ENGLISH COLONISTS IN BENGAL.
Hitherto we have written of “kings and tetrarchs and all great things”
in India. Now let us go to a different degree in the social scale, to
those who were alluded to as the real colonists of India in the first of
these chapters. There are now hundreds, or rather thousands, of our
countrymen settled in India who may be taken as representing the
middle-classes of England; though it might be more correct to use the
public-school term, the “upper-middle” classes. Some of these are
employed in the cultivation and manufacture of indigo, or sugar, or
jute, or other mercantile produce, in the hot and steamy plains of
Bengal. Others, who are engaged in the management of tea gardens, occupy
hilly tracts, many of which are as hot and steamy as the plains; though
some tea is grown at high altitudes, and in a comparatively cooler
climate, as on the mountain-slopes around Darjeling. Others are employed
in managing and working the railways which now traverse the length and
breadth of the country, and for these there is no escape from all the
perils and vicissitudes of the greatest heat. In most of the large towns
throughout the country there are established firms of merchants, of
which some of the partners are constantly flitting backwards and
forwards between India and England, though there is always some local
representative of the name and business of the firm left in India.
Amongst the trading or shop-keeping classes there are some who have
their branch “establishments” at the great hill stations, such as Simla,
to which they migrate in order to escape from the heat of the plains
when the Court and fashion of the capital retire there with a similar
object.
Under the name of colonists we may readily give the first place to those
who are engaged in the cultivation and manufacture of indigo. Owing to
circumstances to which we need not further allude, the indigo-planters
have not fared well in recent times, especially in some parts of the
country, where, to put the case simply, it was no longer possible to
grow indigo at a profit, so that the business must have come to an end
of itself without the mischievous meddling of agitators, or the
irritating intervention of prejudiced Government officials. But there
are still many parts of the country, especially in the province of
Behar, where indigo may be cultivated successfully; and if the season is
favourable, and the crop good, and the London market-price satisfactory,
a handsome profit may be made. There are some few indigo-factories or
“concerns” which may almost always be trusted year after year to yield a
good and profitable out-turn. But it is not by any means a general rule
to be so prosperous. At some places either too heavy rain or too little
rain may spoil the growing crop. A neighbouring river may overflow its
banks and drown all the hopes of the husbandmen, or the much-needed
water may refuse to appear in the river at the proper time, so that the
well-grown plant cannot be manufactured into the dye. These are but a
few out of the many troubles that attend the cultivation of indigo.
There are some years when the life of the indigo-planter is a life of
mere agony and anxiety, and nothing that his skill or experience can
suggest or devise is of the slightest avail to ward off the impending
ruin of his crop and of his hopes for a successful season.
But for all this, the life of an indigo-planter is generally healthy and
happy, and at all events it is more suited to the taste and disposition
of most young Englishmen than the dull routine of a merchant’s office or
a bank. Let us try to picture to ourselves the buildings and
surroundings of the indigo-planter’s home. There is a cheerful and
substantial house nestling in the shelter of some fine trees; there is a
broad lawn, and a flower-garden full of roses and myrtles and variegated
flowering shrubs. There is the well-stocked kitchen-garden with its
constant supplies of English vegetables. There are the stables and
coachhouses which we may presently inspect. There are the poultry-yards,
where no small flock of fowls and ducks and geese and turkeys will be
found. The rabbithutches are not neglected, and the pigeon-house
literally swarms with pigeons. The sleek milch-cows, with their calves,
have their appointed places; and you may be sure that there are good
kennels for the dogs. A little apart from the dwelling-house the
factory-buildings will usually be found, with the vats and apparatus for
steeping and pressing the indigo to extract the dye, and the
boiling-house with its tall and ugly chimney, and the drying-houses
where the cakes of indigo are kept until it is time to pack and despatch
them to Calcutta for sale. All the factory-buildings usually stand in
one _compound_, as the local term goes, and this is in size almost equal
to a small park, surrounded by a high grassy bank or fence to keep off
trespassers, and usually studded with some fine groups of trees, in the
shade of which the cattle take shelter from the mid-day heat. The
English colonist is ever anxious to keep up the appearance of a
comfortable English home, and not merely the appearance but the solid
substance, so far as the difference of climate permits.
