Camp near Allahabad, Nov. 30, 1837.
I sent off one journal to you two days ago from a place that, it since
appears, was called Bheekee. Yesterday we started at half-past five, as
it was a twelve miles' march, and the troops complain if they do not
get in before the sun grows hot, so we had half an hour's drive in the
dark, and F. rode the last half of the way. I came on in the carriage,
as I did not feel well, and one is sick and chilly naturally before
breakfast. Not but that I like these morning marches; the weather is so
English, and feels so wholesome when one is well. The worst part of a
march is the necessity of everybody, sick or well, dead or dying,
pushing on with the others. Luckily there is every possible arrangement
made for it. There are beds on poles for sick servants and palanquins
for us, which are nothing but beds in boxes. I have lent mine to Mrs. C.
G. and I went on an elephant through rather a pretty little village in
the evening, and he was less bored than usual, but I never saw him hate
anything so much as he does this camp life. I have long named my tent
'Misery Hall.' F. said it was very odd, as everybody observed her tent
was like a fairy palace.
'Mine is not exactly that,' G. said; 'indeed I call it Foully Palace, it
is so very squalid-looking.' He was sitting in my tent in the evening,
and when the purdahs are all down, all the outlets to the tents are so
alike that he could not find which _crevice_ led to his abode; and he
said at last, 'Well! it is a hard case; they talk of the luxury in which
the Governor-General travels, but I cannot even find a covered passage
from Misery Hall to Foully Palace.'
This morning we are on the opposite bank of the river to Allahabad,
almost a mile from it. It will take three days to pass the whole camp.
Most of the horses and the body-guard are gone to-day, and have got
safely over. The elephants swim for themselves, but all the camels,
which amount now to about 850, have to be passed in boats: there are
hundreds of horses and bullocks, and 12,000 people.
I am sure it would have done Mrs. Trimmer's heart good to see them all
on the beach this evening. I thought of her print of the Israelites
crossing the Red Sea--a skimpy representation, but it was the first idea
we had of that event. The picture at Stafford House enlarged my notions,
and now I think I have come to the real thing, and indeed am a Red Sea
Israelite myself.
Allahabad, Dec. 2.
We crossed the river at seven yesterday morning. The Ganges and Jumna
join each other here, and this junction makes the water so uncommonly
precious and sacred, that Hindus come here from all parts of the country
on pilgrimage. The rich Hindus at a great distance buy the water, and we
met strings of pilgrims yesterday carrying jars of it, with which they
will travel farther south than Calcutta.
We were met at the ghaut by a large collection of residents. I hate a
great station, and Allahabad has a very modern, uninteresting, sandy
look about it.
Foully Palace looked particularly unhappy this morning. G.'s furniture,
somehow, was deluged, and his whole stock of comfort amounted to one
cane chair and a table, and he called us all in to see his eastern
luxury. I handsomely offered to lend him the armchair Mr. D. gave me,
and which is so continually my companion, 'my goods, my chattels, my
household stuff,' that I had no doubt it was in 'Misery Hall.' I told
my little ameer to give it to the Lord Sahib, but he told me afterwards,
'Ladyship's chair in river too, but me find arm-chair in other tent, and
me put Lord Sahib in it.' I think I see him fixing G. in his chair. Mine
is quite safe, I am happy to say.
In the afternoon G. and I, and a Mr. B., rather a clever man, went to
see some tombs about three miles off. You know the sort of people who
have tombs worth seeing--'Shah Houssein,' or 'Nour Jehan,' or words to
that effect.
However, the tombs were there, and F. and I stayed there sketching till
it was quite dusk, and kept the carriage, and G. and Mr. B. and Captain
M. rode home such a roundabout way that dinner was cold before they got
back.
Monday, Dec. 4.
We had church in camp again yesterday. We received visitors on Saturday
evening instead of the morning, by way of an experiment, and it answered
much better. It all comes more in the natural way of work than in the
heat of the day, and we had the band, and tea, and negus, and
sandwiches. It was a regular party, much larger than I expected; the
great durbar tent was quite full, and they are a more _fashioned_-looking
set here. By coming in the evening G. sees them, which they prefer, and
which, strange to say, he likes too. We have thirty-five of them at
dinner to-day, and thirty-seven to-morrow. On Thursday they give us a
ball, and on Saturday we depart.
