I have already spoken of a German Baron and a French gentleman whom I
met at Agra, and I have said that they, like myself, were travelling in
search of the picturesque, and with a view to become acquainted with
Oriental character from personal observation.
While staying with my friend at Barnapore, I received a letter from the
former, proposing that we should meet on a certain day at Mussoorie, in
the Himalaya mountains, and travel into the interior together. I agreed
with all my heart; and my friend, the assistant magistrate, was tempted
to apply for six weeks' leave, in order that he might accompany us.
Let me describe these foreign gentlemen. They were respectively about
my own age--thirty-two--had seen a great deal of the world, and of the
society at every court and capital in Europe. They were both possessed
of considerable abilities, and of the most enviable dispositions;
always good-natured and good-tempered; patient and cheerful under those
innumerable little difficulties that almost invariably beset a wanderer
in the East, or, in fact, a wanderer in any part of the world. They
had, moreover, a keen sense of humour; and, each in his own peculiar
way, could relate a story, or an incident in his life, in such a manner
as to make it wonderfully mirth-provoking. They were men of refined
understanding and of very refined manners: take them all in all, they
were the most charming companions I ever encountered. They were utterly
devoid of vulgar nationalities--of any enthusiastic admiration of their
own fatherlands, and would just as soon ridicule the foibles peculiar
to their own countries, respectively, as the foibles of a man of any
other country. My friend the assistant magistrate was also a desirable
companion. He, too, was a good-tempered, good-humoured being, with a
keen sense of humour, and some wit. He had read a great deal of late
years, in that out-of-the-way station to which he had been appointed,
and he had profited by his reading.
It was beginning to be very hot in the plains, and my friend and myself
were not a little glad when we found ourselves on the road to a colder
clime. We drove as far as Deobund in the buggy; and, at three P.M.
threw ourselves into our palanquins (palkees), bound for Dehra Dhoon
at the foot of the hills; at which place we arrived at about nine
o'clock on the following morning, and were deposited--both of us fast
asleep--in the verandah of the hotel, kept by a Mr. William Johns, who
had been formerly a professional jockey in the North-West Provinces of
India.
So much has been written of Dehra Dhoon and Mussoorie, that even a
brief sketch of these places would be unwarranted in this narrative.
As soon as we arrived at Mussoorie we began to collect coolies
(hill-men), to carry our baggage and stores. We required in all about
one hundred and fifty for the expedition, and by the time that we had
got these people together, and made arrangements with them, and the
guides whom we required, and had laid in our stock of provisions, &c.,
the foreign gentlemen joined us, and expressed their readiness to start
at any given moment. We lingered, however, for two days, in order that
they might take some rest, and make the acquaintance of the gentlemen
at the club, who, at the instance of my friend, had made them as well
as myself honorary members of the institution.
On the third morning, in the front of the club-house, our marching
establishment was collected, and the one hundred and fifty men of
whom it was composed were laden with the baggage and stores. There
were tents, the poles thereto belonging, camp tables, chairs, beds,
bedding, leather boxes of every kind, containing our clothing, &c.,
deal chests, containing all sorts of provisions, dozens of cases of
wine--port, sherry, claret--beer, ducks, fowls, geese, guns (rifles
and others), umbrellas, great-coats, &c., &c., &c. Having seen this
train fairly off, we, the four of us, followed shortly after on foot,
and overtook them at the Landour Hill, a mountain about nine thousand
feet above the level of the sea. We were all in high spirits--including
my friend the assistant magistrate--notwithstanding he put on his lady
love's cloak as soon as we were out of sight of the club, and began to
quote in a melancholy but very loud voice, which reverberated through
the valleys on either side of us, those glorious lines of the poet
Thomson:--
"There is a power
Unseen, that rules th' illimitable world--
That guides its motions, from the brightest
Star to least dust of this sin-tainted mould;
While man, who madly deems himself the lord
Of all, is nought but weakness and dependence.
This sacred truth, by sure experience taught,
Thou must have learnt, when wandering all alone:
Each bird, each insect flitting through the sky,
Was more sufficient for itself than _thou_!"
