THE METROPOLIS OF INDIA AND ITS HIMALAYAN SANATORIUM.
On this bright, yet foggy morning of January 7, 1885, we find ourselves
at anchor in the mouth of the Hooghley--that vast delta and network of
channels where the most ancient of historical rivers, the Ganges, loses
itself in the ocean.
The sun is struggling through the bank of fog, and as it slowly lifts, it
is difficult to believe that the broad expanse of dun-coloured waters,
with its dim outline of mud-banks forming a shore, is a river and not
the sea. The white tower of the lighthouse of Saugor gleams in the far
distance, and the pilot and his leadsman are on board.
It is 156 miles from the mouth of the Hooghley to the wharves at
Calcutta, and all through the morning we are making a slow and tedious
progress, stopping frequently to take soundings. The Hooghley is well
known as a most "ticklish" piece of navigation, and altogether three
pilots take charge of the ship in its upward course. The pilot with his
accompanying leadsman, who after five years' apprenticeship is qualified
as such himself, takes the ship to Garden Reach, and then hands over the
charge to the harbour-master to take her into dock and the moorings.
[Illustration: The Hooghly, Calcutta.
Page 251.]
For the first hundred miles the Hooghley is exceedingly ugly, being
merely a succession of mud-banks, the deposit of silt and sand left by
the river as it struggles in various channels across the flat plain of
the delta; but after passing Diamond Harbour, the signal station, where
the arrival and departure of ships to and from Calcutta are telegraphed,
the scene changes gradually. Isolated palm-trees are seen at intervals
along the banks, succeeded by groves and a few mud huts. We pass barges
or budgeroes laden with cargo, rowed by four natives, who step backwards
and forwards, keeping time together. We observe occasionally a group of
pilgrims forming a picturesque encampment on the banks, come down here
for the religious ceremony of bathing.
Not seldom is a dead body seen floating down the stream, with vultures
sitting on it and picking at the flesh, for notwithstanding all
prohibitions, the Hindu still sometimes puts a corpse in the sacred river.
It was interesting passing here the _Indus_, a ship employed in the
transport of Australian horses for the Indian market, and which we had
last seen in dock in Sydney Harbour!
I was sitting quietly writing in my cabin in the middle of the afternoon,
when I heard a tremendous scuffle overhead, accompanied by a rush to the
stern. Immediately afterwards there was that peculiar rushing of water
which indicates that the rudder is being put hard-a-port or starboard,
and, running out, I saw all the officer and sailors spinning the wheel
round as hard as they could. The severe strain had snapped a link in the
chain of the steering gear on the bridge, but, fortunately, that at the
stern was in order. Intensely anxious was the moment when we waited to
see whether she _would_ answer to her helm in time. Slowly the vessel's
head came round, and we floated away from the sandbank on to which she
was fast drifting. The sandbanks here are quicksands, and vessels which
strand are sucked down and heard of no more!
The afternoon sun shone brightly as we drew near to the sea of masts and
rigging that lie at anchor along the wharves, which border the Maidan of
Calcutta.
All around us is a scene of the greatest animation. The river banks are
lined with ships coaling or undergoing repairs, while others lie in
mid-stream, with "flats," or broad boats with shallow bottoms, piled up
with merchandise discharging cargo on either side.
A steamship is passing us on its way out to sea, while behind us an
American vessel is being towed up to dock. Hulks, budgeroes, steam-tugs,
and dingies are threading their way amongst this maze of shipping, and
a goodly crowd of the latter are hovering or clinging on to our ship by
means of rope and hooks, making a dash at us with the latter as we pass.
These budgeroes with their painted prows and covered stern resemble the
gondola of Venice, but instead of the funereal black of the latter, they
are painted in bright colours, blue and red and yellow, and steered
by means of an oar roughly fastened by reeds to the stern. Generally
the steersman is represented by a picturesque figure wrapped in a gay
counterpane, or swathed in the graceful folds of muslin, thrown loosely
over the shoulders. We pass many factories of sugar, jute, and paper, and
some pottery works.
Opposite Garden Reach stands the palace of the ex-King of Oude, with
its green jalousies and balconies, and its terrace overhanging the
water, guarded at either end by a caged lion and tiger. Long before we
approached it, we saw flocks of pigeons, white and speckled, whirling
in the air. An attendant standing in the tower with a red flag was
waving them home, and at the understood signal they were all circling
round and setting on the flat roofs of the palace. It was the former
residence of Sir Lawrence Peel, but now the palace and the beautiful
suburb is abandoned to the eccentricities of the ex-king with his swarm
of followers, who lives here on a yearly pension of 120,000_l._ granted
by our Government.
Facing the palace at Seebpore is Bishop's College, now used as a school
for engineers, and the Botanical Gardens here border the river. Passing
Chandpal Ghât, the landing-place, "where India welcomes" and speeds away
her rulers; "where Governors-General, Commanders-in-Chief, Judges of the
High Court, Bishops, all entitled to it, receive the royal salute from
Fort William on setting foot in the metropolis," we anchored for the
night. The harbour-master refused to take the _Japan_ to her moorings
till the morning.
Amid great confusion we embarked ourselves and our luggage in one of the
frail and leaking dingies. Colliding and being collided with several
times, an unhealthy mist rising and enveloping us from the river,
darkness overtaking us, we had a very uncomfortable half-hour's row to
the landing-stage.
In the darkness of the half gas-lighted streets, the natives muffled
up to the eyes in their long white garments, the bullock-carts, the
palanquins, the gharries, all looked so strange and foreign, and the
noise and bustle of the streets was oppressive to us after the dead
stillness of the steamer.
Of course we went to the Great Eastern Hotel. Alas! there is no choice
of hotels for travellers, and the company, having the monopoly, do not
exert themselves for the comfort of their visitors. The table-d'hôte
was bewildering from the extraordinary number of servants in the room,
there being from sixty to 100 guests. The "boys," or personal servants,
made one row by standing each behind his master's chair, and the hotel
servants another whilst handing the dishes, not counting those who were
hurrying in all directions. The noise in the Great Eastern is a perpetual
torment, the doors being only protected by curtains, voices and footsteps
echo through the bare, marble-paved corridors. Khitmutgârs and Chuprassis
creep in noiselessly from behind the curtains, and you look up suddenly
to find them there, and to wonder how long they have been standing
staring at you. Ayahs and tailors come to offer their services, and
bric-à-brac vendors are always pushing their way into the sitting-room.
