Isabel Fraser Hunter

The Land of Regrets

A Miss Sahib’s Reminiscences

by “Spero”

To
Lady Ward,
In Affectionate Remembrance of Kindness
Which Has Withstood the Test of Years.

Chapter I

My Cottage

I confess I was overwhelmed with despair as I viewed it—a teeney, weeney cottage. A mere chaumière of bamboo and plaster—battered, broken, frail, and, I had no doubt, unweather-proof. The doors were innocent of locks. They creaked heavily on their rusty hinges; the windows were veiled with cobwebs, and opening inwards, rendered doubtful the beautifying effects of curtain. Oh! dear, what was I to do? They had promised me it should at least be clean, instead of which, packing papers, labels and general confusion, were only a top dressing on the dirt—which was everywhere.

I made a bold stride across the floor—partly to hide my inward chagrin, while I hoped to find better prospects, in what was destined to be my sleeping apartment—scrunch, scrunch, went the floor, and my heels were buried therein. This was nearly the last straw—the last brought the crisis which follows the dregs of despair, when one can despair no more; when one turns the wheel, as it were, and hope appears again.

It was a pitiful wail—a cry, a broken sob, and my poor old ayah, with wizened hands outstretched, proclaimed the verdict of her fellow-servants, “Oh! Miss Sahib, Miss Sahib, humara Miss Sahib turn ne sukta hyara bitoaga, bahut krab hai, bahut mila hai. Miss Sahib bahut jeldi bimar. Hum log sui marjata.”

(“Oh! Miss Sahib, my Miss Sahib. You are not able to stay here. It is very bad. It is very dirty. You will soon be ill. We, your servants, will all die.”)

Her words worked the oracle, my fast failing courage returned. “Oh look,” I said, in my best Hindustani, “see that beautiful orchid, that lovely vauda”—and there through the trellis work of the porch, with its pretty creepers, which had been in a great measure a saving clause, was the lovely spray upon which all eyes had turned. The coolies, sitting outside on their hunkers, were now all alert, as if some great thing had happened. The ayah ceased her wailing, the bearer readjusted his puggaree, the khitmagar, with marked disapproval standing apart, ventured near. So, I was the man at the wheel once more, and with my ungrammatical Hindustani, freely interlarded with English, I made known my wishes and intentions. “All must be spick and span by nightfall,” I ordered. “Set to work with a will, and bucksheesh (the never-failing stimulant) shall be yours.”

It was in a twinkling that they set to work to obey my orders; I would fain have heartened them on with humour, and laughed at the waesome difficulties, but one must never trifle with a native; humour must be a thing apart, else will his energies cease and advantage be taken of good mature. Oh, they are queer kittle-kattle these natives, their depth past finding out, only “like a woman, a dog and a walnut tree, the more you beat them the better they be.” Kindness they do not understand. They will fear that a pice will be taken off their tulab (wage) if one bestows such upon them, or rather if they accept it.

The above doggerel suits the case, but let not the idea take root that castigation is the common lot of the native—the safety valve of the Englishman, and least of all, of a little Miss Sahib, howsoever tempted. You do want to break the law and the prophets, and the native would much rather have a kick or cuff than an angry word, but that kick must come from the Sahib, after which administration of justice the native feels his offence is condoned, forgiven and forgotten; he is reinstated and may sin again as soon as he likes. I shall find it difficult to keep off the subject of the native naukar log (servants): they are so clever, one just wishes them to be quite perfect. Their work is good, but it is the underlying deceit, the lie always so ready to come to the surface, the subtlety, the excuse so tantalizing, the fraud, the open theft, which distracts and disappoints, which, in fact, raises Cain.

It is best to treat them all like children who know no better, but one must never attempt to correct their little failings, for they are proud of their lies, and the innate goodness of the European is not understood by them. The English man or woman is “bahut utcha” (very good) who never cuts them a pice (and I do think that the cutting system from their small wages is a gross injustice), who ignores, or seems to ignore, their petty intrigues, their thefts, their lies, but I can only say that to the mem sahib, who is born to regard these details as part of her very being, there are no offences more irritating. The English statesman will condemn with a high hand the chota sahib (young master) who has just left his mark on his bearer’s back, but let him be sympathetic—the chota sahib had just stretched out for his tobacco pouch, he had only put his last ounce in it a few hours ago, it is empty, and he is miles from the “dukan” (shop); a problem for Labouchere—what would the statesman do?

But revenons, a quick clearance has been made of the odds and ends, yclept furniture of my new residence. It lies, in unpicturesque disorder, in what once had undoubtedly been a very pretty compound. The already over-worn matting is being torn up from its moorings—clouds of dust are blinding the eyes of my now willing band of more hopeful workers; bucksheesh gleamed on the not far-distant horizon. Do not let it be supposed that my immaculate bearer or khitmagar are engaged in this orgie. Oh, no, they stand apart, volubly giving orders which no one heeds. Very soon they will disappear, ostensibly to regulate some work, to make some arrangement—but in reality to smoke their hookahs and chew their vile betel nut.

Meanwhile, let me review the situation. Tell it not in Gath, but my heart rather failed me again, now that the native ceased to clamour out his displeasure at my choice of abode. Briefly, it was Hobson’s choice. In this lovely hill station in which I had elected to sojourn while in the “Land of Regrets,” houses of any sort were at a premium. Small ones to suit the dimensions of a Miss Sahib—an uncommon want in India—all but impossible to obtain. Hence the brave attempt at a contentment which, alas, was only skin deep; but there was that lovely spray of vauda, there was a passion creeper, and, I almost hoped, a gloire. There were ferns galore; some Lenten lilies here and there were trying to force their way through the hard thirsty ground, and, best of all, there was a babbling brook, coursing lengthwise through the compound, almost smothered in undergrowth, yet there, surely there; and there were some fine feathery bamboos and a promise of durantha and—but I must restrain my pen, for the compound was full of hopefulness and hidden treasure, of joy and of profit, too, for here was a pear tree, there a peach, and beyond them a plum or two. Oh, yes, all would be well. There was small credit now in my cheerfulness—but—the inside of the platter must be cleansed first.

India is a land of contradictions. You may wait months and months and months to get a screw put in; but, put on the screw tactfully, well besmeared with bucksheesh, and in one day the work of months can be accomplished by those clever monkey-like artizans. So it happened for me. A white-washer appeared as if by chance on the scene. It is a peculiarity of the native always to know what is going on, and where a rupee can be earned; and doubtless the Miss Sahib’s removal and the state of the cottage was the subject of their table talk that day. Anyhow, very welcome was the white-washer, and quickly set to work; by nightfall the dirty, stained, unsightly walls were all as pure as the drifted snow. Floors were swilled clean by children coolies, who made play of the work and revelled in the pice bestowed with every bucketful of water they brought. The ayah was smiling now, as she made ready a spotless bed for her Miss Sahib.

The khitmagar began to think there were possibilities of space and order for a dinner that night, and the bearer was unpacking bundles and boxes, looking for lamps and the necessaries of life, all surely there, but packed as the native will pack, all safely, but anywhere and anyhow—the knives and forks inside his kummerbund; glasses, pots and pans, cups, saucers, table linen, matches, vegetables, oil and what not, all anyhow but all intact—en passant, my move had been from a very temporary abode, the distance short, and on such occasions one has to submit to the exposure of goods and chattels in any way that the bearers thereof choose to devise. On this point you must not dictate to them.

Chapter II

Philosophy and a Rich Reward

And now to the keepers of pretty English homes let me review the furniture of my little house, which I came to love and revel in, which is full to me of the happiest of reminiscences, and which, with all its drawbacks, I would gladly, oh! so gladly, exchange for my well-appointed English home, its polish and veneer, its trim little maids doing the work of half-a-dozen natives, and its homely ways.

“’Deed Mem, and what’s a finger-bowl?” asked a little sixteen-year old maid fresh from the Board School, in the primitive rooms which were my early choice of necessity on arrival in the homeland, oh! so unhomely that cold winter’s day: and “if ye’re hands are dirty canna ye wash them in the bedroom?” I was silenced, nor could nor dare I expose to her the fact that it was contact with her cutlery which rendered so necessary the use of the “boley glass “ which I missed so much—as much as the arm-chairs which, like the common or garden Englishman, I must now learn to do without, but . . . . my furniture—save the mark—must be reviewed and treated accordingly. It lies topsy-turvy in the blazing sunshine. Nature has done its work of purification, and art must do the rest. I always feel it well to overcome the greater difficulties first—and this makes the lesser ones a pleasure only—so I and my little band of retainers attacked firstly what was intended to serve as a dinner-table. Rough beams had been nailed together with some ideas of precision; some of the seams were gaping slightly, the legs were rather corpulent, ink stains formed a Chinese puzzle on its bare, flat, ugly top, but what matters it!—my snowy damask shall efface them at meal times, and pretty Indian embroideries shall garnish the whole at other times.

I am no artist, but some Aspinall will transform the fat legs apparently into ebony or rosewood. The chairs to surround this at present unfestal board were a difficulty, even to my rose-spectacled eyes. I could fancy they were such as Robbie Burns had in his mind’s eye when he depicted the “Cottar’s Saturday Night.” Their cane seats were gaping, their arms were guiltless of veneer; kuchper-wanee (never mind), a little Aspinall would do the trick, a little fine wire netting could be and was nailed over the deficient cane seats, the brass nails were an ornament, and tidy little cushions of art green, neatly buttoned, were a far greater joy to me than Lazarus’s best could have been—or Maple’s either.

But here comes a welcome interruption. “Tiffin tyari hai, Miss Sahib “ (luncheon is ready, Miss Sahib). Such had been far from my thoughts. I could not hope for lunch in the midst of such confusion, howsoever hopeful it now looked. What, oh! what, had the good bawachi (cook) raised? Where, oh! where was my banquet to be served? My dear little dog, my constant companion, my little love, knew all about it. Barking joyfully, he led the way; no surer guide than he. Under a great spreading fir tree, discreetly chosen, fairly near the kitchen, with the fixed idea of saving himself needless trouble, the khitmagar had laid my table, spread with the daintiness which always characterizes his handiwork. There was enough shade for comfort, yet enough sunshine scintillated through the green branches to tint with rainbow hues the silver and glass; the serviette, folded like a spread-eagle, suited the occasion well, and roses were in a bowl weighted with sand to give it the necessary security.

Could any Royal Highness want more? A plump little moorghi (chicken) which, probably, had pirouetted the compound an hour or so ago in happy ignorance of its fate, reposed on potato chips as a centre dish. Nor were its adjuncts wanting of gravy, bread sauce and hill potatoes of the best, pumpkin, found on the top of the kitchen’s thatched roof, and chupattis, made pancake fashion, supplied the place of bread. There was curry and rice, without which no Indian meal is complete, and there was e-custard pudding—the Indian’s never-failing refuge. Compare this with the spring-cleaning days, with their make-shift meal, in the heart of civilization! And to the credit of the cook, let me add, had he not known full well the simplicity of his Miss Sahib’s tastes, the usual number of courses would not have been conspicuous by their absence, even to the characteristic “irony e-stew.”

A time of unhappiness followed for me. The native must have his siesta. The world may stand still, but sleep he must and will. It is well to follow suit; it allays impatience; so, tranquility reigned for the next hour or two. Each coolie lay to sleep where he had worked, a huge piece of betel nut bulging out of his or her cheek; the babel of tongues ceased, silence was supreme. Even my little companion nestled closer in my skirts, and begged that he also might have his snooze, guarding meanwhile his little Miss Sahib, who, fanned by the great fir branches and lulled by the little babbling brook, no doubt did follow suit.

The day is practically done when the native goes for his afternoon siesta. He returns stupefied with the sleep he really does not need. He is more than replete with “curry bhat” and betel nut; he is disinclined for work. He says, or infers, “kyko ara kam banao, bahut roz hai” (Why do more work, there are many days to come?) To drive him is useless. Better bear the inevitable with equanimity; nevertheless, even for my order-loving nature much equanimity was not required. The order by nightfall, with tea and dinner in bold relief, was all that even my hasty soul desired. Spick and span was my little cottage; quite forgotten, or, a memory only as now, were tukleibs (troubles) of the morning, and very much greater was my appreciation of my little dovecot than if I had found it swept and garnished, and probably, to my mind, unornately ornate.

Why do I love to recount it all? Will anyone like to barter their English home for the rough little structure I have left behind, with its devices and contrivances for comfort, all surely there, prompted by the mother of invention and a part only—therein is the saving clause—of a delightful whole? And now, were I asked to define this saving clause of Indian life or life in India, the that, which makes all uplifting, love inspiring and delightful, I should say—it was the weather, the glorious sunshine, the blue skies, the lovely foliage, flowers and trees, the hills and dales and beautiful scenery, the freedom, the open-air life and, what you must never look for in England, the sociability and amusements, without which Jack must always be a dull boy.

I am speaking of the hills of India, and there is not, I think, one station in the plains which a merciful Providence has not provided with a hill resort within easy reach. I love the plains, too, but (let me whisper it) in the cold weather, when there are lots of gaieties on—balls, dances and dinners; for man and maiden were not made to live alone. Some of the best friendships of my life were the results of chance meetings with my “rights” and “lefts” at dinner. I fear I do not view the mild Indian flirtations, a natural consequence of the life, as mortal sins, but rather the essence, indeed the quintessence, of life, which, let us be honest enough to own, we all like—in moderation. I think with Lady Jephson that “an ideal state of society would be that in which a friendship between men and women, distinct from courtship or love-making, should exist, and,” Lady Jephson continues, “remembering that Caesar’s wife should be above suspicion, it is open to doubt whether the social laws which regulate the intercourse of unmarried people are not too strict with us. Take, for instance, the fact that here a married woman in her teens is given full liberty of action and freedom; she may, in fact, steal her neighbour’s horse, while the unmarried spinster may not even look over the hedge.” Life is prosaic enough, sorrowful enough; its daily details need some brightening effects: therefore, why not enjoy the ball, the dinner, the dance, the festal scene? I flatter myself that intercourse with my fellow-men is good for them, as it is for me; and when, as in India, it was my happy lot to revel with our English lords and ladies of high degree, so unapproachable in this dull, cold, cheerless country, with military celebrities as well and, oh! best of all, Royal Princes and Princesses the Most Gracious—God bless them—then was my cup of happiness quite full.

There was one gracious lord and lady who will ever stand out in bold relief in heart and mind, to my feeble thinking—he, the greatest statesman India has ever known—too great for his surroundings—he was generations before his time. It is India’s loss in these days of unrest and trial that his is not the hand nor his the far-seeing eye to quell the turmoil. He saw the end from the beginning and, who is so clever at unravelling the silken skein as the raveller? Who so quickly attains an end as he who adopted an original mode to set in order the start?

And she, that gentle beautiful lady, that essence of all a woman should be—good—truly good. From my heart’s core I would never cease to render tribute to her memory, for one womanly act, which proved her own lovely and love-full life. She would have given to me what she termed “the second-best happiness,” second best only to hers—“none could equal hers,” she said—and yet, God saw good to gather the beautiful flower to Himself long, long before the allotted span, taking her away from husband and children, from position, wealth, power and all that makes life dear, to the great unseen, the invisible, the unknown.

“Oh! not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The reaper came that day;
’Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took that flower away.”

I would fain dwell here on the many incidents connected with her which now illuminate my pen and which make it fly at illegible speed. There was my first view of, and introduction to, the viceregal couple. It was in the plains of Eastern India, under a scorching sun, a cloudless blue sky. Crowds had assembled to welcome the lord and lady. Every honour possible had been prepared for their reception. The station band was playing its best. A fine bodyguard of Volunteers was in attendance, under—en passant—an old Eton boy’s command, a schoolfellow of his own, whom, in spite of the surging years for both, the greater man with pleasing informality recognised and joyfully greeted. The natives in gaudy attire were hustling each other, each anxious to be to the front. There was the great hum of native chatter; but how one always misses the British cheer! There was the little group of English ladies in their pretty frocks, topees and sunshades, all white, so symmetrical and pleasing, a characteristic of the Indian plains, and there was the Viceroy’s flotilla, mid-river, so near and yet so far, for it was at ebb so low that the boats could not reach their moorings at the Ghat (landing stage).

Tiny boats were lowered, and with picturesque effect and dignity unimpaired, the Queen’s proud representative landed, followed by his suite in glittering array. It was a better setting they wanted than rough sand banks and bare shadeless country; yet was ever scene more impressive, more loyal and quaintly grand! was ever the National Anthem played with greater effect? The salute was given and received, the Viceroy inspected the guard, and then the most beautiful woman those shores can ever have seen stepped forward, daintily clad in Assam’s finest silk, a graceful tribute to its people. Some words in the Viceroy’s speech, at the informal luncheon party on the day of his departure, were delightfully pleasing. Asked about affairs American by a bachelor present, who wished to know more than the Viceroy cared to tell, his lordship’s tact and humour saved the situation. “Go you to America and see for yourself: you will find much there to interest, benefit and instruct, and you will find there, too, a good thing, a good thing which I would recommend you to secure. It will not be the best, that I have already deprived America of, but you will find still a good choice.” His Excellency’s speech at the formal banquet, splendid as all his orations were, was political—withal humorous.

In proof of the wonderful powers possessed by their Excellencies in recognising faces (be they ever so plain), I quote the honour bestowed on insignificance, when, over nine months later, at the season’s Drawing Room, my lowliness was formally presented to them. It was in the great crowd of unknown people (for was not this their Excellencies’ first season?) and when the viceregal procession passed through the vast reception rooms from the Throne Room, that the hearty handshake and the kind words of welcome were given to the little unexpectant white-robed figure, who, then and there, blossomed into importance and remark, and who, therefore, from personal experience can vouch for one of the characteristics which endeared this great lord and lady to the people amongst whom they sojourned.

Only a few weeks later and one recalls a scene so widely different, the impressiveness of which can never be effaced. A great congregation, too great even for the cathedral’s expanse, clad in sombrous hue and bowed in genuine grief which did not need the accentuations of Chopin’s music, so expressive of hopeless grief, to aid and abet it—grief for the beloved Queen, who had passed to that bourne from whence no traveller can return. Officials moved about with noiseless footsteps as the bells tolled out their mournful dirge, not one gleam of sunshine penetrated the gloom of sadness: all was consistently dreary, within and without.

It was in an interval of telling silence, all outward sign of office removed, in simple morning dress of black and unattended, that the great statesman, with bowed head, which yet could not rob him of his stately presence, with slow and steady step, took his place as chief mourner for the beloved Queen, the gracious lady whose loss was deplored so deeply. Sad reminiscences must all find place with the glad ones, and soon, was not there the counteracting joy?—merry bells ringing out a proclamation which was satisfaction to everyone, the Indian Empire and the English as well.

Le roi est mort. Vive le roi.

Chapter III

A Midnight Visitor

But I have wandered far from my teeney, weeney cottage, the subject not being nearly exhausted.

I found it necessary, and a very good plan always, to wear or carry about with me a pair of rose-coloured spectacles. The effect of these was marvellous, and assisted an equanimity of temperament which was good for the wearer, and better still for those surrounding. I needed them muchly on awaking the first morning of residence in my new abode. The curtainless windows, so gaunt and bare, depressed me; the absence of ornamentation chilled my whole being, and these were small details only, for again—the outside view was lovely. A wide range of grand hills in the far distance had a beautiful blue horizon for their boundary line, wide undulating plains intervened, and fresh scented woodland was on every hand. A disturbed night had perhaps much to say to my depressed condition—I had had a midnight visitor—a welcome, yet unwelcome, one.

I was waked by a heavy breathing; a breathing which was persistently sonorous in its determination to rouse me up—two great eyes stared at me in the darkness, a broad flat nose was flattened against the window pane—but it was a low whinny of pleasure that greeted me as I approached. My pony, doubtless not relishing his new abode had come to tell me so. The stables, quite two hundred yards away, must be regained; the track was rough and stony. The night air was damp and chilly, and I . . . . but the stable must be reached, and there would be no gallery to view or applaud. Gently reproving my visitor for his naughtiness, I led the way, stumbling over stones and protruding tree roots, a lantern in one hand, trailing white garments in the other. The scene on arrival was a typical one. The syce soundly asleep on the top of my pony’s grass, shrouded mummywise in odorous clothing, and . . . my pony’s best blanket over all—and poor pony quite nude! It was small wonder he came to tell his tale, and every reason for the syce’s crestfallen and guilty appearance when he came for orders next day.

My compound, worthy of a palatial mansion rather than the tiny “basha” (temporary erection) it surrounded, was an inexhaustible source of pleasure. It was, as I have already said, full of possibilities. I resolved I should lay out a kitchen garden. A splendid position on a sunny slope was, after much deliberation, selected by my “malhi” (gardener) and myself. A huge box of Sutton’s seeds was procured, and we set to work with a will—already I scented fresh French lettuce, succulent peas and luscious tomatoes, and mentally invented all sorts of recipes for their use. I encouraged the malhi to work diligently with the choicest Hindustani in my vocabulary. I almost sat me down to watch the various green growths appear.

In due course they came, little green blades, almost one by one; and then, believing they would grow faster unwatched, I resolved to leave my garden alone for some weeks. I felt a grand surprise would then rejoice my heart, and I quite longed for the interval of days to pass. Other eyes than mine had maintained guard meanwhile. It was with angry thuds and threats that I heard the malhi’s voice raised, alas, in futile expostulations. An inroad of cows had consumed the first fruits of our labours, and great ugly hoofs had disfigured the work of weeks and the hopes of months. Alas! we had not thought of fencing in our own preserves: it was useless to lock the door now the steed was stolen. My kitchen garden must be abandoned, and a new link of experience was attached to my chain of events.

My rose-coloured spectacles were in evidence all that day. I contented myself with the knowledge that “biccary wallahs” (native vendors) were galore, and that buying from them would be an amusement daily. I was shortly inundated with them—moorghi wallahs, subji wallahs, all sorts of wallahs. These were at least a joy to my khitmagar, who received from them a generous commission on all I bought, a trick about which I became in course as wise and wary as he. A friend of mine who greatly disliked this Indian custom of being taxed by her servants, offered her cook a wage of fifty Rs. a month, instead of twenty, on condition that he would be quite honest with her. His bargain lasted for a month only. He preferred the custom of his country, and to be left free to rob his employer, and it was Hobson’s choice to agree or be boycotted.

This is a hateful and very common custom in India, and no matter the grade of the employer, the native is master of the situation, and the penalties he can inflict when he is offended or thwarted are beyond description. This is decidedly a difficulty for a Miss Sahib. The fear-inspiring methods of a Sahib are wanted—we will not question what these are. The native is subtle and his ways, as I have already said, are past finding out. I have known Generals and Commissioners, too, come under the lash of his displeasure. It is no use applying to officials for redress. They do not care to interfere. Secure themselves, the difficulties of others less fortunate are a matter of indifference, except in appearance and words only. The dishonesty of the native is a never-failing source of trouble. In this I consider he is greatly assisted by the makers and givers of the law. Rest assured the loser will never recover anything over which the native has shown ignorance of the laws of meum and tuum. One’s only course is to lock the door (if you can) before the steed has been stolen, or maintain stoic silence regarding your injuries. I can speak very feelingly on this subject. It is the one black speck on my reminiscences—the one stain which lightens the regrets.

On one occasion I was deprived of a very much valued possession—my watch, chain and charms. There was no doubt as to the culprit. I cried aloud in my vexation and displeasure. I had not then learnt the virtue which is golden.

“Did you see him take it?” asked the magistrate.

“Certainly not,” I answered; “it would not then be theft.” My claims were dismissed. It was a matter of poor satisfaction to me that high officials, in the years which followed, fell a victim to this same thief, who began, perhaps, his trade with me, and who, had he been flogged for a lamb, would not have been exported for a sheep.

In another experience—I regret to say I had many such—the judge told me privately that he had not a doubt of the guilt of the person I accused; but, he added, the law obliged him to “give the native the benefit of any doubt that remained”; therefore again the culprit went scot free. It is, therefore, small surprise that thieves abound and flourish. On another occasion I appealed to the law to exert its privilege, so far as I was concerned. Again, it was a night visitor—a much less welcome one than my pony. I had been out dining, quite wisely and well. There were sounds of revelry in the stables when I returned, about midnight, but heedless of these, I retired to rest; but, alas, not to dream, for the stable’s gaieties, unlike mine, were carried on neither wisely nor well. These, however, ceased in due course, and the quiet that followed was speedily taken advantage of. Rough indeed was the awakening from the sound sleep that followed. I felt an unusual movement on the counterpane. Believing it to be my little dog, who occupied his usual place on my bed, I gently told him it was not early tea time. Simultaneously with my words and a strong odour of cocoanut oil with which the native always polishes his black body, a shiny hand was laid on my throat, with a grasp which left its mark for some days to come, but yet which did not prevent the indulgence of prolonged screams—a woman’s usual mode of defence. The coward fled with amazing despatch, knocking over screens, lamps, and every article that obstructed his exit. Where! oh where! was my little bodyguard?—sound asleep in his place—and, as I afterwards found, drugged, to leave my assailant a free hand in his onslaught.

This unwelcome visitor was my own syce, who thus sought retaliation for having been reproved for some trifling offence, and who took advantage of the absence of my ayah, through illness, for his midnight raid. The syce was acquitted: such is law in India. While quite certain, mentally, of his identity, uncommon sense alone prevented me risking the assertion on oath in the court of law, if not of justice. My rooms at the time of the attack were shrouded in darkness—the offender had taken the precaution of extinguishing all the semi-lights—and it might be the magistrate would have the perspicacity to follow up my assertions—had I made such—with a reminder of this fact in his conflicting cross-examination. I afterwards proved my suspicions quite correct. The only administration of justice was my own. He was dismissed, his full wage paid him—a large one—because I liked him so well: I was the only sufferer. For weeks afterwards I was boycotted and syceless, and this in addition to having had my larder and stores completely rifled for the dinner party in the stables. which preceded my adventure, and which had rendered senseless the servants who should have come to my aid.

A fortnight later and a similar encounter occurred, this time, however, with practical results, so far as the law was concerned. My orderly had not been dining unwisely: he was on the alert. The burglar was caught, and, I rejoice to say, for once I saw justice administered and for twenty-two months the station rid of the worst thief and blackguard in it. At the same time was the General deprived of his khitmagar (for such was the offender) and, to his annoyance, of his early tea the morning after the event. The next time I saw this Jack of many trades—one of the cleverest servants I had ever known—he was in scarlet livery, and was ministering to the comfort of the guests at a dinner party at Government House, and he it was that I would have hanged long ago for the theft of a lamb—my ewe lamb—instead of which, like the green bay tree, he continued to prosper and grow rich by robbing his employers.

One more such grievance in illustration of the lax laws in India where police administration is concerned, and I hopelessly leave the theme. Years later very extensive were the depredations made on my personal property. With the uselessness of application to the authorities still fresh in my mind, I yet felt the effort must be made, if only to show up the defects in such matters, and in the faint hope that a reform might be effected. In answer to my summons, an officer of justice arrived. He took down all details, and quite agreed with me there was no doubt as to the thief—and there certainly was no room for such—no ability was wanted to make that fact clear. He retired, to return, he said, with the result of his investigations. It was a month before I saw him again, casually encountered on the King’s high road. He had been ill, he said, and he was then going to investigate. I could not find sarcasm to meet the case. He was as useless as he was unornamental, but in my heart I blamed rather the highly paid officials who permitted, and by their own acts justified, such omissions. And yet, in spite of all, I love the “Land of Regrets.”

One case to prove that some ability existed amongst the police must be quoted to qualify my insinuations. A lady, the wife of a military official, had some valuable trinkets stolen from her toilet table through an open window at night. The thief also removed some feminine underwear from a chair close by. The night was chilly: he thought fit to don these. Next day there was a hue and cry for the lost jewellery, the missing clothing was given as a clue. For once the police mastered the situation, with small credit, however, attached to them.

The thief, being a half-witted vagrant, had not mind enough even in daylight to remove the sure means of identification with which he had outwardly adorned himself.

Sir James Outram it was who laid the first fell stroke to the system of “khatpat” (bribery)—pity is that the same influence has not yet permeated the lines of the police. For a few rupees, or even annas, I have often been told, the police allow themselves to be hoodwinked by the offenders, hence follows the better part of silence, however wrong. One avoids the laugh in the sleeve of the policeman, and of being rendered ridiculous in the eyes of the thief.

Chapter IV

A Prelude to Matrimony Made Easy

April’s month, so bright with qualified sunshine, with fresh spring flowers and bright promises, is, to to my thinking, one of the most pleasant in the hills—in this “Land of Regrets.” Old friends then flock up from the plains, newcomers raise hopes and expectations; and life, pleasantly dormant during the cold weather, is all astir again. It is the great time for picnics, before the rains come to make these a doubtful pleasure. The opening one of the season was always to a lovely elevation, some fifteen miles distant, and had for its raison d’être and central attraction a native dance, which took place annually, with a very important object in view. It was a sort of matrimonial fair or a matrimonial auction mart, and the season chosen was a fit and usual time for mating. The native women, gaudily attired in their best, and bedecked with flowers and crude but valuable jewellery, danced in a circle for three days. In their weird shuffling nautch there was yet much method, the difficulty of which has only to be tried to be appreciated. Without appearing to raise a foot from the ground, they heel and toe it, and at the same time glide round, maintaining their circle, rows deep, intact. Around them stand admiring groups of men, each on business intent. They are there to choose wives! Choosing them on grounds as mysterious as do the world at large, with small reference to the little blind boy, who alone should regulate these affairs—and, with as much uncertainty. It did not occur to me that he who drew first drew the best prize in this unique lottery. My choice would rather have gone out to the persevering ones, who nautched the three days of the fête with persevering hope which proved indomitable. Would not such an one better bear the heat and burden of the matrimonial year? An amusing feature of this fête was the anxiety exhibited by some matronly tire-women—anxious mothers no doubt—who drew any dishevelled ones from the ranks of dancers, rearranged, refreshed and reinstated them. This native dance, like many another custom, had probably an interesting origin, but not from the oldest resident, or any authority, could I discover much more than met the eye.

As usual on such occasions, the ride to and fro was far from being the least pleasant part of the affair. It was the pleasant custom of the Burra Mem Sahib¹ of the station to chaperone all the girls on her list to this entertainment. Her plans for their enjoyment were most sympathetic. They were not required to ride schoolgirl fashion. A concourse of suitably chosen cavaliers were all hard by at the place of meeting, and thus happily companioned, the large party rode off.

There were some that liked to loiter by the way; others were overruled in their desires by the waywardness of their ponies. Some preferred to go in company, and others chose a solitary mode of conveyance. However, there was pleasure for each and all, and one did not inquire into the unions that resulted from the matrimonial nautch, or the possibilities that followed the rides hither and thither! The ceremonies over these native arrangements are very simple—a little fire, some condiments and a feast: all of such a nature that the laws of God and the Church are not defied should a change of partners in life be found eventually desirable.

A Parsee wedding I attended in a crowded city palace some years later seemed to defy all possibilities of dis-union, so intricate was the ceremony, so innumerable the priests who officiated, that the knot must have been indissolubly tied. It lasted for hours; indeed, I wearied and did not see its finish. What troubled me at its opening ceremony, was the fear that the two couples about to be wedded should get mixed! The expectant grooms and their brides sat on a raised dais. A large white drapery shrouded the brides and another the bridegrooms. Perhaps, had they got intermixed, it would have been a matter of small moment, as these arrangements are all made by the parents who think they know best, and so again the little blind boy is left out of the calculations, and of chief moment is the expenditure involved. This is usually a king’s ransom, and generally exceeds the amount of the latest wedding known to have taken place. I was struck with the significance which probably appertained to all the details of this Parsee nuptial ceremony; the anointing with oil; the offering of the fruits of the earth, and of gold and incense.

A ceremony which preceded these weddings was quite as complicated, called the Investiture of the Silver Cord. It corresponded with our Confirmation Service, but far outvied it in complication. The little Parsee boy of twelve years, who was required to take upon himself all the responsibilities of life and especially those of his caste, was, at the outset, awarded and fortified for it with a magnificent supply of valuable presents. Quite nude at the opening ceremony, the affectionate manner in which his mother dressed him in white clothes of the best, and then presented him for his father’s embrace and the congratulations of his relations, was quite touching. The little fellow looked so pathetic and, like a lamb, ready for sacrifice; and again was there in evidence the underlying significance and the deep reality of his religion to the Parsee.

But again I have wandered from the straight paths, and while the varied seasons in this dear land prompted one to travel all over it, yet the magnet seldom failed to attract and detain one in the pet district of all, while the heat was at its zenith in the plains. For the botanist there was a splendid field for research, orchids existed in grand variety and condition, ferns were of every species, and every flower of the garden flourished apace. It always seemed to me that where green wood abounded, there also was the aviary complete, but ignorance on the subject of birds prompts the wisdom of silence, save to dilate on the sweetness of their notes and their variety.

There was the talkative minah and the “brain fever” bird to tell us summer was nigh, and the cuckoo and the bimeraj which was human in its instincts, and served its possessor, in one case well known to me, as a most useful watch. When a rider approached the bungalow, it whistled “See the conquering hero comes.” When a pedestrian arrived, it chose “The Campbells are coming” to announce the fact, and on the arrival of a carriage, the selection whistled was “Polly put the kettle on.” The talk of the minah is much clearer than that of a parrot, and a favourite always in bachelors’ bungalows, sometimes their greetings are more genuine than polite.

Chapter V

A Tribute to Anglo-Indian Mem Sahibs

I do not think there is anything one misses more in the cold western land called “home” than the sociabilities of the East. What an amount of pleasure the Westlander loses! Surely intercourse with our fellow creatures is a thing to be desired, and how much easier is entertaining really in England, where every means to assist it is at hand, than in mofussil stations abroad. I have heard much in England about the idle and frivolous lives with which our ladies are credited in India, but from personal experience I should like to give an emphatic denial to all such assertions. The wives of officials must entertain, and do so at an expenditure which the entertained often grieve over, as they think of the little ones at home who have need of special care in the absence of the parents abroad.

Who but the Mem Sahib arranges all the details of the numerous dinner parties, “at homes,” and balls which must be given in the season! One, two, or maybe three hundred guests have to be arranged for, and the manner in which this is done proves the lady Sahib is no drone in her hive. It is always done on a scale so lavish and thorough that our home folk might with all assurance take their notebooks and retire wiser women. It is seldom there is a restaurant or confectioner round the corner to assist with supplies! All must be concocted under the Mem Sahib’s order or maybe personal superintendence, and if she is not directing her own hospitalities, she is quite sure to be assisting her friends. Again, decorations at all entertainments are always on an extensive scale—a work in themselves. A few subalterns and young civilians sometimes can be found to assist, but their energies usually depend on circumstances, which the Mem Sahib does her best to circumvent, and generally with success.