Our first halting-place was about nine miles from Mussoorie. It was a
flat piece of ground, some distance down the southern face of the peak
over which the road wound. The place was called Sowcowlee, and here and
there were to be seen a few patches of cultivation and a cowshed. Our
course lay in the direction of Almorah, another Hill Sanatarium for the
English in India. The tents pitched, and all made snug and comfortable,
we threw ourselves down upon our beds, not to sleep, but to take some
rest after a long walk. Meanwhile our servants busied themselves in
preparing the dinner, for which the exercise and the change of air had
given us all a keen appetite.
"Well!" exclaimed my friend (whom in future we will call Mr.
West), raising to his lips a bumper of claret, and quoting from the
Sentimental Journey, "the Bourbon is not such a bad fellow, after all."
Neither the Frenchman nor the German understood the allusion; but when
it was explained they relished it amazingly. We were rather a temperate
party; and after the second bottle of wine was emptied, we caused the
glasses to be removed from our small table, and a green cloth spread
over it. We then began to play at whist--a game of which we were all
equally fond; and, what was of great consequence, we were all equal as
players. We did not gamble exactly; but the stakes were sufficiently
high to make either side attend very carefully to the game. The whist
over, we each took a tumbler of warm drink, and turned in for the
night, and slept, as the reader may imagine, very soundly.
On the following morning, at sunrise, we were awakened, and informed
that upon a hill opposite to our encampment there were several large
deer. We arose, and went in pursuit of them. After dodging them for
some time we came within range, and each of us, selecting his animal,
fired. One shot only took effect, and that was from the Baron's rifle.
During our ramble we discovered that there were plenty of pheasants
in the locality, and so we agreed to remain for the day, and, after
breakfast, see what we could do amongst them. Under the circumstances
we should have been compelled to halt, for, as is usual on such
occasions, our servants had forgotten several little matters essential
for our comfort, if not necessary for our journey, namely, the
pickles and the sauces, the corkscrew, the instrument for opening the
hermetically sealed tins containing lobsters, oysters, and preserved
soups. Amongst other things that had been left behind was the Baron's
guitar, and without it he could not, or would not, sing any of his
thousand and one famous German songs. And such a sweet voice as he had!
So, while we were amongst the pheasants, five coolies were on their way
back to Mussoorie, to bring up the missing articles above enumerated.
By two o'clock, we had bagged eleven noble birds, and returned to our
encampment, sufficiently hungry to enjoy the refreshments which the
Khansamah (butler), who was a great artist in his way, had prepared for
us. Our repast concluded, we had our camp bedsteads brought into the
open air, and threw ourselves down on them.
Holding his cigar between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand,
the Baron thus went off:--
"Who can explain the inscrutable mystery of presentiments? Who can
fathom the secret inclinations of the human heart? Who can lift the
veil of sympathy? Who can unravel the web of magnetic natures? Who
can fully comprehend that link which unites the corporeal with the
spiritual world? Who can explain that terrible symbol which pervades
so many of our dreams? The sweet anxiety that seizes us when listening
to some wonderful tale; the voluptuous shiver which agitates our frame,
the indefinite yearning which fills the heart and the soul. All this
is a guarantee that some invisible chain links our world with another.
Let no one condemn as idle nonsense that which our shallow reason may
refuse to accept. Can the most acute understanding explain, or even
comprehend, its own growth; or even the growth and colouring of a mere
flower? Is not Nature herself a perfect mystery unto the minds of
thinking men?"
"What is the matter, Baron?" asked the Frenchman. "Have you a nightmare
in this broad daylight?"
"No, no," returned the Baron, with good-natured impetuosity. "It is not
so. I wish to tell you something--a little story, if you will listen."
"Pray go on," we (his three companions) cried out, simultaneously.
"Some ten or twelve years ago," the Baron proceeded, "I was travelling
from Munich to Berlin. Tired by the continual rumbling of my carriage,
I resolved upon taking a day's rest at Augsburg. It was the day
of All Souls. The autumnal sun was shining brightly, and a large
procession went its way towards the cemetery, a mile distant from the
town. Wherefore, I know not; but I was instinctively led to join this
procession. On arriving at the cemetery we found it, comparatively,
crowded. All the graves were decked with flowers and sprigs of
young cypress, and near every stone there sat or knelt, at least,
one mourner. Tears of love and regret wetted the sacred earth. In a
singularly agitated frame of mind, I wandered through the cemetery. The
recollection of departed friends, and of dear ones far away, made me
sad, unhappy, miserable. And I could not help thinking that if I had
been then entombed, no friendly hand would on that day have deposited
a wreath or a flower upon my grave, no beloved eye shed a tear of
sorrow, no faithful heart sent up to Heaven a fervent prayer for the
eternal rest of my soul. Haunted by such gloomy thoughts, I wandered
on, and at last came to a newly-made grave. An hour previously had
been buried in that spot a young girl of seventeen years of age. The
parents and the lover of the girl stood weeping near her grave, and
her young friends adorned the mound with freshly gathered flowers.
