CHAPTER VI.

MY PUBLIC LIFE BEGINS.

"Wanted: Men.

Not systems fit and wise,

Not faiths with rigid eyes,

Not wealth in mountain piles,

Not power with gracious smiles,

Not even the potent pen;

Wanted: Men.

"Wanted: Deeds.

Not words of winning note,

Not thoughts from life remote,

Not fond religious airs,

Not sweetly languid prayers,

Not love of scent and creeds;

Wanted: Deeds.

"Men and Deeds.

Men that can dare and do;

Not longing for the new,

Not pratings of the old:

Good life and action bold--

These the occasion needs,

Men and Deeds."

----DUNCAN MACGREGOR.

The next thing was to choose a ship, and the aunts were directed by

their friend of the commission, to the _John Knox_ (Captain Richard B.

Cleland), sailing barque, belonging to Messrs. Guy and Co. I was to

embark at Greenwich; the family harem went down with me. I was duly

wept over, and I dropped down the river with the scantiest regret

(except for my relatives) for leaving Europe, on June 18th, 1842.

My companions were Ensign Boileau, of the 22nd Regiment, Ensign

Thompson, of the Company (line), and Mr. Richmond, going out to a

commercial house in Bombay.[1]

There was an equal number of the other sex--a lady calling herself Mrs.

Lewis, and three sturdy wives of sergeants. Fortunately also, there

were three native servants who spoke Hindostani.

[Sidenote: _The Voyage and Arrival._]

The voyage began as usual by a straight run down the Channel, and a

June weather passage along the coasts of Europe and Africa. There were

delays in the Doldrums and calms near the Line. Neptune came on board

as usual, but there was very little fun, the numbers being too small.

At such times troubles are apt to break out on board. The captain,

Richard Cleland, was one of the best seamen that ever commanded a ship,

yet his career had been unlucky--as Vasco da Gama said to Don Manoel,

"Men who are unfortunate at sea should avoid the affairs of the sea."

He had already lost one ship, which was simply ill-fortune, for no

seaman could be more sober or more attentive to his duty. He managed,

however, to have a row on board, called upon the cadets to load their

pistols and accompany him to the forecastle, where he was about to make

a mutineer a prisoner. These were very disagreeable things to interfere

with, and the Supreme Court of Bombay always did its best to hang an

officer if a seaman was shot on these occasions; one man in particular

had a narrow escape.

The discipline on the ship was none of the best. Captain Cleland had

begun early, and determined to establish a raw, and invited me to put

on the gloves with him. The result was that the tall lanky Scotchman,

who was in particularly bad training, got knocked into a cocked hat.

Then arose the usual troubles amongst the passengers. Normally on

such voyages, all begin by talking together, and end by talking with

themselves. Of course there were love passages, and these only made

matters worse. The chief mate, a great hulking fellow, who ought to

have hit like Tom Spring, but whose mutton fist could not dent a pat

of butter, was solemnly knocked down on quarter-deck for putting in

his oar. Then followed a sham duel, the combatants being brought up at

midnight, and the pistols loaded with balls of blackened cork instead

of bullets. During the day there were bathings along the ship in a

sail, to keep out the sharks; catching of sharks and flying-fish, and

massacring of unhappy birds. I, however, utilized my time by making

the three native servants who were on board, talk with me, and by

reading Hindostani stories from old Shakespeare's text-book. I made a

final attempt to keep up musical notation, and used the flageolet to

the despair of all on board; but the chief part of my time was passed

in working at Hindostani, reading all the Eastern books on board,

gymnastics, and teaching my brother youngsters the sword. There was

also an immense waste of gunpowder, for were not all these young

gentlemen going out to be Commanders-in-Chief?

The good ship _John Knox_ ran past the Cape in winter, and a

magnificent scene it was. Waves measuring miles in length came up from

the South Pole, in lines as regular as those of soldiers marching

over a dead plain. Over them floated the sheep-like albatrosses, whom

the cadets soon tired of shooting, especially when they found that it

was almost impossible to stuff the bird. The little stormy petrels

were respected, but the Cape pigeons were drawn on board in numbers,

with a hook and a bit of bait. Nothing could be brighter than the

skies and seas, and the experience of what is called "a white gale"

gave universal satisfaction. It came down without any warning, except

ploughing up the waters, and had not Captain Cleland been on deck and

let go his gear, most of the muslin would have been on the broad bosom

of the Atlantic.

There was little interest in sailing up the eastern coast of South

Africa. We saw neither the coast nor Madagascar, but struck north-east

for the western coast of India. The usual tricks were played upon

new-comers. They had been made to see the Line by a thread stretched

over a spy-glass, and _now_ they were told to smell India after a

little oil of cloves had been rubbed upon the bulwarks!

When the winds fell, the cadets amused themselves with boarding the

_pattymars_, and other native craft, and went ferreting all about

the cabins and holes, to the great disgust of the owners. They gaped

at the snakes, which they saw swimming about, and were delighted

when the _John Knox_, one fine night, lumbered on her way through

nets and fishing stakes, whose owners set up a noise like a gigantic

frog concert. Next morning, October 28th, the Government pilot came

on board; excited questions were put to him, "What was doing in

Afghanistan? What of the war?" At his answer all hopes fell to zero.

Lord Ellenborough had succeeded Lord Auckland. The avenging army had

returned through the Khaybar Pass. The campaign was finished. Ghuzni

had fallen, the prisoners had been given up. Pollock, Sale, and Pratt

had been perfectly successful, and there was no chance of becoming

Commanders-in-Chief within the year.

I never expected to see another Afghan War, and yet I did so before

middle age was well over.

"Thy towers, Bombay! gleam bright, they say,

Against the dark blue sea,"

absurdly sings the poet. It was no picture like this we saw on the

morning of the 28th of October, 1842, when our long voyage ended. The

bay so celebrated appeared anything but beautiful. It was a great splay

thing, too long for its height, and it had not one of the beautiful

perpendiculars that distinguish Parthenope.

The high background is almost always hid by the reek that rises

during the day, and the sun seems to burn all the colour out of the

landscape. The rains had just ceased, yet the sky seemed never clear,

and the water wanted washing. After this preliminary glance, the

companions shook hands, and, not without something of soreness of

heart, separated, after having lived together nearly five months. I

went to the British Hotel in the Fort, then kept by an Englishman named

Blackwell, who delegated all his duty to a Parsee, and never troubled

himself about his guests. A Tontine Hotel had been long proposed,

but there is a long interval between sayings and doings in India.

The landing in a wretched shore-boat at the unclean Apollo Bunder,

an absurd classicism for Palawa Bunder, was a complete disenchanter.

Not less so to pass through the shabby doorway in the dingy old

fortifications, which the Portuguese had left behind them when the

island was ceded to Charles II. The bright Towers were nowhere, and

the tower of a cathedral that resembled a village church, seemed to be

splotched and corroded as if by gangrene.

Bombay was in those days the most cosmopolitan City in the East,

and the Bhendi Bazaar, the centre of the old town, was the most

characteristic part of all--perhaps more characteristic than were those

of Cairo or Damascus. It was marvellously picturesque with its crowds

of people from every part of the East, and its utter want of what is

called civilization, made it a great contrast to what it became a score

of years afterwards. Englishmen looked at it with a careless eye, as a

man scours his own property, but foreigners (Frenchmen like Jacquemont,

and Germans like Von Orlich) were delighted with its various humours,

and described them in their most picturesque style. Everything looked

upon a pauper scale.

The first sight of a Sepoy nearly drove me back to the _John Knox_. I

saw an imitation European article; I saw a shako, planted on the top

of a dingy face, and hair as greasy as a Chinese's. The coat of faded

scarlet seemed to contain a mummy with arms like drumsticks, and its

legs, clad in blue dungaree, seemed to fork from below its waist; and

yet this creature in his national dress, was uncommonly picturesque,

with his long back hair let down, his light jacket of white cotton, his

salmon-coloured waistcloth falling to his ankles, in graceful folds,

and his feet in slippers of bright cloth, somewhat like the _piéd

d'ours_ of the mediæval man-at-arms. The hotel was an abomination.

Its teas and its curries haunted the censorium of memory for the rest

of man's natural life. The rooms were loose boxes, and at night

intoxicated acquaintances stood upon chairs and amused themselves by

looking over the thin cloth walls. I stood this for a few days till

I felt sick with rage. I then applied to the garrison surgeon, in

those days Dr. J. W. Ryan, popularly known as Paddy Ryan.[2] He was a

good-natured man; he enquired copiously about my Irish relations and

connections, knew something of Lord Trimleston, and removed me from the

foul hotel, to what in those days was called the Sanitarium.

[Sidenote: _The Sanitarium._]

The Sanitarium was a pompous name for a very poor establishment. About

half a dozen bungalows of the semi-detached kind, each with its bit of

compound or yard, fronted in a military line Back Bay, so famous for

wrecks. The quarters consisted of a butt and ben, an outer room and an

inner room, with unattached quarters for servants. They were places in

which an Englishman tolerably well off would hardly kennel his dogs,

and the usual attendants were lizards and bandicoot rats. As each

tenant went away he carried off his furniture, so it was necessary to

procure bed, table, and chairs. That, however, was easily done by means

of a little Parsee broker, who went by the name of "The General," and

who had plundered generations after generations of cadets. He could

supply everything from a needle to a buggy, or ten thousand rupees

on interest, and those who once drank his wine never forgot it. He

was shockingly scandalized at the sight of my wig. Parsees must touch

nothing that come from the human body.

