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Title: With the Connaught Rangers
in quarters, camp, and on leave
Author: Edward Maxwell
Release date: June 4, 2024 [eBook #73767]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Hurst & Blackett, 1883
Credits: Brian Coe, Karin Spence and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS ***
[Illustration: OUR ENCAMPMENT IN NISHAT BAGH.]
WITH
THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS
IN
QUARTERS, CAMP, AND ON LEAVE.
[Illustration]
BY
GENERAL E. H. MAXWELL, C.B.,
AUTHOR OF “GRIFFIN AHOY!”
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1883.
_All Rights reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.
My first Experiences in the Regiment--Toby White--The Castle
Guard--Changes in Ireland--Donnybrook Fair--Half-a-crown’s
worth of Fighting--Ordered to Malta--Affairs in
Syria--Irishmen and Scotchmen--Transports--A Cruel
Joke--Amusements at Malta--Cruise to Candia and Greece--An
old Colonel’s opinion of Rome and its Ruins--Dépôt at
Paisley--Firing a Salute at Dumbarton Castle--March
from Stirling to Aberdeen--Illustrious Tom and the
Blotting-books--Reminiscences 3
CHAPTER II.
IN THE WEST INDIES.
Tralee--A Venturesome Feat--Old Pate--An Irish Cornet--Paddy
Oysters--Ordered to Barbadoes--Grenada--Captain Astley’s
Creole--St. George’s--Land-crab Catching--Turtle-turning--A
Jigger Toe--Recollections of Trinidad--Halifax, Nova
Scotia--Burning of the Barracks--Lobster-spearing--Present
of a Bear--Smuggling Bruin on Board--Our Pet in the Zoo 23
CHAPTER III.
ENGLAND AND THE CONTINENT.
Return to England--Paris--English and French Officers--Un
véritable Rosbif--Plum Poudin--Touching Courtesy--Isle
of Wight--Parkhurst Barracks--Election at Cowes--A Tipsy
Driver--Camp at Chobham--Visitors to the Camp--The Rev.
Dr. Cumming--In the Manufacturing Districts--Ordered
to the East--Generous Conduct of the Cunards--War
Ditties--Scutari--A Wrestling Match--A Good Story--A Fairy
Scene--The Sultan’s Wife 45
CHAPTER IV.
IN TURKEY AND THE CRIMEA.
Enchanting Scene--Loss of Baggage-horses--Sir George Brown’s
Order--Identification of Lost Horses--Dealings with the
Peasantry--Foraging--Cholera in Bulgaria--Disagreeable
Mistake--Dr. Shegog--Devotion to his Work and Sudden
Death--Death of an Officer--Embarkation at Varna--The
Black Sea Fleet--Kind Soldiers--Our first Scare in the
Crimea--Kindness of Lord Raglan--An Outlying Picquet--Story
of a Connaught Ranger--Capture of Balaclava--A Serious
Mistake 65
CHAPTER V.
THE PUNJAUB.
Sent Tumbling into a Ditch--Sir Houston
Stewart--Ordered to England--Fearful Accident on
H.M.S. _Belleisle_--Lisbon--Cholera--A Magnificent
Regiment--The _Ulysses_--A Scotch Captain--A Long
Farewell to England--Cape Pigeons--The Albatross--Arrival
in India--Perplexing News--Our Position in
India--Servants--Ordered to the Punjaub--Agra--Installation
of the Star of India--Showers of Meteors--Durbar 85
CHAPTER VI.
DELHI.
By Train to Delhi--The Railway Station in 1866--Bridge of
Boats--Palace of Delhi--The Jumna--Musjid--Reminiscences
of Delhi--Valuable Copy of the Koran--Autobiography
of Sultan Baber--Mausoleum of Sufter Jung--March
in Cold Weather--Luxurious Tents--Soldiers’ Wives
in India--Kurnal--Government Stud--Christmas in
India--Umballah--Tremendous Storm--Umritsur--March into
Rawul Pindee 103
CHAPTER VII.
THE AMEER OF CABUL.
Rawul Pindee--Expedition to Cashmere--Indian
Heat--Visit of the Ameer of Cabul--Lady in a
Riding-habit--Death of Bishop Milman--Absurd
Statement--Peshawur--Chokedars--Nowshera--Horse-dealers--
M’Kay--Wild Scene--March to Cashmere--Murree--Faithless
Coolies--Daywal--Terrors of my Bearer 123
CHAPTER VIII.
CASHMERE.
March to Kohalla--Crossing the Jhellum--Accident to
a Boat--Ascent of the Dunna Pass--Barradurries, or
Refuges--Tomb of a Young Cavalry Officer--Sudden
Storm--Chikar--The Doctor--An Early Start--Wonderful
Tomasha Walla--Backsheesh--The People of Cashmere--Heavy
Taxation--Treaty 145
CHAPTER IX.
THE VALE OF CASHMERE.
Medical Science in Cashmere--Long and Fatiguing March--
Chikoti--Fort of Oree--Faqueers--Bridge of Ropes--An Old
Friend--Playful Monkeys--Temple of Bhumniar--Primitive
Fishing--Barramula Pass--The Happy Valley at
last--Formation of the Vale of Cashmere--Change in Mode
of Travelling--Dongahs--Herons--The Walloor Lake--Fort of
Srinagur--Pug and the Afghan Warrior--The Murderer of Lord
Mayo 165
CHAPTER X.
THE MAHARAJAH.
Chowni--Srinagur--Wooden Bathing-houses--Baboo Mohas
Chander--Our Future Domicile--‘Me come Up’--Our
Shikarrah--Summud Shah, the Shawl-merchant--Ancient
Temples--The Manufacture of Cashmere Shawls--Dinner with the
Maharajah--A Nautch--The Maharajah’s ‘Hookem’--Lord Mayo’s
Fête at Agra--Uninvited Guests--Rising of the Lake--The
Poplar Avenue--The Pariah Dog--Cause of the Flood 187
CHAPTER XI.
VALLEY OF THE SCIND.
Journey to the Nishat Bagh--Floating Gardens--Superfine
Joe--Isle of Chenars--Inscription--Nightingales--Sudden
Storm--Sunbul--An Irishman’s Dinner--The Guardian of the
Lake--Ganderbul--Noonur--Engagement of a Shikarree--An
Irishman losing his ‘Presence of Mind’--A Holy Man--Crossing
a Rickety Bridge--Valley of the Scind--Bears 207
CHAPTER XII.
THE RESIDENT OF CASHMERE.
Gond--Officer of the Connaught Rangers--A State
Prisoner-- Our Gascon Captain--Silvertail--M’Kay on
Eastern Mountain Scenery--The Walloor Lake--Palhallan--Our
Chokedar--Taken for Wandering Jugglers--Vale of Gulmurg--Our
Camping-ground--A Favourite Excursion--Hospitality of the
Resident of Cashmere--Polly the Pug--Calling the Mares
home--Hindoos and Animal Suffering--Effects of Campaigning
on Servants 227
CHAPTER XIII.
TRAVELLING IN CASHMERE.
Visit to Islamabad--Avantipore--Kunbul--Pitching our
Camp--Travelling Camp Fashion--Palace of Sirkari Bagh--Anut
Nag, the Sacred Spring--Shawl Manufactory--Visit to the
Garden at Atchibul--Irish Acuteness--Pleasure-garden--Picnic
in the Ruins of Martund--Sacred Spring of the Bowun--A
Pundit eager for Backsheesh--Expedition to the Lolab--Review
of the Maharajah’s Troops 249
CHAPTER XIV.
FAREWELL TO CASHMERE.
Last Wanderings in Cashmere--Lalpari--Return to Murree--A
Murree Cart--Return to Military Life--Fever in the
Regiment--Death of M’Kay--Ordered to Agra--Intelligence
of Elephants--Goats--Regimental Pets--A Drunken old
Goat--Hunting Rebels--The Value of a Flogging--Sapient
Jackdaws--Painful Tidings--Brigadier Nicholson--English
Stores--Lahore--Flight of Locusts--Flocks of Geese 271
CHAPTER XV.
THE HIMALAYAS.
Agra--Letter-writers in Bazaar--A Dilemma--The Rajah of
Ulwar--The Taj-Mahal--Deserted City of Palaces--Futtehpore
Sekri--Railway Travelling--The Sewallic Range--The
Himalayas--The Snowy Range--Dehra--The Training
Season--Cholera--Proclaiming Banns of Marriage--Presages of
a Storm 291
CHAPTER XVI.
OUR FINAL JOURNEY.
Indian Hospitality--Reminiscences of Hindostan--My
Bearer--A Spinster in a Dilemma--Deollalee--Our Final
Journey--Bombay--Voyage in the _Jumna_--Escape of a
Minar--Loss of a Parrot--Return to England--Escapade of a
Young Officer--Anecdote 313
CHAPTER I.
THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.
MY FIRST EXPERIENCES IN THE REGIMENT--TOBY WHITE--THE CASTLE
GUARD--CHANGES IN IRELAND--DONNYBROOK FAIR--HALF-A-CROWN’S WORTH
OF FIGHTING--ORDERED TO MALTA--AFFAIRS IN SYRIA--IRISHMEN AND
SCOTCHMEN--TRANSPORTS--A CRUEL JOKE--AMUSEMENTS AT MALTA--CRUISE
TO CANDIA AND GREECE--AN OLD COLONEL’S OPINION OF ROME AND
ITS RUINS--DEPOT AT PAISLEY--FIRING A SALUTE AT DUMBARTON
CASTLE--MARCH FROM STIRLING TO ABERDEEN--ILLUSTRIOUS TOM AND THE
BLOTTING BOOKS--REMINISCENCES.
CHAPTER I.
In the year 1839 I entered the Army as ensign in the 88th Regiment
Connaught Rangers, which was then quartered in Dublin; and a merry
life it was. What with drill and parties, hunting and field-days, the
officers of the old regiment were always occupied. There were several
packs of hounds within easy distance of Richmond Barracks; but the Ward
Union was the one most patronised by my brothers-in-arms. The manœuvres
in the Phœnix Park were not much varied. I remember one day, when,
my captain being absent, I was in command of the company in which I
was ensign. The old colour-sergeant took the greatest care of me. We
advanced in line, and so sure was the non-commissioned officer of what
the manœuvre would be that he whispered to me: ‘When ye get to that
black thing on the ground, ye must give the words, “Form fours to the
right; right wheel;”’ which, I think, was the form in those days. The
black thing was a crow, which flew away before we got up to it. But, by
my friend the colour-sergeant’s help, I gave the proper word, and we
retired in time to let the cavalry through. Week after week passed, and
the same manœuvres were executed.
Old Toby White was town-major then, and his portrait, often repeated,
appeared on the walls of the Castle Guard. I always tried to be sub. on
the Castle Guard, for it was a pleasant lounge during the day, and in
the evening a good dinner was served free of expense, while at night a
supper of grilled bones, etc., was always ready for those who had been
at the theatre, and who looked in on their way home.
Everything is changed in Ireland now-a-days. The spirit of fun seems
to have vanished, and a sombre gloom appears to overshadow everything.
There was always a comical side to all the proceedings of our Irish
friends, even when the affair was serious, or assumed an air of
importance.
I remember going to Donnybrook fair--now a thing of the past--with
two brother officers, Bayley and Dawson. When we arrived all was
quite decorous. We observed many tents, in which the country people
were apparently enjoying themselves peaceably, but, unfortunately,
an urchin--a Dublin street Arab--came up to us, and said, ‘Give me
half-a-crown, captin, and I’ll show ye the finest sport ye ever
saw.’ So we tossed him the money, and off he went. He crept up near
a tent, where we saw him ‘feeling for a head,’ and, having found one
‘convanient’ belonging to some man inside, perhaps asleep, he took the
stick in his hand, and hit the head as hard as he could. The effect was
wonderful. All started up with such vehemence that the tent came down
at once, and everyone began to fight with his neighbour. The clatter of
sticks was incessant, and the uproar soon extended to the whole fair.
Then the peelers rushed in, and were swayed from one side to the other
by the contending parties. We left the scene of battle while the strife
was still raging,--many a cracked crown being the consequence of that
miserable half-crown.
After being quartered for some time in Dublin, we were ordered to
Cork, there to await embarkation to Malta. In the year 1840, affairs in
Syria looked very warlike, and we fully expected to be ordered on to
the seat of war, but the bombardment of St. Jean D’Acre by our Fleet,
under Sir R. Stopford, together with the other successful operations,
put off for some years a great war.
The 42nd Royal Highlanders were quartered at Cork when we were
there, and a great friendship existed between the two regiments. The
consumption of whiskey--to cement this friendly feeling--among the men
of the two corps was enormous. Sometimes a Highlander and a Connaught
Ranger might be seen climbing the steep hill on whose summit the
infantry barracks are situated; both having proved the genuineness
of their friendship by deep potations, and both in their way showing
various indications of their respective nationalities. Sandy appeared
quiet, grave, and canny, while Paddy was excited and noisy; waving a
stick in the air, and challenging everyone to ‘tread on the tail of his
coat.’
When they arrived at the barrack-gate, the Scotchman pulled himself
together, and, solemnly fixing his eyes on a distant point, marched
steadily past the sentry to his barrack-room, while the Irishman,
howling defiance to all about him, staggered right into the middle of
the guard and was lodged most probably in a cell for the night.
At length the transport _Conway_ was reported to be ready to
receive the head-quarters of the Connaught Rangers, and we went
on board. Very different from what they are now were the vessels
employed for the conveyance of troops; the comfort and luxury of
floating palaces like the _Crocodile_ and the _Jumna_ were
then unknown, and a ship that was considered almost unsafe to convey
merchandise was regarded as quite good enough to carry one of Her
Majesty’s regiments.
A curious scene the deck of our old East India-man presented when we
got on board. Confusion seemed the order of the day; geese, ducks, and
fowls filling the air with their peculiar cries. It was difficult to
get along the decks, so crowded were they with friends of the soldiers,
consisting of weeping women and disconsolate children.
Somehow or other every stranger was cleared out in the course of
time, and we put to sea. We had a very rough time of it in the Bay of
Biscay, for it blew a fierce gale from the S.W., and not only could
we make no way against the storm, but we were driven quite out of
our course. These discomforts were not much thought of by my young
brothers-in-arms, but must have been trying to the older officers on
board. One veteran attached to our regiment passed a fearful time. He
had never been to sea before, having served always in a cavalry corps,
and the extent of his voyages had been from England to Ireland and back
again; he was an old man now, and he and his wife had a very miserable
appearance. Whenever he came into the cabin he looked the picture of
woe, but I fear he got no sympathy from us youngsters. Once when the
storm was at its worst, and the waves broke clean over the ship, the
green water washing in at the cuddy door, ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the poor old
man, ‘why do we not go into a harbour? Can we not get a steamer to tow
us in?’ This proved an unfortunate remark to make in the presence of a
lot of careless young jokers.
‘A first-rate idea,’ said one of them. ‘Let us get up a subscription
for a steamer to pull us out of this tre-men-duous sea.’ No sooner said
than done. We got a sheet of paper and wrote the following heading:
‘It is proposed to get a steamer to tow us out of the Bay of Biscay.
Officers wishing to subscribe towards a fund to pay the expense of the
said steamer are requested to sign their names.’ We all wrote down the
amount we were willing to give, some putting down five pounds, others
two pounds; but the poor old man, who was considered by us to be rather
fond of his money, surprised us all by putting down his name for twenty
pounds. The paper was stuck up in the cabin, but the old captain of the
transport baffled our project, and let the cat out of the bag by asking
the ancient warrior, ‘How the dickens are ye to get at the steamer?’ I
do not think we were ever forgiven for our rather cruel joke.
On our arrival at Malta we were hospitably entertained by the regiments
quartered there. The season was a very gay one, as our magnificent
sailing fleet almost filled the many harbours, and dinners and balls,
regattas and races, became the order of the day. The race-course was
a very primitive affair, being a hard road called Pieta; but great
was the excitement of these sporting events when the ‘Wandering Boy,’
belonging to Captain Horsford of the Rifle Brigade, won the Ladies’
Whip, and Major Shirley’s (88th regiment) ‘Monops’ came in first for
some other favourite stakes.
I shall pass over the three years I belonged to the Malta garrison,
during which time I went a cruise to Candia and Greece. The late
Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Houston Stewart, was then captain of the
_Benbow_, in which I went as guest of the present Admiral Sir
John Hay, then a mate. A more delightful time no man ever had, for the
_Benbow_ was celebrated for its hospitality, and all the officers
were kindness itself. To recall these pleasant hours is the most
agreeable exercise of an old soldier’s memory, but the old ship is now
a hulk. Her captain rests in his honoured grave, and the jolly young
_Benbows_ of that merry time have become admirals and captains,
and are all scattered to the four winds. I had often intended visiting
Naples and Rome, but somehow the journey never came off, the remarks
made by an old colonel having probably had some effect in preventing
me from undertaking the journey. When he was asked if he enjoyed his
visit to Rome, he always got very angry, an anger which increased
to fury if one mentioned any of the ruins. ‘Ah, bah!’ he would
exclaim, ‘the Colay-sayem, is it?--the greatest absurdity that ever
stepped--just a parcel of ould stones!’