In a fit of profound melancholy, I bent down, mechanically picked up
a half-opened rose-bud, and walked on. Approaching the gate of the
cemetery, with the intention of returning to my hotel, my eyes fell
upon a tablet upon which were engraved the following words:--'Respect
the property of the Dead. Flowers are the property of the Dead.' These
simple words made a very great impression on my already excited mind:
and glancing, involuntarily, at the rose-bud which I still held in my
hand, my heart smote me for having carried it away from the girl's
grave. I was on the point of returning to re-deposit the flower, when
an indescribably false shame prevented my doing so, and I left the
cemetery with the rose in my hand. On returning to my hotel, I put it
in a glass of water, and placed it on a small table near the head of my
bed, upon which I threw myself, and soon fell into that state which all
of you must have experienced: a state in which the senses hover between
sleep and wakefulness, as though undecided which to choose. Suddenly
my apartment was filled by a bright but soft light, without my being
able to perceive whence it came. Be it known that I had extinguished
my candle. Ere long, the door of my room was opened; and in glided,
noiselessly, a pale spectral figure, clad in a white robe, and wearing
a garland of flowers. It was the figure of a young girl, and the face
was angelic. With motionless eyes and outstretched hand she approached
my couch, and in plaintive voice asked me: 'Why hast thou robbed the
Dead? Why hast thou taken that flower which a faithful lover threw upon
my last resting-place on earth?' Seemingly my pulses ceased to beat,
and I could scarcely breathe. The phantom then stretched forth the
left hand, and took the rose out of the glass; and with the right hand
she beckoned to me, saying: 'Come! Come, and give back the property of
the Dead. Respect the property of the Dead. Come! Follow me!' In vain
I tried to resist. I arose, and followed the figure out of the room
and into the deserted streets. It was not dark; for the moon was at
her full and shining brightly. Onward stalked the figure, I followed
her towards the cemetery. We arrived at the gate. She touched it. It
opened noiselessly. We entered. She led me to the grave--the grave from
which I had taken the flower. With trembling hand I received from hers
the rose, and placed it on the very spot whence I had removed it. And
then--"
Here the Baron paused--and relighted his cigar.
"Well--and then?" we all asked.
"Then," replied the Baron, "I awoke--that is to say, if I had ever been
asleep. And looking in the tumbler in which I had placed the rose, I
discovered that it was gone."
"The chambermaid, possibly; or the waiter, who may have entered your
apartment for orders, may have seen, admired, and carried it away while
you were slumbering," suggested the lively Frenchman; "and a very lucky
fellow you were, not to have missed your watch and your purse at the
same time and place."
"No," said the Baron, shaking his head.
"Perhaps," said Mr. West, "you had taken more wine than usual?"
"No," was the reply. "The truth is that the story I have related to you
was written by that great Austrian wit and satirist, Saphir. It was one
of his earlier compositions, which, strange to say, were all of a very
melancholy cast. Saphir, however, to this day asserts that his story of
'The Death Rose' is a fact, and that it happened to himself."
One by one, we dropped off to sleep, and slept for about an hour
and a-half. On awakening, the Frenchman, West, and myself, almost
simultaneously exclaimed, "Confound your Death Rose, Baron!" for the
truth was that the story had taken possession of our senses, while we
were asleep.
"I thought it would," said the Baron laughing. "Everybody dreams of the
Death Rose after I have told the story. But, ah! See in the distance!
Here are the coolies returning! I can make out my guitar-box on the
head of one man. Ah! to-night we will sing plenty of songs!"
And in the evening the Baron sang for several hours (we could have
listened to him all night) some of the most sentimental, and some of
the most humorous songs that I had ever heard. Fortunately I knew
enough of German to appreciate them; and my friend, Mr. West, was
equally fortunate. As for the Frenchman he understood and spoke--albeit
very imperfectly--every language current in Europe. On that night we
retired before twelve, for we had agreed to rise and proceed early on
the morrow.