[Sidenote: _His Moonshee._]

He recommended as _moonshee_, or language-master, a venerable old

Parsee priest, in white hat and beard, named Dosabhai Sohrabji, at that

time the best-known coach in Bombay. Through his hands also generations

of griffins have passed. With him, as with all other Parsees, Gujarati

was the mother tongue, but he also taught Hindostani and Persian, the

latter the usual vile Indian article. He had a great reputation as a

teacher, and he managed to ruin it by publishing a book of dialogues

in English and these three languages, wherein he showed his perfect

unfitness. He was _very_ good, however, when he had no pretensions, and

in his hands I soon got through the Akhlak-i-Hindi and the Tota-Kaháni.

I remained friends with the old man till the end of his days, and the

master always used to quote his pupil, as a man who could learn a

language running.

The Sanitarium was not pleasantly placed. In latter days the foreshore

was regulated, and a railroad ran along the sea. But in 1842 the

façade was a place of abominations, and amongst them, not the least,

was the _Smashán_, or Hindú burning-ground. The fire-birth was

conducted with very little decency; the pyres were built up on the

sands, and heads and limbs were allowed to tumble off, and when the

wind set in the right quarter, the smell of roast Hindú was most

unpleasant. The occupants of the Sanitarium were supposed to be

invalids, but they led the most roystering and rackety life. Mostly

they slept in the open, under mosquito-curtains, with a calico ceiling,

and a bottle of cognac under the bed. One of these, who shall be

nameless, married shortly after, and was sturdily forbidden by his wife

to indulge in night draughts when he happened to awake. He succumbed,

but pleaded permission to have an earthen gugglet of pure water. The

spouse awoke one night in a state of thirst, which she proceeded to

quench, and was nearly choked by a draught of gin-and-water compounded

in what are called nor'-wester proportions, three of spirit to one

of water. One of the invalids led me into all kinds of mischief,

introducing me to native society of which the less said the better.

The Governor of Bombay at the time was Colonel Sir George Arthur, Bart,

K.C.H., who appears in "Jack Hinton, the Guardsman." He was supposed

to be connected with the Royal Family through George IV., and had

some curious ideas about his visitors "backing" from the "Presence."

The Commander-in-Chief was old Sir Thomas Macmahon, popularly called

"Tommy." He was one of the old soldiers who had served under the Duke

of Wellington, who had the merit of looking after his friends, as well

as looking up his enemies; but he was utterly unfit for any command,

except that of a brigade. It would be impossible to tell one tithe

of the stories current about him. One of his pet abominations was

a certain Lieutenant Pilfold, of the 2nd Queen's, whose commanding

officer, Major Brough, was perpetually court-martialling. Pilfold

belonged to that order of soldiers which is popularly called "the

lawyer," and invariably argued himself out of every difficulty. Pilfold

was first court-martialled in 1840, then 1841, and 1844, when, after

being nearly cashiered, he changed into a regiment in Australia, and

died. At last he revenged himself upon the Commander-in-Chief by

declaring that "as hares go mad in March, so Major-Generals go mad in

May"--the day when "Tommy" confirmed one of the court-martials, that

was quashed from home.

[Sidenote: _Indian Navy._]

The Bombay Marine, or, as the officers preferred it to be called,

"The Indian Navy," had come to grief. Their excellent superintendent,

Admiral Sir Charles Malcolm, was a devoted geographer; in fact, he was

the man who provoked the saying, "Capable of speaking evil, even of

the Equator." Under his rule, when there was peace at sea, the officers

were allowed ample leave to travel and explore in the most dangerous

countries, and they did brilliant service. Their names are too well

known to require quotation. But Sir Charles was succeeded by a certain

Captain Oliver, R.N., a sailor of the Commodore Trunnion type, and a

martinet of the first water. He made them stick to their monotonous and

wearisome duties in the Persian Gulf, and in other places, popularly

said to be separated by a sheet of brown paper. He was as vindictive as

he was one-ideaed, and the service will never forget the way in which

he broke the heart of an unfortunate Lieutenant Bird.

[Sidenote: _English Bigotry._]

Captain Cleland, of the _John Knox_, had introduced me to his sister,

Mrs. Woodburn, who was married to an adjutant of the 25th Regiment

of Sepoys, and she kindly introduced me to Bombay society. I stood

perfectly aghast in its presence. The rank climate of India, which

produces such a marvellous development of vegetation, seems to have

a similar effect upon the Anglo-Indian individuality. It shot up,

as if suddenly relieved of the weight with which society controls

it in England. The irreligious were marvellously irreligious, and

the religious no less marvellously religious. The latter showed the

narrowest, most fanatic, and the most intolerant spirit; no hard-grit

Baptist could compare with them. They looked upon the heathen around

them (very often far better than themselves) as faggots ready for

burning.[3] They believed that the Parsees adored the sun, that the

Hindús worshipped stocks and stones, and that the Mohammedans were

slaves to what they called "the impostor Mahomet." They were not more

lenient to those of their own blood who did not run on exactly the

same lines with them. A Roman Catholic, as they called him, was doomed

to perdition, and the same was the case with all non-church-going

Protestants. It is hardly to be wondered at if, at times, they lost

their wits. One man, who was about the wildest of his day, and who was

known as the "Patel" of Griffin-gaon, suddenly got a "call." He used to

distinguish himself by climbing a tree every morning, and by shouting

with all his might, "Dunga Chhor-do, Jesus Christ, Pakro," meaning,

"Abandon the world, and catch hold of the Saviour." This lasted for

years, and it ended in his breaking down in the moral line, and dying

in a mad-house.

The worst of all this was, that in 1842, there were very few white

faces in Bombay, and every man, woman, and child knew his, her, or

its religious affairs, as well as their own. It was, in fact, a

garrison, not a colony. People lived in a kind of huge barracks.

Essentially a middle-class society, like that of a small county town

in England, it was suddenly raised to the top of a tree, and lost its

head accordingly. Men whose parents in England were small tradesmen, or

bailiffs in Scotland, found themselves ruling districts and commanding

regiments, riding in carriages, and owning more pounds a month than

their parents had pounds a year. Those who had interest, especially in

Leadenhall Street, monopolized the best appointments, and gathered in

clans at the Residency, as head-quarters were called. They formed the

usual ring--a magic circle into which no intruder was admitted, save by

the pain _fort et dure_ of intermarriage. The children were hideously

brought up, and, under the age of five, used language that would make a

porter's hair stand on an end. The parents separated, of course, into

cliques. At that time Bombay was ruled by two Queens, who in subaltern

circles went by the name of "Old Mother Plausible," and "Old Mother

Damnable."

To give a taste of "Mother Damnable's" quality: I had been waltzing

with a girl, who, after too much exertion, declared herself fainting. I

led her into what would at home be called the cloak-room, fetched her a

glass of water, and was putting it to her lips, when the old lady stood

at the door. "Oh dear! I never intended to interrupt you," she said,

made a low bow, and went out of the room, positively delighted. "Mother

Plausible's" style was being intensely respectable. She was terribly

"exercised" about a son at Addiscombe, and carefully consulted every

new cadet about his proficiency in learning. "But does he prefer the

classics?" she asked a wild Irishman. "I don't know that he does," was

the answer. "Or mathematics?" The same result. "Or modern languages?"

"Well, no!" "Then what does he do?" "Faix," said the informant,

scratching his head for an idea, "he's a very purty hand at football."

But it was not only Society that had such an effect upon me. I found

the Company's officers, as they were called, placed in a truly ignoble

position. They had double commissions, and signed by the Crown, and

yet they ranked with, but after, their brothers and cousins in the

Queen's service. Moreover, with that strange superciliousness, which

seems to characterize the English military service, and that absence

of brotherhood which distinguishes the Prussian and Austrian, all

seemed to look down upon their neighbours. The Queen's despised the

Company, calling them armed policemen, although they saw as much, if

not much more service, than the Queen's in India. The Artillery held

its head above the Cavalry, the Cavalry above the Line, and, worse

still, a Company's officer could not, except under very exceptional

circumstances, rise above a certain rank. Under the circumstances, I

ventured to regret that I had not entered the Duke of Lucca's Guards.

India had never heard of the Duke of Lucca, or his Guards, and when

they heard the wild idea--

"Their inextinguished laughter rent the skies."

For instance, they had no hopes of becoming local Commanders-in-Chief,

and the General Commander-in-Chief of the East Indies was carefully

put out of their reach. None but Englishmen would have entered such a

service under such conditions. A French _piou-piou_, with his possible

marshal's bâton in his knapsack, would have looked down upon it with

contempt; but England, though a fighting nation, is not a military

people, or rather _was_ not until Louis Napoleon made it necessary

that they should partially become so. At the end of six weeks or

so, I received orders to join my regiment, which was then stationed

at Baroda, in Gujarat. In those days there were no steamers up the

coast, and men hired what were called _pattymars_.[4] As the winds

were generally northerly, these tubs often took six weeks over what a

civilized craft now does in four days.

[Sidenote: _Engages Servants._]

The happy family embarked from Bombay. I preferred engaging

Goanese-Portuguese servants, as they were less troublesome than Hindús

and Mussulmans. I had engaged an excellent _buttrel_, named Salvador

Soares, who was _major domo_ over the establishment, for at that time

a subaltern never had less than a dozen servants. The sail northwards,

with all its novelties, was delightful, and I made a point of landing

every evening to see all that I could see upon the way. And so I had my

first look at Bassein, Broach, and Surat, the latter a kind of nursery

of the Anglo-Indian Empire. After a fortnight or so the _pattymar_

reached the Tankaria-Bunder, the mud-bank where travellers landed to

reach Baroda. Then came the land march of four days, which was full

of charms for a Griffin. I had utterly rejected the so-called Arab

horses--bastard brutes from the Persian Gulf--which were sold at the

Bombay bomb-proofs then at extravagant prices of five hundred rupees,

now doubled, and had contented myself with Kattywar horses. This

was a bright dun, with black stripes and stockings, a very vicious

brute, addicted to all the sins of horseflesh, but full of spirit as a

thoroughbred. Master and horse got on thoroughly well, and the gallant

animal travelled everywhere, till it was killed on the Neilgherry Hills

by a heavy fall on its side on the slippery clay. The marching was at

the rate of about twelve or fifteen miles a day, and the leisure hours

gave ample opportunity of seeing everything on and off the road.