In 1843 I left Malta, and, after a few months’ leave, I was ordered
to join the dépôt of the 88th, quartered at Paisley. The dépôt of a
regiment in those days was a miniature battalion, consisting of four
companies, under command of a major. We were particularly fortunate
in our commanding officer, who always was kind and considerate to
everyone. We also had a good band--a privilege which a dépôt was
allowed to enjoy at that time.
Very soon after joining at Paisley, I was sent on detachment to
Dumbarton Castle. My party consisted of a sergeant, a corporal, and
twenty men. When at Paisley, I was provided with a servant--a stately
old soldier named Thomas Pillsworth, but better known afterwards as
‘Illustrious Tom.’ His wife, one of the fattest women I ever saw,
became my housekeeper at Dumbarton. The rock of Dumbarton is a lonely
spot, and to a young fellow of twenty-one was regular banishment. For
a day or two I sat on the top of the rock and moaned over my sad fate,
but very soon all became changed, for I was most kindly received by
the families in the county, and I look back to the period of my being
quartered in Dumbarton Castle as a most agreeable reminiscence. When
I was there, I was known as ‘the governor of the castle.’ My command
consisted of a master gunner, six old artillerymen, and my detachment.
The castle was armed with seven guns.
The Queen’s birthday was announced in general orders, and, as usual,
the notice was given that every fort in Scotland should fire a salute
of twenty-one guns. There existed among the papers in the office a
memorandum from the Adjutant-General in Scotland that the guns at
Dumbarton Castle were not to be fired, _but on this occasion the said
document could not be found_, so I sent for the old master gunner,
who informed me that the guns had not been used since the death of His
Majesty George IV. But I overcame his scruples by writing an order
that a royal salute was to be fired next day. The six patriarchal
artillerymen were full of zeal, and we managed in this wise: The
detachment of Connaught Rangers was formed up on the top of the rock;
the seven old guns were first fired by the ancient gunners, and then
my men fired a _feu-de-joie_. This gave time for the venerable
artillerymen to load again, and to repeat the fire, an operation which
I am thankful to say was effected without any accident, till the
twenty-one rounds had been expended.
After giving three hearty cheers for Her Majesty, I dismissed my
men to their dinners, and the ancient warriors marched off to their
quarters very pleased with their performance. But the authorities
did not approve of our loyalty; for I received a reprimand, and an
order to pay for the powder expended. Colonel Thorndike, R.A., (late
General Thorndike) came to my assistance in this dilemma, and, through
his influence, I think I was not called upon to pay anything. As,
fortunately, I had blown up nobody, I did not grieve much over the
official blowing up, as it was earned in a good cause--loyalty to Her
Majesty the Queen.
As the dépôt of the 88th were ordered to proceed from Paisley to
Aberdeen, I ceased to be Governor of Dumbarton Castle. We went by train
to Stirling, and began there a most enjoyable march. We were received
everywhere with open arms, no troops having been along that road since
the time of the Peninsular War. The men were not allowed to pay a penny
at their billets, and the officers were most kindly welcomed by the
hospitable families on whom they were quartered. It was amusing to hear
the men giving an account of their adventures as we marched from one
place to another.
One day I heard two of them remarking on the fate of a sergeant who had
been reduced to the ranks for drunkenness.
‘It’s sorry I am for Sergeant ---- to be broke by court-martial,’ said
one.
‘Bedad,’ replied the other, ‘serve him right. He thought he could get
drunk, _like an officer_!’
Aberdeen in the year 1844 was a most charming quarter. There was
no railway at that period to carry people away to London, or even
Edinburgh, and many of the county families came in for the balls at the
Assembly Rooms, and were very kind in asking the officers of the 88th
to stay in their houses in the county. One of my brother officers had a
servant named Casey, who had been quartered at Corfu with the regiment,
and was able to play the guitar, and sing Italian airs, the words of
which could scarcely be said to belong to any particular language.
There was a good theatre at Aberdeen, and Casey was asked to sing
between the acts of some play that was having a run. The whole town was
placarded with notices that ‘a distinguished amateur would sing the
“Prayer in Norma.”’ We officers were greatly interested in this event,
and all of us gave Casey different articles of dress, so that he might
appear in proper form before the Aberdeen audience. The curtain drew
up, and our hero came forward, and sang very well; but, alas, some
one had given him whisky before going on the stage, a beverage which
naturally took effect on his Irish nature, and instead of retiring
gracefully after the conclusion of his song, to our intense disgust,
he gave a sort of a screech, and began to dance an Irish jig with the
greatest energy. The effect was wonderful, and the gods were delighted.
At length the curtain fell, but the noise behind it intimated only too
plainly that poor Casey was being taken off to the guard-room, where he
passed the night in his borrowed plumes.
I had returned on one occasion to the barracks after a tour of visits
in the county to many most agreeable houses. Rather dejected, I was
watching Illustrious Tom unpacking my portmanteau. At first I did not
take much notice, but very soon my attention was drawn to my servant’s
performances. First he placed a blotting-book on the table, then
he took out another from my portmanteau, and put it on my chest of
drawers, and then he placed another somewhere else, and so on, till at
last he could find no more vacant resting-places, and he stood in the
middle of the room, bearing some resemblance to a sapient owl, with a
blotting-book held in his claws.
‘What _are_ you doing, Tom, with all these blotting-books?’ I at
length exclaimed.
‘Sure,’ said the Illustrious, ‘I thought ye would be plased. I tuck the
different books from the bed-rooms in which yer honour slept. They look
well _here_, and they’ll nivir miss them _there_.’
As I received his intimation with shouts of laughter and volleys of
abuse, Tom drew himself up to attention, faced about, and marched out
of my room. My time was fully occupied for several days in finding out
to whom the different blotting-books belonged.
A sudden order came for us to leave Scotland and proceed to Ireland. We
embarked at Aberdeen in a steamer, and, after a good passage, arrived
at Granton, where we landed, and marched through Edinburgh, and thence
by train to Glasgow, in which town we were delayed a few days, and then
we were taken over to Ireland. While in Glasgow we were made honorary
members of the 92nd Highlanders’ mess, and at the end of our stay,
when we asked for our bills, were told that we were the guests of the
regiment.
What a pleasant reminiscence is that of Irish quarters in old times!
Everyone was kind and hospitable to the officers of the Army, from
the squire in his ancient castle, to the squireen in his more modest
house, the property of the latter being often so limited in extent that
you could sit on the lodge gate and kick the front door open. We were
welcome even to the dwellers in cottages, who, when I entered their
lowly cabins, would shout, ‘Come in, captin; ye’re welcome, sorr;’ and,
if I did stumble over something in the dark, what did it matter when I
was re-assured by the voice of my host saying, ‘Niver mind, yer honor,
it’s only a schlip of a pig?’ and truly the repeated grunt, grunt,
which followed showed that I had disturbed somewhat unceremoniously the
slumbers of that valuable animal, which was fed on the _lavings_,
and, when fattened up, ‘sowld to pay the rint.’ Then the ‘quality’
were always glad to welcome a young, merry officer, and in the evening
one of the ‘boys,’ who could ‘play the fiddle first-rate,’ was called
in to show his talent, and dance after dance made the night seem too
short. What a pleasant time to look back to! Poor old Ireland, with its
fearful murders of men and women, and slaying of hounds and cattle,
is wofully changed, and I fear the officers of regiments quartered
there now do not receive such kindness as I did from high and low. I
suppose there was something in the air in those days that made us all
so light-hearted, for not a day passed that there was not some fun,
and most of the venturesome acts in which we indulged were done for the
pure love of sport.
One evening, at Birr, a match, a sort of steeple-chase, was made
between two of my brother officers. The night was pitch-dark, and they
were to be mounted on their own horses, and to be led into a field
about half a mile from the barracks. They were to get over the wall as
well as they could, and the first of them who arrived mounted at the
mess-room door was to be the winner. They got on their nags and were
taken off to the starting-post, where they were invisible to us. We
could only hear the word ‘Off!’ given by the starter. The difficulty
was to get over the wall in the dark. One of the riders had a servant,
a private in the Rangers, who, of course, was delighted with the
sport. We were astounded to hear the voice of this man exclaiming,
‘Ride at me, Mr. John, ride at me, sorr!’ and all of a sudden a flash
burst forth for a moment, and ‘Mr. John’ made for the light, got over
the fence, and rode in triumphant as winner. Pat Casey, his servant,
having made a ‘slap in the wall,’ had then cleverly lit a whole box of
lucifers at the place, and thereby enabled his master to get out of the
field and come in conqueror.
CHAPTER II.
IN THE WEST INDIES.
TRALEE--A VENTURESOME FEAT--OLD PATE--AN IRISH CORNET--PADDY
OYSTERS--ORDERED TO BARBADOES--GRENADA--CAPTAIN ASTLEY’S
CREOLE--ST. GEORGES--LAND-CRAB CATCHING--TURTLE TURNING--A
JIGGER TOE--RECOLLECTIONS OF TRINIDAD--HALIFAX, NOVA
SCOTIA--BURNING OF THE BARRACKS--LOBSTER-SPEARING--PRESENT OF A
BEAR--SMUGGLING BRUIN ON BOARD--OUR PET IN THE ZOO.
CHAPTER II.
We were quartered for some time at Tralee, a place I shall ever
remember with the kindliest feelings for its inhabitants, whose great
hospitality was only equalled by their love of good honest sport. On
one occasion, when the seniors of the mess were not present, a deal of
good-natured chaff had gone on after dinner in the mess-room, where
some of the members of the Chute hounds had assembled as guests.
The subject on the tapis was the capabilities of a mare I possessed,
which I considered one of the best fencers I ever saw. If you hurried
her at her fences she was sure to give you a fall, but leave her alone
and nothing in the shape of high banks, for which the country round
Tralee was famous, would stop her. The chaff went on, and at length I
said,
‘I am quite sure the mare would jump this table if asked to do so.’
As many voices proclaimed the impossibility of such a feat, I desired
the mess-waiter to tell my groom to saddle the mare and bring her into
the mess-room. In a short time the noise of her feet was heard, and as
soon as she entered the room, Bayley, a brother officer, jumped up and
vaulted on her back. I copy the following narrative from the _New
Sporting Magazine_, 1850, page 353.
‘Dining at the mess of the “Indomitable Rangers” on the evening of the
very last run, I there witnessed an exploit performed which I believe
has never been equalled, and I do think never will be excelled. The
cloth having been drawn, social converse replaced the cool formality,
which is, by some mischance or other, almost the invariable attendant
upon dinner-parties; and as might be expected amongst a party where all
were sportsmen, and on the evening of a hunting day when a good fox had
shown much sport, the topic chosen was the various particulars of the
run, and the mode in which each hunter had done its work.
‘“I saw you kiss your mother earth twice, Maxwell,” remarked a brother
officer; “believe me, that mare of yours is not just the thing,” and
here from all sides followed many good-humoured criticisms upon the
jumping qualities of my friend’s prad, to which he (highly delighted
at having such an opportunity afforded him “for a lark,”) lustily
protested the mare should practically reply by then and there popping
over the mess-table. The groom being immediately summoned, received in
silence, and, as may be imagined, with staring amazement, his master’s
order “to saddle the mare and bring her in.” Many of those present
tried to stay the proceedings, but it was now too late; a wilful
man, strong in the justice of his cause, would have his way, and in
came them mare accordingly, much to the consternation of the company
assembled, who heard her tramp, tramp, up the boarded passage, knocking
out of it the sound of at least a troop of heavy horse.
‘Mounted by Mr. Bayley, amidst the glare of wax lights and a blazing
coal fire, she actually jumped across the mess-table (a good four feet
and a half) without laying an iron on it, and, landing safe on the
other side, stood gentle and quiet as a lamb upon the floor, under
which (as though to increase the hazard of the deed) lay a wine-cellar
of from ten to twelve feet deep.’
I remember with great satisfaction that there was not a single bet on
the event, and that the mare acquitted herself in the most gallant way,
shaking her head and clearing her nostrils, quite pleased after having
done what was required of her in the well-lighted mess-room.
The quotation from the _Sporting Magazine_ was written and signed
by one who, besides being the most pleasant of companions, was a
first-rate sportsman. If ‘Old Pate’ should happen to read these stories
of a time long past, I am sure he will recall with pleasure the days
gone by.
There was a distinguished cavalry regiment quartered in Ireland during
the time our dépôt was wandering about the country. A young cornet
joined, who, I believe, was a very good fellow, but so very Irish that
his brother officers would not allow him to go out to any parties in
the county. Mrs. ----, a very clever woman, was the wife of a gentleman
who was proprietor of a large estate near the town where our hero’s
regiment was stationed. Having previously met the young dragoon, and
being delighted with his Milesian remarks, she sent him a pressing
invitation to a picnic which she intended giving. After a great deal of
trouble he received permission to go, but on the sole condition that he
was not to speak a single word the whole time he was there. So off he
started, bound by his promise to act the mute.
The scene of the picnic was near a lake, and Mrs. ---- managed that
the young soldier should accompany a very pretty and amusing girl for
a walk before luncheon. Having been told by her hostess that Mr. ----
was a most agreeable Irishman, she was very much surprised that, in
answer to all her remarks, he only said, ‘Ho, ha!’ the monotony of
which reply terribly bored her. As they came near the lake, however,
and were turning a corner, a great swan flew along the water with
such a startling noise that it took our poor cornet by surprise, and,
forgetting that he was to act the mute, he exclaimed, ‘Holy Biddy, look
at the goose!’ I believe he was never allowed to go to any parties
again.
In by-gone days valuable horses were often picked up in unexpected
ways. My father, who was a captain in the 23rd Dragoons when only
sixteen years old, was a wonderfully good judge of a horse. Once, when
quartered in Ireland, he saw a man seated on a kish of oysters on the
back of a good-looking animal.
‘Paddy, will ye sell your horse?’ exclaimed my father.
‘Bedad I will,’ was the reply.
‘How much will ye take?’ was the next question.
After scratching his head for some time, the man mentioned a price,
which my father agreed to give him. The bargain seemed to be coming to
an end, when the Irishman said,
‘Och, tear-an-ages, I forgot the oysters!’ which difficulty was met by
the would-be purchaser declaring,
‘I’ll buy you, your horse, and your oysters.’
Whether the man was kept I do not know, but the horse and the oysters
became my father’s property, and most probably a merry supper-party
disposed of the latter to commemorate the event. The new purchase
was named ‘Paddy Oysters,’ and an acquisition he proved, for he won
several plates in Ireland, and was well known everywhere. My father
became major of the 23rd Dragoons, and then raised a battalion of the
Cameronians, 26th Regiment, hoping to get the lieutenant-colonelcy
of a cavalry regiment, as he had always served in that branch of the
service; but the Duke of York told him he must command the corps
he had raised, a high honour to him, and he went out to Spain as
lieutenant-colonel of the 26th Cameronians, which formed part of the
force under Sir John Moore, a personal friend of his own. So my father
went to the wars, and took Paddy Oysters as his charger. At the battle
of Corunna his left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, and he was
hurried off on board a transport, where the wounded limb was taken out
at the socket. Alas! poor Paddy Oysters! The order was given that all
horses were to be shot to prevent them falling into the hands of the
French; so the gallant charger was condemned to die. The colonel’s
groom would allow no one to touch his master’s faithful steed. Although
the enemy was approaching, and no doubt there was a good deal of hurry
and excitement, he waited for orders, which were given, and Paddy
Oysters fell dead on the beach. These particulars were given me by my
father as well as by my uncle, who was present at the time.
A soldier’s life is one of continual change. I suppose, among its many
charms, that of uncertainty is one of the greatest. We were quartered
at Tralee, and in the full enjoyment of all the sport and hospitality
which are the distinguishing features of that most charming quarter. I
well remember one evening; we had had a first-rate run with the Chute
fox-hounds, and it was late before I got back to my quarters. My room
looked very comfortable, Illustrious Tom having made a fine fire of
turf and coal mixed. Everything seemed so pleasant, and I daresay the
thought entered my mind what a jolly season was before me. There were
some letters on the table. One official-looking document I left to
the last, believing it referred to some court-martial duty. However,
at length I opened it and found a note from my commanding officer,
regretting that he was obliged to forward the enclosed to me; which
was an order from the Horse Guards for Captain Maxwell to proceed to
join the head-quarters of the 88th Connaught Rangers at Barbadoes,
West Indies. So my Irish campaign was over, and I had to say farewell
to Tralee and all its charms, and to leave behind me not only my
brothers-in-arms, but, among other treasures, Illustrious Tom and his
fat wife.
The steamer started from Southampton. We touched at Madeira, and, after
a prosperous passage, cast anchor at Barbadoes.