In pursuance of such agreement, as soon as the day dawned we struck
our tents, packed up our traps, loaded the coolies, and set out for a
place called Demooltee, distant some fourteen or fifteen miles. The
road, which had been very, very seldom travelled over by Europeans,
was a narrow and bad road, winding round and leading over lofty peaks,
some ten or eleven thousand feet above the level of the sea. Above us
and below us we frequently saw herds of Ghooral and other deer; but as
we could not, or would not rather, have stayed to pick up any that we
might kill, we suffered them to graze on, and preserved our ammunition.
By the way we saw an animal which none of as had ever seen before--an
animal called the Seron. It is a species of chamois, but larger and
stronger. Its colour was reddish, and it had a quantity of stiff, short
hair on the neck, which gave it the appearance of a hogged mane. The
native guides told us that it was a very shy animal, and only to be
found where there was a great quantity of wood. The scenery of this
part, in March, was exceedingly beautiful and varied. At times we had
a good view of Mussoorie and the surrounding country. At other times
we moved through vast forests of pine, and woods of oak, rhododendron,
and other magnificent trees. In the midst of one of these woods our
halting-place was situated, a large grassy flat, bounded on either side
by a deep and steep precipice, while in every direction the surrounding
mountains, which locked us in, were covered thickly with trees.
"What fools men are," exclaimed the Baron, whilst the servants were
unpacking, "to huddle themselves together in old countries when lands
like these remain uncultivated and unenjoyed! And what fools are those
travellers who go, year after year, gazing on comparatively paltry
mountains and lakes which the eyes of the vulgar of all nations have
beheld, when such fresh and gorgeous scenery as this may be looked at!
Travelling in Switzerland and Italy--bah!"
"But, my dear Baron," said the Frenchman, "you forget that the
Peninsular and Oriental Company demand four pounds a day for conveying
you from England to India, in consequence, they say, of the dearness of
coals."
"Ah! well," laughed the Baron, opening with his own hand a bottle of
hock, and emptying the contents into a silver tankard, "if you regard
the matter in an economical point of view, you at once cut short my
argument and my sentiment. Egad! what grapes could be grown on yonder
hill, in that warm valley! What wine could be grown there! I will come
out to this country with a few German peasants. I will have vineyards.
I will make a fortune so colossal that Rothschild, when he is in
difficulties, will have to write to me. Yes, I will. The thing is to be
done, and I will do it."
"But you forget," said Mr. West, "that you are now some twelve or
thirteen hundred miles from the nearest sea-port, Calcutta, and that
there would be some little difficulty in transmitting the produce to
Europe."
"Europe! Europe! Why do you talk of Europe? Does not British India
contain enough of Europeans to make a market? This bottle of good wine
which we are going to drink costs twelve shillings in this country.
I could grow it, make it, and sell it for one shilling a bottle! Ah!
you may laugh; but I tell you this is the fact. I am a proprietor
of vineyards, and do not speak at random like a schoolboy, or an
enthusiast. The natives of the country would soon learn that art--for
an art it is--of wine-making; and, as for the soil, it is superb. Yes!
Grow wine, which would do your soldiers good. Generous wine, instead
of that blood-drying, brain-consuming, soul-destroying arrack--your
horrible grogs, and your bile-making beers."
"But we have no roads, Baron."
"True! But is there a scarcity of labour in India? Are pickaxes,
shovels, spades, saws, and gunpowder to blast rocks, so expensive that
a government cannot procure them? Roads! My good sir, only a few years
ago there was no road over the Splügen! The time was when you had no
road from Calcutta to Benares. You have no roads! Well, make them. The
wine and the tea that you grow will more than pay for them, as well as
remunerate the growers."
"The tea?" asked Mr. West.
"Yes, the tea, I said!" returned the Baron. "You have discovered that
you can grow tea in the lower range of these mountains, and you do grow
it in small quantities; now why not, having made the experiment, grow
it in _large_ quantities? I would say to Mr. Chinaman, 'I thank you
very much, but I do not want any more of your tea. You are insolent,
overbearing, and insulting in your dealings with me, and now you may
drink your own tea, and I will drink _my_ own tea; and, if you like,
you may stir yours with your own pigtail. We will bring China into our
own dominions, for God has given to this climate and to this soil the
same properties as your soil and climate possess.' I do not say it,
as you know, with any sort of intention to offend, but the result of
my experience leads me to believe that the government of this country
is, in all matters (save annexation), as slow as the government of
the Dutch was in by-gone days. There is a listlessness and a languor
about its movements; a want of everything in the shape of society and
enterprise, and seemingly such an earnest desire to discourage the
efforts of those who would in reality develop the resources of India,
that I am astonished any man unconnected with the services should
persevere in the attempt to make a living in the Eastern British
dominions."
