.
An instance of the danger of the Pass is, that Mrs. T⸺ was detained
for two hours at the entrance of it, for want of bearers,—she took a
fever and died. The wife of the behishti, who was with our servants,
was detained at the same place,—she took the fever, and it killed her.
To sleep in the Pass one night is to run the pretty certain chance of
fever, perhaps death: there is something in the air that almost compels
one to sleep. With the very greatest difficulty I kept my eyes open, even
when in pain from a chilly sickness that had crept over me: I thought
of Corinne and the Pontine Marshes, in passing which she could scarcely
resist the spell that induced her to long for sleep, even when she knew
that sleep would be the sleep of death. Quitting the Pass, we entered on
the plains, where the sun was burningly hot—how fierce it was! We did not
arrive at Dēobund, where we were to take shelter, until noon the next
day; I felt sick and faint from the excessive heat, and was very glad to
gain the shelter of a roof.
_30th._—At 4 P.M. our palanquins were ready; getting into them was like
going into an oven. We had taken the precaution of having no dinner
during the heat of the day; in the cool of the evening refreshment was
welcome, in the shade of the jangal by the road-side. The bearers were
good, and at 2 A.M. we arrived at the spot, to which a buggy had been
sent, and horses laid on the road: how gladly I left the hot palanquin
for the cool air in the buggy! The roads were so bad, they were
absolutely dangerous, and the moonlight so puzzling, we could not see
the holes into which the buggy was continually going bump bump, to the
infinite hazard of breaking the springs; nevertheless, we arrived in
safety at Meerut.
_Oct. 2nd._—The first thing necessary was to enjoy a good canter in the
plains after having been obliged to ride a gūnth so many months in the
Hills. On the well-watered course, of an evening, the band of the Lancers
was an attraction; they played well, and the instruments were good. The
band came out with us in the “Marchioness of Ely,” and I recognised some
faces amongst them. Fearing to encounter the intense heat in a boat at
this season of the year, and hearing that cholera was at some of the
stations on the river, I determined to prolong my stay at Meerut.
_8th._—Accompanied Colonel Arnold and Sir Willoughby Cotton to a review
of the 16th Lancers; I was much pleased with the review, and the fine
appearance of the men.
_10th._—Revisited the tomb of Jaffir Sāhib,—one I particularly admire,
because the dome is open at the top, that the dews of heaven and the
sunshine may fall upon the marble sarcophagus, wherein repose the ashes
of the saint. A tomb like this is preferable to weeping flowers, or
votive cypress wreath; and such an one, canopied by the vault of heaven
alone, would the pilgrim desire, as the lone couch of her everlasting
rest. It is a ruin, but must formerly have been a beautiful building.
Returning home we saw two _chiri-mārs_ (bird-catchers). Their game is
snared in a novel fashion: they carry a sort of shield, made of light
split bamboo, entwined with green boughs; they crouch to the ground,
bearing this verdant shield before them, like a stalking horse, at the
same time putting through it a very long thin bamboo, the end of which
is covered with bird-lime; with this they touch a small bird, and then
carefully drawing the bamboo back to the boughs, put a hand through the
shield, and secure the game. This style of bird-catching is simple and
ingenious; I never saw it before.
What vicious brutes the native horses are!—In the evening I was riding
on the course with two gentlemen: Captain A⸺’s horse, a vicious,
intemperate, great black animal, attacked mine, and lashed out most
furiously. I threw my feet on my horse’s mane: luckily for me they were
out of the way in time, for the horse’s heels cut through my habit, and
would have broken my limbs had I not been sitting monkey fashion.
My companions were alarmed:—“My God, he has broken her legs!” was the
first exclamation, followed by a laugh on seeing my position, and “at
least if he has not kicked your habit, he has a habit of kicking.”
The escape pleased me, and I refused to ride again in company with so
dangerous a horse. He was a fine strong animal, and carried his gallant
master nobly through all the hardships of the ensuing Afghānistan
campaign. The country horses are horribly savage, and a frightful
accident occurred at Allahabad. Serjeant Percival, who was riding with
Serjeant Cunningham, dismounted to drink at a well, giving his horse to
a cooly to hold; the horse broke from the cooly and attacked Serjeant
Cunningham; tore his hand severely, broke his leg in several places,
pulled him off his horse, shook him as a dog does a rat, knelt upon him,
and tore him with his teeth: at length the horse was driven off, and the
serjeant was carried to a hospital, where he died a few hours afterwards.