_Thursday, January 8th._--A fine spring morning to greet us for our first
day in India,--not too warm, for we are fortunate in being here during
one of the only three temperate months of the Indian year.
Calcutta used to be known by the name of "the Ditch," but now it is
called the "City of Palaces." I should say that the former name well
applies to the native quarters and bazaars, which lie in such close
juxtaposition to the handsome buildings and are so unusually narrow,
crowded, and dirty. The latter speaks truly of that splendid range of
buildings around Dalhousie Square, and that block facing the Maidan,
formed by the High Court and Government House.
Dalhousie Square is the old Tank Square, or, earlier still, was called
"the green before the fort," for the ancient fort stood on the spot where
now we see the magnificent dome of the Post Office.
Inside an arched gateway, at the side of this building, there are some
remnants of the old walls of the fort. A plain square of pavement here
shows the exact size and spot of the Black Hole of Calcutta. A short
and business-like inscription is placed over the archway recording
"how 123 victims perished during the night of June 20th, 1757, only 23
being found alive in the morning, confined there by order of the rebel,
Suraj-ud-Dowlah."
There are besides in Dalhousie Square the block of government buildings
occupying the entire length of one side of it, built of dull red brick
faced with yellow stone and ending at the corner with an octagonal tower;
also the Telegraph Office, and the Dalhousie Institute.
Government House is a vast yellow structure, with a small dome, standing
within railed gardens. The approach is very handsome, with a broad
flight of steps leading to the entrance under a portico with Corinthian
pillars; but it appears, this is only for use on state occasions, as you
are driven up to the unpretentious doorway _under_ the entrance. Four
roads with lion-guarded gateways lead up to the four entrances, there
being one to each side of the house; and the Sepoy sentries, the mounted
escort waiting in attendance, and the chuprassies running hither and
thither--scarlet messengers with the royal insignia that you meet in all
parts of the city, form a truly Vice-regal surrounding.
The houses in Calcutta have a very Eastern appearance, being painted a
pale pink or buff colour, contrasting with the bright green of jalousies
and balconies. Added to this, there is the strange, vivid-coloured
flow of life going on in the streets below. There are Mohammedans with
short-waisted linen tunic, tight trowsers, and huge unwieldly turban;
Hindus with the wisp of hair at the back of the head, and the hideous
caste mark or patch of clay smeared on the forehead, wrapped in the
square of variegated cotton, the corner thrown over the shoulder; coolies
naked, save for the single strip of muslin. A few Armenians, Chinese, and
Parsees, the latter with the curious semi-conical hat peculiar to that
sect, mingle in the heterogeneous crowd of a great Indian metropolis.
The women look so graceful in their flowing "sari," draped loosely about
the figure and drawn over the head, with the bright pieces of metal
in the forehead or the chin, with rings in noses and ears, and silver
bangles worn above the elbow--in masses on the wrist, and circling round
their ankles, jangling with each movement. All the women and nearly all
the men wear rings on their toes. Generally the "sari" is of white muslin
bordered with a strip of red, but sometimes also it is of pink or green
or even of a bright yellow gauze--a single strip that is wound round so
deftly as to form an entire covering for the figure.
Gharries, ticca gharries (or a gharry of the second class) ply the
streets for hire, looking with their closed, sliding doors like a
miniature Black Maria, so grim is the appearance of this windowless
carriage. There are many palankeens, the familiar "palkee," painted
black, and supported by four hurrying, staggering coolies. Through
the half-closed doors you see the full-length figure of a luxurious
native swell, smoking his hookah. Many private carriages, broughams and
victorias, are about the streets occupied by the Anglo-Indian in his
never-failing solar topee or tirai hat, for _no one_ thinks of walking
the length of the street in India. As you drive along, you are much
bothered by natives with a miscellaneous collection of goods, beginning
with Japanese trays and peacock screens, and ending with shaving-brushes,
soap, and hair-pins, running along and thrusting their wares into the
carriage.
In the afternoon we drove through the native quarter of Calcutta, through
the Burra Bazaar, on our way to visit the Maharajah of Tagore.
The bazaar in every Indian town is a never-failing source of interest. It
is always narrow, dirty, crowded, the inhabitants popping in and out of
their filthy dens, in numbers like swarms in a beehive. But the wonderful
eye for colour, and the inborn taste of architecture that belongs to
every Indian, makes them marvellously picturesque and interesting. There
are the carved gateways, which generally lead into the chowk, or narrow
street, where no carriage can enter; the curiously wrought overhanging
balconies with scarlet striped blinds, from behind which peep out
dark-eyed nautch girls. There is the minaret of a mosque in one corner,
and the carved remains of a Hindu temple in the other. Here a group of
men and women squatting over a hole in the earth, where they are pounding
millet; there some children gnawing a stick of raw sugar-cane. Donkeys,
goats, and sacred bulls with bead necklaces hung around their necks
wander at will about the streets. Sometimes you see a school, with the
scholars squatting around their moonshee under the balcony, sing-songing
in that curious monotone the Hindustanee lesson. All the manufactures
are carried on in the open street, whether it be spinning or dyeing,
tinkering or tailoring, or that elaborate kincob work of embroidering in
gold thread. All the goods are exposed for sale on the raised step along
the street, whilst the owner sits cross-legged, keeping guard over them,
never in the least anxious to sell. Here you find all Indian treasures,
such as Cashmere and Ramudpugger shawls, exquisite embroideries in silk
and gold, Benares work, and gold and silver ornaments and bangles. I
was disappointed not to see a greater variety of the latter, but it was
explained to me that the women generally bring their own silver in rupees
to be made into bangles, thus ensuring the true weight of the silver.