The head-quarters of the Connaught Rangers were ordered to Trinidad,
four companies under my command to the Island of Grenada, and another
detachment under Captain Bayley to St. Vincent. The 88th had suffered
fearfully from that awful disease, yellow fever. Our much beloved
Colonel Ormsby Phibbs had fallen a victim to it, and many men had lost
their lives. Yellow Jack left us the moment we sailed from Barbadoes,
and during the two years I was quartered at Grenada we had no hospital
to speak of, and only one man died, a poor man who fell a victim to
new rum. We got up a race meeting, open to all the islands in the
West Indies. Captain Astley, 66th Regiment, brought a horse down from
Barbadoes named Creole, and won everything with it. He was a very
nice fellow, and we were all glad at his success, as it showed much
sporting spirit to bring a horse to run at such a distance from where
his regiment was quartered. The stakes he had won were all in dollars,
and the bag he had to carry away was so large that Captain Astley asked
me, as secretary and treasurer, to have the money sent to him through
the Colonial Bank at Grenada. We said farewell to this gallant officer
on board the steamer which was to take him back to Barbadoes. He was
in great spirits, and apparently in excellent health. But, alas! the
return steamer from Barbadoes, in a very few days, brought a letter
from the paymaster of the 66th Regiment, telling the sad story that
Astley was dead; yellow fever having carried him off.
Among the fair places of the earth there is none fairer than the Island
of Grenada. The Carenage and town of St. Georges are situated at the
foot of high hills covered with trees. The road winds up a green
avenue, and gradually ascends to Fort Mathew, where four companies of
the Rangers were quartered. What a view there was from the verandah
of my rooms! The town of St. Georges appeared to consist of toy
buildings, half encircling the harbour, and, far beyond, miles and
miles of sea. In the day time everything was bright and lively: the
balmy trade winds blew fresh and perfumed; the night, when every tree
and bush was lit up by sparkling fireflies, appeared calm and peaceful;
rare flowers seemed to grow uncared for--flowers which at home would
have been highly valued and carefully tended. Fruit is plentiful, and
pine-apples are very fine; a brilliant purple blossom, resembling the
single bell of the hyacinth, opens from each of the diamond-shaped
divisions of the fruit itself, which when young is of the same rich
hue, surrounded by a crest of pink-corded leaves, and protected all
round by others much larger and broader, with saw-like edges and spiked
points. The pine-apple, as it ripens, loses its beautiful and fresh
appearance; the purple changes to pale strawberry, and the leaves
become green. It is placed in ice, and sliced; and there cannot be
anything more delicious than this juicy fruit when the sun is high and
the trade wind has failed.
It would take pages to describe the various dishes a gourmet might
revel in at Grenada; turtle in every way, pepper-pot, and land-crabs.
I can only recommend those who have large yachts to go to the West
Indies for a cruise. Land-crab catching was a very picturesque scene.
These creatures, which live in holes near the sea, are strangely
ugly. At night we used to sally forth, attended by crowds of niggers,
and proceed to an inlet from the sea, on the shore of which the
manchineel-trees grow. If you take refuge from the rain underneath the
shade of these treacherous shrubs, your face and hands become blistered
all over. The ground is full of holes where the land-crabs dwell.
Fascinated by the torch-light (which each native carries), they come
out, and are seized by the expert watcher. These crabs are supposed to
be foul feeders, and when caught they are placed in barrels, and fed
on meal for many days before they are cooked for the table. Another
exciting sport was turtle turning. The natives would watch a turtle
coming out of the water to lay her eggs, and, before she got back to
the sea, would intercept her, and turn her over on her back, in which
position a turtle is quite helpless. Having marked the spot where the
eggs were deposited, they went there, and generally found an enormous
quantity. These eggs when boiled have a skin like parchment. One
becomes in time quite clever at opening them. The way a West Indian
gourmet eats them was always a wonder to me, though I became pretty
expert at it after some practice.
My brother officer, Lee Steere, and myself were greatly interested in
the race-meeting before mentioned. Both of us had horses to run, and
we had to train them ourselves; so we discovered an old house near
the race-course--which we called Jockey Lodge--and there we came and
lived occasionally before the races. The house was very old, and the
wooden flooring quite out of repair. I was attacked in it by some
very disagreeable symptoms. I suppose I had walked on the floor in my
bed-room without slippers; for one morning I felt the most maddening
itching in one of my toes, so I shouted for my servant Seeley, who was
a first-rate attendant, and asked him what could be the matter. He
and his wife had both been slaves who had been freed by Colonel Tidy,
I think, of the 14th Regiment. The colonel had given Seeley a watch
with an inscription on it at the time when he made him a free man.
Whenever anything out of the common happened, Seeley would roll his
eyes, and grin from ear to ear, showing his white teeth, and looking
the embodiment of black mischief. Having examined my foot, he almost
shouted with delight.
‘Yah! yah! Massa got jigger toe. Yah! yah!’
I did not appreciate his mirth and laughter.
‘What am I to do, you horrible old rascal?’ I exclaimed.
Seeley bent nearly double, and with his hands on the front of his
thighs, assumed the attitude of long-stop at cricket, and continued to
give expression to his sense of enjoyment. ‘Yah! yah! ho! ho!’ But at
length he became quiet, and proceeded to business. Taking a needle,
he began to scrape away at my toe, nearly driving me mad. Suddenly he
exclaimed, ‘Hi haw!’ like a donkey braying, and then he appeared to
force the needle gently into my foot, and brought out at the end of it
a little bag, which he held up with a triumphant look; for this was the
jigger, which had laid its eggs in my toe, and which, if allowed to
remain, would have been attended with most serious consequences.
I had a thirty-ton cutter, in which I made several expeditions. Once I
went to Trinidad, where the head-quarters of the 88th were stationed.
I do not remember how long we took to go there, but I recall with
pleasure that delightful sail over a calm sea, a favouring breeze
filling our sails. As we cut through the water, flying fish darted here
and there, either in fear or in play; the nautilus floated gracefully,
dolphins leaped, and sometimes the horrid fin of a shark following our
track might be seen. It is long ago since all this happened, and I can
only trust to my memory, but I think the barracks where the Connaught
Rangers were stationed must have been the very abode of fever. The
mosquitoes were intolerable, and the heat intense. Lord Harris was
governor then, and his gardens were beautiful. I well remember the
luxurious marble bath in his grounds. My colonel, the late Sir H.
Shirley, gave me a room in his quarters, and in the morning he awoke me
to show a huge tarantula, as big as the back of my hand, which a gunner
had found in his boot as he was about to pull it on. I also saw a
centipede, which the assistant-surgeon of the regiment was preserving,
so long that in a common-sized havanna cigar-box it could not be placed
without almost doubling it. So my recollections of Trinidad are a
conglomeration of tarantulas, mosquitoes, centipedes, iced champagne,
and a hearty welcome.
My regiment went from the West Indies to Halifax, Nova Scotia. We
changed from almost perpetual sunshine to a land where snow lay on
the ground for months. When we landed, I well remember how fresh and
beautiful everything looked. I had been accustomed for some years to
see for the most part only the negro women, who, although possessing
figures like graceful ebony statues, that showed to the finest
advantage as they walked erect and firm, bearing their purchases from
market on a tray carried on the top of their heads, still their faces,
as a rule, were ugly, and always black. How surpassingly beautiful we
thought the women of Halifax, with their dazzling complexions, who came
to welcome the wild Irishmen; and further acquaintance showed that
their beauty was only equalled by their frank and gentle ways. The year
we remained at Halifax is a memory never to be effaced. The venerable
and rickety old wooden barracks, which had been condemned during the
time the Duke of Kent was in Nova Scotia, was burnt to the ground when
the 88th and 38th Regiments occupied it as quarters. The conflagration
was a grand sight, which we would willingly have dispensed with, as the
Connaught Rangers never received any compensation for the mess napery
and other valuables lost in that magnificent bonfire.
The mention of land-crab catching in Grenada recalls to me the
lobster-spearing at Halifax, a sport which was carried on at night. In
the bows of the boat large fires were kept burning. Standing ready, the
sportsman holds in his grasp a trident, which is not pointed, but is
like a huge pair of tweezers. The lobsters are seen crawling beneath
the clear water. A sudden dart is made with the trident, the tweezers
open, and seize the prey, which is hauled on board and thrown among
others in the bottom of the boat. Many dozens are caught in this way,
and the scene is very exciting when there are several boats, the fires
in them looking strange and weird-like.
If I were to begin recalling old times at Halifax, with its sleigh
club in winter and the flowers of its summer, I fear I should become
very wearisome. When my regiment was quartered in Nova Scotia, we
got a bear, about the size of a small donkey, which became a great
favourite. The order came for us to return home in the troopship
_Resistance_, commanded by Captain Bradshaw. Great was our
consternation when that officer issued a proclamation that only a
certain number of pets, and no bears, should be allowed on board. We
all vowed that the bear was not to be left behind, and a clever plan
to smuggle it on board was hit upon by two of my brother officers.
As there were many casks to be hoisted on board, chloroform was
administered to our bear, and he was packed in one of them. As it was
going to be hoisted in the air, the captain asked,
‘What’s in that big barrel?’
The Ranger, who was seeing it elevated, answered, promptly,
‘The warm clothing of the regiment, sorr,’ and being asked by a comrade
why he said so, he observed, with a wink, ‘Begorra, I thought the ould
Tartar moight see the fur through the bunghole of the cask and smell--a
bear!’
The sailors were delighted and helped to stow our favourite away, and
I believe the captain never knew anything about it till we had been
some time at sea, and then he pretended to have been cognizant of the
fact all along. Our bear was with us at Parkhurst Barracks, and was
always in a friendly disposition with all. A young fellow dined at our
mess, and I suppose drank too much champagne, for he was discovered
peacefully reposing beside the bear in its kennel.
The 38th Regiment brought home two bears, very fine, large animals. A
child was playing with them and got a hug, which killed the poor little
thing. Down came an official from the Horse Guards with orders that all
regimental bears were to be destroyed; we gave ours, however, to the
Zoo, where it lived in the pit and was fed with buns by children. Round
its neck was a brass collar with ‘Connaught Rangers’ engraved on it. I
do not know its further history.
CHAPTER III.
ENGLAND AND THE CONTINENT.
RETURN TO ENGLAND--PARIS--ENGLISH AND FRENCH OFFICERS--UN
VERITABLE ROSBIF--PLUM POUDIN--TOUCHING COURTESY--ISLE
OF WIGHT--PARKHURST BARRACKS--ELECTION AT COWES--A TIPSY
DRIVER--CAMP AT CHOBHAM--VISITORS TO THE CAMP--THE REV. DR.
CUMMING--IN THE MANUFACTURING DISTRICTS--ORDERED TO THE
EAST--GENEROUS CONDUCT OF THE CUNARDS--WAR DITTIES--SCUTARI--A
WRESTLING MATCH--A GOOD STORY--A FAIRY SCENE--THE SULTAN’S WIFE.
CHAPTER III.
On our arrival in England we disembarked at Chatham and marched to
Canterbury, where we were quartered for some months. The 17th Lancers,
who occupied the cavalry barracks, were one of the most hospitable and
pleasant corps I ever met; many of them have passed away, many of them
fell in the glorious charge of Balaclava, but at the time of which I
write they formed a gathering of the finest specimens of the light
dragoon.
When the leave time came round I went to Paris. The late emperor
was then President of the French Republic, and enjoyment seemed the
order of the day. The balls of the Tuileries were most amusing;
all officers were in uniform, and the dress of the 17th Lancers of
that day, several of whom were present at one of these balls, was
universally admired. I went in the tight coatee with epaulettes which
was an infantry officer’s costume at that time, and no doubt thought
myself very fine; but my vanity received a shock when a French lady
passed, and, looking towards me, said to her friend, ‘Ma foi, c’est un
véritable Rosbif!’ We were received with great civility by the officers
of the artillery quartered at Vincennes, who invited us to pay them a
visit, which we did a day or two after the ball. Nothing could exceed
the friendliness of these French gunners. We dined with them in a café,
as they had no mess, and I remember the great event was the ‘plum
poudin,’ the very remembrance of which fills my mind with horror. The
excitement of the Frenchmen was intense when a large soup tureen was
placed on the table. ‘Ah, le voilà! Le plum poudin! Ah, oh!’ When the
cover was removed a mass of liquid horrors was brought to view, among
which a bottle of cognac was poured and then lighted. This fearful
decoction was ladled out into soup plates, and with anxious eyes our
friends gazed on us as we began to eat. I suppose the brandy saved us,
but we certainly endangered our lives for the honour of our country.
When we were leaving, these kindly-disposed fellows insisted on paying
our cab hire to Paris, and we had the greatest difficulty in preventing
them doing so. We were anxious to give them some return for their
civility, so the lancers and myself resolved to ask them to dinner at
the Rocher de Cancale. A note was therefore despatched requesting the
pleasure of their company. A reply came to me from one of them, a nice
young fellow called Joubert, begging us to postpone the entertainment
for a week. Of course this was complied with, and when the week had
elapsed we had a very jolly party. Joubert accounted for the delay
which had been requested, which was owing, as he said, to the fact that
we had honoured them with our presence in plain clothes, and, as they
had nothing but uniform, they had to get mufti made! This was quite
touching by its simple courtesy.
We had a great deal of fun during our stay in Paris. On our first
arrival my friends, the lancers, asked me to order dinner at the ‘Trois
Frères,’ which was in existence then. I was determined to have a good
dinner; but I had forgotten Parisian ways, having been absent for so
long in the West Indies and America. Anyway, I ordered a portion for
each person. I think we numbered eight; so there were eight soups,
eight fish, eight of each entrée, &c., and the room seemed hardly large
enough to contain our various _plats_. How we did laugh and enjoy
ourselves! With one exception, I am now the only one left of that merry
party.
My leave was drawing to a close, so I left Paris, where every moment
had been so occupied. I had not done much in letter-writing, and
was, therefore, quite ignorant of regimental news. On arriving at
Canterbury, I got a fly, and ordered the driver to take me to the
barracks; but, on reaching the infantry lines, I was surprised to find
all in darkness, although it was only about half-past seven in the
evening.
At length an 88th man came up to the carriage in which I was seated.
‘What’s become of everybody?’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, sorr, they’re all gone; a sudden order came, and they’re gone,
except just a few to give over the barracks.’
‘Gone--where to?’ I asked.
After a time he replied, ‘They’re gone, sorr, to some island; but I
disremember the name.’
With this very unsatisfactory information, I told cabby to drive me to
the ‘Fountain Hotel,’ where I was told that the regiment had left for
the Isle of Wight.
Parkhurst Barracks was occupied by only one battalion, the 88th, and
the four company dépôt of the Cameronians. What delightful quarters
the Isle of Wight was in these days! There was no railway then in the
island; a four-horse coach plied between Newport and Hyde, and the
drive was most enjoyable. The pretty little villages have now become
staring towns. It is difficult to find a retired nook in the noisy
country now all built over.
The officers of the 88th received the greatest hospitality from
everyone in the Isle of Wight. The numbers were not overwhelming, there
being few red-coats at the barracks. The private soldiers also were
most kindly treated by the inhabitants of this charming island. It is
a strange fact that at home in Britain, because a man wears a red coat
and is liable to a greater punishment for drunkenness than a civilian,
kind-hearted men consider themselves bound to offer him a dram, and
even press him to take it, while to another class of men they would
only wish ‘God speed.’ When my regiment was quartered at Parkhurst
Barracks, an election took place, and the usually quiet town of Cowes
was very excited. I had been asked to dinner there by a very hospitable
host, and a married brother officer offered me a seat in his carriage.
The party was a very pleasant one, and the cheers of the successful
candidate’s supporters were distinctly heard every now and then.
When we were leaving, my friend saw that his coachman, a private
soldier, had been drinking success to the newly-elected member--in
other words, was very drunk, so he whispered to me to get inside with
his wife, and that he would drive. The lady, however, was not to be
deceived by remarks about the pleasures of smoking a cigar and driving
home by moonlight. She soon exclaimed,
‘I am sure there is something wrong,’ and at this moment coachee made a
tremendous lurch. ‘The servant is drunk. He will knock my husband off
the box. Oh! Captain Maxwell, do, do something.’
What could I do to pacify this kind lady, whose husband was my dearest
friend? I was in a dreadful quandary. A bright idea came to the anxious
wife.
‘Oh, Captain Maxwell, will you hold the man on to the box?’
So I let down the front window, and with considerable difficulty got
hold of some part of the horrid man’s dress, and so pretended to keep
him steady. The tipsy wretch made a horrible lurch, and, giving his
master a poke in the ribs, said, in a tone half jovial, half sad,
‘Meejor, the missus is pulling my tail!’
