It is some eighteen years since this institution was founded, at
Mussoorie, one of the chief sanataria in the Himalaya mountains. Here
all those who can obtain leave, and who can afford the additional
expense, repair to escape the hot weather of the plains. The season
begins about the end of April, and ends about the first week in
October. The club is open to the members of the civil and military
services, to the members of the bar, the clergy, and to such other
private gentlemen as are on the Government House list, which signifies,
"in society." The club-house is neither an expensive nor an elegant
edifice, but it answers the purposes required of it. It has two large
rooms, one on the ground-floor, and the other on the upper story. The
lower room, which is some sixty feet long by twenty-five wide, is the
dining-room, breakfast-room, and reception-room. The upper room is the
reading and the ball-room. The club has also its billiard-room, which
is built on the ledge of a precipice; and its stables, which would
astonish most persons in Europe. No horses except those educated in
India, would crawl into these holes cut out of the earth and rock.
Facing the side-door is a platform about forty yards long by fifteen
feet wide; and from it, on a clear day, the eye commands one of the
grandest scenes in the known world. In the distance are plainly visible
the eternal snows; at your feet are a number of hills, covered with
trees of luxuriant foliage. Amongst them is the rhododendron, which
grows to an immense height and size, and is, when in bloom, literally
covered with flowers. On every hill, on a level with the club, and
within a mile of it, a house is to be seen, to which access would seem
impossible. These houses are, for the most part, whitened without as
well as within; and nothing can exceed in prettiness their aspect as
they shine in the sun.
From the back of the club-house, from your bed-room windows (there
are twenty-three sets of apartments) you have a view of Deyrah Dhoon.
It appears about a mile off. It is seven miles distant. The plains
that lie outstretched below the Simplon bear, in point of extent
and beauty, to the Indian scene, nothing like the proportion which
the comparatively pigmy Mont Blanc bears to the Dewalgiri. From an
elevation of about seven thousand feet the eye embraces a plain
containing millions of acres, intersected by broad streams to the
left, and inclosed by a low belt of hills, called the Pass. The Dhoon,
in various parts, is dotted with clumps of jungle, abounding with
tigers, pheasants, and every species of game. In the broad tributaries
to the Ganges and the Jumna, may be caught (with a fly) the mâhseer,
the leviathan salmon. Beyond the Pass of which I have spoken, you see
the plains of Hindoostan. While you are wrapped in a great coat, and
are shivering with the cold, you may see the heat, and the steam it
occasions. With us on the hills, the thermometer is at forty-five; with
those poor fellows over there, it is at ninety-two degrees. We can
scarcely keep ourselves warm, for the wind comes from the snowy range;
they cannot breathe, except beneath a punkah. That steam is, as the
crow flies, not more than forty miles from us.
We are all idlers at Mussoorie. We are all sick, or supposed to be
so; or we have leave on private affairs. Some of us are up here for a
month between musters. We are in the good graces of our colonel and our
general--the general of our division, a very good old gentleman.
Let us go into the public room, and have breakfast; for it is half-past
nine o'clock, and the bell has rung. There are not more than half
a dozen at the table. These are the early risers who walk or ride
round the Camel's Back every morning: the Camel's Back being a huge
mountain, encircled about its middle by a good road. The majority of
the club's members are asleep, and will defer breakfast until tiffin
time--half-past two. At that hour the gathering will be great. How
these early risers eat, to be sure! There is the major, who, if you
believe him, has every complaint mentioned in "Graham's Domestic
Medicine," has just devoured two thighs (grilled) of a turkey, and is
now asking Captain Blossom's opinion of the Irish stew, while he is
cutting into a pigeon-pie.
Let us now while away the morning. Let us call on some of the grass
widows. There are lots of them here, civil and military. Let us go
first to Mrs. Merrydale, the wife of our old friend Charley, of the two
hundredth and tenth regiment. Poor fellow! He could not get leave, and
the doctors said another hot summer in the plains would be the death of
his wife. They are seven hundred pounds in debt to the Agra bank, and
are hard put to it to live and pay the monthly instalments of interest.
Charley is only a lieutenant. What terrible infants are these little
Merrydales! There is Lieutenant Maxwell's pony under the trees, and
if these children had not shouted out, "Mamma! Mamma! here is Captain
Wall, Sahib!" I should have been informed that Mrs. Merrydale was
not at home, or was poorly, which I should have believed implicitly.