An indigo factory is usually managed by one of the owners or partners in
the concern. Let us take the case of a healthy hardy man a little past
thirty years of age, who has served an apprenticeship of several years
as an assistant in the factory of which he at length stands forth as
manager. He has acquired a certain share as part-owner in the factory,
and will thus earn his quota in the profits of the season, whilst he has
a separate fixed salary and sundry emoluments in his special capacity as
manager. His position is thoroughly independent, if so be that he and
his partners have sufficient capital of their own to carry on the
expenditure of the concern. If they have not the requisite capital,
their agents in Calcutta finance the concern, making such advances as
are needed for the purchase of seed, the cost of cultivation, payment of
rents, and all the other expenses which must be provided for until the
produce of the season can be sold and brought to account. The profitable
condition of an indigo factory depends chiefly on the capacity of the
owners to provide their own funds, or on their having to borrow them.
For as the cultivation is precarious, and the amount of the produce
varies from year to year, money cannot be borrowed on such security
except at a heavy charge for interest. With commission and other charges
the borrower has to pay about twenty per cent. for the capital which he
borrows. Of course, it makes a very great difference at the end of the
season if twenty per cent. has to be deducted from the net profits of
the concern.
At certain times of the year the indigo-planter has rather a hard-worked
life. In what may be termed the spring-time, when the plant is growing,
he must be up with the dawn for a long ride through the fields to see
that the cultivators are looking properly after their work. The hot and
blazing sun rises, but he heeds it little, as his anxious eyes are bent
on noting any changes for good or bad that may have occurred in the crop
since he last rode in this direction. He does not, however, disdain the
shelter of a friendly tree, if so be that his course is arrested by a
party of anxious villagers who seek his advice or orders about the right
to use some water for irrigation, or to fish in some particular pond, or
to settle some minute question of caste—such, for instance, as the grave
question whether some new arrival is entitled to be shaved by the
village barber. I have sat for more than an hour with a planter
listening to all the earnest arguments submitted for his decision on
this point. Sometimes also, his ride may be interrupted by less
peaceable demonstrations, for an aggressive neighbour may have
trespassed on his cultivated lands, or he may find a hostile force
arrayed to prevent him from ploughing certain fields to which he
considers himself entitled. Fortunately the stand-up fights of armed
retainers, which were not uncommon years ago, are now almost unknown,
and those who are wisest in their generation now are careful to avoid
any recourse to force in settling their disputes with their neighbours.
At length the morning round is finished, and he gallops home through the
fiery sunshine, giving his horse the benefit of a little practice at a
few jumps over any banks and ditches that lie conveniently in his path.
As he rides up to his house the children and the “placens uxor” appear,
probably to chide him for being so late out in the hot sun, as it seems
to be the first duty of a good wife always to remind her husband that he
ought to take more care of himself. Probably, however, the lady is
anxious for her breakfast; whilst the children, who have had their
breakfast, are only too glad to welcome their father and to follow him
into his dressing-room to have their little talk with him, and to watch
all the mysterious operations of dressing which seem to have such a
fascination for children. In India each little child of two or three
years old has its own special man or boy servant in charge of it, so
that the children can be still cared for in their father’s
dressing-room, which might be not quite so convenient in England, where
children are in charge of nurses. But when their father has bathed and
dressed, the children lead him out into the breakfast-room, and,
probably having got some spoil from the breakfast-table, they retire to
their mid-day slumbers and are seen no more.
The mid-day breakfast at a factory is usually one of the most pleasant
hours of the day. The friends who are staying in the house, for planters
are very hospitable, and any neighbours (neighbours meaning people
living within twenty miles) who have come over for a morning visit, all
present themselves at the well-decked table. It is hardly necessary to
say that breakfast at 12 o’clock indicates that there is to be no lunch
at 1 or 2 o’clock, and it is, in fact, breakfast and lunch combined.
Therefore, the dishes are both numerous and serious; and as the sun is
over the yard-arm, in nautical phrase, the men have fully earned their
right to a draught of cool beer, or of claret or hock with such
combinations of soda and iced materials as the heart desires. When a man
has been in the saddle for several hours with a fine blazing sun
overhead, and the temperature almost beyond the thermometer’s power of
measurement, it is not astonishing that a good pull at a tankard of beer
is something like a fabulous draught of nectar. It is a sort of medical
axiom that as long as a man can take plenty of outdoor exercise in
India, he can drink as much beer as is good for him; and _vice versâ_,
if he wishes to drink beer he must be careful to take plenty of
exercise. But to some constitutions beer is always hostile, and so they
must have recourse to claret, or hock, or burgundy; or it may be brandy
and soda, but this is always to be shunned as much as possible. However,
breakfast must come to an end; and when the ladies of the house retire
to the drawing-room, the men usually take their arm-chairs and a pipe,
and not unfrequently the conversation gradually drops, until they have
all quietly passed off into a gentle doze, which is nature’s best
restorer at this hour of the day.
