I cannot leave Meerut without taking the reader to the churchyard of
that station.
An Indian churchyard presents a very different aspect to a churchyard
in England or elsewhere. The tombs for the most part are very much
larger. When first erected or newly done up they are as white as snow,
formed, as they are generally, of chunam (plaster), which somewhat
resembles Roman cement; but after exposure to only one rainy season
and one hot weather, they become begrimed and almost black. The birds
flying from structure to structure carry with them the seeds of various
plants and herbs, and these if not speedily removed take root and
grow apace. A stranger wandering in the churchyard of Meerut might
fancy that he is amidst ruins of stupendous antiquity, if he were not
aware of the fact that fifty years have scarcely elapsed since the
first Christian corpse was deposited within those walls which now
encircle some five acres of ground, literally covered with tombs, in
every stage of preservation and decay. I was conducted in my ramble
through the Meerut churchyard by an old and very intelligent pensioner,
who had originally been a private in a regiment of Light Dragoons.
This old man lived by the churchyard, that is to say, he derived a
very comfortable income from looking after and keeping in repair the
tombs of those whose friends are now far away; but whose thoughts
nevertheless still turn occasionally to that Christian enclosure in the
land of heathens and idolaters.
"I get, sir, for this business," said the old man, pointing with his
stick to a very magnificent edifice, "two pounds a year. It is not
much, but it is what I asked, and it pays me very well, sir. And if you
should go back to England, and ever come across any of her family, I
hope, sir, you will tell them that I do my duty by the grave; not that
I think they have any doubt of it, for they must know--or, leastways,
they have been told by them they can believe--that if I never received
a farthing from them I would always keep it in repair, as it is now.
God bless her, and rest her soul! She was as good and as beautiful a
woman as ever trod this earth."
"Who was she?"
"The wife of an officer in my old regiment, sir. I was in her husband's
troop. He's been out twice since the regiment went home, only to visit
this grave; for he has long since sold out of the service, and is a
rich gentleman. The last time he came was about five years ago. He
comes what you call _incog._; nobody knows who he is, and he never
calls on anybody. All that he now does in this country is to come
here, stop for three days and nights, putting up at the dâk bungalow,
and spending his time here, crying. It is there that he stands, where
you stand now, fixing his eyes on the tablet, and sometimes laying his
head down on the stone, and calling out her name: 'Ellen! Ellen! My own
dear Ellen!' He did love her, sure_ly_, sir."
"Judging from the age of the lady, twenty-three, and the date of her
death, he must be rather an old man now."
"Yes, sir. He must be more than sixty; but his love for her memory
is just as strong as ever. She died of a fever, poor thing. And for
that business," he again pointed with his stick to a tomb admirably
preserved, "I used to get two pounds ten shillings a-year. That is the
tomb of a little girl of five years old, the daughter of a civilian.
The parents are now dead. They must be, for I have not heard of 'em or
received anything from 'em for more than six years past."
"Then who keeps the tomb in repair?"
"I do, sir. When I am here, with my trowel and mortar, and whitewash,
why shouldn't I make the outside of the little lady's last home on
earth as bright and as fair as those of her friends and neighbours?
I have a nursery of 'em, as I call it, over in yonder corner--the
children's corner. Some of 'em are paid for, others not; but when I'm
there doing what's needful, I touch 'em up all alike, bless their
dear little souls. And somehow or other every good action meets its
own reward, and often when we least expect it. Now, for instance, sir,
about three years and a half ago, I was over there putting the nursery
in good order, when up comes a grey-headed gentleman, and looks about
the graves. Suddenly he stopped opposite to one and began to read, and
presently he took out his pocket handkerchief and put it to his eyes.
"'Did you know that little child, sir?' said I, when it was not
improper to speak. 'Know it?' said he, 'yes. It was my own little
boy.' 'Dear me, sir!' I answered him. 'And you are, then, Lieutenant
Statterleigh?' 'I was,' said he; 'but I am now the colonel of a
regiment that has just come to India, and is now stationed at Dinapore.
But tell me, who keeps this grave in order?' 'I do, sir,' says I.
'At whose expense?' says he. 'At nobody's, sir,' says I. 'It is kept
in order by the dictates of my own conscience. Your little boy is in
good company here; and while I am whitening the tombs of the other
little dears, I have it not in my heart to pass by his without giving
it a touch also.' Blest if he didn't take me to the house where he
was staying, and give me five hundred rupees! That sort of thing has
happened to me more than five or six times in my life, not that I ever
hope or think of being paid for such work and labour when I am about
it."
"That must have been a magnificent affair," said I, pointing to a heap
of red stone and marble. "But how comes it in ruins?"
"It is just as it was left, sir. The lady died. Her husband, a judge
here, took on terribly; and ordered that tomb for her. Some of the
stone was brought from Agra, some from Delhi; but before it was put
together and properly erected, he married again, and the work was
stopped. I was present at the funeral. There was no getting him away
after the service was over, and at last they had to resort to force and
violence--in fact, to carry him out of the yard. But the shallowest
waters, as the proverb says, sir, always make the most noise, while
those are the deepest that flow on silently. Yonder is a funny tomb,
sir," continued the old man, again pointing with his stick. "There!
close to the tomb of the lady which I first showed you."