(Maxwell, when a young ensign, was once engaged to be married to Julia
Dacey, now Mrs. Merrydale, but her parents would not hear of it, for
some reason or other.) As it is, we must be admitted. We will not
stay long. Mrs. Merrydale is writing to her husband. Grass widows in
the hills are always writing to their husbands, when you drop in upon
them, and your presence is not actually delighted in. How beautiful she
looks! now that the mountain breezes have chased from her cheeks the
pallor which lately clung to them in the plains; and the fresh air has
imparted to her spirits an elasticity, in lieu of that languor by which
she was oppressed a fortnight ago.
Let us now go to Mrs. Hastings. She is the wife of a civilian, who
has a salary of fifteen hundred rupees (one hundred and fifty pounds)
per mensem, and who is a man of fortune independent of his pay.
Mrs. Hastings has the best house in Mussoorie. She is surrounded by
servants. She has no less than three Arab horses to ride. She is a
great prude, is Mrs. Hastings. She has no patience with married women
who flirt. She thinks that the dogma--
When lovely women go astray,
Their stars are more in fault than they--
is all nonsense. Mrs. Hastings has been a remarkably fine woman; she
is now five-and-thirty, and still good looking, though disposed to
_embonpoint_. She wearies one with her discourses on the duties of a
wife. That simpering cornet, Stammersleigh, is announced, and we may
bid her good morning.
The average rent for a furnished house is about five hundred rupees
(fifty pounds) for the six months. Every house has its name. Yonder
are Cocky Hall, Belvidere, Phoenix Lodge, the Cliffs, the Crags, the
Vale, the Eagle's Nest, &c. The value of these properties ranges from
five hundred to fifteen hundred pounds. The furniture is of the very
plainest description, with one or two exceptions, and is manufactured
chiefly at Bareilly, and carried here on men's shoulders the entire
distance--ninety miles.
Where shall we go now, for it wants an hour to tiffin time? Oh! here
comes a janpan! (a sort of sedan-chair carried by four hill men,
dressed in loose black clothes, turned up with red, yellow, blue,
green, or whatever colour the proprietor likes best). And in the janpan
sits a lady--Mrs. Apsley, a very pretty, good-tempered, and well-bred
little woman. She is the grand-daughter of an English peer, and is
very fond of quoting her aunts and her uncles. "My aunt Lady Mary
Culnerson," "my aunt the Countess of Tweedleford," "my uncle, Lord
Charles Banbury Cross," &c. But that is her only weakness, I believe;
and, perhaps, it is ungenerous to allude to it. Her husband is in the
Dragoons.
"Well, Mrs. Apsley, whither art thou going? To pay visits?"
"No. I am going to Mrs. Ludlam's to buy a new bonnet, and not before I
want one, you will say."
"May I accompany you?"
"Yes, and assist me in making a choice."
There is not a cloud to be seen. The air is soft and balmy. The wild
flowers are in full bloom, and the butterfly is on the wing. The
grasshopper is singing his ceaseless song, and the bees are humming a
chorus thereto.
We are now at Mrs. Ludlam's. The janpan is placed upon the ground, and
I assist Mrs. Apsley to step from it.
Mrs. Ludlam is the milliner and dressmaker of Upper India, and
imports all her wares direct from London and Paris. Everybody in this
part of the world knows Mrs. Ludlam, and everybody likes her. She
has by industry, honesty of purpose, and economy, amassed a little
fortune; and has brought up a large family in the most respectable and
unpretending style. Some people say that she sometimes can afford to
sell a poor ensign's wife a bonnet, or a silk dress, at a price which
hardly pays. What I have always admired in Mrs. Ludlam is that she
never importunes her customers to buy her goods; nor does she puff
their quality.
The bonnet is bought; likewise a neck-scarf for Jack. And we are now
returning: Mrs. Apsley to her home, and I to the club. Mrs. Apsley
invites me to dine with them; but that is impossible. It is public
night, and I have two guests. One of them is Jack, who does not belong
to the club, because Mary does not wish it.
Mrs. Apsley says she wants some pickles, and we must go into Ford's
shop to purchase them. Ford sells everything; and he is a wine, beer,
and spirit merchant. You may get anything at Ford's--guns, pistols,
swords, whips, hats, clothes, tea, sugar, tobacco. What is this
which Ford puts into my hand? A raffle paper! "To be raffled for, a
single-barrelled rifle, by Purdey. The property of a gentleman hard-up
for money, and in great difficulties. Twenty-five chances at one gold
mohur (one pound twelve shillings) each."
