A WEEK IN THE HIMALAYAS.
Ever since we landed in India my chief desire has been to see the
Himalayas. I had seen Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe, and
now wished to look upon the highest mountains in Asia, or the world.
To reach them we had travelled nearly fifteen hundred miles. We had
already had a distant view of them at night, lighted up by fires
blazing along their sides; but to come into their presence one must
leave the railway and cross the country some forty miles.
We left Lahore Monday morning, and at noon were at Lodiana, a place
with sacred missionary associations; which we left at midnight, and in
the morning reached Saharanpur, where also is one of our Presbyterian
missions. Rev. Mr. Calderwood met us at the station, and made us
welcome to his home, and sped us on our way to the Hills.
Saharanpur is forty-two miles distant from Dehra Doon, the beautiful
valley which lies at the foot of the Himalayas. A mail wagon runs
daily, but as it suited our convenience better, we chartered a vehicle
not unlike an omnibus, and which the natives, improving on the
English, call an _omnibukus_. It is a long covered _gharri_, that
looks more like a prison van than anything else to which I can compare
it, and reminded me of the Black Maria that halts before the Tombs in
New York to convey prisoners to Blackwell's Island. There are only two
seats running lengthwise, as they are made to lie down upon in case of
necessity. Much of the travelling is at night, and "old Indians," who
are used to the ways of the country, will spread their "resais" and
sleep soundly over all the joltings of the road. But we could sleep
about as well inside of a bass drum. So we gave up the idea of repose,
and preferred to travel by day to see the country, for which this sort
of conveyance is very well contrived. The canvas top keeps off the
sun, while the latticed slides (which are regular green blinds), drawn
back, give a fine view of the country as we go rolling over the road.
Our charioteer, excited by the promise of a liberal backsheesh if he
should get us into Dehra Doon before nightfall, drove at full speed.
Every five or six miles the blast of his horn told those at the next
stage that somebody was coming, and that a relay of fresh horses must
be ready. As we approached the hills he put on an extra horse, and
then two, so that we were driving four-in-hand. Then as the hills grew
steeper, he took two mules, with a horse in front as a leader, mounted
by a postilion, who, with his white dress and turbaned head, made a
very picturesque appearance. How gallantly he rode! He struck his
heels into the spirited little pony and set him into a gallop, which
the mules could but follow, and so we went tearing up hill and down
dale at a furious rate; while the coachman blew his horn louder still
to warn common folks to get out of the way, and the natives drew to
the roadside, wondering what great man it was who thus dashed by.
But horses and mules were not enough to sustain such a load of
dignity, and at the last stage the driver took a pair of the beautiful
white hump-backed oxen of the country, which drew us to the top of the
pass. The hills which we thus cross are known as the Sewalic range.
The top once attained, two horses were quite enough to take us down,
and we descended rapidly. And now rose before us a vision of beauty
such as we had not seen in all India. The vale of Dehra Doon is
enclosed between two walls of mountains--the Sewalic range on one
side, and the first range of the Himalayas on the other. It is fifteen
miles wide, and about sixty miles long, extending from the Jumna to
the Ganges. Thus it lies between two mountains and two rivers, and
has a temperature and a moisture which keep it in perpetual green.
Nothing can be more graceful than the tall feathery bamboos, which
here grow to a great height. Here are fine specimens of the peepul
tree--the sacred tree of India, massive as an English oak--and groves
of mangoes. Everything seems to grow here--tea, coffee, tobacco,
cinnamon, cloves. The appearance of this rich valley, thus covered
with groves and gardens, to us coming from the burnt plains of India,
was like that of a garden of Paradise. Riding on through this mass of
foliage, we rattled into the town, but were not obliged to "find our
warmest welcome at an inn." Rev. Mr. Herron had kindly invited us to
accept his hospitality, and so we inquired for "Herron-sahib," and
were driven along a smooth road, embowered in bamboos, to the
Missionary Compound, where a large building has been erected for a
Female Seminary, chiefly by the labors of Messrs. Woodside and Herron,
the latter of whom is in charge of the institution, one of the most
complete in India. Here we were most cordially received, and found how
welcome, in the farthest part of the world, is the atmosphere of an
American home.
But once in presence of the great mountains, we were impatient to
climb the first range, to get a view of the snows. Mr. Herron offered
to keep us company. We rose at four the next morning, while the stars
were still shining, and set out, but could ride only five miles in a
carriage, when we came to the foot of the hills, and were obliged to
take to the saddle. Our "syces" had led three horses alongside, which
we mounted just as the starlight faded, and the gray light of day
began to show over the mountain-tops, while our attendants, light of
foot, kept by our side in case their services were needed.
And now we begin the ascent, turning hither and thither, as the road
winds along the sides of the mountain. The slope of the Himalayas is
not a smooth and even one, rising gently through an unbroken forest.
The mountain side has been torn by the storms of thousands of years.
In the spring, when the snows melt and the rains come, every torrent
whose rocky bed is now bare, becomes a foaming flood, rushing down the
hills, and tearing its way through the lowlands, till lost in the
Jumna or the Ganges. Thus the mountain is broken into innumerable
spurs and ridges that shoot out into the valley. Where the scanty
herbage can gather like moss on the rocks, there is grazing for sheep
and goats and cattle; and these upland pastures, like those of the
Alps or the Tyrol, are musical with the tinkling of bells. High up on
the mountains they are dark with pines; while on the inner ranges of
the Himalayas the mighty cedars "shake like Lebanon."