But it is not to be supposed that the planter’s work is now at an end.
He must rouse himself after forty winks, and go off to his cutcherry or
office, where he must pass a few hours in company with his native clerks
and subordinates. His work is usually interesting and diversified. He
must look to his letters from his Calcutta agents, who want to be kept
well posted up as to the prospects of the coming crop, and the various
heads of expenditure for which money has to be provided. There are
communications more or less friendly or unfriendly from the district
officials in whose courts civil or criminal suits are pending on behalf
of or against people connected with the factory. However peaceably
disposed a planter may be, some of his neighbours or some of his own
people are sure to bring him before the courts in some way. He may have
to receive a visit from his wealthy native neighbour, who has come with
sweet words in his mouth, but whose heart is full of bitterness and war.
He must listen to the complaints of his own people, and he must
sometimes minister to their physical complaints also, though at most
large factories a regular medical establishment is maintained to provide
for those who are sick or suffering from accidental injuries. As a
matter of fact, also, an influential planter administers justice in a
quiet way among his own people, and prevents them, if he can, from
taking their petty quarrels and disputes into the Government courts,
where the expenses of litigation are often almost ruinous to the poorer
classes. And thus it comes to pass that the planter finds plenty of
occupation in his office for several hours in the afternoon, and he is
only too glad when he receives a message from his wife to say that the
carriages and horses are ready for the evening drive, or that he is
expected to come forth to take his part in a game of polo or
lawn-tennis.
Planters are always hospitable. In India it is a sort of maxim still
that the guest confers the favour, for, of course, the guest is really
very welcome when your nearest neighbour lives five miles from you. And
so each planter gathers round him from time to time a little party of
visitors and neighbours, and when the men are sufficiently numerous they
get up a game of polo. Perhaps the best social game that was ever
invented for India was Badminton, which has now been almost superseded
by lawn-tennis. Badminton has never been much appreciated in England;
but in India the absence of high wind and rain was much in its favour,
and there were many ladies who played it almost as well as men. For, as
was well said by a learned judge, men and women are almost on an
equality as regards the upper part of their dress, and can use their
hands and heads with nearly equal effect. But when a lawn-tennis ball
makes a bound into the skirts of a lady’s dress she has not the same
facility of escaping from it as her male adversary. Therefore, as the
shuttlecock of Badminton was always flying high, and from head to head,
so to speak, Badminton for a long time in India held its own against the
introduction of lawn-tennis; though the day has come now when
lawn-tennis has ousted its old opponent, and both ladies and men look
forward to their game of lawn-tennis as soon as it is possible to find a
court sheltered sufficiently by shady trees against the rays of the
declining sun. The temperature may be above 80°, but, nevertheless,
bright-faced and neatly-dressed girls come out arrayed for the combat,
and thinking little of the heat and the fatigue if they can only get
good partners and a good game. Those who are accustomed to judge of
Indian ladies only from their pale and worn countenances when they
return invalided to England, would hardly believe with what vigour and
spirit the same ladies played lawn-tennis in India as long as their
health and strength lasted.
When darkness puts an end to the play there is no lack of refreshment
suited to the taste of each sex, and there are some men who are so
selfish that they do not scruple to light their cigars and pipes in the
presence of the ladies, but it is to be regretted that the good old
fashion has passed away when no man smoked in the presence of a lady.
Certainly the men have plenty of advantages special to themselves. For
instance, when the ladies have to go into the house to prepare for
dinner and change their dresses, the men usually adjourn to the
swimming-bath. At many large factories there is a fine swimming-bath in
a house built for the purpose, from 50 to 70 feet long, and more than
half as wide. One of the greatest pleasures of which the human body is
capable is to plunge hissing-hot into the clear and cool water of the
bath, and to swim a few lazy strokes to the nearest resting-place. There
used to be a medical myth, that it was dangerous for a man to bathe when
very hot. But later and wiser doctors have discovered the error, and
very grateful we should be for their discovery. To those who have learnt
at Eton, or elsewhere, to take a good “header” we can recommend no more
exquisite sensation than that which they will derive from plunging red
hot into the cool water of a swimming-bath.