You see quantities of the coarse millets, such as goat and bajra, which
form the chief food of the natives, spread out to dry in green and yellow
heaps in the street. Rice is too expensive in Bengal and in many parts
of India for it to be a staple food for the lower orders, and on these
millets a native subsists on an average of one penny per day.
In the chowk, family women are allowed to walk, because down this inner
street of the native quarter or bazaar no gharry can come, but even many
of these cover their faces when abroad. Young married women and girls are
only allowed to go in a "sedan" chair, which is a small seat carefully
curtained, suspended in the shape of a tripod from a pole. Sometimes
these latter peep cautiously out, but modestly withdraw at sight of us;
or, again, standing at the door of their huts, women cover and flee at
the approach of the "Feringis" (Europeans).
The bustees, or native villages, are a collection of mud huts, cramped
together on the damp earth, devoid of ventilation and drainage. They are
often built round a tank or pond, which serves as a deposit for their
filth and refuse, the water being used at the same time for cooking and
washing purposes. During the rains the natives suffer much, their mud
huts, without foundations, settling about them, and the miasmic vapours
of the over-populated village causing a yearly epidemic of cholera.
The baboos, or wealthier class, live in two-storied houses, built so
as to form a hollow square, the upper story being alone used for the
living-rooms, and the lower one as a stable for goats and bullocks.
The Indian city, if possible, generally lies along a riverbank, and then
the bathing-ghât forms a great feature to the native quarter. Men and
women bathe daily, and some of the most picturesque and typical scenes of
Indian life are to be seen in the early morning at these ghâts.
But to return to the Burra Bazaar. All this and a great deal more we saw,
and the entire novelty added to our zest of the enjoyment of the gay
surroundings. One sad little scene was taking place in a quiet corner.
Under a rude canopy stood the coffin of a child, covered with a pink
pall, while some women were busy laying flowers about it, and hanging up
tawdry bits of decoration.
The Maharajah of Tajore's palace is in the midst of this native quarter.
We were led through whitewashed passages, where numberless attendants
were lounging about, through a balcony into a magnificent drawing-room,
but which was swathed even to the chandeliers in brown holland. We
thought it a typical exemplification of Eastern life, magnificence with
meanness, luxury with squalor and dirt.
The maharajah appeared in morning dress, consisting of a loose drab
Cashmere shawl covering him from head to foot. He is a man of about
forty-five, speaks perfect English, expressing himself with great ease
and fluency, and he takes the most enlightened views on the subject of
English administration. The conversation lasted for upward of two hours,
for my husband is most anxious during our visit to India to hear as much
as possible of the _native_ views on Indian affairs. The maharajah is
trustee of the vernacular newspaper called the _Hindu Patriot_, whose
editor C. went to see in British India Street, which may be called
the Fleet Street of Calcutta--so many members of the press are there
established here.
In the Maidan centres all the attractions of Calcutta. This broad plain
is truly called "the lung of Calcutta," and is bordered on one side by
Chowringee Road and a succession of fine palaces, and on the other by
the Strand Road, the Esplanade and the Hooghley, with its sea of masts
and rigging. In the centre of the Maidan stands Fort William. The High
Court and Government House looks over its broad expanse. Here, too, are
the Eden Gardens, and that collection of statues increased with each
outgoing viceroy. The inscriptions on some of them are very fine, and
full of patriotic enthusiasm. That on the equestrian statue of Lord Mayo
is grand:--"To the honoured and beloved memory of the Earl of Mayo,
Humane, Courteous, Resolute, and Enlightened, struck down in the Midst
of a Patriotic and Beneficent Career on the 18th of February, 1872, by
the treacherous hand of an Assassin. The People of India, mourning and
indignant, raise this Statue." So also is that to Sir James Outram, where
they say:--"His Life was given to India; in early Manhood he reclaimed
wild Races by winning their hearts; Ghazni, Khelat, the Indian Caucasus,
witnessed the daring deeds of his prime; Persia brought to sue for peace;
Lucknow relieved, defended, and recovered, were fields of his later
glories. Faithful servant of England, large-minded and kindly ruler of
her subjects; in all the True Knight; 'The Bayard of the East.'"
It is towards five o'clock in the afternoon, when the miasmic mist that
rises daily at this hour, and only lifts the following morning at nine
o'clock, that the Maidan is seen to perfection.
Then appear those magnificent equipages, the lumbering barouche, with
the pair of "Walers" (so called because they are horses imported from
New South Wales), with their attendant "syces." These native servants in
their long coats, girded with a sash of cords, and flat-brimmed hats, are
dressed in all kinds of fanciful liveries. Free play is given to pretty
combinations of colour, such as brown with old gold, purple with scarlet,
green and orange, blue and silver, black and white. The number of these
syces walking beside the horses, or standing up behind the carriage,
flourishing fly-wisps, gives an idea of Oriental magnificence.
The Eden Garden; so called after the sisters of Lord Auckland, who caused
them to be made, are the rendezvous at that hour for all the children of
Calcutta, and you see these pampered little darlings, dressed up in plush
and satins, arriving in their own carriages, in charge of their ayahs,
with one, or even sometimes two, men-servants in attendance, ready to
play at ball or cricket with them.
On the Maidan, too, is seen the familiar sight of the troops of
"bheesties" watering the roads at sundown. This primitive way of laying
the dust becomes a great nuisance in crowded thoroughfares, when the
bheestie is as likely as not to spurt the contents of his skin into the
carriage.
Very curious figures these bheesties look as they come up from the
riverside with their inverted goat-skin, the outline of the legs still
seen, and slung, full to bursting, on their backs. They then begin to run
along the road, ejecting the water to right and left of them by opening
and closing sharply the small aperture. One would almost think that the
municipality of Calcutta might have imported some watering-carts by this
time.
It is a very funny sight to see a native squatted on the ground before
his horse in a beseeching attitude, holding up to him a handful of hay;
or, again, whilst the carriages wait by the Eden Gardens, to see the
servants collected around a "hubble-bubble," drawing at it and passing it
round in turns.