We left the Isle of Wight, and, after being quartered for some months
at Portsmouth, proceeded to join the camp at Chobham. How much we
enjoyed that bloodless campaign, and how absurdly proud of ourselves
we all were! The Connaught Rangers were composed of as fine a body of
men as could be mustered anywhere, well seasoned soldiers, full of
loyalty to the Queen, and imbued with a thorough knowledge of their
duties, which it takes many years to learn, and thus enable a private
to become a good non-commissioned officer. In two years from that time
how few remained alive! Most of them repose in death on the heights of
Sebastopol, where the wild flowers cover their honoured graves. But
Chobham was the first camp which had been formed for many years, and
we all enjoyed it very much. It was amusing to watch the curiosity
displayed by civilians. I have often seen visitors to the camp walk
through our mess-kitchen, and horrify our cook by taking the lids off
some of his most cherished pots to see what we were to have for dinner.
I remember one day, after a long field-day in the warm sun, going to
my tent, throwing myself into an arm-chair, and very nearly falling
asleep, when I heard a whispering going on at the entrance, which was
gently opened, when a pretty face peeped in, and I heard the remark
made, ‘He is asleep,’ but, like the celebrated weasel, I had an eye
open. One peculiar feature of Chobham at that time was, that friends
who had previously ignored one’s existence all of a sudden became
greatly interested in our welfare, especially about luncheon time. The
camp at Chobham was the first opportunity many of us had of seeing
regiments combined together in brigades and divisions. It was a grand
picnic, and was the melodious overture to the great tragedy of the
Crimean War.
We were visited by royal personages, by soldiers, sailors, lawyers,
and clergymen. The celebrated Dr. Cumming once addressed the men. I
remember some of his remarks:
‘I am a man of peace, but, if anyone tried to knock me down, I would do
all I could to floor him first.’
The chaplain-general preached a sermon. He said,
‘The last time he had seen such a gathering of soldiers, he himself had
taken an active part, for he was then an officer under Wellington.’
Though no one was certain then that there would be war, yet there was
a sulphurous vapour impregnating the air, which the most peaceable
inhaled, and the next year the Crimean campaign came on.
After leaving Chobham, we were sent to the manufacturing districts. The
head-quarters was stationed at Bury, in Lancashire, and the left wing,
to which I belonged, was sent to Ashton-under-Line. The cotton-spinners
were most hospitable to us. I have a very kindly remembrance of a Mr.
Harrison, whose house was in the neighbourhood of our barracks, and who
showed me the greatest kindness. But the plot was thickening, and the
order came for the Connaught Rangers to embark for the East. The whole
of Ashton turned out to see us march away. The streets were decorated,
and as the colours were carried past every head was uncovered. One
man, however, standing near the hotel in the street through which we
passed, did not take off his hat. A young fellow went up to him, and, I
suppose, told him to uncover, but he refused to do so. I heard him say:
‘No, I won’t.’ The next moment he was lying on the ground, the young
fellow having hit him right between the eyes, and knocked him down. As
we proceeded onward, an old woman knelt, and in a loud voice blessed
the colours.
When we arrived in Liverpool, we were halted near the Exchange, and
the mayor made a speech, which was received with great cheering. The
ships in the harbour were gaily decorated with flags, and crowds of
people shouted and cheered. On the 4th of April, 1854, the Connaught
Rangers embarked on board the _Niagara_, one of Cunard’s finest
steamers, on which we were most sumptuously entertained. On arriving at
Constantinople we asked for our bill, and were informed we were guests
of the Cunards. We subscribed, and presented the captain with a watch.
Our passage out was a very prosperous one. A calm sea prevailed
nearly all the time. Our band played often on deck, and in the bright
moonlight the men sat in groups and sang merrily. I still possess some
of their cheery ditties.
LOVE, FAREWELL.
‘Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’,
Both to Portingale and Spain;
Drums are batin’, colours flyin’,
And the divil a back we’ll come agin.
So, love, farewell!
‘Eighty-eighty and Inniskillen,
Boys that’s able, boys that’s willin’,
Faugh-a-ballagh and County Down,
Stand by the Harp, and stand by the Crown.
So, love, farewell!
‘The colonel cries, “Boys, are yez ready?”
“We’re at your back, sir, firm and steady,
Our pouches filled with ball and pouther,
And a firelock sloped on every shoulther.”
So, love, farewell!
‘Och, Judy dear, ye’re young and tender,
When I’m away ye’ll not surrender,
But hould out like an ancient Roman,
And I’ll make you--an honest woman.
So, love, farewell!
‘Och, Judy, should I die in glory,
In the papers ye’ll read my awful story;
But I’m so bothered with yer charms,
I’d rather die within your arms.
So, love, farewell!’
I must give another specimen, which, if not very well spelt, is
otherwise a proof of the loyalty of a gallant soldier, who afterwards
fell at Sebastopol. I copy the whole as given to me on board the
_Niagara_.
‘A soldier that is bound for this late war, and who goes with the most
gratified assurance of coming home again with the head of the Disturber
of Europe; or, dying like a soldier in the field, and with the heart of
a real true subject, he says to his comrades:--
COME TO THE DANOBE.
(_Composed by Private Edward Murphy, Light Company, 88th
Regiment._)
‘Our allies to joine, my boys,
The English and Frinch
Is going to combine, my boys.
We’ll fight till the last,
And no mortal we’ll spare, my boys.
What better fun could you ask
Than chasing the bear, my boys?
Now let us with curage
Enter the field, my boys,
And the bigoted tyrent
We’ll make him yield, my boys;
And out of the Principalities
We’ll make him elope;
We’ll show him more play
Then he got at Synope.
Come, then, come to the Danobe.
For the Rangers at present
Is wiling to fight, I know,
And with Colonel Shirley no
Dangers they’ll slight, I know.
May he lead them on to fame,
As Wallace before has don,
And live to command us
Untill the battle’s won.
Then come to the Danobe,
And our officers all
The right sort of chaps are they,
Comboyned one and all,
And ready for the fray,
We’ll conquer or die,
And may we all live to see
The Rushins to fly,
Beat both on land and sea.’
On arriving at Gallipoli, we received orders to proceed on to
Constantinople. A boat was upset close to our steamer, and one of the
Turks took refuge in the paddle-wheel! Most fortunately, he was not
killed. When he came on board, we gave him dry clothes, and, as it was
the men’s dinner hour, they offered him some pork. His face would have
made a good picture. I mention this as the first mistake made by our
soldiers in their dealings with Mohammedans.
We anchored near Scutari, between the Sultan’s seraglio and the
opposite shore, and in the afternoon we disembarked, and marched into
Scutari Barracks, a fine building capable of containing six thousand
men. My company, numbering over one hundred, were all in one room.
The quarters told off for two subalterns and myself consisted of one
large room, lighted by three windows, in front of which was an ottoman
with pillows. Cleanliness was not the order of the day, so there were
many inhabitants besides ourselves. Our view was not enlivening,
as we looked out on the Scutari burying ground, where tall, sombre
cypress-trees waved sadly over the tombs of thousands of Mahomet’s
followers. In the evening we went for a walk, and, seeing a crowd, we
made towards it and found two Turks stripped to the skin, their only
garment being a kind of bathing drawers. They were smeared with oil and
were engaged wrestling. The wrestlers were not a very pleasing sight,
but the _entourage_ was most amusing. Here was a Connaught Ranger
in his neat red coat and white belt, without any weapon at all; there a
wild warrior of some eastern tribe, armed to the teeth with formidable
pistols and curved scimitar. There were women covered up to the eyes,
but the eyes were soft and bright, Greeks with long pipes, Turks in
green turbans, and Turks in white--a strange and animated scene.
A good story was told of a gallant colonel commanding a most
distinguished regiment. He had been given quarters in the Sultan’s
wing in Scutari Barracks. A pasha came to pay him an official visit,
and, I suppose, approached with reverence the apartments sacred in his
estimation. He took off his slippers at the door and entered the room,
when, horror of horrors! what did he see?--the said colonel occupied
frying pork in a dispatcher on the Sultan’s table.
A brother officer and myself crossed one day by the steamer which
plied from Scutari to Galata, and there hired a caique. We were bound
for the sweet waters of Europe. We were taken up the Golden Horn, and
then floated past green hills and picturesque-looking cottages. All
round us were hundreds of gilded caiques laden with handsome women in
glittering attire, and boats whose Greek crews sang in wild chorus.
As we proceeded onward the river became narrow, and we arrived at
the sweet waters of Europe. It was a fairy scene. Graceful forms in
lovely dresses were dotted here and there on the green grass under
the shade of the trees, very transparent veils concealing their
faces, their long fringed eyes beaming upon us, for the unbelievers
were in high favour at that time. We passed also stately Turks, gay
Frenchmen, steady-looking Britons, and wonderful Cinderella coaches. A
gilded carriage approached, drawn by four black horses, covered with
silver trappings; this was followed by a line of other gilded coaches
surrounded by armed blacks. A lovely woman glittering with diamonds,
her face barely concealed by the thin gauze she wore, was in the
stately equipage. This was the Sultan’s wife. In the third carriage
following hers was seated a most beautiful girl, by whose charms my
brother officer was quite struck. Though he was jostled by the armed
blacks, pushed by the escort, knocked by the Turks, he still kept as
close as possible to No. 3 carriage. There are many old women at the
valley of sweet waters who sell bouquets. One came near and offered
some flowers to my brother-officer, who took them, and, watching his
opportunity, presented them to this Nourmahal. She smiled and placed
them in her bosom, and, taking a rose from the bouquet, held it towards
my friend, and then pressed the flower to her lips, on perceiving which
the armed blacks began to swagger offensively. The escort of lancers
closed up, and, as the carriages were moving away, she rolled her
handkerchief up and threw it at my bewildered friend. She then held a
looking-glass towards him and pressed it in her arms, thus ending the
romance as far as I know, for the gilded coaches and prancing escort
all moved on and gradually faded from our sight.
CHAPTER IV.
IN TURKEY AND THE CRIMEA.
ENCHANTING SCENE--LOSS OF BAGGAGE HORSES--SIR GEORGE BROWN’S
ORDER--IDENTIFICATION OF LOST HORSES--DEALINGS WITH THE
PEASANTRY--FORAGING--CHOLERA IN BULGARIA--DISAGREEABLE
MISTAKE--DR. SHEGOG--DEVOTION TO HIS WORK AND SUDDEN
DEATH--DEATH OF AN OFFICER--EMBARKATION AT VARNA--THE BLACK SEA
FLEET--KIND SOLDIERS--OUR FIRST SCARE IN THE CRIMEA--KINDNESS
OF LORD RAGLAN--AN OUTLYING PICQUET--STORY OF A CONNAUGHT
RANGER--CAPTURE OF BALACLAVA--A SERIOUS MISTAKE.
CHAPTER IV.
An the 29th of May, 1854, we embarked on board the _Cambria_, and
on the 30th arrived at Varna, where we encamped for a few days. On the
5th of June we changed our ground. Our tents were pitched on a height
between two lakes. The hills all around us were covered with young
trees in beautiful foliage, and on our right was a valley, through
which a broad river flowed. The green hills were dotted everywhere
with white tents, and curling smoke was stealing out of the woods from
many a bivouac fire. It was an enchanting sight. Some of our baggage
horses had been stolen, but a few had been recovered. As there was a
difficulty, however, in recognising them, Sir George Brown, the general
of the light division, issued an order that each animal belonging to
the different regiments forming the light division should have some
identifying mark, so that, if any of them were stolen, their recovery
might be facilitated.
The adjutant of the Connaught Rangers, Arthur Maule, gave orders to
his batman to have his initials burnt on his horse’s hind-quarters.
I suppose Paddy did not know what initials meant, for Maule, on
proceeding with his batman to inspect his nag, found B. R. beautifully
clipped and burnt on the charger’s hind-quarters.
‘What does B. R. mean?’ said the astonished officer. ‘My initials are
A. M.’
‘Arrah, sure, sir,’ replied the rather offended groom, ‘B. R. stands
for British Army.’
The peasantry were much alarmed at our approach at first; but they very
soon found out that we were willing to pay freely for the produce of
their farms, and in process of time they actually walked through our
camp shouting out what they had for sale. One poor man I heard crying
out, in a very loud voice, ‘Bono Johnny. Bono _bad_ eggs!’ the
result, no doubt, of some wag’s tuition. Colonel Sanders, of the 19th
Regiment, and myself rode out one day to forage among the villages,
whose inhabitants were generally pleased to provide us with whatever
they possessed for a consideration.
This day we had been very successful, and our appearance would have
surprised those at home, who think officers of the Army the most
luxurious of men. Colonel Sanders had become possessor of several fresh
eggs, which he placed in his pockets. I was the proud owner of a duck
and two hens, which were put in front of me on the baggage pony I was
riding. We got on very well at first; but my duck became obstreperous,
and the hens struggled, so my nag began to kick, and roused Colonel
Sanders’ charger to do likewise--alas! for the colonel’s coat, where
now the pomp and circumstance of glorious war? ‘Oh! the eggs are all
smashed!’ was the colonel’s most distressing announcement. We rode
into camp very curious specimens of the British soldier. Sanders went
away to pass a _mauvais quart d’heure_ with his batman, and I was
received with joy by my servant, Hopkins, who expressed his delight in
the following forcible, if not very elegant terms:
‘Hurroo! here’s fowls. I’ve had nothing to rub the sweat off my teeth
but stale bread, Hurroo!’
The time passed in Bulgaria by the light division would have been a
long continued picnic had not pestilence come upon us, and cholera
visited our camp in its most cruel form. It is very sad to recall to
one’s memory that beautiful spot which simply by a change of wind was
altered from a paradise to a place where death in one of its most
horrid forms reigned supreme. We changed our ground very often, but the
hideous demon followed us wherever we went, and we welcomed the order
when issued for the light division to march to Varna, there to embark.
One cold, raw evening, when cholera was at its worst, several of us
were sitting in my tent drinking hot rum and water. The sergeant of
my company came to make some report, and I offered him some hot grog,
which he accepted. With the greatest care I mixed the drink, and gave
it to him, while he made some kindly remark as he drank it off, and
then went away. Some one else, coming into the tent soon after, was
also invited to ‘liquor up.’ The mug in which the sergeant’s grog had
been was still on the table, and the little that was left looked so
curious that I put my lips to it, and was terribly distressed to find
that I had used salt instead of sugar in concocting it. The great fear
came over me that it would make the sergeant feel sick, and that he
might fancy he had taken cholera; so I sent for him, and, when he came,
I told him of my mistake. His answer surprised me; for he said he knew
it was salt from the taste.
‘But, sergeant, was it not very horrid?’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, sir, it was rather nauseous,’ he replied.
‘Why did you drink it?’ I asked.
‘I did not like to let on that I knew it, as you had kindly given me
the drink,’ was the astounding reply.
On our march to Varna, we were encamped on the ground which had been
vacated by the 79th Highlanders. Our tents were pitched, but great
difficulty had been experienced in getting the sick settled in camp,
and the doctors had been most terribly overworked. When the detachment
of the 88th Regiment were quartered at Grenada in the West Indies, I
saw mentioned in the _Gazette_ the appointment to the Connaught
Rangers of a man with a very curious name, Shegog. This name haunted
me, and I never took up a newspaper without reading that Shegog was
appointed assistant-surgeon to the 88th. The steamer arrived early
one morning at Grenada, and I was wondering what news had come from
England when my servant announced, ‘Dr. Shegog.’ The doctor was a
curious-looking man, with very prominent eyes, and, when he put his
hat on, it was always very far back on his head; but, when we came to
know him, we found that there never was a truer man than ‘Old Shay;’
no warmer heart ever beat than his. He accompanied the regiment to
Nova Scotia; and after being quartered, on our return home, with
me at Ashton-under-Line, he embarked with the 88th on board the
_Niagara_, to proceed to Turkey, in April, 1854.
When cholera attacked the light division in Bulgaria, Dr. Shegog never
flagged in his attentions to the sick, while he took but little care of
himself. The hospital tent was a fearful place to visit. The poor men
were lying on the ground writhing in agony; crying out to be rubbed
in accents most pitiful to hear. Others were too far gone to feel
pain--their last hour was nearly come. ‘Old Shay’ was everywhere, and
doing all in his power for the suffering soldiers. The Roman Catholic
priest might be seen kneeling beside the dying men whispering hope to
their passing spirits.
The joyous order came at last to move to Varna for embarkation. The
news came like a tonic, and the weary men seemed to gain strength
at once. Our brigade marched away, and we were full of joyful
anticipations. Dr. Shegog had been so occupied looking after the sick
that he had no time to think of himself. The poor fellow’s tent was
pitched, but he had no dinner to eat. Steevens, Browne, and I messed
together, and, as our repast was over, nothing remained. Shegog came to
my tent, and asked if we could give him something to eat, but we had
not one scrap left. He was told there was lots of brandy, to which he
was welcome at any time. He thanked us, but said he wanted something to
eat, and at that moment Maule, the adjutant, appeared, and said, ‘Come
along. Old Shay, I have something cold in my tent,’ and so he went
away. Next morning, poor, kind-hearted Shegog died of cholera. A man
came to me, and told me that the doctor was very ill. When I saw him,
all pain was over, and he soon sank to rest. He was buried under the
shade of a tree. Who knows the place of his grave now? But what matter?