One can imagine how lovely must be the Vale of Dehra Doon, with its
mass of verdure, set in the midst of such rugged mountains. Although
we were climbing upward, we could but stop, as we came to turning
points in the road, to look back into the valley. Sometimes a
projecting ledge of rock offered a fine point of view, on which we
reined up our horses; or an old oak, bending its gnarled limbs over
us, made a frame to the picture, through which we looked down into the
fairest of Indian vales, unless it be the Vale of Cashmere. From such
a point the landscape seemed to combine every element of
beauty--plains, and woods, and streams and mountains. Across the
valley rises the long serrated ridge of the Sewalic range. Within this
space is enclosed a great variety of surface--undulating in hill and
valley, with green meadows, and villages, and gardens, while here and
there, along the banks of the streams, whose beds are now dry, are
belts of virgin forest.
The industry of the people, which turns every foot of soil to account,
is shown by the way in which the spurs of the mountains are terraced
to admit of cultivation. Wherever there is an acre of level ground,
there is a patch of green, for the wheat fields are just springing
up; and even spaces of but a few rods are planted with potatoes. Thus
the sides of the Himalayas are belted with lines of green, like the
sides of the Alps as one descends into Italy. The view is especially
beautiful at this morning hour as the sun rises, causing the dews to
lift from the valley, while here and there a curl of smoke, rising
through the mist, marks the place of human habitation.
But we must prick up our horses, for the sun is up, and we are not yet
at the top. It is a good ride of two hours (we took three) to the
ridge on which are built the two "hill stations" of Mussoorie and
Landour--which are great resorts of the English during the summer
months. These "stations" do not deserve the name of towns; they are
merely straggling Alpine villages. Indeed nowhere in the Alps is there
such a cluster of houses at such a height, or in such a spot. There is
no "site" for a regular village, no place for a "main street." One
might as well think of "laying out" a village along the spine of a
sharp-backed whale, as on this narrow mountain ridge. There is hardly
an acre of level ground, only the jagged ends of hills, or points of
rocks, from which the torrents have swept away the earth on either
side, leaving only the bare surface. Yet on these points and
edges--wherever there is a shelf of rock to furnish a foundation, the
English have built their pretty bungalows, which thus perched in air,
7,500 feet high, look like mountain eyries, and might be the home of
the eagles that we see sailing over the valley below. From such a
height do they look over the very top of the Sewalic range to the
great plains of India.
But we did not stop at this mountain to look back. Dashing through the
little straggling bazaar of Landour, we spurred on to the highest
point, "Lal Tiba"; from which we hoped for the great view of "the
snows." We reached the spot at nine o'clock, but as yet we saw "only
in part." Our final vision was to come three days later. Away to the
North and East the horizon was filled with mountains, whose summits
the foot of man had never trod, but the intervening distance was
covered with clouds, out of which rose the snowy domes, like islands
in a sea.
My first impression of the Himalayas was one of disappointment, partly
because we "could not come nigh unto" them. We saw their summits, but
at such a distance that they did not look so high as Mont Blanc, where
we could come "even to his feet" in the Vale of Chamouni. But the
Himalayas were seventy miles off,[4] filling the whole horizon. Nor
did they rise up in one mighty chain, like the Cordilleras of Mexico,
standing like a wall of rock and snow against the sky; but seemed
rather a sea of mountains, boundless and billowy, rising range on
range, one overtopping the other, and rolling away to the heart of
Asia; or, to change the figure, the mountains appeared as an ice
continent, like that of the Polar regions, tossed up here and there
into higher and still higher summits, but around which, stretching
away to infinity, was the wild and interminable sea.
Thus the view, though different from what I expected, was very grand,
and though we had not yet the full, clear vision, yet the sight was
sublime and awful, perhaps even more so from the partial obscurity, as
great clouds came rolling along the snowy heights, as if the heavenly
host uprose at the coming of the day, and were moving rank on rank
along the shining battlements.
We had hoped by waiting a few hours to get an unobstructed view, but
the clouds seemed to gather rather than disperse, warning us to hasten
our descent.
In going up the mountain, C---- had kept along with us on horseback,
but the long ride to one not used to the saddle had fatigued her so
that on the return she was glad to accept Mr. Herron's offer of a
_dandi_, a chair borne by two men, which two others accompanied as
relays, while we, mounted as before, followed as outriders. Thus
mustering our little force, we began to descend the mountain.
A mile or so from the top we turned aside at the house of a gentleman
who was a famous hunter, and who had a large collection of living
birds, pheasants and manauls, while the veranda was covered with tiger
and leopard skins. He was absent, but his wife (who has the spirit and
courage of a huntress, and had often brought down a deer with her own
hand) was there, and bade us welcome. She showed us her birds, both
living and stuffed, the number of which made her house look like an
ornithological museum. To our inquiry she said, "The woods were full
of game. Two deer had been shot the evening before."
We asked about higher game. She said that tigers were not common up on
the mountain as in the valley. She had two enormous skins, but "the
brutes" her husband had shot over in Nepaul. But leopards seemed to be
her special pets. When I asked, "Have you many leopards about here?"
she laughed as she answered, "I should think so." She often saw them
just across a ravine a few rods in front of her house, chasing goats
or sheep. "It was great fun." Of late they had become rather
troublesome in killing dogs. And so they had been obliged to set traps
for them. They framed a kind of cage, with two compartments, in one of
which they tied a dog, whose yelpings at night attracted the leopard,
who, creeping round and round, to get at his prey, at length dashed in
to seize the poor creature, but found bars between them, while the
trap closed upon him, and Mr. Leopard was a prisoner. In this way they
had caught four the last summer. Then this Highland lady came out from
her cottage, and with a rifle put an end to the leopard's career in
devouring dogs. The number of skins on the veranda told of their skill
and success.