When the 16th Lancers first arrived at Cawnpore, the privates as
_Waterloo men_ considered themselves superior to the 11th Dragoons, and
when a man of the latter ventured to differ in opinion with the former,
he was cut short by “When were _you_ at Waterloo?” The enmity occasioned
by this was done away with one day on parade. A Lancer, who was riding a
vicious country horse, was thrown; the beast knelt upon the man and bit
him fiercely. The Lancers looked on with astonishment; the 11th Dragoons,
accustomed to such little accidents, had recourse to bamboos; they drove
the horse away, and as one of them picked up the mangled Lancer, “Did
you ever see the like of _that_ at Waterloo?” said the Dragoon.—Thus
was harmony established between the privates of the two regiments.
The Lancers have a very good theatre: the plays are encouraged by the
officers, and the privates have the whole management of it: the scenes,
which are painted by the men, are very well done; their acting is good,
and the band a great addition. The privates performed the “Iron Chest,”
and “The Middy Ashore:” the delight of the men, and the enthusiastic
manner in which they applauded their comrades, when any thing pleased
them, was quite amusing. After the play, the performers came forward,
and sang “God save the Queen.” By way of adding to the effect, on either
side the stage was placed a Lancer in full uniform, leaning on his
sword, with his lance in one hand. This was a fancy of the privates. The
two men might have stood for pictures of manly beauty; their attitudes
were excellent, the effect was good, and their comrades were so much
delighted, they gave them a round of applause. The management of a
theatre is an excellent occupation for soldiers in a hot climate.
_13th._—Crossing a nālā this morning during an excursion in search of the
picturesque, my horse got into a hole, and we were very nearly thrown
over, both together, into the stream. I gave him his head, and let him
extricate himself, waiting patiently the result of his sagacity. He
carried me out completely soaked, and strained his hind leg in gaining
the bank.
_17th._—Colonel Arnold gave a farewell ball to his friends at Meerut.
The Lancers are to march for Afghānistan on the 30th. His house is built
after his own fancy: from without it has the appearance of Hindoo temples
that have been added to a bungalow; nevertheless, the effect is good.
The interior is very unique. The shape of the rooms is singular; the
trellis work of white marble between them, and the stained glass in the
windows and over the doors give it an Eastern air of beauty and novelty.
Fire-balloons were sent up, fireworks displayed; the band was good, and
the ball went off with great spirit.
_18th._—The evening after this fête, during the time Colonel Arnold was
at dinner, and in the act of taking wine with Sir Willoughby Cotton, he
burst a blood-vessel on his lungs, and was nearly choked. Medical aid
was instantly called in; he was in extreme danger during the night, and
was bled three times. A hope of his recovery was scarcely entertained:
never was more interest or more anxiety felt by any people than by those
at Meerut for Colonel Arnold. He had just attained the object of his
ambition, the command during the war of that gallant regiment the 16th
Lancers; and he was beloved both by the officers and the men. At 3 A.M.
he parted with the guests in his ball-room in high health and spirits:
at seven that evening he lay exhausted and apparently dying. When at
Waterloo he was shot through the lungs, and recovered. It was one of
those remarkable instances of recovery from a severe gun-shot wound, and
as that had gone through the lungs, the breaking of the blood-vessel was
a fearful occurrence.
_21st._—Colonel Arnold is still in great danger, but his friends indulge
in hopes of his recovery. Two field-officers called to take leave of
me. I asked, “What is this war about, the fear that the Russians and
Persians will drive us into the sea?” Colonel Dennie answered, “The
Government must have most powerful reasons, of which we are ignorant;
it is absurd to suppose _that_ can be the reason of the war; why send
_us_ there? let them fag themselves out by coming to us; we shall get
there easily enough, but how shall we return? We may be cut up to a
man.” His companion agreed with him, and this was the general opinion of
the military men of my acquaintance. The old 16th marched from Meerut
on the 30th October. Never was there a finer body of men under the sun.