To the traveller from Europe, Gujarat in winter was a novel spectacle.

The ground, rich black earth, was almost flat, and was covered with

that vivid leek-like verdigris green, which one associates with early

spring in the temperates. The little villages, with their leafy huts,

were surrounded and protected by hedge milk-bush, green as emeralds,

and nothing could be more peaceful or charming than the evening hour,

when the flocks and herds were returning home, and the villagers were

preparing for supper and sleep, with a sky-blue mist overhanging the

scene. A light veil, coloured like Damascene silver, hung over each

settlement, and the magnificent trees, compared with which the oaks in

Hyde Park appeared like shrubs, were tipped by peacocks screaming their

good-night to the sun. How curious that the physiologist will assert

that the nose has no memory! That light cloud was mostly composed of

cow-chips smoke, and I could never think of Gujarat without recalling

it; even the bazar always suggested spices and cocoa-nut oil.

Again I was scandalized by the contrast of the wretched villages under

English rule, and those that flourished under the Gaikwar. After the

boasting of Directorial speeches, and their echoes in the humbug press,

I could not understand this queer contrast of fiction and fact. I

made inquiries about it from every one, and immensely disgusted the

Company's Resident, Mr. Boyd, by my insistence, but a very few weeks

explained the matter to me. The Anglo-Indian rule had no elasticity,

and everything was iron-bound; it was _all rule_ without exception. A

crack young Collector would have considered himself dishonoured had he

failed to send in the same amount of revenues during a bad season, as

during the best year. It was quite different with the natives. After a

drought or an inundation, a village would always obtain remission of

taxes, it being duly understood that a good harvest would be doubly

taxed, and this was the simple reason why the natives preferred their

own to foreign rule. In the former case they were harried and plundered

whenever anything was to be got out of them, but in the mean time

they were allowed to make their little piles. Under the English they

were rarely tortured, and never compelled to give up their hardly won

earnings, but they had no opportunity of collecting the wherewithal for

plunder.

[Sidenote: _Reaches Baroda--Brother Officers._]

On the fourth day I arrived at my head-quarters, Baroda, and found

myself lodged in the comfortless travellers' bungalow. Here I was duly

inspected by my brother officers--Major H. James, then commanding

the 18th Bombay Native Infantry, Captain Westbrooke, second in

command, Lieutenant MacDonald, who was married, Lieutenant and

Adjutant Craycroft, Lieutenant J. J. Coombe, Ensign S. N. Raikes, and

Assistant-Surgeon Arnott, and a few others present. One wing of the

corps, containing a greater number of officers, had been stationed for

some time at Mhow, on the borders of the Bengal Presidency, and the

rest, as usual in those days, were on the Staff, that is, on detached

employment, some in Civil employ, and others in the Corps called

Irregulars.

[Sidenote: _Mess._]

The first night at Mess was an epoch, and the old hands observed that

I drank no beer. This was exceptional in those days. Malt liquor had

completed the defeat of brandy pawnee and the sangaree (sherry, etc.,

with water, sugar, and spices) affected by a former generation, and

beer was now king. The most moderate drank two bottles a day of strong

bottled stuff supposed to have been brewed by Bass and Allsopp, but too

often manipulated by the Parsee importer. The immoderate drank a round

dozen, not to speak of other liquors. The messes in those days were

tolerably rich, and their _godowns_, or stores, generally contained a

fair supply of port, sherry, and Madeira. "Drink beer, think beer" is

essentially true in India. Presently the bloating malt liquor began to

make way for thin French wines, claret, and Burgundy, and a quarter of

a century afterwards, the Anglo-Indian returned to brandy pawnee with

a difference. The water was no longer plain water, but soda-water,

that is, carbonic-acid gas pumped into well water, and every little

station had its own manufactory. Consequently the price declined from

eighteenpence to twopence a bottle, and most men preferred the "peg,"

as it is called, which is probably one of the least harmful. I adhered

manfully to a couple of glasses of port a day. Paddy Ryan at Bombay

had told me that the best tonic after fever, was a dozen of good port.

I soon worked out the fact, that what would cure fever, might also

prevent it, and consequently drank port as a febrifuge. It was the same

with me on the West Coast of Africa, where during four years of service

I came off well, when most other men died.

[Sidenote: _Drill._]

I was duly introduced to the drill-ground, where I had not much to

learn. Yet I studied military matters with all my might, for the

ominous words "tail of the Afghan storm" were in many men's mouths.

I had taught myself, with the assistance of books, the mysteries of

goose-step and extension movements, and perpetual practice with the

sword had made the other manœuvres easy to me. Having lodged myself in

what was called a bungalow, a thatched article not unlike a cowshed,

and having set up the slender household, I threw myself with a kind of

frenzy upon my studies. I kept up the little stock of Arabic that I had

acquired at Oxford, and gave some twelve hours a day to a desperate

tussle with Hindostani. Two _moonshees_ barely sufficed for me. Sir

Charles J. Napier in 1842 was obscurely commanding at Poonah. Presently

he was appointed to the Command in Sind, and all those who knew the old

soldier looked forward to lively times. Brevet-Major Outram, of the

23rd N.I., had proceeded to England on December 13th, 1842, and had

returned to India in February, 1843. This rapid movement also had an

ominous sound. The military day was then passed in India as follows:--

Men rose early, for the sun in India keeps decent hours (not like the

greater light in England, which in summer seems to rise shortly after

midnight, and in winter shortly before noon). The first proceeding was

a wash in cold water and a cup of tea. After that the horse was brought

round saddled, and carried the rider to the drill-ground. Work usually

began as soon as it was light, and lasted till shortly after sunrise.

In the Bengal Presidency the officers used to wash their teeth at three

a.m., and scarcely ever saw the face of the sun. Consequently the

Qui-hyes, or Bengalis, died like sheep upon a march where much exposure

was necessary.

In India the sun requires a little respect. It is not wise, for

instance, to wade through cold water with the rays beating upon the

upper part of the body, but it is always advisable to accustom one's

self to sunshine. After the parade was over, the officers generally

met at what was called a coffee shop, where one of the number hung out

_Choti-hazri_ or little breakfast--tea or _café au lait_, biscuit,

bread and butter, and fruit. After that, the heavy work of the day

being done, each proceeded to amuse himself as he best could; some to

play at billiards, others for a day's sport.

Some few youths in the flush of Griffinhood used to mount their

tattoos (ponies) and go out "peacocking," that is to say, calling upon

officers' wives. With the usual Indian _savoir vivre_, visiting hours

were made abominable. Morning calls began at eleven o'clock, when the

_beau sexe_ was supposed to be in war-paint, and ended at two, when

it was supposed to sit down to tiffin. The ride through the burning

sun, followed by a panting _ghorewalla_, and the self-preservation in

a state of profuse perspiration, were essentials of peacocking, which

soon beat off the most ardent admirers of the white fair sex. The

latter revenged itself for anything like neglect in the most violent

way, and the consequence was that, in those days, most men, after their

first year, sought a refuge in the society of the dark fair. Hence in

the year of grace 1842 there was hardly an officer in Baroda who was

not more or less morganatically married to a Hindí or a Hindú woman.

This could be a fertile ground for anecdote, but its nature forbids

entering into details.

These irregular unions were mostly temporary, under agreement to

cease when the regiment left the station. Some even stipulated that

there were to be no children. The system had its advantages and

disadvantages. It connected the white stranger with the country and

its people, gave him an interest in their manners and customs, and

taught him thoroughly well their language. It was a standing joke in

my regiment that one of the officers always spoke of himself in the

feminine gender. He had learnt all his Hindostani from his harem. On

the other hand, these unions produced a host of half-castes, mulattos,

"neither fish nor fowl, nor good red herring," who were equally

despised by the races of both progenitors.

[Sidenote: _Pig-sticking._]

Baroda was not a great place for pig-sticking. The old grey boars

abounded, but the country was too much cut up by deep and perpendicular

hillocks, which were death to horse and man. I invested in an old

grey Arab, which followed the game like a bloodhound, with distended

nostrils, and ears viciously laid back. I began, as was the cruel

fashion of the day, by spearing pariah dogs for practice, and my first

success brought me a well-merited accident. Not knowing that the

least touch of the sharp leaf-like head is sufficient to kill, I made

a mighty thrust with my strong-made bamboo shaft, which was carried

under the arm, Bombay fashion, not overhand, as in Bengal. The point

passed through the poor brute and deep into the ground. The effect of

the strong elastic spear was to raise me bodily out of the saddle, and

to throw me over the horse's head. It was a good lesson for teaching

how to take first blood. The great centres for pig-sticking were in

the Deccan and in Sind. The latter, however, offered too much danger,

for riding through tamarisk bushes is much like charging a series of

well-staked fishing-nets. Baroda, however, abounded in wild beasts;

the jackals screamed round the bungalows every night, and a hyæna

once crossed, in full day, the parade ground. One of the captains

(Partridge) cut it down with his regimental sword, and imprudently

dismounted to secure it. The result was a bite in the arm which he had

reason long to remember.