"How do you mean funny?" I asked, observing nothing particular in the
structure.
"Well, sir, it is funny only on account of the history of the two
gentlemen whose remains it covers," replied the old man, leading me
to the tomb. "One of these young gentlemen, sir, was an officer--a
lieutenant--in the Bengal Horse Artillery; the other was an ensign in a
Royal Regiment of the Line. There was a ball, and by some accident that
beautiful lady of our regiment had engaged herself to both of them for
the same dance. When the time came, both went up and claimed her hand.
Neither of them would give way, and the lady not wishing to offend
either by showing a preference, and finding herself in a dilemma,
declined to dance with either. Not satisfied with this, they retired
to the verandah, where they had some high words, and the next morning
they met, behind the church there, and fought a duel, in which both of
them fell, mortally wounded. They had scarcely time to shake hands with
one another when they died. In those days matters of the kind were very
easily hushed up; and it was given out, though everybody knew to the
contrary, that one had died of fever and the other of cholera, and they
were both buried side by side in one grave; and this tomb was erected
over them at the joint expense of the two regiments to which they
belonged. I get ten rupees a year for keeping this grave in order."
"Who pays you?"
"A gentleman in Calcutta, a relation of one of them. I'll tell you
what it is, sir. This foolish affair, which ended so fatally, sowed
the seeds of the fever that carried off that beautiful and good woman
yonder. She was maddened by the thought of being the cause of the
quarrel in which they lost their lives. I knew them both, sir, from
seeing them so often on the parade ground and at the band-stand; very
fine young men they were, sir. Yes; here they sleep in peace."
"Whose tombs are those?" I asked, pointing to some two or three
hundred which were all exactly alike, and in three straight lines; in
other words, three deep.
"Those are the tombs of the men of the Cameronians, sir. These graves
are all uniform, as you observe. Fever made sad havoc with that
regiment. They lost some three companies in all. Behind them are the
tombs of the men of the Buffs, and behind them the tombs of the men of
other Royal Regiments of Infantry--all uniform you see, sir; but those
of each regiment rather differently shaped. To the right, flanking the
Infantry tombs, are the tombs of the men of the Cavalry, 8th and 11th
Dragoons, and 16th Lancers. In the rear of the Cavalry are the tombs
of the Horse and Foot Artillerymen--all uniform you see, sir. Egad! if
they could rise just now, what a pretty little army they would form, of
all ranks, some thousands of 'em, and well officered, too, they would
be; and here a man to lead them. This is the tomb of Major-General
Considine, one of the most distinguished men in the British army. He
was the officer that the Duke of Wellington fixed upon to bring the
53rd Foot into good order, when they ran riot in Gibraltar some years
ago. This is the tomb of General Considine, rotting and going rapidly
to decay, though it was only built in the year 1845. A great deal of
money is squandered in the churchyards in India. Tombs are erected,
and at a great expense frequently. After they are once put up it is
very seldom that they are visited or heeded. Tens of thousands of
pounds have been thrown away on the vast pile of bricks and mortar and
stone that you now see within this enclosure, and with the exception
of a few all are crumbling away. A Hindoo--a sweeper--said to me the
other day in this graveyard, 'Why don't you English burn your dead as
we do, instead of leaving their graves here, to tell us how much you
can neglect them and how little you care for them? What is the use
of whitening a few sepulchres amidst this mass of black ruin?' I had
no answer to give the fellow, sir; indeed the same thought had often
occurred to me while at work in this wilderness. Do you not think,
sir, that the government, through its own executive officers, ought
to expend a few hundred pounds every year on these yards, in order to
avert such a scandal and disgrace? I do not speak interestedly. I have
as much already on my hands as I can perform, if not more; but I do
often think that there is really some reason in the remarks of that
sweeper. All these graves that you see here so blackened and left to go
to ruin, are the graves of men who have served their country and died
in its service. Very little money would keep the yard free from this
grass and these rank weeds, and very little more would make all these
tombs fit to be seen; for neither labour nor whitewash is expensive in
this part of the world. One would hardly suppose, on looking about him
just now, that the sons and daughters of some of the best families
in England are buried here, and that in a very short time no one will
be able to distinguish the spot where each is lying; so defaced and
so much alike will all the ruins become. What, sir, I repeat, is the
use of throwing away money in building tombs, if they are not kept in
repair? Instead of laying out fifty or a hundred pounds on a thing like
this, why not lay out only five pounds on a single head-stone, and put
the rest out at interest to keep it up?"
"Or a small slab with an iron railing round it?"
"Ah, sir; but then you would require an European to remain here, and a
couple of native watchmen to see that the railings were not carried off
by the villagers. As it is, they never allow an iron railing to remain
longer than a week, or so long as that. They watch for an opportunity,
jump over this low wall, and tear them down, or wrench them off and
away with them."
"But surely there is some one to watch the yard?"