There is generally a camp near the fort in the Maidan, and polo is played
there in the afternoon. Passing the rank and fashion of Anglo-Indian
society, we drove to the Belvidere, the official residence of the
Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Henry Riders Thompson. It is a very beautiful
house, and was the favourite residence of Warren Hastings. We came home
round the other side of the Maidan, by Chowringee Road. The prison is
the first building in this road, "and No. 1, Chowringee" has become a
familiar name for it.
_Friday, January 9th._--Morning after morning the sun rises in an
unclouded sky, and this is the only advantage of the Indian climate. You
may depend on fine weather, "may settle," as some one said to me, "the
exact date of a picnic two months beforehand," without fears for the
weather. The rainfall of the year is condensed into the three months of
July, August, and September--the rainy season, the season of malarious
fevers.
We went out early, and drove to Fort William. Inside those palisaded
defences and once strong walls and towers, you find broad gravelled roads
laid out round the quiet quadrangles, with neat barracks and arsenals,
magazines, and storerooms. There are six gateways with drawbridges,
and over each is a house for the commander-in-chief and the officers.
The fort church and the Catholic chapel complete the military and
non-bellicose-looking little town. In the centre there is the circular
pillar with the sliding boom that daily drops at the hour of 1 p.m.
"Abdullah," our guide and native servant, then took us through the
bathing-ghât on the Hooghley, and stopped before a space walled in, from
the centre of which issued smoke. It was the "Nimtolla Burning-Chat," or
crematorium, where the bodies of the natives are burnt.
In the centre of the square there was a burning pile, on which, face
downwards, with the arms crossed behind the back, lay a body. The legs
were also doubled up, but as we looked, first one and then the other
relaxed with the heat and dropped down. A little further on there was
a smouldering pile, where another body had been reduced to ashes, and
in a corner a stretcher with a body covered over awaiting cremation. It
takes three hours for each body to burn, and after it has been reduced
to ashes, they are gathered up and cast into the sacred waters of the
Hooghley. The Hindu lays the body on the pile, and places the fire in
the mouth, but the Mohammedan (who has no caste) does the meaner parts
of lighting and attending to the funeral pile. Government provides the
wood and the attendants, making a charge of three rupees, seven annas,
for an adult, with a reduced scale for children. Strange and wrong as
it may seem to say so, there is no doubt that the horror of seeing the
process seemed greatly lessened by the shade of the skin; were it white,
we should not get over the ghastly sight for many a day.
That afternoon we drove out to the Botanical Gardens, crossing the
Hooghley on a wooden bridge, and driving through the busy manufacturing
suburb of Howrah, and the village of Seebpore. They are five miles
from the town, and their beauty is consequently lost to Calcutta. Not
one single person did we meet there that afternoon. The triad of noble
trees, the banyan, with the peepul on either side, the glorious avenue of
Palmyra palms, with others of asoke and mahogany branching off, are truly
"wasting their freshness on a desert air."
There are groups of casuarina-trees about the lake, draped with tropical
"climbers," or rattans, and a palmetum, or palm nursery, where different
species of the family are tended and reared. We went into the cool,
shady retreat, where the light struggles dimly through the cocoa-fibre
netting on to the festoons of tropical parasites, the orchids and the
ferns, forming a beautiful, natural outdoor conservatory. Passing the
marble urn which bears an inscription by Bishop Heber to Dr. Roxburgh,
curator of the garden, and to which so many avenues converge, we come to
a grove. Under this we walked along, looking at the network of trunks,
as we thought; but as we came to trace them home, we discovered that
they were but gigantic roots, depending from the branches--part of
the stupendous banyan-tree, that thus extends its monstrous bulk to a
diameter of 800 feet. This grove is very beautiful, formed as it is of a
colonnade of branches--of the 170 aërial depending roots.
As we drove home we were overtaken by one of those unhealthy river mists,
densest in the villages we passed through, owing to the smoke of their
dung fires being unable to rise through the pall.
_Saturday, January 10th._--C. went out to Dum-Dum, the military
cantonment of Calcutta, to see a battalion of his old regiment, the 23rd
Royal Welsh Fusiliers, quartered there. Later in the day we went to the
Memorial Meeting at the Town Hall, in honour of the memory of the "Great
Hindu Patriot," the late Kristodas Pal. The Maharajah of Tagore assented
to my wish to go, but on being led up to the platform, I was not prepared
to find myself the only lady amongst the thousands, chiefly natives,
assembled. However, I was rewarded for the discomfort of the situation by
the great interest of a speech delivered by Dr. Mohendra Lal Sircar, a
homoeopathic doctor, after those of the Lieutenant-Governor, the Chief
Justice, Sir Richard Garth, and Sir Stewart Bayley, member of council,
&c., which for eloquence and impressiveness was most remarkable.
Kristodas Pal was editor of the _Hindu Patriot_, a member of the
Legislative Council, and a man of most brilliant parts and oratorical
gifts--respected equally by European and native, as the representative
meeting of that day testified, including as it did the highest European
officials and members of council, with a large number of maharajahs and
rajahs. It was terribly hot, and the meeting lasted for over two hours.
_Sunday, January 11th._--To the cathedral for morning service.
The exterior of the Gothic architecture is entirely spoilt by the
discoloration of the stone by stress of weather, and the interior
produces a curious effect in the morning light, which comes reflected
through bright, blue glass. The finest part of the cathedral is the
vestry or entrance, containing some beautiful tablets and the statue of
Bishop Heber. As no one in India thinks of walking, not even to church,
it is here that the waiting crowd, with the police manoeuvring at
the file of carriages, somewhat resembles the getting away after an
entertainment.
We left Calcutta by the Sealdah terminus that afternoon on an expedition
to Darjeeling, the hill station in the Himalayas.
The journey across some burnt-up plains, with occasional settlements of
mud huts in the neighbourhood of a gheel, or a mango tope, was very hot
and dirty. At sundown we were obliged to close the windows, on account
of the malarious mist rising from the marshes. A fellow-passenger, an
indigo-planter, left the carriage at one of the small stations, who was
going to be carried thirty-three miles in a "palkee" by sixteen coolies
in relays. He told us he should sleep comfortably in the bed prepared
inside, whilst they carried him all through the night over hill and dale,
and across four rivers in boats.