One always regrets the trouble involved in general entertaining, and that eating and drinking should be made the central attraction. Is not this animal necessity one of the most unbecoming of operations? Why, therefore, so much publicity? Why not relegate it as much as possible to the home circle? and for general amusement and delectation let there be the pleasant and useful exchange of ideas; and if these do not exist, then substitute games, dancing, music, and such like. I confess to having often found the ubiquitous ball at garden parties very much de trop. One is enjoying a nice talk with one’s best friend, when up comes the hostess—“Do come and play” (always a ball involved), and thus is a quite interesting pleasure disturbed, an affaire de coeur is perhaps interrupted, and a good opportunity is lost, while the good lady goes away delighted with her efforts for her guests and congratulates herself that her party is going with a splendid swing.

In one’s best bibs and tuckers, frisking about is not always undiluted pleasure, howsoever highly to be commended are all health-giving exercises. I have taken part abroad at the liveliest and most frivolous festivities, when the highest (and portliest) in the station have become children again, and thoroughly enjoyed a game of “blow feather” and “bumps,” and when a march round the dinner table of automatical toy figures was a source of endless amusement, and I contrast this most delightfully with the cold make-believe joviality of old England, engrossed in household cares and memories of the past, who, having killed the fatted calf and briskly stirred the plum pudding, quite forget the lighter side of nature—“the merry heart which doeth good like medicine.”

However, don’t let me leave the impression that only amusement is the order of the Mem Sahib’s busy day—far from it. Who so kind as the Anglo-Indian to the sick, who, unfortunately, are always there? No inconvenience is too great to make space for the invalid from the plains, and too much can never be done to assist the patient.

A very heartfelt tribute of gratitude is here rendered to the many whose deeds will never be forgotten. It was in the wilds of Kashmir that climatic illness overtook me. Camping out and touring, and roughing it ever so smoothly, yet was there an unavoidable collapse, a check to energies too keen. It was the wife of the highest medical authority in India who ministered to my needs, night and day, with patience, gentleness and kindness I shall never forget, and added to this were attentions of an equally practical nature from the highest lady in that land, whom I shall ever remember as one of the sweetest and best of women—one it was, indeed, a privilege even to know—and with affection to be ever held in highest remembrance; and these words are a feeble tribute only to the lady Mem Sahibs whose kindness robbed illness of its sting and a lonely traveller of all loneliness.

Chapter VI

A Modern Lisbon

There came a day—a never-to-be-forgotten one—in eastern India when the powers of all were tested and tried—tried, and yet not found lacking; when the inherent goodness of many, formerly seemingly dormant, had scope to shine, and shine brilliantly; when selfishness was a quality unknown, and when sympathy flowed forth in unchecked measure from the more fortunate to the lesser so.

It was a day when the graves gave up their dead, when great mountains swayed to their foundations, and loosening great boulders and rock-bound fetters, sent them also to work havoc and devastation in a relentless fury which could not be gainsaid. Trees were felled down like nine-pins, the mountain sides were lacerated and torn, the streams diverged from their very course or altogether vanished; great yawning fissures everywhere proved how completely the work of destruction had been done, and all in the space of four or five minutes. Houses everywhere were razed to the ground. Lakes were swept away. Scenes formerly of joy and beauty were hideous in their transformation, and beautiful nature was bereft of all its charms.

Dark days followed of sunless cheerlessness, of rain, of mud, and mire, of hunger and thirst, and fatal consequences, of deprivations and discomforts appalling in their effects, and these were whetted with longings for the loved ones far away—powerless to extend sympathy and help. But there was a saving clause—the one thing needful—love, kindness, goodness, which takes the sting out of all earthly woes. These were in unstinted measure given to each and all, and especially to the women and children. It is almost with an apology that I make an allusion at all to the great earthquake of June 12th, 1897, as the tale—written chiefly on a heap of stones, in drenching rain under shelter of a battered umbrella—I then sent abroad; but its horrors can never be forgotten, and there always seems some fresh reminiscence of it still unrecorded; and maybe we still long for the sympathy, a reward of merit so sparsely given by the outside world at the time, owing, however, I am sure, to their defective knowledge of our sufferings.

However, there was a happy side, and it is always best to see it. It is an ill wind indeed that blows no good. No end of love-making and, as I can now vouch, happy marriages followed. Men realized their need for sympathy, and women clung to the reeds, broken or otherwise, upon whose strength it is woman’s privilege to lean. Discussing the why and the wherefore of seismic troubles with a learned Irishman who yet could lower himself to feeble understanding, he summed up the great dispensation in a word: “’Deed, me dear, and it’s just a bad pain in the stomach of the earth, an’ it just can’t help itself.”

Camping out these weird days, surrounded by the ruins of our formerly pretty residences, howsoever joyous at its proper season, had serious drawbacks in the rains. The merest native tents were nevertheless luxurious, after ten days spent in open sheds, which had proved themselves too frail to succumb in the general wreck. I felt in the lap of luxury when a sixty-pound “Patrol” was apportioned for my special use, and a very proud person when, unsought and undreamt of, some weeks later a splendid E.P. was substituted for the former by the kindly thoughtfulness of the Chief Commissioner, who was always a good friend to me.

There was space for high jinks in this, for hide-and-seek in the spacious connaughts, had I been so disposed. These instead were delightfully arranged into wardrobe, dressing room, bathroom, pantry and entrance hall (save the mark), and the whole was pitched by a lovely chestnut tree, with a glorious view of hills in front. I felt there was not even credit due for my overflow of cheerfulness. My little kitchen tent, however discreetly secreted, was rather a blot on the landscape. Smoke and smell were sometimes in evidence—again, ignorance is often bliss where the Indian kitchen is concerned. I have seen rissoles cleverly manipulated by the toes as well as the fingers of the cook, and toast poised for operation on his soles, but—these are details only.

Two of my friends were one day discussing the merits of their cooks, each declaring that his outvied the other’s in cleanliness. “Come to my kitchen and see: no matter that you surprise him at work.” They went—and found the cook washing his feet in the soup tureen! A bachelor friend contemplating matrimony, thought it would be well to investigate the ways of his household in advance. He began, and ended, with the kitchen! He found the cook straining soup through one of his socks! Remonstrated with for such conduct, the cook was equal to the occasion. “Pardon me, Sahib,” he said, “but it is only a dirty sock! See, the dhobie man waiting to take away master’s wash.”

Being in cantonments under military care (and surveillance) was another flower in my garden, and adjacent to the camp of one of the best and noblest of the “servants of the Queen,” I was happily content with the arrangements which Government in its capacity of general housekeeper had made for my comfort, who was not officially entitled to any care.

Searching in the ruins for buried treasure was one of the day’s lighter occupations. Can I truthfully record the fact that I stood by smiling while my best frocks were drawn out of what can best be described as a mud bath, with great stones intersected therein, lacerating their folds into ribbons in their extraction! Some muslin frocks were quite grotesque; riding boots, bulged out with grit and mire, presented most dissipated attitudes; hats were quite past a joke even. Silver things, which could not really disappear, were altogether non-existent for me (I was not the first to search my own ruins).

A most pitiful sight was the butler’s pantry; a very bloodthirsty battle might have taken place there. A large quantity of very excellent bramble jam had consummated its existence the very morning of this momentous day of upheaval, the large glass bottles in which encased must have charged each other again and again with force and fury irrepressible to have attained such results. Great crimson stains were everywhere, and these, lashed for days by a cataclysm of pelting rain, were productive of rivers and pools of that which verifies my descriptive statement. Stranger than fiction, too, were the happenings: a cut-glass salad bowl was found, wedged in the branches of a friendly tree, and quite intact, and this is but an instance.

It was by the irony of fate that, in this harum scarum scatter, articles, chiefly of attire, which one usually relegates to one’s dressing room except on Dhobie days, had so often possessed themselves of conspicuous outside places—fronts seats, in fact. Oh, yes, I smiled, and smiled broadly, I and my good Gurkha friend, to whom I entirely attributed my equanimity, a small reward to him for attentions too sincerely kind ever to be forgotten. We rejoiced over the finding of one great overland box securely fastened. What joy! I should have “frillies,” I felt, enough and to spare. The ayah and the bearer were jubilant. They had secured all they could, they said, and all were intact inside. There came a day—not far distant—when this box came to be dissected, the day the ayah and the bearer had claimed leave to go to their country. Found therein were only broken bottles, papers, rubbish, and then and there for ever was shattered all faith and trust in the sons and daughters of the soil.

These ruins which I viewed with so much borrowed equanimity, the reflection of the kindly support given to me in my time of need by my stalwart Gurkha benefactor, were the remains of a goodly stone-built edifice, one which I called “home,” and which, after three months of hard labour, decorating and remodelling, I had only that morning pronounced very, very good: but man proposes, only—

I went for consolation and counteraction of my own pains to the funereal pile of a friend’s ruins. She, too, was smiling. She was the station’s best girl, recently married, and was having search made in the ruins of her house for her much-prized wedding gifts. A Burmese bowl was brought out flat as an opera hat, and a wedding gown, recently so beautiful, was now a dripping mass of slime and lime, laid aside to dry in the sunshine and then be passed on to swell the bonfire-heap of rubbish. “I cannot grieve for anything,” she said, “but for my poor little ayah buried in the downfall.”

Were one free to dilate on the experiences of others during that momentous time, it is not a chapter, but volumes, that could be written; and at this evaporation of time, it is the seamy side which appeals so strongly to me. Four gentlemen were dining in what had formerly been their hen-house, the thatched roof, never of the best architecture and slightly the worse for the turmoil through which it had passed, with small premonition, gave way, and landed hatwise on top of the diners. The station’s version of the episode next day was that each head perforated the thatch as it fell, and thus decorated, the owners paraded the compound until released from bondage. This, by the way, should be taken with the proverbial grain of salt, and is only one of the many little fictions which were circulated for the general amusement of people who were sorely in need of some antidote for their sufferings and deprivations.

My “George Washington” pen continues the reliable narrative. This hen-house was, necessarily, also the sleeping quarters of some, if not all the occupants of what had formerly been a most delightfully hospitable chummery. Owing to its decapitation, ingenuity was taxed to the utmost to find other shelter for the night. The ground was quite impossible, only one alternative presented itself. Splendidly thick trees with spreading branches were in evidence all round, so sheets were procured, and these, hammock-wise arranged and suspended ’neath the branches, formed an example which found imitators in these sorely strained days, and at the same time supplied fresh “copy” for the station’s “charivari.” There was also a humorous aspect to the General’s residence, a tiny rickshaw house, which, in its frailty, had defied the ’quake by quaking with it, and quite grand, because it was spacious, was the dilapidated coach house, in which a popular official not only lived for many weeks, but dispensed, as was his never-failing custom, hospitalities, and with the clever contrivance of his wife, sheltered others as well within its cracked and battered confines.

The little thatched huts, which sprung up in the station to replace tents for the cold weather, and in anticipation of more secure tenements for the future, were picturesque, if not palatial. They were an index of the ability and capability of the occupants as much, necessarily, with a limited labour supply, was left to them by the constructors thereof. Quite wonderful was the comfort and order which could prevail, and, alas! very pitiable could be the results when talent and taste were not exercised or available.

The little basha hut by the wayside in cantonments, kindly, most kindly granted by both General and Chief Commissioner to the little Miss Sahib, who was not entitled officially to any roof at all, was, in proof of her gratitude, as ornate as hands could make it, inside as well as outside. My picture, taken from a photograph, is therefore a true delineation. For two years, with fleeting visits elsewhere, was “Home” its proud title; and when the fiat went forth that it must be relinquished for reasons of security, the “teeney, weeney cottage of bamboo and plaster, battered and broken, frail and, I had no doubt, quite unweatherproof,” was for a long time felt to be a poor exchange. Added to the original photograph, as detailed in my earlier pages, is a ghostly figure escaping from the bathroom, escaping from the burglar’s grip and fleeing for protection to the nearest friend, clad only in robe-de-nuit, shoeless and defiant of the cold December’s midnight, heedless too of rough and stony paths, quite fearless, only troubled because of the absence of the little bodyguard who could have failed only through necessity. Who, with all these adventures, experiences and good things, could have aught but regrets for the dear adopted land?

One more experience only and I must restrain my pen. With the erection of huts, came dinner parties galore, withal for a limited number only, as space necessitated. They were, however, for that reason the more numerous. The rains were still with us. It was not uncommon (as in the days of Lord Auckland in Simla, and long before the beautifully secure Viceregal residence there now) have recourse to umbrellas during dinner! That, however, was a small detail when compared with the difficulty of transit to and fro, owing, in addition to the rain, to the quagmiry state of the roads and paths, which naturally could not receive primary attention, if any at all, at such a season.

One of the many invitations with which I was favoured, which partook somewhat of the nature of a command, must at all perils be obeyed, and gladly so. I hoped the night would be fine overhead, I needed not to hope for such underfoot. The fates were unpropitious. It was with unrelentless fury that the storm clouds expended themselves in torrents. I anticipated the worst when my rickshaw men, enveloped in sacking, came to tell me that they could not possibly take me out. Oh! the wretches!—with their bare legs, what mattered quagmire, be it ever so miry? I adopted a quiet commanding tone of persuasion, but of no avail. Next I threatened, and lastly—strongest hope of all—promised unlimited reward.

The oracle worked. We started—slush, slush—up to the axles in the mire. Very quietly I added all the words of encouragement I could. That we reached our destination at all was matter of deepest congratulation. I did not give a thought to the return journey. Well that I did not fetter mind or manners, for it was in vain that the Miss Sahib’s rickshaw was called for. The rickshaw was there, where were my flat-footed animals? Nowhere to be found! I could not confess my humiliation to the fine scarlet-liveried retainers who surrounded me! They would not understand insubordination, and would only attribute a failure of virtue in the Miss Sahib. She was quite sure to be the offender, nor credited with having shown every consideration possible. The distance was not great, I smilingly vouchsafed, while appalling visions of the miry, sloppy route—path it could not be called—as it neared my dwelling, rose mentally before me. I gathered my skirts to their highest. I did even more, for the night was fairly dark.

That I arrived home bodily intact is now proved, but without my shoes, which were found after many days feet deep in the slime. I was mud and mire from top to toe. Did I kill the rickshaw men next day? Oh no! Not one word of my discomfiture was ever divulged to them. That would have been for them satisfaction too great. Smilingly, rather, they came for their reward next day and got it. There was also a reward for me, and a silver lining to my cloud. A fine way was laid to my chateau, and a fresh proof was given too, of the goodness and kindness of the best of Chief Commissioners.

Chapter VII

Life in the Plains

The exigencies of fate and the solicitations of anxious-minded relations obliged me to relinquish, but not without regret, the ruined citadel for a time. One felt guilty of cowardice, like a captain deserting his ship, or a soldier his fort. The interest of watching resuscitation was not the only regret. There was still scope for untrammelled usefulness and sunlit cords of sapphire blue, held by the little blind boy, were hard to stretch, even for a time.

The usual mode of conveyance from hill stations in India is so fast being superseded by motor power that I would hope to immortalize the good old way by describing it in my pages. Imagine a little springless cart, with deep set floor, to reach which a high step was involved, or by tipping the barrier a head-first entrance could be effected. This appertained to the front seat only. For the back, a flying leap was required, a one, two, three-and-away stimulant, or much hoisting on the part of assistants. This Royal Mail or Government conveyance—and it was no respecter of persons, the same for the highest or the lowest—had for covering an arched canvas roof, or hood; I say roof advisedly, because it was always there unless removed by the caprice of accident. Two straight bamboo shafts attached lengthwise outside the body of this cart confined one pony, or tried to do so; a second pony ran attached alongside, outside the left shaft. A problem I never succeeded in solving was which did the work, or which did most, or least, or was it fairly divided?

The harness for this unique vehicle baffles my descriptive powers. There was some leather about it; there was much rope. Where there was strapping there were usually many string-made repairs, for which I noticed the driver always kept a large supply in a bulging-out pocket, and there was a cross bar of wood or bamboo cunningly placed to keep the outside pony in subjection, if not in order.

Of the ponies it is hard to speak, they were usually the pick of “badmashes” (villains), all too unruly for other service. They jibbed, they reared, they kicked, they bolted, they did all those things they ought not to do, and, only under severe castigation, what they ought to do. I have had the misfortune of being inside when a fire had to be lit ’neath pony’s “tum-tum” before he would advance an inch. To blindfold him in order to place him in the tonga at all was a common occurrence. I have often begged for his deliverance. Only on one occasion was I listened to. The waywardness of the pony must be checked, they said; like the little boys and girls in the nursery, they must be shown early they were not to have their own way: the way must be made hard and unpleasant for them. Later on in the children’s lives, while every effort had been made in infancy to check ardour and ambition, they would be applauded for persistently persevering in having their own way, and how many a life is spoilt by needless control and interference! If the ponies were ever thwarted in their desire to return to their wayside stables, sometimes they attempted suicide over the khud in preference to submission. This was decidedly inconvenient for peaceful passengers not bent on self-destruction. Fortunately such efforts were of rare occurrence, and mishaps, to the credit of the management be it said, were rare.

The hard wood benches inside this char-a-banc were cushioned with pine needles, therefore they were none too soft. Passengers usually tried to supplement these with downy arrangements, but with doubtful results, as these always had the fatality of slipping and of being anywhere but where required.

I chose usually a less exciting but much more delightful method of reaching the plains. I preferred riding, picnicing and camping by the way, enjoying at my leisure, instead of under panoramic bolts and jars, scenery the most beautiful. There was no fear of solitude, beautiful nature belied the term; it was always weaving beautiful romances for me. Once, only once, were my pleasures divided and an escort deemed advisable. That was thoroughly nice because of its delightful character, but was not guard against an inroad of native dogs on the supply of cakes with which our stores were flanked and fortified for the campaign.

Leaving quite cold weather behind, it is almost summer weather that one returns to in the plains. White frocks must be refurbished and punkahs are usually in evidence, at least in the lower plains, for the hottest part of the day. The ceaseless variety of place and people in India is ever source of greatest interest. Life in the plains is widely different to that in the hills. The latter have English climate, only far better, with their own delightful manners and customs far in advance of England’s. Take, for instance, the early rising habit, to which I have no doubt England will soon with wisdom succumb. What is more delightful, more useful and beneficial, than the freshness of the early hours—say from five to seven in the plains of India, and six to eight in the hills? England’s are quite equal to those last in benefit, and yet all the world is asleep, at least all who have any choice, and these prefer the night’s extension of energies in artificially-lighted rooms, with deterrent effects on health and longevity. Once try those early hours, and a recurrence to the present custom is more than improbable. Experience of Anglo-Indians in England is proof of this.

I know well now an old lady in England who can speak of the Lucknow horrors from personal experience, and yet at five o’clock every morning is astir, busy with her correspondence and her various interests, while the younger members of her household, and, of course, her servants, are still asleep. I have called my friend old, and uniting her with the mutiny speaks of the heat and burden of the day being past, but to the credit of life in India be it spoken, she is not old in heart, mind, or form. One tale she told me of Lucknow, not, I think, recorded elsewhere, which is pathetic because of telling so nearly home. Her father was the brave general, the gallant gentleman who, without casualty of the most trifling kind, led his troops into the Residency from Mutchli Bawn. Long and prolonged were the enthusiastic cheers which greeted their entrance and success, but while still uplifted with the outburst, the approach of an aide to tell him that his pet daughter, sheltered with her two children in the Residency crypt, had by a cannon’s ball been shot through both limbs and had instantly succumbed, turned the fleeting gladness into sadness.

Chapter VIII

The Simple Life

I love the plains in the cold weather, and residence there, such as was my good fortune, was of the best. The bungalows, either chung or on the flat, can be equally salubrious. I would give a preference to the former because, being poised six or seven feet above the level, ventilation is more free, and, indeed, one can there live in a hurricane, with doors and windows all open, as is the custom, night and day. What a delightful contrast this is to the homeland with its multifarious bolts and bars, and a tribute too, is it not, to the native. True, a nightwatchman is on guard and supposed to keep patrol, but the best bench he can find is his choice when circumstances permit. I have vivid recollections now of the result. Yards and yards of snoring, so long and so continuous that there scarcely seemed an insertion of breathing space, and thus was the night air rent. A visitation of jackals sometimes disturbed his slumbers, but even then he was first aroused by the dogs, the best watch of all, with scent so keen.

The early awaking is delightful in the plains. Perfect stillness reigns. No traffic of carts or motors or discordant street cries destroy its peacefulness. The air, weighted with dewy freshness and scented with roses, mignonette and violets, is wafted to the presence with every breeze. It is as fresh as a leveret or as a little rested child that one stretches out arms to greet.

The great gong clanks out five of the clock, and native life is again astir for its full, yet simple and restful day. There is no hurrying to and fro; no scurrying and scuttering: all is easy, leisurely tranquility there. My picture is of a model bungalow surrounded by acres and acres of neat symmetrical tea garden. The bungalow is verily an oasis in its midst, with tennis and croquet lawns all taut and trim. The hot sun beating on the fernery’s primitively thatched roof, scintillates thro’ it, and produces the steamy atmosphere necessary for its well-being. A peep inside reveals a magnificent display of exotics, and confirms the opinion of the climate’s wonderful powers. With the sun all but at its zenith, a lovely cool breeze qualifies it, for it comes from the great snowy range of the Himalayan mountain tops, so far away, yet seemingly so near.

The air is redolent with the highly-scented trees and shrubs peculiar to the East. The great cocoanut tree is overweighted with its offspring, the plantain secretes ’neath its protective branches great bunches of golden fruit. The passion creeper is fast approaching its full glory, and roses and orchids are everywhere. In further proof of the powers of the plains, let me lead my readers still further afield, and there lies a trim kitchen garden. A great well in its midst, which would have been a wealthy dower to the daughters of Israel, provides water for all, and accounts for the prolific and varied produce within its confines. There are rosy tomatoes and peas galore. There are cauliflowers and French beans enough and to spare, common culinary necessities abound, and lettuces, which might be a joy to Covent Garden; and I see the gardener now hauling great bunches of artichokes from their lair, and I am content and already anticipate a menu with Palestino for its opening event.

A winding pathway, discreetly shaded, shields from the common gaze a little model miniature home farm. The odour which greets the visitor is milky. A contingent of fine fat cows are being groomed; even to the spraying of their mouths, no detail of toilet is omitted. The American system of milking by electricity has not yet penetrated to these wilds, but you may rest assured that all is clean in this farmyard, and that the Mem Sahib herself sees the milkman (no rosy dairymaids here) wash and scrub his hands until only the natural black remains. Two or three fleecy sheep with bleating baa lambs, their toilets also superintended, are happily crunching their daily doles of oil cake. Pigeons are fluttering about, and descend in swoops to steal from the various contingents getting their chota haziri.² Cocks and hens, struggling for their rights, are everywhere; the latter are quite in the majority. Polygamy is very much the order of the day, and, like a veritable lord of creation, Master Cock struts about followed by his harem, whom he tries to protect from the envy and admiration of his fellows.

These, let loose for their morning stroll, take full advantage of their freedom, and are only safeguarded from trespassing on the garden preserves by a company of English terriers whose office it is to say them nay. Loud only is the Mem Sahib’s voice in expostulation, when the pet Brahmins insist in their ambitious ventures to test the early seedlings. A tussle for supremacy follows. Fatal sometimes is the result. A jury is summoned, and death from misadventure and over-zeal is the verdict, and a dainty morsel is provided for the sweeper’s dinner. A rider is added to the effect that Tiny and Tootles must be placed under arrest for some days to come, until they have learnt the Early Breakfast. limit of their prerogative. I maintain a discreet silence when the sentence is pronounced, for I greatly fear me that the dear little villain, crouching by my side with an assumed appearance of ignorance and innocence of the morning’s fray, had in reality much to say in aiding and abetting the ringleaders of the kennel. I have no doubt he was in at the death, but so complete is the understanding between us that my “fie-fie” finger raised in reproof is all sufficient. Lover never raised to his lady eyes more beseeching or more tender and true, than did my little four-footed friend to mine; and with return which the most devout might simulate . . . and envy.

Further afield is a group of more special interest. Removed from the common herd of everyday cattle are the ponies. There they stand haltered each to his own special post under the shade of great spreading chestnut trees, spick and span as elbow-grease can make them. We do not give the generic term of “stable” to our ponies in India. They are our friends, and have each a special place and distinctive name. Always termed “ponies,” too, they may be rising 14 hands and more; the smaller, 12 and 13 hand polo ponies, are less in evidence nowadays, as the regulation 14 hands is now a recognised necessity, save, perhaps, in Manipur, where the little sturdy hill ponies are still found good enough and certainly safer for the game. In the midst of this group of ponies, so happily sheltered, is a dear little brown pony. His lesser dimensions are no gauge to his appetite; it quite equals that of his more stalwart confrères. He is usually first at the feeding trough and quite the last to leave it, for he always has a look round for the crumbs that, perchance, may have fallen; nor is he last in the procession returning from the morning roll, for after completing his work of scavenger, by some “gainer” route, he will regain his place at tail end if not of middle man.

“I see the long procession,
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
The old subdued and slow.”

Micawber leads the contingent because of his seniority. He has seen better days, but still is his white coat glossy, tho’ somewhat “hilly” are the hind-quarters it covers. Maori feels quite equal to holding her Australian head erect; she is less proud of her tail which, in spite of daily applications of Harlene, does not flourish apace. Taffy Waler is quite sure of his superiority; his is the “young heart hot and restless,” but whose good breeding enables him to suit his paces to the needs of the moment. Then there is poor pensioner Pickwick, who has born the burden and heat of many a day, who with care and tenderness is yet spared to enjoy the “old age” pension which he has as richly earned as any of the subjects who thronged the home offices for theirs on the 1st January, 1909. Caesar, the little greedy brown boy, who yet finds internal space for the largest dessert of sugar cane, is chiefly conspicuous for his magnificent tail and mane, and the love his mistress bore him blinded her to all other defects. Alas! only that tail and the hoofs now remain, with memories of his oft-repeated devotional attitudes and many escapades. A lamentable accident, the result of his enervated old age, reduced his days of pension, and howsoever kindly assisted, may we hope with the spiritualists, to a better world, there were yet salt tears to furrow the cheeks of his devoted mistress when the crisis, tho’ ever so gently broken to her, came.

My illustration completes my pen picture. A wounded soldier, obliged to lay aside his accoutrements for a time, rests on the verandah. A less pretentious one, an honorary one, is supposed to be in attendance on the invalid. Another, mine host, seems to be “blessing the Duke of Argyle,” and the Mem Sahib is again in evidence.

Chapter IX

Mofussil Gaieties

Life in the mofussil plains of India, in the cold weather, which is the season, is of a most lively description. In a state of chrysalis all the hot weather, all have resuscitated and are on the alert to enjoy their brief time of respite of about three months only. Camp meets, race meets, gymkhanas and all sorts of contrivances to get pleasure, are the order of the day, and everyone is full of energy to contribute their best efforts in detail to the general success of the whole.

People troop down from the hills. Every bungalow is stretched to its utmost limit, and from all the outlying districts lonely sequestered outcasts come to the more central stations to make merry once a year in the general fray. From station to station do they go, and are only partly satiated when the last gaiety has come. Race meets are the great attraction, when the frivolling days only end to begin again. The candle is burnt at both ends. The races usually take place in the morning. Tournaments fill up the day hours, and yet is there energy left for the balls, dinners, cinderellas, theatricals and concerts which occupy the night hours. Well, these come but once a year, and the good cheer must be appropriated by each and all.

These meets serve another end. Let me whisper it. They are most useful for matrimonial research. From afar come isolated Sahibs tired of their loneliness and of single harness, and the choice is usually a full one. The onlooker sees many a good and well-contested game. Those begun in play only and resulting in united forces for life are often best of all. The amateur palmist—there is usually one or more about—gives himself a very good time, and I invariably noticed that it was the hand belonging to a pretty face that seemed always to be the most deeply and interestingly furrowed! The landing of a big fish was matter for general rejoicing, and sometimes it was the little coy miss, seemingly occupying a very back seat, who carried off the prize; one who, perhaps, had warily resisted many a tempting bait, and owing to so much past resistance found the dainty morsel eventually the more delicious.

I recall one eventful camp meet, when a contingent of brave boys went off for weal or woe to fight for Queen and country in South Africa. Who could not and did not share their joyous ardour, their thirst to bear and share the heat and burden of that gory day? But in spite of brave words and deeds hearts left behind were sad and sore; sad and sore, too, for what need not, should not, be. It was night, the after-dinner hour; the company of gaily dressed people had strayed to the verandahs and reception rooms, wishing God-speed to the goodly contingent waiting for their call to muster for transport. There was one, like the rest fully accoutred, a boy, scarcely out of his teens; he had strayed to the music room and was dreamily playing “Home, dearie Home.” I asked him if he really wished to go.

“Oh! it’s grand to be a soldier,” he replied, and “Oh! what matters—there is no one to care”; and so it happened. He was one left behind, and I have always hoped that there was someone to care or someone who tried to care for the boy who thought it “so grand to be a soldier,” and who “had no one to care.” There was another found riddled with shot and shell. Beside him lay a little pile of spent cartridges, the last, clutched in his death-grip, he had been powerless to use, and is it grand to be a soldier? Grand, I think, to be on the defensive—true soldiers of the King—but let us hope the day is not far distant, if not already with us, when arbitration, not carnage, will settle all disputes in our civilised world. And I am not ashamed to promulgate such views, although I proudly call the best of fighting men my kith and kin.

“Then shall our spears be turned into pruning hooks,” was the text of a sermon I heard at Umballah, preached by the Bishop of Lahore some months later, and during that never-to-be-forgotten crisis, when he expatiated on such an advanced attainment of civilization. His words appealed to my heart-felt theories to the letter, and I hoped also true was the “all things common,” which he prognosticated would surely come, though not in our day. Sufficient for us would be the peaceful pruning hook.

“Oh! if I were Queen of Spain,
Or—still better—King of Rome,
I’d have no fighting men abroad,
No weeping maids at home.
All the world should be at peace,
Or, if men would show their might,
Then let those who make the quarrels
Be the only ones to fight.”

I have seen several regiments depart on active service, but never one that affected me more than did the departure of the little contingent of the Assam Valley Mounted Horse to join their headquarters in Calcutta. The band was playing its cheeriest music, noiseless were the footfalls on the soft, sandy soil, only the clank and clash of steel accompanied the music, and, Oh! the irony of it! they were playing “When the boys come marching home again”! Everything was white in the beautiful moonlight—how one remembers small details on such an occasion! The copper beeches showed fiery crimson reflections on the lakelets, the station’s crowning glory; and the river, always such a joy, and more so in the moonlight, was reflecting myriads of twinkling stars, dancing and gleaming on its rippling surface.

It was many months later that I witnessed the return of Lumsden’s Horse in Calcutta. For hours the wide Maidan had been lined with carriages and company to welcome them. The short twilight had gone, the night was darkening, and still they did not come. The patience of many had wearied, when the band, playing some welcoming music, heralded their approach.

We could not see them then in the gloom, as we did later, only to realize the strains of suffering and deprivation through which they had passed. There were many gaps, too, in their lines. There were some in the watching crowd who had not thought it grand to be a soldier, who had no need for shouts of welcome to extend to their own; their mourning garb told the tale. All praise to the brave man who led them forth to action, but greater far is the meed of praise I would give him for the personal care and kindness he gave to each when the stern necessity of warfare had to be faced, and of this I heard much. Grand was the crowded reception at Calcutta’s great Town Hall, the night of their arrival. Touching and impressive the great Thanksgiving in the Cathedral, and galore were the entertaining welcomes given to officers and men, so richly deserved, because they had answered their country’s call, and they needed not to have done so.

The fine monument in Calcutta for the comrades left behind is also a lasting proof of goodness, the goodness of that best of men, of statesmen and of Viceroys—Lord Curzon.

Chapter X

An Antidote for Depression

I always think that when great events happen in this transitory planet it would be a merciful dispensation if the world could stand still awhile and give us breathing space, time to pull ourselves together again, as it were, and to trim ourselves for the next panoramic scene on the sheet of life. Instead of which it is from sadness to gladness, from gladness to sadness, that we pass with equal and unprepared speed. For our delectation the day after the departure of the military contingents, a tea picnic in the forest was agreed upon as the most exhilarating of occupations. The grandeur of these woods is an unexpected revelation. Magnificent are the trees and of all sorts. These, the centre of a great rubber industry after twenty years’ delay in coming to full fruition, were an interesting study. Through the great gnarled bark did the red rubber ooze and force itself, almost ready by nature for its multifarious purposes. Wide and quite good bridle and driving paths intersected the forest. A wise conservator had left the spreading branches to arch these by-ways, and very lovely is the effect and comfort of shaded and iridescent sunshine.

There is small fear in daylight of the big game about. Positions are somewhat reversed. There is honour even among thieves, and the tiger is not always the first to attack. The narrative of one of our party at tea was that he had just seen the tip of a tiger’s tail fleeing from him into the jungle. Certain it was that the trail was more often in evidence, and that nowadays the proverbial grain is always a wise addition to such narrations. The Barry tiger incident is too well-known to bear repetition, but as related to me at an English dinner party left room for some correction on my part. I was the unwilling witness of a case which draws forth even now my tenderest pity.

It was of a youth, barely reaching his quarter-century, a conservator of forest, just out from home for the work, and full of sporting ardour. I saw him, too soon after the terrible mauling he had suffered and yet when he was alive to tell the tale, and those in attendance on him afterwards told me not once had he murmured or seemed to grieve over his appalling mishap. On an elephant he had been in pursuit of game. He thought he had surely shot his first tiger and, surrounded by his shikaris, was rejoicing at the feat. He was about to dismount and go in search of his prey when, alas! the tiger, only wounded and in consequence roused to his highest pitch of anger, sprang upon him. He had not an instant to regain his place on the howdah. Clutched by the leg, as he described it, the flesh was literally torn from the bone, and this to the knee before the furious beast could be shot down. Amputation of the entire limb necessarily followed, and it was stretched in pitiable agony, all bloodstained and shattered, but most surprisingly cheerful, that I found him with all the comforts a guard’s van was capable of, the best means procurable for taking him to the central hospital for the best of medical skill. That he was not wholly in pursuit of sport, but on the business of his forest duty, added, to my thinking, more regret. Anyhow, it was only the work of a few minutes to spoil a useful life and an exceptionally fine physique.

Always on the qui vive for adventures, one of a mild nature, but withal very exciting, followed with the after-tea hour. I was invited to share an elephant ride, my first of such an adventurous description. My companion was a rowdy Irishman. (Forgive me, my lord, but I am quite aware that I was the provocative element, and that but for my real enjoyment of it, the sport would have been non-existent,—a flint will not strike of itself, and there was no lack of chivalry then, or ever, for me). I am glad there were no cameras about to record the ascent, for part of the programme was that I was to find out the way myself. A broad sacking cushion took the place of a howdah.

The start was all very fine. The exalted position and the movement were delightful. Entertaining also and most orthodox was my companion. He was kind enough to leave me time to get used to the situation, and then the fun began when he ordered the mahout to turn woodwards. Alas! I did not know what shocks were in store for me, for our mount was a forest elephant, his chief end in life being to fell trees. Fortunately, with the good sense which underlay the venture, striplings only obstructed the way or seemed to do so, for there were no great difficulties for Jumbo. One great hoof laid against the root, and crash, crash went the tree, and scream upon scream startled the wild birds of the forest.