There may be more splendid entertainments elsewhere, but there are few
more sociable and pleasant dinner-parties than those which crown the
labours of the day at a good indigo factory. The ladies are not often
quite equal in number to the men; but that is a fault on the right side
so far as they are concerned, as they will receive all the more
attention, whilst there are always one or more greedy or hungry men who
are more inclined to devote themselves to the substance of their dinner
than to the pleasures of conversation; nor are they absolutely in the
wrong. The dishes may be simple, but they are sure to be good. Who does
not remember the saddle of mutton from a sheep reared and carefully fed
in the farm up to its fourth year? Neither the downs of Sussex nor the
hills of Wales produce more delicate and well-flavoured meat. What is
there to be compared with the whiteness and tenderness of the
well-boiled capon, the last fortnight of whose life has been the subject
of the most careful feeding, as he passed, day by day, through the
separate compartments of the fattening range until he was promoted to
the condemned cell at the head of the range? Capons should, of course,
be well fed always, but for the last fortnight they should be taken up
and fed most delicately in a fattening range specially constructed with
fourteen or fifteen compartments with sliding panels between them, so
that those who are being thus treated for about a fortnight, find
themselves promoted day by day towards the highest compartment, a
condemned cell, from which there is no promotion except to the kitchen.
We cannot stop to enumerate all the fine vegetables, such as the
potatoes which have been grown in a soil prepared with the refuse stalks
of the indigo plant, which is most congenial to them, so that no better
potatoes ever came out of Ireland. There are champion peas from Sutton’s
best seed. There is celery equal to the best that England can exhibit.
We will not even notice the better kinds of Indian vegetables; but the
dinner is by no means a dinner of herbs, and those who have come to it
with good appetite and good digestion are not likely to go empty away.
Early hours are the rule at a factory, and when the men have joined the
ladies in the drawing-room a little music may sometimes be supplemented
by a little dancing; but as a rule most of the party are not unwilling
to seek their bed-rooms, with the knowledge that they have to rise on
the morrow with the early dawn, either for the renewal of their daily
labour or to return to their own houses.
Quis non malarum quas amor curas habet
Hæc inter obliviscitur?
Doubtless there can scarcely be a more enjoyable life than that of a
successful and healthy indigo-planter. But there must be at times a
darker side to the picture. Illness may break out suddenly, and before
any skilled medical aid can arrive the hand of death may have robbed the
household of one of its darlings. We all know with what fearful rapidity
cholera seizes on its victims, and when once cholera has marked a house
it is seldom content with only one victim. Some of the numerous domestic
servants are almost sure to take alarm, and to frighten themselves into
the belief that they must die. It is an anxious and awful time. Nor are
other minor dangers and alarms wanting. In some factories it is almost
impossible to keep cobras and other dangerous snakes from coming into
the house; and many a parent has found a deadly cobra in painful
proximity to the pillow of a child sleeping happily unconscious of its
danger, but liable to put itself in peril by the slightest movement. Or,
whilst the master is still out on his morning rounds, the affrighted
servants rush to their mistress with the news that a mad dog or a mad
jackal is running about the garden, and has attacked and scared the
gardeners. But it is useless to multiply instances. Fortunately, the
larger animals of prey are no longer to be found in the district in
which indigo is cultivated; but in the tea gardens, which are in the
wilder and more jungly parts of the country, even a tiger is an
occasional visitor, and leopards are constantly on the watch to carry
off a pet dog, or a goat, or a calf from almost under the eyes of the
planter.