"I quite agree with you," said Mr. West, "especially as regards that
portion of your remarks which relates to the obstacles thrown in the
way of enterprising Englishmen. I have been a member of the Civil
Service for nearly ten years, and have always been impressed with the
idea that the policy of the government in respect to settlers in
India, was and is a very erroneous policy."
The conversation here was brought abruptly to a close by the approach
of one of the guides, who, in a very confidential manner, imparted to
us that there was a kakur (a barking deer) grazing on a crag not far
from the encampment. So we seized our guns, went in pursuit, and were
fortunate enough to kill the animal. His bark resembles exactly that of
a Skye-terrier when very much excited. On our return to the encampment
we encountered a huge bear, and succeeded in killing and carrying him
to the door of our tent, where the natives skinned him and deprived him
of his fat, which they boiled down and used in the lamps instead of
oil. And very brightly did it burn; but the aroma was not a peculiarly
pleasant one. I am afraid to say how much grease was taken from this
enormous bear; but I know that I am speaking within bounds when I
assert it was in excess of two gallons and a half.
We dined at dusk, and then, as usual, betook ourselves to whist, but
so cold did it become shortly after dark, that we were forced to put
on our great coats, notwithstanding there was an enormous wood fire
in front and at the back of our tent. These fires had been lighted
to serve another purpose beyond that of giving warmth--namely, to
scare away the leopards which abounded in that locality. It was a
very picturesque scene; the white tents standing out in relief from
the dark wood, lighted up by the fires, and here and there groups of
coolies wrapped up in blankets, and sitting as closely as possible to
the blaze.
At daylight on the following morning our march was recommenced. We
had a distance of ten miles to travel before we could reach the next
halting-place, named Kanah Tall. During this march we did not go out
of our way for game, but only took such as chanced to cross our path.
All we killed was ghooral, (which we did not stop to look at even) and
two braces of partridges of very peculiar plumage. They were remarkably
handsome birds, with a red mark round the eye and down each side of
the neck, olive-coloured feathers on their backs, and their wings and
breasts covered with white and red spots. We could not fail to admire
the beauty of the flowers which flourished in this locality. The ground
on either side of the narrow and wild road was literally covered
with violets, dog-roses, and a lily of the valley, and other little
decorations of the earth, of which I know not the name. Throughout
the whole march the scene was truly fairy-like. Kanah Tall was only
five thousand feet above the level of the sea, and therefore very much
warmer than our last halting-place. Of this we were by no means sorry,
not only for our own sakes, but for the sakes of our personal servants,
who had never before travelled out of the plains. Here, at Kanah
Tall, we found the English holly growing. Botanists may tell me what
they please about this holly of the Himalayas bearing a distinctive
character; but I say it was the English holly--the same sort of holly
that I saw last Christmas in almost every house in London and in the
country.
Here, at Kanah Tall, we shot no less than seven elks. These deer are
very plentiful hereabouts, and do a great deal of damage to the crops
of the poor villagers at harvest time. Ghooral and kakur also abound
here. We were so tired on the evening that we stopped at Kanah Tall
that we could not sit up to play at whist! We actually fell asleep over
our second rubber, and by general consent threw our cards upon the
table and sought our beds.
The next day, at three P.M., we arrived at a place called Jullinghee,
ten miles distant from Kanah Tall. Jullinghee is a large village
situated on the right bank of the Bhagaruttee, a stream that flows
direct from Gungootrie, and is in consequence one of the most sacred
streams that compose the mighty and holy Ganges. We were encamped
beneath a clump of apricot and walnut trees, but it was frightfully
hot; for we were now not more than a couple of thousand feet above
the level of the sea. The woods, however, were exceedingly beautiful
and diversified. Not only were there apricot, walnut, rhododendrons,
oaks, hollies, and other trees of the higher altitudes, but also the
tamarind, the fig-peepul, the pomegranate, and others of the plains.