Wherever he may be laid, it is the resting-place of a true and honest
worker who lost his life in helping the sick and weary.
As we returned to the camp from Shegog’s funeral, one of my
brothers-in-arms said he felt very unwell. We cheered him up as well as
we could, but as the night went on he became really ill, and, in the
morning, our surgeon passed my tent, and said, ‘Mackie has got
cholera.’
The regiment was preparing to proceed on the march to Varna, for we
had nearly reached our destination, and our chief, Shirley, proposed
that Mackie should be left till later in the day--under charge of a
guard--but, as he decided to accompany the battalion, a stretcher was
made as comfortable as possible for him, and he was carried by some men
of his company. On approaching Varna, he asked them to lower him down
to the ground, which they had no sooner done than poor Mackie expired.
Our embarkation at Varna was effected without difficulty. Our vessel,
which was towed by a steamer, formed one of that magnificent fleet of
men-of-war and transports that covered the Black Sea for miles. When
night came on, the scene was marvellous to look upon; light after
light shining in the far distance over the calm sea. Sometimes the sea
resembled a large harbour full of vessels at anchor, then it assumed
the appearance of long streets in some vast town, but all was silent,
and filled our minds with awe.
The light division landed at Old Fort in the Crimea. There was no
opposition from the Russians, not one of whom was visible, except some
Cossacks on a distant hill. We marched only a few miles from where we
had disembarked, and halted in what appeared to be a stubble-field,
but, as darkness had come on, it was difficult to know where we were.
While we were in this state of perplexity, it began to rain. I was
dressed in, I believe, the identical coat in which I had appeared at
the Tuileries ball, which was uncomfortable for even a drawing-room,
but quite unsuited for a wet night in a ploughed field. For hours the
rain continued, and we were all wet through. The men, in the morning,
managed to light a fire, and one of them brought me a mug of hot rum
and water, which was most delicious. What kindly fellows these private
soldiers were in those by-gone days! I daresay they are the same now,
but I only testify to what they were then, from my experience of them.
In a day or two we got our tents and were comparatively comfortable.
One night some firing was heard, which was taken up by the whole line
of sentries. What an excitement it was! Stevens and I shared the same
tent, sleeping on the ground, without light of any kind, in total
darkness. When the hurly-burly began--the buglers sounding the alarm,
followed by the assembly--we both jumped up, and struggled to get our
shakoes, which, of course, had hid themselves. Scrambling in the dark,
our two heads came bang against each other, and nearly floored us both,
but at length, after a fall over the tent ropes, we reached my company.
One of our staff-sergeants was an excitable man. It is reported of
him that on that night he rushed about with a drawn sword in a most
frantic way, and nearly knocked over a bugler, who, seeing this wild
man rushing at him, fell on his knees, exclaiming, in terrified accents,
‘Spare me, spare me, I’m a frind!’
This was our first scare in the Crimea, and was caused by some horses
having got loose and surprised the sentries.
The story of the Crimean War has been told so often that I am not going
to inflict the oft-repeated tale on my friends, but only mention a few
facts which are not universally known.
It was the day before the battle of the Alma, when one of my brother
officers was taken very ill with symptoms of cholera. There was a small
house, I think a post-house, near our bivouac, and my friend took
refuge there. He had not been long established in these humble quarters
when a staff officer came and informed him he was sorry he must turn
him out, but that Lord Raglan’s head-quarters had been fixed there, and
that his lordship was then approaching.
Lord Raglan came up during this conversation, and, on being informed of
the case, insisted that my brother officer should remain undisturbed
where he was, had a chair brought in to make him more comfortable,
and, later in the day, with his one hand, carried a bowl of soup to
my suffering friend, and this was on the night before the battle of
the Alma. Lord Raglan showed in many acts what a kind heart was his.
Later, when the siege of Sebastopol was progressing, Nat Stevens and I
were sitting in our closed tent, enjoying a fire. Nat was an inventive
genius, and had found an old funnel lying about, and had made a kind
of a chimney, through which escaped some of the smoke, that was caused
by a few damp roots burning in a very primitive fire-place. We were
actually weeping for joy, as a great deal of smoke refused to leave
us. It was snowing heavily outside the tent, when a voice was heard
shouting. With many exclamations of disgust Nat opened the tent. A
figure on a horse, all alone, was barely visible in the snow.
‘What are you burning?’ asked the rider. ‘I see you have a fire by the
smoke.’
‘Roots,’ answered Nat.
‘Remember, do not burn charcoal; an officer of the 97th Regiment has
lost his life by doing so,’ said Lord Raglan, for he it was, who, bent
on deeds of kindly care, rode, unlike the French generals, unattended
by any staff, his visits to the camp thus remaining unknown.
After the battle of the Alma I was ordered to take my company on
outlying picquet. The night was pitch dark, and my instructions were
to communicate with the 19th and 77th, the other two regiments of our
brigade. I could see nothing in front, and in our rear were the bivouac
fires of the light division, and I heard no sound but the murmur of
the voices of the men. At length I was aware that some one mounted was
approaching, and a voice said, ‘Who is in command here?’ I advanced
and explained my position. The owner of the voice gave me several
instructions, one of which was to light a fire, ‘and, if anyone asks
you who gave you these orders, say General Pennefather,’ and he rode
away.
The men of my picquet lit a fire, and very soon after the picquets of
the 19th and 77th approached, attracted by the light, for they also had
been puzzled what to do. We had not been long settled when a clatter
of cavalry sounded coming towards us, and an English voice made the
same observation the general had done! ‘Who is in command here?’ I made
myself known, and great was my surprise to find Thompson of the 17th
Lancers, with a detachment of his regiment, roaming about. For a moment
or two we recalled old scenes in Paris; for he had formed one of that
merry party. We shook hands, and he rode away. I never saw him again.
He was killed in the charge of the light brigade at Balaclava.
Archdeacon Wright told a good story of a Connaught Ranger, after the
battle of the Alma. When we moved on, and came to the river Katcha,
where we halted for the night, there was near our bivouac a country
house, which had been deserted by its inhabitants a very short time
before our arrival. The property was a valuable one, and there were
extensive cellars, in which were many large casks of wine. The
archdeacon was roaming among them, when all of a sudden he came on a
soldier of the Connaught Rangers, who, on being discovered, began to
tap the big barrels with a stick, and appeared to listen attentively to
the sound he made.
‘What are you doing there, my friend?’ said the archdeacon.
‘May it plase yer riverence,’ replied the man, ‘I was looking for the
well, and thought perhaps these barrels moight howld water.’
Some of the men of my company had also been looking for water, for they
brought me a huge can full of the best red wine I ever tasted, and just
in time; for an order was issued soon after forbidding the men to stray
away from the lines of their regiments.
After the flank march through the woods--a most fatiguing
performance--and having come to Mackenzie Farm, and the rear of
Menschikoff’s army, where his carriage was taken, in which was a
drunken aide-de-camp, we continued on to Traktir Bridge, and next day
advanced on Balaclava, which was easily captured. What a pretty smiling
little harbour it was then! approached through vineyards laden with the
most magnificent grapes.
I there received an order to remain in command of some men of the 88th,
who were to form part of a dépôt under command of a colonel. The dépôt
consisted of men from all the regiments. At first we bivouacked in the
open, but, after a little, houses were appropriated for the men, and
the officers had to shift for themselves. I found a cottage, in which
was rather a pretty woman in great fear and distress. It was a clean
little house, and I got some one to explain to the poor woman that
her things would be safe, and that she might come and take them away
whenever it suited her. So she seemed quite pleased, and presented me
with some hens. I do not remember how she managed to get her things
removed, but she and her property disappeared, and I was left in
possession. A looking-glass, which now hangs on the wall in Monreith,
is the only memento I have of that small house.
A very curious thing happened to me, which was very trying at
the time, but in one way had its pleasing aspect, for it brought
forth expressions of kindly feeling from men with whom I had small
acquaintance. In the list of captains in the 88th I was fourth. George
Vaughan Maxwell had been senior captain, but was promoted to be major.
By some strange mistake, when the brevet came out in November or
December, 1854, my name appeared as brevet-major, although there were
three captains senior to me. Colonel Shirley went to Lord Raglan, and
brought to his lordship’s notice the facts of the case: that my seniors
were more entitled to the brevet than I was. Lord Raglan said it was a
very hard case for my seniors, but that as I had received the brevet,
the rule applied--once a major, always a major--and that I was a very
lucky fellow.
So I did duty as a major, and commanded in the trenches as one--in
short, was recognised as a brevet-major. But one cold winter’s morn I
was informed that my appointment was a mistake, and that I must return
to my former rank as captain. It was a very trying position, but no
fault of mine. Everyone sympathised with me, and, when I went on duty
to the trenches, the officer in command, generally, to show how much
he felt for me, gave me charge of some most exposed party, a kindness
I would have most gladly dispensed with. My relations at home were
very indignant--one sterling friend of mine was most energetic in her
efforts to see me righted, and on one occasion attacked a great man in
authority so strongly that at length he rose, exclaiming,
‘Duchess, I can remain no longer. I sit on a Board at two o’clock.’
‘Well,’ said her grace, ‘I can only hope that it may be a _very hard
one_.’
CHAPTER V.
THE PUNJAUB.
SENT TUMBLING INTO A DITCH--SIR HOUSTON
STEWART--ORDERED TO ENGLAND--FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON H.M.S.
BELLEISLE--LISBON--CHOLERA--A MAGNIFICENT REGIMENT--THE
‘ULYSSES’--A SCOTCH CAPTAIN--A LONG FAREWELL TO ENGLAND--CAPE
PIGEONS--THE ALBATROSS--ARRIVAL IN INDIA--PERPLEXING
NEWS--OUR POSITION IN INDIA--SERVANTS--ORDERED TO THE
PUNJAUB--AGRA--INSTALLATION OF THE STAR OF INDIA--SHOWERS OF
METEORS--DURBAR.
CHAPTER V.
During the siege of Sebastopol, the Connaught Rangers formed one of
the left brigade, light division, the other regiments being the 19th
and 77th. There was an officer belonging to the 19th who was a pure
Scotchman. On being asked why he joined such a thoroughly English
regiment as the 19th, he gave as his reason that his father was very
old and his writing not distinct, and he had applied for his son to be
appointed to the 79th Highlanders, but he had made the 7 so like a 1
that the authorities had gazetted him to the 19th.
When the final attack was made upon Sebastopol, the light division
formed the storming party and supports. After running across the
intervening ground between the trenches and the Redan, two hundred and
eighty yards, and getting into the ditch and up on to the salient of
the Redan, a check took place, and officers and men got no further.
Some time elapsed, all the ammunition was expended, and no more was
to be got. The Russians soon found this out, and charged us. The
consequence was we were all sent tumbling over into the ditch which
we had previously crossed. I fell flat among some poor fellows who
never rose again, and my feelings of disgust were great when the
above-mentioned officer put his foot--like a fiddle-case--in the centre
of my back, and made use of me as a stepping-stone to get out of the
ditch. I got out some way or other, and found myself, with many others,
hurrying to our trenches, where I arrived in a very tattered condition.
The first officer I met was my Scotch friend, who appeared greatly
surprised to see me, and greeted me warmly, saying,
‘Maxwell! is that you? I thought you were dead. Have a drink,’
producing a flask, at which I was delighted to have a pull.
The siege was over, another winter had passed in luxury compared
with the one that had gone before, summer was coming again, and the
Sebastopol heights were clothed with flowers, which hid both shot and
shell beneath their green leaves. Peace was made, and we were all
dreaming of home.
I was paying a visit to Sir Houston Stewart, in his flagship, the
_Hannibal_, commanded by my old friend, Sir John Hay. We had a
most pleasant party, among whom was Sir Henry Bernard, a genial and
agreeable companion. He now lies in his grave in front of Delhi. A
man-of-war, the _Belleisle_, was reported as having arrived, and
it was decided that the 88th Regiment should return to England in her.
I was ordered to telegraph to the regiment, and next day they embarked.
We were all in the greatest spirits. I bid adieu to the kind admiral
and all friends in the _Hannibal_, and proceeded on board the
_Belleisle_. A fatigue party of the regiment was engaged at the
capstan when a fearful accident happened. I cannot tell what the cause
of it was, but I believe the man who watched the chain neglected his
duty. I can only state, however, what occurred. All of a sudden the
chain ran out with great velocity, round went the capstan, and out
flew the bars like porcupine quills. I was standing on the poop, and
one of the capstan bars hit me on the face and marked me for life;
but, far worse, a soldier, named Burke, who had been all through the
siege, was killed outright. Another man had his leg broken, and others
were wounded severely. Sir Houston Stewart telegraphed home that the
accident had occurred, and that I was all right. I am glad he did so,
for my brother had received the telegram, before he read in a Scotch
paper that I was killed.
As we sailed away from Kamiesch Bay the _Hannibal_ manned the
yards, and the officers and men of the Connaught Rangers loudly cheered
farewell as we left the shores of the Crimea for ever. We were towed by
H.M.S. _Firebrand_, commanded by a most agreeable officer, Captain
the Honourable Spencer, whom it has never been my fortune to meet since
those days.
The _Firebrand_ remained with us till we arrived at the coast of
Portugal, when she left us, owing to cholera being very bad on board
her. We touched at Malta and Gibraltar, and anchored at the mouth
of the Tagus. As cholera was raging at Lisbon, we were not allowed
to land, but Captain Hoskins, our commander, asked me to accompany
him in a sail in the cutter to Belem and Lisbon. We paid a visit to
a man-of-war lying off the latter place, and met a young artillery
officer on his way home from the Crimea. He was in great spirits, and
had a dog he had brought with him from Sebastopol. He wanted me to land
at Lisbon, and laughed a good deal when I informed him that we were
not allowed to do so, owing to the prevalence of cholera. He said he
had been often in the town, and was always quite well. We returned,
however, to the _Belleisle_ without landing.
Next morning, before putting to sea, Captain Hoskins received some
letters from Lisbon, and startled us very much when he announced the
death from cholera of that young officer we had met the day before. In
process of time we arrived at Portsmouth. It was home-like to see once
more the gay yachts skimming about between Cowes and Ryde; for it was
the summer season. We landed, and were ordered to Aldershot, where we
had the honour of parading before Her Majesty the Queen--two thousand
strong. What a grand regiment might have been picked out of these
splendid men! but most of them were discharged. The Indian Mutiny then
broke out, but the best part of these warriors had been sent out of the
service, and we bitterly felt their loss.
We came home in July, 1856, and in July, 1857, the Connaught Rangers
embarked for India in course of relief.
When the 88th went out to India in 1857, as before mentioned, it was
for the usual relief, and not in consequence of the mutiny; for, when
we left the shores of Britain on the 9th of July, the terrible facts of
the insurrection were unknown to us. I was in command of the left wing,
which embarked at Portsmouth on board the good ship _Ulysses_,
to proceed round the Cape to Calcutta. The _Ulysses_ was a fine
sailing vessel, chartered by Government to carry troops; her usual
passengers being emigrants. The captain was a worthy Scotchman, but
his ideas of comfort were limited. The morning we embarked, my brother
having come to see me off, I asked him to breakfast on board. There was
bread, and tea, and a bowl of boiled eggs, but no milk or butter. My
brother took an egg and broke the shell, it was bad; he took another,
it was worse; so he gave it up as a bad job, but the captain encouraged
him to go on by saying, ‘Crack awa, crack awa, ye’ll soon come to a
good yin.’ I was obliged to make a report to the proper authorities,
and the worthy man was enlightened as to the fact that officers of
Her Majesty’s regiments in those days were not to be treated like
emigrants; and for the future we were fed in a cleaner and more
wholesome manner. At Spithead we bade adieu to relations, friends, and
acquaintances. And thirteen years passed away before I again looked
upon the fair Isle of Wight and England’s shores.
Our honest skipper, although quite unaccustomed to deal with gentlemen
passengers, was a very kindly man. Evidently, in his former voyages, he
had seen many a disagreeable quarrel among his emigrants, for he was
very much afraid of any unpleasantness occurring. I proposed starting a
newspaper, to be called the _Ulysses Gazette_, which was to come
out every Saturday, in which anyone who pleased might write an article.
The old captain looked alarmed.
‘Ye won’t, colonel, have any pairsonaylities, I hope,’ was his timid
remark.
The _Gazette_ came out, and was a great success. Some of my
brother officers established a school on board, which was well attended
by the men. We had a very good time, and all the officers were most
friendly. I cannot say the same for the soldiers’ wives (there were no
ladies on board), who appealed to me sometimes as colonel on subjects
regarding which my legal knowledge was not sufficient to instruct or
help them.
When our ship came to a certain latitude we were surrounded day and
night by Cape pigeons, graceful, white angels they looked in the pale
moonlight, but most unpleasant birds when brought on board, as they
immediately became vulgarly sick. Albatrosses soared above, and sharks
followed us. When we were in the latitude of the Cape, the sea was the
finest spectacle I ever saw. It ran mountains high, but it was as if
oil had been poured on its surface. Our vessel rose up to the summit of
one of those unbroken hills, and then glided down the other side, just
to rise up again. It was a wonderful sight.