Their route is marked out across a desert, where all the water they will
get for man or beast for three days they must carry with them in skins.
_Why_ they have been ordered on such a route the secret and political
department alone can tell—the men ask if it be to take _the shine out of
them_: there is another road, said to be good, therefore it is difficult
to understand the motive of taking them across the desert to Shikarpore.
My boats being ready at Ghurmuktesur Ghāt, I started dāk to join them;
on my arrival a fine breeze was blowing, a number of vessels of every
description were at anchor; the scene was picturesque, and my people were
all ready and willing to start. Messrs. Gibson and Co. of Meerut have
furnished me with two large flat-bottomed country boats, on each of which
a house is built of bamboo and mats, which is well thatched; the interior
of the one in which I live is divided into two large rooms, and has two
bathing-rooms; the floor is of planks, covered with a gaily-coloured
_sutrāengī_, a cotton carpet; and the inside is fitted up with white
cloth—sometimes the rooms are fitted up with the coloured chintz used
for tents. The other large boat contains the servants, the horses, and
the dogs. The sort of boat generally used for this purpose is called a
surrī, which is a patelī that draws very little water, and is generally
rowed from the top of the platform above the roof, on which the dāndīs
live.
_23rd._—Started from Ghurmuktesur Ghāt the moment it became possible to
see the way down the river, and to avoid the sandbanks. At 3 P.M. the
thermometer was 82°,—a most oppressive heat for one just arrived from
the Hills. Lugāoed on a sandbank, and walked with the dogs until ten at
night, when I went to rest and dreamed of thieves, because this part of
the Ganges is dangerous, and I have no guard on board the boats. From a
fisherman on the bank I have purchased fish enough for myself and all the
crew, a feast for us all, and a piece of good luck.
Taking a walk with the dogs puts me in mind of the kennel I had in the
Hills, and of Khobarah, the magnificent dog of the Himalaya, of whom his
former master told me this anecdote:—“Sitting one night in my tent, the
dog at my feet, a bearer, in a state of intoxication, entered and spoke
to me; the voice of the drunken man was loud and angry: the dog seized
him instantly by the throat, bore him to the ground, and held him there.
He did not injure the man: it being night, I suppose the creature thought
me menaced with danger. He quitted him the instant I bade him do so.”
I gave this dog on quitting the Hills to a relative, desiring him
to chain him up until he had made his acquaintance and ensured his
friendship. My relative came to me a week afterwards highly amused,
and said,—“The moment your dog was unchained he took possession of the
verandah of my house. He is walking up and down lashing himself into
fury; he keeps us all at bay, and I cannot enter the house; perhaps
when he sees you he will become more composed, and allow me to go in to
breakfast.”
In 1844, Khobarah, the Hill dog, was still in prime health, taking care
of the cows at night at Cloud End, near Landowr. The fate of my dog
Sancho was pitiable: he was in the Hills with a small spaniel I had
given my relative,—a sharp cry from the dog brought the gentleman to the
door; a short distance from the house he saw the spaniel in the mouth
of a leopard, who carried him down the khud. Sancho was on the ground,
having had his side cut open by a blow from the paw of the wild beast;
the poor dog crawled to the feet of my friend, he took him up, and tried
in vain to save his life—poor Sancho died.
A fine litter of spaniel pups once placed me in a dilemma: a friend thus
settled the point. “It is as much a duty to cut a dog’s tail according
to his caste, as it is to have drawn the superfluous teeth of a young
Christian. This answer to the question respecting the tails of the
young pups must be sent at once, lest time and the habit of wearing
a whole tail should attach them, the pups, too strongly to the final
three-quarters of an inch, which I think they should lose: the object
with a spaniel is not so much to reduce the length as to obviate the
thin and fish-hooky appearance of the natural tail. There is no cause to
mourn such severe kindness to these pups; grieve not for them! theirs is
an age when pain passes with the moment of infliction, and if, as some
crying philosopher has observed, ‘We know no pleasure equal to a sudden
relief from pain,’ the cutting and firing will be all for the good of the
little dogs.” The price of a gūnth is from sixty to a hundred rupees:
a good Almorah gūnth will fetch a hundred and sixty, or a fancy price
of three hundred rupees. The common gūnths are used for fetching water
from the khuds, but such is the dangerous nature of the mountain paths
they descend, they are often killed by a fall over a precipice. The only
animals fit for such work are mules, which may be bought at the Hurdwar
fair, at a reasonable price. The beautiful gūnth Motī, whom I have before
mentioned, was sent on an emergency to bring water from the khud: he fell
over in returning with the heavy water bags and was _smashed_ in the khud
below—smashed! that is not _my_ word, but picked up in intercourse with
men, and is as shocking as a phrase I once made use of, “_knocked over_
by a buffalo!”