[Sidenote: _Sport._]

The sport all about Baroda was excellent, for in the thick jungle to

the east of the City, tigers were to be shot, and native friends would

always lend their elephants for a day's work. In the broad plains to

the north, large antelopes, called the _nilghai_, browsed about like

cows, and were almost as easy to shoot, consequently no one shot them.

It was different with the splendid black buck, sly and wary animals,

and always brought home in triumph. Cheetahs, or hunting leopards, were

also to be had for the asking. As for birds, they were in countless

numbers, from the huge adjutant crane, and the _sáras_ (_antigoni_),

vulgarly called _Cyrus Gries antigone_, which dies if its mate be shot,

and the peacock, which there, as in most parts of India, is a sacred

bird, to the partridge, which no one eats because it feeds on the road,

the wild duck, which gives excellent shooting, and the snipe, equal to

any in England. During the early rains quails were to be shot in the

compounds, or yards, attached to the bungalows. In fact, in those days,

sensible men who went out to India took one of two lines--they either

shot, or they studied languages.

Literature was at a discount, although one youth in the Bombay Rifles

was addicted to rhyme, and circulated a song which began as follows:--

"'Tis merry, 'tis merry in the long jungle grass,

When the Janwars around you fly,

To think of the slaughter that you will commit,

On the beasts that go passing by"--

this being the best stanza of the whole.

The 18th Bombay Infantry was brigaded with the 4th Regiment, _alias_

Rifles, under the command of Major C. Crawley. These Sepoys, in

their dingy green uniform, which seemed to reflect itself upon their

chocolate-coloured cheeks, looked even worse than those dressed in red.

There was also a company called Golandaz, a regular native artillery,

commanded by a Lieutenant Aked. Gunners are everywhere a peculiar

race, quite as peculiar as sailors. In India they had the great merit

of extreme attachment to their weapons, which, after a fashion, they

adored as weapons of destruction. "One could hit a partridge with a gun

like this," said a pink-faced youngster to a grizzly old cannonier.

"A partridge!" cried the veteran. "This does not kill partridges;

it smashes armies, slaughters Cities, and it would bring down Shiva

himself." And in Baroda City the Gaikwar had two guns, to which regular

adoration was offered. They were of massive gold, built around steel

tubes, and each was worth about £100,000. Yet the company of Native

Artillery was utterly absurd in European eyes. Nothing more beautiful

than the Gujarat bullocks, with their noble horns and pure white coats.

Europe has seen them in the _cascine_ of Tuscany. But it was truly

absurd to see these noble animals dragging a gun into position at a

shambling and dislocated trot. Satirical subalterns spoke of the "cow

batteries." In these days all, of course, are horsed.

[Sidenote: _Society._]

There was no such thing as society at Baroda. The Station was commanded

by an old Brigadier, named Gibbons, who had no wife, but a native

family. He was far too infirm to mount a horse; he never received,

ignored dinners either at home or abroad, and lived as most General

Officers did in those days. But he managed to get into a tremendous

row, and was removed from his Command for losing his temper, and

beating a native Chief of the Bazar about the head, with a leg of

mutton.

Hospitalities used to be exchanged between the corps on certain

ceremonious occasions, but a Mess dinner was the extent of sociability.

As in all small Societies, there were little tiffs, likings, and

dislikings. But the age of duelling had passed away, especially after

the fatal affairs of Colonel Fawcet of the 55th Regiment, and his

brother-in-law, Mr. Monro.

[Sidenote: _Feeding._]

A most pernicious practice, common in those days, was that of eating

"tiffin"--in other words, a heavy luncheon--at two, which followed

the normal breakfast, or _pakki-hazri_, at nine. Tiffin was generally

composed of heavy meats and the never-failing curry, washed down with

heavy bottled beer, was followed by two or three Manilla cheroots, and

possibly by a siesta. Nothing could be more anti-hygienic than this. It

is precisely the same proceeding by which the liver of the Strasbourg

goose is prepared for _pâté de foie gras_. The amount of oxygen present

in the air of India, is not sufficient to burn up all this carbon,

hence the dingy complexions and the dull dark hair which distinguished

Anglo-Indians on their return home. I contented myself with a biscuit

and a glass of port, something being required to feed the brain, after

the hard study of many hours.

The French in India manage these things much better. They keep up their

natural habits, except that they rise very early, take a very light

meal, chiefly consisting of _café noir_, and eat a heavy breakfast at

eleven. Between that and dinner, which follows sunset, they rarely

touch anything, and the consequence is that they return with livers

comparatively sound. But Anglo-Indian hours of meals were modelled upon

those of England, and English hours are laid down by the exigencies of

business. Hence the Briton, naturally speaking, breakfasts at nine.

As he rises late and has little appetite at that hour, he begins the

work of the day upon such a slender basis as tea, bread and butter, an

egg, or a frizzle of bacon. It was very different in the days of Queen

Elizabeth, as certainly the beefsteaks and beer produced a stronger

race. But in those days all rose early and lived much in the open air.

During the fine weather there was generally something to do on the

parade ground, shortly before sunset, after which the idlers mounted

their nags and took a lazy ride. The day ended at Mess, which was also

characteristically Indian. It was a long table in the Mess bungalow,

decorated with the regimental plate, and surmounted by creaking

punkahs, that resembled boards horizontally slung, with a fringe

along the lower part. A native, concealed behind the wall, set these

unpleasant articles in movement, generally holding the rope between two

toes. At the top of the table sat the Mess President, at the bottom

the Vice, and their duty was to keep order, and especially to prevent

shop-talking. The officers dressed like so many caterpillars in white

shell-jackets, white waistcoats, and white overalls, were a marvellous

contrast to the gorgeous Moslem _Khidmatgars_, who stood behind them,

with crossed arms, turbans the size of small tea-tables, waist-shawls

in proportion. The dinner consisted of soup, a joint of roast mutton

at one end, and boiled mutton or boiled fowls at the other, with

vegetables in the side dishes. Beef was never seen, because the cow

was worshipped at Baroda, nor was roast or boiled pork known at native

messes, where the manners and customs of the unclean bazar pig were

familiar to all, and where there were ugly stories about the insults to

which his remains were exposed on the part of the Mohammedan scullions.

At times, however, a ham made its appearance, disguised under the name

of "Wilayati Bakri," _Anglicè_ "Europe mutton."

This substantial part of the dinner always concluded with curry,

accompanied by dry fish, Bombay ducks, and _papris_ (assafœtida cake).

Anglo-Indians appreciate curry too much to allow it, as in England, to

precede other dishes, and to rob them of all their flavour. After this

came puddings and tarts, which very few men touched, as they disagreed

with beer, and cheese, which was a universal favourite. Coffee, curious

to say, was unknown, ice was rare, except at the Residency, and tin

vegetables, like peas and asparagus, had only lately been invented.

Immediately after cheese, all lit their cigars, which in those days

were invariably Manillas. They cost only twenty rupees a thousand, so

few were driven to the economy of the abominable Trichinopoly, smoked

in Madras. Havanas were never seen, pipes were as little known, and

only the oldsters had an extensive article, with a stand two feet high

and a pipe twenty feet long, in which they smoked a mixture called

Guraku. This was a mingling of tobacco, with plantains, essence of

roses, and a dozen different kinds of spices, that gave a very peculiar

perfume. The Hookah was, however, then going out of fashion, and

presently died the death. It is now as rarely seen in Anglo-India, as

the long _chibouque_ at Constantinople.

[Sidenote: _Nautch._]

The Mess dinner sometimes concluded with a game of whist, but a wing

of a native Corps had not officers enough to make it interesting.

After a _quantum sufficit_ of cheroots and spirits and water, the

members of the Mess broke up, and strolled home, immensely enjoying

the clear moonlight, which looked as if frost were lying on the

emerald green of Gujarat. On festive occasions there was a _Nach_,

which most men pronounced "Nautch." The scene has often been described

in its picturesque aspect. But it had a dark side. Nothing could be

more ignoble than the two or three debauched and drunken musicians,

squealing and scraping the most horrible music, and the _figurantes_

with Simiad or apish faces, dressed in magnificent brocades, and

performing in the most grotesque way. The exhibition gave one a shiver,

yet not a few of the old officers, who had been brought up to this

kind of thing, enjoyed it as much as the Russians, of the same epoch,

delighted in the gypsy _soirées_ of Moscow, and ruined themselves with

Madeira and Veuve Clicquot.

It was very different during the rains, which here, as in most parts of

the western lowlands of India, were torrential, sometimes lasting seven

days and seven nights, without an hour's interruption. The country

was mostly under water, and those who went to Mess had to protect

themselves with waterproofs; and if they wished to save their horses

from the dangerous disease called _barsáti_, had to walk to and fro

with bare legs and feet.

[Sidenote: _Reviews._]

This even tenor of existence was varied by only two things. The first

was the annual reviews, when old General Morse came over from Ahmedabad

to inspect the Corps, preparations for which ceremony had been going

on for a couple of months. These old officers were greatly derided by

the juniors, chiefly because their brains seemed to have melted away,

and they had forgotten almost everything except drill, which they had

learnt in their youth. This old General in particular prided himself

upon his Hindostani, and suffered accordingly. "How would you say 'Tell

a plain story,' General?" "Maydan-ki bát bolo"--which means, "Speak a

word of a level country."

