The privilege which the families of officers in the service of the State
may be said exclusively to possess, of reproducing in Upper India--and
especially in the Himalayan stations, and valley of Dhera Dhoon--the
stately or cottage homes of England, is perhaps one, to a great extent,
unfamiliar to their relatives at home; and it is scarcely too much to say
that the general public, which, as a rule, considers the Indian climate an
insuperable barrier to all enjoyment, has but a faint idea of that
glorious beauty, which is no "fading flower," in this "Happy Valley," with
its broad belt of virgin forest, that lies between the Himalayas proper
and the sharp ridges of the wild Sewalic range. The latter forms a barrier
between the sultry plains and the cool and romantic retreats, where the
swords of our gallant defenders may be said to rest in their scabbards,
and where, surrounded by the pleasures of domestic life, health and
happiness may, in the intervals of piping times of peace, be enjoyed to
their fullest extent.
In such favoured spots the exile from home may live, seemingly, for the
present only; but, in truth, it is not so, for even under such favoured
circumstances the tie with our natal place is never relaxed, and the hope
of future return to it adds just that touch of pensiveness--scarcely
sadness--which is the delicate neutral tint that brings out more forcibly
the gorgeous colours of the picture.
The gaieties of the mountain stations of Mussoorie and Landour were now
approaching their periodical close, in the early part of October, when the
cold season commences. The attractive archery meetings on the green
plateaux of the mountain-spurs had ceased, and balls and sumptuous
dinner-parties were becoming fewer and fewer; while daily one group of
friends after another, "with lingering steps and slow," on rough
hill-ponies or in quaint jam-pans, were wending their way some six or
seven thousand feet down the umbrageous mountain-sides, watched from above
by those who still lingered behind, until they seemed like toilsome emmets
in the far distance.
Now that our summer companions were gone we used to while away many an
hour with our glasses, scanning in that clear atmosphere the vast plains
stretched out beneath us like a rich carpet of many colours, but in which
forms were scarcely to be traced at that distance. Here, twisted silver
threads represented some great river; there, a sprinkling of rice-like
grains, the white bungalows of a cantonment; while occasionally a sombre
mass denoted some forest or mango tope. Around us, and quailing under
fierce gusts of wind from the passes of the snowy range rising in peaks
to nearly twice the altitude of the Alps, the gnarled oaks, now denuded of
their earlier garniture of parasitical ferns, that used to adorn their
mossy branches with Nature's own point lace, seemed almost conscious of
approaching winter.
Landour, now deserted, save by a few invalid soldiers and one or two
resident families, had few attractions. The snow was lying deep on the
mountain-sides, and blocking up the narrow roads. But winter in the
Himalayas is a season of startling phenomena; for it is then that thunder
storms of appalling grandeur are prevalent, and to a considerable extent
destructive. During the night, amidst the wild conflict of the elements,
would, not unfrequently, be heard the bugles of the soldiers' Sanatorium,
calling to those who could sleep to arouse themselves, and hasten to the
side of residents whose houses had been struck by the electric fluid.
Still, we clung to our mountain-home to the last, although we knew that
summer awaited us in the valley below, and that in an hour and a half we
might with ease exchange an almost hyperborean climate for one where
summer is perennial, or seems so--for the rainy season is but an interlude
of refreshing showers.
At length an incident occurred which somewhat prematurely influenced our
departure.
As we were sitting at an early breakfast one morning with the children,
Khalifa, a favourite domestic, and one who rarely failed to observe that
stately decorum peculiar to Indian servants, rushed wildly into the room,
with every appearance of terror, screaming, "Janwar! Burra janwar,
sahib!"[16] at the same time pointing to the window.
We could not at first understand what the poor fellow meant; but on
looking out, were not a little disconcerted at the sight which presented
itself.
Crouched on the garden-wall was a huge spotted animal of the leopard
species. It looked, however, by no means ferocious, but, on the contrary,
to be imploring compassion and shelter from the snowstorm. Still,
notwithstanding its demure cat-like aspect, its proximity was by no means
agreeable. With a strange lack of intelligence, the brute, instead of
avoiding the cold, had evidently become bewildered, and crawled up the
mountain side. As we could scarcely be expected to extend the rites of
hospitality to such a visitor, the harmless discharge of a pistol insured
his departure at one bound, and with a terrific growl.
Wild beasts are rarely seen about European stations. Those who like them
must go out of their way to find them. But perhaps stupefied by cold while
asleep, and pinched by hunger, as on the present occasion, they may lose
their usual sagacity.
Having got rid of our unwelcome visitor, we determined at once to leave
our mountain-home.
The servants were only too glad to hasten our departure, and in the
course of an hour everything was packed up, and we were ready for the
descent into the plains.
Notwithstanding the absence of a police force, robberies of houses are
almost unknown; and therefore it was only necessary for us to draw down
the blinds and lock the main door, leaving the furniture to take care of
itself.
The jam-pans and little rough ponies were ready; the servants, although
shivering in their light clothing, more active than I had ever before seen
them; and in the course of another hour we were inhaling the balmy air of
early summer.