At eight in the evening we arrived at Damookdea, and embarked on a
steamer to cross the Ganges, meanwhile having dinner on board. At Sara,
on the opposite side, we settled ourselves for the night in the short,
narrow carriage running on the mètre-gauge line, and which oscillates so
very unpleasantly. There are no sleeping-cars on the Indian railways, but
with a carriage to ourselves we managed seven or eight hours' sleep--not
bad, when we think of the random rolling we experienced. Here is where
the rezai and pillow rolled up in a strap in the daytime are an absolute
necessity for travelling in India. Every one has them and not only are
they useful for railway travelling, but invaluable also in hotels. Many
is the bitter, cold night on which we have arrived, and been shown into
a grateless and fireless room, with only a single sheet on the bed.
[Illustration: The Darjeeling and Himalayan Railway.
Page 263.]
Chota hazri and a wash at Siliguri the next morning sent us on our way
rejoicing, in the little toy-train of the Darjeeling and Himalayan
Railway. It is in reality a steam tramway, and runs along by the side of
the old cart hillroad, on a gauge only two feet in width. The first class
compartments are divided by a trellis-work, and the second and third are
open cars. They run along smoothly and swiftly, raised but a few inches
off the ground.
This railway is considered a great, by some "the greatest," engineering
feat, mounting as it does 7000 feet into the heart of the Himalayas, with
a gradient as steep as one in twenty, and radii of one to sixteen. It was
undertaken chiefly for the humane purpose of giving work to the natives
during the great Bengal famine of 1874. Two years saw its completion, at
the moderate cost of 3000_l._ a mile.
Creeping cautiously across the Mahanuddi River, on the crankiest of
wooden bridges, we ran rapidly over the plain for nine miles, and then
entered an avenue in the forest.
The ascent began through a sâl forest, densely overgrown with jungle,
and then proceeded to a forest more varied with birch, maple, oak, and
wild mango. The trunks of these huge trees were clothed with epiphytes, a
creeper of large green leaves, of much the same shape as our "lords and
ladies." It was curious to note how the higher we ascended the hardier
became the species of trees. Thus in one day we were to pass through
varying vegetation and varying climes; from the oppressive heat of the
plain to the moist rarified atmosphere of the mountain altitudes; from
the tropical wealth of vegetation to the hardier kinds of trees and
shrubs. Strangely enough, in these latter you do not see the pine, spruce
fir, or larch, for the hardiest species found in the Himalayan peaks are
magnolia, laurel, holly, olive, maple, and oak.
On and on through this forest-clad side of the mountain we travelled,
fascinated by the dense tangle of jungle on either hand. These
impenetrable depths we knew were the lair of the leopard and cheetah. We
longed to see the glare of green eyes in the undergrowth, and to hear the
crash of an elephant's approach. But a mild pleasure lay in the monkeys,
who crept out in great numbers, and swung on the branches of the trees
overhead, jabbering and mocking us as we passed. The gullies were filled
with wild banana-trees, yielding a bitter, acrid fruit.
All this time we were rising rapidly above the vast plain of Bengal, that
lay like a shining sheet at our feet, melting away into golden mist. We
were now coming to the first of the great engineering wonders of this
line of wonders--the circle. Passing _under_ a bridge, we described a
distinct circle round the circumference of a small hill, and, gradually
ascending round the further curve, were immediately afterwards passing
_over_ the same identical bridge.
Here, as with all the Himalayan range, the Sikkim Hills run in tiers, one
above the other, rising in the first instance sheer out of the plain.
There opened before us one of those gorgeous amphitheatres of hills, seen
so often during the ascent. You come upon an immeasurable hollow, and
lying literally in amphitheatrical tiers beneath are ranges of mountains
within the mountains, dwindling so far away, down, down, into hills,
and the hills again into mere knolls, by comparison with the gigantic
monsters of the background.
Frequently looking down into this crater, filled with hilltops, we saw
perched up on one a planter's bungalow and factory, with the tea-garden
terracing up and down the side of the mountain--the regular lines of the
stunted bushes, with the space of earth between.
Once for many miles we swept round the mighty circle of the amphitheatre,
clinging halfway up on the sides of the depthless gorge; then passing
from one mountain to another, gradually rising, we described a double
curve, one line of rails above the other, and passing away behind the
mountains, ascended others higher and farther upwards.
Thus we crept stealthily upwards, through the long morning hours.
After Gyabari, we reached the "Goompties," or long zigzags on the sides
of the hill, and then came in quick succession several "reversing
stations." Here the train goes backwards and forwards in short zigzags,
helping us to rise some hundred feet in a very few minutes. How wonderful
the Australians think their three zigzags on the Blue Mountains. What
would they say to these? Again, further on, we described a perfect figure
of 8. But our twistings and curvings were so wonderful, that at last we
seemed to grow accustomed to see the line we were to pass just above us,
the line we _had_ passed just below.
Many and many were the so-called "agony points," where the carriage was
projecting over the precipice, so close the rail was laid to the edge;
some were rendered more excruciatingly anxious by the train taking a
sharp curve on this precarious foothold.
It is a grand and exalted feeling that takes possession of you now,
when you have lost sight of the plain, and the work-a-day life being
carried on there, when you are alone looking down into the spur ranges,
a tumultuous mass of peaks below, and then raise the eye to the
storm-beaten ones above, so near the sky as to be known only to the eye
of their Creator. The Himalayas, meaning in Sanskrit the "abode of snow,"
are the grandest mountain-wall that Nature has ever raised.
It was becoming keenly cold. What was our agony to see creeping down the
mountain-side a wall of fog and mist. We passed into the cloud, and gloom
and dampness enveloped us. Darjeeling, we are always told, is "up in
the clouds," and we anxiously thought how it might remain so in reality
during our stay there. Our enthusiasm was suddenly quenched, and our
disappointment very keen at losing all the glorious views--wiped out so
ruthlessly in those few seconds. For the remainder of the journey clouds
swept around us, lifting occasionally for a minute to show us the valley,
where more clouds lay floating below.