At this village we procured some honey, which is taken from its makers
in a very singular manner. The bees build in cavities in the walls of
the houses, which are closed within by a moveable board, and are only
entered by the bees, by a small aperture from without. When the owners
of the houses want honey they darken the interior of the house, and
removing the board, which forms the back part of the hive, extract as
much as they require. The bees during this process fly out into the
light to discover their enemies, who then close the back part of the
hive, and remain safely within doors until the wrath of the bees has
subsided.
In the evening we took a walk in the village of Jullinghee, which
appeared to be rich and populous, but very dirty. Our arrival had
caused a great stir, and there was a large concourse of people near our
tents to look at us. A short distance from the village were the ruins
of several houses which once formed a separate hamlet, but which had
been deserted for fear of a ghost which was said to haunt it. The same
effect of superstition is by no means uncommon in the plains of India.
There is a very curious instance in the Meerut district. A village
had long been deserted under the idea that it was haunted by a fakir.
The settlement officer, however, with much difficulty prevailed upon
a neighbouring Zemindar to farm the land at something like a nominal
revenue. Shortly afterwards the Zemindar presented himself to the
settlement officer, and represented that he had been very ill, and
that the visitation was ascribed by his friends and by himself to his
impiety in interfering with haunted lands. The settlement officer,
however, talked to him and insisted on his keeping his engagements,
and once more did he venture to brave the ghost. So complete was his
success that the village shortly became one of the most flourishing
in the district, and the very relatives who had been foremost in
reproaching the zemindar for his impiety, brought a suit against him in
one of the local courts, to recover a share of his large profits!
On the day following we marched to a place called Teree, a large
straggling village, situated on a plain of some extent, at the junction
of the Billung and Bhagaruttee rivers. A regular hot wind was blowing
here, and our tents were unbearable; so we threw ourselves beneath
the shade of a huge tree which grew on the banks of the Billung, and
which served also as a shelter for a party from Srinugger, who were
celebrating the marriage festival of a Bunneah (corn-merchant) of some
twenty-two years of age, with a young lady of eight. The little damsel
was on the ground, and did ample justice to the marriage dinner, which
consisted of rice, butter, sweetmeats, and a goat roasted whole--a goat
which had been decapitated by one blow, and cooked without any sort
of preparation beyond the removal of the entrails; it was not even
skinned. Portions of this feast were distributed on plantain leaves to
each guest by the Brahmins, who officiated as cooks and waiters.
Teree is the residence of a Rajah, named Soodersain Saha, whose family,
before the Goorkha invasion, ruled over the provinces of Gurhwal and
Sirmoor, and indeed over the whole hill country as far as Simlah,
and from the snowy range to the plains. Expelled by the Goorkhas, he
sought refuge with the British: and after defeating the Goorkhas,
was replaced by us in the greater part of his territories; a part of
them we retained as the price of our assistance, namely, a portion of
Gurhwal, the whole of Dehra Dhoon, and a part of the Terai. And we hold
Landour and Mussoorie from him at a nominal annual rent. The Rajah is
extremely civil to Europeans, and the moment he heard of our arrival he
sent a deputation to wait upon us. The deputation brought with them a
variety of presents, consisting of milk, sweetmeats, dried flour, dried
fruits, and a couple of goats. The deputation gave us to understand
that it would afford the Rajah very great pleasure to make our personal
acquaintance; and we were just on the point of starting for his
Highness's abode, when his arrival was unexpectedly announced to us. At
Srinugger, in a portion of the country we took from him, is situated
the family palace, a handsome and substantial building. This is rather
a sore point with the old Rajah, and as he considers the more modern
abode which he now inhabits beneath his dignity, he prefers going to
see any one with whom he is desirous of having an interview.
Having caused chairs to be placed in the front of our tents, we
advanced to meet the Rajah, who, dismounting from a large Cabul horse,
joined us, shook hands with us very cordially, and remained with us for
upwards of an hour. He was a very small and rather an old man; active
and intelligent. He talked to us about the Goorkha war, of which he
had been a spectator in the British camp; and he was very eloquent on
Punjab politics, and greatly praised Lena Singh, whom he described as
"very far in advance of any of his countrymen in point of humanity,
civilization, and prudence." The little man told us, amongst other
things, that he was thinking of having an iron suspension-bridge over
the Bhagaruttee, but that he could not find an engineer; and that his
applications to the Government, although he was ready to defray every
expense, had not met with any reply. The present bridge is a sling or
swing, and constructed in the following manner. Two lines of coir rope,
each consisting of a number of smaller ropes, are suspended from the
rocks on either side of the stream, and apart from each other about
four feet. From these ropes depend, at intervals of about two feet,
smaller lines or ropes about three or four feet deep. These support
slight wooden ladders, the ends of which are lashed firmly to one
another. The whole affair has a very frail appearance, and at first
it requires no small amount of nerve to step from ring to ring of the
ladder, over that roaring torrent beneath. Of course this bridge is
only passable by men. Cattle and mules swim across the river much
higher up, where the torrent is not so rapid.