My companion was now thoroughly enjoying himself, but while with well attuned solicitude he hoped I was not alarmed, he at the same time abetted the mahout to further and greater inroads and yet pretended that such a course and route was now unavoidable. I pinched, I screamed, I begged, I prayed: there was not anything I did not promise if only he would take me back to safety. I think my pinches prevailed; there was a limit to endurance on the part of my companion.

A turn was made, but it was out of the fry-pan into the fire: there was only a respite for me. A wide stony stream was the next obstruction, great rough rocky banks on either side. Surely, that was not to be attempted. In vain I expostulated. “Don’t look,” he said, ever so kindly, “don’t look.” I turned and buried my face in his homespun sleeve, and it was in the other that he laughed at the success of his trap. That elephant was ever afterwards named after his lordship, and history hath it that its nervous system was so completely shattered that it was henceforth quite unfitted for forest service.

Chapter XL

A Trip on a Trolley

The great province of Assam, now indissolubly united to a neat little slice of Eastern Bengal, is a widely different place to that which it was, even in the middle of last century. To excite historical interest, only a perusal of Mr. E. A. Gait’s book is required. Even centuries ago was the country largely populated with its own and a very mixed race, the result of inroads from the hill countries, Naga, Lushai and such like. These lived and moved and had their being very much as we do now. They had kings to reign over them and princes, their religion, their women, and therefore their love affairs, only perhaps with more of love and chivalry than in the present day. Their religious customs are evidenced in archaeological remains of temples and such like, of a most interesting nature. Many are the beautifully carved ruins still remaining which speak of architectural skill and resource, descriptive of their love of beautiful things and their need of them. How one wished these stones, said to be from 1,000 to 3,000 years old, could speak and tell us all their interesting origin and history, and tell us, too, of the people who called them theirs. Owing to the kindness of Dr. T. Block, of the Archaeological Museum, Calcutta, I was able to get the translation of a wonderful inscription on a great rock flanking the land boundary and near the scene already described, where an English Viceroy landed for the first time in Assam.

This translation was the clever work of a German professor, whose ability and perseverance over its partly effaced and faulty lettering is clearly evidenced. It bears the name of the reigning King Harffana Varman and the date of 510, which, corresponded to our year 829-30 A.D., and is a warning, a sort of “ware wire” notice of an old chief to navigators, of the dangers of the coast and this rock in particular; dangerous, I suppose, because of the frailty of their crafts, for such dangers do not now exist. The river changes much and often, but evidently at this point is faithful to its original course.

The Assamese and Indians generally are very clever navigators; their operations were to me a never-failing source of delight. Amphibious almost by nature, their healthy lives are spent more on water than on land. See them on their skiffs and dug-outs, skimming the surface like birds, or wielding heavy crafts or flats, no matter which; with ceaseless patience do they attain their ends, always chattering, always happy. The old mythology of the country is also deeply interesting, full of lovelore and romance, of poetry and mysticism, and many are the places and districts which trace their names to these old-world fables.

Scarcely more than fifty years ago the white man in Assam was little more than a natural curiosity. I speak from hearsay only—I rejoice to say I was then very much non-existent, and cannot even believe that any other framework enclosed my better part. I like to believe that it was solely made for its own present casement and did not even exist in butterfly or flower before it was mine—or I its. The facts I narrate, however, were learnt personally from Mr. C. P. Bruce, who was the tea pioneer in Assam. It was toward the end of the forties that the tea-plant was first discovered in the province. A butterfly was the immediate cause or instrument of the discovery which has transformed thousands of miles of jungle into trim tea gardens, and which has resulted in the leading and all-important industry of the country. This “pretty painted butterfly,” known to exist only where the plant grew (then, it was believed, only in China and Ceylon), attracted attention as it flitted about in idle playfulness. Along the path of its seemingly wayward gyrations the plant, in tiny scraps, was found, and the industry of propagation begun then has had results, statistical and otherwise, too great for my “Stylo.” There is, in my exalted opinion, no other tea to compare to that which is grown in Assam, and let it be drunken pure and unadulterated. The soil is responsible for its superiority: give the same seed the same chance elsewhere, and the result is quite different, for the plant, being indigenous, naturally flourishes best where nature planted it. The variety of tea in Assam is a striking peculiarity, no two gardens—even adjoining—produce the same, and, en passant, the best cup of tea is not always to be found in a planter’s bungalow! It was Assam supplied Darjeeling with its first tea seed, and with results now of annual increase so gigantic as to be incredible.

The method of making tea in the olden days and by some hill-tribes still would not, to our thinking, lead to its speedy increase. The Bhutias infuse the leaves in boiling water, which they throw away, and add salt, butter and charcoal to the leaves. The Thibetan thinks he knows a better way: he adds flour to the infusion, and when it has assumed the consistency of porridge, makes a hearty meal of it. Either of these recipes, however, seem preferable to the English lady’s of the sixteenth century, who served tea as soup, strongly seasoned and coloured with saffron and other strong condiments.

Transit in Assam is now an easy and pleasant matter. Beautiful steamers ply the Brahmaputra—a railway line is useful but much less popular. Tiny toy lines, with two-foot gauge, from the various landing stages to the districts, are to be found almost everywhere, their speed not being perhaps their primary inducement; but there was advantage in that, even, for me on one occasion. My little bodyguard was objected to in the carriage by some unpleasant person. “Never mind, Missis,” he said, “I will run alongside”—and he did.

By way of a great treat on one occasion, I was taken a trolley ride on the toy line. It was quite a stately one, on a very superior trolley, under the escort of the all-important director and chairman of the line. He was more than that, for long residence in the unsequestered mofussil had had no effect in blunting natural instincts. He was the ’Varsity gentleman ever; a brilliant conversationalist and brimful of wit. I and my charming companion started most happily. It was the evening of a June’s hot day, then quite cool with the additional breeze our speed gained for us. Twilight at start, darkness had overtaken us before the twelve miles’ ride was accomplished. “No lights had we,” not even the glow of a cigarette, nor had the usual myriads of fire-flies appeared to illuminate the by-ways. However, the lines were there; our human “motor power” knew the way, and steadily and uncomplainingly they applied themselves to their tasks. Alas! the station, which was our goal, was also dark, dark as Erebus. Heedless of this, however, onward we went and feared no obstruction on this well-appointed line. Man, however, only proposes—the native in this case had disposed. A great waggon had been left, too centrally, ready for action the following day. Great was the collision. I do not remember being shot off the trolley, but chair and I were found fairly securely wedged in its great lumbering wheels. My companion, more fortunate than I, was alert in looking for me. “Are you there?” he cried, as though speaking through a telephone. “I am somewhere,” I replied, “but have no idea where. It is not very comfortable,” I added, “I should be glad to come out.” The odour of grime and oil was prevalent. My hat was not quite straight on. I felt decidedly concussed and battered. There is, however, no medicine more curative than cheerfulness, and it met the case. My companion, relieved I had not been shot irretrievably to another sphere, effervesced in his usual bright and sparkling manner, and I was drawn forth, heels first I think, and in quite unorthodox array, rents being everywhere, and my pristine freshness and cleanliness matters of the past.

It is well that such incidents as this have no deterrent effect. It was very soon after that I started on a cross-country journey to Darjeeling. I had scarcely two words of proper, or let me rather say correct Hindustani in my vocabulary, yet I still rejoice over the primitive mode of transit, then only available. Now, noisy shrieking engines and natives spoil the landscape, and the nervous system as well. I felt like Rebecca of old, going forth with a great canvas-covered waggon containing baggage and servants. I was unlike my prototype, however, in that I was well mounted and rather fancied my well-appointed riding kit, and again at the start was fortunate in my escort. We had miles of riding through lovely forest glades, not quite without perils by the way. I was glad more than once that I knew how to lie flat on the saddle to escape low-spreading boughs: one cruel branch, however, was over insidious for me, and catching me with its sharp fang on the shoulder, left its mark, and ripped my sleeve ruthlessly to the wrist. Emerging from the shady forest, it was in roads girth deep in mire that our ponies waddled. The baggage waggon then overtaken, we found stuck to the axles therein. There was the little excitement appertaining to the extraction thereof, but perfect good nature and cheerfulness was everywhere, with a thorough enjoyment of the adventurous situation as well.

The river reached, there was pleasant orthodox sailing for a time, and then the real cross-country route began, where there were ferries to be crossed in dug-outs, country ponies to cover the dry land, and chattering and unintelligible natives always ready with gratuitous advice. I had parted with my highly-valued escort, and was alone, save for my servants (who are never much use on a journey), in a strange country—all but speechless—for my few words did not avail much; but beautiful novelty was everywhere, and I was satisfied and delighted. When I neared civilization again, I met my companions for the projected tour, via Darjeeling, in the Himalayan Mountains. They had come with all the comforts of civilised travel, which I had no envy for, by the route which had been as rough as mine some 50 years ago.

This was the road which poor Lady Canning, stricken with fever and in a dying state, had retraversed on pony-back and in dandie to join her husband at Barrackpore. I cannot so briefly pass over the closing scene of her noble life, when she was unconscious of the dear presence she had so longed to reach, and only regained it to start on the longer journey, which even his devoted love could not save or shield her from. On a high point by the river Ganges, shaded by over-spreading trees, close to the Viceregal residence in the Park, Barrackpore, a lovely white marble monument marks her resting place, and the tiny God’s acre is guarded still with all the care and reverence her beautiful unselfish life demanded. In Calcutta is further memorial of her, consisting of a lovely monument in the Cathedral; and close by the Presidency Hospital is yet another, called the Canning Home, the residence of the Clewer sisters, whose devoted lives are given to the sick and suffering, in memory of her who, “being dead, yet speaketh.” A further tribute to their work must be a personal one. For a space of many months, broken health confined me within the hospital’s walls, and no matter the luxuries of a private ward and the goodness of friends and relations, it was the care and tenderness of these perfect women, the Clewer sisters, who chiefly made it all sweet for me; and in so saying I would not detract one iota from the doctors in charge, whose care and kindness was as valuable to me as their medical skill.

Chapter XII

In the Himalayas

In a tale of life so full as mine was in India it is difficult to avoid diversions, such as this, from the immediate subject in hand. I would fain dilate afresh on that delightful Himalayan tour, but my travels are elsewhere recorded. And yet these reminiscences could not be complete without passing allusion to this tour which stimulated me to travel nearly the length and breadth of India. I thought then that no place or pleasure could exceed those I had just seen, but there was far grander to follow. During many months’ stay in Darjeeling it was ever a matter for consternation that the majority of visitors preferred the everyday round in the station of tennis, polo, and such like, to the intense joy of touring over the magnificent mountains surrounding it.

The “Holy Spot,” or “Sunny City,” is not a very expressive translation of its character. It might rather have been named the “rainy spot.” Still with this, a passing defect, it is a very lovely place,, with views and sunsets and freshness which delight one’s whole being. The name is really an Anglicised version of three Urdu words—Dor, Home; Rje, Noble; Gling, a place: thus with a little poetic license is produced Darjeeling.

It was a party of four who sought the more enterprising enjoyment of travel and adventure. For nearly three weeks we journeyed over the mountains, covering over a hundred miles. Every step of the way is still indelibly impressed on memory’s vision; every adventure, danger and difficulty are as fresh as yesterday. Howsoever rough was travel at times, yet were the hinges well oiled to insure all the comfort possible. Eight ponies, a couple for each traveller, was a luxurious design. Eight servants, forty coolies to carry baggage, eight syces, four policemen and a dandie, lest any of us should fail by the way, formed a goodly procession. The police were a necessary safeguard.

Our route lay by Nepaul and Thibet, and these countries were then even more jealous of their rights than they are now. Thus guarded, we were emboldened to trespass, our intentions being enterprise only, and these imbued with “entente cordiale.” Our offence was of a description most mild. We simply, in due course, crossed the boundary lines of either place in order to carry about for the rest of our life the proud boast of having had breakfast in Thibet and lunch in Nepaul. The points of interest and delight in the tour were naturally the magnificent mountain scenery and the fine bracing climate, the latter varying as we ascended the heights or descended to intervening valleys as the exigencies of the route required. We covered the distance in daily marches varying in length, according to the ease or severity of the paths, from six to twenty miles a day, while fifteen thousand feet above sea level was the approximate height attained.

Marching via Jorepokri to Sandakphu and Phalut we returned to our starting point via Dentam and Chiabanjan, travelling for a time over untrodden land deep in jungle, which coolies attempted to partially clear as we went. The washing away of a bridge in the rains had necessitated a course which, however, was only pleasure for us. I confess I shudder now but had no fear at the time of a somewhat perilous transit made in these untrodden lands over a stream, a rough and rocky one, over which only a temporary bridge could be arranged quite a hundred feet above its angry-looking surface. Three bamboos were laced together, with many joins lengthwise, and were suspended from tree to tree on either side. I simply state the fact, howsoever incredible it may seem, that mounted pick-a-back on the strongest and best of our Thibetan coolies, we were carried over in turns and deposited safely on terra firma.

The skill was wholly the coolie’s, ours to sit tight and trust to his agility and prowess. With arms closely pressed round his odorous neck, with face buried in back of his hairplait-wound cap, it was only from the far side that we could enjoy the marvellous scenery. Beautifully wooded land was on either side of the river. Mount Everest, rising 29,000 feet, then believed to be the highest mountain in the world (America now claims to exceed it), seemed very close; snow-covered, it sparkled brilliantly as with myriads of diamonds, and the sky, as so often in these parts in December, was cloudless and of beautiful azure blue. From the far side of the river we viewed with no feelings of regret the little broken-down Bhutia hut in which we had spent the previous night while waiting the erection of this primitive bridge.

Standing out in bold relief in memory’s vision are the two landslips which impeded progress later and added adventure. One of these ugly chasms was crossed at the top and the other at the bottom, and in either case this could only be accomplished in single file, one at a time. Strong ropes of bamboo fibre were made to supplement those already in possession. Attached at either side of the chasm, they were guarded by trusty attendants. Equally strong ropes were bound to each of our party in turn. Thus supported and assisted it was on hands and knees that we crept and stumbled across. The re-union of our forces on the safe side was a reward of merit and a buoyant pleasure. Quite aware that the description of travel will be skipped by the most affectionate of my readers, I would fain be as brief as my power of restraint will admit.

By a strange coincidence it was on a Sunday morning that we reached the district called Pamiongchi, where there is a Buddhist settlement and an exceptionally fine and interesting temple. It seemed as if we were in civilization again—life and activity were on all sides: all, however, seemingly connected with their religion. Tasteful cultivation surrounding the Temple evidenced their reverence for it. Prayers in Sanskrit written on cloth swayed like flags in the breezes. From every hut came the monotonous droning of prayers, and yet was there a large assembly of worshippers in the Temple itself, where a service of a most ritualistic nature was taking place.

On condition that we removed hats and shoes we were permitted entrance. Needless to say, we did not understand one word of the service, but so emblematic was it that the meaning was quite clear to us. The vestments of the priests were of rich colouring and very elaborate, that worn by the High Priest closely resembling one which I had seen worn by a cardinal in the church of Rome.

Their music of clanking cymbals, tom-toms and such like, was most effective. The following day the priests came to make their salaams to us at the little rest house at which we stayed, and were assiduous in their attentions, showing us all of interest in the Temple, and extending even the hospitality of rich offerings to us.

It is only thus in a passing sentence that I allude to facts of superlative interest, as with a panoramic glance I pass them by. With similar brevity I recall the one casualty of the tour, the loss of an Arab pony. In single file we were scaling heights with narrow stony paths of exceeding difficulty. All of us were mounted save the leader of the party, whose syce was leading his pony. I was next in file to him, and he had just given me the signal to dismount and pass on the warning when a bird rose from the thicket and startled his pony.

It was for a moment a horrible scene. The pony reared and plunged, then lost its narrow foothold and, in less time than it takes to tell, fell to the depth of over three hundred feet down the precipitous khud which bounded the path on the left hand. The syce struggled for an instant to retain hold of the reins, but the order to let go was almost simultaneous with his self-preservative action. It is with regret I add to these pleasant memories the fact that two of that party of four have now joined the great majority. One, the leader of the party, was Mr. Justice Norris, well-known on the Calcutta bench and as well-known in its social circle.

It was quite in the plains of Darjeeling, if such a term can be used to such a mountainous country, and about twenty miles only from the station proper, that we learnt the quaint legend of the Teesta and the Rungeet rivers. Through beautifully wooded country the latter and the Ramman river flow, and unite before their junction with the Teesta. Seated on a rock ’neath the shelter of spreading boughs, our guide, with the most perfectly child-like sincerity in its veracity, related to us the fairy-tale.

Long, long ago, in quite the beginning of the world and soon after the creation of these rivers, the Rungeet had a quarrel with the Teesta. They were lovers, supposed to be betrothed, if not married. The Teesta, the original name of which was Sangchoo, or the “Pure Water,” is said to be entirely of melted snow, and hence its colour of opaque eau-de-nil; the Rungeet, of dark emerald green, is said to be composed of rain-water only. After the junction of the rivers, each maintains its colour for some little distance, as also its temperature—the Teesta being much cooler than the Rungeet. The Teesta was supported in her un-amorous conduct and quarrel with her lover by the King of Serpents, who led her away by a straight and undeviating course. The Rungeet, said to be masculine, was led by a quail, which, always diverging in quest of food, led the river by so circuitous a route that when it reached the plain from its mountain source it found the Teesta in possession of the only available course. The Rungeet, being furiously indignant at being ousted by a female, turned about and retraced the route to his mountain home. There the confined waters assumed lake-like dimensions. Regretting his hasty temper and fearing the result might only lead to a general flood disastrous to himself, the Rungeet thought better of his indiscretion and returned to his lawful spouse, from whom he has not again attempted divorce, but has instead maintained a perfect and amicable union.

These items of learning I give by the way, lest I in any way resemble a little girl friend of mine of long ago, who was taken to Jerusalem and through the Holy Land on tour. Sorely envying her I at least anticipated splendid narrations on her return.

“What did you do; what did you see? Quickly tell me all,” I said.

“Oh, we had lovely donkey rides,” she said, “I never saw such lovely donkeys anywhere before.”

With this I may bracket an American friend’s reply when asked the extent of her travels on the Continent. “My dear, I really don’t know,” she said, “my sister took the tickets—-but we seemed to go everywhere.”

Chapter XIII

Hill Tribes: Their Manners and Customs

In travelling over the Himalayan mountains, it was a rare occurrence to see humanity; certainly none existed in the wilder districts. It was in Darjeeling itself that the study of the human race was possible, and indeed there it was extensive. Sunday morning was the time to visit the Bazaar for a study of it, and one I never wearied of. By their dress the nationality of the different tribes can readily be distinguished, not so easily their sex, especially amongst the Bhutias. The men are always clean-shaven; their hair, never cut, hangs in long pig-tails or is wound round their felt hats. I eventually learnt the distinguishing feature.

The women wear two pig-tails and glory in the length of these. When nature is deficient then they shred wool with their own tresses to supply the defect. They are quite the most unclean race I have seen in India. They are odorous—so odorous, that many a time and oft I have been obliged, in the freshest of fresh air to discard their services as dandie bearers. They have good points, however, and many of them. They are active and industrious. This last quality doubtless is accentuated by their love of gain. They are good-natured. The men are big, tall and sturdy: the women are short but quite equal the men in strength. It is often—to their shame be it spoken—that the women are made to carry the heaviest burden; a piano being quite a trifle to them. This statement, however, may be taken with a grain of Cerebos. Certain it is that a heavy overland trunk is easily carried, hoisted on their heads and shoulders. Their marriage ties are lightly esteemed. One woman is often the wife, like the women of Leh, of two or more brothers, which tie, however, they easily break with the aid of a simple ceremony. They are united with a thread, and this they snap again in token of dissolved union. The women also often elect to have several husbands, and this passes unchallenged. Their religion is Buddhism, or a pretence of it. All of them carry a prayer wheel about with them which they turn to the rhythmic words, “Om mani padmi om,” which simply means “Hail to him of the Lotus and the Jewel.”

The Nepaulese, another sturdy race, are, like the Bhutias, always heavily laden and bedecked with jewels, their silver money being usually carried by the women, linked into chains varying in length according to their riches, and worn round their necks. This tribe came originally from the western mountains. The men, being of pugilistic dispositions, come over to join the Gurkha Regiments. The women are fine-looking, and may be distinguished from their Bhutia sisters by the head-covering which they always wear; also by their mode of carrying their infants in punnets on their backs, thus comfortably disposing of them.

The Lepchas, still another tribe, were originally the inhabitants of Sikin, but intermarried to such an extent with the other surrounding tribes that they have almost lost their own identity. Those still existent are true to their own peculiar style of dress of coarse woven striped material with deep fringes, and may always be distinguished by it.

The Thibetans are big brawny fellows. I struck up acquaintance with one in the Bazaar who spoke excellent English, and from him I learnt much of their laws and customs. He had studied English, he said, in order to be useful as an interpreter to the regiments engaged in the Frontier Mission of 1904.

I knew the regiment well with which he had then chiefly served, and was greatly interested in hearing all he had to tell. Many of this regiment had obtained distinction, one very deservedly a V.C., and others of more or less degree as circumstances had permitted them to earn. All had endured their hardships nobly, and these were of no mean account.

This communicative Thibetan told me that no prisons existed in his country, and that punishments were not often commensurate with the crimes committed. Capital punishment is only inflicted on patricides and matricides. The common method of punishment is to torture the offenders or to maim them, often most cruelly, and then send them away: hence the great number of maimed people found in Lhassa. The dress of the Thibetan and his tribe generally resembles the Kashmiri’s. It is a long loose garment, called a “pheran,” the intricacies of which he revealed to me when he loosed the waist girdle, which hitched up the skirts for day wear. Great pockets were everywhere, and in these he seemed to carry, not only all his toilet requisites, but food and, of course, tobacco and weapons as well. Ever of superlative interest was the great variety of peoples met and the marked distinctions of each tribe.

I felt the difference greatly when I first returned to this bumptious little island called “England.” The people seem all the same, and all seem to try to follow on the same lines. In matters of dress, for instance, if the fiat goes forth green is to be worn (perhaps given by some authority who has a surplus stock of it in hand), then green must be worn irrespective of taste or complexion of the wearer; if sheath-like garments are ordered by that peculiar commodity called “fashion,” then, irrespective of dimensions, all must be sheathed, and to a more ridiculous extent even than this are the vagaries of fashion carried. The headgear seemed to me superlative in absurdity. I felt quite sure all the discarded lamp-shades had been refurbished and utilised as hats, or in place of them, and their appearance in a crowded thoroughfare was like a procession of milliners’ models all neckless or seemingly so, with brims resting, or nearly resting, on either shoulder. Still, even these were better than going hatless—a silly custom prevalent a year ago. But again let me be sympathetic: perhaps motives of economy prompted this unadorned simplicity.

Yet another peculiarity has struck me of the unoriginality of my country-folk. A few words which seem to have appealed to some individual in particular, or perhaps introduced for stage effect, “catch on,” and become general without perhaps a proper knowledge of their meaning, or such, at least, as Nuttall attaches to them. “Absolutely,” “practically,” “personally,” “strenuous”; these one heard on all sides with more or less reason, generally with less, and most difficult it is not to fall into the snare. However, these are not practically Indian reminiscences, and personally do not come under my jurisdiction, and absolutely I have not the strenuous right to attract attention to the peculiarity!

Before I wander further afield from the comparatively recently united province of Assam with “a neat little slice of Bengal,” it is of historic interest to me to have been in the midst of the great demonstrations, to have seen the “much ado about nothing” which took place, chiefly owing to the ignorance of the people who, for the sake of argument, or in seeming tenacity of what they considered their rights, raised their little voices on high in opposition to wise heads who reigned over them and had the right and capability of doing so. I often thought, in all humility, that if the Government of England knew half as much generally, and of the native himself in particular, as did some of the smallest of the most loyal in her Eastern Empire, certain changes would not have taken place or resignations been accepted where thorough well-being already existed.

Mine was the interest of being present when Sir Bampfylde Fuller, then Chief Commissioner of Assam, was proclaimed Lieutenant-Governor, the first of the united Province. He was the fourth Chief Commissioner who had reigned during my partial residence in the Province, which covered a space of less than ten years. Beginning with Sir William Ward, in 1896, I might certainly with pleasing effect so far as powers of mind were capable, draw happy social delineations of each as, in close succession, they followed as Chief Commissioners. Each had his special interest and attraction; all were good friends to me. Sir William Ward reigned in the good old days of stone and solidity, and in his chief headquarters he and Lady Ward would welcome sixty or thereabouts of Europeans to their receptions and considered the number large. Associated with his name always will be the beautiful lakes in the station, which he designed and which bear his name.

With Sir Henry Cotton, who succeeded him, will ever be associated a time of dire distress, which even his kindness of heart could not avert, and it is difficult to dwell only on the good times socially which preceded and followed on the troubles of 1897.

Mr. Bolton’s brief term preceded the more important one of Sir Bampfylde Fuller, who with Lady Fuller still lives in the hearts of a people who were devoted to them.

So great is the increase of Europeans in the district that two to three hundred is approximately the Government House social list which now claims Sir Lancelot Hare as Lieutenant-Governor.

Chapter XIV

Deals with Central India

Railway travelling in India is easy and most comfortable. First-class fares correspond with third-class fares in England, and one never thinks of travelling in any other carriage than first-class. These carriages, large and roomy, are most comfortable for night travel. Attached to each compartment and opening from it is a lesser one for servants, et cetera, since to have them at hand for the exigencies of travel is as essential as the juxtaposition of one’s hand luggage. I have often thought that the superiority of attention on Indian lines is due to the fact that so many English gentlemen are engaged thereon. Men whose nerves, perhaps, overcame them at the crucial point of an examination; and who failed for this reason only to meet the appointed test. I never met with anything but the most polite and helpful attention, even more than I had right to expect. Perhaps, the bold Miss Sahib, travelling alone, excited their chivalry and special consideration!

Once, returning from Rajputana, it was a specially smart official who preceded me on the platform, and even though dressed in his guard’s uniform I could not be mistaken that I had last seen him in immaculate evening dress. I was proud to have him join me at luncheon in my carriage; he had boldly faced the difficulty of adverse fortune, and was only the better man and gentleman for it.

The only unpleasantnesses I ever had were at the hands of English women. One of these contretemps occurred at Silligurie. A compartment, as is usual, had been engaged for me. My name in large letters ornamented the windows and there was no mistaking it; yet the door was guarded by an attendant wearing other than my chuprass (badge). A heterogeneous collection of animals were being packed into the carriage.

The animals went in one by one, but there was no hurrah! from me. There were cats, there were dogs, there was a canary, and there was a small bear on a chain, and as objectionable as the animals themselves were their luggage and feeding paraphernalia. But worst of all was their owner, a shrill-voiced female, not over attractive either in dress or appearance, carrying still more “cattle” in her arms—monkeys of sorts.

We did not greet each other. With all the dignity I could muster I stood aside and allowed my servant to fight it out, though he feared the shrill voice quite as much as I did. I went to have a little conversation with the station master.

“Madam,” he said, “I dare not interfere; she is an official’s wife.” I could not even claim third cousindom with a “heaven-born.” “Were the carriage an end one,” he added, “I would disconnect and leave it.”

Needless to say he found another carriage for me and transferred my name and baggage to it. At the destination of this “happy family” I noticed they were met by a small puny gentleman with whom I sympathised too deeply to remember my grievance. The animals were again led forth one by one, an attendant for each, and in her arrangements for their comfort I know not as we glided from the station which was shrillest, the engine’s voice or the woman’s.

My next contretemps was of a more pathetic nature. I was leaving Calcutta by the Bombay night mail. For my journey the arrangements for comfort were naturally profuse. I had just left, to my thinking, the happiest residence in Calcutta, that of the best of my friends, and consequently a retinue of their servants were in attendance upon me. I had been most delightfully “spread out”; my bed ready for occupation and myself ready for it. The last salaam exchanged, it only remained for me to dismiss my own personal attendant and turn in. Two ladies occupied the other two benches in the carriage, the upper and lower ones on the opposite side. It distressed me that the lustre lent me by the superiority of my friends’ contingent of servants should have prompted these, my fellow travellers, to contract themselves. I remonstrated in vain; then, nothing loth, prepared to enjoy my own comfort. It was not long before the train’s movement, as usual, produced sleep of the soundest which in the natural course of my nature would not expend itself until Mogul-Serai and chota haziri were reached.

We were going at a fair speed, and the carriage oscillated muchly, as is their little way on the E.B.S. Railway. That, however, only had a “rock me to sleep” effect. Rough indeed was the awakening. A skinny hand, or rather a pair, were fumbling in the “frillies” of my peignoir; ribbons and lace were being ruthlessly torn asunder. Of course I screamed. My assailant also screamed: we screamed in concert, we screamed in duo. The hands relaxed one moment, then attacked my ribbons again. Then my sleepy bearer, hearing the scuffle, came to the rescue and raised the lights. From the opposite bench a figure had raised itself to a sitting posture. The upper bench was empty; its poor occupant was by my side—a slip of a girl—seemingly dazed with fear.

I grasped the situation at once, and somewhat overcome myself, did my best to comfort and reassure her. She was then crying pitifully and, what was worst of all, she now clung to me for consolation. Interference on the part of the other lady was superfluous. The panacea I thought would be found in my tiffin basket. That was quickly produced; tea and a sensation of eau-de-vie had a most soothing effect, and we were soon the best of friends and laughing at our fears. This poor little girl had attacked me in her sleep. She had been in attendance on a sick relative and was overwrought, yet in her sense of duty, even asleep, had risen for the performance of some duties for the invalid in her care.

For the historical tour in Central India I was not inclined to adopt the break-neck speed with which it is usually undertaken. I spent instead the three months of cold weather enjoying it. Nor did I start on this tour knowing it was the historical one. I was quite as ignorant as the generality of people. I desired to be enlightened. Murray’s Guide, without which no traveller’s outfit to India is complete, did the rest, and—my only literature, by the way—it was a never-failing source of interest, information and guidance. It was ever so strange to me that English people resident in India were quite content to remain in the place in which they considered they had been placed, without any effort to move out of it. I have, rather, always felt it was a duty, and certainly a pleasant one, to see all I could of the great works of creation and providence, and I have never found any education so good as that which travel so pleasantly affords. I do not, however, attempt to write a geography or history book, only my own reminiscences, and these ever so briefly from memory only, even without note or reference. It was at Mogul-Serai one first felt inclined to spend a king’s ransom over the pretty brassware, the industry of which is peculiar to the district; but at this centre I did not find the best—that was reserved for Jaipur.

The desire to see friends stationed at Allahabad occasioned a slight detour. I mention the following incident only to show up the wariness of the native. A sort of bearer-courier, more of the former than the latter (I preferred to be my own courier), had been attached to me at Calcutta, partly the result of circumstances and partly owing to an unfortunate defect in my own composition, that of having been created with more heart than head. In circumventing the native it is brains, not feelings, that should be the mentor. This man had professed great devotion and desire to serve me. I thought such qualities could not fail to render pleasant my tour in an unknown country. I had not inquired of this applicant of his country and birthplace. Suspicion was aroused (to the credit of my brain power be it spoken) at the Junction, when he asked for advance of pay ostensibly to buy a present for his wife.

“Only five rupia, missey,” he said. “I very poor man.” With my usual simplicity, combined with a fear of the native, I gave the sum required. At Allahabad on our arrival, I witnessed the meeting between husband and wife. I witnessed also the departure of my would-be devoted courier. Allahabad was his country (so do the natives always speak of the province which gave them birth). He had obtained all he wanted. His fare from Calcutta, a sum in hand; and for me there remained only the lesson never on any account to trust a native—a sad one, but nevertheless quite true. From their infancy they are taught to lie and thieve: it is part of their education, and is quite apart from, nor connected with, their religion.

In that they are really devout and in earnest, especially the Mohammedans, to whom I now specially refer. One has only to see their devotions at sunset to justify the statement. No matter where they are, flat down do they prostrate themselves, and with many genuflections and attitudinising complete quite lengthy orations. At midday in their mosques, not one but hundreds are to be seen who have found time for their prayers. To each a space is allotted and outlined, sufficient for prostrations, and in the form of the body. No benches are there or comfortably cushioned pews, only bare sandstone or marble. One of the earliest acts of a Mohammedan mother on the birth of a child is to slide it through a hole in the wall, saying in rhythmic measure “By Allah! be a good thief; By Allah! be a good thief,” and I can vouch for the fact of this prayer bearing a fruitful response! For I was literally left jewelless in this “Land of Regrets”; nor did they confine themselves to such: anything was fish that came to their nets! Even my best Melton habit did they ruthlessly deprive me of, and this I had no difficulty in recognising even when converted into a smart pair of “trews” by my khitmagur. A study of their Koran, too, is a part of their being, and it is from end to end that many of them can recite its contents in tuneful Arabic. The gift of a Koran is the Mohammedan boy’s proudest possession, and carefully wrapped up is always carried about with him.

Allahabad, en passant, is a military station, but lacks the red tapey appearance either of Umballah, Mian Mir or Rawal Pindi. The river and the fine bridge as seen from the station on arrival at once impresses the traveller favourably. This bridge, needless to say, is not the Curzon Bridge. The latter spans the Ganges, and connects Agra with Oude by road and rail. This last—one of Lord Curzon’s many practical good works for India— was opened a year later, and because of its importance bears his name. Lord Curzon’s architectural good taste was also evidenced in the care he gave to the preservation of ancient tombs and monuments—a matter apart from its own value of great satisfaction to the natives of India.

My stay at Allahabad was with friends, and therefore wholly pleasant. Hotels in India are a difficulty. I cannot speak of them in superlative terms. For one fairly comfortable you will find six you are glad to leave behind. Two which circumstances compelled me to stay in I have ever since mentally termed “The Piggery” and “The Knavery.” I know not which exceeded the other in the qualities which prompted these designations. The “Piggery,” I rejoice to say, has changed hands: may it also change character. The “Knavery” still exists, and as is the custom with the green bay tree, has a fair and flourishing exterior, but I live in hopes still that I shall hear of its conversion to the paths of sincerity and honesty.

I always availed myself whenever possible of the little rest houses to be found at most stations. These are usually picturesque little places with a servile khansamah ready to do his best for one, and the quiet in these is always delightfully restful. From Allahabad I continued my tour to Benares, which I found brimful of interest, though not a pleasant place of residence. Very dusty, there is a deficit of water, and gardens and flowers do not flourish apace. True, there is the river, but the residential part of Benares is some little distance from it. I do not attempt an historical description of this quaint old town; I confine myself to personal reminiscences. For the first two days of my stay, the honour was mine of being the guest of the Maharajah at his special house for visitors, a delightful residence, prettily situated in a well wooded compound. The rooms, quite English in detail, were handsomely furnished and spacious.

A little spiral staircase leading to the roof of the house was the scene in the Mutiny days of a wonderfully brave act. Fifty English people sheltered in the house were defended from savage onslaught by the Governor, Mr. Davis, who single-handed, with a bayonet only, cut down the enemy as in single file they ascended the staircase, and thus safely guarded the refugees until help came. But with apology for this historical detail—all the same not found elsewhere—do I proceed with facts which I am quite sure possess originality and novelty.