"Yes, put my name down for a chance, Ford."
"And Captain Apsley's, please," says the lady.
After promising Mrs. Apsley most faithfully that I will not keep Jack
later than half-past twelve, and taking another look into those sweet
eyes of hers, I gallop away as fast as the pony can carry me. I am
late; there is scarcely a vacant place at the long table. We have
no private tables. The same board shelters the nether limbs of all
of us. We are all intimate friends, and know exactly each other's
circumstances. What a clatter of knives and forks! And what a lively
conversation! It alludes chiefly to the doings of the past night.
Almost every other man has a nickname. To account for many of them
would indeed be a difficult, if not a hopeless task.
"Dickey Brown! Glass of beer?"
"I am your man," responds Major George, N. I. Fencibles.
At the other end of the table you hear the word "Shiney" shouted out,
and responded to by Lieutenant Fenwick of the Horse Artillery.
"Billy! Sherry?"
Adolphus Bruce of the Lancers lifts his glass with immense alacrity.
It is a curious characteristic of Indian society that very little
outward respect is in private shown to seniority. I once heard an
ensign of twenty years of age address a civilian of sixty in the
following terms: "Now then, old moonsiff, pass that claret, please."
The tiffin over, a gool, or lighted ball of charcoal, is passed round
the table in a silver augdan (fire-holder). Every man present lights
a cigar, and in a few minutes there is a general move. Some retire to
the billiard-room, others cluster round the fireplace; others pace the
platform; and two sets go up-stairs into the reading-room to have a
quiet rubber--from three till five. Those four men seated at the table
near the window have the reputation of being the best players in India.
The four at the other table know very little of the game of whist. Mark
the difference! The one set never speak, except when the cards are
being dealt. The other set are finding fault with one another during
the progress of the hand. The good players are playing high. Gold mohur
points--five gold mohurs on the rub--give and take five to two after
the first game. And sometimes, at game and game, they bet an extra
five. Tellwell and Long, who are playing against Bean and Fickle, have
just lost a bumper--twenty-seven gold mohurs--a matter of forty-three
pounds four shillings.
In the billiard-room, there is a match going on between four officers
who are famed for their skill, judgment, and execution. Heavy bets are
pending. How cautiously and how well they play! No wonder, when we
consider the number of hours they practise, and that they play every
day of their lives. That tall man, now about to strike, makes a revenue
out of billiards. I shall be greatly mistaken if that man does not
come to grief some day. He preys upon every youngster in every station
he goes to with his regiment. He is a captain in the Native Infantry.
His name is Tom Locke. He has scored forty-seven off the red ball.
His confederate, Bunyan, knows full well that luck has little to do
with his success. He, too, will come to grief before long. Your clever
villains are invariably tripped up sooner or later, and ignominiously
stripped of their commissions and positions in society.
It is five o'clock. Some thirty horses and as many ponies are saddled
and bridled, and led up and down in the vicinity of the club. Everybody
will be on the mall presently. The mall is a part of the road round
the Camel's Back. It is a level of about half a mile long and twelve
feet broad. A slight fence stands between the riders and a deep
khud (precipice). To gallop along this road is nothing when you are
accustomed to it; but at first it makes one very nervous even to
witness it. Serious and fatal accidents have happened; but, considering
all things, they have been far fewer than might have been expected.
The mall is crowded. Ladies and gentlemen on horseback, and ladies
in janpans--the janpanees dressed in every variety of livery. Men in
the French grey coats, trimmed with white serge, are carrying Mrs.
Hastings. Men in the brown clothes, trimmed with yellow serge, are
carrying Mrs. Merrydale. Jack Apsley's wife is mounted on her husband's
second charger. "Come along, Captain Wall," she calls out to me, and
goes off at a canter, which soon becomes a hard gallop. I follow her of
course. Jack remains behind, to have a quiet chat with Mrs. Flower, of
his regiment; who thinks--and Jack agrees with her--that hard riding
on the mall is a nuisance, and ought to be put a stop to. But, as we
come back, we meet the hypocrite galloping with a Miss Pinkerton, a new
importation, with whom--much to the amusement of his wife--he affects
to be desperately in love. The mall, by the way, is a great place for
flirtations.
