FIRST GLIMPSE OF “OOTY.”
The distance from Coonoor to the capital of the Neilgherries is about
ten miles, over a good road. We propose, however, to forsake the
uninteresting main line, and, turning leftwards, to strike into the bye
way which leads to the Khaity Falls.
Khaity is a collection of huts tenanted by the hill people, and in no
ways remarkable, except that it has given a name to a cascade which
“everybody goes,” &c.
After six miles of mountain and valley in rapid and unbroken succession,
we stand upon the natural terrace which supports the little missionary
settlement, and looking over the deep ravine that yawns at our feet,
wonder why the “everybody” above alluded to, takes the trouble of
visiting the Khaity falls. They are formed by a thin stream which dashes
over a gap in the rock, and disperses into spray before it has time to
reach the basin below. As usual with Neilgherry cascades they only want
water.
* * * * *
Now as our disappointment has brought on rather a depressed and prosy
state of mind, we will wile away the tedium of the eight long miles which
still separate us from our destination, with a little useful discourse
upon subjects historical and geographical connected with the Neilgherries.
The purely European reader will consider it extraordinary that this
beautiful range of lofty hills should not have suggested to all men
at first sight the idea of a cool, healthy summer abode. But we
demi-Orientals, who know by experience the dangers of mountain air in
India, only wonder at the daring of the man who first planted a roof-tree
upon the Neilgherries.
From the year 1799 to 1819 these mountains were in the daily view of all
the authorities from the plains of Coimbatore; revenue was collected from
them for the company by a native renter; but, excepting Dr. Ford and
Capt. Bevan, who in 1809 traversed the hill with a party of pioneers, and
certain deputy surveyors under Colonel Monson, who partially mapped the
tract, no strangers had ventured to explore the all but unknown region.
In 1814, Mr. Keys, a sub-assistant, and Mr. McMahon, then an apprentice
in the survey department, ascended the hills by the Danaynkeucottah
Pass, penetrated into the remotest parts and made plans, and sent in
reports of their discoveries. In consequence of their accounts, Messrs.
Whish and Kindersley, two young Madras civilians, availing themselves of
the opportunity presented by some criminal’s taking refuge amongst the
mountains, ventured up in pursuit of him, and proceeded to reconnoitre
the interior. They soon saw and felt enough to excite their own curiosity
and that of others. Mr. Sullivan, collector of Coimbatore, built the
first house upon the Neilgherries. He chose a hillock to the east of the
hollow, where the lake now lies, and after some difficulty in persuading
the superstitious natives to work—on many occasions he was obliged
personally to set them the example—he succeeded in erecting a tenement
large enough to accommodate his family.
In the month of May, 1819, the same tourists from Coimbatore, accompanied
by Mons. Leschnault de la Tour, naturalist to the King of France,
repeated their excursion, and published the result of their observations
in one of the Madras newspapers. They asserted the maximum height of the
thermometer in the shade to be 74° at a time when the temperature of the
plains varied from 90° to 100°. Such a climate within the tropics was
considered so great an anomaly that few would believe in its existence.
At length the Madras Government determined to open one of the passes,
and the pioneer officer employed on this service deriving immediate and
remarkable benefit from the mountain air—he had been suffering from fever
and ague—hastened to corroborate the accounts of it already published.
The road was opened in 1821; some families then took up their abode on
the hills; the inveterate prejudice against them began to disappear,
and such numbers presently flocked to the region of health, that the
difficulty was to find sufficient accommodation. As late as 1826, Bishop
Heber complained that for want of lodgings he was unable to send his
family to the sanitarium. Incredulity received its _coup de grâce_ from
the hand of the Rev. Mr. Hough, a chaplain in the Madras establishment,
who in July, 1826, published in the Bengal Hurkaru, under the _nom de
guerre_ of Philanthropos, a series of eight letters,[143] describing
the climate, inhabitants, and productions of the Neilgherries, with the
benevolent intention of inducing the Government of India to patronize the
place as a retreat for invalids.
Having “done” the history, we will now attempt a short geographical
account of the Blue Mountains. _En passant_ we may remark, that the
native name Nilagiri,[144] limited by the Hindoos to a hill sacred to
Parwati, has been extended by us to the whole range.