It would be but an imperfect sketch of the planter-colonist’s social
life if we did not give some account of the great annual festive
gatherings which are held by them at the race meetings at Sonepore and
other favourite places. It will be sufficient to take Sonepore as an
example, as it is the oldest established meeting, and also is larger
and more cosmopolitan (if such a big word is permissible) than other
race meetings, and is the trysting place where the planters of several
districts can best assemble. It is not very easy to convey to an
English reader an idea of a Sonepore meeting except as a large picnic
which lasts for about ten days. But the picnicers do not return to
their homes at the end of each day; they live on the spot in tents
which are gathered together in separate camps, or parties, or messes;
so that independently of the general picnic life of the whole
assemblage, there are wheels within wheels, and each separate camp or
mess carries on its own picnic on its own independent and
self-supporting arrangements. The ostensible primary object of the
Sonepore meeting is a race-meeting, but it is also intimately
connected with, and based upon, the large Native Fair which is held
simultaneously with it, to which we shall presently recur. The
race-course runs round a flat plain rather larger perhaps than the
space enclosed by the course at Ascot or Epsom. Almost all round the
outside of the race-course there are groves of mango trees not quite
so stately as the horse-chestnuts of Bushey Park, or the elms of the
Long Walk at Windsor, but fine old trees of considerable height, and
with a thick green foliage that affords a grateful shade against the
rays of the sun. Underneath these groves of mango trees, stretching
for nearly a mile along the east side of the course, the several camps
are formed. Each camping-ground has its well-defined boundaries and is
rented from year to year. One camp belongs to the young Hindoo Rajah
of Durbanga, who was lately the chief supporter of the races. In fact
he may be said to have two camps, one for his native friends, and one
for his English friends. The Government officials of the several
neighbouring districts have their separate or combined camps.
Sometimes the Viceroy of India has had a camp, and sometimes the
Lieutenant-Governor has sent over his tents for the meeting. The
regiments from the nearest military station have their own camps and
messes, with their bands to discourse sweet music. The planters of the
several districts have either joint or separate camps according to
their numbers and strength, and they rival one another in hospitality.
The tents of each camp are arranged as far as possible in a square of
which one side is open and facing the road that runs through the grove
of trees. The mess-tent of each camp is pitched at the further side
from the entrance, and in front of it there is usually a huge awning
(called in native parlance a shamyana) which serves as an _al fresco_
drawing-room, comfortably arranged with couches and arm-chairs, and
big Persian carpets and rugs, and other appliances. Each camp usually
contains its own Badminton courts and its lawn-tennis court, if the
trees will allow sufficient space. At the back of the mess-tent there
come the cooking-tents and the tents for the servants, as well as for
the horses and carriages of the party. Each camp is guarded by a party
of native watchmen, who have the credit of being hereditary thieves,
but are scrupulously honest for the occasion as regards the contents
of the camp committed to their care which they are well paid to watch.
But woe betide the self-sufficient stranger who dispenses with the
services of these watchmen, confiding in his own prowess and the
services of his own retainers.
The race-meeting at Sonepore usually takes place in November, when the
weather is beginning to be really cool and pleasant. It is regulated by
some native festival, much as the Derby day is dependent on the date of
Easter. As the time approaches the stewards of the meeting take measures
to have the race-stand and ball-room swept and garnished, and the
camping-grounds and race-course put in proper order. A few days before
the meet, trains of country bullock-carts may be seen approaching the
ground laden with the ponderous tents, and beds and chairs and tables,
and every kind of furniture that is needed for civilised life. Nor is
the commissariat likely to be forgotten, whilst those who can manage it
conveniently, send over their own cows to supply milk and butter, and
the fatlings of the flock, and huge baskets and coops full of turkeys
and geese and poultry. Ponderous deal boxes full of Fortnum and Masonry,
and cases labelled with the names of the most promising brands of
champagne and hock, and the well-known six-dozen chests of beer, with
heavy supplies of soda and seltzer, occupy many of the carts. It is
quite a study to see how skilfully the native servants get everything
into order before their masters’ arrival; especially the cook, who at
once sets to work and extemporises a mud kitchen, on which during the
next week he will perform culinary wonders, although it may be well for
the fastidious not to pry too narrowly into all his proceedings, but to
live in faith and satisfy themselves with results.
As the races are the ostensible object of the meeting, all the
arrangements are made with special reference to them. There are usually
four days’ races, on alternate days, _i.e._ on Tuesday, Thursday, and
Saturday, and the ensuing Tuesday. The races take place at seven in the
morning. Thus most of the visitors arrive on Monday, and on Monday
evening the first lotteries are held for speculation on the races which
are to take place on Tuesday morning. On Tuesday evening there is a
ball; on Wednesday everyone is supposed to be recovering from the
effects of the combined dissipation of Tuesday’s races and ball; until
Wednesday evening provides another lottery for speculation on the races
of Thursday morning, which are to be followed by another ball on
Thursday night; so that theoretically a day of rest comes in between
each day of pleasure, or “trouble” as the Yankees more rightly call it.