Most steady-going people, like Mrs. Flower, not only think hard riding
on the mall a nuisance, but make it the theme of letters to the editors
of the papers; and sometimes the editors will take the matter up, and
write leading articles thereon, and pointedly allude to the fact--as
did the late Sir C. J. Napier in a general order--that beggars on
horseback usually ride in the opposite direction to heaven. But these
letters and leaders rarely have the desired effect; for what can a man
do when a pretty woman like Mrs. Apsley says, "Come along; let us have
a gallop."
Why are there so very many people on the mall this evening? A few
evenings ago it was proposed at the club that a band should play twice
a week. A paper was sent round at once, and every one subscribed a
sum in accordance with his means. Next morning the required number
of musicians was hunted up and engaged. Two cornets, two flutes, two
violins, a clarionet, a fife, and several drums. It is the twenty-ninth
of May--a day always celebrated in "this great military camp," as Lord
Ellenborough described British India. At a given signal, the band
strikes up "God save the Queen." We all flock round the band, which has
taken up a position on a rock beetling over the road. The male portion
of us raise our hats, and remain uncovered while the anthem is played.
We are thousands of miles distant from our fatherland and our Queen,
but our hearts are as true and as loyal as though she were in the midst
of us.
This is the first time that the Himalaya mountains have listened to the
joyous sound of music. We have danced to music within doors; but never,
until this day, have we heard a band in the open air in the Himalaya
mountains. How wonderful is the effect! From valley to valley echo
carries the sound, until at last it seems as though
Every mountain now had found a band.
Long after the strain has ceased with us, we can hear it penetrating
into and reverberating amidst regions which the foot of man has never
yet trodden, and probably will never tread. The sun has gone down, but
his light is still with us.
Back to the club! Dinner is served. We sit down, seventy-five of us.
The fare is excellent, and the champagne has been iced in the hail
which fell the other night, during a storm. Jack Apsley is on my
right, and I have thrice begged of him to remember that he must not
stay later than half-past twelve; and he has thrice responded that
Mary has given him an extension of leave until daylight. Jack and I
were midshipmen together, some years ago, in a line-of-battle ship
that went by the name of the House of Correction. And there is Wywell
sitting opposite to us--Wywell who was in the frigate which belonged to
our squadron--the squadron that went round the world, and buried the
commodore, poor old Sir James! in Sydney churchyard. Fancy we three
meeting again in the Himalaya mountains!
The cloth is removed, for the dinner is over. The president of the
club--the gentleman who founded it--rises. He is a very little man of
seventy years of age--fifty-three of which have been spent in India. He
is far from feeble, and is in full possession of all his faculties. His
voice is not loud, but it is very distinct, and pierces the ear.
They do not sit long after dinner at the club. It is only nine, and the
members are already diminishing. Some are off to the billiard-room,
to smoke, drink brandy-and-water, and look on at the play. The whist
parties are now at work, and seven men are engaged at brag. A few
remain; and, drawing their chairs to the fireplace, form a ring and
chat cosily.
Halloa! what is this? The club-house is heaving and pitching like a
ship at anchor in a gale of wind. Some of us feel qualmish. It is a
shock of an earthquake; and a very violent shock. It is now midnight.
A thunderstorm is about to sweep over Mussoorie. Only look at that
lurid forked lightning striking yonder hill, and listen to that
thunder! While the storm lasts, the thunder will never for a second
cease roaring; for, long before the sound of one peal has died away, it
will be succeeded by another more awful. And now, look at the Dhoon!
Those millions of acres are illuminated by incessant sheet lightning.
How plainly we discern the trees and the streams in the Dhoon, and
the outline of the pass which divides the Dhoon from the plains. What
a glorious panorama! We can see the black clouds descending rapidly
towards the Dhoon, and it is not until they near that level land that
they discharge the heavy showers with which they are laden. What a
luxury would this storm be to the inhabitants of the plains; but it
does not extend beyond the Dhoon. We shall hear the day after to-morrow
that not a single drop of rain has fallen at Umballah, Meerut, or
Saharunpore.
The party from the billiard-room has come up to have supper, now that
the storm is over. They are rather noisy; but the card-players take no
heed of them. They are too intent upon their play to be disturbed. Two
or three of the brag party call for oyster-toast to be taken to the
table, and they devour it savagely while the cards are dealt round,
placing their lighted cheroots meanwhile on the edge of the table.