An invitation to present myself to his Highness the Maharajah of Benares was an honour I prized very highly and the pleasure of it was in keeping. The invitation accepted, the details of preparation for the comfort of my visit were then communicated to me by his Highness’s secretary. The Palace is on the far side of the river and overlooks it. The journey, a complicated one, was all made easy for me by the exceeding kindness of the Maharajah himself. A carriage and pair, royally accoutred, were sent to the guest house for me. This only conveyed me to the river, where a boat equally luxurious in fittings and equipment was in waiting. After crossing the river, including a little sail, there was next a mile or two to be covered before reaching the palace itself. For this a finely-caparisoned elephant awaited me.

I was quite delighted with the Maharajah’s consideration and felt myself a very proud little person. I have always found in the gentlemen of India this most pleasing characteristic—they have not degrees of politeness or of attention, they always give unstintingly of their best. Not the dog cart, or the victoria, or the barouche, according to the importance of their guest, but the best from their point of view is always given. I felt quite equal to the full enjoyment and dignity of my position as his Highness the Maharajah’s guest, and with himself I was very charmed. I have met many Indian princes, and of all I say the same—they are highly cultured gentlemen whom it was ever a pleasure to meet and converse with. In this case it was with chivalry surpassing previous experiences with which I was treated.

On arrival, the secretary met me, and after assisting me to alight asked me to wait until he had informed the Maharajah of the fact, as he wished to descend to meet me. He came, bringing his son with him, whom he presented to me, and then conducted me to his throne-room where, with father and son on either side, I was delightfully entertained. After some time spent in conversation, his Highness showed me the interests of his palace, amongst others the portraits of his ancestors, many beautiful carvings, and the chairs presented by him to Lord Curzon, over which there had been a misunderstanding, to the regret of each and the blame of neither. If I remember quite correctly he was the prince who told me very sadly of his position. He is not allowed to leave his own kingdom, and even when required to send thirty elephants for the Delhi Durbar he was not permitted to absent himself from his own country, to attend it.

On my departure he put a gold chain round my neck, sprinkled me with attar, and presented an album of views, prepared for him specially by his own photographer, to which he added his autograph and some words of presentation. He regretted being unable to accompany me on a drive through his grounds, owing to an official engagement but a carriage was waiting to take me. Also his Highness placed a boat at my disposal for the following day for a sail down the river, as is the custom at Benares, to view the ghats, buildings and palaces on the confines, landing where I chose to inspect them closer. This, needless to say, was taken advantage of. Only the burning ghat was I glad to pass quickly; that was a pathetic and pitiful sight, as taken in the passing glance. Many bodies, bound in red saloo and garlanded with marigolds, their sacred flower, were floating about in the river for the cremation to follow in turn. Crowds of natives were watching the consumption of each.

Palaces with their marble pillars and floors, the temples, the observatory (all but the weary ascent to it), and above all, the shops, with their marvellous embroideries and curios, their brasswork and their weapons, their jewellery and their carpets were all worthy of inspection. The best of these carpets were made in the jails, where curiosity also prompted me to wander, and there as elsewhere was I always struck with the comfort provided for the prisoners, especially in the commissariat department.

Chapter XV

Mission Work

Mission work in Benares is one of its very strong points, and its schools are a revelation. One of the masters of the principal college allowed me to be seated in his sanctum adjoining the classroom while he conducted his class. Its high educational nature and the intelligence of the students was a surprise, but what these youths would do with all this learning was another matter. It seemed out of keeping with their lives or the station, which by their dress one assigned to them.

English and Scotch ladies were engaged in large numbers in the Mission Field, and by each in turn was I shown their work, which we talk of at home as the “Foreign Missions” and subscribe to only according to the persuasive powers of the applicant. It was no myth or half-hearted work in India. It was their best lives that noble women were giving for a cause of which they might never see any result, and yet were they content in blind belief to labour on. The work which a German lady, Miss McPhun, was doing without any help and unconnected with any society, was of a superlative interest. She had quite a colony of poor little orphan children—who only needed that qualification to obtain entrance to her heart and home. Many were the famine cases she had rescued, and was “fattening up” to life and usefulness. The whole work of this place was done by the older inmates. Every kind of household work was carried on within the confines of this orphanage. There were schools for the little ones and classes for the elder ones, and perfect peace and happiness reigned throughout with love for its keynote. All were smiling and happy at work or at play, which latter was also part of the daily routine, and was conducted with as much earnestness as was their work.

The ladies of the different Mission schemes were all most kind in shewing me the work of their districts. The Zenanas were depressing, and of these I saw all grades; all were alike in the main detail. Women were imprisoned there, and their little minds were as small as their cages, their only occupation being their babies or their little amusements. They were like children themselves. There is no Mission work more difficult than the Zenana. Ladies cannot obtain entrance to these without the permission of the husbands, and that, usually grudgingly given, is often quickly cancelled, and is it surprising? for the entrance of even a partial Christianity means separation, loss of caste, and new lives for which they are not fitted or prepared. It is a courage past our understanding that is required to enable them to stand out and be accursed by those belonging to them. While the position of widows in the Zenana is vastly improved, those I saw excited my tenderest pity, even because of the small detail of being bereft of their jewels and pretty clothing, which is their great joy and pride.

“Sati” is now quite a matter of ancient history. The police even have the power to hinder it should need arise. Only isolated cases are ever known, and these have been clandestinely accomplished by the widow, whose grief has exceeded her reason—grief no doubt as much for her lost privileges as for the loss of her husband. The great Victoria Hospital at Benares, built by an English lady whose only condition was the secrecy of her beneficent name, is physicianed by a lady; at the time of my visit, a Scotch one. The usual kindness was extended. I was shown over the wards and then invited to tea. I fear my appetite was impaired by the admission of the doctor. She had just been depriving a woman of a limb, she said, and had she told me she had been arranging flowers, her tone could not have been more composed and cheerful.

The beautiful work done in one school on the outskirts of Benares, and the charming woman who reigned over it, was a surprise. I content myself by saying that I very much wish I could do such work so faultless and so beautiful.

I have no love or admiration for ruins, but it was interesting to see the birthplace of Buddha at Saranath, in the neighbourhood of Benares. The cells below ground were fairly intact, placed there doubtless for coolness. It was quite possible to trace out the Temple, the schools and the sleeping cells, or at least we did so entirely to our satisfaction. Investigations on this occasion were not of a solitary nature; the pleasure was increased by the company of two individuals bent on like research, a clergyman from Philadelphia, and another, the chaplain of Benares, who acted delightfully as guide.

A visit to Mrs. Annie Besant was not one of idle curiosity, and from the kindness of her reception of me she seemed to recognise this fact. Needless to say, she is not popular with the missionaries, but I do not think anyone could have aught but admiration for her in her single-hearted earnestness in her work. I found her seated native fashion on the floor of a slightly raised platform in her reception room. All was spotlessly white. Some flowers and her typewriter were a Western note—as also were the chairs placed for her European visitors. She was dressed in Indian dress, and I quite envied her the comfort of it. While her religious views are opposed to what we consider orthodox, she is nevertheless doing useful work, and from what I saw and heard, this bold brave English woman was having an elevating effect on those surrounding her and with whom she had to do. They love her, and for her great enterprise on their behalf she only has to ask in order to receive, and to receive liberally.

The Central Hindoo College was entirely built by her exertions, and if Ganesh ornaments its entrance-gate, what matters? Why not he as well as Minerva on our colleges? I only left Mrs. Besant’s presence with a sincere regard for the earnestness of her work.

The people one meets when globe-trotting are ever to me one of the elixirs of travel. English people are then always at their best, and in India we do not pull our skirts aside and look askance at other travellers. A white face is a passport. We allow ourselves to enjoy such meetings, and I have never found aught but pleasure and profit therein by conversing with the English people from all parts of the world who travel in India. It has been quite delightful to meet them there, and to learn of their lives in other stations, and often to find links of mutual friendship and interest. This was often my good fortune. To all such who may honour me by reading these pages I have the privilege here of offering my best “salaams”—a hearty greeting!

From Benares one next journeyed to Lucknow and, en passant, what a boon my namesake conferred when he, Sir William Hunter, anglicised and phoneticised the pronunciation of so many places in India. How much better is Lucknow than Laknau! How much better is Cawnpore than Kanpur, and so on!

It is with Lucknow that we are now dealing. Of the several weeks spent there, not one day passed without a part of it being set aside for a visit to the Residency. It became as familiar to me as “my teeney, weeney cottage,” but not morbidly so. There was beauty all around; there was history to be learnt; there were lives sacrificed for our country to be honoured. By the grave of Sir Henry Lawrence I read the story of his brave deeds, the consummation of which he did not live to see. His life, like his brothers’, was literally spent for India. In the Residency’s ruined walls the hole remains through which the fatal bullet passed, and the ruins of the room also remains in which the strong warrior humbled himself in prayer the whole night long for help in the great crisis.

One read of Outram, the Bayard of the East, sans peur et sans reproche, and Havelock, Sir Colin Campbell, and many others of more or less degree. A broken-down wall with outer iron guard on the slope was the scene of the entrance of the relief contingent. There is a wide expanse of plain beyond, and seated on the incline in the Residency grounds overlooking it, how one lived the scene so clearly all over again!

Mentally one saw the brave Cavanagh disguised as a native skirting his way through the enemy’s lines, carrying dispatches to Sir Colin Campbell and his regiment of foot, the tramp of the soldiers, their joy in anticipation of triumph, the rattle of musketry, the booming of guns, and with these the stirring strains of the band wafting hope to the little company of English people whom they came to rescue. Cannot we imagine the hysterical joy of the women sheltered therein?

It was Jessie Brown, a corporal’s wife, who in her dreams heard the welcome strains and encouraged the soldiers with sure hopes of delivery. A picture still in the Residency crypt describes the scene.

To this day no native is permitted to enter the little God’s acre which adjoins the Residency compound. None are permitted to view the resting-place of the brave lives sacrificed to their treachery. It is with feelings of burning indignation, and with a new fresh personal sorrow, that one reads the many epitaphs engraved singly and in numbers on the monuments there, and these are by no means complete.

It is in the memorial church at Cawnpore that the names appear in concrete form, in the order of rank under the name of the regiment they belonged to: they are there by hundreds. Monuments are all around the church, in the upper gallery as well as in the nave and chancel. Over the beautiful memorial window above the altar is a most pleasing exhibit of artistic power and feeling. A halo, always seeming to shed lustre and scintillate rays, is wonderfully wrought and placed. The subdued lights from the window assist the effect. The church was being decorated for Xmas during my visit and the intense silence that prevailed was most pleasing, for this edifice was doubly sacred.

The Memorial Well one would almost write of with bated breath. It was impossible to forget the horrors of it. The perfect scheme of statuary is of spotlessly white marble. The face of the angelic figure—the centrepiece—besides being descriptive of perfect peace, gives the idea of ineffable sadness. It seems to delineate the human and the heavenly sides of love. Surrounding the Memorial Well is a garden of exceeding beauty. No ordinary cemetery is this, and yet are there graves everywhere, each apart and secluded, alive with pretty flowers. These are the graves of the brave men who perished to save India for Queen and country, even for us.

Of Cawnpore itself I did not carry away the most pleasing recollections. It seemed much too commonplace for such a centre. It was dry, dusty and parched looking, yet was this defect obscured as well as art could meet the need. The cab windows were always of emerald green, the effect produced on viewing the landscape through them was as of a lovely fertile country! The disappointment, however, remained when the reality was faced.

One day being sufficient for the exploration of Cawnpore, I returned to Lucknow to complete investigations there. I only try to enumerate those that pleased me most. The museum was one of these, containing a delightful medley of native accomplishments. The Chattah Munzil and the Martiniere should have a primary mention. The King of Oude’s tomb—all marble—was all the more grand because of being untomblike. Then there were the monuments of gold and silver, the Mosque and Pulpit of solid silver, the fine pictures, and again was there Emambara and the beautiful Victoria Gardens in memory of our beloved Queen. I scamp the details I found so brimful of interest. I am satisfied to draw attention to them.

My method of finding out all the points of interest was perhaps unique. I went to a shop and made a selection of picture post cards, then I sought out the originals of these. It was a most successful plan. Guides there were galore. The skill lay in avoiding them and their parrot-like lessons.

It was at Lucknow or, perhaps, more likely Benares (I do not think I could have had the courage at the former smart place), that curiosity prompted me to try an Ekka ride. A brief description of the vehicle will account for the brevity of the undertaking. I did not even have my pennyworth, for like Paris and plum cake a little went a very long way. Two shafts are attached to a block of wood, something like a photographic enlarging apparatus set on end, with the wheels alarmingly close to it. A rough hood is attached somewhere to something. No springs are there, or cushions or any expenditure on ornamentation. It is Puritan in appearance and effect. I think a rope was slung somehow for a means of ascent. I found myself perilously near the driver, with whom it was impossible to avoid contact, for the top of the block was only divided by a bamboo. There was no elevation or seat. Flat you sat with trilbies dangling. However, my curiosity was very quickly appeased, and to the indignation of the driver, terra firma regained. His looks were expressive of great indignation when I hailed a cab, and in truth it was little better than the Ekka. Nevertheless, Europeans can and do travel in this quaint conveyance, and I met such in Kashmir.

“How can you?” I queried on one occasion.

“Oh, it is very bumpy,” he said, “but my only alternative, and one can bear a few bumps to see magnificence such as this.”

Chapter XVI

Ruins and Ancient History

From Lucknow one naturally passed on to Agra. The interests there exceeded the limit of time allotted to them. One could never tire of seeing the Taj Mahal or exhaust pleasure in its attractions. In moonlight or sunlight, dawn or dusk, it revealed fresh charms, and ever apparent to me was the great love which prompted it, the love of Shah Jehan for his favourite wife. One always divorced from it the fact that the magnificent erection was only a tomb and that there lay buried this much-loved woman. True, this good Shah Jehan did not accomplish his work with such an exhibition of love for his people. Labour was forced, twenty-thousand people were employed in its erection, and were ill remunerated, and many were the fatalities during the seventeen years spent on the building. Nevertheless, there remains a thing of beauty and of joy for us. A Russian nobleman compared the Taj to a beautiful woman—

“If to her share some female errors fall,
Look to her face, and you’ll forget them all.”

We find a parallel for this in everyday life.

The Taj is of purest white marble, and is inlaid with precious stones. In its carving and sculpture is evidenced the great skill of the artistic hands which designed and executed it, and with tools of the roughest and simplest kind. Overlooking the River Jumma, the King’s palace was on a corresponding eminence, and it was part of the scheme in the selection of the site that he could view it from his sleeping and favourite chambers. He was wisely frustrated in his desire to build a bridge of silver to span the intervening space. Humaon’s Tomb is another beautiful work of art, withal its surroundings are somewhat unkempt.

Not so the Taj. The grounds are beautifully designed and of extensive dimensions, and are beautifully kept. The entrance, in itself a building as large as the Taj, is quite as beautiful. The Fort again was full of interest, which is but a poor description. A part I did not like was the ordinary everyday event of soldiers being imprisoned there and undergoing punishment. Their surroundings, however grand, did not mitigate their woes, and one wished such details to be very much a thing apart.

Enclosed within the walls of the fort are the Moti Masjid and the palaces of Akbar and Shah Jehan (the former of these was used as a hospital during the Mutiny). The Jasmine Tower and Jehangir’s Palace (also enclosed) are all alike full of interest and beautiful things. In one of these I was shown amongst other relics, a large four-post bed made entirely of mother-of-pearl. It was a marvellous piece of mosaic work, and yet lacked beauty. Attached to it were quantities of dirty rags, the offerings of pilgrims who tore bits off their clothing for the purpose. Again, it seemed to me to want the application of “Sunlight” and chiefly of all, instead of its rude tawdry covering, it wanted adjuncts of the finest lace and linen, of muslin and satin. Then, indeed, with these additions, would it have been beautiful.

There were no motors or taxi-cabs in those days (1904). A visit to Fatehpur Sikri was, however, pleasantly undertaken from Agra by carriage, with only one change of horses by the way. Twenty-nine miles distant, this “City of Victory” might equally well be called King Akbar’s folly. He built it in commemoration of the birth of his son, but when the residential part of the city was fairly complete and its palaces still more so, it was abandoned, as only when so far advanced was the inadequacy of the water supply discovered. The place all the same has an immense population, but the beauty of the palaces and the Gateway, the finest in India, remain now for exhibition only.

At Agra, as elsewhere, I visited the Mission centres. There I was unpleasantly struck with the many natives wearing European costumes. I thought the high-heeled shoes and the out-of-sight adjuncts—a self-imposed armour—a sad mistake on the part of the women, whose native gracefulness was only impaired thereby, and equally must their comfort have suffered by a restraint to which they had not been trained. Neither did I admire the men’s taste in English dress. Scarlet socks, with tan shoes and straw hats, with ill-fitting English-made garments, were quite as incongruous as they were unbecoming. For this, however, the missionaries were in no way responsible, and did their utmost to circumvent the desire to don English dress with Christianity.

A brief visit to Gwalior, an important native state near Agra, only had one disappointment for me. His Highness the Maharajah was absent, but to his secretary was I indebted for the attentions which enabled me to enjoy its interest, as well as residence, as His Highness’s guest. The new palace is a striking feature. Un-Indian-looking, it is a long low building of Italian architecture. The entrance gateway is especially fine, and tiny minarettes on the flat roof are very effective. His army is one of the Maharajah’s keenest interests, and the old armoury with its jewelled swords and spears was indicative of the nobility who had given service in ancient days as well as now.

But to complete the historical tour. Delhi was the next hunting ground. It was not the Durbar year. That I was not fated to see. I fear Delhi was a dissonant note for me. It was so dusty; it was so cold, and hotel comforts were lacking. Nevertheless, I did the round. I viewed the palaces and the outlying ruins on a Sunday afternoon, which belied its name. I walked over the undulating ground which led to the fine monument, sacred to the Englishmen who fell in the Mutiny days, and I thoroughly did the Bazaar and was quite sure that the Bazaar did me, but all the same, my purchases were a source of pleasure to myself and others as well.

Lahore was altogether delightful, so fresh and clean and airy, but I felt it a relief to leave Mutiny memories behind, and from thence I was very pleased to visit Amritsur, the seat of the faith of the Sikhs, a place seemingly of secondary import, and therefore omitted by many tourists. With the Golden Temple for its central attraction I found it second to none in interest. The town itself is quaint with its high balconied and flat-roofed houses. The lake is another attractive note, and from the clock tower a line view is obtainable of the whole station. It was whispered to me that the temple’s beautiful roof was only veneered with gold, and was kept bright and intact by the offerings of pilgrims and the gifts of visitors; but the same statement does not apply to all else inside the temple. There were two doors of gold, with scenes in relief from the lives of their great Gurus (prophets). The canopied stand over their Granth, or sacred book, is also of gold. The book itself is studded with precious stones, in quaint design, with a peacock’s breast for its centre-piece, its wings, each fashioned from single emeralds, are of great beauty and size, large tassels of pearls and gold hang from each corner of the canopy, while a golden bedstead was also in evidence, supposed to have been used by defunct Gurus.

The golden walls of the temple are very beautifully inlaid with marble. They received further decoration from mother-of-pearl, lapis lazuli and other precious stones.

My visit being in the evening, I was in time to see their sacred book carried, for reasons of safety, to an inner temple. The ceremony of removal is one, in spite of its daily occurrence, of great importance. The Granth is carried on a litter to the beating of drums and singing of hymns, and enveloped in silken coverings it remains till dawn of each day, when it is replaced in its canopied stand again.

Chapter XVII

A Peep into Rajputana

The railway companies in India meet the first signs of hot weather by an arrangement both pleasant and heat dispelling. Blinds of scented matting are fixed on rollers above the carriage windows. These, continually revolving, pass at the base through iced water, and dripping into their own reservoir continue their course, shading and at the same time cooling the naturally heavy air. With the weather unusually hot for March, these were indeed a boon. I had to travel back to Delhi to get on to the direct route again, taking en route what turned out to be one of the most interesting of my visits. It was to Alwar, a native state, and therefore to me especially attractive.

A run into northern Rajputana was naturally first accomplished. I had not seen anywhere in India such scenery as awaited me there. It was wildly beautiful, yet somewhat gloomy because of its bare expansiveness, but being hilly, there was a pleasing variety. There were many imposing residences, which I learned belonged to Indian princes, and as, elsewhere, many ruins and temples. The great canal, the work, if my memory does not play me false, of Lord Hardinge, was everywhere in evidence, and one had only to hear of defective water supplies to know the boon it was to northern India, as also to appreciate its wonderful construction and power.

A day or two spent at Rewari was occupied chiefly with its ruins and a study of them, and at Hissar I had a new experience—some camel rides—a very general means of transit in Rajputana. I was struck with the ingenuity of the trunks made to fit each side of the animal. These, arranged with fittings of drawers, make the packing of them easy, as also the search for one’s belongings. While the strength of the camel seemed quite equal to that of the elephant, their skinny bony condition and sad brown eyes always excited my pity, and for this reason, as well as for their superior pace, I would express a preference for the elephant.

The Rajputs are a fine people. Men and women alike are tall and broad, and their dress is exceedingly picturesque with its elaborate hand embroideries.

It was edifying to vary the return route to the south. Nightfall found me at Alwar, and the distance may be judged from the fact that I had made an early start and travelled all day. I found myself in quite new country, and out of the usual globe-trotting district, which fact, in addition to its being what is termed a native state, was all delightful to me. An introduction to the Resident perhaps facilitated arrangements, but I am inclined to feel muchly in debt to His Highness the Maharajah himself for the intense pleasure of my visit. I was his guest, and in every detail was right royally treated. Is it any surprise one mourns this dear “land of regrets?” Where else would such kindness and courtesy be shown to a small English woman, travelling alone and with no passport save a love of travel and an insatiable desire for enlightenment? Rooms at His Highness’s guest house awaited me. A delightful victoria and pair, which had been placed at my disposal for the entire visit of ten days, met me at the station and conveyed me to the guest house.

I felt an important person as I laid me down to rest. A guard was on patrol all night, and it was to the clink of their accoutrements and the tread of martial boot that I was lulled to sleep. An inspection of my surroundings in daylight revealed, firstly, a handsome sleeping chamber, fairly English in detail, but with the Oriental decoration which always constituted a pleasing effect for me. Outside was a very trim and pretty compound. Expansive lawns were shaded with fine bougainvillias, bright poinsettias and acacias, while the flower beds were fragrant with roses, sweet peas and mignonette. Discreetly apart was a very good-looking kitchen garden, and beyond that a healthy grass paddock. Still further afield was a vast ascent which I learnt later was the Fort, but at once resolved to scale its height.

His Highness the Maharajah is a great horseman, and to the care of his ponies he gives very special attention. He told me he owned over five hundred. Watching their manoeuvres was a daily interest. A miniature racecourse was there, also a polo ground. Amongst players the Maharajah occupies a very primary place. His method of training his ponies is unique and most rational. No gates are allowed over the vast stretches on his estate given up to them. Thus over hedge and hurdle, over mud or stone walls do they train themselves to jump! Morning and evening a bugle call is recognised by them as the signal to leave their stables or return to them. The feeding hour precedes and succeeds the day, spent by the ponies, undergoing training in untrammelled freedom, in their vast paddock.

A long stone trough was required for feeding purposes. Very numerous were the sacks of grain required to fill it. It was divided into mangers, one for each pony, and each had and knew his own place, and if any invaded the territory of the other it was bumped and butted by the owner proper until it was vacated.

A correspondingly long trough was placed parallel to the feeding trough, and was filled with clear sparkling water from a sluice. After the solid portion of their repast was finished, the ponies slaked their thirst, and then a general stampede followed to the stables or the wilds as the time might be of night or morning. In their course to the feeding troughs in the morning the ponies learnt their first racing principles, and a prettier sight could not be described than their return in the evening again in answer to the bugle call. Clearing all the obstacles by the way, they scampered through wood and fell, o’er down and dell to their troughs again. My sympathies lay with the beginners, who, following in the lead of the seniors, had yet to lay aside ambition and seek, eventually, the easier jumps arranged for them. A miniature grand stand near the troughs provided a fine vantage point for this daily exhibition.

My visit to Alwar was just after the coming of age of the present Maharajah. The remains of lavish arrangements were still in evidence even to the ballroom decorations. It was a large company of English people his Highness had entertained on that occasion, chief amongst whom was His Excellency the Viceroy, Lord Curzon.

There are four palaces at Alwar; one, a new one, built on its highest point, was just completed for the Maharajah and Maharani. A second one is occupied by the ladies of her Highness. A third, by the Dowager Maharani, which I visited only to pay my devoirs to her, but the fourth I had free access to, and visited almost daily. The view from this, the Moti Dongari palace, is so fine that a room is set apart solely for the enjoyment of it. Overlooking a lake, it is connected with some handsome temples opposite by a broad marble pavement surrounding it, supported on balustrades ornamented with minarettes. A very unique feature of this old palace is the bridle pathway inside the outer wall, to the top, a luxurious arrangement of the late Maharajah to enable him to make the ascent without fatigue. My visit to the Dowager Maharani was most pleasing. She was a dear old lady, wearing a magnificent saree of cloth of gold, and was surrounded by her ladies, all very simply employed. I was unable to carry on much conversation with her, but her pleasant reception and invitation to return proved her courtesy.

The Alwar armoury amply repays a visit. It is exceptionally interesting, of ancient date and varied. Amongst laid-aside implements were many finely jewelled swords and spears, armour and all manner of accoutrements. The armour of an ancestral Maharajah proved him to have been a man of gigantic stature. The helmet and cuirass of the sixteenth century were sufficiently large for a man of seven feet high, and both were perforated with bullets. By way of ornament the hilt of the sword attached was studded with diamonds. A curiosity, but doubtless a holy relic, was the cenotaph of a defunct Rajah. Enclosed in a marble pavilion, with fine pillars of the same, were the impression of four little feet, and, sculptured near each were, respectively, a sword, a gun, a dagger and a shield. Its meaning I failed to discover, but as a great favour was made of admission, and I was requested to remove my shoes, for which canvas socks were substituted, I gauged that its importance was considerable. Elsewhere, proudly displayed to me was a solid silver table, made, the exhibitor told me, for the late Maharajah by his servants, who were greatly attached to him. Quite eight feet long, its pedestals were massive and ornate. Down the centre of it and across was an open space about six inches wide, filled with water, enclosing a crystal cylinder, which by means of some artifice revolved with realistic aquarium effect and revealed gold fish, all seemingly alive, coral, moss and pebbles.

The library was another interest I daily availed myself of. The beautifully hand-painted volumes were a surprise. The chief of these is the Gulistan, which cost alone ten thousand pounds in its production. Pictures of dead-and-gone Rajahs, some fine sculptures and jewels, formed an exhaustive collection.

The Toshakhana was the name of a great hall, the contents of which delighted me. Amongst the treasures was an emerald cup of great beauty, another was shown me of ruby, and I was allowed to sip water from each. Some fine cameos excited covetous desires, as did some swords with golden hilts set with diamonds. Some of these were of Persian manufacture, but the best were made at Alwar.

By the Maharajah’s orders I and other two guests of his were invited to meet him at a garden party at the Residency. This was accepted as a great honour, and was quite as delightful as the honour. His Highness’s band was in attendance. From his attention to the music, I judged of his love and taste for it. He especially drew my attention to his State Anthem, and added that it was composed by his own bandmaster. We played croquet, the honour was mine of partnership with His Highness, and while he easily proved himself the better player, his politeness yet made victory possible for me.

His Highness added to all his kindness by asking me if I were quite satisfied with my visit.

“Not quite,” I said, “there has been one disappointment,” and I paused for his surprised enquiry to proceed.

I had not seen Her Highness, whom I had heard was very beautiful.

He was extremely sorry, he charmingly made reply. “Stay a fortnight longer, and you shall see her.”

Her Highness was then absent from home, he most frankly explained. A prolongation of my visit I most regretfully declined.

“Then,” he said, “you must ask for something else,” and the reply was quite ready.

“An elephant to assist my ascent to the Fort,” and I felt my exceeding presumption.

His Highness’s stable was of superlative interest, and he retains exclusive right to grant such a favour.

Nevertheless, I was most kindly told that my request was granted, and he would specially arrange for me, as the ascent was a difficult one.

A visit to the elephant stable was a preliminary event. Thirty splendid animals were housed on each side of a great square, and a paddock was attached to each. A cruel story was there told me of an unfortunate accident which had just occurred. A rogue elephant let fall his precious packet of food, the mahout stooped to pick it up and replace it. Alas! the elephant seized him as he did his packets of food, squeezed and curled him up in his trunk, and finally flung him aside quite dead.

To reach the base of the Fort, a drive of a mile or two was necessary. It led through the old town of Alwar itself, a quaint little place with narrow streets and many shops bright with native things. By the Maharajah’s direction I was taken en route to see his elephant carriage. Somewhat like a long omnibus, it was capable of seating fifty people on its upper and lower platforms, and required four elephants to draw it. It was quite a unique arrangement, which I had not seen elsewhere. A proof of the attention to education was in evidence, for not only were there schools but houses also for the high-class pupils being educated therein.

True to the kind promise of His Highness the Maharajah, a fine elephant awaited me next day for the ascent to the Fort. Now quite expert in mounting, the ride in the royal red velvet howdah, rich with golden fringes, was quite delightful. The path was all but perpendicular and paved with boulders. Nevertheless, quite sure was my splendid mount. I was sorry when a halt was necessarily made, about three parts of the way up. Too steep even for an elephant, and too circuitous for its bulk—of its own accord my massive conveyance deliberately went on his knees—and I knew the time had come for my own flat feet. After a good half-hour’s climb, I found myself in a very superior position overlooking a grand expanse of country which suggested a geographical study. Quite alone, save for an attendant bearing a comfortable-looking luncheon basket, there was yet no loneliness for me. I revelled in such situations. There was much to see on top of this ancient fortress. There were the remains of an old Durbar Hall, the ruins of a Mansion House with a great four-bore cannon alongside, and minor ruins with many guns about, an artillery ground and an arsenal. Some fine shady beeches and covert jungle land gave colour to the keeper’s story that large game was still about, chiefly tigers and panthers, which in the olden days had their lairs there in plenty.

Taking my homeward descent by a circuitous route, I was greatly interested in the ruins of some temples. To discover to whom dedicated proved my archaeological studies had not been in vain, these to Siva, Sitaram and Karanji were all found correct. A small monument to the Queen of Pratap Singe, an ancient Rajah, was also in evidence. She had suffered sati, willingly suffered it, my guide told me, but one could only judge that it was to escape from what in those days was a worse ill than death itself, the hardships of widowhood.

Seated close by, ’neath a shady deodar, my attendant made a fire for a much better purpose, even afternoon tea, which was thoroughly enjoyed. Reluctantly, the descent was continued. In due course I found the elephant and the patient mahout where I had left him at the “Mathi Mora,” or elephant’s turn, and, again, at the base, my pro tem victoria, and I just wondered what our English coachmen would say and think had he been kept so waiting the best part of a day, but in India, carriages, horses and servants are for our use, and not we for them.

Of remaining interest for inspection in Alwar there was the Maharajah’s Mint. For his state he has a special coinage. Soldiers with drawn spears and loaded rifles guarded the entrance. I confess to a fear in passing these. The heaps of gold, silver and notes, spoke for the wealth of Alwar. Lying like common merchandise one wondered how it was possible to keep count of all.

Before my departure from the state I had occasion to visit the Mint, on personal affairs of a nature trying where so much pleasure had been given to me. I had given a note, for one hundred rupees, to be changed by an orderly to whom I had all right to entrust the commission. I was kept in suspense all day, owing to the change not having been brought. Confiding my annoyance to the head servant in the guest house, a search was made for the culprit. It was some time before he was found. Doubtless his sense of guilt and fear added to the knowledge of the search being made for him, prompted the destruction of my note. In tiny fragments it was found in the recesses of his turban, and he himself crouching in the dark corner of a stable. The full value of the note was most courteously returned to me at the Mint, and in return for all the pleasure I had enjoyed, even including the satisfactory conclusion to the episode, I begged a full and free pardon for the offender.

I found the Maharajah’s beautiful gardens were under the care of a countryman and were well worthy of him. The fernery was quite the finest I had ever seen, and the wondrous effects of countless jets of spray were most fascinating. A menagerie was combined within these gardens, and in its enclosure some fine specimens were caged.

The jail came in for its usual share of attention. The quantity of their manufactures of carpets and stuffs rather proved that the state of Alwar was not free from vice. A specially fine monument near the railway station had been placed there to the memory of one Fath Jang. It had not served its purpose. Fath Jang was quite forgotten. None knew even who or what he was. Judging, however, from the size of his monument he must in his day have been a burra sahib.³ The monument, in consequence of its having a large interior, had been converted into a granary, and so fulfilled an unintentional destiny of being useful as well as ornamental.

Strangely enough, a Scotch church exists at Alwar, though I saw no signs of a congregation. The chaplain was hors de combat, they told me. I felt reminded of the difficulties of the old Scotch elder who was deputed to announce to the assembled congregation that their “Meenister” was ill and could not conduct his service. After many attempts at phrasing the matter elegantly, and failing miserably, he at last lapsed into his broadest Scotch dialect, and with hands clutching his scanty locks, exclaimed, “Ma freens, ye can a’ gang hame—there will be na Lord’s Day here this Sabbath, and if any o’ ye want the consait taen oot o’ ye, come up here and try to speak.”

I have left my most important note regarding Alwar to the last, the bonbouch, keynote or mainspring of all—His Highness the Maharajah. I am sure I have inferred how good he was, and with the sure knowledge that my precious memories are not likely to fall into his hands, I freely add the rest. He was very charming, debonair and most urbanely courteous. His manners showed a happy mixture of the best points of an Indian and an English gentleman. His dress, too, was a happy combination of both nations with a silken puggaree for its Indian note. It was whispered to me that his dress was matter, and justly so, of great importance. Well, he succeeded in displaying wonderfully good taste, and added or superior to all was his own exceptional good looks and bearing. It was with sincere regret that I bade farewell to Alwar.

Chapter XVIII

A Pink City

Jaipur is quite one of the most important of India’s native states. Its size may be gauged by its population, which numbers two and a half millions. I did not require my rose-coloured spectacles there. It is already a pink city, the houses being all tinted “couleur de rose,” and the same shade is the popular one for the draperies of the natives. Weeks instead of days might have been spent over the interests and romances of Jaipur. I began by a study of its geography, and as usual found a profitable and pleasant result wherein I mentally caricatured the parrot-like learnt lessons of my youth, and the drudgery and futility of them so far as any real knowledge of Jaipur was concerned.

In ancient days the state was called Ambir, and as such dates back to 967, when it was founded by a relative of the King of Oude. Jaipur, the present capital of the state, is quite a modern city. It was founded only in 1728, by Sewai Jey Singh II., who is credited with being one of the wisest men India has ever produced. Its name, as often Jeypore as Jaipur, is taken from him, the latter syllable only signifies place, and from the name of this ruler also came their war cry Jai Jai Kali—the City of Victory, and such it veritably was. Much warfare characterized the state’s early days, and usually successful were the issues. But it is not as a warrior that the name of Jey Singh is creditably handed down and commemorated, but in the far higher place of scholar, statesman and ruler. When warfare was necessary, then in that he showed wisdom, not passion, and hence the successful results.