[Sidenote: _Races._]

Another great event were the annual Races. Even here, however, there

was a division of the small Society. They were encouraged by the

Company's Resident, Mr. Boyd, and by Major Henry Corsellis, who had

come up with his wife to take command of the regiment. They were

discouraged, on the other hand, by Major Crawley, of the 4th Rifles,

who invariably had a picnic during the Race week. The reason, however,

was not "principle," but some quarrel about an old bet. I was one of

the winners at the Welter Stakes, having beaten an experienced rider,

Lieutenant Raikes.

The state of things at Baroda was not satisfactory. The French govern

their colonies too much, the English too little. The latter, instead

of taking their stand as the Masters, instead of declaring, _Sic volo,

sic jubeo, sit pro ratione voluntas,_ seemed, in Baroda at least, to

rule on sufferance: they were thoroughly the Masters of the position;

they could have superseded the Gaikwar, or destroyed the town in a

week. But the rule of the Court of Directors was not a rule of honour.

The officers in Cantonments, distant only half an hour's ride from

the Palace, were actually obliged to hire _rámosis_ (Paggis) to

protect their lives and properties. These men were simply professed

thieves, who took blackmail to prevent their friends and relations from

plundering. In the bungalows, on the borders of the camp, a couple of

these scoundrels were necessary. In two bungalows, officers had been

cut down, and the one in which I lived showed, on the door-lintel,

sabre cuts. Officers were constantly robbed and even murdered when

travelling in the districts, and the universally expressed wish was,

that some Director's son might come to grief, and put an end to this

miserable state of things. Now, these things _could_ have been put a

stop to by a single dispatch of the Court of Directors to the Resident

at Baroda. They had only to make the Gaikwar and the Native Authorities

answerable for the lives and property of their officers. A single

hanging and a few heavy fines would have settled the business once

and for ever; but, I repeat, the Government of the Court of Directors

was not a rule of honour, and already the hateful doctrine was being

preached, that "prestige is humbug."

[Sidenote: _Cobden and Indian History._]

The officers marvelled at the proceedings of their Rulers, and

marvelled without understanding things. Little could they know what was

going on at home. Here Mr. Richard Cobden, one of the most single-sided

of men, whose main strength was that he embodied most of the weakness,

and all the prejudice, of the British middle-class public, was watching

the affairs of India with a jealous and unfriendly eye, as a Military

and Despotic Government, as an acquisition of impolitic violence and

fraud, and as the seat of unsafe finance. India appeared to him utterly

destitute of any advantage either to the natives or to their foreign

masters.

He looked upon the East India Company in Asia as simply monopoly, not

merely as regards foreigners, but against their own countrymen. He

openly asserted that England had attempted an impossibility in giving

herself to the task of governing one hundred millions of Asiatics.

Rumours of an Asiatic war were in the air, especially when it was

known that Lieut.-Colonel Stoddart and Captain Conolly had been foully

murdered by the Amir of Bokhara. He declared (as if he had been taken

into supernatural confidence), that God and His visible Natural Laws

have opposed insuperable obstacles to the success of such a scheme. His

opinion as a professional reformer was, that Hindostan must be ruled

by those that live on that side of the globe, and that its people will

prefer to be ruled badly by its own colour, kith, and kin, than subject

itself to the humiliation of being better governed by a succession of

transient intruders from the Antipodes. He declared that ultimately,

of course, Nature (of which he knew nothing) will assert the supremacy

of her laws, and the white skins will withdraw to their own latitudes,

leaving the Hindús to the enjoyment of the climate, for which their

dingy skins are suited.

All this was the regular Free-trade bosh, and the Great Bagsman would

doubtless have been thunderstruck, had he heard the Homeric shouts of

laughter with which his mean-spirited utterances were received by every

white skin in British India. There was not a subaltern in the 18th

Bombay N.I. who did not consider himself perfectly capable of governing

a million Hindús. And such a conviction realizes itself--

"By the sword we won the land,

And by the sword we'll hold it still;"

for every subaltern felt (if he could not put the feeling into words)

that India had been won, _despite England_, by the energy and bravery

of men like himself. Every history tells one so in a way that all can

understand. The Company began as mere traders, and presently they

obtained the right of raising guards to defend themselves. The guards

naturally led to the acquisition of territory. The territory increased,

till its three centres, Bengal, Madras, and Bombay, became centres of

little Kingdoms.

The native Princes were startled and frightened. They attacked their

energetic neighbours, with more or less success, and the intruders

became more intrusive than before. Next day they began to elect

Governors, and Governor-Generals. Whenever a new man was sent out from

England, the natives, after the fashion of their kind, thought that

they saw an opportunity, and, losing their fear of the old Governor,

declared war against the new one. The latter assembled an army, and

duly reported the fact home. It took from eight to nine months before

the document was received and answered. The general tone of the reply

was a fierce diatribe against territorial aggrandizement, but in the

mean time a great battle or two had been fought, a province had been

conquered and duly plundered, and a large slice of territory had been

added to Anglo-Indian rule. This is the way in which British Empire in

the East arose, and probably this was the least objectionable way. For

when the Company rose to power, it began to juggle native Princes out

of their territory, to deny the right of adopting a sacred privilege

amongst the Hindús, and to perpetrate all kinds of injustice. A fair

example was the case of the Rajah of Patara, and the same proceedings

in Oudh, led to the celebrated Mutiny in 1857, and nearly wrecked

British dominion in India.

At last a bright day dawned. The whole of the little Cantonment was

electrified by the news of the battle of Meeanee, which had been fought

on February 21st, 1843. After a number of reverses truly humiliating

to British self-esteem, the Sun of Victory had at last shone upon her

bayonets. Sir Charles Napier had shown that, with a little force of

mixed Englishmen and Sepoys, he could beat the best and bravest army

that any Native Power could bring into the field. It was a gallant

little affair, because the few white faces had done nearly the whole

work. The Sepoys, as usual, had behaved like curs, and five of their

officers had been killed, to one of the Queen's service.

Then, on March 25th, followed the battle of Dabba, and Sind fell into

the power of the English, and Major Outram returned to England on

April 1st. Then arose the great quarrel between the two great men.

The general opinion of the time was, that the Bayard of India, as his

future enemy had called him, wished _himself_ to depose the Ameers,

and resented the work being done by another. His (Major Outram's) own

writings show, that he found them unfitted to rule, and that he had

proposed the most stringent remedies. But when these were carried out

by another man, he ranged himself in the ranks of the opposition.

Sir Charles Napier and his free-spoken brother, Sir William, had

been bitterly opposed to the twenty-four little Kings in Leadenhall

Street, and had never hesitated to express their opinions. One of

their energetic dicta was, that every rupee has a blood-spot on it,

and that wash as you will, the cursed spot will not out. Talking of

which, by-the-by, I, in one of those pungent epigrams, which brought me

such abundance of "good will (?)," wrote as follows, referring to the

£60,000 which Sir Charles Napier cleared by way of prize money:--

"Who, when he lived on shillings, swore

Rupees were stained with Indian gore,

And 'widows' tears' for motto bore,

But Charley?

"And yet who, in the last five years,

So round a sum of that coin clears,

In spite of 'gore' and 'widows' tears,'

As Charley?"

Major Outram again left India for England. The Court of Directors

persuaded him to become their champion, against their old enemy, Sir

Charles Napier. The latter was very strong, for he was thoroughly

supported by the new Governor-General (Lord Ellenborough), in

opposition to all others, and thoroughly identified himself with

the Army, and the Army adored him accordingly. One of his sayings,

"_Kacheri_ (or Court-House) hussar," alluding to the beards or the

mustachios of the civilians, caused a perfect tornado of wrath

amongst the black coats of India. He was equally free-spoken in his

condemnation of the politicals. The Court of Directors did not dare to

recall him at once, but they riled with impotent rage.

[Sidenote: _Somnath Gates._]

Amongst other cabals that they brought against him was the affair of

the Somnath Gates. Few people understood the truth of the question in

that day, and most who did, have not forgotten it. These famous doors,

which had been carried off in the year A.D. 1023 from a Hindú temple

in Gujarat by the great warrior, Mahmoud of Ghazni, had been matters

of dispute years before Lord Ellenborough's time. As early as 1831,

when Shah Shuja was in treaty with Runjeet Singh, of the Panjab, for

aid to recover his throne, one of the conditions of the latter, was

the restoration of the Gates of Somnath. Probably the Rajah, like the

Governor-General, was utterly ignorant of the fact that the ruins of

the Moon Temple have entirely perished. On that occasion, however,

the Shah reminded the Hindú of an old prophesy which foreboded the

downfall of the Sikh empire, or the withdrawal of the Gates from the

warrior's tomb at Ghazni. They were removed to India at the end of

1842, and in September, 1843, the Sikh empire practically collapsed

with the murder of Sher Singh--a curious case of uninspired prophecy.

The Gates were removed by General Mott, acting under the orders of the

Governor-General, on March 10th, 1843; they were deposited in Agra,

where they were kept, and may even now be kept, in an old palace in

the Fort, formerly used as an arsenal by the British.[5] The venerable

relics ought long ago to have been sent to the South Kensington Museum.