Pursuing my inquiry into the character of her neighbors, I asked,
"Have you any snakes about here?" "Oh no," she replied carelessly;
"that is to say not many. The cobras do not come up so high on the
mountain. But there is a serpent in the woods, a kind of python, but
he is a large, lazy creature, that doesn't do any mischief. One day
that my husband was out with his gun, he shot one that was eighteen
feet long. It was as big around as a log of wood, so that when I came
up I sat down and took my tiffin upon it."
While listening to these tales, the clouds had been gathering, and now
they were piled in dark masses all around the horizon. The lightning
flashed, and we could hear the heavy though distant peals of thunder.
Presently the big drops began to fall. There was no time to be lost.
We could see that the rain was pouring in the valley, while heavy
peals came nearer and nearer, reverberating in the hollows of the
mountains. It was a grand spectacle of Nature, that of a storm in the
Himalayas. Thunder in front of us, thunder to the right of us, thunder
to the left of us! I never had a more exciting ride, except one like
it in the Rocky Mountains four years before. At our urgent request,
Mr. Herron spurred ahead, and galloped at full speed down the
mountain. I came more slowly with C---- in the _dandi_. But we did not
lose time, and after an hour's chase, in which we seemed to be running
the gauntlet of the storm, "dodging the rain," we were not a little
relieved, just as the scattered drops began to fall thicker and
faster, to come into the yard of the hotel at Rajpore.
The brave fellows who had brought the dandi deserved a reward,
although Mr. Herron said they were his servants. I wanted to give them
a rupee each, but he would not hear of it, and when I insisted on
giving at least a couple of rupees for the four, which would be
twenty-five cents a piece, the poor fellows were so overcome with my
generosity that they bowed almost to the ground in acknowledgment, and
went off hugging each other with delight at the small fortune which
had fallen to them.
At Rajpore the carriage was waiting for us, and under its cover from
the rain, we rode back, talking of the incidents of the day; and when
we got home and stretched ourselves before the blazing fire, the
subject was renewed. I have a boy's fondness for stories of wild
beasts, and listened with eager interest to all my host had to tell.
It was hard to realize that there were such creatures in such a lovely
spot. "Do you really mean to say," I asked, "that there are tigers
here in this valley?" "Yes," he answered, "within five miles of where
you are sitting now." He had seen one himself, and showed us the very
spot that morning as we rode out to the hills, when he pointed to a
ravine by the roadside, and said: "As I was riding along this road one
day with a lady, a magnificent Bengal tiger came up out of that
ravine, a few rods in front of us, and walked slowly across the road.
He turned to look at us, and we were greatly relieved when, after
taking a cool survey, he moved off into the jungle."
But leopards are still more common and familiar. They have been in
this very dooryard, and on this veranda. One summer evening two years
ago, said Miss P., I was sitting on the gravelled walk to enjoy the
cool air, when an enormous creature brushed past but a step in front
between us and the house. At first we thought in the gloaming it might
be a dog of very unusual size, but as it glided past, and came into
the light of some cottages beyond, we perceived that it was a very
different beast. At another time a leopard crossed the veranda at
night, and brushed over the face of a native woman sleeping with her
child in her arms. It was well the beast was not hungry, or he would
have snatched the child, as they often do when playing in front of
native houses, and carried it off into the jungle.
But we will rest to-night in sweet security in this missionary home,
without fear of wild beasts or thunder storms. The clouds broke away
at sunset, leaving a rich "after-glow" upon the mountains. It was the
clear shining after the rain. Just then I heard the voices of the
native children in the chapel, singing their hymns, and with these
sweet suggestions of home and heaven, "I will lay me down in peace and
sleep, for thou Lord only makest me dwell in safety."
* * * * *
We had had a glimpse of the Himalayas, but the glimpse only made us
eager to get the full "beatific vision"; so, after resting a day, we
determined to try again, going up in the afternoon, and spending the
night, so as to have a double chance of seeing the snows--both at
sunset and at sunrise. This time we had also the company of Mr.
Woodside, beside whom I rode on horseback; while Mr. Herron gave his
escort to C----, who was "promoted" from a _dandi_ to a _jahnpan_,
which differs from the former only in that it is more spacious, and is
carried by four bearers instead of two. Thus mounted she was borne
aloft on men's shoulders. She said the motion was not unpleasant,
except that the men had a habit, when they came to some dangerous
point, turning a rock, or on the edge of a precipice, of changing
bearers, or swinging round the bamboo pole from one shoulder to
another, which made her a little giddy, as she was tossed about at
such a height, from which she could look down a gorge hundreds of feet
deep. However, she takes all dangers very lightly, and was enraptured
with the wildness and strangeness of the scene--to find herself, an
American girl, thus being transported over the mountains of Asia.
So we took up our line of march for the hills, and soon found our
pulses beating faster. Why is it that we feel such exhilaration in
climbing mountains? Is it something in the air, that quickens the
blood, and reacts upon the brain? Or is it the sensation of rising
into a higher atmosphere, of "going up into heaven?" So it seemed that
afternoon, as we "left the earth" behind us, and went up steadily into
the clouds.
I found that the Himalayas grew upon acquaintance. They looked more
grand the second time than the first. The landscape was changed by the
westering sun, which cast new lights and shadows across the valley,
and into the wooded bosom of the hills. To these natural beauties my
companion added the charm of historical associations. Few places in
India have more interest to the scholar. The Sewalic range was almost
the cradle of the Brahminical religion. Sewalic, or Sivalic, as it
might be written, means literally the hills of Shiva, or the hills of
the gods, where their worshippers built their shrines and worshipped
long before Christ was born in Bethlehem. The same ridge is a mine to
the naturalist. It is full of fossils, the bones of animals that
belonged to some earlier geological epoch. The valley has had a part
in the recent history of India. Here the Goorkas--one of the hill
tribes, which stood out longest against the English--fought their last
battle. It was on yonder wooded height which juts out like a
promontory into the plain, where the ruin of an old fort marks the
destruction of their power. Today the Goorkas, like the Punjaubees,
are among the most loyal defenders of English rule.