We had luncheon, at an elevation of 4000 feet, at Kursiong, where the
platform runs alongside of the neat hotel. At Sonadah we did not grumble
at the fog so much, for at all times the air here is thick and cold, from
the condensed moisture of the vast forests that cover the western slopes
of Mount Sinchul.
Up and up we climbed, the temperature rapidly falling and the cold ever
increasing. The rails became greasy from the moisture, and necessitated
constant stoppages to allow of the zemyndras running in front with
handfuls of sand.
Occasionally we passed through the midst of some very dirty bazaar, or
settlement of tumble-down huts, crowded together for warmth, and the
mutual support afforded to the mud and bamboo-framed walls, which prevail
even in these high latitudes. Here live the picturesque and varied
mountain tribes belonging to the frontier provinces around Darjeeling, a
sturdy, independent population. There are the tall Bhooteas, the short
and stunted Lepchas and Limboos, Nepaulese, Cabulese, and stalwart
Thibetans, dashing by on their hardy mountain ponies. For the time being,
with the cold atmosphere, and amongst these hardy northern tribes, we
feel transported into Norway, Lapland, or Finland.
The Lepchas, the aboriginals of Sikkim, are the most picturesque among
the medley of races. They are of very small stature, and thick-set
frame, with a broad, flat face, oblique eyes, and high cheek-bones.
The men wear their coarse black hair in one pigtail, and the women in
two--often the only distinguishing feature between the sexes. The Lepcha
is an arrant coward, but a born naturalist, and has a name for every
shrub and plant in Sikkim. Their dress consists "of a robe of blue and
white-striped cloth, woven by the women, crossed over the breast, and
gathered in with an ornamented girdle." Into this is stuck the kukerie,
or short sword, which none are without. They wear a coloured woollen
comforter wound around their caps; and altogether their dwarf stature,
flattened faces, and excessive dirt remind one of the Laplanders.
The Limboos can always be known by their mass of black uncombed hair,
hanging in elfin locks about their yellow faces. They are gross feeders,
being particularly fond of pork.
The Nepaulese emigrate in large numbers to British Sikkim, where they
find ready employment in the tea-gardens. British Sikkim has been called
a "Cave of Adullam" for Nepaul, whose draconian laws cause offenders to
flee across the border for safety.
The Bhootea race is chiefly interesting from its woman-kind. Tall and
handsome are the Bhootea women, with a circlet of gold or silver framing
their broad, beaming faces. They wear magnificent silver girdles, and
curiously wrought necklaces, with earrings so massive that the thin strip
of flesh, drawn out in the lobe of the ear, barely supports their weight.
They have curious amulets set with turquoise-stones which, though much
cracked and flawed, suit the quaint setting and design. The Bhooteas
are followers of the red-capped sect of Lamas, a kind of Buddhism, but
they offer propitiatory sacrifices to evil spirits, as may be seen by
the array of bamboo staffs about their huts, from which float cotton
streamers and rags with type prayers, set up to frighten the spirits away.
These Bhootea women have an enormous capacity for carrying weights, being
usually employed as porters at the station. They support the whole weight
on their heads, suspending it by a string passed round the forehead. It
is told how a Bhootea woman once carried a grand piano from Pukabari to
Darjeeling in three days, and arrived quite fresh!
During the winter many Thibetans may be seen, coming through that
mysterious and forbidden pass into Sikkim for trading purposes. In their
encampments it is common to see one woman in the same tent with five
or six men, as polyandry prevails among the Thibetans. Most of those
rough little ponies, with their creels balanced on either side with
merchandise, that we met toiling up in files, come from Thibet.
Ghoom, the highest railway station in the Old World, if not in the
universe, was reached in fog. It is 7400 feet above the level of the sea.
From here we ran downhill for four miles, till a turn round the angle
of a jutting rock brought Darjeeling in view. A gleam of sunshine, weak
and watery owing to the vapoury clouds it pierced through, showed us the
hill-side, dotted with innumerable pretty bungalows.
Darjeeling lies partly in a basin formed by the mountains, and here is
the bazaar and native quarter. On a mount which you would almost think
Nature had purposely thrown up midway in the valley for it, stands the
Eden Sanatorium. Such a pretty, ornate building it is, where people
suffering from the fever of the plains come up to be nursed by the clever
Sisters of Mercy from Clewer. There is accommodation for first, second,
and third class patients, so all degrees can avail themselves of the
Sanatorium.
Immediately under the high mount of the Observatory Hill, on the highest
ground of all, lies the pretty stone church and the white villa mansion
called the Shrubberies, the official residence of the Lieutenant-Governor.
Darjeeling was originally established as a sanatorium for the invalid
soldiers of all the British troops in India. A cantonment was founded at
Jellaphor, 700 feet higher than Darjeeling, making in all a height of
7969 feet above the level of the sea. There was a time when for soldiers
to come to India, meant it was very questionable whether they would ever
return. Darjeeling has been the means of restoration to thousands of
England's sons, fever stricken on the plains of Bengal.
Arrived at the barnlike station, the porters--two Bhootea women, carried
our luggage up to Woodland's Hotel. The dreariness of this abode could
hardly be overdrawn. Dark and chill were the rooms, scant and bad the
fare, and great depression ensued under such sad circumstances.
We walked down to the post-office and past the club, saw some of the
rows of villas built as a speculation, and which command such exorbitant
prices (1000 to 2000 rupees per month) during the season, and then the
clouds returned with the close of day and we could see no more. I had
got a severe chill and touch of fever from our night journey across the
plain, and went to bed shivering, and very miserable.
_Tuesday, January 13th._--Everybody comes up to Darjeeling with hearts
full of bright promise of seeing the most glorious "snowy range"
that exists in the world. Very few but go down sadder and wiser. The
view, as seen from Mount Sinchul, of the range is described as almost
unparalleled,--a panorama of pure white peaks as far as the eye can
reach. And then, rising from among this sea of snow and ice, is seen the
highest mountain in the world--Mount Everest (29,000 feet), lying in
Nepaul, about eighty miles away as the crow flies. The small peak takes
the appearance of a soldier's helmet without the spike.
