Nothing can be more ludicrous than a young Englishman's first landing in
Calcutta. The shore is thronged with the swarthy natives, eagerly
awaiting his arrival. Innumerable palanquins are brought down to the
boat, and the bearers, like the Paddington stagecoach men, are all
violently struggling to procure a passenger. The bewildered stranger is
puzzled which to choose; and when he has made up his mind, he finds it
no easy matter to jostle through the countless rival conveyances which
completely surround him. He is also sure to make some laughable mistake
in entering the palanquin. It requires a certain tact to steady the
vehicle as you throw yourself into it, or it is apt to turn over, like a
tailor's swinging cot. Another ridiculous error which a stranger is
liable to, is his endeavouring to seat himself on the little drawer
inside, supposing it to be intended for that purpose. But he soon finds,
after having doubled himself up, like people passing on a coach top
under a low gateway, that it would be utterly impossible to remain long
in that position, unless the human back were as pliable as a piece of
whalebone. After all, perhaps, the bearers are compelled to rest the
palanquin on the ground, and the abashed stranger, creeping hastily in,
is glad to escape from the ill suppressed smiles of the surrounding
multitude.
_London Weekly Review._