In the month of November we anchored off the Sandheads, having left
England on the 9th of July, and never having sighted land the whole
way till we saw the shores of India. We now received the astounding
intelligence of all the horrors of the mutiny, and the perplexing news
that Delhi was taken. Taken by whom? We had been so long at sea we
knew nothing. In a day or two we landed at Calcutta, and our gallant
ship, which had brought us safely out, was wrecked on her way home.
Fortunately, however, the captain and crew were saved.
When the Connaught Rangers first landed at Calcutta the great shock of
the mutiny was being severely felt. Very few of us knew anything about
the ways of the country, and we were, so to speak, cast adrift in a
foreign land. We had great difficulty in procuring anything. I shall
not enlarge on these troubled times. The generation that lived through
them is passing away, and with them is fading the intense bitterness
that the fearful atrocities of Cawnpore called forth--so utterly
forgotten now that I read books that make high-minded remarks on the
unforgiving spirit that actuated us in those days. It is better to
forget; but the retribution was not too heavy for the crimes committed.
In this country good or bad servants seem a very minor consideration;
not so in India, where comfort is so essentially in the hands of
domestics. One of our greatest difficulties in landing was procuring
any. All the good servants had vanished, and for some time we were
obliged to be satisfied with a very inferior lot. One of my brother
officers got a man called Paul, a miserable little man, who was always
getting drunk. When we marched to Cawnpore after the capture of Calpee,
a great many men of the regiment got fever, and, among other officers,
Paul’s master was very ill. The wretched servant got drunk in the
bazaar, and was made a prisoner--at least, so it was supposed, for he
did not return to his master, and no one knew what had become of him.
Time went on and my brother officer got better, and _pour passer le
temps_ either rode or drove into the town of Cawnpore to look at the
place still stained with the blood of its victims. Either by chance
or from a desire to see the sepoy prisoners, my friend arrived at the
kotwallee or guard-house where these mutineers were incarcerated, and,
to his great dismay, he saw among these ironed rebels a wretched little
man, who shouted: ‘Me Paul! me poor Paul!’ Much surprised, he went to
the kotwal and asked why the man was among the rebels, but could get no
satisfactory reply. On explaining matters that most probably Paul had
been locked up for drunkenness, and not rebellion, he got him released,
as one of the policemen grimly observed, ‘just in time, for he would
have been hanged in to-morrow’s batch.’
Paul left Cawnpore without much delay.
The story of the mutiny has been told over and over again. In time it
was stamped out, but for a long period distant murmurings were still
heard like those of a thunderstorm fading away. Gradually the air
cleared, and Marochetti’s ‘Angel of Peace’ was placed on the Cawnpore
Well. Beautiful flowers began to grow in a garden where once women and
children were dragged to their death, and writers at home began to
publish books to prove that all the horrors, murders, and atrocities
were caused by the fault of the white inhabitants of India. So I pass
over that sad and nearly forgotten time, and, leaping over several
years, come to the year 1860, when the 88th Connaught Rangers proceeded
to the Punjaub.
In the autumn of 1866 the Connaught Rangers, which I had then the
honour to command, was ordered to proceed from Cawnpore, where we had
been stationed for some time, to Rawul Pindee in the Punjaub. We were
directed to halt, on our way up country, at Agra, to form part of a
large camp there, to be assembled for the grand durbar to be held
in honour of the installation of the Star of India. All the rajahs,
princes, and begums of the empire were to be present, to meet Lord
Lawrence, governor-general.
On our arrival at Agra, we found a very large force collected. We were
nearly all under canvas, and so also were the princes of India, with
their numerous retinues. The governor-general came into Agra the day
after our arrival there, and from that hour the cannons of the fort
and batteries had a hard time of it. As every prince went to wait on
the viceroy a salute was fired, and, according to the number of rounds
fired, we inferred the rank of the great man who sallied forth to cross
the plain, followed by his marvellous suite of elephants, carrying
gorgeously mounted howdahs, warriors riding on prancing pink-nosed
horses, with tails and legs deeply dyed with red, to represent the
blood of their enemies, down to the tag-rag and bobtail that are
inseparable from the courts of those native princes.
The durbar was a magnificent sight. There we saw gathered together most
of the great powers of India; the Begum of Bhopaul, our steady friend,
men that had done us good service during our evil times, and others who
had done us as little as they could. All had been rewarded, as far as
possible, according to their works. Each noble vied with his neighbour
in the number and beauty of his ornaments, and the rays of the sun
blazed on priceless jewels.
But our stay at Agra was not a period of idleness. Reviews and sham
battles kept the troops occupied from hour to hour. I had command of
a brigade, and often left my tent before the dawn, when night still
darkened all around, and the stars alone lit up the sky. It was during
the month of November, and the fall of meteors was constantly to be
seen; their appearance as they fell in dazzling brightness being most
startling and sublime. From all parts of the compass they came. First a
long stream of light, which reminded me of the ‘bouquets’ the Russians
sent us during the siege of Sebastopol, and then a ball of fire, which
burst like a rocket, leaving all in darkness again. And so it continued
till the sun rose in its splendour, and the air became full of noisy
life.
As a variety to our military morning work, there were various large
dinners, given by the governor-general and the commander-in-chief.
There were dances also. The Rajah of Jeypore entertained us all at a
splendid ball, and Scindia illuminated the Taj. We should have enjoyed
our halt at Agra very much had not that dreadful curse, cholera,
invaded the camp, and caused the loss of several valuable lives. One
night my wife alarmed me by assuring me that she felt very ill. The
medicine-chest was in our other large tent, where my wife’s maid slept,
at some distance from the one we were occupying. I got hold of my
bearer, and, writing a note, dispatched him with it to M’Kay, the maid.
After some delay, she appeared, very lightly clad, with my note in
her hand, saying, ‘A man had come a long way with this, and wanted the
colonel to get it at once.’ Her knowledge of Hindostani was limited,
and she had not recognised the bearer.
CHAPTER VI.
DELHI.
BY TRAIN TO DELHI--THE RAILWAY STATION IN 1866--BRIDGE OF
BOATS--PALACE OF DELHI--THE JUMNA--MUSJID--REMINISCENCES
OF DELHI--VALUABLE COPY OF THE KORAN--AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF SULTAN BABER--MAUSOLEUM OF SUFTER JUNG--MARCH
IN COLD WEATHER--LUXURIOUS TENTS--SOLDIERS’ WIVES
IN INDIA--KURNAL--GOVERNMENT STUD--CHRISTMAS IN
INDIA--UMBALLAH--TREMENDOUS STORM--UMRITSUR--MARCH INTO RAWUL
PINDEE.
CHAPTER VI.
Owing to the fell presence of the grim visitor, cholera, the durbar
broke up sooner than was intended, and my regiment received orders
to proceed by train to Delhi, _en route_ to Rawul Pindee. My
wife not being very well, I decided to go on at night by passenger
train. The left wing of the regiment was to follow by special train,
but the station-master was not certain when he could despatch them,
leaving a wide margin, between 6 p.m. or 1 a.m. 3 a.m. saw us,
tired and miserable, at our journey’s end, standing on the railway
platform, without a coolie to help us with our luggage, or any more
light than the glimmer our own lantern afforded. Such was the Delhi
railway-station in 1866.
A gharry was at last procured, and wearied and worn we started for the
hotel (which had been our mess-house when the Rangers were stationed
here in 1859). The railway did not cross the river Jumna, which was
spanned by a bridge of boats. This entailed further delay, as the
pair of ponies had to be taken out and changed for bullocks before we
ventured on the swaying structure. But the longest and most tedious
journey ends at last, and so did ours as we stopped at Hamilton’s
hotel. It was bitterly cold, and as in India the traveller carries
his own bedding, and our luggage was still at the station, we had not
a very comfortable night’s rest. As the morning advanced everything
looked brighter. The weather was perfect, reminding one of a breezy
autumn day at home. We drove out to the camp, which we found pitched in
the old cantonments outside Delhi, where our army was encamped so long
during the memorable siege in 1857.
As we left Delhi we passed through the Cashmere Gate, a monument now
of gallant daring. My tents were pitched under a tope of trees, and
the breeze sighing among the branches sounded like the wind up aloft
at sea. We met a great many regiments at Delhi, as it was the relief
season, and they were all on their way to new quarters. It made the
difficulty greater than usual of getting carriage conveyance.
Being delayed several days, we spent our time visiting the sights in
and near Delhi, specially the palace in whose vast hall, with its many
pillars of marble, once stood the peacock throne, which was carried
away by Nadir Shah in 1739. Along the cornice on each side of the
chamber there is written in Arabic the inscription, ‘If there be a
paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!’ The dilapidated
state the whole of the palace was in when I first saw it in 1859 might
have saddened anyone, but on this last visit what a change! Everything
had been cared for, and the poetical beauty of the place was brought
out with great success. In Delhi stands the Jumna-Musjid, _i.e._,
the Friday mosque, Friday being the Mohammedan Sabbath. At the siege
in 1857 our soldiers forced their way into this temple. A very great
friend of mine, Coghill, who was then adjutant of the 2nd Fusiliers,
was cheering the men on in his gallant, hearty way, and he came to what
was called the holy of holies, a structure made in imitation of the
prophet’s tomb at Mecca. Coghill seized hold of the koran, a large
and heavy book kept in this place, and carried it off with several
other wonders, such as a hair of the prophet’s moustache, and similar
trustworthy valuables. As the koran was rather heavy, he handed it over
to some one to take to one of the civilian officers.
After Delhi had fallen, I was anxious to get a remembrance of the great
siege, and I became possessor of the koran. For a long time it reposed
in one of my portmanteaus, but a native came to see me one day and said
that it was known by certain Mohammedans that a copy of the koran was
in my possession, and that it was very valuable, being one of the three
original copies, one of which was at Mecca, another at Delhi, and the
last I forget where. So I packed it up very carefully and sent it home
to Scotland. Thinking that the Bodleian library would value such an
acquisition, I offered it through a friend, but was informed that the
koran was incomplete; so it still belongs to me.
Among many interesting accounts of Delhi, there is none more curious
than that contained in the autobiography of Sultan Baber, who lived
A.D. 1526. He was the ancestor of the old king of Delhi, who
lost his throne by the mutiny of 1857. Baber was born to the throne
of Ferghana, or Transosian, now the Russian province of Khokan.
Sherbany Khan, the leader of the Usbegs, took all from him, but Baber
(which means tiger) conquered all his overwhelming difficulties by
his energy and courage. He gained the throne of Kabul, and was ruler
of that country in A.D. 1525. As he had many adherents, he
determined to invade India. Sultan Baber wrote his own autobiography in
a dialect of the Turkish language; it was translated into Persian, and
also into English fifty years ago by Dr. Leyden. The civilization of
India is Turkish to this day. Until the year 1857 Baber’s descendants
continued to reign in Delhi. ‘There are four roads,’ writes Baber,
‘that lead from Kabul to India; in all these there are passes more or
less difficult, Lamghanat and Kheiber, Bangash, Naghz, and Fernul.’ The
Lamghanat road is the present route from Kabul to Peshawur, and it was
by it that Baber and his horsemen marched, and his baggage and cannon
were conveyed; it was the scene of the Kabul massacre in 1842, when a
British army was cut to pieces; it witnessed the triumphal march of a
British army in 1879.
‘A.D. 1526, April 12th--The Turks, under Baber, arrived within two
marches of Panipat--which lies fifty miles from Delhi--and on the 21st
of April the battle was fought that gave India foreign masters for many
centuries, and a form of government that it still retains.’
‘The same night, April 21st, A.D. 1526, Prince Humayon and
Kurajeh Khan were despatched to take Agra, seventy miles away. Baber
marched to Delhi. Delhi for three thousand years had been a great city.
It was contemporaneous with Nineveh and Babylon. The city of Delhi of
that day was called Firozabad. On a rocky hill, which extends on one
side of the city, was a citadel, built by King Feroze a hundred years
before the Turkish invasion. On another side of the city was King
Feroze’s other palace, in which stood a trophy of war, a large monolith
of stone, surmounted by the Moslem emblem of the crescent shining in
brass. On it were inscriptions in the Pali tongue, which recalled a
long-forgotten king, Asoka, the King Alfred of Hindoo history.’
All this information I copied at the time of reading it--the most
interesting account of Sultan Baber’s journal. When I was quartered
in Delhi, in 1859, I have often ridden over to these ancient ruins,
and examined the inscriptions on the stone pillar, which had then
lost the Moslem emblem mentioned above. The courtyard was then used
for the commissariat bullocks, and the dust, flying about everywhere,
was almost blinding. Delhi, in ancient times, was the largest city
in Hindostan, covering a space of twenty square miles. It has now
dwindled down to a circumference of seven miles; but the ruins of
its former grandeur still exist, and a vast tract is covered with
remains of palaces and mausoleums. We drove out to the Kootub-minar,
that wonderful monument of a by-gone age. We passed on our way the
once famous observatory, now much dilapidated, and no longer used
for astronomical observation. In the eleven miles’ drive we saw a
succession of tombs, generally solid, square edifices, with domed tops.
We stopped at the mausoleum of Sufter Jung, which stands in a garden,
and is a graceful reminiscence of a prince of Oude. After a dusty drive
across a sandy plain, we thought the patch of green on which the
Kootub stands, with its shady trees, a most refreshing sight.
Passing through Aladdin’s Gate, a very fine arch, we saw before us the
splendid column of the ‘Minar.’ It rises in a succession of marvellous
sculptured fluted columns, two hundred and forty feet high, very wide
at the base, and diminishing in circumference at each series of joints
till the summit is reached. Like the campaniles attached to churches
abroad, whence the bells ring out their summons to prayer, so from
the height of the Kootub the faithful were called to their devotions
in the adjacent mosque. Sultan Baber, in his journal, mentions the
Kootub as ‘that strange, tall, unrivalled pillar, which was raised to
call the faithful to prayer in the splendid mosque open to the blue
heavens below.’ We were informed that the Kootub had been erected by a
prince, to enable his daughter to ascend every day and look upon the
holy river Jumna, a feat which, if performed by her, must have kept her
in first-rate condition, for the Kootub is, I think, higher than the
Monument of London, and the winding stair is very steep.
At length we were enabled to leave Delhi. There is no more agreeable
duty than a long march in India during the cold weather. After
all the necessary preparations have been made; after the means of
transport have been collected, and various other arrangements, trying
to the temper and patience of commanding-officer, adjutant, and
quarter-master, have been got over, the regimental order-book contains
the following announcement, that ‘The regiment will parade at 3 a.m.,’
the next day. On the same evening that these orders are read to the
companies, a detachment has marched away, with the camp color-men and
the married people; the former to lay out the lines of the camp, the
latter to be out of the way of the regiment.
I always sent on a tent to be pitched by my own native servants,
and, when we arrived at the camping ground in the morning, we found
everything ready. What luxurious tents these were! Each one consisted
of a drawing-room, bed-room, and dressing-room, with a broad verandah,
formed by an outer covering. Indian servants have a wonderful knack
of arranging a room. As the tent we slept in was denuded of all
furniture, excepting beds and a chair or two, when we arrived in the
morning, we entered apparently the same sitting-room we had occupied
the previous day. Not a book was in a different place--everything was
the same. On some marches we rode in advance of the regiment, on others
we drove in my wife’s carriage; but, whichever way we travelled, we
enjoyed ourselves much. The Grand Trunk road of India, along which we
were journeying, was the finest made road in the world, smooth, and
level as a billiard-table. Ten to twelve miles was the average length
of a day’s march.
The men throve wonderfully. It was splendid to see them quickening
their swinging steps as they came in sight of the new camping ground,
marching in, every man in his ranks, to the lively sound of the band,
playing ‘Patrick’s Day in the Morning.’ As each company came to its
camping ground, it was halted, and piled arms by command of its
captain, and then the men proceeded to pitch the tents. It was a fine
sight to behold. When the bugle sounded a long, melancholy note, as if
by magic a white canvas town rose up on the dusty plain.
Then a sudden lull would fall on the busy scene. The men were preparing
for breakfast. The camels, eased of their loads, were driven off to
find their food in the neighbourhood; the patient bullocks lay by their
carts, and munched chopped straw, or ruminated on the hardships of
their life, while the married women of the regiment, having arrived
the night before, were the only visible people, and they were occupied
scolding their servants; for in India all Europeans are waited on,
and the wives of privates have their cooks and their washer-men. The
married soldiers’ families on a long march travelled in large bamboo
cages, covered with carpeting to keep out the sun as much as possible,
and these cages were put on the common country carts, drawn by
bullocks. We had a long line of fifty or sixty carts of married people,
and, as they started in advance at about two in the afternoon on the
same day as the regiment marched in, a great hush always seemed to fall
on the camp as they creaked and groaned off on their way. The fresh
early morning is very exhilarating, and the days are never too hot in
the cold weather.