It is a lottery whether travellers going for a few days up to Darjeeling
will ever have the chance of seeing the snowy range; very fortunate are
those few who do.
Thus, on this morning we talked of getting up early and trying the
expedition to Mount Sinchul. Of course it is a question of riding, for at
these hill-stations there are no carriages, and you must ride, be carried
in a "dandy" or in a "palkee," or perhaps be drawn in a jinricksha. There
was however, a thick fog at Darjeeling, and the hope was at best so
forlorn of a glimpse, that we gave up the idea.
C. went up to the cantonment to breakfast with an old brother-officer
of the 23rd, and when he came back we decided that it was more prudent,
on my account (for I was feeling very unwell), to descend to more
comfortable quarters in lower altitudes.
The train was full, but the station-master offered to take us down to
Kursiong on a trolly. The trolly was attached to the train and we were
dragged the four miles up-hill to Ghoom. Then, after shunting and getting
in front of the train, we were let loose--down the hill.
Oh, the awful sensation of that first rush downhill! We lost our breath.
We were blind. We were cutting the air in twain, so sharp was our
concussion against the element. We clung on for our lives. We swung round
the corners, raising a cloud of dust to mark our fleeting course. After
the first alarm it was delightful.
Wrapped up to the nose in our rezais, the exhilaration and excitement
were entrancing. We scudded down the hill, increasing the speed from
fifteen to twenty miles an hour. The break put on just before a curve
steadied the trolly round it, and then removed, with fresh impetus we
dashed along the level incline. We scattered all before us: affrighted
children hid their faces, cocks and hens flew at our approach, and dogs
slunk away. The entire population of the bazaars rushed out to gape
open-mouthed at us. Ponies and horses shied and plunged violently, being
far more frightened by our little Flying Dutchman than by any train. Whiz
and whir, and they were all left far behind.
The air was bitterly cold, and C.'s moustache was freezing hard; but we
thought not of this, but of keeping our breath and our seats. Now we were
wrapped in a cloud, unable to see more than a few yards before us; the
next instant under the influence of a gleam of sunshine.
We drew up at a signal-box at Toon. The descent to earth was too cruelly
sudden, and all that remained to us of our glorious ride on a trolly were
the tingling sensations in every limb,--the quickened flow of blood in
our veins.
The sudden check came in the form of an announcement from the signalman
that a luggage-train had just left the lower station, and we were an
instant too late to stop it. We were asked if we were afraid to risk
meeting it on the single line. Wound up to a "dare devil" mood, we
scorned the idea, and taking on board a man to wave the red flag of
danger we started off again. But now we were cautiously creeping round
the fog-hidden corners. In the twistings of the line we might any moment
find ourselves face to face with the engine; besides, the mist deadened
the sound of the approaching train, and obscured any distant view.
We listened with all our might, strained every nerve to keep a sharp
look-out, only indulging in a feeble "run" on the straight.
Just as we were once doing this, a man breaking stones on the road sprang
forward to stop us, and, pulling up sharply, for the trolly is fitted
with a break that brings it to a dead stop within six yards, we heard the
labouring puff, puff of the engine quite close upon us, and the black
monster loomed through the fog. It was the work of a minute to lift the
trolly off the line. The train passed, and we reached Kursiong a few
minutes afterwards. We had done twenty miles under the hour, and gained
fifty minutes on the mail-train.
This gave us just the time we wanted for a visit to one of the
tea-gardens in the valley.
It was too early for operations to be going on, but the whole process
was kindly explained to us by the manager in the Kursiong Tea Company's
plantation.
After the seed is planted it requires three years before attaining to
full growth and production, and altogether six years must elapse without
profit to the planter. At the end of this period the stem is from three
to four feet in height. It is then pruned during the months of November
to February, when the sap is down, to two feet in height, and this is an
operation requiring great care. "Flushes," viz. new shoots, will continue
to appear at intervals varying from fifteen to twenty days during these
months. Each "flush" is plucked as it comes on, the principle in plucking
being to leave the bud at the axis of each leaf intact, and ready for
the next shoot to start from. According to the leaves plucked are the
different classifications of tea. For instance, in a flush of four
leaves, the first would be called Orange or Flowery Pekoe, the second
Souchong, the third Congou, and the fourth Bohea or broken tea. The
classification varies with the different districts.
At five o'clock in the evening the factory gong sounds, and the pluckers
bring their baskets to the withering-loft, where the leaves are laid in
thin layers on the floor till the following morning. Then the test of its
being dry, by seeing whether the leaf is still green enough to crackle
is applied, after which it is put into the rolling machine. This machine
is a heavy weight, which moves alternately to one corner of the square
slab, and then returns to the opposite one; thus giving the leaf a double
twist. It is hand-rolled afterwards if necessary. Then it is left to
ferment, the process of fermentation being the most delicate and crucial
operation for the tea. Great experience is necessary to know the exact
moment when fermentation should be stopped. The leaf is spread in thin
layers over a charcoal fire, and finally sifted by means of a machine,
which has trays of different degrees of coarseness, allowing the finest
tea, or Pekoe, to pass to the lowest division. The remaining, or broken
tea, is then put through a breaking machine, and sold as coarse tea.
Lastly the tea is packed in lead, and in boxes containing eighty maunds
exported to England. There is great depression in the Indian tea-trade,
owing to its being found impossible to compete with the cheaper
production of China. Darjeeling is one of the great centres for Indian
tea, Assam being the other.
We got places in the mail at Kursiong, and all through the afternoon
were gently descending, thoroughly enjoying the splendour of the views
we had missed in the fog coming up. Every 1000 feet of descent brought
an atmosphere twenty degrees warmer: very pleasant to us after our
sufferings from the cold. The wheels being heavily dragged made a
strangely melodious music (impossible as it may seem), like that produced
by running the finger round the edge of a glass.