Lucknow and Agra were to have been the two incidents of the journey that
were to make up for the bore of all the rest. Lucknow has been cut off,
because the King cannot meet the Governor-General, and B. cannot
reconcile himself to such a breach of etiquette, the poor old man being
bedridden. Agra, they say, is in a state of famine and scarcity. If so,
of course it would be very wrong to take our great camp there. So we
shall not see the Taj--the only thing that, all Indians say, is worth
looking at.
Here there is a sort of Dowager Queen of the Gwalior country; her style
and title being 'the Baiza Baee.' She is very clever, has been handsome,
and, some say, is beautiful still. She cannot endure being only a
Dowager Baiza Baee; and being immensely rich, she has been suspected of
carrying on intrigues amongst her former subjects. She has always been
visited by all great potentates, but B. chose to say that neither G. nor
we should go to see her. She took this dreadfully to heart, and has been
sending ambassadors and letters and presents without end, and asserted
that she would be disgraced for ever if she were so slighted. Then B.
went to see her himself, and was either talked over, or was ashamed of
always putting spokes in everybody's wheel; he is a spoke himself and
nothing else. Now he wants G. to go: however, he cannot get out of his
lordship's head what he has put into it, and G. will not go, but is
going to send us--just the very thing _Spoke_ wanted to prevent.
I am so glad, though it is a great deal of trouble to us; but I am glad
out of spite.
Tuesday, Dec. 5.
Our great dinner yesterday went off very well. For the first time since
we left Calcutta, indeed almost since we left England, I made yesterday
a nice little solitary expedition. G. was gone to the native schools
and jails, and F. and W. were out riding. I always have more or less of
a headache the day that English letters arrive; they put me in a fuss,
even if they are all right; so I thought it would be very nice to escape
all companions except Chance, and I told my jemadar to have the tonjaun
at the wrong side of the tent, stepped into it, and made them carry me
three miles off in search of a very eligible flame-coloured idol, which
I had marked down as a good sketch the day we landed. The bearers carry
one very fast for that sort of distance, and Chance runs along by the
chair in a very satisfactory manner. I am afraid the jemadar thought it
an improper and undignified proceeding, for he fetched out every servant
I have of the walking character, seventeen scarlet men in all; and the
poor hirkarus, who have sat cross-legged for the last two years, ran on
first as hard as they could, screaming to everybody to get out of the
way. Chance thought it excellent fun, and barked all the time. We passed
by the camp of the Nawâb of Banda, who is come to visit G., and has a
camp as large as ours, with such strange-looking painted horses pawing
about it. I found my idol, made a lovely coloured sketch with quantities
of Venetian red, and got back just as it grew dark.
The country about here is hideous, and I cannot imagine why the
residents like it. It is very like Calcutta, without the bright green
grass, or the advantages of a town, ships, shops, &c.
I went in the morning, with Captain M., to see a native female school,
which some of the ladies wanted me to see. I have not the least esteem
for them (the schools, not the ladies). The natives take the little
girls away from them as soon as they are betrothed--at seven or eight
years old--and, even till that age, the children will not come unless
they are paid for it. After that time nothing more is seen or known of
them, and there has never been an instance of conversion; so there is
something in their reading the Bible just as they would any story book
that is rather wrong than right, I think. These children seemed to read
it more fluently than any I have heard, and the schoolmistress spoke
Hindustani exactly like a native, and probably asked very good
questions.
The children looked very poor; and luckily half the ceiling of the
school fell down while I was there, owing to the successful labours of
the white ants, which gave the ladies an opportunity of observing that
their funds were in a very bad state. All these sights are very
expensive, and I never know exactly what is expected from us. I gave
15_l._ for all three of us, but it is a very odd system of the _good_
people here, that they never acknowledge any donation. It is supposed to
be a gift from Providence; so, whether it is satisfactory to them, or
not, remains a mystery.