We asked the Rajah where he had got his idea of an iron suspension
bridge, and he replied: "From a picture-book which was given to me by a
gentleman who was out on a shooting excursion some years ago in these
hills."
We stayed two days at Teree, and, despite the heat, enjoyed ourselves
amazingly. Our next encampment ground was at a place called Pon, a
march of eleven miles. Our route at first lay along the south bank of
the Billung river, and then up a deep glen at the foot of a mountain,
whose summit was some five thousand feet above the level of the ocean.
The monotony of this day's journey was broken by meeting with another
marriage party, some of whom carried parasols of evidently Chinese
manufacture, and made out of painted paper. We shot also several green
pigeons--a very different bird from the green pigeons of the plains,
and much better eating. By-the-by we also met a pilgrim and his wife on
their way to Gungootree, the source of the Ganges: both of them were
painted and bedaubed after the most grotesque fashion. The Frenchman
took a sketch of this couple, and I have heard that it now adorns an
album in the possession of the Empress of the French.
Our next march was to a place called Tekowlee, where we halted beneath
the shade of some large trees, and near the banks of a clear stream
of water. On one side of the stream there grew a quantity of wild
mint, some of which we gathered and cooled, preparatory to using it
for "cup." There is a moderate-sized village near Tekowlee, and a
Gosains' house or monastery, which is inhabited by a large number of
this sect: we visited, and entered into conversation with them. The
building was composed of a large square court-yard, surrounded by a
range of two-storied barracks, or rather cells, the lower story of
which is protected by a verandah. The place was full of men, women, and
children: the Gosains being the only monastic order who are permitted
by their tenets to marry.
We had been out sixteen days before we reached Loba, near to which
place the Commissioner of Kumaon resides during the rains and the
autumn. His bungalow is built upon the spur of a hill of considerable
length, and there is a good quantity of flat ground in the vicinity.
Not far from the bungalow is an old fort, a Goorkha stronghold, which
commanded the pass leading to Almorah. It is chiefly celebrated,
however, as the place where Moorcroft and Hearsey were discovered on
their return from the Munsarowar lake, whither they had gone disguised
as Bairagis; and so well had they sustained their characters, that
they would have returned undetected, had not a rumour of their attempt
reached the ears of the authorities and excited their vigilance.
They were harshly treated for some days, but eventually released on
a promise that they would return direct, and without delay, to the
British territories.
The Commissioner was not at the bungalow when we arrived. Mr. West,
however, knew him sufficiently well to warrant our taking possession of
it for the day. After a residence for some time in tents, a house is a
very agreeable change.
On leaving Loba we came upon the Pilgrim road, constructed by a
former Commissioner of Kumaon to facilitate the progress of the
pilgrims to the sacred places within the British Himalayas. It was
a very humane project, for many of the unfortunate pilgrims used
formerly--overcome by the difficulties of the route--to lie down and
perish by the way-side. Of these pilgrims we met swarms--hundreds, if
not thousands--and with some we occasionally stopped to converse.
Our encamping ground, at which we arrived at four in the afternoon, was
a short distance from a village called Guniah. Our tents were pitched
beneath a clump of trees, and close to a clear stream called the Ram
Gunga, in which we caught a quantity of fish with a casting-net. There
are some mines between Loba and Kumaon, but we did not go out of our
way to visit them. Here an accident happened to the Baron. He sprained
his ankle and could not walk; so the next morning we put him into a
Dandi, and he was carried along the road by four of the coolies. A
Dandi is a pole, upon which is hung by its two ends, which are gathered
together, a piece of cloth or canvas, open in the centre. This forms
a hollow seat, not a particularly comfortable one, until you get
accustomed to it, when the motion is rather pleasurable than otherwise.