One morning was very cold, so my wife and I rode quickly on in front of
the battalion. We passed the camels, which were moving steadily along
on each side of the well-made Indian highway. We arrived too soon at
the camping ground, and our tents were not quite ready, as the servants
had not expected us so early; so we got chairs, and sat enjoying
the fresh morning air. At length our camels, told off to carry the
khansama’s property, arrived. On one of these ‘ships of the desert’ was
fastened a hencoop containing some turkeys and fowls. My wife insisted
that the poultry should be released at once, which was done, and a huge
white turkey rushed madly about, and finally jumped on to my wife’s
lap. She received the great bird with kindness, but in a short time
exclaimed, in accents of the greatest consternation:--‘Oh, Edward, the
turkey has laid an egg in my lap!’ And so it had. How we laughed! That
turkey was ever after a great pet, was named Lady Alicia, and travelled
with us for many a day, but at length was devoured by a jackal in the
hills of Murree.
At Kurnal we found our tents pitched in a pretty spot, under large
trees, just outside the walls of the town. But we were carried off by
an old friend, Colonel Trench, superintendent of the government stud
at Kurnal, to his bungalow. Tent life is very pleasant, but after a
long time of it one appreciates the solid comforts of four walls and a
roof. The stud was a very interesting sight, everything being in the
most perfect order. There were about eight hundred horses altogether,
three hundred of them colts. We saw them turned out for exercise in a
large field. How they tore about, with manes and tails streaming! Then
they formed up, with distended nostrils, to have a look at us, and were
off again. Kurnal used to be one of the largest and most favourite
stations in India; but it became, from some unknown reason, dreadfully
unhealthy. Hundreds of Europeans died there, and it was abandoned as a
military station.
We spent Christmas here. Christmas is a season of rejoicing in India
to the natives as well as to us. Yellow flowers are profusely used
as decorations, and it is the custom for all the principal employés
to present ‘dollies’ to their masters, or the heads of departments.
As colonel commanding a regiment, I received ‘dollies’ from the
kotwal of the regimental bazaar, from the commissariat baker, and
many others, and now on the march the chief of the camel-men brought
a hill ‘dollie.’ They are almost always of the same shape, that of a
large, round, flat basket, with the contents tastefully arranged so
that everything is seen at once. Oranges, pomegranates, raisins, sugar,
spices, and Cabul grapes, packed up in little boxes, each grape in
cotton wool, are the usual gifts. To touch the basket with the right
hand, in sign of acceptance, is sufficient, and then the servants get
the contents, or, if there is any special delicacy, you appropriate it.
Umballa, a very large station, was our next important halt. Its close
vicinity to the hills and Simla makes it very popular. The band of the
94th Regiment came out to meet the 88th. None of us thought then that
in a few years that gallant corps would be called the 2nd Battalion
Connaught Rangers. We changed our carts and camels at Umballa, and were
delayed fifteen days before we got others. We met with the greatest
hospitality and kindness, and our time passed pleasantly. One night we
were fairly washed out of our tents by a most tremendous storm which
suddenly burst over us. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed
incessantly, and the heavens descended in a flood. Our tents were ankle
deep in water. Daylight showed that the camp was standing in a lake.
The men, who on a march have no beds, were badly off; but the greatest
sufferers were the married women and children. Their cages had been
necessarily removed from the carts that had conveyed them from Delhi,
and they were on the ground till we got our new supply of carriages.
Poor women, every stitch they possessed was floating in water. The sun,
fortunately, came out, and tents and clothes dried; but we moved to
another ground.
About three hundred miles from Delhi we halted at Umritsur, celebrated
for its golden temple; the walls are of pure white marble, and its roof
of copper gilt. It stands in a miniature lake, a hundred and fifty
paces square, the water of which, when we were there, was green and
stagnant, and in it the Sikhs immerse themselves, that they may be
purified from their sins. I think that the Temple of Umritsur looks
more imposing in a photograph than in reality. We passed along the
marble causeway, guarded on each side with golden balustrades and
lamps, and paused at the solid silver door to have straw shoes put over
our boots. The inside is richly gilded and decorated, and the marble
floor is inlaid with mosaic; but there is a tawdriness in the silken
canopy, under which reposes the sacred ‘Grunth,’ the Sikh’s Bible, and
in the yellow flowers hung everywhere.
Umritsur has always been noted for its manufacture of shawls and silks,
and owing to its situation between Cabul, Delhi, and Cashmere, has
driven a great trade.
There was intense excitement one night in consequence of a robber
having been caught close to our tent, stark naked, and greased from
head to foot. The servants surrounded him, but could not hold him till
the bheestee (water-carrier) poured a mussock of water over him and
he was rubbed down. There is a regular caste of thieves. The mess one
night lost all their copper pots and pans.
On the 23rd of February, 1867, we marched into Rawul Pindee, after a
journey which was most successfully accomplished. We were quite sorry
the long march was over. The men were in most splendid condition. The
usual amount of difficulty in collecting transport going up country
had been encountered, but everything had gone right at last. We all
had had pleasant meetings with old friends at the various stations we
had passed. At several of them my wife and I had stopped for a night
or two at a friend’s bungalow, driving on afterwards, and overtaking
the regiment, which had always been moving steadily on. So it was with
real regret we watched the departure from camp on the last day’s march.
The four bullock-carts started with the servants, the goats dragging
behind. The wives of the chief men were in marching trim, with tight
blue trousers down to their heavily-bangled ankles, and over their
heads was a great white square of linen, reaching to their waists;
behind them again was the swaying line of camels.
The Rangers had owned a pack of fox-hounds, which had given many a good
day’s run in the plains of the North West, and it was to our great
dismay we were told, on being ordered to Rawul Pindee, that our pack
would be of no use up there. So they were disposed of before we left
Cawnpore, and when we saw the broken country we had got into, we felt
we had done wisely to sell them. The hot weather was very near when we
reached Pindee. We had just time to get comfortably housed and settled
when it was upon us.
CHAPTER VII.
THE AMEER OF CABUL.
RAWUL PINDEE--EXPEDITION TO CASHMERE--INDIAN
HEAT--VISIT OF THE AMEER OF CABUL--LADY IN A
RIDING-HABIT--DEATH OF BISHOP MILMAN--ABSURD
STATEMENT--PESHAWUR--CHOKEDARS--NOWSHERA--HORSE-DEALERS--M’KAY--WILD
SCENE--MARCH TO CASHMERE--MURREE--FAITHLESS
COOLIES--DAYWAL--TERRORS OF MY BEARER.
CHAPTER VII.
Rawul Pindee is one of the most favourite quarters, being so close to
the hill station of Murree. Four hours carries one from the breathless
heat of the plain to the top of a mountain, with an elevation of seven
thousand four hundred and fifty-seven feet.
My wife and I were eager to make an expedition during the leave
season into Cashmere. The mountains guarding the Happy Valley had
stood out, a grand rampart, clear on the horizon, a great part of
our march. Our plans were all arranged. Light tents were bought, and
leave was obtained, when cholera made its appearance in the regiment.
Of course going away then was out of the question. The married people
were sent--to their great discomfort--into camp, and extraordinary
precautions were taken to prevent the spread of the disease, the
horrors of which we had so lately seen.
When encamped at Agra, under the outer flap of my tent, two unfortunate
natives lay down and died during the night, only the canvas walls
between them and us. Mercifully, the present outbreak was a slight one.
But, when we could get away, there was not time left, during the leave
season, for our journey to Cashmere, so we contented ourselves with a
visit to Murree, the sanitorium of this district.
No one who has not experienced real hot weather in the plains, can
understand what Indian heat is. It means darkness, for one thing, as
every ray of light is carefully excluded. In our darkened house at
Pindee, with every precaution taken, for a fortnight the thermometer
never varied, night and day, from 99°. But, oh, the joy of the first
rain! When doors and windows were thrown open, and we once again saw
each other!
Rawul Pindee was a very hospitable place. I remember dining with
one of the civilians. It was a very grand party. Everything went
off charmingly. The soup was hot, the champagne well iced, and the
inevitable tinned salmon, with Tartare sauce, was in abundance. As I
observed that those who took salad tasted it, and left it alone, I took
none. Next day my wife called on our hostess, and found her nearly in
tears.
‘Oh, Mrs. Maxwell,’ she exclaimed, in horrified accents, ‘can you
believe it? The khansama made the salad with castor oil!’
We were quartered a year at Rawul Pindee, and then received orders to
march to Peshawur.
We remained twelve months at Peshawur, and although there was a
good deal of fever, yet we did not suffer so much as the 42nd Royal
Highlanders, whom we relieved, had done. During the time they were
quartered there that unfortunate regiment was decimated by cholera and
fever. Not only did they lose many men, but their pipers nearly all
succumbed.
The most noteable event which occurred when we were at that station was
the visit of the Ameer of Cabul, on his way to Umballa to meet Lord
Mayo. The whole division paraded to do him honour, and, as I commanded
a brigade, I had a good view of this treacherous man. Certainly his
appearance was very noble and soldier-like. He rode with the general
and staff in front of our line, mounted on a high-bred Turcoman mare.
I was so taken up looking at this perfect animal, that I had no eyes
for the rider; but I saw him often afterwards, and my remembrance of
Shere Ali is not that of an artful deceiver, but more of a frank, jolly
soldier. But at that time he was full of hope that our government
would stand by him, and his heart must have beat with pleasure when he
looked on the bronzed warriors of Britain as they were in those days.
Besides, he must have felt elated when he saw not only the chivalry of
India assembled to do him honour, but all the civilians, men and women,
crowding to get a sight of him.
My wife rode to the parade, but when she got to the ground the crowd
was so great that she dismounted from her nag and got into the howdah
on the back of an elephant, which sapient animal knelt down to allow
her to ascend the ladder, the only way to get up. As she had begun
the morning on horseback, she was dressed in a riding-habit, and had
on her head a tall hat. When the parade was over, and the regiments
were still formed up, Shere Ali rode away, and, passing the elephant
on which my wife was seated, seemed rather perplexed at her dress,
and evidently asked for an explanation. But before the Ameer returned
to his country he saw many things more astonishing than a lady in a
riding-habit.
During our stay at Peshawur, Bishop Milman, who was beloved by
everyone, visited the station. The greatest regret was expressed when
very soon after his visit to us he was drowned, having fallen into the
river when going up a slippery plank which had been placed to enable
him to go on board a steamer. My remembrance of this good man is, that
he was very stout, had a deep voice, and preached a most impressive
sermon on the text ‘Redeem the time.’
I mention all this to show how utterly absurd was the statement made
about him by a fraudulent mess-man. A regiment quartered near us
invited the bishop to dinner, an invitation which he accepted. It
appears that the mess sergeant had been for some time suspected of not
being very honest in his charges, and he was watched by one of the mess
committee. The day after the bishop had dined at the mess the accounts
were overhauled, and the enormous number of twenty glasses of brandy
and soda were charged against the mess guests.
‘This is impossible,’ said the officer making the inquiry, ‘the number
is too great.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ said the mess sergeant, ‘the bishop alone had
fourteen tumblers!’
We passed a very pleasant time at Peshawur, and regretted when the
order came for us to move to Nowshera. Peshawur is situated on the
River Bara, and is twelve miles from the Khyber Pass. The cantonments
are on a ridge at a higher elevation than the town, which is very
unhealthy. Cholera and fever commit great havoc there, and yet it
is a fair place to look upon, with its gardens and green trees, and
curiously-shaped bungalows built of mud, as earthquakes are very common
during the cold weather, and the houses formed of mud consolidated in a
wooden frame are less dangerous than stone-built edifices.
Peshawur cantonments suffer not only from fever, but from the
occasional inroads of robbers, who are very clever at their trade,
and steal horses in a wonderful manner. To save himself from their
attacks, a kind of black-mail is paid by every person who is head
of a house, and who desires security. This monthly tax is given to
men called ‘chokedars,’ and the recipients of the money belong to
the hill tribes that guard the Khyber Pass; magnificent men and true
as steel--so long as you pay them. They dress in a most picturesque
costume, and are armed with several weapons, one of which is generally
a blunderbuss. They march round your house all night, shouting at
intervals, ‘Khu-bardar!’ (take care), a signal to their brother
robbers that the sahib round whose house they are watching has paid
the black-mail. The man in my service, a very handsome fellow, was
always at his post; and I admired my brigand very much. One day he
asked for leave, and, after bringing a friend of his to take his duty
in his absence, he entered into a long story to my bearer, who, when I
asked him why my chokedar wished leave, gave me the information desired
in the following few words: ‘Your highness,’ said the bearer, with
his hands clasped, ‘this man wishes to go and murder his mother.’ Of
course, on learning that he was going on such a praiseworthy errand, I
gave him his _congê_, and I never saw him again.
We were much commiserated when our turn for being quartered at Nowshera
came round; but somehow we got on very well. Polo became a great
institution, and we fraternised well with the cavalry and native
regiments we found there. The Guides, at Murdan, a march across the
river from Nowshera, always made any of us who visited them more than
welcome. So, what with excursions to Peshawur, and occasional visits
of friends passing up and down the Grand Trunk road, time passed
pleasantly enough.
Nowshera is one of the hottest stations in the Punjaub--surrounded as
it is by sandy hills--and when we first went to it there were no trees.
Many hundreds were planted under my rule, and I am always gratified to
hear that there is quite an avenue now from the barracks to the church.
Camels are the great enemies of trees. Carefully as the young growth
may be guarded, a long neck suddenly protrudes from the line of moving
animals, and the top of a tree is nipped off, and its future beauty
spoiled. But camels are not the only enemies trees may have; for, at
my old home at Monreith, in Scotland, when this century was young, my
father was possessed of many race-horses, one of which won the Leger.
The stables are at some distance from the house, and my grandfather
had planted several trees, which have grown up with forked tops. This
unfortunate disfigurement was caused by the jockeys, on their way to
the stables, flicking off the tops of the young trees with their riding
whips; at least, so the old people at home say.
Nowshera is forty miles from Peshawur. When we were there, in 1868,
there was nothing to be seen but a large barracks like a prison
situated on the right of the Trunk Road from Peshawur to Attock. When
the leave season came round, there was no cholera to prevent me getting
away, so I decided to apply for six months’ leave, and to spend them
in Cashmere. Our tents, three in number, were as light as they could
possibly be made. I took the precaution to have one of them thoroughly
waterproof, as a refuge in very bad weather, but it proved unnecessary,
as even in the trial of long continued rain none of the other tents
leaked.
The horses and _impedimenta_ preceded us by a few days from
Nowshera, and we were to overtake them at Rawul Pindee. My wife’s
steed, called by her ‘Nila,’ was a gentle, well-bred, grey Cabul, full
of spirit when required. The way it came into my possession was rather
curious. During the time we were at Peshawur, the late General Haly was
in command, and, among many other good qualities, he knew a horse right
well.
I have sometimes accompanied him into the town of Peshawur, where there
were several horse-dealers. It was a risky thing going along the narrow
streets of that town, filled as they were with wild-looking Afghans and
Affriedees armed to the teeth; but we never were insulted. A dealer
told General Haly that he had a horse, and invited him to see it. This
visit ended in my buying the nag for a very small sum.
Next day the dealer came to my bungalow accompanied by a young Afghan,
who was leading the horse. This young man placed the rope holding the
steed in my hand. He put his arms round the animal’s neck, kissed it
on the forehead, burst into tears, and then disappeared. Of course we
asked an explanation of this scene, and were informed by the dealer
that the young Afghan had come to Peshawur and lost all his money (most
probably to the dealer). He had nothing left but his horse, and so he
sold it, ‘and your royal highness has got a bargain,’ said the dealer,
finishing his story, a conclusion which meant a demand for backsheesh.
And Nila was a right good nag. My pony, called Silver Tail, was the
most active, savage little brute I ever saw. He could walk very fast,
and scrambled over rocks in a wonderful manner.
I cannot start on our Cashmere journey, during which we met with some
adventures, without mentioning my wife’s maid, M’Kay. She was born in
the Highlands, and a more devoted, warm-hearted woman never lived. She
rests in her grave at Nowshera, but she is most kindly remembered by
both my wife and myself, for whose comforts she made many sacrifices.
It was on a fine evening in April, when the fiery sun was dipping
behind the wall of mountains that guard, what alas! has been too well
named, the ‘Valley of Death,’ that we left Nowshera in a dāk carriage.
The usual difficulty of getting the horses to start was at length
overcome, and, with the accompaniment of whips cracking and men
shouting, the little nags dashed off at a gallop, which they kept up
for nearly the whole stage of seven miles. Fresh, wild-looking steeds
were then harnessed, and we started again, with the same cracking of
whips and shouting, the frightened animals tearing along over the
beautifully-made Trunk Road.
Thus we hastened until we arrived at the banks of the mighty Indus.