At Teendaria, where the railway workshops are situated, the engine-driver
asked us to come on to the engine, and we had a charming ride perched up
one on each side of the brakesman. The engine was turned back foremost,
that the driver might the better be enabled to see the steep gradients,
and we had a magnificent view from our post of observation. Every time
that we passed under a bridge, lest any passenger should protrude his
head, I blew the whistle thrice; and I was only sorry when we reached
Siliguri, and the journey was at an end. Here we had dinner, and were
fortunate enough to get a saloon to ourselves, where we slept soundly
till we reached Sara at 6.30 the next morning. Embarking once more on
the steam-ferry, crossing the Ganges, and seeing the sun rise over its
waters, we reached Calcutta at twelve the same morning.
_Thursday, January 15th._--At the invitation of Mr. Rustumjee, the head
of a large Parsee family, well known and respected in commercial circles,
we paid a visit to his house on Chowringee. We found the members of the
family, twenty-three all told, including three generations, gathered
under the paternal roof. The Parsee dress for women is very graceful
and becoming. A robe of soft material, generally silk, covers the head,
falling away from one shoulder, drawn over the other, and descending in
graceful folds to the ankles. A white band across the forehead, like that
of a nun's, gives a grave and sad look to the face. The colours chosen
among the upper classes are usually soft greys, or browns, or purples;
but amongst the lower orders you see the bright sea-green and cerise
colours peculiar to the Parsee women. The children wear little silk
pantaloons; even those of the poorer classes are made of silk, and no
inferior material is used; the long white tunic of muslin, the "shasta,"
which no Parsee is without, the short jacket, usually of velvet, and the
embroidered skull-cap. The men for the most part wear European dress, and
are distinguished only by that square, receding hat of black or purple
satin, that I could not help remarking was useful on one occasion as a
pin-cushion, and on another as a card-case, during the few times that we
were with Parsee gentlemen.
The daughters of the house spoke English perfectly, and were well read
and well informed. Fifteen years ago, Parsee ladies were "purdah women,"
or confined to the zenana; but the restriction has been gradually lapsing
as their views become more enlarged.
We dined in the evening at Government House to meet the Duke and Duchess
of Connaught; a state dinner of seventy, followed by a reception.
The next morning we were up at 6 a.m., and drove on to the Maidan to see
a review. The fog was so dense that the whereabouts of the troops was
undiscoverable at first. Fortunately it lifted just before the arrival
of the vice-regal carriage containing the Duchess and Lady Dufferin,
which took up its position by the royal standard. In the march past the
naval brigade came first, followed by the volunteers, who possess a
unique feature in their fine body of mounted infantry, and then followed
our troops. But what excited our admiration most was the magnificent
marching of the native infantry from the Punjaub. Men of grand physique
and carriage; nothing could exceed the perfect unity and compactness of
the line, as with one foot they marched, with one body they moved. Their
uniform of scarlet faced with buff, with loose trowsers gathered in by
white gaiters, added to their general smartness.
We were home to breakfast at nine o'clock. Afterwards C. went to a
meeting of the Legislative Council, and heard the now celebrated Mr.
Ilbert speak, and we then visited together the High School on Chowringee
for the free education of Eurasians--the name given by Lord Auckland to
half-castes, or those whose parents come the one from Europe, the other
from Asia.
In the afternoon we drove across Tolly's Nullah, or the canal excavated
at the expense of Colonel Tolly, to the very dreary and deserted
Zoological Gardens. Every maharajah has his own band, in uniform, which
they permit to play in the Eden Gardens and in public places. It was
that of the Maharajah of Cooch Bahar that was playing in the gardens
this afternoon. The latter, well known in society circles at Calcutta,
is considered a most promising young man. Educated by an English tutor,
he has been completely Europeanized; recites, plays polo, tennis, and
cricket, and dances like an Englishman.
Driving home by my favourite Maidan, we saw anchored by the banks the
_Palgrave_, 3400 tons, the largest sailing-vessel afloat in the world.
In the evening we went to the ball given at Government House in honour of
the Duke and Duchess of Connaught, and the first of the new viceroyalty.
The display of costly robes, magnificent jewels, and diamond aigrettes
worn by the Maharajahs and Rajahs, both this evening and the previous
one, added much to the brilliancy of the rooms. Eight hundred were able
to sit down at the same moment to supper in the marble halls, a feat only
equalled, I believe, at the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg.
_Saturday, January 17th._--We went to a presentation of prizes at the
City College, for natives, in Mirzapore Street. It was interesting
to hear the scholars sing a Bengali hymn of welcome, and recite a
very lively dialogue, which, after listening to for some minutes, we
discovered was a scene from "Uncle Tom's Cabin." With gesticulation and
expression far happier than would be found in English schools, they
represented the scene where Topsy is brought before Mrs. Walker as
incorrigible. Then a Bengali scholar knelt on the corner of the platform,
and with hands clasped, and his large liquid eyes upturned, repeated,
"Abide with me." There was something very curious in hearing thus the old
familiar words repeated so earnestly, yet in such strong guttural accents
that it was well-nigh unrecognizable.
One of the sudden "dust storms" to which Calcutta is subject came up
after this, obscuring the air, and whirling the dust in a typhoon in the
streets. It cooled the air by several degrees, but prevented us from
fulfilling our wish of finding out in the churchyard of St. John's the
grave of Job Charnoch, the real founder of Calcutta.
On the eve of our departure from Calcutta we dismissed the native servant
we had engaged for our tour in the North-West Provinces, and whom we had
been told was absolutely necessary for travelling in India. We found we
were always running after him, instead of he after us, and we determined
to adhere to our original plan, hitherto so successful, of travelling
without the encumbrance of servants.
We left Calcutta that evening at eight o'clock, that is by Madras time,
which the East India Railway follows, or at 8.30 by Calcutta time. There
was a great crowd at the Howrah Terminus, on account of Saturday being
one of the nights on which the mail-train leaves for Bombay, and we were
unlucky in not getting a carriage to ourselves.