This is too technical and gentlemanlike an expression; in such cases
one should sacrifice brevity in favour of the “I hope you may obtain
it style,” (_i.e._ the feminine of “I wish you may get it,”) and say,
you will be thrown down or hurt by a buffalo’s running against you.
The rules of female education, both of the governess and of after
life, prevent a lady’s knowing whether such an out-of-door animal as a
buffalo attacks people with his head or tail, and a lady should betray
no nearer acquaintance with the horrible creature than that implied in
the form of speech above appointed for adoption. Our language affords
a table-land of communication between lady and gentleman, where the
technical difficulties on either side the hill are out of sight. If the
lady is to speak of a fashion she will leave out scientific terms, as
will the gentleman if he is talking of a race; and I see no objection to
the language of the man and woman being exactly similar. Any affectation,
such as extreme delicacy and timidity, is vulgar, and suited to
novel-reading ladies’ maids and milliners’ apprentices. Every term or
word turned from its common and general meaning to a particular meaning,
is what I consider technical. Such are not only words employed in any
art or science in a sense differing from their common acceptation, but,
also, such words used in an uncommon sense by a particular set of people,
schoolboys, or fashionables. To “cut over with a stone” is a school
expression, which of course cannot be referred to the general meaning
of the words. Any thing being in good or bad taste is a technicality
of good society. Some expressions of this nature, when original, are
rather to be considered as _bon-mots_. Such as Sydney Smith’s saying
that a clergyman next him at dinner had a ten-parson power of boring. To
make use of French words, unless cleverly selected, comes under my ban,
but the practice of good society is against me, I believe, in this. A
schoolboy’s word like that of “being knocked over,” can be used with very
good effect in fun. A lady may talk to a man of having a lark, or use any
such word,—but it must not be used as her own word, but as if she were to
say, “as you would call it.” I will give the rest of this essay another
time, for fear of _knocking over_ the patience of the dear ones around
the hearth of my childhood’s home.
_25th._—A fine breeze—the horse boat has just passed alongside—one of
the horses looked out of the window and neighed loudly. I like to hear
a horse neigh: poor boy, he would sooner be galloping with me on his
back over the green sward of the race-course, than be cabined, cribbed,
confined, in the boat; nevertheless, both the horses eat, drink, and lie
down to sleep like old soldiers.
Another burning day. How good my health must be to stand such heat
without much inconvenience! The constant confinement to a boat is very
irksome and disagreeable; and this life of quietude after so much
exercise is enough to make me ill. Would that I were once more enjoying
the morning breeze, cantering against it! The early breeze on the river
is damp and unwholesome, therefore I remain idly on my charpāī until
half-past 7 A.M. The banks are low and ugly, the river broad and shallow,
and full of great sandbanks, between which we glide.
There is little on this part of the river to afford amusement; here and
there a flock of wild birds rises from the sands, and alligators basking
in the sun have the appearance of logs of wood.
_26th._—To-day we have reached the district in charge of Mr. H⸺ S⸺, and
the head man of the village off which we have moored, has come on board
to offer his services in procuring watchmen for the night, food for
the horses, &c. All the way down we have lugāoed on sandbanks in wild
out-of-the-way spots: how pleasant it is to have quitted the jangal! In
this district I feel at home, and chaukidars have come to guard the boats.