"Yes, two sweepers--men of the lowest caste of Hindoos. And when it
is found out that a grave has been plundered of its railings, or that
the little marble tablet, which some have, has been taken away, they
deny all knowledge of the matter, and are simply discharged, and two
others of the same caste are put into their places. It would not be
much to build a comfortable little bungalow for an European--a man
like myself, for instance--and give the yard into his charge, holding
him responsible for any damage done, and requiring him to see that
the grave of every Christian--man, woman, and child--is kept in good
order. But horrible as is the condition of this churchyard--looking
as it does, for the most part, more like a receptacle for the bodies
of felons than those of good and brave soldiers and civilians, and
their wives and children--it is really nothing when compared with the
graveyard of Kernaul. Kernaul, you know, sir, was our great frontier
station some twenty years ago. It was, in fact, as large a station
as Umballah now is. It had its church, its play-house, its barracks
for cavalry, infantry, and artillery, its mess-houses, magnificent
bungalows, and all the rest of it. For some reason or other--but
what that reason was I could, never discover, nor anybody else to my
knowledge--the station was abandoned with all its buildings, which
cost the government and private individuals lacs and lacs of rupees.
You may be pretty sure that the villagers were not long in plundering
every house that was unprotected. Away went the doors and windows,
the venetians, and every bar, bolt, nail, or bit of iron upon which
they could lay their fingers; not content with this, the brutes set
fire to many or nearly all of the thatched bungalows, in the hope of
picking up something amongst the ruins. The church--the largest and
best in the Upper Provinces, with no one to take care of it--was one
of the first places that suffered. Like the other buildings, it was
despoiled of its doors, windows, benches, bolts, nails, &c., and
they carried away every marble tablet therein erected, and removeable
without much difficulty. And the same kind of havoc was made in
the burial-ground--the tombs were smashed, some of the graves, and
especially the vaults, opened; and plainly enough was it to be seen,
that the low caste men had broken open the coffins and examined their
contents, in the hope of finding a ring, or an ear-ring, or some other
ornament on the person of the dead. I went there a year ago on some
business connected with the grave of a lady, whose husband wished her
remains to be removed to Meerut, and placed in the same vault with
those of his sister, who died here about eighteen months since. I was
not successful, however. There was no trace of her tomb. It was of
stone, and had been taken away bodily, to pave the elephant shed or
camel yard, perhaps, of some rich native in the neighbourhood. Looking
around me, as I did, and remembering Kernaul when it was crowded with
Europeans, it seemed to me as though the British had been turned out
of the country by the natives, and that the most sacred spot in the
cantonment had been desecrated out of spite or revenge. And it is just
what they would do if ever they got the upper hand."
[Whilst I write, it has just occurred to me that this old soldier and
his family perished in the massacre at Meerut on the 10th of May.
He was in some way related to, or connected by marriage with, Mrs.
Courtenay, the keeper of the hotel, who, with her nieces, was so
barbarously murdered on that disastrous occasion.]
"Why, bless my soul!" exclaimed the old man, stooping down and picking
up something, "if the old gentleman hasn't shed his skin again! This
is the skin of a very large snake, a cobra capella, that I have known
for the last thirteen years. He must be precious old from his size, the
slowness of his movements, and the bad cough he has had for the last
four or five years. Last winter he was very bad indeed, and I thought
he was going to die. He was then living in the ruins of old General
Webster's vault and coughing continually, just like a man with the
asthma. However, I strewed a lot of fine ashes and some bits of wool
in the ruin to keep him warm by night, and some fine white sand at the
entrance, upon which he used to crawl out and bask, when the sun had
made it hot enough; and when the warm weather set in he got all right
again."
"Rather a strange fancy of yours, to live upon such amicable terms with
the great enemy of the human race?"
"Well, perhaps it is. But he once bit and killed a thief who came
here to rob a child's grave of the iron railings, which its parents,
contrary to my advice, had placed round it, and ever since then I have
liked the snake, and have never thought of molesting him. I have had
many an opportunity of killing him (if I had wished to do it) when I
have caught him asleep on the tombstones, in the winter's sun. I could
kill him this very day--this very hour--if I liked, for I know where
he is at this very moment. He is in a hole, close to the Ochterlony
monument there, in that corner of the yard. But why should I hurt him?
He has never offered to do me any harm, and when I sing, as I sometimes
do, when I am alone here at work on some tomb or other, he will crawl
up, and listen for two or three hours together. One morning, while he
was listening, he came in for a good meal which lasted him some days."
"How was this?"
