Beyond the heavy rain which is pouring down, the hills of Rajmahal are
seen in the distance; they are beautifully wooded, and full of game of
every description. No scenes can be more picturesque than those in the
interior. The wild climbers hang from the forest trees in luxuriant
beauty, especially that magnificent one, the _cachnar_ (bauhinia
scandens)—a specimen of its leaves gathered in these hills is in the
Museum.
The _dandīs_ from the boats that anchor at Sīckrī-galī go up the hills
in gangs to cut wood for firing, and bring it down in great quantities.
The _byā_ birds hang their long nests from the extreme end of the slight
branches of the delicate _bābul_-tree pendant over a pool or stream for
security. The Museum also contains nests of this little bird suspended
on the broad leaf of the fan-palm. The fable declares that the “Old
birds put a fire-fly into their nests every night to act as a lamp.” For
a further account of these interesting little creatures, see “Wanderings
of a Pilgrim,” (vol. I. 220, 221, and vol. II. 74). The marshes at the
foot of the hills are full of leeches the low-lands abound with wild
fowl, hares, and partridges of a peculiar sort, said to be found only at
Rajmahal, and one other station in India.
The hill-men are a most singular race of people; they are about five
feet high, very active, remarkable for lightness and suppleness of limb,
with the piercing and restless eye, said to be peculiar to savages. They
wear their hair drawn tight up in a knot on the very top of their head,
the ends fastened in with a wooden comb. They are good-natured,
gay-looking people. Their principal food is Indian corn, boiled and
mashed. They kill wild hogs with a poisoned arrow, taking the precaution
to cut out the flesh around the wound before they eat the animal. Their
bows and arrows are rough and wild-looking; the strips of feather on the
latter are from the wing of the vulture. They assert that they procure
the poison, into which they dip their arrows, from a remote hill-tribe,
and are ignorant of its nature: it appears to be a carefully guarded
secret. Three of these arrows are in the Museum. At the proper season
the hill-men descend into the plains to gather in the crops of uncut
rice.
A country boat filled with bales of cotton is floating down the stream;
and the crew of a Dacca _oolāk_, which is aground, are striving to shove
her into deeper water.
A native, sitting on the bank, is quietly watching the noisy scene, and
smoking his _nāriyal_, or cocoa-nut pipe, by the side of his _charpāī_,
or bed, which is on the bank. Native vessels are towed by the _dāndīs_,
or boatmen, most part of the way, except during the rains. These men
work from daylight till sunset in the most laborious way, frequently in
the water for hours, up to their middles, towing the vessel or shoving
it with their backs over sand banks: their labour does not cease until
the boats are _lugāo’d_ (moored) at night; then they cook on shore and
eat their daily meal of boiled rice and curry, or flour cakes, called
_chappatīs_. Occasionally, when a fair wind blows, they get some rest;
for then an immense square sail is hoisted, tacks, sheets, and
haul-yards are fast belayed: they all go to sleep except the steersman,
and the safety of the boat depends upon the rotten state of the cordage
and sails: frequently very strong and sudden squalls come on, and,
before a single rope is let go, every thing is blown to ribbons.
[Illustration]