Imbued with the experience of ages, added to learning, modes and methods of his day, much insight is not wanted to raise the pedestal on which Jey Singh still stands. His life was not given over to the pleasures of the age, but to the advancement of his kingdom and people. The political importance of the state to-day owes its power to Jey Singh. He it was who introduced changes to benefit and raise his people, and he it was who abolished the cruel practice of infanticide—the destruction of girl babies.

Jey Singh built the new capital which took the place of Ambir (found too small), on a uniform plan with streets worthy of our great modern towns. Under his influence the state fast developed into a seat of learning, of arts and of science, which gave it a foremost place amongst the cities of the world. Not to warfare, therefore, but to a peaceful government, which left time for the pursuit of art, is due the high place Jaipur occupies to-day.

Astronomy, a favourite study always with Indian chiefs, was specially so with Jey Singh. Not satisfied with a rudimentary knowledge only, he so thoroughly mastered the science that he was able to undertake the revision of the Hindu calendar. The observatory at Benares already mentioned was erected by him for the purpose of his advanced study, as also were those at Oujein, Muttra and Jaipur, and not satisfied with the Persian instruments only at his disposal, he invented others which greatly aided his successful studies and investigations.

Such is the brief outline of the great Jey Singh II., who died in 1743 after a reign of forty-four years. I regret to say that my pet state of Alwar robbed Jaipur of some of its glory after the death of Jey Singh, and that petty intrigues followed, culminating in the murder of the Maharajah and a Regency, in 1831, unfortunately of a foolish woman. The British Government was obliged to step in. It redressed wrongs and corrected abuses in the manner which has produced the real loyalty there and elsewhere which is existent towards the throne of England. The petty pin-pricks which of late have been given a too prominent place are skin-deep only.

The loyal Indian knows that England is a boon and a blessing;to him; any semblance of discontent is only of a most superficial nature, the result of imperfect knowledge and of that smattering which usually leads to presumption, the little learning which is, at all times, dangerous.

It was during the reign of the late Maharajah, Ram Singh, whose succession as an infant of two years had necessitated the Regency alluded to, that our King, then Prince of Wales, visited Jaipur. The stately pile known as the Albert Hall, one of Jaipur’s ornaments, was built in commemoration of his visit by the reigning Maharajah, and the King, then Prince of Wales, laid its foundation stone. Jaipur was again honoured by Royalty in 1905, when Their Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales visited the state, and there the Prince shot his first tiger.

Dying without issue, this Ram Singh, in accordance with Hindu law and custom, chose a young noble, one of his clan, to succeed him, and in him we have the present Maharajah, a clever and advanced ruler who has followed in the footsteps of his illustrious predecessor.

Sir Sewai Madho is the thirty-fifth Maharajah. His loyalty to the throne of England is a strong and well-pleasing characteristic. Of this he gave strong proof in Coronation year (1902), when, at a cost of lakhs of rupees he visited England to do homage to the Sovereign. The strict requirements of his religion necessitated this outlay. He specially chartered a steamer, the Olympia, from the Anchor Line, for the transit of himself and his attendants, which numbered one hundred and twenty-five. Every article of food, and water from the Ganges as well, enough to last the voyage and residence in England, was imported with them, and so strict are the religious laws, that even the sand required for the cleaning of the cooking utensils was also carried. Workmen representing the various trades were also there, so that no need should arise for breaking caste by being obliged to utilise foreign craftsmen.

To the visitor, Jaipur at first sight presents a gloomy appearance. It is surrounded with ramparts, with strong towers at equal intervals. I studied the geography of the town from the height most easily available. Its simplicity was a praiseworthy feature. Crossed at right angles, the principal street is insertioned by many minor ones, with market-places at each centre. The chief dwellings are all faced with marble, the lesser ones are of polished stucco, all tinted pink. The Maharajah’s palace, with its fine gardens, temples and lesser buildings, is surrounded by a high wall. The ascent to it is considerable. Especially fine is the Hall of Audience in the Palace of Diwan i Khas. Of marble, with a double row of columns, its splendour may be imagined. The Jai Mander, or Hall of Victory, inlaid with mosaics and mirrors, is equally fine. I much enjoyed the garden on the roof of the Palace, and the splendid view from it, which included the lake, the alligator tanks, and a green hill, far away. I have yet to learn if India borrowed its garden roofs from Italy, or Italy from India. Anyhow the idea, if successfully worked, is very ornamental, and I hear that London has now demonstrated this sincerest form of flattery, but so far, in one instance only.

In due course I visited the Museum and the School of Arts, and was treated everywhere with Oriental courtesy. The Bazaar, commonly called the Chowk, came in for its usual share of attention. Camels, elephants and pigeons, a queer contrast, were largely in use and evidence there. As I have already said elsewhere, I thought the brass work at Jaipur the finest I had seen, and of more minute design and workmanship than at other places; a distinguishing feature is its enamelling in red, white and blue, while a preference would naturally be given for the absence of all colour save its own.

The ancient city of Ambir, about four miles distant, is situated on and overlooks a lake. Surrounded by hills, it is chiefly a ruin; only the better houses have resisted the ravages of time. The beautiful neam trees are an attractive note. Temples also are in well-preserved evidence, especially that to Mahadeo, with its golden kiosk, which is a perfect masterpiece of sculpture. The elephant ride to and from Jaipur was through exceedingly picturesque country, and save for a little undesirable heat, afforded the usual enjoyment.

Chapter XIX

Udaipur

It was by an excellent arrangement that Udaipur was one of the first places in India visited by Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales, for it is one of the most beautiful, and was calculated to give them a good impression of the beauties to follow.

That it was out of the beaten track and unique in character added pleasure to my visit. I must confess to an entire ignorance of the state, until by the merest chance a beautiful picture of “The Palace on the Lake,” by Miss Hayes, introduced me to it. There was just time for a few days’ visit before the exceeding heat would have rendered even an hour’s visit to its beauties unpalatable. Founded nearly four centuries ago, Udaipur is the capital of Mewar. Beautifully wooded and watered, and still retaining all its cold weather freshness, it would seem impossible to have seen it under happier circumstances than in those early spring days. I recall vividly its trim appearance, its beautiful lights and shades, with its waters so sapphire-blue, its pretty walks and ascents, and its many interests: even the natives seem to work up to their surroundings and be superior to their fellows!

About three thousand feet above sea level stands this fair capital of Mewar. Thanks to the courtesy of the Resident, all things were made pleasant for my visit, even residence in the dak bungalow, which I found, like all else at Udaipur, very superior.

The Lake Pichola is of great beauty, and rising above it is Mount Ellinggarh, which in the olden days was strongly fortified. The old gateways, four in number, still remain. The chief of these leads to a bridge crossing the river, while still further afield, is Ahar, where are a number of cenotaphs waiting the decease of the great ones of the house of Udaipur. From Sujjangarh Hill, still bearing westwards, a magnificent view repays the early riser. By the great gateway, called Hathi Pol, is entrance found to the city, where of special interest is the Jaggarnath Temple, a shrine well known to visitors, of Indo-Aryan architecture and of purest white marble; its fine entrance has full-sized models of elephants sculptured on either side. A pyramidal roof rises in steps from the base. Bold figures ornament the tower, while in front is a brazen shrine of Garuda. The Clock Tower adjoining is of equally fine architecture. The Maharana’s Palace of pure white marble is of quadrangle design, and stands one hundred feet high. The Eastern taste for cupolas and octagonal towers is much in evidence. Unlike most of these structures, the additions built at different periods correspond so well as to be almost imperceptible. The situation of the Palace, the finest in the station, is built on a ridge overlooking the lake. A long terrace in front is supported by a succession of arches, and so wonderfully built are they that, in spite of an insecure appearance, they support the Maharana’s stables on so firm a foundation that his elephants as well as his stud are housed in safety. The view from the Palace is magnificent, a lovely stretch of woodland, lake and hill rising to, and ending in, the far distant mountains.

The Palace on the lake, the picture of which prompted my visit, rises like an island from its depths. Again of white marble, it is surrounded with trees and flower beds with garden effect. Some idea of its beauty, with its sapphire blue surroundings, may be imagined. Its peacefulness excited one’s tenderest longings. There could be no neurasthenia for residents within its calm interior!

The elephant kindly placed at my disposal made easy for me a visit to Kankroli, thirty-five miles distant. With all so beautiful that comparisons are needless, it yet seemed most beautiful of all.

The town of Kankroli overlooks the Eklengi Lake. Mine was the privilege to cross it at sunset, a time of exceeding beauty, to visit the marble temple there, sacred to the special deity of the Maharana’s family, and which, like the Palace, rises from the waters.

A night was necessarily spent at Kankroli; although there was not another European to be seen yet there was perfect safety for the one foreigner present. The return ride, by elephant again next day, through beautiful country and a varied route, was as pleasant and entertaining as had been that of the previous day.

Tradition hath it that the founder of Udaipur, in 1588, was saved from a cruel death by his nurse, who, fearing approaching doom and death for him, substituted her own child for the infant, with whom she fled into seclusion, leaving her own child to suffer instead. The family is one of India’s best and is immensely wealthy.

Chapter XX

More Travel

My cold weather travels had not quite effected the object which had chiefly prompted them. It had not been all sunshine for me in this beautiful land. There had been a day when it seemed as if the sun had forgotten to shine, when the flowers had seemed to withhold their fragrance and the birds their songs, and when the air had seemed weighted with cold, clammy dreariness. There was mirth about, but it seemed as if one could not grasp it; as it did not appeal, so there was no response to it. They say such days are the common lot of all, and are good for us; that if we did not know the sorrows we should not feel the joys. Such stoic wisdom did not affect me. I sought a better and a practical antidote—even travel again, choosing the most wondrously beautiful of all countries—Kashmir!

“If thou would’st learn a lesson that will keep thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep—go to the woods and wilds.”

Do not fear that the sharp pain will not all the same do its unseen work. Do not fear it will be the less efficacious because its bitterness is coated with sweetness—like a nauseous mixture hidden away in luscious juiciness! Leave it alone. Be glad and try to make others so, with all philosophy available, tactfully blended with hope and trust.

Not to everyone can be vouchsafed such a perfect antidote as fell to my lot. Words can never be descriptive of the glories of Kashmir. As I read “Lalla Rookh” I was thrilled with delight, and yet Thomas Moore had never set foot on Indian soil!

From Northern Assam the journey to Rawal Pindi—familiarly known as Pindi—the starting point for Kashmir, was, in itself, varied. I had already been through the central provinces—but a recapitulation of them lacked no pleasure for me. Four days by river and rail, and then a break of a day at Calcutta, and four days again consecutively by rail, night and day, and I had reached Pindi—that second Aldershot—renowned for military red tapeism. Ten thousand troops are stationed there, and all is work of the hardest where matters military are concerned. Its great sandy stretches did not favourably impress me with the place as a residential one, but my stay was with friends and, in spite of the constant claims on my host, which proved the stern reality of military life, all was extremely pleasant for me.

There are various ways of travelling over the two hundred miles between Pindi and Srinagar, Kashmir’s Central Station. It can be driven, it can be ridden. By tonga, the most usual method, was my choice. I have already described such a vehicle. The only perceptible difference in the Kashmiri tonga service lay in the ponies; fourteen hands, instead of eleven or twelve, is the regulation height there. I suppose it was their occupation that made these quite as skittish as the smaller ones, for the ponies in the tonga which carried me were no exception, but I was too well inured to their little exhibitions to be affected by them.

There are many rest houses between Pindi and Srinagar, and an indefinite time can most pleasantly be spent over the journey. I and my tonga travelling-companion decided on three halts only; thus, two-and-a-half days were spent over it, necessitating each day an early start and a late finish, and insuring enough tonga riding to satisfy one for some time to come.

Tret, some fifteen miles distant from Rawal Pindi, made a convenient halting-place for breakfast, and Murree, one of India’s most popular hill stations, some thirty miles distant, was reached for luncheon. The intense heat at Pindi had suggested the stowing away of all superfluous wraps, a fact to be deeply regretted later, for the cold at Murree that April day was intense, and added to sleet and hailstones large as gooseberries, there was a biting wind from the snow-clad mountains. The station had a packed-up appearance. It is quite deserted by Europeans during the winter, and the houses are literally enveloped in straw, matting and boarding, to preserve them from the ravages of storm and the weight of snow. From Murree’s highest point, the view presented was of one vast forest; the bungalows, all discreetly apart, were centred therein.

In the deep valley beneath the station proper lies the bazaar or native section, which I was content to view from the heights.

Kohala, our first halt for the night, is the last stage of Indian territory. Even in the intense darkness, on arrival, one felt the exceeding weirdness of the place. Great mountains surrounded the rest-house, and a deep gurgling stream flowed in the ravine beneath.

It was with some difficulty that the sleeping household was aroused, and exhorted to attend to our external and internal wants, although absolute enjoyment of the situation made us almost oblivious of our overtaxed condition. Daylight revealed quite the best little rest-bungalow I had seen, and it was a glorified sample of all the others en route: residence in any would have been no hardship for an unlimited time; all were most comfortably furnished with luxurious details, usually non-existent.

The scenery all the way was magnificent, wildly grand and varied. Purple and white irises and maiden-hair ferns were everywhere, in a state of perfection I had never seen elsewhere.

Baramula was certainly the most interesting of our resting-places. It is the last stage before Srinagar, and there many tourists prefer to be met by their houseboats and finish the journey by river. The cold was intense. A storm on the river was very grand as viewed from a position of comfortable security. Wavelets disturbed its normal tranquility, and dashing against rocks and boundaries, produced a scene of grand chaos and turmoil. It was at Baramula that one realized the joy of a Bohemian life, and, gladly succumbing to it, revelled in it.

My first impressions of Srinagar, approached through an avenue of poplars, were not of the best. It was dirty, it was odoriferous, but therein comes the joy of houseboat life, it only being necessary to undo the cordage and drift where one lists. I contented myself these early weeks with daily trips in the Shikari or small boat attached to the “Kohala” (my houseboat). I visited the Dal Lake with its floating gardens, the Nasim Bagh with its magnificent chenar trees, the ruins of the great Shalima Palace of “Lalla Rookh” fame, and the bazaars, a never-failing source of exceeding interest in this Asiatic Venice.

By the end of May, when the heat becomes severe, very much owing to the enclosed and sunken position of Srinagar, a general exodus is made to Gulmarg. There the Resident and all the officials take up their abode for the hot seasons.

Situated on the Pir Panjal mountains, and five hundred feet higher than Srinagar, Gulmarg is one vast fertile meadow, overgrown with flowers—hence its name, “Flowerland.” Until late years it was a rural resort only, now to the regret of many it has become a scene of gaiety and fashion. However, visitors desiring quiet have the option of choosing Pailgam, Sonamarg, Gerais and other unfrequented places.

I added variety to the more ordinary ride up by tonga, by overtaking the first stage, i.e., from Shadpore to Palhallam, by river, in a delightful shikari kindly lent me by the Governor of Kashmir, and there mooring for the night, I continued the journey next day on horseback with an ekka for baggage and servants. In consequence of the early part of the way being on the flat, the latter part rises steeply and is very trying, added to which is the discomfort of rarified air to which the visitor has yet to become accustomed.

A few months can be very pleasantly spent at Gulmarg by those prepared to rough it, but that is a necessary condition. There is one hotel only, constructed of wood and in sections, i.e., a dining, and reception or ball-room form one large central arrangement. Surrounding it are a number of small huts for bedroom accommodation. The going to and from the central hut in the rain was not a joy.

Visitors are considered very fortunate when they can secure any of the huts available in the station. These, like the hotel, made of rough planks only, with thatched or wooden roofs, can be quite comfortable with numerous appliances and contrivances, and, at least, are always prettily situated and surrounded. Tent life is the only alternative. Such was my necessary choice, but pitched alongside the hotel I had, with many others, the advantage of messing there. Many were the adventures and vicissitudes of this open-air life, but in such gorgeous surroundings, with an atmosphere like one long draught of champagne, the result was an exceeding enjoyment of everything. The nightly routine was a succession of gaieties; there were balls, dinners, theatricals, and concerts of a very superior description, while tennis, polo and golf provided plenty of occupation for the day hours. The golf course is one of the finest but most difficult in India.

Of tours to be accomplished in one day’s march from Gulmarg was Killenmarg, five hundred feet higher and, Apharval, seven hundred. The lakes at Apharval, only free from ice in July, were one of the attractions there. A wonderful echo was another, while flowers were in beautiful profusion everywhere.

It was on pony-back the ascent was usually made. I cannot call it riding—there being a mere apology for a saddle, with a rope bridle or leader; one simply sat or tried to sit on the shaggy, unkempt, four-legged thing, and ’twas best to let it go as it would, without hindrance. Wondrously surefooted are these hill ponies, and with the pathway often little more than boulders and tree-roots, yet they may be trusted to get one safely over all. The descent is better undertaken on foot. My attempts to do otherwise resulted in an awkward position. The saddle (none too securely fixed or fitting) became unfastened, and I slipped somewhat ignominiously over the pony’s head. I rejoiced there were no cameras about. On another occasion was the reverse feat accomplished, and saddle and I were left in a thicket: such mishaps were all part of the day’s enjoyment. The circular road which zig-zagged round the pretty plateau, called the station, provided less adventurous riding, and scenery most beautifully wild and varied.

It was my good fortune to see the latter part of the ride with the setting sun upon it; its glories veritably can never be forgotten. Those who have not seen Kashmir are apt to call its pictures exaggerated, while those who have seen it readily acknowledge that the best of colouring falls short of the original. From pink to purple was each ridge dyed as the sun’s rays fell on them, the deep purple shade is from the heather and the red from the bright creeper which grows there so plentifully, yet their colours are only visible when the sunshine is on them.

Beautiful nature in the wooded valley baffles description. The larches and pines are of gigantic proportions. Fallen trees, forming rustic arches, were overgrown with pretty climbing and creeping plants. Little rushing streams formed pretty waterfalls in their downward course. A great tree lying as it had fallen was picturesquely overgrown with gentians and wood anemones. Mosses and ferns carpeted the ground in pretty designs, and beauty was everywhere, overpowering with its delights.

Deep khuds on one side of the path are a mass of verdant beauty. One of these leads to the Ferrozopore Nullah. The descent is decidedly trying, but there is a full return. The nullah or stream has a wide stony bed which it almost entirely deserts in the hot weather. At other times fish of sorts are obtainable, but while the sport is poor, the fish are still more so.

The varied temperatures are one of the peculiarities of this wondrous country. From the brisk and biting cold of Gulmarg, we found in the nullah intense heat at midday, with a return to still greater cold at nightfall when the return to Gulmarg was made.

Situated on one of the highest summits in Gulmarg, is a tiny cemetery, which an unusual impulse prompted me to visit. Only nine graves were there in its confines, all prettily garnished with plants and shaded with cypress trees. The ages of the dead ones varied from a babe of nine months to a Lucknow veteran of eighty-four years. I watched the finishing touches being put to a tombstone and grave, the latest and the newest there. It bore the name of Captain Hugh Stanley Gough, who had died in Gulmarg under circumstances of the saddest. I knew him well and had recently seen him in robust health in Eastern India. Ignorant of his untimely fate, it was by a peculiar coincidence that I should unexpectedly view the last attentions to his resting place.

A snowstorm in early October hastened the departure from Gulmarg of its remaining visitors, the exodus previously being gradual.

Chapter XXI

The Asiatic Venice

We returned to Srinagar to find lovely weather, although rather too hot at midday. October is the month par excellence for touring, and a time of great preparation precedes it. Firstly, there is the choice of a boat—no easy matter, with the supply not equal to the demand. I had less difficulty than the generality because, howsoever Irish it may seem, I decided on having not a houseboat, but a doonga. This, to all intents and purposes, is the same, but being lighter is much more easy to navigate, and can go where the superior, withal more lumbrous house-boat, cannot.

The one I selected, about thirty feet long, suited my requirements admirably. It contained under its thatched roof divisions for dining, sleeping and bathroom, with tiny pantry. A kitchen boat floated behind, to be drawn up alongside during meal hours, and left discreetly behind during cooking operations.

My search was attended with some amusement. Each boatman, not content with telling you what a good man he is, tells you how bad his fellows are. “Just see my chits,” he says. “I only good honest man: all other mens bad.” Attracted by the clean appearance of a boat, one enters into negotiations with its owner. All is suavity, politeness and anxiety to give service. Possession taken, then the difficulties begin. Naturally one is anxious to start promptly, but, alas, the boatmen will it otherwise, and so the battle begins. One of the crew gives the time-worn excuse he wants to go and bury his grandmother, another realises he needs the assistance of the washerman, and so on, until one is nearly distracted, but finding it better to make a virtue of necessity, resigns one’s-self to the inevitable.

The selection of boatmen, too, is an anxiety. The Kashmiri is of all animals the most difficult to deal with. He is splendidly veneered, the result of so much contact with English gentlefolk, but it is well to have some understanding of his natural character in order to be able to deal with its peculiarities. To his statements must always be added the proverbial grain of salt. His irritating impudence must be met with exceeding composure, and only when mastery is effected is there a semblance of docility. Docile he never really is at heart. He is a coward, feigns submission only, and will break out on the least provocation. I had a sample of this on one occasion. My head-man or hangi feigned illness; the more sympathetic I was the worse he became. Then the truth dawned on me, and I waited my opportunity to land and strand him. Fortune favoured me. Help was at hand, for I feared opposition. On the same day as my resolution was taken a Sahib’s boat hove in sight, and I only needed to lie alongside to carry out my intention. It happened to be a boat of Kashmir’s Maharajah, with His Highness Rajah Sir Amir Sing on board, who, after sending his salaams to me, came to pay me a visit. I told him with assumed earnestness of the trouble. He, quite understanding the situation, volunteered assistance to land the invalid. Thus was it accomplished without resistance.

Only manned by women and boys, I anticipated a peaceful time, but quite the reverse was the result. The two wives, for such they were, quarrelled so violently for supremacy, that I feared bloodshed and was more than ever perturbed. My ruse, however, had succeeded. When at the appointed time and place I moored for the night, there stood my delinquent Sultana, smiling and quite well again, and salaaming, desired to be taken on board. Needless to say I was glad to do so. I had previously thought the women so superior to the men. Now I know that their apparent gentleness is only due to the tyranny of the men, and that while they are quite as able to manage a boat as the men, they yet need in turn to be managed and controlled, and if I may venture to say so, in this suffragistic age, a general parallel may be found all over the world, and I unhesitatingly give my vote for male supremacy, tempered by the love and gentleness of women.

Many pictures are drawn of the Kashmiri. I add mine to the list with the foregoing characteristic incident as an illustration.

The young women as a rule are beautiful, with classic features and rosy complexions. From wide, low foreheads their hair is divided into plaits, often shed with wool when necessary to increase its length, and when reaching to their knees is matter of great pride to them. Their garments are picturesque, but like themselves are usually very dirty, but upon this they pride themselves as a pledge of respectability. Their long ill-shaped garment, called a pharan, is usually of some bright colour with wide open sleeves always turned up with white, open at the neck, a wide tuck round the knees, whether for thrift or ornament I never ascertained. On the head, placed lengthwise with its four corners falling to the back, is a white sarree, generally dirty, yet always exceedingly picturesque. Quantities of tawdry jewellery in the form of necklets, ear-rings, bangles and anklets are always worn.

The men are less pleasing. In appearance very Jewish-looking, they always reminded me of pictures in a Bible history book. Their upper dress is the same as the women’s. Pantaloons replace the full skirts of the latter. The fashion of these was long a mystery to me. They resemble wide divided skirts, with the fulness hitched up to either side. Their children are early turned to account, and trained to work, for tiny boys of six are classed with the crew as men (admis), and for them rations are desired as such.

My commissariat preparations for touring were of the simplest description. I had resolved to abide by the products of the country as far as that was possible, and found it was only quite necessary to carry such details as tea, coffee, cocoa and such dainties as were inseparable from personal ideas of necessity. I viewed with surprise the English tinned stores carried by the majority of tourists, and quite well knew their probable destiny.

Mutton at a penny a pound, or a whole sheep for one shilling and eightpence, was of the best. Fruit and vegetables of the finest were always procurable by the way, also milk, eggs and fowls. The boatmen fished, and to have supplies of wild game offered by shikaris (native sportsmen) was of frequent occurrence. Teal, snipe and chicoor (the Kashmiri pheasant) were the chief of small game, and this blended into soup was a dish quite fit to set before a king; native flour made delicious bread and cakes, and after a lesson or two given on the forepart of my doonga to my pro tem cook, I was daily supplied with the freshest and best.

This excellent flour is made from the singara nut, which grows chiefly in the Dal Lake. When ripe the nut rises to the surface, then breaks off and falls to the bottom. Women and children fish it up, dry it and grind it into flour. In its entire state, the nut resembles a chestnut, and fried with butter is both good and nutritious. A red wine is made in Kashmir, but I should not like to stake my reputation on an opinion of it, and, indeed, would advocate for many reasons total abstinence in Kashmir. Owing to the immense duty on wine it is very expensive, and as a stimulant it is a superfluity. The invigorating air is all-sufficient as such.

I found the modest sum of 9 or 10 annas a day quite covered my culinary expenditure, and I rejoiced the heart of Sultana, my factotum, by giving him daily a sum corresponding to our shilling for the purpose, and on that I fared luxuriously and lacked nothing. I believe expenses have increased since that happy year of 1904, but even now one would grow rich on the balance over English prices.

It was quite in keeping with the requirements of a doonga houseboat and a Miss Sahib to place all messing arrangements in the hands of the head boatman. He was captain, cook and butler in one, and in his latter capacities he never failed me. He was an excellent cook, and having the profits in his own hands, took great pride in his arrangements. For a more personal attendant I carried a Kashmir durzie⁴ on board, chiefly for the manipulation of embroidery for which Kashmir is famous, and at six annas a day I found him an interesting addition. Only give him materials, skeins of silk and a few ideas of what is wanted, and the designs, preceded by tracings only, seemed to flow from his clever fingers, and the result for me was a pile of beautiful work.

Having experienced every possible difficulty at the start, my pleasure was perhaps the greater at last to glide down the Jhelum—muddy and dirty in itself, but with surroundings of the most picturesque and beautiful. The Maharajah’s palace, Shir Gharhi, was one of the imposing buildings passed. Already introduced to it, I became later better acquainted with it. Then there was the Museum and there was the Residency. Under most popular sway⁵ during the year of my visit, the entertainments and gaieties there were always of a most lavish description.

Seven fine bridges spanned the river at intervals and served to locate places. The merchants, for instance, always gave the address of their shops as being at or near one of these.

Beyond them the river becomes wider and cleaner, and new open scenery engages attention. Houseboats and doongas returning from tour are a pleasing excitement. Everybody knows everybody, and hurried greetings are shouted across the waters. Little boats, laden by wary merchants with fruit, flowers, vegetables and all houseboat requirements, are rather a pleasing hindrance.

Srinagar itself deserves a word, before it is left behind for the time being. Slightly back from the river, it yet extends to it. Its old houses, piled storey above storey, look in their frailest and last stages of entirety, and as if any moment they might topple over like a house of cards. No glazed windows at all have these quaint dwellings. Apertures there are in substitution, but always open in the hot weather, they are completely closed with paper and boarding in the winter. Many a time in pursuit of wares I had been to the top of these houses, and found them clean and airy, and with strong stone spiral staircases which quite belied their outward appearance.

Of English residences adjoining the old city proper there are few, and these are for officials only. There is a missionary settlement and a famous boys’ school under the management of Mr. Tindall Biscoe, whose splendid work and devotion to a self-imposed missionary enterprise has done so much to raise the tone of the boys.

Teaching them aquatic sports and boating on scientific principles, he has raised to respectability a pleasant occupation, one that was formerly relegated to the lowest orders, and because it was specially theirs was avoided by the higher class Kashmiri boys, even as an amusement.

The Maharajah does not encourage building, and upon wisdom is his objection founded. Srinagar is subject to floods—but apart from this, houseboat life is far preferable. Anything else is out of place in this Asiatic Venice. A flood of a most disastrous nature, the year preceding my visit, was still a pet theme of conversation. Srinagar was quite lost to sight for the time being, even the tallest trees were submerged. Queer tales were told of a piano and furniture generally floating on the surface of the waters, and of the chaos and confusion existing when the waters subsided. Fortunately the loss of life was small; the inhabitants had sufficient warning to find safety in boats.

In the carpet factories, one of Kashmir’s greatest industries, fears were entertained for their safety, but when the waters subsided it was found little harm had been done, and that carpets, submerged for weeks, came out uninjured. Mr. Mitchel, perhaps the largest of manufacturers there, told me that he attributed the durability of these dyes solely to the peculiarity of the water with which they were blended.

A visit to his factory included a lesson in carpet-making, and was most interesting. Boys from six years and upwards, and men and women were engaged in the work, and so mechanical was it that the actual workers knew nothing really of the beautiful patterns they were weaving! These were read out to them, as they sat in front of the great screen on which was fixed the foundation string work of the carpet on which the designs were worked. These patterns, on which we tread so heedlessly, were worked out as carefully as Berlin wool church work—“four white, lift six, seven black, three blue, eight green, lift four,” and so on, the reader monotoned, and for one wrong stitch to cause a flaw in the design, without hesitation was the work stopped and undone.

This factory was the scene of one of the quaint incidents caused by the floods of 1903. When the waters subsided, one of the owner’s houseboats was found stranded on top of his bungalow! History doth not relate how it was dislodged from its inconvenient perch. Such excitements are not likely to occur in Kashmir again. A flood spill channel has been constructed, a mile above Srinagar, and should there be an overflow, owing to excessive rain or the bursting of boundaries after severe frost, the surplus, it has been proved, will effectually be carried off to the Woolar Lake.

Chapter XXII

Hills and Valleys

While my boat is drifting down stream, I too, have drifted far from the subject in hand.

My tour on this occasion was to Bandipur, via Shadipur, to the Woolar and Manasabal Lakes, and Gunderbal, the starting point for the Scinde Valley and Sonnamarg.

Previous to starting I had adopted my usual course. Taking my boatman with me, I had learned my geography lesson on the top of the Tukt-i-Suliman, or Solomon’s Mount, which rises one thousand feet above and just beyond the station. The route I chose was quite an ordinary one, but possessed the novelty of originality for me, for I had only studied the landscape to find it out. “Take me there,” I pointed out to Sultana, my boatman; “and there and there,” pointing out to well-watered scenes of intense beauty, “and we shall rest by the way in the most beautiful of these.” There was no choice: they were all beautiful.

Going down stream, my little floating home was paddled and steered as need required. Up stream it was towed. A procession of the crew was formed. A tiny tot of four years pioneered the contingent, followed in close gradation of age and size until Mrs. Sultana found place, followed by her tyrannical master, Sultana himself. A rope attached to the baby leader was wound in turn and crossed round each of the others, the chief burden resting with the seniors, the wife, if not Sultana himself.

These each sang in rhythmic measure words corresponding to right, left, right, left, in order to keep in step and time, and this, with its semblance of converting hard work into play, was most fascinating. One false step and the consequences were disastrous. On more than one occasion, the valiant little leader fell, but as the towing is the alphabet of their education, they are encouraged to persevere in spite of accidents. This initiatory work, however, was gently enforced at start, and in rotation the little ones were released before overtaxed. When allowed on board again I found rosy apples or pice a much appreciated reward of merit for their efforts. These precocious, amphibious little imps, having a very correct smattering of English, were a pleasure to me, and an audience of them became a part of the daily routine. Their devotion was tested one fine day. Regardless of the breeze and the unfettered state of the writing materials in front of me, on the little table which formed an important part of my baggage wheresoever I went—like Mary’s little lamb it was sure to go—the loose papers went in all directions into the water. What was I to do? My precious MSS.! A part of my very being! In an instant of time and without application from me, each urchin dived overboard, and almost before the water had time to saturate them had returned and laid all intact before me. It was the low temperature of their bath which troubled me. A few days previously I had had an uncontemplated immersion and so knew something about it; a raft had slipped which formed a temporary gangway, and the result for a few moments in deep water was the reverse of pleasant. Equal to all emergencies, however, Sultana quickly fished me out. A sunbath was effectual in counteracting ill effects, and depredations repaired and clothes dried, I learnt to gang more warily on these loose planks in the future.

As we had no trains to catch or engagements to meet, my touring was conducted on the most dolce far neinte of principles! For the rest fulness of my small crew I ordered a halt daily for luncheon, which they enjoyed immensely; it enabled them to have their midday meal together, and then lay out on land for their customary siesta.

We always anchored, or more correctly speaking, tied up, for the night before dinner, and it was never my wish to start before early tea in the morning.

I loved to go on shore for that, and share it with the pretty blue kingfishers. A few rosy apples on my table never failed to attract them, so tame and friendly were they, they perched uninvited and picked at them.

Was there any loneliness for me? No, never. True, it was just the country and occupation in which to enjoy limitless congeniality, but that must be of the truest and best.

“Two hearts—yet one beat. Two souls—yet one life.”

“The gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling,
That soft from the lips of some lover are stealing,
Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.
Oh! best of delights, as it everywhere is,
To be near the loved one. What a rapture is his,
Who in moonlight and music thus swiftly may glide,
O’er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side!
If woman can make the wilderness dear,
Think, think, what a heaven she can make of Cashmere.”
— Lalla Rookh (Moore)

I had heard the tale of a husband and wife doing an inland camping tour. A mishap occurred, which resulted in the kiltie⁶, containing all the kitchen utensils, going over the precipice. He bravely and uncomplainingly went in search of them. She took their two best ponies, and without one word of farewell, returned to civilization and centrality and .. . . But I am drifting again, this grandest of September afternoons.

The scene was one of exceeding beauty and peacefulness. The sun was low on the waters, dyeing them crimson with glorious shades from the autumn-tinted chenars. A vast expanse of low-lying wood and fallow-land lay beyond, and on all sides were mountains, magnificent in their extensiveness, their grandeur, their awesomeness. There could not be better place for “tying up” for the night. I was not singular in my choice. Other boats had also here made selection. Banyere by name, it was a junction from which various courses diverged.

Until the nights became too cold, I elected to have dinner ashore. On this occasion it was under the beautiful chenars that my table was placed, and arranged with all care and daintiness. The Kashmiri does not expect you to picnic it, he is quite as particular about his floral decorations as his culinary skill, and so, as I have already said, one roughed it quite smoothly, and hence the additional attraction of this Bohemian and nomadic life. A lamp suspended from the tree supplemented twilight, and a little camp-fire was surely alight.

I revel still in the mere recollection of that glorious life, and this, my first night of river touring, was a sample of all to follow. After dinner there was a moonlight stroll and then rest, to the lullaby of the rippling waters and gentle breezes, with only a thin raft or loose thatch intervening between them and me.

Sultana elected that we should make an early start next morning, his ostensible reason being that I should wake up to see one of the most magnificent scenes in Kashmir, while, perhaps, underlying this was his desire for undisputed possession of the tributary from the Jhelum which led to the Woolar Lake.