"I will tell you, sir. A minar was chased by a small hawk, and in
despair came and perched itself on the top of a most lofty tomb at
which I was at work. The hawk, with his eyes fixed intently on his
prey, did not, I fancy, see the snake lying motionless in the grass;
or if he did see him he did not think he was a snake, but something
else--my crowbar, perhaps. After a little while the hawk pounced down,
and was just about to give the minar a blow and a grip, when the snake
suddenly lifted his head, raised his hood, and hissed. The hawk gave
a shriek, fluttered, flapped his wings with all his might, and tried
very hard to fly away. But it would not do. Strong as the eye of the
hawk was, the eye of the snake was stronger. The hawk for a time seemed
suspended in the air; but at last he was obliged to come down, and
sit opposite to the old gentleman (the snake) who commenced, with his
forked tongue, and keeping his eyes upon him all the while, to slime
his victim all over. This occupied him for at least forty minutes, and
by the time the process was over the hawk was perfectly motionless. I
don't think he was dead. But he was very soon, however, for the old
gentleman put him into a coil or two, and crackled up every bone in
the hawk's body. He then gave him another sliming, made a big mouth,
distended his neck till it was as big round as the thickest part of my
arm, and down went the hawk like a shin of beef into a beggarman's bag."
"And what became of the minar?"
"He was off like a shot, sir, the moment his enemy was in trouble, and
no blame to him. What a funny thing nature is altogether, sir! I very
often think of that scene when I am at work here."
"But this place must be infested with snakes?"
"I have never seen but that one, sir, and I have been here for a long
time. Would you like to see the old gentleman, sir? As the sun is up,
and the morning rather warm, perhaps he will come out, if I pretend to
be at work and give him a ditty. If he does not, we will look in upon
him."
"Come along," said I.
I accompanied the old man to a tomb, close to the monument beneath
which the snake was said to have taken up his abode. I did not go very
near to the spot, but stood upon a tomb with a thick stick in my
hand, quite prepared to slay the monster if he approached me; for from
childhood I have always had an instinctive horror of reptiles of every
species, caste, and character.
The old man began to hammer away with his mallet and chisel, and to
sing a very quaint old song which I had never heard before, and have
never heard since. It was a dialogue or duet between the little finger
and the thumb, and began thus. The thumb said:
"Dear Rose Mary Green!
When I am king, little finger, you shall be queen."
The little finger replied:
"Who told you so, Thummy, Thummy? Who told you so?"
The thumb responded:
"It was my own heart, little finger, who told me so!"
The thumb then drew a very flattering picture of the life they would
lead when united in wedlock, and concluded, as nearly as I can
remember, thus:
THUMB.
"And when you are dead, little finger, as it may hap,
You shall be buried, little finger, under the tap."
LITTLE FINGER.
"Why, Thummy, Thummy? Why, Thummy, Thummy? Why, Thummy,
Thummy--_Why_?"
THUMB.
"That you may drink, little finger, when you are dry?"
But this ditty did not bring out the snake. I remarked this to the
old man, who replied: "He hasn't made his toilet yet--hasn't rubbed
his scales up, sir; but he'll be here presently. You will see. Keep
your eye on that hole, sir. I am now going to give him a livelier tune,
which is a great favourite of his"; and forthwith he struck up an old
song, beginning
"'Twas in the merry month of May,
When bees from flower to flower did hum."
Out came the snake before the song was half over! Before it was
concluded he had crawled slowly and (if I dare use such a word) rather
majestically, to within a few paces of the spot where the old man was
standing.
"Good morning to you, sir," said the old man to the snake. "I am happy
to see you in your new suit of clothes. I have picked up your old suit,
and I have got it in my pocket, and a very nice pair of slippers my old
wife will make out of it. The last pair that she made of your rejected
apparel were given as a present to Colonel Cureton, who, like myself,
very much resembled the great General Blücher in personal appearance.
Who will get the pair of which I have now the makings, Heaven only
knows. Perhaps old Brigadier White, who has also a Blücher cut about
him. What song would you like next? 'Kathleen Mavourneen?' Yes, I know
that is a pet song of yours; and you shall have it."
The old man sung the melody with a tenderness and feeling which quite
charmed me, as well as the snake, who coiled himself up and remained
perfectly still. Little reason as I had to doubt the truth of any of
the old man's statements, I certainly should have been sceptical as
to the story of the snake if I had not witnessed the scene I have
attempted to describe.
"Well, sir," said the old man, coming up to me, after he had made a
salaam to the snake and left him, "it is almost breakfast-time, and I
will, with your permission, bid you good morning."
I thanked him very much for his information, and suffered him to
depart; and then, alone, I wandered about that well-filled piece of
ground. I have always had a melancholy pleasure in strolling from
tombstone to tombstone, and reading the various epitaphs, and on that
morning, after all that I had heard from the old pensioner, I was just
in the humour for gratifying this morbid desire.
Some miles to the northward of Meerut is the station of Burnampore. No
troops are quartered here; it is what is called in India a purely civil
station, containing only a magistrate (who is also the collector of
the revenue), an assistant (a covenanted civilian), the establishment
of the office, and a small police force. To these two gentlemen and
their few subordinates were entrusted the care and the collections of a
district as large as Lancashire or Yorkshire, and containing, possibly,
as many inhabitants. The idea of two gentlemen keeping in order a
district of such dimensions was simply absurd; but they did their
best, and that was all that could be expected of them. I remained four
days and nights at Burnampore, and during that time was a guest of the
assistant magistrate, whose acquaintance I had made at Meerut. Anything
more monotonous and dreary than the existence of a gentleman stationed
at such a place it would be very difficult to imagine. My host assured
me that if it were not for an occasional visit paid by some traveller
on his way up or down the country, both himself and his superior
officer would have died of ennui. "If it were not for the shooting,
which is very good in this district," he added, "I would rather be a
permanent passenger on board ship, or the inmate of a debtors' prison
in London, or any other part of England--in either case, one would have
something like company, and one would have, at all events, a somewhat
cooler and more congenial climate."