And now there is singing--comic and sentimental. "Isle of Beauty" is
followed by the "Steam Leg," the "Steam Leg" by the "Queen of the May,"
the "Queen of the May" by the facetious version of "George Barnwell,"
and so on. Jack Apsley--who has ascertained that dear Mary is quite
safe, and not at all alarmed--is still here, and is now singing "Rule,
Britannia," with an energy and enthusiasm which are at once both
pleasing and ridiculous to behold. He has been a soldier for upwards
of sixteen years; but the sailor still predominates in his nature;
while his similes have invariably reference to matters connected with
ships and the sea. He told me just now, that when he first joined his
regiment, he felt as much out of his element as a live dolphin in a
sentry-box, and he has just described his present colonel as a man
who is as touchy as a boatswain's kitten. Apsley's Christian name is
Francis, but he has always been called Jack, and always will be.
It is now broad daylight, and high time for a man on sick-leave to
be in bed. How seedy and disreputable we all look, in our evening
dresses and patent-leather boots. And observe this carnation in my
button-hole--the gift of Mrs. Apsley; she gave it to me on the mall.
The glare of the lights, and the atmosphere of smoke in which I have
been sitting part of the night, have robbed it of its freshness, its
bloom, and perfume. I am sorry to say it is an emblem of most of us.
Go home, Apsley! Go home, reeking of tobacco-smoke and
brandy-and-water--with your eyes like boiled gooseberries, your hair in
frightful disorder--go home! You will probably meet upon the mall your
three beautiful children, with their rosy faces all bloom, and their
breath, when they press their glowing lips to those feverish cheeks
of yours, will smell as incense, and make you ashamed of yourself. Go
home, Jack. I will tiff with you to-day at half-past two.
* * * * *
Two young gentlemen were victimized last night at the brag party. The
one, a lieutenant of the N. I. Buffs, lost six thousand rupees; the
other, a lieutenant of the Foot Artillery, four thousand. The day after
to-morrow, the first of the month, will be settling day. How are they
to meet these debts of honour? They have nothing but their pay, and
must borrow from the banks. That is easily managed. The money will
be advanced to them on their own personal security, and that of two
other officers in the service. They must also insure their lives. The
premium and the interest together will make them forfeit fourteen per
cent. per annum on the sum advanced. The loan will be paid off in three
years, by monthly instalments. The paymaster will receive an order from
the bank secretary to deduct for the bank so much per mensem from their
pay. For the next three years they will have to live very mildly indeed.
There were also two victims (both youngsters) to billiards. One lost
three thousand rupees in bets, another two thousand five hundred by
bad play. They too, will have to fly for assistance to the banks.
Captains Locke and Bunyan won, between them, last night, one thousand
four hundred pounds. There was but little execution done at whist. Not
more than one hundred and fifty pounds changed hands. Those four men
who play regularly together, and who never exceed their usual bets,
have very little difference between them at the end of each month--not
thirty pounds either way. This will not hurt them; for they have all
good appointments, and have private property besides.
I find, on going to tiffin at Jack Apsley's, that Mrs. Jack has heard
all about the winnings and losings at the club. Some man went home and
told his wife, and she has told everybody whom she has seen. In a short
time the news will travel to head-quarters at Simlah, and out will come
a general order on gambling, which general order will be read aloud at
the Himalaya Club, with comments by the whole company--comments which
will be received with shouts of laughter. Some youngsters will put the
general order into verse, and send it to a newspaper. This done, the
general order will be converted into pipe-lights. This is no doubt very
sad; but I have no time to moralize. My duty is simply to paint the
picture.
Mrs. Apsley is not angry with her husband for staying up till daylight.
She thinks a little dissipation does him good; and it is but a very
little that Jack indulges in, for he is a good husband and a good
father. Jack has a severe headache, but he won't confess it. He says
he never touched the champagne, and only drank two glasses of brandy
and water. But who ever did touch the champagne, and who ever did drink
any more than two glasses of brandy and water? Jack came home with
his pockets filled with almonds, raisins, prunes, nutcrackers, and
two liqueur glasses; but how they got there he has not the slightest
idea--but I have. Wywell, from a sideboard, was filling his pockets all
the while he was singing "Rule, Britannia."
"Mrs. Apsley, I have some news for you."
"What is it, Captain Wall?"
"The club gives a ball on the 7th of June."
"You don't say so."
"And what is more, a fancy ball."
The tiffin is brought in. Mulligatawny soup and rice, cold lamb and
mint sauce, sherry and beer. The Apsleys are very hospitable people;
but Mary, who rules the household, never exceeds her means for the sake
of making a display.