His plan succeeded admirably in both ways, and mooring just in view of the picture, he let me lose none of it.

I feel powerless to describe its beauty, as, bathed in the rising sunshine, it changed its effect every minute.

The lake is fifteen miles long and twelve broad at its widest part. The mountains surrounding it, boldly ridged and rocky, were for the most part that September day snow-crowned, and mirrored in the deep blue waters the downward view was as beautiful and wonderful as the upward, with the sky’s reflection all but as blue.

Woolar signifies a cave, and it is said that a city lies buried therein. Many boats on the outskirts of the lake, with women and boys on board and at work, gave me an opportunity of seeing the Singhara nut dislodged from its depths. This they accomplished with the help of long poles with iron mallet-shaped tops.

My boatmen assured me that crossing the Woolar was fraught with danger. Squalls arise suddenly and upsets result. They would say their prayers at start, they said, and with this protection I pretended to be pacified, but inwardly knew no power on earth would force them to start had they feared danger or even seen signs of it.

So in a blaze of beautiful sunshine we crossed the lake at midday. Sitting quietly on the tiny deck, if there were any fears they were counteracted by the exceeding splendour and privilege of the position.

We moored on the outskirts of the lake, and on a little tributary from it towed up to Bandipur next morning. A herd of ponies girth-deep in the waters were feeding on the begonia-like leaves floating on the surface; a flock of sheep at lesser depths also found these leaves palatable, and provided at the same time an effective picture for the artist’s brush.

Bandipur, important as the starting-point for Gilgit, Tragbal and Gerais, is, in itself, a quaint little hamlet, lying at the base of Haramukh, which rises seventeen thousand feet above sea level. The lesser heights of Grashibari intervene. The scene, rich in autumn tints, burst upon one like a glad surprise with the last bend of the river. Even thus late in the season were flowers galore. The hill-side was rosy with daphne-mizereon, and again yellow with handsome umbelliferous plants growing from two to three feet high. Anemones, violets, tulips and roses were everywhere.

Tradition hath it that on the highest peak of this great Haramukh there is an emerald so powerful as to render snake bites innocuous, and, of course, one receives the statement with due solemnity, nor ventures to ask if anyone had been there to see or test it. Snow falls on Haramukh all the year round, and so provides a cool breeze and a cool vision always.

With the object in view of attempting the ascent to Tragbal as well as for a prolonged enjoyment of the Woolar, we pitched camp at Bandipur. In the hold of my little doonga were stowed all camping requisites, and the dexterity with which all were arranged and every need met excited unlimited admiration. The joy was mine, not being blasé, of finding interest in every detail. No orders were needed or given. All was taut and trim without, and over a bright fire breakfast arrangements proceeded apace.

My first care was to explore the village and find supplies, and in this enterprise there was no difficulty. The quaint little shops possessed everything from a needle to a pony, and all so cheap that one felt ashamed to carry off so much for so little. The post office was quite the quaintest I had ever seen, with a receptacle so large that I feared to drop my letters in. I might have quite well dropped myself in as well! I ventured inside, not through this yawning aperture, but by the doorway, to find a goat inside, evidently in undisputed possession and keeping guard, as it were, with appearance so formidable that I as speedily retreated. To the credit of this unique office be it spoken, that my correspondence all safely reached its desired destination.

A few days were delightfully spent at Bandipur, and with them came October’s month and additional tints of buff and brown.

Chapter XXIII

An Emperor’s Palace

In spite of all remonstrances I resolved to attempt the march to Tragbal, one of the two routes by which Gilgit, some two hundred miles distant from Bandipur, is reached. From April to September this road is practically closed. It is only at either of these months that the garrison there is or can be relieved.

Snowstorms were the hindrance to be feared; however the return road was always available, but would not be adopted unless necessary.

Preparations included a couple of ponies, a few coolies, supplies, and, of course, my factotum—Sultana. Much facundity had been required to retain my position as mistress, and at the same time overcome his scruples. One had always to divine between inherent laziness and seeming solicitude for the tourist. I had all sympathy with him, but would not lightly give up the attempt, and so, for weal or woe, we started. The first part of the ascent was so good that I felt quite sure of success. A break at the fifth mile for rest and breakfast was also utilized for the donning of warmer clothing.

With a decidedly decreasing temperature we had all but covered the tenth mile, when a band of coolies returning from Gilgit gave us unfavourable reports of the state of the country. Snow was falling heavily on the Tragbal Pass, they said: to proceed was foolish if not futile. Sultana maintained a praiseworthy silence, but “I told you so” was written on every feature of his face. The postmaster, my chief source of knowledge outside Sultana, and my own observatory powers, had told me that there was a rest house at the twelfth mile. I decided my ambition should extend no further, and felt sure that such would be the choice of my little contingent, in preference to a return journey thus late in the day.

With an altitude approaching nine thousand, the cold was intense. There was no sunset to lighten surrounding gloom, and there was just a touch of depression about. However, the rest house was at hand.

The ascent for the two last miles was stiff and rugged, and the last mile was accomplished in blinding snow. It was not surprising to find the bungalow half buried therein. There was a drift as well as a fall. Assuming an exuberance of spirits I did not really possess, I made as light of the situation as possible, and promised the usual panacea. Cheering the little company on to work, it was in an imperceptibly short time that a clearance was effected and entrance possible. We found a very tiny abode, quite the tiniest I had ever been in, but very large was my gratitude.

Bright fires were soon alight, edibles unpacked, and, wonderful comfort was there ready to be enjoyed, and most thoroughly was this accomplished. I chose the lesser of the two rooms available, and with camp arrangements of the smallest, yet complete and tasteful, the effect was quite delightful. The little camp bed revealed a snowy interior under its leather-lined fur exterior. Air cushions with bright covers added no weight to baggage and much to effect. Then there was a camp chair and table and other comforts of more or less degree. The clever little Kashmiri boiler soon sent forth volumes of steam in proof of its luxuriant supply of boiling water, and shaded lanterns suspended from the rough rafter roof were at once useful and effective. Nor were flowers lacking; each coolie contributed a share picked by the way, and little congres⁷ were always available for their reception. It never occurred to me that details were not “worth while.”

Beauty and order are essential to happiness, and are a very simple and inexpensive part of it.

Outside, the scene was one of exceeding beauty. The moon’s first quarter was doing her best to light up the snow, which was lying in piles of drifted purity all around. The vast undulations below were in shadow land. The Woolar, the Jhelum and its tributaries, all in evidence, were still and peaceful-looking in the far distance, and with their weirdly grand bulwarks of mountain were only a mainspring of happiness and sweet contentment to me.

The morning’s view was quite as beautiful as anticipated. I raised longing eyes to Tragbal’s Pass, now so unattainable, because of its increased beauty, and then reluctantly prepared for my ignominious return journey.

With pathway of the roughest, I was prepared to walk the greater part of the descent, and for this had assumed the footgear of the country. Over a tan leather sock is worn a flat-soled sandal, with an upper part of narrow-plaited leather straps; these, like all else in the country to meet its requirements, I found most advantageous. I was further indebted to the country for my costume, a coat and very brief skirt of puttoo, bound with leather, a Pachmina cap and gloves, and thus attired I defied the cold to enter in.

After the first mile or two, when we had a blinding snowstorm to contend with, aspects were always delightful, and by midday we were into sunshine so bright that my little shikari tent was pitched for lunch and siesta. By sunset we had reached Bandipura, fully satisfied that the best had been done to visit the Tragbal Pass. I had learned, too, that if ever it was my good fortune to visit Kashmir again, I should choose the spring time in preference to the autumn, for touring. Now there was the ever-pressing need to hurry up, when otherwise there need only have been anticipation and a pleasant time of waiting.

In order to re-cross the Woolar in bright moonlight, I prolonged my stay at Bandipura as long as possible. Again my men expostulated, and again I had my way. It was a magnificent pleasure, one never to be forgotten. Gently gliding down the stream, we dipped into the lake about midnight, and crossed it midway at its deepest and widest part. The sky itself was not more bright than the calm surface of the waters with their myriads of reflected stars. The mountains, gaunt and stem by day, were softened and sympathetic in the moonlight. The paddling of the oars, the gentle rippling of the waters, were as a musical accompaniment to a picture-song. We moored on the far side of the lake, and satiated with the beauty of it, I felt in love and charity with all mankind.

Regaining the Jhelum at Sombal, we made for the tributary which led to Manasabal. If ever I had been tempted to doubt the expediency of a doonga, in preference to a houseboat, I did so no longer. On nearing the Manasabal Lake, the river was so low that even the doonga had to be discarded half way, and it was only in mere cockle-shells that we could finish the course to the lake and convey the necessary camping-out kit. My crew as usual proved themselves expert. Some four or five boats were requisitioned, and it was in an incredibly short time that my little camp was all spick and span on the far side of the lake. It was an ideal camping ground under the chenars, now beautifully crimson in their autumn splendour, and one wished one’s stay there was for eternity, and not for a fleeting space only.

If I can give any description approaching adequacy of the superb beauty of the place, a faint idea of its corresponding pleasure may be imagined. Leaving the little flotilla to the care of his subordinates, Sultana took upon himself the duty of piloting the Miss Sahib to the lake. It is only with rapture even now that I can think of the magnificence that followed the last bend in the river, when the beauty of the lake lay unfolded before me.

About two miles long and one and a half broad, it is fairly deep. Bathed in brightest sunshine, its waters, clear as crystal, gleamed and glistened with rainbow-hued brilliancy. I cried aloud in my delight, and begged that even the oars should cease their play and leave me the enjoyment of undisturbed silence. Blue sky, mountains and sunbeams, were repeated in this wondrous nature’s mirror stretched at their base, like a beautiful companion picture, a replica of the whole. Then, in its depths, most marvellous of all, like a vast aquarium, were a mass of living things, plants, mosses, ferns, the larger leaves floating on the surface, while long mossy tendrils played Paul Pry with tiny gold and silvery fish. There was no unkempt beauty here! All was taut and trim, as if the most masterly hands were ever at work to make and maintain order.

High above the lake, at its entrance, were the ruins of the Emperor’s Jehangir’s summer palace and terraced gardens. There, centuries ago, released from the arduous strain of his great empire, the statesman and his court sought rest from care and from the intense heat of the plains to revel in the delights of the Happy Valleys. One wondered if his fair ladies had aided and abetted nature in its decorative scheme, and perhaps had share in its beauteous designs! White water-lilies and brown-tipped reeds bordered the outskirts of the lake, and the sward beyond, trim as garden lawn, maintained with effect the apparent scheme of cultivation. Some stray sheep, asleep, buried in their own fleecy whiteness, were alone responsible for the well-trimmed lawn. The rosy-red chenars were still glittering with their early dewy freshness, and only the sapphire kingfishers were astir chanting a hymn of praise for the world still asleep.

It was almost too prosaic, amidst such splendour as this, to note, albeit by a wise dispensation of Sultana’s, the arrival of the kitchen-boat. It was the first to be unloaded, and with the native’s usual dexterity, a smoking fire was soon coaxed into a blaze. More prosaic, still, it was almost desecration, when the odours of homely Scotch porridge and fried fish were mingled with the morning’s champagne freshness. One dared not hinder these good people in the preparations which they considered in keeping with the dignity of their position, and, secondly, that of the Miss Sahib’s. Nor could one prove to them that the situation demanded simpler fare, even of fruit, froth and flowers. No, distoors (customs) must be adhered to and nolens volens one must submit, fish must be fried and the usual courses must follow; nor was it even of any avail to describe near and direct ways to desired ends. They knew best, and, after all, with results so fair, what mattered unique modes of procedure! The native must not be taken seriously, and it is ever best not to desire too much enlightenment concerning his ways and means.

The village of Magan on the far side of the lake was, in spite of its picturesque situation, somewhat of a blot on the fair land and water scape. Jehangir had wisely planted it discreetly apart from his palace. In such an advanced stage of decay was it, that it might have dated from Father Adam himself. Its tiny rickety wood huts, more like bathing boxes than residences, were constructed on the chung principle, but at a very remote degree of relationship to those already described.

On a wood plinth resting in turn on a few rough logs was the dwelling, usually boasting two storeys. There was an entrance of sorts to the lower part, but the top was only reached by a ladder placed outside to the one window which these edifices possessed.

Attracted by its fine garden and anxious to carry off some spoil, I ventured nigh to the best of these and commenced negotiations by winning the affections of the children at play in front. I had acquired the art. Some beads from one pocket, some sweets from another, mysteriously drawn forth as if they had grown therein, and all fears of the stranger dispelled—I was surrounded. Their shouts of delight caused the argus-eyed dwelling to open like its prototype, and therefrom issued, as from a sausage machine, a motley company of people, which betokened a roomier residence than met the eye. They slid down the ladder as if it were a greased pole, and, evidently unused to visitors, knew not whether to assume an offensive or defensive attitude. The appearance of rupia settled the question. Pointing to the garden, I led the way, and by many signs and gesticulations, signified my desire to become the possessor of some of its edibles.

The usual sorts were there in abundance—luscious tomatoes, cauliflowers, marrows and fruits. For a few pence only, I was ashamed to take the generous supply culled, and, as if by accident, supplemented it; the market-price must not be affected for other purchasers. I next pointed to some fine fat fowls, and described my desire for eggs and their originators as well. Producing more money, again was I satisfied with the results, two fine fowls for half a rupee (eightpence), and eggs for twopence a dozen! With a happy child or two to carry my spoils, I returned to my camp and continued explorations next day.

Chapter XXIV

Unwelcome Visitors

A temple, a broken-down dwelling and a cave must be visited. No signs of life about, I ventured into the cave. Such mouldy regions do not appeal to me, but the day’s education must be completed. Quite seven feet wide at its entrance, it graduated to about three, and there at the end was a wide stone slab on which rested some dry bones and a skull. I had seen enough. Curiosity did not tempt a handling of these. Quickly emerging to freshness again, I found a very unkempt and dilapidated old lady at the entrance, the owner evidently of the bones. She carried in her hand a pewter plate and held it out for remuneration for my intrusion and the satisfaction of my curiosity. She volunteered the information that her husband, whose remains now occupied so small a space, had excavated this cave in his lifetime and spent his days there with the desire that his dead bones should eventually be placed there. He had been a fakir (priest), a widely respected one, whom people came from afar to consult and confide their troubles to. What qualified him for the post was left to my imagination. He had lived his long life there, nor ever wandered afield from it. The old lady added that she was only living to die and have her bones, as desired by her husband, laid with his. Such self-imposed misery, howsoever pathetic, could not draw forth sympathy, save for the low ebb of ignorance that prompted such pessimism and altruism.

With no special sightseeing to do at Manasabal, I resigned myself entirely to the delicious restfulness of its beauty. A few days, passed delightfully, were abruptly closed by the most unwelcome arrival of some tourists. I had forgotten to consider myself such, and viewed their arrival with considerable disapprobation. An imposing looking military-badged orderly preceded the babel of coolies and baggage, which, with its much ado, betokened the arrival of a burrah Sahib at least, while the yelp of English terriers rather characterized the British subaltern. Whatever, whoever they were, never were visitors more unwelcome. Resignation was inevitable, a speedy removal imminent. Sultana and I exchanged glances, orders were superfluous. Meanwhile I watched the preparations of the newcomers with interest. In an incredibly short time the camp was pitched all spick and span, even to the long chairs placed outside with books and papers in readiness for these lords of creation, who, evidently, also knew how to rough it smoothly.

In unostentatious silence we moved on early next day. Save for a little pressure on the sward, the place knew us no more. The morning was too young to gauge its probabilities, heavy mists were rivalling the sunshine for supremacy, and I noted Sultana’s upward investigating glances. I made no comments thereon, I felt safe in trusting him to run no risks, but were these lowering clouds a coming storm, or were they a remnant of night’s gloom waiting for the full sunshine to dispel them? I noted with some trepidation that my wary boatman chose a circuitous route to crossing the lake midway, a route which scarcely skirted the brown-topped reeds and water-lilies which bordered it. The baggage boats had preceded us, and I had noticed the exceeding velocity of the paddling. I suggested landing, ostensibly to pick some of old Jehangir’s rosy apples, as we were just passing beneath his garden terraces, but in truth to regain terra firma at any price. Better press on, was the reply, the outskirts of the lake were swampy. Now was adventure at hand.

When half way round, with its usual suddenness came a squall, the surface of the lake rose in waves, rain fell in torrents, and a time of great discomfort and peril followed. We were close to the shore, yet could not touch it, and might be swept outwards any moment; the reeds, three to four feet high, were obstructive, and we were shipping seas. Now had come the time for Sultana to assume command. “Bale out the water, missy,” he said. I was sole occupant. My hands, none too big, did not avail much. Taking my fleecy rug, I attempted to meet the emergency by sopping the water; it must go overboard when saturated and over-weighted. We had a bad half-hour, tossing on the surface like a cockle shell, and fearing to capsize or be swamped every moment. Thunder and lightning added to a fury that was distressing. In an utterly exhausted and dripping condition we reached the tributary and the boat, and it was with a thankful heart I stepped into its cosy shelter. The storm overhead lasted some hours, but in calm security one was able to enjoy its grandeur. The thunder, sounding like great cannon, broke on the mountain sides and re-echoed through their rugged tops, while the forked and sheet lightning brilliantly illuminated the dark ravines; and snowy mountains. Apres la tempête la calme. Such came as suddenly as the storm had started, and, as if exhausted, like a tired child, with its fury, all was exceptionally tranquil in the glorious sunset.

Thus was beautiful Manasabal lost to sight, but I was glad when all was over to have seen a storm so grand on the lake and in the mountains.

Our next move was to Gunderbal, important as the starting point for the Scinde Valley, Leydak, Yarkund, Scoordu and Sonamarg, and in itself a lovely resting-place. We moored and also pitched a camp, and adopted an amphibious life. Wide expansive grassy plains flank the river on each side, and studded closely with chenars in one long unbroken line, it would be hard to find a fairer spot.

These chenar trees are the glory of Kashmir and are indigenous to the soil, hence a description of them for a better understanding of their effect in my landscapes. The chenar was first introduced to me soon after passing from Indian to Kashmirian territory, at a place named Garhi. My tonga companion, thinking the ceremony of introduction deserved the attention, called a halt, and springing from the vehicle returned with a branch. Its large flappy leaves somewhat resemble those of England’s plane tree or might be compared to a magnified clover. In early spring-time they are lettuce green, in autumn they are a brilliant crimson, a crimson similar to that of the poinsettia’s, and this colour they gradually assume. A sign of advancing age are the hollows which form in the parent stem; sometimes they divide upwards from the root and form an arch, sometimes a great cavity, and leave little backbone for the support of the branches, and yet in beautifully symmetrical form do they remain, as though quite independent of the sap and power. It was under one of these fine spreading trees that my little camp was pitched at Gunderbal, while the boat was moored close by on the river, a plank serving as a connecting link and gangway. A mud bridge was a peculiar feature there; with its three arches, it was wide enough for traffic and as strong and secure as those constructed of stone and masonry. Rope bridges were another clever uncostly contrivance, but only to cross a tiny stream had I courage or craving to avail myself of their utility.

I knew not what attracted them, but we were scarcely ship-shape when a company of natives presented themselves, and with much obeisance offered presents of honey, fruit, flowers and sweets—a queer assortment. Conversation with these, the most primitive people I had ever encountered, was impossible, but I was able to convey my appreciation of their attention and gifts. Why so much honour was shown to me I was at a loss to understand. My advent had been of a most unostentatious nature. No military-badged orderlies had preceded or yelping terriers accompanied me! Only a trim little craft, always gay with flowers, and as far as order and comfort went, ready to bear inspection and comparison with the best.

My afternoon visitors were of a more important nature. These were the Tasildar, or chief official of the place, and his son, accompanied by the village postman, who spoke excellent English, and acted as interpreter. They had come to make salaams, they said, and to offer any assistance required of them for my comfort. I am glad to have instance so pleasing as this to quote in illustration of the goodness of the people, for worthily or the reverse, I never failed to receive such. They knew nothing of me—beyond the fact that I was a belat⁸ Miss Sahib travelling alone, and that they, the inhabitants, considered themselves responsible for my welfare while in their midst. It was my good fortune to be able to make slight return to the postmaster for his politeness, for I was able to intercede with Government at headquarters for a concession he much desired, but I do not weigh this in the balance with his voluntary kindness and for which no requital could have been anticipated by him.

Yet another demonstration awaited me. I was safely tucked in my little coir bed, with only a plank between me and the lovely moonlit Scinde, when a band of villagers came to serenade me. A grotesque group with instruments of the most primitive description were easily discernible in the clear moonlight. Sultana at once appeared like a Jack from his box to quell these night revellers and disturbers of the peace, but the Miss Sahib would not have it so! For such a well-intentioned honour an apparent appreciation must be evinced, and seizing my warmest peignoir, and regardless of minor details, I took up my position on the fore deck, and after hearing them out, sent them happily away.

We became great friends, the villagers and I. Their little shops were always an excuse for a visit, and I thus learnt much of their habits and customs. The post office, however, was the chief attraction. Owing to its communication with Lehdak and Yarkund, unlike other offices it was open all the year round, and in consequence is an important centre.

It was a touching little scene I witnessed there on the arrival of the English mail. Going as usual for letters and papers, an unusual concourse waiting about surprised me. In reply to my enquiry as to why this assembly, the anxious reply came—“Waiting for news from Belat⁹ of the bimar¹⁰ Lady Mem Sahib. Would Miss Sahib tell them about her—they had come long distance to enquire?”

I wished the Lady Mem Sahib could have seen the little group of her anxious-minded friends. It was of Her Excellency Lady Curzon, then invalided home, they sought news, and so real was their concern that I rejoiced the more exceedingly over the improved bulletins which the papers enabled me to give them. Their further interest in affairs Belat surprised me, and I found later that the Postmaster was responsible for their knowledge and consequent thirst for information.

Chapter XXV

A Welcome Visitor

It was late in the season for the ascent to Sonamarg, but as I knew how glorious it would be under snow, and that thus early it could not be impossible, I did not hesitate to make the attempt in spite of a contrary verdict from my friend the Postmaster. A few poshtinas¹¹ and fur caps, got in the village, satisfied the requisite number of coolies that they would be cared for; an additional pice or two to their usual pay insured their anxiety to participate in the scheme, and with preparations for the necessary camp the start was made. The ascent for miles is so gradual as to be imperceptible; the downward view, however, is convincing that progress is surely being made, and very grand is that view, with the Scinde Valley fully exposed, and affording as well a useful geographical study. The night was piercingly cold.

Camp fires solaced the coolies and servants, but I sought retirement from the cold in my cosy camp bed. and thus prepared for an early start next day. From the floral remains still in evidence I could judge how gloriously beautiful were those woods and wilds in midsummer; the birds, too, were still a joy, and my little kingfisher friends had not yet migrated. The little dowdy brown birds seemed the only songsters about; the Indian robin might have been first cousin to our robin red-breasts but that with the topsy-turvy nature of the country, they wear their little red patch under their tails instead of on their breasts.

We spent two days over the twenty miles’ march to Sonamarg, and while the view at the summit of my desires was magnificent, the country was entirely under snow, so I resolved that it was diplomatic to retrace my steps and halt at a lower altitude for the night, in order to maintain good humour in my camp. My coolies, like the ponies, always relished the return journey, and it was in half the time the latter regained their stables and I my boat again.

My rights, however, had been infringed; I was no longer in undisputed possession. A second doonga boat lay leeward of mine. A Sahib’s boat without a doubt, shooting paraphernalia was everywhere in evidence and ornamentation was absent. It was a very quiet and well-behaved little boat, however, and I waited with some interest for signs of life and activity. It was late afternoon before these came, in the form of a vigorous young officer, accompanied by two keepers, laden with small game, and evidently well pleased with a successful day on the mountains. A present of game pleasantly sent the following morning decided me I would not rout myself out before my appointed time. A used envelope, in place of a card, bearing the name of the giver, accompanied the gift. It was that of a young African hero—and the letters D.S.O. followed the name. Not from himself, but later I learnt of the valiant deed which had gained him distinction after one year of service only.

After a few days spent in preparation I was ready to start on my march up the Scinde Valley, one of the most pleasing and important of my excursions. These were of a more formidable nature than the ascent to Sonamarg. I mentally allowed ten days for the march, and, therefore, an increase of everything, including coolies, must be made to meet the need. There also was the additional fussiness which my good Sultana loved to contribute.

I was leisurely finishing my chota haziri outside my tent, shared as usual with the kingfishers, when the packing, with the usual clatter and clashing, began, the coolies all speaking at once and nobody listening to anybody. The morning was perfectly lovely and brisk, and biting as champagne. King Sol had not quite finished rising from his apparently snowy bed and the early dew-fall had been so heavy as to resemble hoar frost. A shaggy white pony had been chosen as best to bear the burden of the Miss Sahib, while a little group deemed less worthy and set apart for baggage were feasting on the chenar branches within their reach. Preparation complete, the start was made in order of rank if not of merit.

We presented a quaint appearance, and might have posed for an old-world biblical picture. I always disliked my coolies to be too much in evidence, but in spite of my efforts the kitchen pony was always given precedence! The clatter of utensils, although enclosed in their kiltie and again fixed in my tin bath, was a discordant as well as an unbeautiful note. A stretcher was attached to another pony with bedding on top, a table and chair and pantry requisites engaged yet another, and my modest personal luggage a fourth.

An uninteresting stretch preceded the entirely beautiful one to follow. Endless are the pages to be written about this beautiful valley, which no tourist to Kashmir should ever omit. Realizing the hopelessness of doing it any degree of justice, the inclination is to leave it silently alone as one would a sacred place. It seemed almost desecration to wander in this wonderland on an unkempt pony, but, alas! a gilded carriage was not obtainable. The descriptions given me previously of the Scinde Valley did not by any means reach the reality. Wide and expansive, the river thus late had receded from its wide bed and was comparatively narrow and shallow. One or two modern bridges at the start were no doubt useful, but struck a discordant note.

The woodland is always magnificent—copper beeches, chenars, evergreens, firs, all with their autumn tints, each in turn contributed to an unrivalled scheme of wondrous colouring. If, as some writers say, the Garden of Eden was in Kashmir, then surely must it have been the Scinde Valley itself! The apple tree was certainly there, though now bereft of its fruits, as also was the pear tree; the hazel and the walnut were at their best. On the far side of the river the mountains rose as if in terraces, pile above pile, the lower part ablaze with gold and crimson, which in the far distance appeared to be moss and flowers only, but were in reality trees of four to six feet high. As one looked still upward with the help of field-glasses, copper and red beeches were discernible, and at still greater height were firs, their tops quite bare because of the exceeding cold.

One could not see any life on these heights, but all the same there were the lairs of the Barasing and the Ibex, and I often heard the echo of the sportsman’s gun and the alluring “cooey, cooey” and whistle of the shikaris, after small game.

My various rencontres by the way were always a pleasing diversion, in this beautiful Bohemian life, untrammelled by the fetters of etiquette. It is only in England that such barriers seem necessary, and that one needs become a slave to les convenènces. A white face, an introduction in India, is certainly sufficient in the wilds. I would not, however, too lightly esteem these social defences; unfortunately they are necessary to meet the difficulties of doubt and indiscretion. But I am writing of Kashmir, a land of elevation and purest, loftiest desire, and my surroundings and connections, always of the best, never failed to meet the clear scrutiny of my lorgnette.

I had already become quite used to riding astride; to be orthodox seemed out of place, and rope stirrups, crupper, and even bridle, no longer held shame for me. A short skirt, with chapplis¹² or puttees quite met the need. My usual riding kit would have been incongruous. Feeling, therefore, quite suitably equipped, I no longer sprang from my perch on the appearance of a stranger.

About five miles up the valley from the starting point, my bravery was tested. A very doubtful-looking stranger, walking and unattended, came in sight. He was shaggy to a degree, bearded and bristly, and a white patch over one eye did not tend to improve matters. Innocent of collar and tie, his top shirt button was conspicuous by its absence. All the same the hall-mark was in evidence, an indescribable bond of freemasonry. We saluted each other and then lapsed into conversation regarding the country we each had left behind. He had been seven months in the mountains on a shooting expedition (by the length of his beard I guessed as much), and was then going to Gunderbal for his mail. Dismounting, we continued our chat by the wayside—one of edification, at least, so far as I was concerned.

He was another African hero, and the white patch over the eye served to cover an irretrievable loss and was chosen in preference to artifice when in the wilds. His name was a familiar family one and a bond of union, though not of relationship. Taking advantage of my sex and the knowledge that my tiffin basket was well replenished, mine was the pleasure to extend trifling hospitality, and all the better for the recontre, we took our opposite routes again.

Chapter XXVI

The Scinde Valley

The day was fraught with excitement. A meeting with a band of merchants from Lehdak interested me greatly. With the help of an interpreter, I managed a little conversation with them. They were going to Srinagar, heavily laden with beautiful wares, chiefly rugs, of the work peculiar to the people of Leh. I admired their honour in refusing to sell any rugs to me; they were not allowed to retail, but I did my best to overcome their scruples. With themselves, however, was I chiefly concerned. Scarcely exceeding four feet ten inches in height, as judging by my own altitude, their broad squat bodies seemed to stunt it even more. Their faces were comparatively fair and brilliantly complexioned. Fur-flapped caps were tightly tied under their chins and in poshtinas, of the coarsest description of fur, were they enveloped from top to toe. They were about to discard these, they said, to meet the increased temperature. So, proceeding on my way, I left them in undisputed possession for their toilet operations, and rejoiced exceedingly to have met real men of Leh direct from their own country.

What a queer world it is! Shall I next meet these men of Leh in Heaven, and shall we fraternize as brethren and remember our chance meeting in the valley of the Scinde! I rather hope not; but there is a missionary settlement in this far-away country of Leh, and if ours be the surest and best way to that Land of Love, who knows but that their chance of promotion and reward—these eleventh hour servitors—is as good as mine, who have borne the heat and burden of the day? This puzzling problem of equality of reward will remain, I fear, a vexed one until the higher state is reached.

One or two busties at the Gunderbal side of the valley were too beautiful to pass unnoticed. I advisedly use the Indian word busti. Its only translation—village—does not meet the case. The latter is too commonplace, and describes only a few irregular cottages, or pretentious semi-detached villas, composing a straggling street, with its one tea, tobacco and sweet shop, and tiny grey church. Very different is the Kashmirian settlement.

Picture a garden in wild picturesque disorder—flowers everywhere, mossy ground and ferns, fruit trees, flowering trees, creeping things, clinging everywhere—the air scented with honeysuckle or some other sweetness. A broken-down wall or two have their breaches beautified by nature’s overgrowths. A babbling brook, a rustic bridge or two, also overgrown with pretty creepers—two or three thatched huts, also dilapidated, but sure to be picturesque, and with a few plump little naked brown imps about, and beautiful sunshine gleaming and scintillating in the soft soughing breeze through beautiful forest. Picture this, and some faint idea of a Kashmir busti is attained.

Such an one we came upon at about the eighth mile of the march, and diverging from the usual pathway, my insatiable curiosity led me to the deviating path. So beautiful was it all that I elected to set up my camp there for the night.

Slightly afraid of unwelcome visitors at night, a few lanterns were placed discreetly about. Jackals had come as nigh as they dared—their cries had penetrated my canvas dwelling the previous night—and in the morning more formidable still was the impression of what we had no doubt had been an enterprising bear. A languar was in evidence, perched in the branches of a walnut tree; his beautiful tail, three or four feet long, almost reached the ground. I rejoice to add that his cosy coat and appendage now form a most comfortable and ornamental part of my wardrobe. It was later that I secured some perfect jackal skins, the best of which are to be had in Kashmir, and from a dozen of these a handsome rug resulted.

The details of one day of my primitive camp life is an index of the whole. Purest water from a fascinating brook, drawn for my early immersion, seemed almost a desecration of it. Chota hazira had preceded as usual that operation, and then my quaint toilet completed, I was ready for the savoury results of Sultana’s culinary skill.

Some tiny fish had been “gumped” by the little brown urchins, and very delectable they were, although some patience was required for the discreet dissection of them, yet they furthered the desire to abide by the produce of the country. An omelet, stewed pears, singara bread and milk proved the success of my scheme, and were fortification for more pressing needs of mine. Overhead in the branches the little dowdy brown robins awaiting certain reward were lilting their sweetest song; some leverets in the thicket and rustling of branches completed a delightful reverie.

In evidence of the never-failing picturesqueness of the native I describe a scene for which I longed for an artist’s power to immortalize. Crossing the bridge, with its pretty decorations of autumn-tinted creepers, was a little party of native women. It might have been a beauty competition, as in single file, as is their wont, they passed, I, sitting as judge, with a difficult task to meet. All were beautiful and looking extremely happy, as if they must have had some gala day in store. Their clothing betokened such, and I would defy Paquin or Worth to have excelled in art and elegance that which I knew could have held no anxiety for them, but was a display only of natural effects. The first lady, with low-braided hair shiny as sunlight, had a full skirt of russet-brown with wide band of orange embroidered with emerald green. The next was of royal blue, with bands of deep crimson and yellow, contrasting effectively with yet another wearing orange skirts with amethyst borderings, while a fourth, most picturesque of all, astride a little brown donkey, carried a stray lamb in one arm and a baby in the other. With the white sarees fluttering in the breeze and holiday jewellery all ablaze, the woodland framed a picture hard to rival or excel.

Thus were the days spent of my thirty miles’ march in the valley of the Scinde. The scenery varied from a geological point of view, but never swerved from being beautiful always. I cannot think of delight more perfect than that of “doing” such travel all over again. In the return march scenes reversed were scenes renewed, and even with the veneer of novelty lacking, yet was there pleasure in unstinted measure.

On reaching Gunderbal again I was sorry to find my doonga drifting alone. My D.S.O. friend had gone. It remained for me, only in view of fast decreasing temperature, to restrain undue loitering desires, but consistent with my preconceived ideas of enjoyment as well as out of consideration for my crew, a few days must be given up to recuperation. These were advantageous in every way. Time for development resulted in indelibly impressed pictures, and left no possibilities for jumbled recollections.

With Gunderbal is associated my plan for the building of a model hill station. Under shelter of the southern range of mountains lay a fine residential site. The mud bridge led to an ideal polo ground and golf course, and possibilities were everywhere. One could fancy the wide flat by the river gay with riders for the early morning spin and providing ample space as well for the evening’s drive. Well, however, that such desecration is not likely to be realized. The winter’s climate precludes such a prospect; from November to March the country is practically cut off, and it is only of late years that the Maharajah has sanctioned the residence of any Europeans, even in Srinagar, during the winter months. Snowstorms block the road to Pindi, and ether difficulties than these even would arise to cause needless anxieties. The good fortune remains of unfettered freedom for the rest of the year, and the detailed arrangements for the comfort and assistance of visitors is a markedly good feature of government in Kashmir. For a day’s excursion to Wangat I started unattended, except for a syce or two for the couple of ponies necessary.