In the district of Burnampore there are a great number of wolves, and
during my short stay, even, two were brought in, and the Government
reward (two rupees a-head) claimed upon them. These ferocious creatures
often carry off the young children of poor people and devour them.
It was in this district that "a wolf child," as the natives of India
express it, was found some years ago, and taken to Meerut, where it was
exhibited as a curiosity. "There can be no question," said my friend
and host, when I spoke to him one morning on this subject, "that the
male wolf, in all these cases, seizes and runs off with the infant, and
that when he has carried it alive to the den, the female, especially if
she happens to have cubs at the time, instead of killing and devouring,
suckles and fosters the little human being. So, after all, the story of
Romulus and Remus may not be a mere fable."
"No," said I. "But what is that Greek epigram from the Anthology of
Bland and Merivale? The she-goat that suckled the whelp of a wolf,
which wolf, when she had no more milk to give it, killed her and eat
her. Something about
'Be kind, be gentle, and do what you will,
A stubborn nature will be nature still.'"
"Yes," replied my host. "I do remember something about it; and by and
bye we will talk the matter over, and refer to the volume, which I have
amongst my books; but at present you must excuse me, for I have a duty
to perform. You may come with me and witness the operation, if you
like; but understand me, I shall not be offended if you decline to do
so."
"What operation?"
"That of hanging."
"What? Hanging! Hanging what?
"A man--a culprit--a murderer. Is is a part of my duty to see this
operation performed. Come," he added energetically, and slapping me on
the shoulder. "Come, be a sort of Selwyn for once in your life."
Whilst I was hesitating, the magistrate approached in his buggy. He
had been taking his morning drive, and had dropt in upon his assistant
to have some friendly conversation. He had forgotten all about the
forthcoming execution; and, on hearing that we were just about to start
for the spot, he very kindly offered to take us there--an offer which
was accepted by his assistant with many thanks. So, off we drove, three
in a gig, like so many men going to witness a pugilistic encounter in
England during the beginning of the present century.
When we had arrived at the place of execution, a field some distance
from the gaol, in which had been erected a temporary gallows, I
was surprised at not finding a mob. There was no one there but the
culprit--who was eating as much rice as he could, and as fast as he
could--a couple of native policemen with drawn swords guarding him;
the gaoler, who was a Mahommedan, and a Bengalee writer (clerk), who
stood with pen, ink, and paper in hand, ready to dot down the official
particulars of the scene, preparatory to their being forwarded to
Government, according to a certain regulation.
"Is everything ready?" said the assistant magistrate to the gaoler.
"Yes, Sahib," he replied; "but he has not yet finished his breakfast."
"In one minute, Sahib," cried the culprit, who overheard the
conversation; and hastily taking into his stomach the few grains of
rice that remained upon the dish, and drinking the remainder of his
half-gallon of milk, he sprang up, and called out the word "Tyear!"
signifying "I am ready." He was then led up to the scaffold, the most
primitive affair that I ever beheld. It was only a piece of woodwork
resembling a large crock or crate in which a dinner-service is packed
for exportation. Upon this crock, which was placed under the beam, he
was requested to stand. Having obeyed this order, the rope was adjusted
around his neck. The assistant magistrate then called out to him in
Hindostanee, "Have you anything to say?"
"Yes, Sahib," was the reply. And he began a long story, false from
beginning to end, but every word of which the Bengalee writer took
down. He spoke, and with vehemence, for about thirty-five minutes,
when, having stopped, either finally, or to take breath, the assistant
magistrate gave the signal to the gaoler, by waving his hand. The crock
was then pulled from under the culprit by the two policemen, and down
dangled the culprit's body, the feet not more than eighteen inches from
the ground.
They are not adepts in the art of hanging in India; it took the culprit
at least ten minutes to die. At times I feared, so desperate were his
struggles, that he would break the beam, snap the rope, or bring down
the whole apparatus. In the days of Henry Fielding, the vulgar used to
speak of hanging as "dancing on nothing," and this horrible idea the
Indian culprit on that morning amply realised. The reader must not,
however, sympathize with his sufferings. He had been justly convicted,
and was justly put to death for murdering, in that very field where he
expiated his offence, a little girl of seven years of age, in order to
possess himself of a single bangle she wore--a bangle valued at one
rupee four annas--half-a-crown of English money. I cannot accuse myself
of a cruel or brutal disposition; but, if the monster whom I saw hanged
had had a thousand lives instead of one, I could have witnessed the
taking of every one of them without a single atom of a desire to save
him.
The cutting down of the culprit, as soon as it was discovered that
life was extinct (for as there was no crowd of pickpockets and vendors
of cakes and ginger-beer to take a moral lesson, the prescribed hour
was unnecessary) was quite as primitive as the foregoing part of the
operation. One of the native policemen with his blunt sword, severed
the rope by sawing it just above the tie, and down came the corpse.