We will attempt to describe the proceedings of one day at Sonepore. It
is the first Tuesday, and we are startled from our sleep by the bang of
a big cannon, which seems to be at the door of our tent. This is called
“gunfire,” and means that dawn is breaking. Just as you are composing
yourself to sleep again you hear the sound of music, and there comes the
band of a native regiment playing some noisy tune as they march along
the road through the centre of all the camps, and, having got to the end
of it, back they come again playing louder than before. Meanwhile all
the servants have been aroused, and your man comes into the tent and
tells you that it is time to get up; and, in fact, unless you mean to
cut the amusement altogether, it is best to get up and dress. By the
time you reach your camp mess-tent you will probably find the charming
hostess who presides over your camp ready and waiting for you with one
or two of her pretty girls, whose fresh and bright faces never look
better than at this early and trying time. Tea and coffee are ready for
you, and, as the party gradually collects in the tent, the carriages
come to the entrance of the camp, and you either drive to the
race-stand, or join a walking party with those who want the little walk
to warm them. The race-stand commands a good view of the races; but one
race is very much like another, except that at an Indian race-course you
probably know most of the owners of the horses, or some of the
gentleman-riders, so that a stronger personal feeling exists; and the
young ladies will insist on betting for gloves and backing the worst
horse in the race, merely because it is to be ridden by that
good-looking young officer to whom they are engaged for at least three
dances at the coming ball. The races usually last till about 10 o’clock,
when we all go back to our camps and make ready for breakfast.
In the hospitable camp to which I belonged for several years at
Sonepore, the tea and coffee of breakfast were usually followed or
superseded by “just one glass of champagne to begin with,” as our kind
host would cheerfully say, and it seemed to be generally considered that
a few glasses of good champagne were very acceptable at breakfast after
the early morning’s work. After breakfast no one seems to think of
repose. Some of the younger people at once set to work at Badminton and
lawn-tennis; others make up parties to go to see the horses and
elephants, and other sights of the native fair; whilst others set forth
to pay visits at the other camps, for there is a sort of unwritten law
of etiquette that all the camps should call on one another as fast as
possible. By 2 o’clock we are summoned to lunch, and again the champagne
flows freely for those who prefer it to beer or other liquids. After
lunch the hostess of the camp usually tries to get some of the ladies to
rest themselves in their tents, on the plea of looking after their
dresses for the ball in the evening; but there are some perverse and
indefatigable girls who will go on with lawn-tennis, or join in a
Badminton tournament, until tea is announced. Then the carriages and
horses come to the door, and we all drive or ride out to the course.
There is probably a fierce game of polo going on between civil and
military, or the planters of two rival districts, or the Public Schools
against the World, or any other combination of forces that can be
devised. On some days there are cricket-matches arranged between similar
parties and factions. Meanwhile one of the military bands is playing in
front of the race-stand, and there pour forth upon the course all the
carriages and horses that can be mustered for the occasion. There are a
few ladies riding with their attendant squires. There comes the drag of
the young Raja of Durbanga covered with his lady guests, whilst the Raja
himself handles the reins and puts his well-broken horses into a gallop
along the back of the course. Tandems driven from high dog-carts seem to
have a special attraction for some young ladies, and after the horses
have steadied down a little to their work, the reins are usually
transferred to the hands of the young lady until some impending danger
makes it necessary to resume them from her. However, collisions and
accidents rarely occur; and as darkness speedily comes on, the carriages
and their occupants soon disappear from the course and return to their
camps.
About 8 o’clock the camp-gong gives the signal for dinner, and a party
of about twenty or thirty assemble in almost every mess-tent. In a
well-managed camp the hostess generally takes care to fill up any
vacancies at her table by inviting guests from the other camps. Any
member of a camp who is going out to dinner is expected to give early
notice to his hostess, so that she may be able to ask a friend from some
other camp in his place. By this arrangement an agreeable exchange of
hospitality is kept up, and the monotony of always having the same set
of faces avoided. Many of the ladies appear at dinner ready dressed for
the ball afterwards, but some of the most wary ones reserve a few final
touches of dress for after dinner. It is astonishing what a magic effect
is sometimes produced by those few final touches. It is hardly necessary
to say that during dinner much fun and merriment prevail all round the
table. However the guests may be told off and assorted at first, it is
curious to observe how, after a day or two, certain young ladies and
certain young gentlemen always happen to sit next or near to one another
at the several meals, and take a sort of monopoly of certain seats for
themselves and their own particular acquaintances. It not seldom happens
that some unfortunate youth makes himself ridiculous or in some way
obnoxious to the other young people, and then they all combine to make
his life a burthen to him unless he shows symptoms of reformation and
better behaviour. Of course, long before dinner the ball-cards of all
the best dancers are filled up, but during dinner a half promise of one
more “extra” may be secured, or some convenient exchange of promised
dances arranged to suit the wishes of sisters or bosom friends. But we
must not linger too long over the dinner-table. The carriages are
announced to be ready, and are rapidly filled and sent off to the
ball-room, from which sometimes they come back to be refilled by a
second detachment of the party.