At present the attraction of this valley for "old Indians" is not so
much in its historical or scientific associations, as the field which
it gives to the hunter. This belt of country, running about a hundred
miles along the foot of the Himalayas, is composed of forest and
jungle, and is a favorite habitat of wild beasts--tigers and leopards
and wild elephants. It was in this belt, called the Terai, though
further to the East, in Nepaul, that the Prince of Wales a few weeks
later made his great tiger-hunting expedition. He might perhaps have
found as good sport in the valley right under our eyes. "Do you see
that strip of woods yonder?" said Mr. Woodside, pointing to one four
or five miles distant. "That is full of wild elephants." An Indian
Rajah came here a year or two since for a grand hunt, and in two days
captured twenty-four. This is done by the help of tame elephants who
are trained for the purpose. A large tract of forest is enclosed, and
then by beating the woods, the herd is driven towards a corner, and
when once penned, the tame elephants go in among them, and by tender
caressing engage their attention, till the coolies slip under the huge
beasts and tie their feet with ropes to the trees. This done, they can
be left till subdued by hunger, when they are easily tamed for the
service of man.
These creatures still have the range of the forests. In riding through
the woods one may often hear the breaking of trees, as wild elephants
crash through the dense thicket. I had supposed that all kinds of wild
beasts were very much reduced in India under English rule. The hunters
say they are so much so as to destroy the sport. But my companion
thinks not, for two reasons: the government has made stringent laws
against the destruction of forests; and since the mutiny the natives
are not allowed to carry fire-arms.
We might have startled a leopard anywhere on the mountain side. A
young Scotchman whom we met with his rifle on his shoulder, said he
had shot two a fortnight ago, but that there was a very big one about,
which he had seen several times, but could never get a shot at, but he
hoped to bring him down before long.
With such chat as this we trotted up the mountain road, till we came
to where it divides, where, leaving Mr. Herron and C---- to go on
straight to Landour, we turned to the left to make a flying visit to
the other hill station of Mussoorie. As we rode along, Mr. Woodside
pointed out to me the spot where, a few weeks before, his horse had
backed off a precipice, and been dashed to pieces. Fortunately he was
not on his back (he had alighted to make a call), or the horse and his
rider might have gone over together. As we wound up the road he
recalled another incident, which occurred several years ago: "I had
been to attend an evening reception at the Young Ladies' school (which
we had just left), and about eleven o'clock mounted to ride home. I
had a white horse, and it was a bright moonlight night, and as I rode
up the hill, just as I turned a corner in the road _there_ (pointing
to the spot) I saw a huge leopard crouching in the attitude of
preparing to spring. I rose up in the saddle (my friend is a man of
giant stature) and shouted at the top of my voice, and the beast, not
knowing what strange monster he had encountered, leaped over the bank
and disappeared."
"The next day," he added, "I was telling the story to a gentleman, who
replied, 'You were very fortunate to escape so,' and then related an
incident of his own, in which a leopard sprang upon his horse, which
the fright caused to give such a bound that the brute fell off, and
the horse starting at full speed, they escaped. But he felt that the
escape was so providential that he had thanks returned in the church
the next Sabbath for his deliverance from a sudden death."
Thus listening to my companion's adventures, we rode along the ridge
of Mussoorie to its highest point, which commands a grand view of the
Snowy Range. Here stands a convent, which educates hundreds of the
daughters of Protestant Englishmen, as well as those of its own faith.
Thus the Catholic Church plants its outposts on the very crests of the
mountains.
At Landour is another Catholic institution (for boys) called St.
George's College, perhaps as a delicate flattery to Englishmen in
taking the name of their guardian saint. It has a chime of bells,
which at that height and that hour strikes the ear with singular and
touching effect. It may well stir up our Protestant friends, both to
admire and to imitate, as it furnishes a new proof of the omnipresence
of Rome, when the traveller finds its convents, and hears the chime of
its vesper bells, on the heights and amid the valleys of the
Himalayas.
But the sun was sinking, and it was four miles from Mussoorie to
Landour, where we were to make our second attempt to see the snows.
Turning our horses, we rode at full speed along the ridge of the
mountain, and reached the top of Lal Tiba before sunset, but only to
be again disappointed. Northward and eastward the clouds hung upon the
great mountains. But if one part of the horizon was hidden, on the
other we looked over the top of the Sewalic range, to where the red
and fiery sun was sinking in a bank of cloud--not "clouds full of
rain," but merely clouds of dust, rolling upward "like the smoke of a
furnace" from the hot plains of India. In the foreground was the soft,
green valley of Dehra Doon, more beautiful from the contrast with the
burning plains beyond. It was a peaceful landscape, as the shadows of
evening were gathering over it. From this we turned to watch the light
as it crept up the sides of the mountains. The panorama was constantly
changing, and every instant took on some new feature of grandeur. As
daylight faded, another light flashed out behind us, for the mountains
were on fire. It is a custom of the people, who are herdsmen, to burn
off the low brush (as the Indians burned over the prairies), that the
grass may spring up fresh and green for their flocks and cattle; and
it was a fearful spectacle, that of these great belts of fire running
along the mountain side, and lighting up the black gorges below.
Giving our horses to the guides to be led down the declivity, we
walked down a narrow path in the rocks that led to Woodstock, a female
seminary, built on a kind of terrace half a mile below--a most
picturesque spot (none the less romantic because a tiger had once
carried off a man from the foot of the ravine a few rods below the
house), and there, around a cheerful table, and before a roaring fire,
forgot the fatigues of the day, and hoped for sunshine on the morrow.
It was not yet daylight when we awoke. The stars were shining when we
came out on the terrace, and the waning moon still hung its crescent
overhead. A faint light began to glimmer in the east. We were quickly
muffled up (for it was cold) and climbing up the steep path to Lal
Tiba, hoping yet trembling. I was soon out of breath, and had more
than once to sit down on the rocks to recover myself. But in a moment
I would rise and rush on again, so eager was I with hope, and yet so
fearful of disappointment. One more pull and we were on the top, and
behold the glory of God spread abroad upon the mountains! Our
perseverance was rewarded at last. There were the Himalayas--the great
mountains of India, of Asia, of the globe. The snowy range was in full
view for more than a hundred miles. The sun had not yet risen, but his
golden limb now touched the east, and as the great round orb rose
above the horizon, it seemed as if God himself were coming to illumine
the universe which he had created. One after another the distant peaks
caught the light upon their fields of snow, and sent it back as if
they were the shining gates of the heavenly city. One could almost
look up to them as Divine intelligences, and address them in the lines
of the old hymn:
These glorious _minds_, how bright they shine,
Whence all their white array?
How came they to the happy seats
Of everlasting day?
But restraining our enthusiasm for the moment, let us look at the
configuration of this Snowy Range, simply as a study in geography. We
are in presence of the highest mountains on the globe. We are on the
border of that table-land of Asia ("High Asia") which the Arabs in
their poetical language call "The Roof of the World." Yonder pass
leads over into Thibet. The trend of the mountains is from southeast
to northwest, almost belting the continent. Indeed, physical
geographers trace it much farther, following it down on one hand
through the Malayan Peninsula and on the other running it through the
Hindoo Koosh (or Caucasus) northwest to Mt. Ararat in Armenia; and
across into Europe, through Turkey and Greece, to the Alps and the
Pyrenees, forming what the Arabs call "The Stony Girdle of the Earth."
But the centre of that girdle, the clasp of that mighty zone, is here.
It is difficult to form an idea of the altitude of mountains, when we
have no basis of comparison in those which are familiar. But nature
here is on another scale than we have seen it before. In Europe Mont
Blanc is "the monarch of mountains," but yonder peak, Nunda Davee,
which shows above the horizon at the distance of a hundred and ten
miles, is 25,600 feet high--that is, nearly two miles higher than Mont
Blanc! There are others still higher--Kinchinganga and Dwalaghiri--but
they are not in sight, as they are farther east in Nepaul. But from
Darjeeling, a hill station much frequented in the summer months by
residents of Calcutta, one may get an unobstructed view of Mount
Everest, 29,000 feet high, the loftiest summit on the globe. And here
before us are a number of peaks, twenty-two, twenty-three, and
twenty-four thousand feet high--higher than Chimborazo, or any peak of
the Andes.
Perhaps the Himalayas are less impressive than the Alps _in
proportion_, because the snow line is so much higher. In Switzerland
we reach the line of perpetual snow at 8,900 feet, so that the
Jungfrau, which is less than 14,000 feet, has a full mile of snow
covering her virgin breast. But here the traveller must ascend 18,000
feet, nearly two miles higher, before he comes to the line of
perpetual snow. It is considered a great achievement of the most
daring Alpine climbers to reach the top of the Jungfrau or the
Matterhorn, but here many of the _passes_ are higher than the summit
of either. Dr. Bellew, who accompanied the expedition of Sir Douglas
Forsyth three years since to Yarkund and Kashgar, told me they crossed
passes 19,000 feet high, nearly 4,000 feet higher than Mont Blanc. He
said they did not need a guide, for that the path was marked by bones
of men and beasts that had perished by the way; the bodies lying where
they fell, for no beast or bird lives at that far height, neither
vulture nor jackal, while the intense cold preserved the bodies from
decay.
But the Himalayas are not all heights, but heights and depths. The
mountains are divided by valleys. From where we stand the eye sweeps
over the tops of nine or ten separate ranges, with valleys between, in
which are scattered hundreds of villages. The enterprising traveller
may descend into these deep places of the earth, and make his toilsome
way over one range after another, till he reaches the snows. But he
will find it a _fourteen days' march_. My companion had once spent six
weeks in a missionary tour among these villages.
Wilson, the author of "The Abode of Snow,"[5] who spent months in
travelling through the Inner Himalayas, from Thibet to Cashmere, makes
a comparison of these mountains with the Alps. There are some
advantages to be claimed for the latter. Not only are they more
accessible, but combine in a smaller space more variety. Their sides
are more generally clothed with forests, which are mirrored in those
beautiful sheets of water that give such a charm both to Swiss and
Scottish scenery. But in the Himalayas there is hardly a lake to be
seen until one enters the Vale of Cashmere. Then the Alps have more of
the human element, in the picturesque Swiss villages. The traveller
looks down from snow-covered mountains into valleys with meadows and
houses and the spires of churches. But in the Himalayas there is not a
sign of civilization, and hardly of habitation. Occasionally a village
or a Buddhist monastery may stand out picturesquely on the top of a
hill, but generally the mountains are given up to utter desolation.
"But," says Wilson, "when all these admissions in favor of
Switzerland are made, the Himalayas still remain
unsurpassed, and even unapproached, as regards all the
wilder and grander features of mountain scenery. There is
nothing in the Alps which can afford even a faint idea of
the savage desolation and appalling sublimity of many of the
Himalayan scenes. Nowhere have the faces of the rocks been
so scarred and riven by the nightly action of frost and the
midday floods from melting snow. In almost every valley we
see places where whole peaks or sides of great mountains
have very recently come shattering down."
This constant action of the elements sometimes carves the sides of the
mountains into castellated forms, like the canyons of the Yellowstone
and the Colorado:
"Gigantic mural precipices, bastions, towers, castles,
citadels, and spires rise up thousands of feet in height,
mocking in their immensity and grandeur the puny efforts of
human art; while yet higher the domes of pure white snow and
glittering spires of ice far surpass in perfection, as well
as in immensity, all the Moslem musjids and minars."
But more impressive than the most fantastic or imposing forms are the
vast spaces of untrodden snow, and the awful solitudes and silences of
the upper air. No wonder that the Hindoos made this inaccessible
region the dwelling-place of their gods. It is their Kylas, or Heaven.
The peak of Badrinath, 24,000 feet high, is the abode of Vishnu; and
that of Kedarnath, 23,000, is the abode of Shiva--two of the Hindoo
Trinity. Nunda Davee (the goddess Nunda) is the wife of Shiva. Around
these summits gathers the whole Hindoo mythology. Yonder, where we see
a slight hollow in the mountains, is Gungootree, where the Ganges
takes its rise, issuing from a great glacier by a fissure, or icy
cavern, worn underneath, called the Cow's Mouth. Farther to the west
is Jumnootree, the source of the Jumna. Both these places are very
sacred in the eyes of the Hindoos, and as near to them as any
structure can be placed, are shrines, which are visited by hundreds of
thousands of pilgrims from all parts of India.
Thus these snowy heights are to the Hindoo Mount Sinai and Calvary in
one. Here is not only the summit where God gave the law, but where God
dwells evermore, and out of which issue the sacred rivers, which are
like the rivers of the water of life flowing out of the throne of God;
or like the blood of atonement, to wash away the sins of the world.
But the associations of this spot are not all of Hindooism and
idolatry. True, we are in a wintry region, but there is an Alpine
flower that grows at the foot of the snows. Close to Lal Tiba I
observed a large tree of rhododendrons, in full bloom, although it was
February, their scarlet blossoms contrasting with the snow which had
fallen on them the night before. But the fairest blossom on that
Alpine height is a Christian church. Lal Tiba itself belongs to the
Presbyterian mission, and adjoining it is the house of the
missionaries. On the ridge is a mission church, built chiefly by the
indefatigable efforts of Mr. Woodside. It is a modest, yet tasteful
building, standing on a point of rock, which is in full view of the
Snowy Range, and overlooks the whole mountain landscape. It was like a
banner in the sky--that white church--standing on such a height, as if
it were in the clouds, looking across at the mighty range beyond, and
smiling at the eternal snows!
The hardest thing in going round the world, is to break away from
friends. Not the friends we have left in America, for those we may
hope to see again, but the friends made along the way. One meets so
many kind people, and enters so many hospitable homes, that to part
from them is an ever-renewing sorrow and regret. We have found many
such homes in India, but none in which we would linger more than in
this lovely Vale of Dehra Doon.
One attraction is the Girls' School, which we might almost call the
missionary flower of India. The building, which would be a "Seminary"
at home, stands in the midst of ample grounds, where, in the intervals
of study, the inmates can find healthful exercise. The pupils are
mostly the daughters of native Christians--converted Hindoos or
Mohammedans. Some are orphans, or have been forsaken by their parents,
and have thus fallen to the care of an institution which is more to
them than their natural fathers and mothers. Many of these young girls
had very sweet faces, and all were as modest and well behaved as the
girls I have seen in any similar institution in our own country. Some
are adopted by friends in America, who engage to provide for their
education. Wishing to have a part in this good work, we looked about
the school till we picked out the veriest morsel of a creature, as
small as Dickens's Tiny Tim--but whose eyes were very bright, and her
mind as active as her body was frail, and C---- thereupon adopted her
and paid down a hundred rupees for a year's board and teaching. She is
by birth a Mohammedan, but will be trained up as a Christian. She is
very winning in her ways; and, dear me, when the little creature crept
up into my lap, and looked up into my face with her great black eyes,
it was such an appeal for love and protection as I could not resist;
and when she put her thin arms around my neck, I felt richer than if I
had been encircled with one of those necklaces of pearl, which the
Rajahs were just then throwing around the neck of the Prince of
Wales.
Our last day was spent in a visit to the tea plantations. The culture
of tea has been introduced into India within a few years, and portions
of the country are found so favorable that the tea is thought by many
equal to that imported from China. Mr. Woodside took us out in a
carriage a few miles, when we left the road and crossed the fields on
the back of an elephant, which is a better "coigne of vantage" than
the back of a horse, as the rider is lifted up higher into the air,
and in passing under trees can stretch out his hand (as we did) and
pick blossoms and birds' nests from the branches; but there is a
rolling motion a little too much like "life on an ocean wave," and if
it were not for the glory of the thing I confess I should rather have
under me some steady old trotter, such as I have had at home, or even
one of the little donkeys with which we used to amble about the
streets of Cairo. But there are times when one would prefer the
elephant, as if he should chance to meet a tiger! The beast we were
riding this morning was an old tiger hunter, that had often been out
in the jungle, and as he marched off, seemed as if he would like
nothing better than to smell his old enemy. In a deadly combat the
tiger has the advantage in quickness of motion, and can spring upon
the elephant's neck, but if the latter can get his trunk around him he
is done for, for he is instantly dashed to the ground, and trampled to
death under the monster's feet. We had no occasion to test his
courage, though, if what we heard was true, he might have found game
not far off, for a native village through which we passed was just
then in terror because of a tiger who had lately come about and
carried off several bullocks only a few days before, and they had sent
to Mr. Bell, a tea planter whom we met later in the day, to come and
shoot him. He told me he would come willingly, but that the natives
were of a low caste, who had not the Hindoos' horror of touching such
food, and devoured the half eaten bullock. If, he said, they would
only let the carcass alone, the tiger always comes back, and he would
plant himself in some post of observation, and with a rifle which
never failed would soon relieve them of their terrible enemy.