[Sidenote: _Outram and Napier._]

The feud between Sir Charles Napier and Major Outram, divided Western

Anglo-India into two opposing camps. Major Outram belonged to a family

of mechanics, from whose name came the tramways, and he had begun his

service in the Bombay marine. He was presently transferred to the

Native Infantry, and carved out a career for himself. His peculiar

temperament gave him immense power amongst the wild Bhíls and other

tribes, whom he had been sent, as it were, to civilize. He was a short,

stout man, anything but prepossessing in appearance, but of immense

courage and most violent temper. A story is told concerning him and

his brother, who, in a dispute at a tiger-hunt, turned their rifles

against each other. He hated to be outdone, or even to be equalled. On

one occasion, when he found a man who could spring into the lake, off

the house terrace, like himself, he made a native raise him upon his

shoulders, and so managed to outdo the rival jumper. He was immensely

generous and hospitable, living quite in the native way, with a troupe

of _Nach_ girls to pass the evening. He always acted upon impulse, and

upon generous impulses. On one occasion, when marching past, at the

head of his troops, he was grossly insulted by a villager, whereupon he

turned to and administered condign chastisement to the villagers. When

transferred to Sind, he had denounced the Ameers in the severest way;

in fact, his account of them, as political, seemed to justify their

being dethroned. But, as I said, when that operation was performed by

another than himself, he suddenly turned round and denounced the deed.

He was a Scotchman, and was by no means wanting in that canniness

which teaches a man which side his bread carries the butter. He was

thoroughly impressed with the axiom that "bluid is thicker than water,"

and always promoted, if he could, the interests of a countryman, to the

detriment of others. Sir Charles Napier, on the other hand, belonged

to that exceptional order of Scotchmen, who are chiefly remarkable for

having nothing of the Scotchman about them. He was utterly deficient

in prudence, he did not care a fig how many enemies he made, and his

tongue was like a scorpion's sting. He spoke of Sir James Hogg as "that

Hogg," alluding to the Hindostani word _suar_ ("pig"), one of the most

insulting words in the language. He spoke of Dr. Buist, a Scotch editor

at Bombay, as "the blatant beast of the Bombay _Times_." In fact, he

declared war to the knife.

On the other hand, Outram's friends were not idle. He had a large

party of his own. Men liked his courage, his generosity, his

large-heartedness, and his utter disregard for responsibility. He

could also write, in a dull, thick style, it is true, but thoroughly

intelligible to the multitude, and quite unlike the style, like

polished steel, that was so doughtily used by Sir William Napier.

Become a politician, the "Bayard" did not improve; in fact, two or

three dodges were quoted about him which added very little to his

reputation. I had no reason to like him. In his younger days, thirsting

for distinction, Outram was ambitious to explore the Somali country,

then considered the most dangerous in Africa, but when I proposed to

do so, he openly opposed me. This was, however, perhaps natural, as he

was then commanding at Aden.

As soon as I had passed my drill I was placed in charge of a Company,

and proceeded to teach what I had just learnt. I greatly encouraged

my men in sword exercise, and used to get the best players to my

quarters for a good long bout every day. The usual style in India is

a kind of single-stick, ribbonded with list cloth, up to the top,

and a small shield in the left hand. The style of work seems to

have been borrowed from the sword-dance of some civilized people,

like the Bactrian-Greeks. The swordsman begins with "renowning it,"

vapouring, waving his blade, and showing all the curious _fantasie_

that distinguish a Spanish Espada. Then, with the fiercest countenance,

he begins to spring in the air, to jump from side to side, to crouch

and to rush forwards and backwards, with all the action of an excited

baboon. They never thought of giving "point:" throughout India the

thrust is confined to the dagger. The cuts, as a rule, were only

two--one in the shoulder, and the other, in the vernacular called

_kalam_, at the lower legs. Nothing was easier than to guard these

cuts, and to administer a thrust that would have been fatal with steel.

I gave a prize every month, to the best swordsman, wrestler, and

athlete, generally some gaudy turban. But, although I did my best, I

never could teach them to use a foil.

[Sidenote: _He learns Indian Riding and Training._]

These proceedings excited not a little wonder amongst my brother subs,

but much more when I sent for a _Chábu Sawar_, or native jockey,

and began to learn the Indian system of riding, and of training the

horse. As a rule, this was absurdly neglected in India. Men mostly

rode half-broken Arabs, and many an annual review showed the pleasant

spectacle of a commanding officer being run away with in one direction,

and the second in command in another. And when it came to meeting

Indians in the field, the Englishman was at a terrible disadvantage. An

old story is told of an encounter between an Indian and English cavalry

officer, who had been offended by the remarks of the former. They

charged, sword in hand, in presence of their regiments, and both were

equally skilful in parrying the enemy's attack; presently, however, the

Britisher found himself in a fix, the native with his sharp light blade

having cut the horse's reins, without hurting either horse or man. This

is a favourite native ruse. Whereupon the English officer drew his

pistol and disloyally shot the Indian, who in his lingering illness,

which ended fatally, declared that he never meant to hurt the English

officer, but only to prove his own words, that he was not his equal in

swordsmanship or horsemanship. Light chains were afterwards adopted to

accompany the leather bridle. The English officer deeply regretted the

event, and it was hushed up; but such acts are never quite buried.

A similar manslaughter took place during one of the Sind campaigns. An

officer, who shall be nameless, attacked a Beluch chief, who, being

mounted upon a tired mare, made no attempt to fly. The Englishman, who

had some reputation as a swordsman, repeatedly bore down upon him,

making a succession of cuts, which the opponent received upon his blade

and shield. At last, being unable to win fairly, the Englishman, who is

now high in command, drew his pistol and shot him, and, curious to say,

was not court-martialled!

[Sidenote: _Passes Exams. in Hindostani._]

At last I considered myself thoroughly qualified to pass in Hindostani,

and in early April, 1843, obtained leave from the Commander-in-Chief

to visit Bombay for the purpose of examination. I made the same march

from Baroda to Tankaria-Bunder, and then found a _pattymar_ for Bombay.

The sail southwards, despite the extraordinary heat of the season, was

perfectly charming. The north-east monsoon, about drawing to its end,

alternated with the salt sea-breeze and the spicy land-breeze, the

former justly called "The Doctor." The sky was deep blue, unflecked

by a single cloud, and the sea bluer, still hardly crisped by the

wind. There was perfect calm inside and outside the vessel. No posts

and no parades. The living was simple enough, consisting chiefly of

rice, curry and _chapatís_, with the never-failing tea and tobacco.

Tea in India is better than in England, although of inferior quality,

because it has less sea voyage. The native servants, however, have a

peculiar way of brewing it, and those who have once drunk a sneaker, or

double-sized cup, full of Indian tea, will never forget it. Sensible

men, therefore, brew their tea for themselves.

Despite landing almost every evening, the voyage down coast occupied

only six or seven days. This time I hired a tent, with the aid of the

old Parsee General, and pitched in the Strangers' Lines. They extended

southwards from the Sanitarium, along the shore of Back Bay, and were

not, as now, huddled up into a little space on the other side of the

road. With the assistance of old Dosabhai Sohrabji I worked up the last

minutiæ of the language, and on May 5th appeared in the Town Hall,

where the examinations were held.

These were not without a certain amount of difficulty. The candidate

was expected to make a written translation, to read and translate

_vivâ voce_ from a native book, to read a written letter, often vilely

scrawled, and to converse with the _moonshee_, Mohammed Makba, a

Concani Mussulman, whose son I afterwards met in 1876. I was fortunate

in my examiner. Captain Pope, who formerly held that position, had been

made Assistant-Commissary-General, and could no longer indulge his

pet propensity of plucking candidates. The committee was composed of

Major-General Vans-Kennedy and three or four nobodies. The former was

an Orientalist after a fashion, knew a great deal of books, and much

more of native manners and customs. In fact, he lived in their society,

and was, as usual, grossly imposed upon. Whenever a servant wanted

"leave," he always begged permission to leave a _badli_, or substitute,

to do his work, and when number one returned, number two remained.

Consequently, the old man was eaten up by native drones. He lived

amongst his books in a tumble-down bungalow, in a tattered compound,

which was never repaired, and he had a slight knowledge of Sanscrit

and Arabic, an abundant acquaintance with Hindostani and Persian, and

general Oriental literature.

The one grievance of his life was his treatment by Sir John

(afterwards Lord) Keane. This Western barbarian came out to India

when advanced in years, and, imbued with a fine contempt "of the

twenty-years-in-the-country-and-speak-the-language man," he could not

understand what was the use of having officers who did nothing but

facilitate the study of Orientalism, and he speedily sent off Colonel

Vans-Kennedy to join his regiment. The latter was deeply in debt, as

usual, under his circumstances; his creditors tolerated him at the

Presidency, where they could lay ready claws upon his pay, but before

he could march up country, he was obliged to sell, for a mere nothing,

his valuable library of books and manuscripts, which had occupied him

a lifetime in collecting. He was a curious spectacle, suggesting only

a skeleton dressed in a frock-coat of worn-out blue cloth uniform, and

he spoke all his languages with a fine broad lowland accent, which is,

perhaps, Orientally speaking, the best.

I passed my examination the first of twelve. Next to me was Ensign

Robert Gordon, of the 4th Bombay Rifles, and Ensign Higginson, of the

78th Highlanders. The latter brought to the Examination Hall one of

the finest Irish brogues ever heard there. I had been humble enough

before I passed, but, having once got through, I was ready to back my

knowledge against the world. This was no great feat on my part, as I

had begun Arabic at Oxford, and worked at Hindostani in London, and

on board the ship, and had studied for twelve hours a day at Baroda.

Before I quitted the Presidency, I had an unpleasantness with a certain

Dr. Bird, a pseudo-Orientalist, who, after the fashion of the day, used

the brains of _moonshee_ and _pandit_ to make his own reputation. I

revenged myself by lampooning him, when, at the ripe age of forty-five,

he was about to take to himself a spare-rib. The line began--

"A small grey bird goes out to woo,

Primed with Persian ditties new;

To the gardens straight he flew,

Where he knew the rosebud grew."

$/

We afterwards met in London, and were very good friends.