The ball-room at Sonepore is a well-proportioned room which holds about
two hundred people conveniently. The music is provided by the regimental
bands in turns, and is usually very good. A long verandah and corridor
outside the ball-room, not too brilliantly lighted up, afford a
convenient retreat for those who wish to improve the opportunities of
the dance by a little further conversation with their partner before she
returns to her chaperone, or is carried off by the man to whom she is
engaged for the next dance. If you wander along the corridor you will
come first to the tea-room, and then to the supper-room, which will not
be opened before midnight. Dancing is usually kept up with much spirit;
and as there are always more gentlemen than ladies, the latter seldom
have to sit out a dance for want of a partner. But, of course, one ball
is very like another ball, and they must all come to an end. Some
prudent mammas insist on going away before supper, others more
indulgently remain throughout the whole of the programme; but at last
“God save the Queen” admonishes even the latest lingerers that it is
time to go home. We must not follow the young ladies to their tents; but
it is very well known that they do sit up there for a very long time,
laughing and talking over all the incidents of the ball. To the men the
hour after the ball is often one of grateful refreshment, as we gather
together in the comfortable arm-chairs of the _al fresco_ drawing-room,
and sit wrapped in our great-coats, smoking the fragrant weed, and
protecting ourselves from the cold night air with steaming glasses of
whisky-and-water, and discussing the events of the day and the plans of
the morrow, until we retreat to our tents comforted with the knowledge
that there will be no big gun fired to wake us at daybreak, and there
will be no horrid band marching through the camp to disturb our
slumbers. And so end the labours of a long Tuesday.
Wednesday is theoretically to be a day of rest. The camp breakfast hour
is fixed at 10, but there are some ardent spirits who know no repose,
and your rest is disturbed by the noise made in the adjacent tent by
your friends Jones and Smith, who are bent on an expedition to shoot
snipe or quail before breakfast. Other men are getting up early to go
down to the fair to look at the horses which are for sale; and presently
the soft voices of fair girls are heard, and you find that two or more
of them have emerged from their tents to have just one game of lawn
tennis before breakfast, by way of practice for the impending
tournament. How delightful it must be to be young and not to know what
fatigue means! And so this theoretical day of rest goes on. After
breakfast every sort of amusement is arranged for the day, and no one
seems to think of resting. One of the things that has to be done at
Sonepore is to go and see the native fair. It is most convenient to go
to the fair on an elephant, as the crowds of people are so dense, and
many of the roads at the fair are too narrow, or otherwise unsuited for
carriages. So two or three elephants are brought round, and parties made
up to mount them. There is usually room for about four persons on each
elephant; and if two young men can find themselves on an elephant with
two pretty girls, they seem to think themselves in the seventh heaven.
The movements of an elephant are sometimes rather rough, and the fair
riders not only hold on desperately at first to the ropes, but seldom
object to be also held on by the stronger arm of man. However, away they
go, jolting and swaying about under the trees, and trying to manage
their umbrellas or parasols so as to keep off the sun, which still
smites down fiercely with his rays. As we arrive at the native fair, we
first come upon endless rows of horses tethered under the long ranges of
trees. The horses are numbered by hundreds, or rather by thousands, and
come from the most distant parts of India, and sometimes from Bokhara
and Persia; some of them look very handsome with their arched necks and
long manes. But we must not detain our fair charges here too long.