The river was tearing down in full summer flood. The bridge of boats,
which was the usual means of crossing, had been removed, as was always
done at this season. Our only way to transport ourselves and effects
over, was by boats. We left the gharry here, and had to embark in an
enormous barge. What a wild scene it was! The moon shone brightly
on the troubled waters of the sacred river, which rushed along in
frightful rapidity. The naked boatmen, armed with huge poles instead
of oars, appeared like the forms we see in a feverish dream. When
we were seated in this boat, which we could imagine to be Charon’s,
the word was shouted, and, by a vigorous push, we were sent out into
the wild rush of waters. The black figures strained every nerve to
keep our craft’s head straight for the opposite shore, but the stream
whirled us down the dark river which surged around us. Our crew made a
tremendous effort, and we felt ourselves swept out of the main current
into comparatively smooth waters, while the foaming river hurried along
in furious haste. Then came the slow and arduous process of rowing up
against the strong current to the place of disembarkation at Attock.
Here we found two other gharries awaiting us, and, without further
adventures, we went on the remainder of our way. The sun was rising
when we trotted into Rawul Pindee. We halted at Roberry’s Hotel during
the heat of the day, and in the evening drove out to Barracao, a dāk
bungalow at the foot of the hills, where we found our advance guard of
servants and horses awaiting us.
Very early the next morning we may say we began our march to Cashmere.
My wife was mounted on Nila. M’Kay was conveyed in a dandy, a kind of
a sack fastened to a pole and carried by two coolies. I was on Silver
Tail, and, the word being given, off we started, our four dogs, full
of glee, racing before us. Quite dark when we left Barracao, the sun
had risen by the time we got among the hills, but his light did not
reveal much beauty of scenery. We were shut in almost the whole way by
hills, covered for the most part with scrubby underwood, here and there
diversified by patches of cultivation.
A constant stream of natives, donkeys, and mules seemed to be going
up and down the mountain. Occasionally we passed a cart heavily laden
with furniture and boxes plodding its weary way, at the rate of little
more than a mile an hour, to where the anxious owners of its contents
had been most probably expecting its arrival for many days. Sometimes
minus a wheel, it reclines by the wayside, the servants in charge
sitting calmly round the wreck, smoking the pipe of contentment. The
four unyoked bullocks chew the cud, little caring how long matters
progress--or rather do not progress--in the same way.
We enjoyed the morning ride very much. There was an elastic feeling in
the air that recalled to our memory the Highlands of Scotland when the
sun shone brightly in our far-away home, and our own glorious mountains
towered around, clothed in their brilliant haze of purple heather.
That night we halted at ‘Tret,’ and the next morning rode into Murree.
Murree was in 1868 a pretty, green-wooded place, but it lacked the
grandeur of the other hill stations we had visited. Its precipices are
banks, its mountains hills, compared with those of Simla or Mussoorie.
It has no snowy range, like that grand chain of mountains one sees from
the heights of Landour.
We passed some very pleasant days at Murree with Colonel (now Sir
Samuel) Browne, G.C.B. His pretty two-storied house was situated on the
side of a hill, which could only be reached by a very break-neck path.
We were warmly welcomed by our kind and charming hostess, and enjoyed
our visit very much. Murree is the starting-point for Cashmere, and
the hiring of coolies to carry the baggage, &c., &c., is all completed
here, for everything must be carried by men. After a most arduous
undertaking, we succeeded at length in making our final arrangements,
and, having said farewell to our kind hosts, we got on our horses and
started for Cashmere.
All our baggage was carried by coolies. Those in British territory
were a grumbling lot, who never were satisfied, and ran away very
often, when they had been paid, as the civil authorities in those
days insisted that the coolies should receive their small fee before
starting on the journey.
We rode along the wooded road that leads from Murree, breathing the
balmy afternoon breeze, which was laden with the sweet perfume of the
pine forest. How glorious it was to feel free from all troubles, and to
leave behind us all annoyances!... What is this we see before us, left
in the solemn woods? Our bedding, deserted by the coolie whose duty
it was to carry it, and who had absconded altogether. I shouted, but
only echo answered. The evening was closing fast, and nothing could be
done. All along the line of march various articles belonging to us were
left nestling among the mountain flowers, so we gave up attempting to
collect our baggage, as some of our servants formed a rear-guard, and
we pushed on to Deywal.
Deywal is a good-sized village, situated on the right side of a deep
gorge, traversed by a stream, which flows into the Jhellum some miles
down the mountain. There is now a good dāk bungalow near the
village, but in 1868 there was only a rest-house. A couple of chairs, a
table, and a charpoy (the bedstead of India), formed the furniture of
this inhospitable dwelling, as in India travellers provide all their
own necessaries of life, and our comforts were resting on the line of
march, so we had to make the best of it; but our cook, having preceded
us, we got some dinner. We had to repose our wearied limbs without any
mattress, sheets, or pillows. My wife gallantly placed her head on her
leather hand-bag, and declared she was ‘very comfortable.’ I used the
privilege of a British soldier, and grumbled to my heart’s content.
Previous to retiring for the night, we sat outside, enjoying the cool
evening air. Immediately in front of us was the deep valley dividing us
from high mountains on the other side. Light sparkled on this dark and
lowering curtain from villages scattered over the distant view. High
up on these fir-clad hills we could only guess, by the aid of the soft
light of the moon, where our soldiers, who were occupied in making a
princely road from Murree to Abbottabad, were encamped. The whole scene
was grand to a degree, and as we adjourned for the night we cast our
longing eyes towards the Cashmere hills, whose everlasting snow seemed
ghost-like in the moon’s white beams.
In the morning a miserable, forlorn-looking object arrived with a
lantern in his hand. This poor wretch sat down and wept! To my dismay,
I recognised my bearer. This draggled-looking object was generally a
most consequential little man--of very high caste, and so honest that
he could be trusted with any amount of money, and not a farthing would
be purloined by him. My two bullock-trunks and a lantern he considered
his special charge, and often afterwards, high up in the mountains of
Cashmere, this little man might have been seen, with the lantern in one
hand, and laden with his copper cooking-pots, which no one was of high
enough caste to carry except himself. He had passed a night of misery;
in dread that the thieves would rob the ‘Sahib’s’ things. He was also
in deadly fear that bears would demolish himself, and in terror lest
evil spirits of the mountains might carry him away to some far off
Gehenna; and--what in reality was the greatest trial of all--he was
starving.
Once a day this high-caste Hindoo would approach me with clasped hands,
and exclaim, in Hindostanee, ‘Provider of the poor, may I go and eat
bread?’ And then he would disappear, and for two hours was occupied
cooking and eating his rice, which was a religious function altogether.
When pressed with work, he would not eat at all till his labour was
over.
This was a most trying event. He had been so occupied packing at Murree
that he had postponed his hour of cooking till arrival at Deywal, and
then the ‘budmashes,’ the brigands of coolies, had deserted him, and he
was left all night starving among the bears and the evil spirits! This
was enough to account for his misery, so I told him to go to his ‘rhoti
khana;’ and he returned two hours after, the bright and active factotum
he always was.
As the morning advanced, our baggage arrived. All the stray mules of
Deywal were sent out, and in time brought in everything.
CHAPTER VIII.
CASHMERE.
MARCH TO KOHALLA--CROSSING THE JHELLUM--ACCIDENT TO A
BOAT--ASCENT OF THE DUNNA PASS--BARRADURRIES, OR REFUGES--TOMB
OF A YOUNG CAVALRY OFFICER--SUDDEN STORM--CHICKAR--THE
DOCTOR--AN EARLY START--WONDERFUL TOMASHA WALLA--BACKSHEESH--THE
PEOPLE OF CASHMERE--HEAVY TAXATION--TREATY.
CHAPTER VIII.
Our next march was to Kohalla on the banks of the Jhellum. It is a
pleasant ride down to the valley, and then through flowering shrubs and
green fir-trees, and past high rocks till we arrived at the comfortable
hotel, situated near the river. Across that foaming mass of troubled
waters we had to pass, and then we should be in Cashmere; for the
Jhellum divides the territory of the Maharajah from that of Great
Britain.
There was only one way to proceed--in a flat-bottomed boat, which on
inspection proved but a rickety craft. The horses and baggage crossed
over in safety, and then our turn came. On entering the boat our
confidence was not increased by finding a big hole in its side, which
was stuffed with grass, and a large stone placed against the bundle to
keep it safe!
The same performance was gone through as at Attack, on the Indus. Our
boat was towed some distance up the river, and then cast off. We flew
across, and made the opposite shore, some way down the stream, when,
a rope being thrown, was caught by coolies, and we were hauled into
smooth waters, and landed.
A fortnight after we had crossed, a brother officer, on his way to
Cashmere, had passed this ferry, followed by his servants, horses,
and baggage. The boat, cast off from the opposite shore, flew over
the boiling, surging waters. The rope was thrown and caught by the
coolies, but it was rotten, and the boat, with all its living contents,
was swept away, the mad waters engulfing everything that was in this
miserable old coble.
But now we are landed in the Maharajah’s country. The day was far
spent when we managed to start our avant guard of coolies with tents
and baggage. We decided, therefore, to advance only a few miles up the
mountain to a level ground, where there was water and sufficient space
to pitch our tents. The ascent of Dunna is not along green sides and
grassy slopes, but in the dry bed of a winter’s torrent. Leaving the
village where we had disembarked, the path proceeds for a short way
along the level, and then straight up the stony course of the stream.
My wife started on foot. With her Alpine staff in her hand, she bravely
faced the hill. I rode as long as I could, but the scrambling, sliding
pony was most disagreeable, so I was obliged to walk.
To describe our ascent is impossible, as no one can form an idea equal
to it who has not attempted the Dunna Pass. Intensely hot in the
valley, it became cooler as we scrambled and tumbled along the rocky
path; and at length we arrived at the Dunna Dhuk, the only level site
before reaching the top. The evening had closed in, but the moon rose
clear and splendid from behind the lofty mountain up which we were
toiling. The wild night-hawk’s shrill note echoed through the still,
dark valleys, and the light and shadow deepened as the moon rose
brighter and more glorious every minute. Our tents were pitched by our
active servants on a kind of terrace formed for cultivation, and our
dinner was nearly cooked before we had time to look about us. Our only
light was the silvery moon.
We asked for milk, and one of our Cashmerian retainers proceeded a
short distance, and, facing the valley, shouted our wants in a loud and
prolonged call. The answer came, weird-like, from a long way off, and,
in due course, rich milk was brought to us in abundance. It was very
pleasant on that cool mountain side after the heat of the plains, and
we soon retired to our Swiss cottage tent to seek the repose we had
honestly earned.
It was strange to awake and find ourselves encamped on the hills in
Cashmere; and, when M’Kay brought us our morning cups of tea, we were
ready to begin another day’s march. The tents were struck and sent
away, and the final orders given. My wife, as usual, faced the brae on
foot, and I rode Silver Tail till I found it impossible. So I handed
him over to my syce, greatly to the knowing one’s internal satisfaction.
As the morning advanced, the sun’s bright rays tinged with golden tints
the surrounding scenery. The loving calls of the black partridges
sounded sweet and home-like. The early breeze was laden with the
perfume of mountain flowers. It was charming, but the climb was
terrible. We were glad when we reached the plateau which overlooked
Dunna, and were enabled to mount our nags once more.
As we halted at the refuge built by the Maharajah of Cashmere,
we were very thankful to take possession of the queer habitation
which he has dedicated to the use of travellers. These refuges are
called barradurries, and have no claim to beauty of architecture. A
mud wall surrounds a double-storied mud house. The ground floor is
uninhabitable, but a rickety stair leads to the upper floor and into
a narrow passage, on each side of which there are empty rooms. The
passage ends in a covered verandah in front of the rooms. The doors are
rough planks of deodar, without any attempt at fastening. The window
shutters are the same, with no glass.
Many plans had to be adopted to keep the doors and windows closed.
My wife and M’Kay made these wretched places most comfortable with
gaily-striped purdahs, and many a pleasant hour have we passed in the
numerous barradurries scattered over the land of Cashmere. On the
right hand, as we entered the enclosure at Dunna, a tomb is erected to
the memory of a young cavalry officer, who broke a blood-vessel after
walking up the steep ascent by which we had come. How sad are these
graves scattered over India! As the road into Cashmere no longer passes
over Dunna, that memento is very lonely now. Few travellers pause to
read the record of that young life’s untimely end.
Very early next morning we left Dunna for Maira. The path zigzagged
down through a wooded brae, and became altogether lost among huge
boulders as we approached the river we had to cross. The ascent on the
opposite side was steep and rugged. Clouds which had been collecting
threatened a storm, and wild gusts of wind foretold rain. We got into
the barradurrie, and settled ourselves comfortably. The distant thunder
rolled grandly through the mountains above and around us. The elements
seemed to be collecting forces for a grand attack at night, and when
the darkness came the storm burst upon us, flash succeeded flash in
rapid succession, and the thunder pealed forth its mighty voice; the
wild wind shrieked through our mud-formed house, and drove the rain
and hail into our innermost rooms. The doors and window-shutters
banged about in a mad jubilee of diabolical glee. After committing
all sorts of havoc, the drunken furies flew before the gale, and the
peaceful stars peeped out from the blue heavens, while the waning moon
shone sadly on the wearied earth. Still, in the now quiet scene, we
could hear the far-off thunder echoing through the high mountains of
Cashmere. These sudden storms are very grand.
The next morning broke bright and fine, and, as we rode away, the fresh
perfume was sweet to us who had left the burning plains so lately.
We rode through wooded, park-like scenery, aptly described by an
Irish assistant-surgeon we met as ‘quite like a domain.’ Instead of
Fenians to annoy the dwellers, there are leopards which destroy the
poor Cashmerian wood-cutters. A day or two previous to our arrival, a
shepherd had been killed. Our way led up the mountain, and then through
woods; our path descended to a river which flows along the valley. High
up on the hill on the opposite side was Chikar, the end of that day’s
march. Before crossing the river, we passed through many rice-fields,
which, as they resemble wet bogs, are not pleasant places to ride in.
Numerous cheerful-looking peasants were engaged planting bunches of
green grass in rows in the wet and muddy ground.
After climbing the steep mountain, we arrived at Chikar, quite ready
for the ‘doctor,’ a combination of milk, eggs, and rum beat up
together, which M’Kay always had prepared for us, and which seemed to
increase our enjoyment of a later breakfast.
During the day we sat out on the flat roof of the barradurrie, whence
the view was magnificent. In the distance we could see a far-off snowy
range, while nearer was a splendid panorama of mountains cultivated
at their base, with the rocky summits lost in snow and impenetrable
clouds. Every now and then a great dark shadow would skim across the
mountain-side, then fade away, and the bright sun would light up the
green grass on hill and dale. Faintly borne on the breeze were the
voices in the valley beneath, while soaring high in the air a royal
eagle would pause for a moment, then swoop away and be lost to our
sight.
As we were now deserted by the moon, our early start was made in
comparative darkness. When the morning broke, we overlooked the valley
of Jhellum. We descended for three miles, by a winding, rocky path,
to the left bank of the river, and rode along its wooded bank till we
arrived at Huttie. The wonderful river’s roaring voice drowns every
other sound, and it insists on being listened to. On the opposite side
of the Jhellum is seen the road from Abottabad.
On arrival at Huttie, we found our camp pitched near the rapid Jhellum,
the ground chosen by our advance-guard being the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. There was at Huttie a most wonderful Tomasha Walla, who most
perseveringly insisted that we should see him cross the river, a
pleasure which with equal resolution we declined; but by dint of never
leaving us, whether we sat outside or inside our tents, or went for a
stroll, he got his own way at last, and we reluctantly climbed a cliff
to obtain a good view of our tormentor. The river at this place, pent
in between high cliffs, comes tearing down in great angry waves, which
seem as if no living thing could for a moment contend with them.
Standing on a rock some distance from us up the river, a black figure,
with hardly anything on to speak of, and grasping in his arms a
‘mussack,’[1] fixed our attention. As soon as he saw we were looking at
him, he threw the ‘mussack’ into the water, and followed in a trice. It
was surprising to see the ease with which he battled with the waves,
turning heels over head, standing almost upright, then, mounting
astride of his ‘mussack,’ and guiding himself to the other side of the
river.
His performances seemed to give unfailing delight to the inhabitants
of Huttie, who looked on as though they had not seen him go through
the same feats every day of the season. Of course the Tomasha Walla’s
re-appearance on the scene was followed by a demand for ‘backsheesh.’
Have not all travellers in the East written folios on the subject of
backsheesh? I must add my iota to the budget. It is the most irritating
of demands. Not a man in Cashmere will ever accept the payment that
is offered to him, no matter that it is twice as much as the service
he has done requires. He will whine and beg for more, going through
a string of reasons why he should get it. At last, having either
succeeded in obtaining an increase of pay, or else seeing he has
no chance of prevailing, he begins a fresh clamour for backsheesh.
I grieve to say that our experience of the inhabitants of Cashmere
proved them to be thoroughly false, utterly ungrateful, and desperately
extortionate. Honour and honesty they have none. