GOING TO INDIA.
Arriving in London, I was received by the family harem with some
little astonishment, for they already knew enough of "terms" to
be aware that the last was unfinished. I was quite determined to
have two or three days in peace, so I thoroughly satisfied all the
exigencies of the position by declaring that I had been allowed an
extra vacation for taking a double-first with the very highest honours.
A grand dinner-party was given, quite the reverse of the fatted
calf. Unfortunately, amongst the guests was the Rev. Mr. Phillips, a
great friend of mine, who grinned at me, and indirectly ejaculated,
"Rusticated, eh?" The aunts said nothing at the time, but they made
inquiries, the result of which was a tableau.
This Phillips was the brother of Major-General Sir B. T. Phillips, who
served long and well in the Bengal army, was rather a noted figure as a
young-old man in London, and died in Paris in 1880.
You will say that these are wild oats with a vengeance, but most thus
sow them, and it is better that they should sow them in early youth.
Nothing is more melancholy than to see a man suddenly emancipated from
family rule, and playing tricks when the heyday is passed. Youth is
like new wine that must be allowed to ferment freely, or it will never
become clear, strong, and well flavoured.
[Sidenote: _He gets a Commission and begins Hindostani._]
I was asked what I intended to do, and I replied simply that I wished
to go into the Army, but that I preferred the Indian service, as it
would show me more of the world, and give me a better chance of active
service. There was no great difficulty in getting a commission. The
Directors were bound not to sell them, but every now and then they
would give a nomination to a friend, and my friend did not throw away
the chance. My conviction is that the commission cost £500.
It was arranged that I should sail in the spring, and meanwhile I
determined to have a jolly time. I made a number of new acquaintances,
including old Mr. Varley, the artist, of whom I was very fond. He had
just finished a curious book that he called "Zodiacal Physiognomy,"
in order to prove that every man resembled, after a fashion, the sign
under which he was born. Readers will kindly remember, that in the
old Zodiacs, all the figures were either human or bestial. Mr. Varley
was a great student of occult science, and perhaps his favourite was
astrology. It is curious how little London knows of what goes on in the
next-door house. A book on "Alchemy" was printed, and the curious fact
came out, that at least one hundred people in London were studying the
philosopher's stone.
Mr. Varley drew out my horoscope, and prognosticated that I was to
become a great astrologer; but the prophesy came to nothing, for,
although I had read Cornelius Agrippa and others of the same school at
Oxford, I found Zadkiel quite sufficient for me. Amongst the people
that I met was the Rev. Robert, popularly called Satan Montgomery,
who had come up from Scotland deadly tired of Glasgow punch, and was
making a preaching campaign. He had written a quantity of half-nonsense
verses, which were very much admired by his feminine devotees, and
which were most savagely mangled by Lord Macaulay in the _Quarterly_.
He was an effective figure in the pulpit; he had a very pale face, and
tolerably straight features, very black hair, and very white hands,
with a large diamond and a very white pocket-handkerchief.
He had, to a marvellous extent, what is vulgarly called the "gift of
the gab;" he spoke for an hour without a moment's hesitation. But there
was something solid below all this froth, and he had carefully read up
all the good old theological works. The women, including the aunts,
went literally mad; they crowded the little Gothic chapel, they mobbed
as he came in and went out, and they literally overwhelmed him with
slippers, chest-protectors, and portable articles to administer the
Sacrament. His reign was short; he married, came up to London, took
a chapel, subsided into the average popular preacher, and soon died.
Amongst others that I met was a certain Robert Bagshaw from Calcutta,
who was destined afterwards to marry my aunt Georgina Baker. I managed
to offend him very much. He was rather boasting of a new dress-coat,
when I delicately raised the tail, and said, "You don't mean to say
that you call _this_ a coat?"
With all this wasting of time, I kept my eye steadily fixed upon the
main chance. I gave up boxing at Owen Swift's, and fencing at Angelo's,
and spent all my spare time in learning Hindostani with old Duncan
Forbes. A very curious old Scotchman it was. He had spent a year or
so in Bombay, and upon the strength of it, he was perfect master of
Oriental languages. He had two passions: one was for smoking a huge
meerschaum, stuffed with the strongest possible tobacco, and the other
was for chess, concerning which he published some, at that time, very
interesting and novel studies.
Perhaps his third passion was not quite so harmless; it was simply
for not washing. He spoke all his Eastern languages with the broadest
possible Scotch accent; and he cared much more for telling anecdotes,
than for teaching. However, he laid a fair foundation, and my _then_
slight studies of Arabic, secured me the old man's regard. He published
a number of books, and he certainly had not the _suaviter in modo_. He
attacked Eastwick, the Orientalist, in the most ferocious style.
[Sidenote: _He goes to be sworn in at the India Office._]
Presently the day came when I was to be sworn in at the India House.
In those days the old building stood in Leadenhall Street, and gave
Thackeray a good opportunity of attacking it as the "Hall of Lead;" a
wonderful dull and smoky old place, it was, with its large and gorgeous
porter outside, and its gloomy, stuffy old rooms inside, an atmosphere
which had actually produced "The Essays of Elia." In those days it
kept up a certain amount of respect for itself. If an officer received
a gift of a sword, he was conducted by the tall porter to the general
meeting of the Directors, and duly spoken to and complimented in form;
but as times waxed harder, the poor twenty-four Kings of Leadenhall
Street declined from Princes into mere _Shayhks_. They actually sent
a Sword of Honour to one of their officers by a street messenger, and
the donee returned it, saying, he could, not understand the _manner_
of the gift; and so it went on gradually declining and falling, till
at last the old house was abandoned and let for offices. The shadowy
Directors flitted to the West End, into a brand-new India House, which
soon brought on their Euthanasia.