_27th._—Arrived at Fathīgarh, and drove to the house of my relative; the
grounds were just as beautiful, as full of flowers and flowering trees,
and just as fresh as ever; the house cool and pleasant. On my return
to my boat in the evening, I found the heat excessive, which, added to
the bites of the musquitoes, kept me awake until 4 A.M., at which time
the washermen came down to the river-side and made a great noise; their
method of washing is to dip a garment into the water, then to lay it on
a piece of flat board and soap it, after which they whirl the garment
above their heads, and down it comes on the flat board with a loud sound,
to which is added a most peculiar noise, like a _pavior’s grunt_, given
by the dhobīs, when the garment strikes the board, as if the exertion
exhausted them; this whirling and beating is continued for a short time,
when the clothes are taken to the man’s house, put over a most simple
steam apparatus, which completely cleans them, after which they are
rinsed, dryed, and ironed.
_29th._—Quitted the Fort Ghāt; after a good run of forty miles anchored
at Kanauj, where the people cooked and ate their dinners; after which we
cast the boats off into the middle of the stream, allowing them to float
down just at the pleasure of the current, whilst the people slept; but
their slumbers were occasionally disturbed by the boat running aground on
a sandbank or on shore, when they were roused up to get her off again.
_31st._—Reached Bitoor at breakfast time; a large fair was being held on
the banks of the river. Here we nearly lost the horse-boat; a strong wind
carried the boats against a high bank, which was falling in every second;
just as the horse-boat ran foul of it the bank fell in; the chaprasī on
deck cut the towing-line with his sword, and the boat swerved off from
the bank; she was filled with earth, and all but swamped. The horses,
feeling the violent rocking of the vessel, neighed loudly several times,
as if conscious of danger, and willing to remind us of their existence.
The boat righted, and was got off with some difficulty.
On our arrival at Cawnpore we were detained by the bridge of boats, which
was closed, and would not be opened until noon the next day.
_Nov. 1st._—Rose early, and went on shore to buy two toon-wood trees, and
one of sāl. It is nearly noon; I wish the bridge of boats would open, and
let us pass through; waiting on this hot sandbank is very tiresome, and
the wind is favourable. I have had much plague with the mānjhī of the
horse-boat; _n’importe_,—a lonely pilgrim must expect a little annoyance
on the road at times. At noon the bridge opened, and we passed through;
anchored on the other side, to get the timber trees off the bank into
the river. The sāl tree, very heavy wood, twenty-two cubits in length,
and two feet six inches in diameter, was lying on a high pile of trees;
with the greatest difficulty it was moved, it was so wedged in amongst
the rest; about twenty men were in the river below the tree, pulling at
a rope fixed to a beam as a lever; all of a sudden the tree got loose,
and down it thundered, rolling over on its side into the river below. I
am not a coward, but when I saw what appeared inevitable death to five
or six of my own men, I covered my eyes with my hands, expecting to see
them crushed to death, and lying under the tree in the water; however,
the cry of “By the blessing of God and the mem Sāhiba’s good luck they
have escaped,” was indeed welcome: they had all sprung aside quick as
lightning, and not a man was hurt. We then proceeded down the river,
taking our sāl tree, lashed to the side of my boat, which made her
all on one side; therefore I purchased two toon-wood trees at another
timber-yard, and lashed them on the other side, which righted the boat,
the toon being lighter wood than the sāl: by the time this was over it
was 8 P.M. I paid the men well who had worked so hard, and gave the crews
of both boats sweetmeats enough to last for four days; all were in good
humour, and I sought my couch completely fagged. But sleep was driven
away by the musquitoes; I killed hundreds of the vile tormentors. Every
night we drift down with the stream after the people have had their food
on shore.
_4th._—On the top of the thatch of the house which is built on my boat,
is a platform on which the people sit; when the wind is in a particular
direction all that is said above is plainly heard in the cabin below. A
most theological discourse has amused me for the last hour carried on
between my khidmatgār, one of the Faithful, and a staunch Hindū, one of
my chaprasīs. The question under consideration was, whether God made
Hindūs or Musalmāns first; and whether you ought to say “By the blessing
of Allah,” or “By the blessing of Vishnŭ.” These points the Musalmān
undertook to explain. The questions of the Hindū were simple, but most
puzzling; nor could the man refrain from a laugh now and then, when
some curious point of faith was explained to him by the follower of the
prophet. It ended by the khidmatgār saying, “If you do not believe in
Allah and the kurān, they will take you by that Hindū top-knot of yours,
hold you by it whilst they fill your mouth with fire, and pitch you to
_Jahannam_.” I laughed,—the people heard me, and being aware that their
conversation was overheard, dropped the subject. The follower of Muhammad
worked so hard and so earnestly to gain a convert, it was unfortunate his
opponent should have been so utterly incapable of understanding what he
considered the true faith.