Onwards we go, a large bell round the elephant’s neck warning the
swarming crowd to keep out of the way. The fair is laid out in the usual
Oriental style, with all the vendors of one sort of thing collected in
one place, or bazaar, as it is called. Here is the shoe bazaar, with
fifty little shops or stalls, full of every kind of leather shoe of
native make, and the gayest slippers embroidered with gold thread, and
also a small stock of patent-leather shoes of English make to suit the
tastes of those who have been educated to consider a patent-leather shoe
as emblematic of an acquisition of a knowledge of English. Next we come
to the cloth bazaar, where, in another fifty shops, all the manufactures
of Manchester are to be seen, either in the original bales, or opened
out and temptingly displayed to attract customers. The next bazaar is
full of shops containing eatables, not eatables suited to the English
taste, but different sorts of rice and grains, and confections of sugar
and almonds and cocoa-nuts and pastry, in which our native brethren
delight. At a corner where two roads cross, and the crowd is densest,
you will find an English or American missionary mounted on a chair, and
addressing the multitude with a vehemence and earnestness which arrests
their attention for a few moments, but, unfortunately, seldom produces
any permanent results. Presently we come to the place where the dealers
in elephants keep these animals for sale, and we pass among these rather
dangerous monsters with some apprehension, lest a sudden fit of jealousy
or excitement should make some irascible “Jumbo” attack our elephant.
Hundreds of elephants are standing about in groups under the trees,
whilst others are being taken down to bathe in the neighbouring river.
Onward we go, to find ourselves amongst long strings of camels. Then we
come to the police encampment, where the native officer in charge of the
arrangements of the fair has provided a temporary lock-up for offenders;
but offences are usually very few and trivial. Next we come to the
bazaar where the sounds of music may be heard from morn till night, and
through the long hours of the night; whilst nautch-girls dance and sing
for the delectation of their native audience, who sit for hours like
enchanted listeners. Finally, let us visit the bird-bazaar, where all
kinds of fancy birds are collected, parrots of all sorts in hundreds,
peacocks, quails, bulbuls, talking mynas, Java sparrows, and hundreds of
other pretty feathered creatures. At length it is time to return to
camp, and we wend our way back under the trees, weary and dusty, and
grateful that our elephant has not walked over any of the hundreds of
thousands of our Aryan brethren amongst whom we have been wandering. We
alight from the elephant, feeling rather happy to be released from the
back-breaking position; and, after exhibiting the wonderful bargains and
purchases which we have made, we hasten to prepare ourselves for the
pleasures of lunch and some well-iced refreshing drink.
It would be tedious to go on with a repetition of the daily laborious
round of pleasure and enjoyment which lasts for the ten days of the
meeting. We have only space to allude to one special form of pleasure,
viz. the camp-fire evenings, for which Sonepore is particularly famous.
The officers of the English regiment usually issue an invitation for a
camp-fire party after dinner, with their band to play; or they kindly
lend their band to some other camp which may have a larger and more
convenient space for a good camp-fire. A huge bonfire is then piled up
in the centre of the space before the camp, and when the torch is
applied it blazes up fiercely, whilst all the guests sit round on chairs
and couches and listen to the music of the band. Sometimes a few songs
and glees are sung. It is a weird but charming scene as we look round on
all the quaint figures wrapped up in shawls and cloaks and great-coats
and extemporised head-dresses; for it is just cold enough to make a few
warm garments acceptable, though there is no great risk of catching cold
in the calm and soft night air. There is certainly something almost
savouring of the supernatural which comes over the mind at these
camp-fire evenings, and it is well known that many a fair maiden has
found the time and place not unsuitable to receive the confession of
undying love and affection which her youthful admirer had previously
hesitated to make. It may be that the bonfire was burning low; but when
it suddenly blazes out again with fresh and bright flames, watchful eyes
are not wanting to observe how by some casual movement the unsuspecting
young pair have come into a proximity which obviously indicates that a
great and happy change has suddenly come over their future destiny.
No one who has been at a Sonepore race-meeting can ever forget the
pleasures, in so many new and varied forms, which he there enjoyed. The
life in the open air under the shady trees, the perfect liberty of the
friendly interchange of hospitality, the cordial greetings of old
friends, the pleasant introductions to new acquaintances, all throw a
special charm over the reminiscences of it. It is not to be wondered at
that by the planters of the adjoining districts, and also by the
Government officials, the Sonepore meeting is looked forward to as the
great event of the year. As soon as one meeting is half over, plans and
engagements are entered into with a view to prepare for the enjoyment of
the meeting of the coming year. Let us hope that these meetings may long
continue to flourish; and if any of my old hosts were to send a very
pressing invitation to me, I am half-inclined to think that I would go
out all the way from England to India to take advantage of it.