After an hour of this cross-country riding, our elephant drew up
before the door of a large house; a ladder was brought, and we
clambered down his sides. Just then we heard the sharp cracks of a
gun, and the planter came in, saying that he had been picking off
monkeys which were a little troublesome in his garden. This was Mr.
Nelson, one of the largest planters in the valley, with whom we had
engaged to take tiffin. He took us over his plantation, which is laid
out on a grand scale, many acres being set in rows with the tea plant,
which is a small shrub, about as large as a gooseberry bush, from
which the leaves are carefully picked. The green tea is not a
different plant from the black tea, but only differently prepared.
From the plantation we were taken to the roasting-house, where the tea
lay upon the floor in great heaps, like heaps of grain; and where it
is subjected to a variety of processes, to prepare it for use or for
exportation. It is first "wilted" in large copper pans or ovens; then
"rolled" on a table of stretched matting; then slightly dried, and put
back in the ovens; then rolled again; and finally subjected to a good
"roasting," by which time every drop of moisture is got out of it, and
it acquires the peculiar twist, or shrivelled look, so well known to
dainty lovers of the cup which cheers but not inebriates. How perfect
was the growing and the preparation appeared when we sat down at the
generous table, where we found the flavor as delicate as that of any
we had ever sipped that came from the Flowery Land.
Leaving this kind and hospitable family, we rode on to the plantation
of Mr. Bell, who had the "engagement" to shoot the tiger. He is a
brave Scot, very fond of sport, and had a room full of stuffed birds,
which he was going to send off to Australia. Occasionally he had a
shot at other game. Once he had brought down a leopard, and, as he
said, thought the beast was "deed," and went up to him, when the brute
gave a spring, and tore open his leg, which laid him up for two
months. But such beasts are really less dangerous than the cobras,
which crawl among the rows of plants, and as the field-hands go among
them barefoot, some fall victims every year. But an Englishman is
protected by his boots, and Mr. Bell strolls about with his dog and
his gun, without the slightest sense of danger.
We had now accomplished our visit to the Himalayas, and were to bid
adieu to the mountains and the valleys. But how were we to get back to
Saharanpur? There was the mail-wagon and the _omnibuckus_. But these
seemed very prosaic after our mountain raptures. Mr. Herron suggested
that we should try _dooleys_--long palanquins in which we could lie
down and sleep (perhaps), and thus be carried over the mountains at
night. As we were eager for new experiences, of course we were ready
for any novelty. But great bodies move slowly, and how great we were
we began to realize when we found what a force it took to move us. Mr.
Herron sent for the _chaudri_--a kind of public carrier whose office
it is to provide for such services--and an engagement was formally
entered into between the high contracting parties that for a certain
sum he was to provide two dooleys and a sufficient number of bearers,
to carry us over the mountains to Saharanpur, a distance of forty-two
miles. This was duly signed and sealed, and the money paid on the
spot, with promise of liberal backsheesh at the end if the agreement
was satisfactorily performed.
Thus authorized and empowered to enter into negotiations with inferior
parties, the _chaudri_ sent forward a courier, or _sarbarah_, to go
ahead over the whole route a day in advance, and to secure the relays,
and thus prepare for our royal progress.
This seemed very magnificent, but when our retinue filed into the
yard on the evening of our departure, and drew up before the veranda,
we were almost ashamed to see what a prodigious ado it took to get us
two poor mortals out of the valley. Our escort was as follows: Each
dooley had six bearers, or _kahars_--four to carry it, and two to be
ready as a reserve. Besides these twelve, there were two
_bahangi-wallas_ to carry our one trunk on a bamboo pole, making
fourteen persons in all. As there were five stages (for one set of men
could only go about eight miles), it took seventy men (besides the two
high officials) to carry our sacred persons these forty-two miles! Of
the reserve of four who walked beside us, two performed the function
of torch-bearers--no unimportant matter when traversing a forest so
full of wild beasts that the natives cannot be induced to cross it at
night without lights kept burning.
The torch was made simply by winding a piece of cloth around the end
of a stick, and pouring oil upon it from a bottle carried for the
purpose (just the mode of the wise virgins in the parable). Our kind
friends had put a mattress in each dooley, with pillows and coverlet,
so that if we could not quite go to bed, we could make ourselves
comfortable for a night's journey. I took off my boots, and wrapping
my feet in the soft fur of the skin of the Himalayan goat, which I had
purchased in the mountains, stretched myself
Like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him,
and bade the cavalcade take up its march. They lighted their torches,
and like the wise virgins, "took oil in their vessels with their
lamps," and set out on our night journey. At first we wound our way
through the streets of the town, through bazaars and past temples,
till at last we emerged from all signs of human habitation, and were
alone with the forests and the stars.
When we were fairly in the woods, all the stories I had heard of wild
beasts came back to me. For a week past I had been listening to
thrilling incidents, many of which occurred in this very mountain
pass. The Sewalic range is entirely uninhabited except along the
roads, and is thus given up to wild beasts, and nowhere is one more
likely to meet an adventure. That very morning, at breakfast, Mrs.