My bringing-up caused me to be much scandalized by the sight of my
future comrades and brother officers, which I will presently explain.
The Afghan disaster was still fresh in public memory. The aunts had
been patriotic enough to burst into tears when they heard of it; and
certainly it was an affecting picture, the idea of a single Englishman,
Dr. Brydone, riding into Jellalabad, the only one of thirteen thousand,
he and his horse so broken as almost to die at the gates.
Poor General Elphinstone, by-the-by, had been my father's best man at
his marriage, and was as little fitted for such field service, as Job
was at his worst. Alexander Burns was the only headpiece in the lot. He
had had the moral courage to report how critical the position was; but
he had not the moral courage to insist upon his advice being taken,
and, that failing, to return to his regiment as a Captain.
MacNaghten was a mere Indian civilian. Like too many of them, he had
fallen into the dodging ways of the natives, and he distinctly deserved
his death. The words used by Akbar Khan, by-the-by, when he shot him,
were, "Shumá mulk-e-má mí gírid" ("So you're the fellow who've come to
take our country").
But the result of the massacre was a demand for soldiers and officers,
especially Anglo-Indians. Some forty medical students were sent out,
and they naturally got the name of the "Forty Thieves." The excess of
demand explained the curious appearance of the embryo cadets when they
met to be sworn in at the India House. They looked like raw country
lads, mostly dressed in home-made clothes, and hair cut by the village
barber, country boots, and no gloves. So, my friend, Colonel White's
son, who was entering the service on the same day, and I looked at one
another in blank dismay. We had fallen amongst young Yahoos, and we
looked forward with terror to such society. I was originally intended
for Bengal, but, as has been seen, I had relations there. I was not
going to subject myself to surveillance by my uncle by marriage, an old
general of invalids. Moreover, one of my D'Aguilar cousins was married
to a judge in Calcutta. I was determined to have as much liberty as
possible, and therefore I chose Bombay. I was always of opinion that a
man proves his valour by doing what he likes; there is no merit in so
doing when you have a fair fortune and independent position, but for a
man bound by professional ties, and too often lacking means to carry
out his wishes, it is a great success to choose his own line and stick
to it.
The next thing to do was to obtain an outfit. This was another great
abuse in those days. As the friends of the Directors made money by
the cadets' commissions to the friends, the friends made money by
sending them to particular houses. The unfortunate cadets, or rather
their parents, were in fact plundered by everything that touched them.
The outfit, which was considered _de rigueur_, was absurdly profuse.
Dozens upon dozens of white jackets and trousers, only fit to give
rheumatism--even tobacco, niggerhead, and pigtail, as presents for the
sailors. Even the publishers so arranged that their dictionaries and
grammars of Hindostani should be forced upon the unhappy youths.[1] The
result was absolutely ridiculous. As a rule, the bullock trunks were
opened during the voyage, the kit was displayed, and on fast ships
it was put down as a stake at cards. Stories are told of sharp hands
landing in India after winning half a dozen outfits, which literally
glutted the market. Guns, pistols, and swords, and saddles were of the
most expensive and useless description, and were all to be bought much
better, at a quarter the price, in any Indian port.
The average of the voyage lasted four months. Two or three changes of
suits only, were necessary, and the £100 outfit was simply plunder to
the outfitter.
An unusual article of outfit was ordered by me, and that was a wig from
Winter in Oxford Street. In early life I found the advantage of shaving
my head, enabling me to keep it cool, when it was usually in the other
condition.
An old Joe Miller was told in Bombay about a certain Duncan Grey,
a Scotch doctor, who was famous for selling hog-mane ponies to
new-comers. He was in medical attendance upon the cadets, and took the
opportunity of pocketing his wig, and persuading them that shaved heads
were the official costume. He accompanied them for the first official
visit, and as they were taking off their caps he whipped on his wig,
and presented to the astonished Commanding Officer half a dozen utterly
bald pates, which looked as if they belonged to as many lunatics.
My only companion was a bull-terrier of the Oxford breed, more bull
than terrier. Its box-head and pink face had been scratched all over
during a succession of dog-fights and various tussles with rats. It was
beautifully built in the body, and the tail was as thin as a little
finger, showing all the vertebræ. The breed seems to have become almost
extinct, but I found it again at Oxford when I went there in 1850. The
little brute bore a fine litter of pups, and died in Gujarat, as usual
with every sign of old age, half-blind eyes, and staggering limbs. The
pups grew up magnificently. One, which rejoiced in the name of Bachhûn,
received the best of educations. He was entered necessarily on mice,
rats, and _Gilahris_, or native squirrels, which bite and scratch
like cats. He was so thoroughly game, that he would sally out alone
in the mornings, and kill a jackal single-handed. He was the pride of
the regiment, and came as usual to a bad end. On one of my journeys,
dressed as a native, I had to leave him behind in charge of my friend
Dr. Arnold, surgeon of the regiment. Dr. Arnold also, when absent,
confided him to the care of a brother-medico, Dr. Pitman, who had
strict opinions on the subject of drugs. The wretch actually allowed
the gallant little dog to die of some simple disease, because he would
not give him a dose of medicine belonging to the Company.
[1] Our boxes were stuffed with Wellington's despatches, Army
Regulations, Mill's ponderous "History of India," and whatever the
publisher chose to agree upon with the outfitter.