I had to pass over rough ground, but always on the flat, and riding was possible all the way. Crossing the mud bridge the route lay quite inland apart from the river, and seemed to lead to the back of beyond as well as to the gloomy side of the mountains. The climbing of mountains holds no attraction for me. The taste for such is a phase of enjoyment quite beyond my ken, and is not a popular one in Kashmir. Nevertheless, my ride to Wangat was characterized by an attempt which only increased aversion for the occupation. What seemed an easy ascent flanked my route, and, after the refreshment of tiffin and siesta, I decided to attempt the climb.

How easy it looked!—how mossy in the distance, and unimpeded! There was no pathway, and the ground was stony and rough; creeping things, so beautiful in the distance, were, in their vicinity, clingingly disastrous in their attentions; and again after a good hour’s hard walking, one seemed only within an easy stone’s-throw of the grassy knoll, with impossible heights ever on the increase above. It was a useless expenditure of physical force and energy, to be advisedly abandoned. Evidently foreseeing the strain and consequent needs, my syce had the little Kashmiri boiler puffing its best in preparation for tea on my return, which was much more expeditious than had been my outward course.

I forget the name of this most useful culinary utensil in favour of which I had quite discarded my Etna spirit-boiler, and thus let a description of it enter in instead. Of copper—the older looking the more valuable—it was in shape like a claret jug, with flat lid and well-developed mouth. A cylinder in centre inside for charcoal was surrounded by space for water. Thus with equal amount of heat permeating the whole, it was in an incredibly short time that the water boiled in its circular confines.

My crew in holiday attire in honour of the “day off” awaited my return with preparations complete for my comfort. In bright moonlight an hour or two later, and in our customary unostentatious silence, with only a knot to untie, I bade a regretful good-bye to beautiful Gunderbal, and set sail for the Jhelum river and Srinagar again.

Chapter XXVII

Civilization Again

I reached Srinagar to find the majority of the European visitors gone and the place astir with exciting preparations for the visit of their Excellencies the officiating Viceroy and Lady Amphthill.

As I hoped to share results, it behoved me that I hurry up—my visit to the Liddar Valley must intervene. With this end in view I decided on a very short halt, one only sufficiently long for the few preparations requisite. My crew, unfortunately, were not like-minded, and tacitly refused the stay of one night only which I considered was necessary. It was fortunate that I had, in view of such a contingency, elected to moor by the Dal Lake. Its beauties were a compensation, and for two days I was left in silent enjoyment of them and of a renewed study of Princess Lalla Rookh’s love story. With all the philosophy of which I was capable, I made the usual virtue of necessity, and assumed an indifference very foreign to the real state of my feelings.

My truants came at late eventide, bringing a peace offering of fruit with them, which the baby Sultana was deputed to present. Full tilt along the deck he came, breathless with excitement, and the message he bore, when fairly losing his balance he tripped over his chubby little toes and fell lengthwise at my feet, the rosy apples rolled everywhere, eventually overboard, and continued their untoward course bobbing in the river. Picking up the remaining fruit and comforting the baby created diversion which saved the situation, and mildly calling for dinner, I was glad I had restrained emotions, lest a worse thing happened unto me.

Early next morning I was pleased to hear signs of activity, and it was with the rising sun that we started our upward course which, in consequence, necessitated towing all the way.

The scenery baffles description. Beautifully-wooded always, it was quite different from the downward course. Trees close by the river extended their branches over it, with deliciously artistic effects; their reflections alone were glorious, and blood-red in the sunshine. A gilt-topped temple and some ruins were picturesque, and the mountains now always snow-capped, seemed much nearer than elsewhere.

As I had yet to learn the interests by the way, the surprises it held for me were a never-failing source of delight. Bijbeharra was one of these. Two wide six-arched stone bridges spanned the fine expanse of water. With no appearance of earth, these were yet overgrown with pretty flowers and plants, which forced their blooms between the stones as if quite independent of such. Bijbeharra resembles Srinagar; broken-down windowless houses were the habitation of the primitive people. Wide stone steps led down to the river from the old street, and these on the morning of my arrival presented a lively scene. It was the bathing hour. Men, women and children were all enjoying their early immersion, oblivious alike of the cold as of the unclean state of the water.

Temples were many in Bijbeharra, but I do not remember ever seeing devotionalists in any. While halting to admire the quaintly pleasing scene, a large house-boat came in sight, with many less imposing crafts in tow. It was the Commander-in-Chief’s, who was enjoying Kashmir in a lordly way, but not with greater pleasure than the occupant of the little doonga moored under the trees.

The sail to Islamabad was retarded by the prejudicial effect of the cold on the crew, which even their towing exertions failed to qualify. Sultana showed decided signs of ill-temper. As usual, I adopted a means to an end, and, landing, I showed a preference for walking the greater part of the day, only returning with the signals for tiffin and tea.

I was pleased at nightfall to reach Kambal, the landing stage for Islamabad, which is a mile distant. The former is a quaint little place shrouded in fruit trees and gay with French marigolds. Each little house is surrounded with a garden worthier of much finer residences. Lines of houseboats and other kinds of boats were moored by the river—their owners touring and these in readiness awaiting their return. Kambal, being the starting point for Poonch, Jammu and the eastern ranges, as well as for Rupshu, Pailgam and the Liddar, is a place of importance.

Adding mine to the number of floating homes, I started on foot for Islamabad to make arrangements for the excursion up the valley. The fruit shops, fish tanks, temples and cobbly streets were the characteristic features of this old town. Ponies were easily found, but thus late in the season were decidedly the worse for wear and tear. A fine mission-house and hospital on the outskirts of the town, built by some benevolent old gentleman, was a contrast to their rough unkempt surroundings.

My preparations completed, including every procurable comfort for my attendants, to insure their good temper, we started out, a quaint little company, I and my head-men riding, the others walking with the baggage ponies. Leaving Islamabad behind, there was the excitement of meeting a stranger, in most ways a contrast to the last. He was spick and span even to collar and tie, and as if starting out, rather than returning from the mountains, where surrounded with shikaris I was quite sure he had been. We saluted each other, but for a time found conversation rather difficult.

He was a German nobleman, with only a few words of English at his disposal, and my schoolroom learning proved quite inadequate. Not one word even of Ollendorf’s quaint phraseology would come to my rescue, and English interlarded with Hindustani was only the more hopelessly confusing. Eventually, however, we got to understand each other quite well and spent a pleasant time together. My new friend told me he had been for two months shooting in the mountains, and returned laden with a splendid bag which included a white bear—a great rarity. A pleasant little friendship with edifying results for both of us followed, especially for me, perhaps, when his timely aid saved me from an adventurous position savouring of disaster.

Bawan, the entrance to the Liddar Valley, was my halting place for the night, and an extremely picturesque one it was. A great mountain is its background. Under vast spreading chenas my tent was pitched. I recall a great cavity in one of these which formed a delightful shelter from decidedly cold winds. A little apart the ponies were grazing on pastures green; a few fleecy white sheep were fraternizing with them, and still further afield servants and coolies were chattering over their wood fires. The interests there, apart from beautiful nature, were the caves on the mountain sides. These held no charm for me, and only suggested pity for the saints who sought seclusion therein in preference to the better way, even residence with their fellow men in this fairest of lands. An unusually fine temple had inside its precincts a large tank of over-fed carp, the sacred fish, their corpulence less due to the generosity of their caretakers than to the indiscreet hospitality of visitors who delighted in watching the greed and elasticity of the fish.

Next day we made start for a three days’ march up the Liddar, doing about fifteen miles each day. It differs widely from the Scinde, and I would give preference to the latter. The Liddar was disappointing on first acquaintance. This, however, might have been owing to the rain which fell with more or less severity each day. If it ceased, the trees continued the drip, and the ground was very marshy underfoot. Lovely woodland was always in evidence, and the stream, dark in the sunless atmosphere, created as it dashed along, many beautiful falls. I can only again liken my coolies to hungry horses anxious to regain their stables, for it was to my regret in half the time that we reached Bawan, the central starting-point for the other places I proposed visiting. It was a night of such exceeding beauty that I resolved it should be spent in the open in preference to inside my tent. This was no new experience, but an unusual one thus late in the season. The chenar’s spreading branches were my canopy, the gentle whisperings of the leaves my lullaby, and I knew nothing of the transitions from moonlight and twinkling stars to sunrise and its golden splendour, and the joy and gladness of a new day.

Chapter XXVIII

More Ruins and Palaces

Vernag, twenty miles distant, was our next goal, with route so attractive all the way that I the more regretted only having four days to devote to it; but again the late season had to be considered, and, while it was none too cold for me, the coolies were already shrivelling up and looking grey. It was en route for Varnag, that the curious figures of the people attracted special attention; everyone seemed to have a hump somewhere, and the strange part was that this hump was localised differently in each person, and wherever it was, the arms ’neath the pharan were extended towards it. What it could be was most puzzling—I feared to ask information of my people. Bye and bye, I noticed that they too had acquired humps, and in due course I learned the nature of the apparent deformity and was glad to attach one to myself? I have alluded to the little earthenware lined basket for flowers and fuel, called congres—such proved to be the hump which, filled with live charcoal, each attached to the part of the person most sensitive to the cold. I found mine most comforting, but only used it as a hand and foot warmer.

The chief interest at Varnag, beyond its prettily situated village, was the old Palace of Jehangir, built three hundred odd years ago, where the King and his ladies resided when the heat became oppressive in the plains and as further diversion from Manasabal. It was in a marvellous state of preservation. The large tank in front, partly bridged over, was doubtless used by his fair ladies as a bathing place, while little alcoves in the terraces were suggestive of dressing rooms. I resolved I would spend the night in this old place. I found a little bucksheesh easily procured me admission, and there, lulled by the splashing waters, I slept the sleep of the just and dreamt of royalty and fair ladies. Marigolds were the only remaining flowers, but on all sides were traces of what had been.

Following on the beaten track, I next moved on to Atchibal, some fourteen miles distant, so exceedingly beautiful that it was weeks, not hours, that one could have spent there without a pang of weariness. There again were fast-decaying flowers everywhere, but in beautiful freshness were quantities of mistletoe, the white berries of which were unusually large and at their best.

At Atchibal were the remains of an ancient palace of the Moguls, with many signs to testify to the pleasantness of residence there for the Emperor and his Court during the hot seasons. Again, I all but collided with the Commander-in-Chief, who had just vacated the miniature Dak Bungalow, and of its extra trim and orderly condition for his lordship I got the benefit. The night was too beautiful for sleep, and my servants evidently thought likewise, for their chattering never ceased. The lovely harvest moon was our illuminant, and with the kindly mantle of night to obscure all that offends, the scene was one of exceeding grandeur. Mountains veiled in snow ever seemed to me grander in moonlight than in sunlight. The soughing of the breeze amidst the trees, the distant splash of waterfalls, all filled one with unspeakable awe and reverence. I had wandered far from the chattering servants—but, for the solitary figure enjoying such peace and beauty, there was no fear or sense of loneliness. Beautiful nature is never silent, and best in solitude can we learn its lessons. Even the wild beasts were at rest, save for an enterprising jackal, which came scenting around as if on guard, or, perhaps he scented his dead brothers, which, transformed into my cosy rug, made me oblivious to the chilly night.

“I praise the Frenchman—his remark was shrewd:
‘How sweet—how passing sweet—is solitude;
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.’”

The “gainer” as the Yorkshireman would expressively call the route taken from Atchibal to Martand, was by no means a Lal-rasta or a Rotten Row, but was chosen because it was a “gainer,” and because of the daily decreasing temperature. Not from choice would one ever shorten routes in Kashmir, lest by so doing one lost one beautiful view—and again Martand was the last place of interest to be visited.

This beautiful ruin is said to be the most interesting of the many temple ruins in Kashmir. Of great antiquity, its founder is disputed, but to all appearance, and judging from its architectural variety, it was built or added to by several rulers, dating from the fifth to the tenth century, while others place it much earlier. A heap of stones mark the downfall of a large portion of it. The western entrance is fairly intact, and the original dimensions of the whole may be judged from its extensive foundations. The site is very grand, with its setting of great mountains. Quantities of iris roots and leaves betoken the environment of graves. While it was a great privilege to view this ruin of Martand, and while one revered the skilled labour which had withstood the ravages of time, of storm and of wind, yet I must admit and confess with humiliation that my archaeological knowledge does not extend to the admiration of ruins, beyond the interest of age. I prefer things modern, unchipped, uncracked, and intact.

So, too, I would keep my admiration for beautiful buildings of consistent architecture, ornate and systematic; and my thoughts wandered to one who would have revelled in this ugliness and found all was beautiful, and feelings of crushing and intense sadness came over me, for his could never be the hand to make clear these mysteries to me. But—

“There is no death—what seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life Elysian,
Whose portal we call death.”
  ⁎  ⁎  ⁎
“How wonderful is death; Death and his brother—Sleep.”

Chapter XXIX

An Ambitious Ascent

The march to Islamabad and Kambal, a distance of six or seven miles, was too soon accomplished. All thoughts of Pailgam had been of necessity, as it seemed to me, abandoned. So keen, however, was my desire to go, that I resolved in spite of the lateness of the season to make the attempt. One could but turn back, and the interest of seeing Pailgam, or the nearest approach to it, under snow, was a novelty which was well pleasing to me and which only increased my zest for the undertaking. The coolies were the first difficulty—how so to pacify them that they would willingly undertake the attempt, and I felt the advisability of overrating rather than underrating the task.

A happy thought came to me and, carried into effect, solved the difficulty. I would search the village again for poshtinas (fur coats), and if the ascent was made, then each coolie should become the proud possessor of one which I now only appeared to lend. The brilliant idea quite met the case. Some old poshtinas were obtained, a new congre was given to each, and all were ready to start early the following morning. The first part of the road was a pleasant walk only, wide, with ascent so gradual as to be imperceptible. The autumn tints were very charming, the little brooklets coursing down sparkled brightly in the rising sunshine, which scintillated through the trees. After a march of eight miles all was still most hopeful.

A party of sportsmen descending warned me that Pailgam itself was under snow; nevertheless, I persevered, feeling I should be better pleased to fail when ascent was visibly impossible. We pitched camp at the twelfth mile for the night, and the air was piercingly cold, but lacked the penetrating damp which chiefly makes it unbearable. A camp fire was soon crackling and blazing brightly, and sitting by it I watched a savoury repast cooked in its embers.

The next day the cold continued to be intense. The ground and trees were covered with hoar frost, and looking down we viewed peaceful Bawan in the distance.

At the sixteenth mile my coolies began to complain, and the need to be riding all day myself made me fear the strain for them. The ascent had become very steep, and the pathway was hard and stony. Thick forest, chiefly pines, obscured all view.

On the third day we camped for the night within seven miles of Pailgam, a fact of which I was proud. The ground was deep under snow and very beautiful was the whole scene in the bright moonlight. The coolies, encouraged with the hope of bucksheesh and the thoughts of the return journey on the morrow, were now merry over the camp fire and the preparations for their evening repast.

This important function over, each attendant rolled himself in his blanket and placed himself so near to the fire that I quite expected to find charred remains only in the morning. Then was a time of great enjoyment in the sweet silent solitude, wandering about watching the beautiful moonlight effects and shadows.

An early start next morning, and I felt my heart’s desire had been accomplished. In two short hours Pailgram’s heights were reached, and oh!—the beauty of it all. The ground was quite six inches under snow; the trees were heavily laden with it, and the expanse of untrodden whiteness was magnificent. Ferns and flowers rising above it were encrusted with frost, and icicles dripped from the bare tree branches.

There was but one regret, that sojourn there could only be brief, partly for safety, but more especially for peace in the camp. The shelter of the little rest house was available, and there a fire soon thawed the servants and also sufficed for the equally important function of stoking the inner man, I had heard much of the beauty of Pailgam in the spring time. I do not think it could have exceeded its grandeur now when under snow.

Pailgam is beautifully wooded, chiefly with pines, and its vicinity is dense with forest. Discernible were the clearances of many camping grounds—all well apart, also could be discerned the walks about, and easily understood was the reason why so many tourists preferred the isolation of Pailgam (the Shepherd’s Village) to the more fashionable resorts. Indeed, so many are the visitors, that the ecclesiastical government elects to send a chaplain there for the summer months, one to whom the duties are not onerous, and who himself stands in need of mountain air, rest and quiet.

As usual, the return journey was all too quickly made, and Kambal was reached on the third day, with only some trifling incidents to add to its interest.

The order given for our speedy return to Srinagar was received by my crew with obvious joy, and we found the shelter of the boat very comfortable with a few additional congres, which are to be purchased for the modest sum of one anna each. A severe gale on the river and a heavy fall of hail obliged us to seek shelter for some hours beneath the chenars which overhang the bank, and it was early morning of the fifth day when we came in sight of Srinagar—a distance which had taken three days when outward bound.

I found Srinagar wearing the gayest of holiday attire. . . . It was lavishly decorated for the Viceregal visit, and the arrival would take place on the morrow. A little pile of invitations awaited me; I had not been forgotten, nor had I vainly hastened my return, for the pleasure of meeting their Excellencies would be mine.

I recalled a similar demonstration a year or two previously, on the Brahmaputra; the contrast between it and the one anticipated lay in the Oriental splendour of the latter.

His Highness the Maharajah, with his state barge of crimson and gold, met his august guests at Baramullah; attendant on them was a flotilla of smaller boats, the whole being an extremely effective scene. The band was playing gay music, crowds of natives, brightly attired, were assembled on the river banks, and houseboats, profusely decorated, had parties on each, waving welcomes to the approaching guests. Again, the British cheer was conspicuous by its absence, and I felt far preferable was vociferous loyalty to the silence that was meant to betoken good behaviour.

All arrangements were in keeping with the elaborately designed arrival. Quite as beautiful autumn tinted as summer hued were the Residency grounds, where the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Elliot-Colvin received their garden-party guests, with Royalty so well represented for its central attraction. The nightly dinner parties at the Residency, formally informal, with host and hostess of the best, suited well the now out-of-season state of society.

For a second time the honour was mine to be bidden to His Highness the Maharajah’s table, and again Oriental splendour prevailed. Then it was midsummer, now the intense cold altered effects, but in no other detail was loyalty lessened. A curious feature of these banquets was that the host himself was absent. In an adjoining room, on a raised dais, with his gay retinue of courtiers, their uniforms of most elaborate and varied descriptions, His Highness watched the proceedings which his religion prevented him from participating in except on each occasion to conduct the chief lady to her place, and to return for her again at the close of the banquet, to escort her to the reception hall.

Sir Amir Sing, the Maharajah’s only son and heir, was a centre of interest at each of these entertainments. Speaking perfect English and delightfully intelligent, he told me with childish anxiety how difficult had been his choice of dress for the evening. He had had his wardrobe all laid out, he said, for his inspection, and after much consideration, had decided on pale blue satin chupkan and trousers, with gold-embroidered kummerband and turban en suite. I congratulated him on the excellence of his choice.

In order that the august visitors might see in concrete form the possibilities and powers of Kashmir, an exhibition of all its beautiful wares was arranged in the Museum and its surrounding compound. A specimen of each bird and beast to be found in Kashmir is exhibited in this Museum, and the display is one of exceeding interest. The best of the merchants had been chosen to display their wares, and these ranged from every sort of embroidery to copper and silver work, jewellery, wood-carving, papier mache and silk, woven from the cocoons of the Kashmir worm.

But it is briefly the end must be told. An unexpected summons to the plains hastened my departure from Kashmir while I was yet contemplating its possibilities as a residence for the winter months. As by official regulation neither arrivals nor departures of visitors were sanctioned during the Viceregal visit, it was by one of the many kindnesses of the Resident that I was allowed the privilege of leaving in one of the tongas specially set apart for His Excellency the Viceroy.

At four o’clock on a bitterly cold December morning I took my place, a bundle of furs on the front seat of the tonga. The moon was bright; I know the scene was beautiful, but shivering with cold, I was numbed to everything. The dawn brought brighter thoughts and effects, but still had my furs lost their powers and my congre was as an icicle in my frozen fingers. On the driver’s suggestion a halt was called, wood collected, and a fire lit by the roadside. They lifted me from the tonga, for my feet refused their office, and dumping me down by the blaze, I was most thankful indeed to get warm. Energy to make tea followed, which I was glad to share with the kindly driver. Such was my departure from Kashmir, a land of beauty which I cannot imagine can be equalled and certainly not surpassed, in any other part of the world.

It was my privilege to enjoy all the rest houses by the way, under festal array for the Viceroy, but in my haste to reach Pindi, I made as few halts as possible.

Again I found Muree “packed up,” but, overdone with the journey, was obliged to prolong my stay at the hotel there a day or two.

Very sad were the details told me there of the tragedy which at its occurrence had been so great a shock. During a sudden thunderstorm of exceeding severity, a happy young girl was waiting in the porch for her afternoon’s ride. Seeing no signs of abatement in the storm, she started out to give her pony his usual reward of sugar-cane and carrots.

Strange that the second chosen for her kindly act should have been simultaneous with the thunderbolt which was her death warrant. In one flash of exceeding brilliancy she was laid low and instantaneously lifeless, as also was her pony. The syce lingered about two hours, but was in hopeless unconsciousness from the start. Not content with such havoc, it was by the same flash that the lady and her two little girls, who had assembled to watch the departure of the elder one for her ride, were also struck, fortunately with minor but strange results. An equestrian approaching the hotel, also struck down, was miraculously saved by the wires of his umbrella serving as a lightning conductor.

Very marked was the changed temperature of Pindi, and ideal all the way was the weather during the four days of rail travel to Calcutta.

Chapter XXX

Festive Scenes

The haste with which I seem to aeroplane from place to place may give rise to impressions neither real nor intended. While the historical tour was undertaken in the cold weather of one year, other visits and travels extended over several years. Only in the brief cold season is touring comfortable in the plains. With the exception of one or two seasons, the hot weather was always spent in the hills. Equally apart, too, from writing biographically, is the desire to write a guide-book—that can be found elsewhere—but I wish to avoid the possibility of being compared to my little donkey-riding friend! Every item was of interest to me, all is fresh as the day I visited them, and much more should I feel at home in them than in the Tower or Westminster Abbey itself.

The best of the cold weather had passed when I returned to Calcutta again. All need for the haste with which I had departed from Kashmir having evaporated, the social vortex was the alternative and always a pleasant one for me. I plunged into it most willingly, and found therein the usual enjoyment. Various circumstances, or that destiny which moulds our ends, prompted residence in Calcutta for the hot weather. My hopes for a tour in Burmah received a check.

“Too late”—experienced travellers told me, for a country which was a hot-bed of malaria. This statement had no effect upon me—I had heard such assertions before regarding this as well as other places, usually from people who carried the hot-bed within themselves; but the heat was a deterrent for travel. Already the Gold Mohurs and the Causarinas were giving a promise of great and glorious magnificence, and the appearance of fresh verdure everywhere seemed to belie much that had been told me of Calcutta’s out-of-season condition. I had never seen the city look more beautiful, but I decided to fortify myself with a tour in the Sunderbunds before settling down.

Where were they? What were they?—were only expressions of the usual everyday ignorance. I failed to get my enquiries satisfied, so I went to learn my geography on the spot; and now I am in the proud position of being able to talk authoritatively about them. I cannot imagine any change more restful for the jaded Calcutta man or woman who has only a short time to spare, than that which the Sunderbunds, the wonderful waterway of the Brahmaputra, affords, sailing as far as time and fancy dictates, but, for choice, the whole route to Northern Assam.

The fine steamers which ply the Brahmaputra belong to the well-known firms of MacNeil & Co., and Kilburn & Co. These are sister—not rival—companies, so it is immaterial which is chosen. The new boats leave the traveller nothing to desire; I am writing of 1907, and they are always being improved. The commodious cabins and saloons are fitted with electric lights and bells. The service is excellent, as also can be the commissariat department. A little authoritative assertiveness on this point is always prolific of good results, should such be required. Having traversed the Brahmaputra many a time and oft, I seem to know all the boats.

I found the “Mergui” always up to time, a point of greater importance than meets the casual eye; but, naturally, preference is given to the more modernly equipped boats, and of these are the “Minhla” and the “Dogra.” In the former, the man and the wheel have place on an upper deck, which possesses the advantage of leaving the saloon deck free and quiet for passengers. I preferred the man and the wheel on the saloon deck.

The skippers are a very intelligent class where their own work is concerned. I found myself often breaking the rule for the pardonable benefit of self-enlightenment.

My objection to the former arrangement had for its foundation a somewhat undesirable experience. The upper and lower decks alike underwent weekly holy-stoning with deluges of water. I, unknown to the lascars employed on the work, and at an ill-timed moment, was passing underneath, and had, to my intense consternation, six buckets of water thrown on top of me, all evidently aimed at once, and in my desire to escape from number one I ran into the others. At the finish of my undesired shower-bath, I know not who was most to be pitied, the sinners or the sinned against. The terror-stricken faces of the former decided me to give judgment in their favour, and to assume a good nature I did not feel.

Encouraged by my smiles, down the gangway came the lot, all anxious to wring me out, but, prevention being better than cure, I simply shook myself like a collie dog and bounded into the sunshine. Of course, such a catastrophe is easily averted and, indeed, was much more my fault than that of the lascars; so none need, in consequence, avoid the “Minhla” or its kind.

At a drawing-room missionary party I recently attended, the Sunderbunds were described as a vast expanse of marshy country! I felt it difficult to maintain a golden silence, nor are my rose-coloured spectacles required now in a description of them. To me they were one of the most wonderful and beautiful sights of India, and the translation of their name will give weight to my statement. Sunder means beautiful, and ban, forest; bund, now generally used instead of ban, simply means boundary. Some authorities maintain that the name is taken from the tree called Sandri, one of the most common in the adjoining forest land. Others that it is from the vermilion tint of its wood, the translation of which again is Sandri. Either suit the case, but with all truth, preference may be given to the former.

En passant, this sandri wood, because of its exceeding hardness, is greatly prized for boat-building, for flag-staffs and for furniture of sorts, and the hewing and chopping of it gives employment to the Sunderbund people.

Another disputed point, is, as to whether this vast expanse was ever inhabited or not. Remains of houses and embankments prove that it was, but the tidal variations would certainly make residence all the year round undesirable, if not impossible. Vast stretches of jungle resemble floating islands. Marshy land certainly is there, but merely as a necessary or unavoidable detail of the whole, and a useful one, too, for it is used for the cultivation of rice, while vegetables also, and jute, are largely in evidence. Anyhow, all is beautiful, grandly beautiful.

An area of 7,532 square miles answers to the name of Sunderbunds. The length thereof is one hundred and sixty-five miles, and the greatest breadth from north to south is eighty-one miles. The whole tract is one beautiful tangled net-work of streams, rivers and water-courses, enclosing islands of greater or lesser dimensions, intersected with rivers and estuaries running from north to south, and connected by innumerable small channels. Magnificent woodland serves the useful purpose of shielding the river from cyclones in the Bay of Bengal.

For sportsmen, the Sunderbund is a grand resort. It was my good fortune to see a splendid tiger, couchant and basking in the sunshine, in undisputed possession of the bank. Leopards, rhino, buffaloes, hogs, wild cats, porcupines and monkeys are all to be found there. Of birds, the variety found is still more varied, and of these I saw many. Flights of wild pigeons were of daily occurrence. Jays, kingfishers and teal, partridges, plovers and snipe were all in evidence; for vultures there seemed scant attraction. The serang (skipper) and I became great allies over our daily discoveries. It was a triumphant moment for him when he was first to espy a novelty. Sometimes, in order to give to him this pleasure, with pardonable hypocrisy I pretended I had not seen! Very surprised was he when, recalling my natural history studies, I could tell him something of those pretty creations that he did not know.

Now as to route. “Longer or shorter, as fancy or time dictates,” perhaps needs explanation. If ten days can be spared for the “doing” of the Sunderbunds, then preferable would be embarkation from Calcutta. If less time is at the traveller’s disposal, then the steamer can be caught up en route by rail, but the whole return journey in this case must be taken by boat. This last, my choice, was found from start to finish altogether delightful. Wonderfully expeditious is the railway service now from Calcutta, but it was none the less pleasant because of being less so, even three years ago.

I recall now the delightful sensation of waking up at Goalunda, after the night’s journey from Calcutta. It was five of the clock. Grey mists still shrouded a sleepy world. A cool breeze comes from the great wide river. There is a general feeling of waking up all round, of sleepy natives drawing themselves together with many yawns and stretches, and the traveller, somewhat reluctant to do likewise, is aroused by a hearty English voice at the carriage door—“Anything I can do for you, Miss? There is a fine boat awaiting you.” And the spell is broken. One quickly jumps to life and activity. Clever hands reduce one’s bedding to a mere bundle. A travelling coat covers all the defects and ravages of the night’s repose and, with a genial good morning, there is plenty found for the owner of the nice English voice to do.

I love the very recollection of these days, the easy pleasantness of every detail. I loved the attentions so freely and unstintingly given; these never failed or lacked. It was a Miss Sahib. She must be looked after; and not once, or ever, can I recall rudeness or the slightest approach to it, but, instead, a superfluity of all that was kind and nice. Dare I contrast English ways? I will not detail them, but only two journeys have I taken in England in one year, and on each occasion there was default and impertinence for which there was no justification or need, and I can only say that I would rather travel the length and breadth of India alone, than be subjected to the hustle and bustle and the slights and ignorance of the white-faced savage to be found at our doors and in our midst. What other term can one apply to the article calling himself a man who deliberately puffs his vile tobacco in your face, say in tram or footpath, or place of amusement or in restaurants. What right has he to require you to inhale his unconsumed smoke? What right has he to defile the pure atmosphere of heaven and render it obnoxious to others? Needless to say, I find a cure, a very simple one, but with so much advancement in education and outer appearance, why are the veriest rudiments of civilization omitted? Nothing has struck me so painfully after years of home life abroad, as the so-called socialistic spirit which seems to permeate English crowds, the bearing of which, even in those who would favour socialism in the spirit, yet in the letter must condemn it from its obvious results and defects.

A native in India would not dream of smoking in the presence of a lady. Why should our countrymen be less respectful? I have often felt that the natives carried their natural politeness too far. Be it sunshine or rain a native will close his umbrella in passing a European. A needless form of politeness, but it is theirs. If the native be riding, he will dismount and crush himself into the smallest space to allow a European to pass. Perhaps well-known are their minor forms of politeness from servants. None would appear in our presence with shoes on or turbans off, or even without kummerbund (waistband). Again, it is their form of politeness, and to omit such is, according to their code, to offer insult.

But I have wandered far from the peaceful Brahmaputra, and I gladly return to the early morning scene at Goalunda, from which point I had arranged to “do” the river before the Sunderbunds. Innumerable coolies surround the traveller, eager to earn a few pice by carrying luggage from train to steamer, and one is at once struck by the marked difference between these and the Bengalese just left behind. There, as elsewhere, in Assam, the variety is most marked. It would seem that all countries are represented. Doubtless the tea industry is responsible for this, as coolies are recruited from all parts for garden work.

The Assamese proper is comparatively a fair man. He is long and lanky, and his dialect is the most monkey-like chatter I ever heard anywhere in India. He is also the most primitive of beings, and a feeling of tenderest pity for his ignorance and simplicity is followed by a yearning longing to teach him something beyond the value of pice and rice.

A stretch of sandbank crossed, accompanied by the kindly official, and the scene is altogether refreshingly delightful. The rising sun illuminates the great expanse of the Brahmaputra, said there to be five miles wide. Fishermen are already casting their nets, and lying near the good ship “Dogra,” which I had boarded, I counted forty lesser boats as well as some passenger boats, bound to Chittagong, Chandpore and other places. The business of life on board, of course, begins with chota haziri, and, with the addition of fresh crisply fried fish, was extremely nice. A lively scene surrounded me. The loading and unloading of boats, the ceaseless chatter of natives over their bathing operations, also some dredging work, accompanied by a rhythmic litany to keep time, and a new day’s work was fairly begun. Goalunda itself, from the river, appears as little better than a native village, but, there are some official dwellings just out of sight of the river’s sandy banks. Passing from the ghat, the impression left is of a great shipping centre, and with Assam’s rapidly increasing trade Goalunda must also continue to increase in importance.

Once started, the scene is one of ceaseless variety. Pretty wooded lands flank the river’s bed, its width varying from one and two to five miles. Its circuitous course is a continual surprise; how circuitous may be judged from the position of the sun by day and the moon by night. Nearly all the way there is fresh green forest fringing vast stretches of plains, and again, it is very seldom that bold mountains are not outlined on the horizon, and more than once beautiful patches of pure snow were in evidence. Little villages lying in the shade of great trees are always picturesque. Then the effects of sunlight and moonlight on the waters is ever an interesting study. The waters are green, blue or grey, as the sunlight pleases, and watching its kaleidoscopic results the day’s hours glide too swiftly past. Then with the night hours comes still more variety, and under the searchlight villages, woodland and sandy banks are like fairy grottoes and witches’ caverns, with myriads of fireflies completing a fantastic panorama. Dugouts and cockle-shells are galore by night as by day, and as they flash by on the illuminated waters, wonderful romances are weaved of knight-errants and fair ladies and . . . . but alas! the spell is broken. A huge bump, and we are stuck fast on a sandbank, and, perhaps, the skipper, too, has been weaving fairy tales and now awakes to the fact. These little delays are rare, and dolce far niente weakness makes us forgetful of a work-a-day world, and that there is any need for speed.

Chapter XXXI

The Brahmaputra

The jute industry is one of Assam’s great interests, second only to the tea industry. Its uses are manifold. The young shoots cooked resemble spinach, and are a luxury to the native. Ropes, matting and sacking are all made from its fibre, and of late years a fine material has been manufactured from it, so durable that it is highly prized for useful suits and shirts. When the plant is quite mature—eighteen feet is the usual height—it is cut down and thrown into the river to rot. The bark or fibre is then easily stripped, dried, and prepared for shipment. Its price is decided daily by the growers, who, to ensure secrecy, take a little boat and far apart on the river hold their conclave. Its market value settled, they then return to the vendors and bargain with them. Very loyal is the esprit de corps of these jute growers, and none have ever been known to undersell or oversell their confrères. The quality of jute varies in the different districts. That grown in Mymensing is said to be the best, owing to the suitability of the soil for it. The same shoots transplanted have less favourable results.

Stopping at the various ghats on the river is another interest to the traveller. One or more of these are daily touched at, of more or less importance, and although of so frequent occurrence, the resident natives never lose the excitement of assembling to see the boat come and go, usually bringing with them the produce of their district to sell. Passing Serabganj, a great jute centre, Dhubri is the first ghat of general interest, fast becoming a place of importance, with its railway and well-appointed adjuncts.

Gawhati, however, is the most important one. It used to be at one time a military station. It is the residence of several officials, and has a church, but a share only of a chaplain. The station suffered severely in the earthquake of 1897. The inhabitants were fortunate in being able to find security in boats on the river. Its chief attraction, besides its pretty surroundings, an island, a temple and some historical fame, is the fact that it leads to Shillong, one of India’s most delightful hill stations and the summer residence of the Lieutenant Governor. The distance of sixty-four miles in the olden days was covered by tonga. Now there is a smart motor service, under management of the best.