The Musalmāns are anxious for converts; the Hindūs will neither make
proselytes, nor be converted themselves. Deism is the religion of
well-educated Hindūs, they leave idolatry to the lower orders. When
conversing with a lady one evening, the priest’s bell was heard; she
said, “I must attend,—will you come with me?” Accordingly we entered
the small room which contained the idols; they were lighted up, and the
Brahmāns in attendance. The worship proceeded: I said to the lady, “Is it
possible that _you_ can believe in the power of brazen images, the work
of men’s hands?” She answered, “I believe in one great and eternal God;
as for these images, it is the custom of the country to worship them; the
lower orders believe in their power.” “Why do you attend such pooja?”
said I. She looked at the Brahmāns as if she feared our conversation
might be overheard, and answered, “Their power is great; if I were not to
appear it would soon be over; they⸺” she ceased speaking, and drew her
forefinger across her throat with a significant gesture. The conversation
dropped; and I observed the Brahmāns “cast camel’s glances[35]” both on
her and me.
The clergyman at Allahabad converted a Hindū to the Christian faith;
consequently, the man became an outcast,—he could neither eat, drink, nor
smoke with his own family; he complained to the clergyman, and was taken
into service. His attendance at church was constant. His patron died:
the man was never seen afterwards at Divine Service. The newly appointed
clergyman inquired the reason, and this answer was returned:—“I received
eight rupees a month from your predecessor; if you will give me the same
I will go to church every Sunday!”—So little did the man comprehend his
adopted religion, or the kindness that induced the Clergyman to support
him!
Passed Manucpūr with a fine breeze and a powerful stream in our favour;
lugāoed below Kurrah, where the people cooked on shore, and as soon as
the moon was high we turned the boat into the current, and allowed her
to drift; the helmsman ties the rudder up in the centre, and usually
lies down to sleep by its side; if the vessel run ashore, he starts up,
and marvels at the occurrence. We drifted the whole night by moonlight;
at one time I told them to anchor, but the bank kept falling in in so
fearful a manner we were obliged to put off again.
Just as we came to the bank to lugāo the men suddenly shoved the boat
back into the stream, saying, “Some one has sneezed, we cannot anchor
here at present.” A few moments afterwards they anchored. They are
superstitious respecting a sneeze, and by waiting for a short time fancy
the evil influence passes away. “After sneezing you may eat or bathe, but
not go into any one’s house[36]:” because it is considered an omen of ill
luck.
A fair breeze is springing up; we are near home, and they will be looking
for the return of the wanderer. We are off Papamhow; the river is very
shallow and very broad. We passed the ghāt, and moored while the people
ate their dinners. I would have proceeded by moonlight, but was deterred
from doing so by the advice of the fishermen on the banks, who said it
would be very dangerous then to go on, as the stream was very fierce and
shallow below.
_6th._—Arrived at Raj-ghāt, at which place the carriage was waiting
for me; but I found it impossible to reach the ghāt, the force of the
current drove us off; therefore, taking the crew of the horse-boat to
aid our own, we dropped down into the Jumna below the Fort; in doing
this, we ran against another vessel, and did our own some damage. At
this moment we are making our way slowly and with difficulty up the
stream against the current of the Jumna, just below the Fort; the view
is interesting, and the pilgrim will reach the landing-place, below her
own old peepul-tree, within an hour. I have at this moment but little
energy left wherewith to pursue my homeward voyage, but my promise is
yours, my beloved mother, and your child would not disappoint you for all
the wealth of Ormus or of Ind. She who ventures on the waters must take
patience, and await the good pleasure of the wind and tides; but there
is the Fort and the great Masjid, and the old peepul-tree, and the mem
sāhiba’s home, and the _chabūtara_[37] on the bank of the river, which is
crowded with friends on the look out for the pilgrim, and ready to hail
her return with the greatest pleasure.