I was tempted to jump out of the buggy in which, sitting between the
magistrate and his assistant, I had witnessed the execution, and
examine, or rather look attentively at, the deceased. A finer head, in
a phrenological point of view, I had never seen, and across the naked
chest was suspended the sacred thread, indicating that the culprit was
a Brahmin.
"Is it not very odd," said I, on my return to the buggy, "that most
of the diabolical crimes committed in this country are committed by
Brahmins?"
"Not at all odd," replied my host. "Do you not know that they believe
nothing can hurt their pure souls after death; and hence their
comparative recklessness in this world? There was a Brahmin hanged
here, about a year ago, who, just before he was turned off, made a
speech such as that made by Napoleon on paper to Sir Hudson Lowe--'You
may convict me of what you please; you may make me a prisoner; you may,
if you like, shackle these limbs, and consign me to a dungeon; but you
will find that my soul will be just as free, just as proud, as when it
awed all Europe!'"
"Ah, but that was the emanation of ----"
"What the deuce is that?" cried the magistrate, who was driving us
rapidly towards home. "See! That thing in the road." And coming up to
it, he reined in the horse.
The syce (groom), who was running behind the buggy, picked up the
object, at his master's bidding. It was a cloak--a lady's cloak--made
of most costly materials--satin and silk, and wadded throughout. It
had evidently fallen, unobserved, from some palanquin during the night,
and an examination of the footprints showed that the last traveller
who had moved along the road was journeying upward, and was then most
probably staying at the dâk bungalow, at Deobund, a halting-place
some twelve miles distant. The assistant magistrate, after we had
breakfasted, proposed that he and I should drive to Deobund, and make
inquiries. I was nothing loth, and a swift mare having been harnessed
and put to the buggy, off we started, two sowars (native horsemen or
mounted police) cantering behind us.
About two miles from the bungalow to which we were proceeding, we
overtook a tribe of large monkeys. I should say there were as many as
four hundred, and each carried a stick of uniform length and shape.
They, moved along in ranks or companies, just, in short, as though
they were imitating a wing of a regiment of infantry. At the head of
this tribe was an old and very powerful monkey, who was no doubt the
chief. It was a very odd sight, and I became greatly interested in
the movements of the creatures. There could be no question that they
had either some business or some pleasure on hand, and the fact of
each carrying a stick led us to conclude that it was the former upon
which they were bent. Their destination was, like ours, evidently
Deobund, where there are some hundreds of monkeys fed by a number of
Brahmins, who live near a Hindoo temple there, and perform religious
ceremonies. They (this monkey regiment) would not get out of the road
on our account, nor disturb themselves in any way, and my friend was
afraid to drive through their ranks, or over any of them, for when
assailed they are most ferocious brutes, and armed as they were, and in
such numbers, they could have annihilated us with the greatest ease.
There was no help for us, therefore, but to let the mare proceed at a
walk in the rear of the tribe, the members of which, now that we were
nearing Deobund, began to chatter frightfully. Just before we came to
the bungalow, they left the road, and took the direction of the temple.
Fain would we have followed them; but to do so in the buggy would have
been impossible, for they crossed over some very rough ground and two
ditches. My friend, therefore, requested the sowars to follow them, and
report all they might observe of their actions. Meanwhile we moved off
to the bungalow, in search of the owner of the cloak. The first person
whom we saw was an ayah, who was sitting in the verandah, playing with
a child of about five years of age.
"Whose child is that?" asked the assistant-magistrate of the ayah.
"The mem-Sahib's."
"What is the mem's name?"
"I don't know," she replied, with a smile which seemed to say that
she was not warranted in being communicative. While travelling, few
servants who know their business will tell strangers the name of their
master or mistress.
"What is _your_ name?" he then inquired of the boy, in English.
"I don't understand you," was the reply, in Hindostanee, accompanied
by a shake of the head. It is wonderful how rapidly the children of
Europeans in India take a cue from a native servant of either sex. Not
always, but in very many cases, it is in deceit and falsehood that
children are first schooled by the servants. The reader must understand
that deceit and falsehood are not regarded as immoralities in the eyes
of Asiatics. A man or woman who, by fraud and perjury wins a cause, or
gains any other point, is not looked down upon as a rogue, but up to as
a very clever fellow. Several other experiments were made in order to
extract from the ayah the name of her mistress, but to no purpose. The
only information we could learn was, that the lady was much fatigued,
and was sleeping. We said nothing about the cloak, by the way.
The servants of the bungalow, and at Deobund (there were four of them)
now came up to make their most respectful salaam to one of the lords
of the district, the assistant-magistrate, on questioning them in
private as to the name of the lady, we were in no way successful. All
that the ayah would tell them, they said, was, that she had come from
Calcutta, and was going to Simlah. "She is a burra beebee, however,
Sahib," added the Khansamah; "for all along the road, after she left
the steamer at Allahabad, until she arrived at Meerut, she was escorted
by two sowars; and when she reaches the Saharunpore bungalow, she will
find sowars ready. This is the only district in which she has had no
escort."