The region commonly known by the name of the Neilgherries, or Blue
Mountains of Coimbatore, is situated at the point where the Eastern
and Western Ghauts[145] unite, between the parallels of 11° and 12°
N. lat., and 76° and 77° E. lon. Its shape is a trapezoid, for though
quadrilateral, none of its sides are equal or even: it is bounded on the
north by the table-land of Mysore, on the south and east by the provinces
that stretch towards the Arabian Sea; another range of hills forms its
western frontier. Its base covers a surface of about two hundred miles;
the greatest length from east to west at an elevation of five thousand
feet, is nearly forty-three, and the medium breadth at the same height,
is little less than fifteen, miles. The major part of the mass presents a
superficies of parallel and irregular hill and knoll, intersected by deep
valleys and precipitous ravines; a loftier chain, throwing off a number
of minor ridges, runs north-east and south-west, and almost bisects the
tract. In the loftier parts many small streams, such as the Pykarry, the
Porthy, and the Avalanche take their rise, and, after winding over the
surface, sweep down the rocky sides of the mountains, and fall into the
Moyar,[146] or swell the Bhawany River.
[Illustration: R. Burton delᵗ. Printed by Hullmandel & Walton.
TODA FAMILY AND VILLAGE.
London: Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street, 1851.]
The Neilgherries are divided into four Nads, or provinces: Perunga Nad,
the most populous, occupies the eastern portion; Malka lies towards
the south; Koondah is on the west and south-west margin; and Toda Nad,
the most fertile and extensive,[147] includes the northern regions
and the crest of the hills. Many lines of roads have been run up the
easier acclivities; the most travelled upon at present are the Seegoor
Ghaut,[148] which enters from the Mysore side, and the Coonoor, or
Coimbatore Pass, by which, if you recollect, we ascended.
Our Government asserts no right to this bit of territory, although the
hills belonged to Hyder, and what was Hyder’s now belongs to us. The
peculiar tribe called the Todas,[149] lay claim to the land, and though
they consent to receive a yearly rent, they firmly refuse to alienate
their right to the soil, considering such measure “nae canny” for both
seller and buyer. Chance events have established this superstition on a
firm footing. When Europeans first settled in the Neilgherries, a murrain
broke out among the Toda cattle, and the savages naturally attributed
their misfortune to the presence of the new comers. Sir W. Rumbold lost
his wife, and died prematurely soon after purchasing the ground upon
which his house stood—of course, in consequence of the earth-god’s ire.
In August, 1847, there were a hundred and four officers on sick leave,
besides visitors and those residing on the Neilgherries. The total number
of Europeans, children included, was between five and six hundred. It
is extremely difficult to estimate the number of the hill people. Some
authorities give as many as fifteen thousand; others as few as six
thousand.
* * * * *
Now we fall into the main road at the foot of the zigzag, which climbs
the steep skirt of Giant Dodabetta.[150] Our nags, snorting and panting,
breast the hill—we reach the summit—we descend a few hundred yards—catch
sight of some detached bungalows—a lake—a church—a bazaar—a station.
The cantonment of Ootacamund,[151] or, as it is familiarly and
affectionately termed by the abbreviating Saxon, “Ooty,” is built in a
punch bowl, formed by the range of hills which composes the central crest
of the Neilgherries. But first for the “Windermere.”