The soup and a glass of wine set Jack up; and he becomes quite chirpy.
He proposes that he and I and Wywell shall go to the fancy ball as
middies, and that Mary shall appear as Black-eyed Susan. Then, darting
off at a tangent, he asks me if I remember when we were lying off Mount
Edgecombe, just before sailing for South America? But he requires a
little more stimulant, for the tears are glistening in his soft blue
eyes when he alludes to the death of poor Noel, a middy whom we buried
in the ocean a few days before we got to Rio. In a very maudlin way
he narrates to his wife the many excellent qualities of poor Noel.
She listens with great attention; but, observing that his spontaneous
emotion is the result of the two over-night glasses of brandy--plus
what he cannot remember drinking over-night--she suggests that Jack
shall make some sherry cobbler. What a jewel of a woman art thou, Mrs.
Apsley! Several of the men who returned home, as Jack did, none the
better for their potations, have been driven by their wives' reproaches
to the club, where they are now drinking brandy and soda-water to
excess; while here is your spouse as comfortable as a cricket on a
hearth; and now that he confesses he was slightly screwed, you, with
quiet tact, contradict his assertion.
For the next week the forthcoming fancy ball to be given by the club
will be the chief topic of conversation amongst the visitors at
Mussoorie. Mrs. Ludlam is in immense demand. She knows the character
that each lady will appear in; but it is useless to attempt to extract
from her the slightest particle of information on that head. This ball
will be worth seven hundred and fifty rupees to Mrs. Ludlam.
Let us keep away from the club for a few days; for, after several
officers have been victimized at play, their friends are apt to talk
about the matter in an unpleasant manner. This frequently leads to a
quarrel, which I dislike to witness.
Where shall we go? To the Dhoon. It is very hot there; but never mind.
No great-coat, no fires, an hour hence; but the very lightest of
garments and a punkah. The thermometer is at eighty-five degrees there.
The Dhoon is not a healthy place in the summer. It must have been the
bed of an enormous lake, or small inland sea. Its soil being alluvial,
will produce anything: every kind of fruit, European and tropical. You
may gather a peach and a plantain out of the same garden. Some of the
hedges in this part of the world are singularly beautiful, composed
of white and red cluster roses and sweetbriers. There is an excellent
hotel in the Dhoon, where we are sure to meet people whom we know.
Sure enough, I find a Party of five at the hotel; all club men, and
intimate friends of mine. They, too, have come down to avoid being
present on the first settling day; for if there should be any duelling,
it is just possible that some of us might be asked to act as second.
We must dine off sucking-pig in the Dhoon. The residents at Mussoorie
used to form their pig-parties in the Dhoon, just as the residents of
London form their whitebait banquets at Greenwich. I once took a French
gentleman, who was travelling in India, to one of these pig-parties,
and he made a very humorous note of it in his book of travel, which he
showed to me. Unlike most foreigners who travel in English dominions,
he did not pick out and note down all the bad traits in our character;
but gave us credit for all those excellent points which his experience
of mankind in general enabled him to observe.
The Governor-General's body-guard is quartered just now in the Dhoon,
and there is a Goorkha regiment here. The Dhoon will send some twenty
couples to the fancy ball on the 7th. Every lady in the place has
at this moment a Durzee (man tailor) employed in her back verandah
dress-making. We are admitted to the confidence of Mrs. Plowville, who
is going as Norma. And a very handsome Norma she will make; she being
rather like Madame Grisi--and she knows it.
We return to the club on the 2nd of June. There has been a serious
dispute, and a duel has been fought; but happily, no blood shed.
The intelligence of the gambling at the club has reached the
Commander-in-Chief at Simlah; and he has ordered that the remainder of
the leave granted to Captains Locke and Bunyan be cancelled, and that
those officers forthwith join their respective regiments. The victims
also have been similarly treated; yet every one of these remanded
officers came up here on medical certificate.
It is the morning of the 7th of June. The stewards of the ball are
here, there, and everywhere, making arrangements. Several old hands,
who hate and detest balls, and who voted against this ball, are walking
about the public room, protesting that it is the greatest folly they
ever heard of. And in their disgust they blackball two candidates for
admission who are to be balloted for on the 10th instant. They complain
that they can get no tiffin, no dinner, no anything. But the stewards
only laugh at them.