This was a mystery that my friend could not unravel: why, if other
magistrates had been indented upon (as magistrates very frequently
were, when ladies were nervous and travelling with only an ayah), he
should be omitted; especially as his district was as dangerous to
pass through as any other (not that there was much or any danger in
those days), was more than he could understand; and he very naturally
became all the more curious (apart from the ownership of the cloak) to
know the name of the lady who had broken the link of her escort when
she came into his district. "Perhaps," said he to me, "either I have
or my chief has given her husband some offence, and, possibly, he is
small-minded enough to decline asking me to do what after all is only a
matter of duty, or of civility and compliment, which amounts to pretty
much the same thing. However, we shall see."
My friend now mentioned to the Khansamah, a very old but very active
and intelligent man, the sight we had seen on the road--the regiment of
monkeys.
"Ah!" exclaimed the old man, "it is about the time."
"What time?"
"Well, Sahib, about every five years that tribe comes up the country to
pay a visit to this place; and another tribe comes about the same time
from the up-country--the hills. They meet in a jungle behind the old
Hindoo temple, and there embrace each other as though they were human
beings and old friends who had been parted for a length of time. I have
seen in that jungle as many as four or five thousand. The Brahmins say
that one large tribe comes all the way from Ajmere, and another from
the southern side of the country, and from Nepal and Tirhoot. There
were hundreds of monkeys here this morning, but now I do not see one. I
suppose they have gone to welcome their friends."
The sowars who had been deputed to follow the tribe now rode up, and
reported that in the vicinity of the old temple there was an army of
apes--an army of forty thousand! One of the sowars, in the true spirit
of Oriental exaggeration, expressed himself to the effect that it
would be easier to count the hairs of one's head than the number there
assembled.
"Let us go and look at them," I suggested, "and by the time we return
the lady may be stirring."
"But we will not go on foot," said my friend; "we will ride the sowars'
horses. In the first place, I have an instinctive horror of apes, and
should like to have the means of getting away from them speedily, if
they became too familiar or offensive. In the second place, I do not
wish to fatigue myself by taking so long a walk in the heat of the day."
We mounted the horses, and were soon at the spot indicated by the
sowars. There were not so many as had been represented; but I am
speaking very far within bounds when I state that there could not
have been fewer than eight thousand, and some of them of an enormous
size. I could scarcely have believed that there were so many monkeys
in the world if I had not visited Benares, and heard of the tribes at
Gibraltar. Their sticks, which were thrown together in a heap, formed a
very large stack of wood.
"What is this?" my friend said to one of the Brahmins; for since his
appointment he had never heard of this gathering of apes.
"It is a festival of theirs, Sahib," was the reply. "Just as Hindoos
at stated times go to Hurdwar, Hajipore, and other places, so do these
monkeys come to this holy place."
"And how long do they stay?"
"Two or three days; then they go away to their homes in different parts
of the country; then attend to their business for four or five years;
then come again and do festival, and so on, sir, to the end of all
time. You see that very tall monkey there, with two smaller ones on
either side of him?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, that is a very old monkey. His age is more than twenty
years, I think. I first saw him fifteen years ago. He was then
full-grown. His native place is Meerut. He lives with the Brahmins at
the Soorj Khan, near Meerut. The smaller ones are his sons, sir. They
have never been here before; and you see he is showing them all about
the place, like a very good father."
Having seen enough of these "sacred animals," we returned to the
bungalow; we were only just in time, for the lady was about to depart,
albeit the sun was very high in the heavens, and the day, for the time
of year, was extremely hot. We caught sight of her in the verandah. My
friend became deadly pale, and exclaimed: "Is it possible!"
"What?" I asked him.
"I will tell you on our way home. I must see her--speak to her--painful
as our meeting must be. Only fancy, if that cloak should be hers!"
The lady, who must have learnt from the servants at the bungalow
the name of my friend, the official, evidently desired to avoid
an interview with him; for upon our approach she retired from the
palanquin, which she was arranging, and entered hastily the room she
had occupied. We (my friend and myself) went into the other room of the
bungalow, which happened to be vacant. Presently we heard the voice
of the ayah. She was very angry and was accusing the servants of the
bungalow of being thieves. She had now, for the first time since they
were lost, missed several articles, and amongst them the cloak of her
mistress. She was perfectly ready to swear that she had seen them all
since their arrival at the bungalow; that she had removed them from
the palkees with her own hands; and if the servants had not stolen
them who had?--who could have done so? Distinctly did we hear the lady
command the ayah to be silent--to say nothing of the loss, and enter
her palanquin; but the ayah, too much enraged to hear or to heed the
command, repeated her accusation; whereupon the servants in a body
rushed into the apartment in which we were standing listening, and
after protesting their perfect innocence of the theft, referred to the
character for honesty which every one of them had borne for many years.