The long narrow winding tarn which occupies the bottom of Ooty’s
happy vale, is an artificial affair, intended, saith an enthusiastic
describer, “like that of Como, to combine utility with beauty.” It was
made by means of a dam, which, uniting the converging extremities of
two hills, intercepted the waters of a mountain rivulet, and formed an
“expansive and delightful serpentine lake,” about two miles in length,
upon an average six hundred yards broad, in many places forty feet
deep, generally very muddy, and about as far from Windermere or Como
as a London Colosseum or a Parisian Tivoli might be from its Italian
prototype. Two roads, the upper and the lower, wind round the piece of
water, and it is crossed by three embankments; the Willow Bund, as the
central one is called, with its thick trees and apologies for arches, is
rather a pretty and picturesque object. The best houses, you may remark,
are built as close to the margin of the lake as possible. Turn your eyes
away from the northern bank; that dirty, irregular bazaar is the very
reverse of romantic. The beauties of the view lie dispersed above and
afar. On both sides of the water, turfy peaks and woody eminences, here
sinking into shallow valleys, there falling into steep ravines, the whole
covered with a tapestry of brilliant green, delight your eye, after the
card-table plains of Guzerat, the bleak and barren Maharatta hills, or
the howling wastes of sun-burnt Scinde. The back-ground of distant hill
and mountain, borrowing from the intervening atmosphere the blue and
hazy tint for which these regions are celebrated, contrasts well with
the emerald hue around. In a word, there is a rich variety of form and
colour, and a graceful blending of the different features that combine to
make a beautiful _coup d’œil_, which, when the gloss of novelty is still
upon them, are infinitely attractive.
* * * * *
The sun is sinking in the splendour of an Indian May, behind the
high horizon, and yet, marvellous to relate, the air feels cool and
comfortable. The monotonous gruntings of the frequent palanquin-bearers—a
sound which, like the swift’s scream, is harsh and grating enough, yet
teems in this region with pleasant associations—inform us that the fair
ones of Ootacamund are actually engaged in taking exercise. We will
follow their example, beginning at “Charing Cross,”—the unappropriate
name conferred upon those few square yards of level and gravelled ground,
with the stunted tree boxed up in the centre. Our path traverses the
half-drained swamp that bounds this end of the Neilgherry Windermere,
and you observe with pain that those authors who assert the hills to
be “entirely free from the morasses and the vast collection of decayed
vegetables that generate miasma,” have notably deceived you. In 1847,
there is a small swamp, formed by the soaking of some arrested stream, at
the bottom of almost every declivity. We presume the same was the case in
1826. Indeed, were the Neilgherries seven or eight hundred feet, instead
of as many thousands, above the level of the sea, even the Pontine
marshes would not be better adapted for the accommodation of Quartana
and Malaria. Before you have been long on the hills, you will witness
many amusing accidents occurring to new comers, who attempt to urge their
steeds through the shaking bogs of black mud, treacherously lurking under
a glossy green coating of grassy turf.
“Probably it is to the local predilections for such diversion that I must
attribute the unwillingness of the authorities to remedy the nuisance?”
We cannot take upon ourselves to reply, yes or no. The cantonment is by
no means scrupulously clean. The bazaar is at all times unpleasant, and,
during the rains, dirty in the extreme. Making all due allowance for the
difficulty of keeping any place where natives abound, undefiled, still
we opine, that the authorities might be much more active, in promoting
the cause of cleanliness, than they are. But, if report speak true, the
local government is somewhat out of temper with her hill _protégée_, for
spending her rupees a little too freely.
There go the promenaders—stout pedestrians—keeping step in parties and
pairs. Equestrians ride the fashionable animals—a kind of horse cut down
to a pony, called the Pegu, Arabs being rare and little valued here.
And invalids, especially ladies, “eat the air,” as the natives say, in
palanquins and tonjons. The latter article merits some description. It
is a light conveyance, open and airy, exactly resembling the seat of a
Bath chair, spitted upon a long pole, which rests on the shoulders of
four hammals, or porters. Much barbaric splendour is displayed in the
equipments of the “gang.” Your first thought, on observing their long
scarlet coats, broad yellow bands round the waist, and the green turban,
or some other curiously and wonderfully made head-gear, which surmounts
their sooty faces, is a sensation of wonder that the tonjon and its
accompaniments have not yet been exhibited in London and Paris. Much
hardness of heart is occasionally shown by the fair sex to their unhappy
negroes. See those four lean wretches staggering under the joint weights
of the vehicle that contains the stout daughter and stouter mama, or the
huge Ayah who is sent out to guard those five or six ponderous children,
whose constitutional delicacy renders “carriage exercise” absolutely
necessary for them.
Two things here strike your eye as novel, in India.