Dr. Bird only regretted that he had wasted his time on native

languages, instead of studying his own profession. He practised

medicine for a short time in London, and died.

I left Bombay on May 12th, and rejoined my regiment just before

the burst of the south-west monsoon. This was a scene that has

often been described in verse and prose. It was a prime favourite

with the Sanscrit poets, and English readers are familiar with it

through Horace Hayman Wilson's Hindú theatre. But the discomforts

of the season in a cowshed-like bungalow were considerable;

you sat through the day in a wet skin, and slept through the night

with the same. The three months were an alternation of steaming

heat and damp, raw cold.

The rains are exceptionally heavy in Gujarat, and sometimes

the rainpour lasted without interval for seven days and seven

nights. This is mostly the case in the lowlands of India, especially

at Bombay and other places, where the Gháts approach the coast.

Throughout the inner plateau, as at Poonah, the wet season,

which the Portuguese call winter, with its occasional showers and

its bursts of sunshine, is decidedly pleasant. The brown desolation

of the land disappears in a moment, and is replaced by a

brilliant garb of green. The air is light and wholesome, and the

change is hailed by every one; but at Baroda there were torments

innumerable. The air was full of loathsome beings, which

seemed born for the occasion--flying horrors of all kinds, ants

and bugs, which persisted in intruding into meat and drink. At

Mess it was necessary to have the glasses carefully covered, and it

was hardly safe to open one's mouth. The style of riding to a

dinner has been already described. There was no duty, and the

parade-ground was a sheet of water. Shooting was impossible,

except during the rare intervals of sunshine; and those who did not

play billiards suffered from mortal _ennui_.

I now attacked with renewed vigour the Gujarati language, spoken

throughout the country, and by the Parsees of Bombay and elsewhere.

My teacher was a Nagar Brahman, named Him Chand. Meanwhile

I took elementary lessons of Sanscrit, from the regimental _pandit_.

Every Sepoy Corps, in those days, kept one of these men, who was a

kind of priest as well as a schoolmaster, reading out prayers, and

superintending the nice conduct of Festivals, with all their complicated

observances. Besides these men, the Government also supplied

schoolmasters, and the consequence was, that a large percentage of

young Sepoys could read and write. I once won a bet from my

brother-in-law Stisted, by proving that more men in the 18th Bombay

Native Infantry than in the 78th Queen's could read and write. In

the latter, indeed, they occasionally had recruits who could not

speak English, but only Gaelic.

[Sidenote: _Receives the Brahminical Thread._]

Under my two teachers I soon became as well acquainted, as a

stranger can, with the practice of Hinduism. I carefully read up

Ward, Moor, and the publications of the Asiatic Society, questioning

my teachers, and committing to writing page after page of notes, and

eventually my Hindú teacher officially allowed me to wear the _Janeo_

(Brahminical thread). My knowledge, indeed, not a little surprised

my friend Dr. H. G. Carter, who was secretary to the Asiatic Society

at Bombay. On June 26th, 1843, I was appointed interpreter to

my regiment, which added something--a few rupees, some thirty a

month--to my income. My brother officers now began to see that

I was working with an object. When I returned from Bombay, they

had been surprised at my instantly resuming work, and not allowing

myself a holiday. They grumbled not a little at having so unsociable

a messmate.

About that time, too, I began to acquire the ominous soubriquet

of "The White Nigger," and what added not a little to the general

astonishment was, that I left off "sitting under" the garrison Chaplain,

and transferred myself to the Catholic Chapel of the chocolate-coloured

Goanese priest, who adhibited spiritual consolation to the

_bultrels_ (butlers and head-servants) and other servants of the camp.[6]

At length, on August 22nd, 1843, I again obtained leave "to

proceed to Bombay to be examined in the Guzerattee language."

This time I was accompanied on the journey by Lieutenant R. A.

Manson, who was on like business, to the Presidency. The march

was detestable. We could hardly ride our horses through the

sticky and knee-deep mud of Gujarat. So we fitted up native carts

with waterproof tilts, and jogged behind the slow-paced steers on

the high-road to Broach. Here we found a detachment of a native

Corps, living the usual dull, monotonous life.

Hence we proceeded to Surat, once the cradle of the British

power in India, and afterwards doomed to utter neglect. Its

masterful position for trade secured it from utter ruin, but no thanks

to its rulers. Here we again took a _pattymar_, and dropped down

the river, _en route_ to the Presidency. But this time it was very

different voyaging. The south-west monsoon was dead against us,

and nothing could be more ominous than the aspect of the weather.

We reached Bombay on September 26th, just in time to avoid the

_Elephanta_, or dangerous break up of the rainy monsoon. Little

Manson, who had been wrecked when coming out in Back Bay, was

in an extreme state of nervousness, and I was prepared for any

risk when I saw the last sheets of lightning hung out by the purple-black

clouds. The examination took place on October 16th, 1843,

again in presence of old General Vans-Kennedy and the normal

three or four nobodies, and I again passed first, distancing my

rival, Lieutenant C. P. Rigby, of the 16th Bombay N.I. I wished

to remain in Bombay to await my regiment, then under orders for

Sind, but on the 10th of November I was ordered north, and yet

the corps had received orders to march on November 23rd.

The break up of the Cantonment produced all manner of festivities.

The two Corps took leave of one another, and passed the last

night in the enjoyment of a stupendous _Nach_, or Nautch.

[Sidenote: _On the March._]

A March with a regiment in those days was a pleasure. The first

bugle sounded shortly after midnight, and presently came the

signal--

"Don't you hear the general say,

'Strike your tents and march away'?"

After a few days' practice, the camp was on the ground and ready packed

for starting on carts and camels, within a few minutes. Naturally loose

marching was the rule. The men were only expected to keep in Companies,

and the officers, with rifles in their hands, rode before, behind, or

alongside of them. In this way many a head of game made its appearance

at the regimental Mess. The Marches seldom exceeded fifteen miles

a day; at the end of the stage the Sepoys were drawn up into line,

inspected, and told off to pitching the tents. Breakfast was generally

eaten by the officers shortly after sunrise, and the morning air gave

fine appetites. The food was generally carried in a _dúli_, a kind of

portable palanquin, primarily intended for the sick and wounded. After

the tents were pitched most men were glad to have a short sleep. They

assembled again at Tiffin, and its objectionable properties disappeared

during the march. They then amused themselves with shooting, or

strolling about the country, till Mess hour. The officers' wives were

always present at dinner, and no smoking was allowed until they had

disappeared. After mess, men were only too glad to turn in, and to get

as much sleep as they could before the morning bugle.

The regiment embarked in a native craft at Tankaria-Bunder, and on

December 26th, 1843, encamped on the Esplanade, Bombay. They were

in the highest spirits, for all expected to see service. The wing

from Mhow had been ordered to rejoin head-quarters, and the same was

the case with the Staff officers, Captains Jamieson and Partridge,

Lieutenants MacDonald, Hough, Compton, and Ensign Anderson. Needless

to say that the latter were in high dudgeon at leaving their fat

appointments.

[Sidenote: _Embarks for Sind._]

On New Year's Day of 1844, the corps embarked on board the H.E.I.

Company's steamship _Semiramis_, generally known as the "Merry

Miss." She was commanded by Captain Ethersey, who ended badly. His

"'aughtiness," as the crew called it, won him very few friends. And now

I come to the time when I began to describe my experiences in print.

The first chapter of "Scinde; or the Unhappy Valley" gives a facetious

account of this voyage.

On board the _Semiramis_ I made a good friend in Captain Walter Scott,

of the Bombay Engineers, who had been transferred from Kandesh, to

take charge of the Survey in Lower Sind, by general order of November

23rd, 1843. He was a handsome man in the prime of life, with soft blue

eyes, straight features, yellow hair, and golden-coloured beard. Withal

he not a little resembled his uncle, "The Magician of the North," of

whom he retained the fondest remembrance. He preserved also the trick,

wholly unintentional, of the burr and the lisp, the former in the

humorous parts, and the latter in the tenderer part of his stories. He

was an admirable conversationist, and his anecdotes were full of a dry

and pawky humour, which comes from north of the Tweed. Yet, curious

to say, when he took pen in hand his thoughts seemed to fly abroad.

His lines were crooked, and his sentences were hardly intelligible.

Something of this was doubtless owing to his confirmed habit of cheroot

smoking, whilst he was writing, but it was eminently characteristic of

the man.

Walter Scott was a truly fine character. His manners were those

of a gentleman of the Old School, and he never said a disagreeable

word or did an ungraceful deed. A confirmed bachelor, he was not at

all averse to women's society; indeed, rather the contrary. He was

generous, even lavish to the extreme, and he was quite as ready to

befriend an Englishman, as a "brither Scot." These two latter qualities

seemed to distinguish a high-bred Scotchman, whilst the English and

Irish gentleman preserved the characteristics of his nationality,

of course refining it and raising it to the highest standard. The

Scottish gentleman seems to differ not only in degree, but in kind,

and to retain only the finer qualities of his race. This is not

speaking of the aristocracy, but of the finer nature, which is the

nature of a true gentleman. Whereas the common herd errs in excess of

canniness and cautiousness, keeps a keen eye upon the main chance, and

distrusts everything and everybody. The select few are rather rash than

otherwise, think less of gain than of a point of honour, and seem to

believe all other men as true-hearted and high-spirited as themselves,

as well as utterly destitute of religious fanaticism.

Walter Scott's favourite reading was old history and romance. He was

delighted to meet with a man who was acquainted with Hollingshed and

Froissart. Moreover, he had sent to Italy for a series of books upon

the canalization of the valley of the Po, and was right glad to find a

man who had been in that part of the world, and could assist him by his

knowledge of Italian. And I capped the good effect I had upon him, by

quoting some of the finest of his uncle's lines, which end with--

"I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed."