The supper has been supplied by Monsieur Emille, the French
restaurateur, and a very splendid supper it is. It is laid out in the
dining-room. Emille is a great artist. He is not perhaps equal to
Brazier--that great man whom Louis Philippe gave to his friend, Lord
William Bentinck, when Lord William was going out to govern India--but
Emille, nevertheless, would rank high even amongst the most skilful of
cuisiniers in Europe.
It is a quarter past nine, and we of the club are ready to receive
our guests. The ladies come in janpans; their husbands following them
on horseback or on foot. It is a beautiful moonlight night. We are
always obliged to wait upon the moon when we give a ball in Mussoorie.
Before ten o'clock the room is crowded. There are present one hundred
and thirty-six gentlemen, and seventy-five ladies. Of the former
nine-tenths are soldiers, the remainder are civilians. Of the latter,
seventy are married; the remaining five are spinsters.
Here we all are in every variety of costume--Turks, Greeks, Romans,
Bavarian broom-girls, Medoras, Corsairs, Hamlets, Othellos, Tells,
Charles the Seconds, and Quakers. Many have not come in fancy costume,
but in their respective uniforms; and where do you see such a variety
of uniforms as in an Indian ball-room? Where will you meet with so
great a number of distinguished men? There is the old general: that
empty sleeve tells a tale of the battle of Waterloo. Beside him is a
general in the Company's service, one who has recently received the
thanks of his country. He has seen seventy, but there is no man in the
room who could at this very time endure so great an amount of mental
or bodily fatigue. That youngster to the right of the general is to
be made a brevet-major and a C.B. as soon as he gets his company.
He is a hero, though a mere boy. That pale-faced civilian is a man
of great ability, and possesses administrative talents of the very
highest order. Seated on an ottoman, talking to Mrs. Hastings, is the
famous Hawkins, of the Third Dragoons. Laughing in the side doorway
is the renowned William Mumble. He is the _beau ideal_ of a dashing
soldier. Yonder is Major Starcross, whose gallantry in Affghanistan
was the theme of admiration in Europe. And there is Colonel Bolt, of
the Duke's Own. All of these men have been under very hot fire--the
hottest that even Lord Hardinge could remember. All of them are
decorated with medals and ribbons. Where will you see handsomer women
than you frequently meet in a ball-room at Mussoorie or Simlah? Amongst
those now assembled there are three who, at any court in Europe, would
be conspicuous for their personal attractions--Mrs. Merrydale, Mrs.
Plowville, and Mrs. Banks. Mrs. Apsley is a pretty little woman; but
the three to whom I have alluded are beautiful.
The dancing has commenced, and will continue until four o'clock, with
an interval of half-an-hour at supper-time. The second supper--the
ladies being gone--will then commence, and a very noisy party it will
be. Unrestrained by the presence of the fair sex, the majority of
those who remain will drink and smoke in earnest, and the chances are,
there will be several rows. Ensign Jenks, when the brandy and water
inflames him, will ask young Blackstone, of the Civil Service, what he
meant by coming up and talking to his partner during the last set of
quadrilles. Blackstone will say, the lady beckoned to him. Jenks will
say, "It is a lie!" Blackstone will rise to assault Jenks. Two men
will hold Blackstone down on his chair. The general will hear of this,
for Captain Lovelass (who is himself almost inarticulate) has said to
Jenks, "Cossider self unarrest!" Jenks will have to join his regiment
at Meerut, after receiving from the general a very severe reprimand.
While talking over the past ball, an archery meeting or a pic-nic
is sure to be suggested. It must originate at the club; without the
countenance of the club, which is very jealous of its prerogative,
no amusement can possibly be successful. A lady, the wife of a
civilian, who prided herself on her husband's lofty position, had
once the temerity to try the experiment, and actually sent round a
proposal-paper in her own handwriting, and by one of her own servants.
She failed of course. All the club people wrote the word "seen"
opposite to their names; but withheld the important word "approved."
Even the tradespeople at Mussoorie acknowledge the supremacy of the
Himalaya Club.
* * * * *
The season is over. The cold weather has commenced in the plains. It is
the 5th of October, and everybody at Mussoorie is on the move--going
down the hill, as it is called. Every house which was lately full
is now empty, and will remain so till the coming April. The only
exceptions will be the schools for young ladies and for little boys;
the convent, the branch of the North-West Bank, and the Post-Office.