Strange to say, frequent as are the opportunities which the servants at
these bungalows have of pilfering from travellers, they rarely or never
avail themselves of such opportunities; and, whenever it has happened
that a lady or gentleman has died in one of them, the money and effects
have always been forthcoming, with nothing whatever missing.
The lady now forced the ayah to depart, and enter her palanquin, in
which the little boy was sitting; she was about to follow, when my
friend rushed into the verandah, and, seizing her by the hand, detained
her. She was as agitated as he was; and quite as pale. He held her
hand in his with a firm but withal a gentle grasp, and looked into her
face, which must have been beautiful when she was a few years younger.
As it was, she had still a charming profile and countenance, and a
skin as white as snow. From the window, or rather looking through the
Venetians, I beheld the scene, which reminded me of that exquisite
picture of Mr. Frank Stone--_The Last Appeal_. There was a look of
agony and despair in the face of the man; while the woman, who appeared
to sympathise with his sufferings, did not for awhile raise her eyes
from the ground. But at length she did so, and, looking mournfully into
my friend's face for a few seconds, burst into tears, and presently
her head, involuntarily as it were, rested on his shoulder. Suddenly
recollecting herself, she again attempted to take her departure; but
my friend, now grown desperate seemingly, placed her arm beneath his,
and walked with her to a clump of shade-giving mango trees, in front
of the bungalow, and there they held a conversation which lasted some
ten minutes. The lady then tore herself away from my friend, and after
bidding him farewell, she threw herself into her palanquin, which was
speedily lifted by the bearers and borne away, followed by the two
sowars, who were commanded to escort the fair traveller to the next
station. My friend, from the verandah of the bungalow, watched the
procession till it was out of sight, and then, seating himself on the
steps, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child.
"Come!" I said, after a time, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I am not
very impatient to know your secret, but it is time that we thought of
returning. What about the cloak? You have not restored it to the owner."
"No, my dear fellow, and I never intend to do so. She has consented to
my retaining it. That cloak has warmed her dear limbs, and the sight of
it shall warm my heart till the last hour of my existence."
On the way home my friend (who was accidentally drowned in the river
Jumna, about two years ago) spoke as follows:
"Ten years have now elapsed since that lady and I were
fellow-passengers on board of a ship bound from London to Calcutta.
She was then seventeen years of age, and I twenty. On the voyage we
became very much attached to each other, and eventually loved each
other devotedly. And, what was more, we were betrothed. It was arranged
that as soon as practicable we should be married, I was compelled,
on arrival, to remain at the college at Fort William for a year, to
pass an examination; she was obliged to proceed to a large station
in Bengal, to join her family. Her father was a member of the civil
service; previous to her arrival he had promised Alice (that is her
name) to an old man, a judge, who had been twice married, and who
was then a widower. This old man was very rich, and had--as he still
has--a great influence with the government. A brother of his was one
of the lords of Leadenhall-street, and of this country. For some time
after our unhappy separation we corresponded regularly; but suddenly
the correspondence ceased. Her letters to me, and mine to her, were
intercepted. Meanwhile, the old judge, to whom she had been promised,
paid his addresses to her. She refused him. Many devices were resorted
to in order to wean her affections from me. They all failed. At length
they hit upon one which had the desired effect. They caused a paragraph
to be inserted in one of the Calcutta journals, to the effect that I
had married the daughter of a half-caste merchant. Alice was permitted
to see this paper, but none of those containing my indignant denial of
the truth of the announcement.
"In disgust at my imagined faithlessness, and in despair and
recklessness, Alice at length accepted the hand of the old judge. They
were married. When made acquainted with this horrible fact, I became
half-mad. I drank very hard, had an attack of _delirium tremens_, and
was sent home for change of air and scene, to recruit my health. On
my return to India, after an absence of eighteen months, I was sent
to Dacca, where there was not the slightest chance of my ever seeing
Alice. Subsequently, I was, at my own request, transferred to these
provinces, but sent to Banda--a sort of penal settlement for refractory
civilians; not that I ever committed any offence beyond that of loving
Alice and being beloved by her. You must understand that, owing to the
influence of his brother, her old husband, shortly after his marriage
with Alice, became the great man he now is; and he had only to express
a wish in this country, touching the appointment or _dis_appointment
of any junior in the service, to have such wish instantly realised. My
only surprise is, that when it became necessary for her to pass through
this district, I was not ordered away to Scinde, on some trumpery
business, alleged to be special. Had there been any idea that we should
meet--as by the merest chance we have met--again in this world, I
should certainly have been removed, and ordered to some other station
miles away. I have never seen her since we parted in Calcutta, now more
than nine years ago, until this very day. But, thank Heaven! she loves
me still!"
"I was afraid, when I saw you talking to her beneath that clump of
trees, that----" I was about to make some observations.
"Ah, no!" he interrupted me. "There is no danger. Great and lasting
as my love for her is, I could not bear the thought of taking the
slightest advantage of her feelings; or to see her fall from the sphere
in which she holds a lofty and proud position. She is not happy,
neither am I. But spirits will recognise each other, and be united for
ever and ever. Ours is not a solitary case; sometimes when ladies in
India fall they deserve far more of pity than of blame."