The little voyage, beautiful outside the ship, and stiff and prim

within, ended on the fourth day. The _Semiramis_ ran past Manora Head

and anchored near the Bar, which in those days was as bad as bad could

be. My first impressions of the country, a marvellous contrast to

Gujarat and Bombay, were as follows:--

[Sidenote: _Karáchi, Sind._]

"In those days Sind was in the most primitive state. The town, or

rather village, of Karáchi was surrounded by a tall wall of guy swish,

topped with fancy crenelles, and perpendicularly striped with what the

Persians call _Da mágheh_, or nostril holes, down which the besieged

could pour hot oil, or boiling water. Streets there were none; every

house looked like a small fort, and they almost met over the narrow

lanes that formed the only thoroughfares. The bazar, a long line

of miserable shops, covered over with rude matting of date leaves,

was the only place comparatively open. Nothing could exceed the

filthiness of the town; sewers there were none. And the deodorization

was effected by the dust. The harbour, when the tide was out, was a

system of mud-flats, like the lagoons of Venice, when you approach

them by the Murazzi. A mere sketch of a road, which in these days

would be called a Frere highway, led from the nearest mud-bank to the

Cantonment. The latter was in its earliest infancy. The ground of hard

clay was still covered with milk-bush and desert vegetation, and only

here and there a humble bungalow was beginning to be built. There was

no sign of barracks, and two race-courses were laid out before any one

thought of church or chapel.

"Yet Karáchi showed abundant sign of life. Sir Charles Napier

thoroughly believed in its future, and loudly proclaimed that in

a few years it would take the wind out of Bombay sails. The old

Conqueror himself was temporarily staying there. He had his wife and

two handsome daughters. His personal staff was composed of his two

nephews, Captain William Napier and Lieutenant Byng. In his general

Staff he had Major Edward Green, Assistant Adjutant-General, for

Quarter-Master-General; Captain MacMurdo, who afterwards married his

daughter; a civilian named Brown, _alias_ 'Beer' Brown; Captain Young,

of the Bengal army, as his Judge Advocate-General; and Captain Preedy

for his Commissary-General. The latter was the son of a violent old

officer in the Bombay army, and of whom many a queer story was told.

One of them is as follows:--He was dining at a Dragoon mess at Poonah,

when they began to sing a song which had been written by an officer of

the regiment, and which had for refrain--

'Here's death to those

Who dare oppose

Her Majesty's Dragoons.'

Old Preedy well knew that in the affair alluded to, the Dragoons,

having ventured into a native village, had been soundly thrashed by

the villagers. After patiently hearing the song out, he proposed

to give the villagers a turn, but he had hardly finished his first

verses--

'Success to who

Dare to bamboo

Her Majesty's Dragoons.'

before he was duly kicked out of the Mess.

"Karáchi was then swarming with troops. The 78th Highlanders were

cantoned there, and were presently joined by the 86th, or 'County Down

Boys.' Both consumed a vast quantity of liquor, but in diametrically

different ways. The kilts, when they felt fou, toddled quietly to bed,

and slept off the debauch; the brogues quarrelled and fought, and

made themselves generally disagreeable, and passed the night in the

guard-house. There was horse artillery and foot artillery, and the

former, when in uniform, turned out in such gorgeous gingerbread-gold

coats, that gave a new point to the old sneer of 'buying a man at

your own price, and selling him at his own,' and there were native

regiments enough to justify brigade parades on the very largest scale."

The 18th was presently ordered off to Gharra, a desolate bit of rock

and clay, which I described as follows:--

"Look at that unhappy hole--it is Gharra.

"The dirty heap of mud-and-mat hovels that forms the native village is

built upon a mound, the _débris_ of former Gharras, close to a creek

which may or may not have been the 'western outlet of the Indus in

Alexander's time.' All round it lies a--

'windy sea of land:'--

salt, flat, barren rock and sandy plain, where eternal sea-gales

blow up and blow down a succession of hillocks--warts upon the foul

face of the landscape--stretching far, far away, in all the regular

irregularity of desolation.

"You see the cantonment with its falling brick lines outside, and its

tattered thatched roofs peeping from the inside of a tall dense hedge

of bright green milk-bush."

We were obliged to pitch tents, for there was no chance of lodging in

the foul little village, at the head of the Gharra creek. Under the

circumstances, of course, the work was very hard.

A sandstorm astonished an English visitor considerably.

"When we arose in the morning the sky was lowering, the air dark; the

wind blew in puffs, and--unusual enough at the time of the year--it

felt raw and searching. If you took the trouble to look towards the

hills about eight a.m. you might have seen a towering column of sand

from the rocky hills, mixed with powdered silt from the arid plains,

flying away as fast as it could from the angry puffing Boreas.

"The gale increases--blast pursuing blast, roaring and sweeping round

the walls and over the roofs of the houses with the frantic violence

of a typhoon. There is a horror in the sound, and then the prospect

from the windows! It reminds one of Firdausi's vast idea that one

layer has been trampled off earth and added to the coats of the

firmament. You close every aperture and inlet, in the hope of escaping

the most distressing part of the phenomenon. Save yourself the

trouble, all such measures are useless. The finer particles with which

the atmosphere is laden would pass without difficulty through the

eye of a needle; judge what comfortable thoroughfares they must find

the chinks of these warped doors and the crannies of the puttyless

munnions.

"It seems as though the dust recognized in our persons kindred

matter. Our heads are powdered over in five minutes; our eyes, unless

we sit with closed lids, feel as if a dash of cayenne had been

administered to them; we sneeze like schoolboys after a first pinch of

'blackguard;' our epidermises are grittier than a loaf of provincial

French bread, and washing would only be a mockery of resisting the

irremediable evil.

"Now, Mr. Bull, if you wish to let your friends and old cronies at

home see something of the produce of the East, call for a lighted

candle, and sit down to compose an 'overland letter.' It will take you

at least two hours and a half to finish the four pages, as the pen

becomes clogged, and the paper covered every few minutes; moreover,

your spectacles require wiping at least as often as your quill does.

By the time the missive comes to hand it will contain a neat little

cake of Indus mud and Scinde sand moulded in the form of paper. Tell

Mrs. Bull that you went without your tiffin--lunch I mean--that you

tried to sleep, but the novel sensation of being powdered all over

made the attempt an abortive one--that it is impossible to cook during

a dust-storm--and that you are in for a modification of your favourite

'intramural sepulture,' if the gale continues much longer. However,

your days are safe enough; the wind will probably fall about five or

six in the afternoon,--it is rare that it does not go down with the

sun--and even should it continue during the night, it will be a farce

compared to what we are enduring now."

[Sidenote: _He passes in Maharátta._]

There was great excitement on June 20th, 1844, when the Sepoys of the

64th Regiment mutinied at Shikapur and beat their officers. The station

was commanded by Major-General Hunter, C.B. Most of his experience was

in studs. When campaigning with Sir Charles Napier, the latter sent to

him for something to eat, and the reply was a ham and a round of press

beef. The "devil's brother," as the Sindís called him, cut a slice out

of the ham and another out of the beef, and then sent the remainder

back to the owner. On June 27th a general order established vernacular

examination, making it every officer's duty to learn something more

or less of the language. In September I went down to Bombay to pass

an examination in Maharátta, and on October 15th I distanced some six

competitors.

* * * * *

Richard produced another Chapter on India when he was sick, in 1888,

for Mr. Hitchman, which is the one the biographer used, having objected

to some of the other parts, whilst I have used the original manuscript

just as it was given to me in 1876.

[1] The general orders of the Commander-in-Chief--

"To rank from date of sailing from Gravesend to the ship by which they

proceeded in the following order, viz.:--

"Charles Thompson, per barque _John Knox_ June 18, 1842.

Richard Francis Burton, per barque _John Knox_ June 18, 1842.

The latter appointed to the 14th Regiment B.N.I. Sept. 24, 1842.

The latter transferred to 18th B.N.I. Oct. 25, 1842.

No. 106, date of arrival at Bombay Oct. 28, 1842."

[2] He was assistant garrison surgeon, serving under Superintendent

Surgeon A. C. Kane. The latter's name evidently subjected him to a

variety of small witticisms, especially when he was called in to treat

a certain A. Bell.

[3] Amongst natives, caste is so powerful in India that it even affects

Mlenchha, or outcast races.

[4] For description of _pattymar_, see "Goa and Blue Mountains," by R.

F. Burton.

[5] Colonel Yule gives an illustration of these gates in his second

volume of "Marco Polo."

[6] I was at this time a child in the schoolroom; we had no knowledge

of each other's existence; I therefore had no part in the matter. He

did not tell me of it until we had been married for some time, as

he wished, he said, to see if _he_ was paramount in _my_ mind, and

that I would make the sacrifice for him, which was necessary for our

marriage later on. He then said, "that if a man _had_ a religion, it

must be the Catholic; it was the religion of a gentleman--a terrible

religion for a man of the world to live in, but a good one to die in."

I have often wondered that this step never excited any comment; he

wrote of it freely; he spoke of it freely until his latter years; but

as he did not like _me_ to do so, I never did. Nobody ever dared to

question his action till after he was dead; but when the master-mind,

the witty tongue was powerless, when the scathing pen the strong right

sword-arm could no longer wield, people fell foul of me for speaking of

it as a simple and natural fact. I never called him a devout practical

Catholic; I only said he was received into the Church, and that he

meant to have its rites at the time of his death.--I. B.