During this day's march we shot a quantity of black partridge, a hill
fox, a deer, and a wild dog of enormous size.
On the third day after leaving Loba we sighted our (then)
destination--the town of Almorah. On nearing the place we came upon
a hill to the right, which bears the name of Brown's Hill; so called
after an officer of the 31st Native Infantry, who, in the Goorkha war,
volunteered to take it with his company, though it had a stockade on
the top which was obstinately defended. And he did take it, after a
very severe loss. A monument is erected on this hill to the memory of
those who fell in the engagement. A little further on is a large tree
now used as a gallows. This tree was the scene of a well-remembered
occurrence, just after the above-mentioned battle. A Goorkha, shot
through the leg, had fallen here. The fighting over, a British officer
was standing over him, and giving directions to a party of Sepoys to
have him taken to the hospital; when, raising himself with his left
hand, with his right he cut the officer down with his kookeree--a
deadly weapon with which the little Goorkhas now chop up the rebels.
Apropos of a kookeree in the hands of a Goorkha, I must relate a
little matter which I now know to be a fact, but which I could scarcely
credit when it was first told to me. A party of Goorkhas--say fifteen
or twenty--will proceed to a jungle in which they know there is a huge
tiger. They will surround the jungle, form a circle, and closing in
gradually, hem in the ferocious beast. Every man will then drop down
on the right knee, as soldiers do forming a square, and, kookeree in
hand, wait for the spring of the tiger, who becomes somewhat bewildered
and anxious to make his escape. After moving about for a brief while in
this den, of which the bars are human beings (about five feet high),
and glaring first at one and then at another, he lashes himself into
a fury and makes his spring: then the nearest Goorkha delivers a blow
with his kookeree which divides the tiger's skull. Wonderful as this
feat is, I once saw at Jutog, near Simlah, a sight that struck me as
even more wonderful. A Goorkha battalion was (and now is) quartered
at Jutog. There was a festival at which the Goorkhas sacrifice an ox.
The adjutant of the battalion asked me if I should like to witness the
ceremony; as it was something new to me, I replied in the affirmative,
and we walked to the parade ground, where the whole regiment, in
undress, was assembled, and surrounding the victim and the executioner.
The ox was forced to kneel, and by the side of him knelt the little
Goorkha, armed with the kookeree, which is nothing more than a huge
curved knife, but very heavy, and as sharp as a razor. At a given
signal he struck the ox immediately behind the hump over the shoulder,
peculiar to all Indian cattle; and the body was divided into two parts.
He had, with a single blow, gone though the ox just as completely and
as cleanly as a butcher with his hatchet would remove a chop from
a loin of mutton. They are a very odd race of people, those little
Goorkhas; wonderfully honest even among themselves; light-hearted
almost to childishness; capable of enduring any amount of toil;
obedient and respectful, without cringing to, fawning on, or flattering
their superior, the white man. The great blot upon their characters is
their frightful jealousy of their wives. Woe betide the woman who gives
her Goorkha husband the faintest reason to suspect her of infidelity!
He at once takes the law and the kookeree into his own hands, and slays
both the wife and her (real or supposed) gallant. I am glad to say this
is not a frequent occurrence, though it does happen now and then. As a
body, the Goorkha women are as virtuous as their husbands are honest
and brave.
The Commissioner of Kumaon received us at Almorah, his head-quarters,
with great cordiality and kindness, and offered us rooms in his house.
This offer we declined, inasmuch as our party consisted of four, and
his house was not a large one. Besides, he had other visitors who were
putting up at his bungalow. We accepted, however, his invitation to
dine, and on our way rode through the town, which is considered the
best in the British hill possessions. Bishop Heber writes that Almorah
reminds him of Chester. It consists of one street about a mile and a
half long, and about sixty feet wide, paved with large slabs of slate,
and closed at either end by a gate. One half of the town is much higher
than the other, and the street is divided in the middle by a low flight
of steps on which the ponies pass up and down with extraordinary
self-possession. The houses are small, but neat and whitewashed.
They all consist of two or more stories. The lower ones are shaded
by wooden verandahs more or less carved. At one end of the town is
the old Goorkha fort; at the other end Fort Moira, a small English
fortification, near to which were the Sepoy lines. A neat little church
has just been erected at Almorah. The people of the place are all
fair-complexioned, and some of the children as white as those born of
European parents.