The pretty little hotel of Rajpore, at the base of the mountain, was now
reached; and before us lay the broad and excellent road, shaded with
trees, which, in the course of another twenty minutes, brought us to the
charming cantonment of Deyrah. All Nature seemed to be rejoicing; the
birds were singing; the sounds of bubbling and splashing waters
(mountain-streams diverted from their natural channels, and brought into
every garden), and hedges of the double pink and crimson Bareilly rose[17]
in full bloom, interspersed with the oleander, and the mehndi (henna of
Scripture) with its fragrant clusters, filling the air with the perfume of
mignonette, presented a scene of earthly beauty which cannot be surpassed.
"How stupid we were," I remarked, looking back at our late home, now a
mere black speck on the top of the snowy mountain far above--"how very
foolish and perverse to have fancied ourselves more English in the winter
up there, when we might all this time have been leading the life of Eden,
in this enchanting spot!"
"Indeed we were," replied my companion. "But it is the way with us in
India. We give a rupee for an English daisy, and cast aside the honeyed
champah."
In India there is no difficulty in housing oneself. No important agents
are necessary, and advertising is scarcely known. Accordingly, without
ceremony, we took quiet possession of the first vacant bungalow which we
came to, and our fifteen domestics did not seem to question for a moment
the propriety of the occupation. Under our somewhat despotic government,
are not the sahib loeg[18] above petty social observances?
While A. was busily employed getting his guns ready and preparing for
shikari in the adjacent forest and jungles, which swarm with peafowl,
partridges, quail, pigeons, and a variety of other game, my first care was
to summon the resident mali (gardener), and ascertain how the beautiful
and extensive garden of which we had taken possession[19] might be further
stocked.
"Mem sahib,"[20] said the quiet old gardener, with his hands in a
supplicatory position, "there is abundance here of everything--aloo, lal
sag, anjir, padina, baingan, piyaz, khira, shalgham, kobs, ajmud,
kharbuza, amb, amrut, anar, narangi--"[21]
"Stay!" I interrupted; "that is enough."
But the old mali had something more to add:
"Mem sahib, all is your own, and your slave shall daily bring his
customary offering, and flowers for the table; and the protector of the
poor will not refuse bakshees for the bearer."
I promised to be liberal to the poor old man, and then proceeded to
inspect the flower-garden.
Here I was surprised to find a perfect fraternisation between the tropical
flora and our own. Amongst flowers not unfamiliar to the European were
abundance of the finest roses, superb crimson and gold poincianas, the
elegant hybiscus, graceful ipomoeas, and convolvuli of every hue, the
purple amaranth, the variegated double balsam, the richest marigolds, the
pale-blue clusters of the plantago, acacias, jasmines, oranges, and
pomegranates, intermixed with our own pansies, carnations, cinerarias,
geraniums, fuchsias, and a wealth of blossoms impossible to remember by
name.
"If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this!"
Far more beautiful to the homely eye are such gardens than those of
Shalimar and Pinjore, with their costly marble terraces, geometrical
walks, fountains and cascades falling over sculptured slabs.
Nor are we in India confined to the enjoyment of Nature. Art[22] finds its
way to us from Europe, and literature here receives the warmest welcome.
Our pianos, our musical-boxes--our costly and richly bound illustrated
works, fresh from England--the most thrilling romances of fiction, and all
the periodicals of the day, are regularly accumulated in these charming
Indian retreats, and keep up the culture of the mind in a valley whose
"glorious beauty" is, as I have said, no "fading flower," but the home of
the missionary, and the resort of the war-worn soldier or truth-loving
artist.
Nor is this all. Around Deyrah is some of the most exquisitely beautiful
cave scenery, comparatively unknown even to Europeans; such, for example,
as the wondrous natural tunnel, whose sides shine with the varied beauty
of the most delicate mosaics, and are lit up by rents in the hill above;
the "dropping cave" of Sansadhara, "bosomed high in tufted trees;" and the
strange ancient shrines sculptured in the romantic glen of
Tope-Kesur-Mahadeo.
Of these, Sansadhara has lately been made the subject of a beautiful
photograph, which, however, fails to convey the exquisite charm of the
original; but the natural tunnel and Tope-Kesur-Mahadeo have never been
presented by the artist to the public, although there are unique sketches
of them in the fine collection of a lady[23] who, as the wife of a former
Indian Commander-in-Chief, had opportunities afforded to few of indulging
her taste.
One might exhaust volumes in attempting to describe such scenes, and even
then fail to do them the faintest justice. The Alps, with all their
beauty, lose much of their grandeur after one has been in daily
contemplation of the majestic snowy range of the Himalayas, while the
forests and valleys that skirt its base have no counterpart in Europe. In
these partial solitudes we lose much of our conventionality. The mind is
to a certain extent elevated by the grand scale on which Nature around is
presented. The occasional alarm of war teaches the insecurity of all
earthly happiness. Our life is subject to daily introspection, and before
the mind's eye is the sublime prospect, perhaps at no very distant period,
of a Christian India rising from the ruins of a sensuous idolatry in
immortal beauty.