In illustration of many historic interests in Assam, I detail one which is held annually in February at Udalguri, a subdivision of Mangaldai, a few hours’ sail from Gawhati. It is of a fair, when certain amenities take place in token of friendship between the Bhutias—called professionally Gelengs or Commissioners—and the Government of India. The Government presents the Bhutias, deputed to come there to meet them from their own hill country, with five thousand rupees, a few dozen bottles of rum and a prescribed number of blankets. The Gelengs on their side present a gold ring, some fruit, a piece of cloth and a pony. The presents are exchanged with great ceremony, in the presence of a large company of natives, and accompanied by the unholy music of their tom-toms. Policemen form a bodyguard. The mounted Gelengs, with all the state possible, are lifted from their ponies, more like bundles than humanity, for they give no help in the act, and are placed on chairs with still further resemblance to my comparison. The whole ceremony is the result of a treaty made in 1853, when there was some trouble. The Bhutias gave up their right to some land in the district, and the Government squared matters by promising compensation, which would be discontinued if any trouble arose. This interchange of presents is called “Poosa.” Another tribe, the Akas, are also entitled to this exchange with the Government, and thus, like the Gelengs, are for the present kept quiet, and the cost is considered by Government to be quite justified! The above may appear a digression, but, as the Brahmaputra is the means of transition from Gawhati to Mangaldai of the rupees, the rum and the Deputy-Commissioner, I do not feel I have much to apologise for.

One more day on the river brings the tourist to quite the prettiest station in Assam, Tezpore. Beautiful lakelets surrounded by fine old trees are one of the station’s great beauties. The perfect order in which it is always kept impresses the stranger. It is like a private park with its beautiful green lawns and pretty flowering shrubs and trees, all carefully guarded and tendered. Tezpore boasts of a church, a club, a chummery, a dak bungalow, a polo ground and a first-class racecourse, a Deputy-Commissioner and other officials of more or less importance. It is very proud of its little toy railway, which runs into the districts. During the race and camp meets, held annually, the station becomes such a scene of fashion and festivity that it is only secondary to Calcutta itself.

It is only occasionally one gets a glimpse of any tea gardens from the river. These are usually of a very trim description. It is well known that Assam owes its beautifully cultured condition entirely to the tea industry, and it is, as if by magic, that vast stretches of deep jungle, the lair of the leopard and the tiger, are cleared. Speedily is the work accomplished, and in its place trim tea gardens almost as quickly appear. The good tea planter always has a nursery of young shoots ready to transplant, and so the magic work proceeds apace and the industry increases in vast strides. The bungalows of the various gardens are usually the essence of neatness, each chatelaine vieing with the others for superiority. Pretty compounds and good tennis lawns are ever a feature, while most districts boast of a good polo ground, and, in the monotony of garden life, the planters have need of every possible recreation.

Passing Silghat one is lost in admiration of the beautiful woodland, in which rich copper beeches contrast delightfully with the ever fresh greenery. Great sandy stretches at Bishnath lead to a very prolific tea district, and this, like all the others, is noted for its profuse and never-failing hospitality.

I daily came to the conclusion that the Brahmaputra is like the prophet in ancient history, who had no honour in his own country! I usually noticed travellers sleeping the day away, doing that most depraved of all things—killing time. Perhaps familiarity with the river deprives it of charm for some people! It had not had that effect on me. Aspects ever varying, reveal fresh beauties, and the difficulty to me was to concentrate my attention on the best of books.

I found the night hours, spent on deck, also most delightful. Soft breezes fanned one to sleep, and the swishing sound of water at early dawn was a most pleasant awakening. Surely it must have been some traveller on a river steamer who suggested the beautiful idea of a musical gong to arouse sleeping households, and recall spirits from dreamland, instead of that nerve-destroying double rap and rustle of the freshly-starched housemaid! Nowadays the steamers keep on the move until 2 a.m., all being supplied with searchlights, and they start again at 4 a.m., hence their fast service. In the sixties, the sail from Goalunda to Silghat, accomplished now in three days, took fourteen.

Nigri Ting and Kooklimukh are the next ghats of importance. The former leads to many very superior tea gardens, and the latter to Jorhat, where races and camp meets are held annually, both of which are prolific of and responsible for many engagements. I do not mean of a warlike description, or at least let us hope that none end in being such!

The wide river at Jorhat enhances the value of the fine country for the manoeuvres of the Assam Valley Light Horse, and the intricacies of their field days are greatly increased in consequence of it.

One day later, and we have reached Dibrughar. The scene on arrival is disappointing, but the advantage of the ghat being two miles distant from the station is obvious. Dibrughar proper is thus saved the noise of the railway station and its workshops, as well as of the ghat traffic. Both, being on an extensive scale, employ a very large number of workers.

The district continues fairly unkempt until the station comes in view, and then, as one has been judging by ill-kept villages, the surprise is all the greater. It is an exceedingly picturesque place, and may be described as a beautiful park, with trim, well-kept lawns, each residence vieing with the adjoining one in its pretty arrangements and profusion of flowers. Wisterias, gardenias, roses, oleanders, passion flowers and sweet-scented violets galore are everywhere, and these are only some of the beautiful blooms. Trim tea gardens adjoin the station, and through these is a pretty drive to the racecourse.

The low, thatched bungalows are very quaint. One or more, occupied by officials, built on the chung principle, are more desirable as residences. The little red sandstone church occupies a central position, but does not attract a large congregation. Dibrughar has the advantage of some mountain scenery, a compensation for having neither lake nor river. A good club and tennis courts are always full of life every afternoon. The wing of a regiment assists to keep up the sporting character of the station. Motoring is popular there as elsewhere. The residents at Dibrughar are a Civil Surgeon of high repute, a chaplain, and the usual officials. A few days were only too delightfully spent there. Of interest in the district are the salt and oil mines, which my desire to return by the “Dogra” prevented me from visiting.

The return journey to Calcutta with scenes reversed, were scenes renewed. The route had lost none of its charm for me, and alone was it of interest to visit places one had heard of from infancy, and many a time spelt out in childish calligraphy, in utter ignorance as to their geographical whereabouts. If there was a sad side to the picture, it was the reality of graves where in the natural course of things there should be joyous life and activity. Well, there was, perhaps, some comfort in the thought that Assam had now attained a far higher sanitary condition, and that good doctors are now everywhere.

Anent the return journey on the good ship “Dogra,” that I was sole passenger and felt no loneliness says much, I think, for the interests of the country through which we journeyed. The sunsets and sunrises, especially the latter, were daily joys. One of these has left indelible memories of its beauty.

The lovely dew-laden woodland glistened with radiance, the river was like molten gold. Skimming its surface, and as if descending from the great centre itself, was a flotilla of tiny cockle-shells, each manned by a tiny imp as golden as his surroundings, and, to all appearance in their race for victory, quite ignorant of the fairy-like effect they created, or of the disappointment for me, as they approached and dispelling all illusions, appeared as they really were, giltless, and only little brown boys and brown boats, the former nude, and the latter very battered! So much, however, for the glories of the beautiful rising sun.

Hoping for such another revelation, I was waiting at early dawn next day, particularly anxious to see such at Silghat, where the woodlands are particularly fine. A strange phenomenon happened instead. The great black clouds in the northern skies opened and revealed one great flash of brilliancy, disappearing almost as quickly as it came. What was it but some omen from the spirit land, I could not tell. One, very dear to me, and with whom these woodlands will ever be associated, had “passed over” since last I visited them. I took this vision now as one of remembrance from the better land, and as an assurance of beautiful life and activity there. One hour later and the sun rose in quiet splendour, but I thought with a brilliancy which paled before my beautiful vision.

Leaving all the pretty forest land behind, Goalunda was all too quickly reached again. A peculiarity there was the sudden and intensely hot wind; one felt as if in a sirocco, but these, fortunately, were of short duration. I have omitted mention of Polasbarrie, where Assam silk can be purchased, but which requires very wary selection from the hands of the native merchant. But let us return to our subject—Goalunda.

In glorious sunset we glided from its busy din, with no distraction save the litany of the crew as they sounded the river’s depths. The beautiful stillness was delightful. All nature seemed asleep or resting, except some great black-looking fish, which disturbed the quiet surface and left countless circles behind as they disappeared again. It was a perfectly lovely scene. Through the grand forest land the setting sun scintillated gloriously, and the broad sea-like river caught the reflection and sparkled as if with myriads of diamonds. No fears of shipping a sea, no fears of mal de mer, no monotony, no anything, but pleasure and wonderment that so few people give themselves a healthful enjoyment so easily within their reach. Is not a parallel found in the story of the officer who doubted the powers of the Jordan and preferred the far distant waters of Abana and Pharphar?

“No shipping of a sea” reminds me that we had the variety, in one channel of the river, of what the pilot, whom we had taken on board there specially for the Sunderbunds, termed “quite a storm for the river.” Great waves with white-crested tops rose and fell in quick and close succession. A miniature gale was most exhilarating. That it was necessary to anchor for a time quite flavoured of adventure, and with dry land on either side was most enjoyable.

Barisal is one of the places of note passed in the Sunderbunds, a pretty picturesque place, boasting of a fine church, a temple and some good-looking official residences. In the days gone by, and not so very long ago, a regiment called Barisal its headquarters. Miles of pretty woodland surrounded it. Well-laden cocoanut trees were specially abundant, and in the vicinity efforts are being made for their increased cultivation. Some wood factories and potteries were very picturesque-looking, surrounded with woodland. A pretty picture always were the fishermen at their restful, playful-looking work, even sometimes sound asleep, leaving the nets to do their work. They had been beforehand preparing tangled nets and bargaining their fish away, and now was the respite from work and worry, while the unwary fish glided into the trap prepared for them. While living practically in the animal world, I conceived a great aversion to the catching of fish or the killing of birds or beasts. Why should they die for us? In it one seems to see a type of redemption’s great plan, but I like it none the better for that. However, out of sight and mind, it is probably well we can return with relish to the flesh-pots of Egypt again.

The excitement at early dawn of next day was passing the “Kestrel” with two sensible people on board (so called because they were “doing” the Sunderbunds)! Yet another excitement awarded us. A tiny craft that had seen better days, and, indeed, little more than a roughly-shackled raft or two, suddenly turned turtle, giving its crew, a man and a boy, unexpected immersion. The “Dogra” in a twinkling of time went to the rescue and quickly picked them up. The boy, now that the danger was quite passed, was crying piteously; the man turned ruefully to his broken-down craft rapidly drifting away. Both, however, were easily comforted. A few pice sufficed to stem the boy’s tears, and a silver piece was consolation for the man. Some breakfast was the good serang’s happy thought, after which the ship-wrecked mariners were landed, none the worse, save for the loss of their boat; but judging by the pace I saw them leg the pathway, I did not doubt but that they both had gone in pursuit of it.

As we neared Calcutta, we navigated for the most part narrow streams only, beautifully and densely wooded on either side, and presenting a very trim and tidy appearance. Past Kalni we—I write with the privilege accorded to Royalty and the Press only—noted a pretty little busy-looking village with some good houses which denoted the residence of officials. While pausing for stores there, the “Iona” passed, a fine, imposing-looking boat. Some tiny houses springing apparently out of the water, were picturesque with bamboo fortifications, and I quite envied the inmates their liberty and seclusion.

It were vain repetition to dwell further on the beauties of the Sunderbunds. In its sameness was restful pleasure, in its physical varieties were countless surprises; everywhere was beauty, interest and edification, and that which made the whole delightful; its health-giving results, its restful peace and, indeed, it had but one regret—its finale—the arrival at Jaggernath’s ghat, Calcutta.

Chapter XXXII

Royalty

Quite the most unpleasant part of residence in Calcutta, or any station in the plains in the hot weather, was ever to me the necessity, considered essential, of daily closing all windows and doors from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m. As regular as the clock did the bearer in the private hotel in which I was staying go his rounds in performance of this duty. Positions were reversed—open all night they were closed all day; it was with sheep-like submission that the inmates consented. Usually a funereal silence reigned during the interval, only broken for luncheon, when a few sleepy ladies appeared, who looked as if speech in addition to “stoking” was impossible.

I adopted a different course. As soon as the bearer had completed his regulation work in my quarters, I opened all the windows again and found, with green blinds (gilmils) to produce shade and the punkahs at their fullest power, a much more pleasing result. Nor did I ever make it a rule to stay indoors during these hot hours. A closed carriage or, better still, a motor made going out of doors not only possible, but pleasant. True, one did not go long distances, for horses and chauffeurs had to be considered, but with museums, libraries and a good club all at hand, very profitably could the day hours be spent.

A walk at early morning, and my choice for such was between five and six o’clock, all but insured me undisputed possession of the Maidan. Towards six, men and their caddies appeared for golf. Tennis, or the milder exercise of croquet, and a drive quite waked one up by nightfall, for the quiet dinner-parties given by the ladies who had not deserted their husbands for the hills, but who devotedly preferred to share the heat and face the music with them.

Calcutta thus was quite palatable, but a wide contrast to the cold season, when the round of gaieties never ended until the hot weather came again. I had found Barrackpore in the hot weather a pleasant residence, but this was owing to the happy circumstances in which I was placed. With the park overlooking the river it is a beautiful place, and the evening drives within the confines of the former and overlooking the latter were a great source of pleasure. The Viceroy’s week-end residence is an ornament to this extensive park.

An amusement enjoyed at Barrackpore and nowhere else greatly appealed to my love of boating and the river. Two or three boats of a most lumbering hulking description were joined broadwise together, the number depended upon the size of the party for whom they were requisitioned. In the cool of the summer nights, after dinner till the small hours, the pleasure was to glide up or down stream. That the occasion was one of frivolity goes without expression. The moonlight, the waters, the serenity, the hour, were all conducive to such.

Impromptu theatricals on a still more impromptu stage ever occupied a foremost place on the programme. Singing and ghostly recitations gave full scope and popularity for the most vivacious and inventive. I claim no exemption from a share in the general hilarity, but in justification, if such be wanted, I would say that it is the best players who make the best workers—and in India, as elsewhere, “Jack” should never be allowed to be a dull boy.

Serampore—near Barrackpore, is a great paper manufacturing district, and my love for information led me to trespass into all these. A Scotsman was deputed to show me round one of the chief of these. He had no difficulty in recognising a countrywoman. “Deed mem,” he said, “and I’m rale prood to take ye roond, for I’m sure you come frae north o’ the Tweed.” We heartily shook hands, and a little conversation elicited the fact that his Scottish village lay close to my old home, and he was even able to add my name to the bond of interest.

All things come to those who know how to wait, and in due course came the cold weather. It came reluctantly, and even in November punkahs were still a necessity and not a luxury. The excitement of the season was the anticipated Royal visit—the visit of Their Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales. That important and successful event has been too fully detailed to admit of further embellishment. My pen has already contributed its quota, though not the entirety it had hoped to do.

Thereby hangs a disappointing little tale. The pleasure had been arranged for me to tour with Their Royal Highnesses, in the modest capacity of journalist. I was supremely pleased. My little pile of invitation cards to do so as the Viceroy’s guest added importance to the occasion. Minor arrangements to meet the exigencies of the Press, including a photographer, were complete. I veil the disappointment under which I still smart, and now regret all the nice things I have said about the railways in India, for from them came my disappointment.

“A woman journalist,” said the horrible man in authority. “Certainly not, we are not going to be hampered with women.”

“She is a very nice woman,” mendaciously said my kind editor friend. “Quite a small one, too,” and I know he added some more nice phrases which in spite of their complimentary nature I hope were quite true; but, all were of no avail, and the horrible man at the wheel remained obdurate.

“Women were a nuisance,” he said (the saints forgive him), and other statements which more than verify the descriptive epithet that I attach to him, so ephemeral were my anticipations, and to the faulty pen of a mere man, who knows not satin from chiffon, and misnames articles of a woman’s wardrobe, fell the delightful duty of more especially “shadowing” the Princess. How I wished the verdict could have been submitted to Her Royal Highness, then mine indeed surely would have been the triumph.

There was some satisfaction in having the best place allotted at all the State functions in Calcutta, and having such a subject for my pen as a Royal Prince and Princess, but independent of all that were the great cards of invitation in letters of gold and emblazoned with the Royal Arms, which bestowed the honour of invitation to meet Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales, and again mine was the joy to recount the closing scenes at Karachi, which equalled all others in brilliancy.

Their Royal Highness’s visit attracted many celebrities and Indian powers and princes to the city. His Holiness the Tashi Lama, the head of the Buddhists and High Pontiff of Western Thibet, was one of these. Aged only twenty-three, the respect and reverence shown him by his aged retinue was surprising, but as it is part of the Buddhist faith that they have always lived, but in different incarnations, perhaps thus had he gained the experience which fitted him for his high office. The first visit of a Tashi Lama to India, it was one of political importance. His unique retinue met with a responsive curiosity. Borne in a sedan chair of gorgeously lacquered crimson and gold, his followers were mounted on shaggy ponies and heralded his approach and presence with a sustained fanfare of trumpets; their handsome garments of Oriental silk maintained with these (the shaggy ponies) an Oriental effect, while their yellow silk umbrellas and headgear, large as cart wheels, contributed a Chinese note. The Tashi Lama’s pony followed his chair, and seemed unappreciative—indeed resentful of the enthusiastic demonstrations of the Buddhist followers, who humbly satisfied themselves, and gave expression to their feelings, by kissing his tail!

The Maharaj Kumar of Sikim and the Maharani were other visitors who attracted general attention. Queer little figures, weighted with jewellery, but behaving with dignity and composure as to the manner born.

The State Ball was the occasion par excellence to meet many of these Indian Princes, and was of exceeding brilliancy. The jewellery worn by them amounted in value to the ransom of many kings. Favourite ornaments worn were ropes of pearls, diamond aigrettes, fringes of rubies and emeralds large as gooseberries, diamond and pearl embroideries on their rich velvet or satin chupkans which, with their turbans, were always of effective colouring.

Calcutta at all times entertains lavishly. The smallest dinner-party is a banquet. The fine effect of balls and assemblies is enhanced by their Oriental setting, and how much more so was this the case with Royalty in its midst?

My reminiscences cannot be complete without a passing commentary, however familiar to many, of India’s capital. Government House, a replica of Kedleston Hall, Derbyshire, is, in itself, a splendid building, but lacks sufficient environment and again is adjacent to the least best part of the town. The original Government House was in Hastings street and still exists, a well furbished and fashioned residence. From it, Warren Hastings was married in St. John’s Church, in 1777, to his second wife, and there in the Register was shown to me the entry of it. With the perversity of fate, which does not always administer rewards justly, we learn from the letters of this naughty couple, in the Victorian section of the British Museum, that the union proved a very happy one. History repeated itself a year or two ago, and mine was the experience to be one of the wedding party which again wended its way to St. John’s Church from this house in Hastings Street.

Belvedere,the residence of the Lieutenant-Governor, has beautiful grounds, and the house, recently enlarged, is now quite worthy of them. Hastings House, Alipore, is now chiefly used as a residence for Indian princes visiting the city as Government guests. The garrison of Fort William is conveniently near for the ceaseless interchange of hospitalities with Calcutta. The Eden gardens adjoining Government House are a lasting memorial to the horticultural taste of the Misses Eden (the sisters of Lord Auckland, India’s Viceroy in the earlier part of last century), under whose personal supervision they were designed. The town band playing there every evening attracts a fluctuating galaxy, who pause in their carriages in their course from the Lal Rusta to Prince’s Ghat to enjoy the music.

This fine but now somewhat useless-looking building at one time fulfilled its destiny of landing-stage, but the river having receded considerably, it is now stranded high and dry far above and apart from it. I do not think it can ever have been used to greater advantage than on the arrival of the Prince and Princess of Wales in 1906. The roof was a splendid vantage point for spectators, and its fine arches added lustre and convenience to the stance for the arrival and departure of the State carriages and their splendid escort, the Imperial Cadet Corps.

The Botanical Gardens are a great glory, but the drive to them through an old and odorous part of the city is a deterrent to frequent visits. A banyan tree there is a central attraction. It measures half a mile round, and its intricacies are more than a sabbath day’s journey. The Zoological Gardens contain a splendid collection of animals, but the caging of these specimens is ever to my thinking an act of superlative cruelty. The native gentleman in charge of the Gardens told me he was about to resign the office, chiefly because he became so attached to the animals that their imprisoned state and frequent deaths was too great a pain to him.

Calcutta is proud of its fine racecourse. “Cup Day” on Xmas Eve is a scene of great brilliancy. People from all India foregather for the occasion, and the frocks, frills and furbelows of the ladies are as chief a matter of interest as the races themselves. The Maidan, a vast expanse of meadow land in the heart of city life, kept for the recreation of the residents, is Calcutta’s glory. It includes in its confines a miniature canal and model yacht club, and quite exciting in the hot weather evenings are the regattas. The little yachts, while of toylike proportions only, are all correct models built after the fashion of their greater namesakes, and the success of these is considered equivalent to that of the boats they represent.

A fine golf course at Tollygunge, about three miles distant, is also an attraction, likewise a useful museum and a well-disciplined public library. Although it is the social aspect of Calcutta that is most of all attractive, nevertheless, these were a never-failing source of interest and edification one hot season. The monuments of Calcutta are of a particularly handsome and noteworthy description, and number over three hundred and fifty. One, the oldest of these, is in the old church of St. John, already alluded to, which, built in the seventeenth century, was originally the cathedral and the first church built in Bengal. This old monument should be revered—it is to the memory of Job Charnock, the founder of Calcutta who, when he landed as a small trader on the banks of the Hoogli, perceived its possibilities, and settling himself and his crew, quickly attracted a colony. From a stretch of sandy soil it rapidly developed into the splendid city it now is, but up to the days of Lord Hardinge its insanitary condition made it, from a residential point of view, undesirable, if not impossible. Now an immense European population reside in Calcutta, and so English is its life that one ceases to separate it mentally from the homeland. The comparatively new cathedral occupies a splendid site on the confines of the Maidan. If it lacks ecclesiastical design in all details, it yet boasts of magnificent windows and some fine monuments. The Bishop’s Palace is close by, and is a delightful residence.

Chapter XXXIII

Ceylon

After a season so strenuous as that of 1906—to use the “caught on” word of the day—seabreezes had a peculiarly fascinating thought for me. A visit to Ceylon seemed to meet the case. One week only by sea, one would have enough board-ship life, yet not too much.

In going backwards and forwards from the homeland, the chief interest at Colombo is usually the getting and the posting of letters, and sometimes a run on shore, with the interest thrown in of bargaining for lace, jewellery and trinkets. To go quite inland, however, is a splendid revelation, an education previously overlooked. One recalls the knowledge which the schoolroom only deemed necessary regarding Ceylon, and felt glad to add to the scanty store—“Ceylon, famous for its tea and coffee plantations and its palm trees.” These should rather be given as a small addenda to the grand whole, which is a beautiful country more advanced in civilization than most others in the East.

“What tho’ the spicy breezes
Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s Isle.”

Who is not haunted with the old hymn, as sung in our Sunday Schools, with nasal twang and unlimited gusto—but alas, with small regard to fact? The breezes are not spicy, and man is not vile but quite the best seen in the East—always smiling, as if to show their magnificent ivory—and speaking excellent English. Cingalese is a difficult language. English residents will not take the trouble to learn it, hence English is taught in all the schools and is freely adopted by the natives, while Urdu is spoken by the burghers, and by the natives generally.

Then, with regard to the spicy breezes, I was told that when Bishop Heber wrote his hymn the breezes were spicy and cinnamon scented, but nowadays the white man does not favour the cultivation of cinnamon; he leaves that to the black man in isolated districts only. It does not recoup him, and it is to tea, coffee and rubber that the white man directs his attention, so trim gardens and bungalows cover the formerly spicy cinnamon groves, and rubber, still in its infancy, will in a few years’ time, it is expected, be one of Ceylon’s most profitable interests.

On arrival at Colombo, the Lighthouse, the Breakwater and the Catamarans first attracted my attention. Turning a deaf ear to the various vendors with their most tempting wares, the first idea is to reach the shore. From that moment until you have “done” Ceylon, be prepared to be “done” by Ceylon, for in the words of the immortal “Sairey,” “of all the greediest, graspingest creatures it has been my lot to come across,” Ceylon excels them all, and I grieve to narrate the fact, but the black man was not the chief offender. An Englishman—I will not give his office away—was the first to “do” me.

The intense heat of Colombo at all times makes one anxious to leave it again. A good plan, therefore, I found was to see half the sights, then tour the Island and return to finish them. A rickshaw drive, along the splendid beach, is a pleasure to be repeated many times; as these go at flying pace, much time is not encroached upon. A walk on the Breakwater Pier gives one a fine view of the town and a bracing sea breeze as well. The first block of the Breakwater was laid by the King when, as Prince of Wales, he visited the Island in 1875. Very extensive harbour additions and alterations followed the completion of the Breakwater, which made so splendid a financial return that Government speedily recouped the outlay of it. The clean appearance of the town attracts casual observation, and a fine statue of Queen Victoria is a very pleasing and “homey” feature.

The numerous motors speak for the good condition of the roads. The tramcars, freely and chiefly used by the natives, are more useful than ornamental. The rickshaw, though still unrubber-tyred, is the mode par excellence of transit, and so numerous are these that the call for one may attract as many as a dozen—so one may pick and choose—the decision being guided by the sturdiness and cleanliness of the driver. In close succession the points of interest are speedily visited. These are the Cathedral, the Government Offices, the Watch Tower, the Ironworks, the Prison for convict labour, and the Cinnamon Gardens, now used for private residences only.

Having overtaken these interests, Mount Lavinia is the next attraction, and there in the hotel, the foundation of which is a rock, overlooking the sea, a few days can pleasantly be spent. Its absolute restfulness is its charm—there is nothing to do but sleep and eat and listen to the “sad sea waves,” watch the passing steamers and bargain with the “Tambies” or cheap-jacks, as they call themselves, for their pretty lace, trinkets, tortoise-shell and native wares generally—but stay—for there is one interest more—the arrival by every train of troops of globe-trotters from all parts of the world, and the marvellous manner in which these rid themselves of superfluous cash alone accounts for the flourishing condition of the hotel. Prices everywhere are fabulous, and are very much levied according, not to rates and rules, but to the side and swagger with which the traveller arrives and submits to be imposed upon—and correspondingly do the meek and poorly-dressed score. (I regretted I had not learnt this trick in time).

Attached to a “boy” (native servant), bathing may safely be indulged in at Mount Lavinia, otherwise, on account of the undercurrents, it is not quite safe. With this condition regarded, however, I found my early immersion the pleasure of the day. My “boy” made a splendid anchor, and not one-eighth of an inch would he permit me to float or swim beyond his power. The rocky beach with its catamarans lying at anchor is very picturesque. These quaint boats, they say, date from the days of the “fishers of men.” They are dug-outs, wonderfully fashioned; at the left side is a crooked or curved arm, which serves to balance the craft. In rough weather one or two men, as the case requires, attach themselves to it for additional balance—monkey-like, there they sit, or hang, or dangle, for variety, oblivious of their dangerous position.

The sunsets from Mount Lavinia were most glorious. It was part of the daily routine never to miss seeing the setting—if one unavoidably missed the rising—sun.

From the mount one naturally passed on to Kandy, through country marvellously beautiful. There was no monotony in the landscape—there was vale and hill and dale, there was rivulet and waterfall, there was wonderfully beautiful foliage and flowers, and conspicuous above all the palm tree, with its lanky stem and shower bouquet effect on top, leaving the breeze clear vent, which has so much to say to the very healthy condition of Ceylon.

Kandy is a quaint old town—most picturesquely situated in a hollow. A great hill o’ershadows it, and anything to surpass the magnificence of its surrounding woodland would be impossible. Its lake is central, and in it is reflected all this wondrous beauty. Pretty bungalows rise on its western slope, each vieing with the other in horticultural effect.

The Temple of the Tooth attracted all tourists, with perhaps one humble exception, who took warning from the disappointed visitors, who failed to have anything interesting to narrate concerning it. The chief delight of Kandy are the Peradinia Gardens, and these under the care of European gentlemen are magnificent. Their order is perfect and the taste displayed in their arrangement is a study. The handsomely-designed beds and parterres are so arranged that blended shades show up to full advantage the beauty of each. Bright scarlet blooms are flanked with white and delicate pinks. Sweet-scented heliotrope was surrounded with amber blooms, scentless but beautiful. Roses, hydrangeas, hybiscus—all had their place of best advantage, and above all these were trees and shrubs of wondrous beauty, a mass of tinted foliage. Ferns were in their true element in this moist warm atmosphere. Orchids also flourished apace and the grass lawns were of emerald hue.

The tree which most of all delighted me was the parent of the humble Brazil nut, of immense height and circumference; its beautiful leaves of hanging groups of three were, at top, tinted pale delicate green, and gradually deepening were, at base, of deep myrtle, shading into buff and scarlet. My visit to the Peradinia Gardens, accompanied by old friends casually met in Kandy, was one of my greatest pleasures. The Governor’s Palace, taken en route, is a charming residence, and owing to the presence of these friends the casual visitor enjoyed the privilege of an introduction to the Governor and his wife.

There are residents who complain that Ceylon is not sufficiently advertised for the attraction of visitors. My experience was that the place teemed with tourists from all lands—but I cannot laud the treatment they received. Expenses are enormous, hotels most unjust in their charges, and the return not commensurate. Railway travelling is cheap and the sleeping berths are comfortable, but everything has to be paid for as an extra, and thus is pleasure reduced; and to our shame, be it spoken, our own nation, not the Cingalese, are the chief offenders.

Of interest at Kandy was the erection of the monument to the fallen of the Ceylon contingent in South Africa, which the Duke of Connaught was shortly to unveil, and in full force were the preparations for the reception of the Royal party, the floral decorations of which promised to be very grand. From Kandy one journeys on to Horton, an attractive place, which many people prefer to Newar Elyia, because it is less trying than the latter. In any case it is useful as an acclimatiser and preparation for Newar Elyia, which is 7,000 feet above sea level. Pretty drives, good golf links, some gardens, a good view of Adam’s Peak, and residence in the Grand Hotel are the chief attractions of the place. A week’s stay was found sufficient.

The toy train, with good sleeping berths, from Nonoyah is most comfortable. This railway line is of recent date. The journey was formerly driven or ridden, and under these circumstances was too lengthy for absolute pleasure. On the return journey from Newar Elyia the tourist must not fail to see the Buried Cities and the Boer Settlement, this last so delightfully situated that the banished Boers were scarcely to be pitied, after which one returned to Colombo feeling that sufficient justice for the time being had been done to Ceylon. The Galle Face Hotel, overlooking the sea, is delightful, and also is interesting, for there all nations congregate, and to ensconce oneself on the wide verandah and watch the human race is to pass most profitably and pleasantly a long afternoon.

Only one word of historical interest in conclusion. It was during the European war succeeding the French Revolution that England gained possession of the Island of Ceylon. The native sovereigns were, however, allowed to continue in possession until March, 1815, when, chiefly owing to the troubled state of the island, England took over entire power and rule, and this with highly profitable results for all concerned.

Chapter XXXIV

Home

It was on board the P. & O. “Sunda” that I made the return voyage to India. Fresh from England, with everything English on board, from its roast beef to its sailors, I felt a veritable anomaly—one, too, with a heavy heart. Neither Colombo nor the sea had done its prescribed work, and I seemed to have come to the end of my physical tether, and the inevitable was uncongenial to me. I could not face the music, since I could not believe that that music could be harmonious. I would not wish to be disloyal to the homeland, but with one King to reign over us, is not India part and parcel, and did not our Prince of Wales inculcate unity of the closest in his speech at the Guildhall on his return from India, in 1906?

But the good ship “Sunda” has fulfilled her contract. The hauling of chains, the bumping of gangways, the clatter and clamour of the natives, and the true Oriental keynote is struck again. It includes friendly hands stretched out in welcome, and one is delightfully taken possession of and cared for, and pro tem forgets to think of self-assertion. The cold weather had quite passed. Calcutta was fast assuming its hot season garb, the streets were dry and dusty, and friends had migrated to the hills. It behoved me that I follow suit, and with the beginning of the end at hand, I longed for the hill country that was my first love.

Surely it would be kind and recuperative, and even with its mixed memories would regulate the mainspring. I am no fatalist, and when one listens to the inward monitor, too often one only hears what one wants to hear, and proverbial deafness and blindness lend oblivion to the rest. Well—I know not, was it destiny or no—was it for weal or woe—but the fiat went forth, Hobson’s choice remained, and I decided to return “home.”

The voyage was not unfraught with interest, but I think voyages always fall short of the real pleasure they might be. Too often a motley crew are gathered together, and a leading power to bind and cement is lacking. The usual deck amusements are a weariness of the flesh, the funny man is not appreciated, children for once are de trop, and where is my deck chair? Being a very comfortable one, with book-rest and table attached, it is the choice and envy of many, and the oblivious air assumed by its unwelcome occupant gives rise to thoughts of life at sea not wholly conducive to equanimity.

I found great pleasure in my visits to Port Said, Malta and Algiers en route, and would give to Malta the superlative place of interest. Life there seemed all sunshine, the people all smiles, and little al fresco meals outside their dwellings greatly appealed to me. Algiers was French—and alas, with its mud and mire, too English. The voyage had become more pleasant from Malta. It was a new experience to meet some Jesuit Fathers homeward-bound from there—and these leavened the lump delightfully. Their music was an attraction, their delightful conversational powers another, in which wit and humour were conspicuously blended.

“What is a Jesuit?” I boldly asked the good Father whom it was my luck to have placed next to me at table.

“A low and crafty fellow,” he answered, “at least, so says Dr. Johnson.”

“Oh!” I said, “I am very mixed. When I was a very little girl my nurse used to say to me, on those non rare occasions when I did not act in accordance with her preconceived notions of right, ‘Go into the corner, you naughty little Jesuit.’” A form of punishment resulted wherein I found no corrective element, and only a silly waste of good time, and—I was called a Jesuit! a term which I have now learnt to esteem and reverence.

Tilbury Docks held no joy for me that bitterest of January’s days. No hands of loving welcome were extended to me, and the ice and frost and snow-bound country were a dissonant note for which one was unsuited, unfitted. Porters looked so grand in boots and gloves, after the nude being I had so long been accustomed to, that I feared to ask service of them. My agent was absent, and would he had continued so, for fourteen months have passed and I still mourn the effects of his arrival at all. “If you want a thing done well,” was a maxim taught me in my youth, “do it yourself,” and howsoever mixed with conceit, I proved its truth that bitter January day.

Let me whisper it, the saving clause and qualifying words which will remove all reproach from the homeland, and the stinging arrows of criticism. Kind hearts were there—only waiting to be gracious, only waiting to know how much they were wanted by the invalid who arrived a stranger in her own country, and that these were extended in loving tenderness and not as any reward of merit, only increased their value. My warmest tribute is to them and for them. They knew not what they did for me; one cannot very well be kind to one’s-self, and there was no call to try. In due course came health, that greatest of all blessings, and the road to it was neither long nor dreary, one had not voyaged quite in vain. Everyone recommended their pet doctor, each said their’s was the best.

I maintained a discreet silence, for I knew mine was quite the best! and there is still one other saving clause remaining, perhaps others will follow in due course; had no homeland been reached, then could no reminiscences have been written of my dear “Land of Regrets.”