Woodside had given me her experience. She was once crossing this pass
at night, and as it came near the break of day she saw men running,
and heard the cry of "tiger," but thought little of it, as the natives
were apt to give false alarms; but presently the horses began to rear
and plunge, so that the driver loosed them and let them go, and just
then she heard a tremendous roar, which seemed close to the wagon,
where a couple of the brutes had come down to drink of a brook by the
roadside. She was so terrified that she did not dare to look out, but
shut at once the windows of the gharri. Presently some soldiers came
up the pass with elephants, who went in pursuit, but the monsters had
retreated into the forest.
That was some years ago, but such incidents may still happen. Only a
few weeks since Mr. Woodside was riding through the pass at night in
the mail-wagon, and had dropped asleep, when his companion, a British
officer, awoke him, telling him he had just seen a couple of tigers
distinctly in the moonlight.
One would suppose we were safe enough with more than a dozen
attendants, but the natives are very timid, and a tiger's roar will
set them flying. A lady at Dehra, the daughter of a missionary, told
us how she was once carried with her mother and one or two other
children in dooleys, when just at break of day a huge tiger walked out
of a wood, and came right towards them, when the brave coolies at once
dropped them and ran, leaving the mother and her children to their
fate. Fortunately she had presence of mind to light a piece of
matting, and throw it out to the brute, who either from that, or
perhaps because he was too noble a beast to attack a woman, after
eyeing them for some moments, deliberately walked away.
Such associations with the road we were travelling, gave an excitement
to our night journey which was not the most composing to sleep. It is
very well to sit by the fireside and talk about tigers, but I do not
know of anybody who would care to meet one in the woods, unless well
armed and on an elephant's back.
But what if a wild elephant should come out upon us? In general, I
believe these are quiet and peaceable beasts, but they are subject to
a kind of madness which makes them untamable. A "rogue elephant"--one
who has been tamed, and afterwards goes back to his savage state--is
one of the most dangerous of wild beasts. When the Prince of Wales was
hunting in the Terai with Sir Jung Bahadoor, an alarm was given that a
rogue elephant was coming, and they pushed the Prince up into a tree
as quickly as possible, for the monster has no respect to majesty.
Mrs. Woodside told me that they once had a servant who asked to go
home to visit his friends. On his way he lay down at the foot of a
tree, and fell asleep, when a rogue elephant came along, and took him
up like a kitten, and crushed him in an instant, and threw him on the
roadside.
The possibility of such an adventure was quite enough to keep our
imagination in lively exercise. Our friends had told us that there was
no danger with flaming torches, although we might perhaps hear a
distant roar on the mountains, or an elephant breaking through the
trees. We listened intently. When the men were moving on in silence,
we strained our ears to catch any sound that might break the stillness
of the forest. If a branch fell from a tree, it might be an elephant
coming through the wood. If we could not see, we imagined forms
gliding in the darkness. Even the shadows cast by the starlight took
the shapes that we dreaded. Hush! there is a stealthy step over the
fallen leaves. No, it is the wind whispering in the trees. Thus was it
all night long. If any wild beasts glared on us out of the covert, our
flaming torches kept them at a respectful distance. We did not hear
the tramp of an elephant, the growl of a tiger, or even the cry of a
jackal.
But though we had not the excitement of an adventure, the scene itself
was wild and weird enough. We were entirely alone, with more than a
dozen men, with not one of whom we could exchange a single word,
traversing a mountain pass, with miles of forest and jungle separating
us from any habitation. Our attendants were men of powerful physique,
whose swarthy limbs and strange faces looked more strange than ever by
the torchlight. Once in seven or eight miles they set down their
burden. We halted at a camp fire by the roadside, where a fresh relay
was waiting. There our fourteen men were swelled to twenty-eight. Then
the curtain of my couch was gently drawn aside, a black head was
thrust in, and a voice whispered in the softest of tones "Sahib,
backsheesh!" Then the new bearers took up their load, and jogged on
their way.
I must say they did very well. The motion was not unpleasant. The
dooley rested not on two poles, but on one long bamboo, three or four
inches in diameter, at each end of which two men braced themselves
against each other, and moved forward with a swinging gait, a kind of
dog trot, which they accompanied with a low grunt, which seemed to
relieve them, and be a way of keeping time. Their burdens did not
fatigue them much--at least they did not groan under the load, but
talked and laughed by the way. Nor were luxuries forgotten. One of the
men carried a hooka, which served for the whole party, being passed
from mouth to mouth, with which the men, when off duty, refreshed
themselves with many a puff of the fragrant weed.
Thus refreshed they kept up a steady gait of about three miles an
hour through the night. At length the day began to break. As we
approached the end of our journey the men picked up speed, and I
thought they would come in on a run. Glad were we to come in sight of
Saharanpur. At ten o'clock we entered the Mission Compound, and drew
up before the door of "Calderwood Padre," who, as he saw me stretched
out at full length, "like a warrior taking his rest," if not "with his
martial cloak around him," yet with his Scotch plaid shawl covering
"his manly breast," declared that I was "an old Indian!"
FOOTNOTES:
[4] This is given as an average distance in an air line. The nearest
peak, Boonderpunch (Monkey's Tail), is forty-five miles as the crow
flies, though by the nearest accessible route, it is a hundred and
forty! Nunda Davee is a hundred and ten in an air line, but by the
paths over the mountains, must be over two hundred.
[5] A very fascinating book, especially to Alpine tourists, or those
fond of climbing mountains. The title, "The Abode of Snow," is a
translation of the word Himalaya. The writer is a son of the late Dr.
Wilson, of Bombay. Taking a new field, he has produced a story of
travel and adventure, which will be apt to tempt others to follow him.