Invalided officers who reside at the sanatarium during the summer will
go down the hill, and winter in Deyrah Dhoon. In another month the
mountains will be covered with snow, and it would be dangerous to walk
out on these narrow roads, few of which are railed in.
Let us sum up the events of the season. Four young men were
victimized--two at cards and two at billiards. Two duels were fought
on the day after the ball. In one of these duels an officer fell dead.
In another the offending party grievously wounded his antagonist. Four
commissions were sacrificed in consequence of these encounters. There
were two elopements. Mrs. Merrydale went off with Lieutenant Maxwell,
leaving her children under the care of the servants, until her husband
came to take them away. Mrs. Hastings, who used to bore us about the
duties of a wife, carried off that silly boy Stammersleigh. These
elopements led to two actions in H.M. Supreme Court of Calcutta, and
seven of us (four in one case and three in the other) had to leave our
regiments or appointments, and repair to the Supreme Court to give
evidence. Some of us had to travel fourteen hundred miles in the month
of May, the hottest month in India.
There was another very awkward circumstance connected with that
season at Mussoorie. The reader knows that Captains Locke and Bunyan
were ordered to join their regiments, the unexpired portion of
their leave having been cancelled by order of his Excellency the
Commander-in-Chief. In the hurry of his departure from the hills, Locke
had left in the drawer of a table a letter from Bunyan, containing a
proposal to victimize a certain officer--then in Mussoorie--in the
same manner that they had victimized one Lord George Straw; namely, to
get him to their rooms, and play at brag. Lord George Straw had lost
to these worthies eighteen hundred pounds on one eventful night. The
general opinion was, touching a very extraordinary fact connected with
the play, that Lord George had been cheated. This letter from Bunyan
to Locke was found by the servant of the officer who now occupied
the apartments recently vacated by Locke. The servant handed it to
his master, who, fancying that it was one of his own letters, began
abstractedly to read it. Very soon, however, he discovered his mistake.
But he had read sufficient to warrant his reading the whole, and he did
so. A meeting of gentlemen at the club was called; and, before long,
Locke and Bunyan left the army by sentence of a general court-martial.
I have since heard that Locke lost his ill-gotten gains in Ireland,
and became eventually a marker at a billiard-room; and that Bunyan, who
also came to poverty, was seen driving a cab for hire in Oxford-street.
It behoves me, however, to inform the reader that, recently, the tone
of Anglo-Indian society during the hot seasons is very much improved.
Six or seven years ago there never was a season that did not end as
unhappily as that which I have attempted to describe; but it is now
four years since I heard of a duel in the Upper Provinces--upwards
of four years since I heard of a victim to gambling, and nearly
three since there was an elopement. It is true that the records of
courts-martial still occasionally exhibit painful cases; but, if we
compare the past with the present, we must admit that the change is
very satisfactory. I do not attribute this altered state of things
to the vigilance of commanding officers, or the determination of the
commanders-in-chief to punish severely those who offend. It is due
chiefly to the improved tone of society in England, from which country
we get our habits and manners. The improvement in the tone of Indian
society has been very gradual. Twenty years ago India was famous for
its infamy. Ten years ago it was very bad. It is now tolerable. In
ten years from this date, if not in less time, Indian society will be
purged entirely of those evils which now prey upon it, and trials for
drunkenness and other improper conduct will happen as rarely as in
England. Year by year this communication between our fatherland and
the upper part of India will become more speedy and less expensive;
and thus will a greater number of officers be enabled to come home on
furlough for a year or two. Nothing does an Indian officer so much
good as a visit to Europe. When a man has once contracted bad habits
in India, he cannot reform in India. To be cured he must be taken away
for a while from the country. There have been instances of officers who
have had strength of mind to alter their course of life without leaving
the East; but those instances are very few.
The East India Company should do all in its power to encourage young
officers to spend a certain time every seven years in Europe. Instead
of six months' leave to the hills--which six months are spent in utter
idleness, and too frequently in dissipation--give them nine months'
leave to Europe. This would admit of their spending six months in
England, or on the Continent, where they would improve their minds and
mend their morals, as well as their constitutions.
The East India Company should also bring the Peninsular and Oriental
Company to reasonable terms for the passage of officers to and from
India. A lieutenant who wishes to come home, cannot at present get
a passage from Calcutta to Southampton under one hundred and twenty
pounds. So that he gives up more than four months' pay for being "kept"
thirty-six days on board of a steamer. Three pounds ten shillings per
diem for food and transit!