There is a freshness in the complexion of the Sanitarians that shows
wonderfully to advantage when compared with the cadaverous waxy hue which
the European epidermis loves to assume in the tropics. Most brilliant
look the ladies; the gentlemen are sunburnt and robust; and the juveniles
appear fresh and chubby, quite a different creation from the pallid,
puny, meagre, sickly, irritable little wretches that do nothing but cry
and perspire in the plains. Another mighty pleasant thing, after a few
years of purely camp existence, is the non-military appearance and sound
of Ootacamund. Uniform has been banished by one consent from society,
except at balls and parties. The cotton and linen jackets, the turbaned
felt “wide-awake,” and the white jockey’s cap, with its diminutive apron,
intended to protect the back of the head from the broiling sun, are here
exchanged for cloth coats and black hats. Morning bugles and mid-day
guns, orderlies, and order-books, the “Officers’ call” and “No parade
to-day,” are things unknown. Vestiges of the “shop” will, it is true,
occasionally peep out in the shape of a regimental cap, brass spurs, and
black pantaloons, denuded of the red stripe. But such traces rather add
to our gratification than otherwise, by reminding us of A.M. drills,
meridian sword exercises, and P.M. reviews in days gone by.
And now, advancing along the gravelled walk that borders the lake, we
pass beneath a thatched cottage, once a masonic lodge,[152] but now,
_proh pudor!_ converted into a dwelling-house. Near it, we remark a
large building—Bombay House. It was formerly appropriated to officers
of that presidency. At present they have no such luxury.[153] Taking
up a position above the south end of the Willow-Bund, we have a good
front view of the principal buildings in the cantonment. On the left
hand is the Protestant church of St. Stephens, an unpraisable erection,
in the Saxo-Gothic style, standing out from a grave-yard, so extensive,
so well stocked, that it makes one shudder to look at it. Close by the
church are the Ootacamund Free School, the Post-office, the Pay-office,
and the bungalow where the Commanding officer of the station transacts
his multifarious business. Below, near the lake, you see the Library,
the Victoria hotel—a large and conspicuous building—the Dispensary, the
subordinate’s courts, and the Bazaar. Beyond the church a few hundred
yards of level road leads to the “palace,” built by Sir W. Rumbold,
which, after enduring many vicissitudes of fortune, has settled down
into the social position of a club-house and place for periodical
balls. Around it, the mass of houses thickens, and paths branch off
in all directions. In the distance appears the wretched bazaar of
Kaundlemund—the haunt of coblers and thieves;—a little nearer is the old
Roman Catholic chapel; closer still, the Union hotel—a huge white house,
which was once the Neilgherry Church Missionary grammar school,—bungalows
by the dozen, and several extensive establishments, where youth, male
and female, is lodged, boarded, and instructed. On the southern side of
a hill, separated from the Kaundle bazaar, stands Woodcock Hall, the
locality selected for Government House, and, in 1847 at least, a most
unimportant place, interiorly as well as exteriorly.
We will conclude our ciceronic task with calling your attention to one
fact, namely, that the capital of the Neilgherries is growing up with
maizelike rapidity. Houses are rising in all directions; and if fickle
fortune only favour it, Ooty promises fair to become in a few years one
of the largest European settlements in India. But its fate is at present
precarious. Should the Court of Directors be induced to revise the old
Furlough and Sick-leave Regulations, then will poor Ooty speedily revert
to the Todas and jackals—its old inhabitants. On the contrary, if the
_status quo_ endure, and European regiments are regularly stationed on
the hills,[154] officers will flock to Ootacamund, the settlers, retired
servants of Government, not Eurasian colonists, will increase in number,
schools[155] will flourish and prosperity steadily progress. The “to be
or not to be” thus depends upon the turn of a die.
* * * * *
The chilly shades of evening are closing rapidly upon us, and we know
by experience that some care is necessary, especially for the newly
arrived health-hunter. So we wend our way homewards, remarking, as night
advances, the unusual brilliancy of the heavenly bodies. Venus shines
almost as brightly as an average English moon in winter: her light with
that of the lesser stars is quite sufficient to point out to us the
direction of “Subaltern Hall.”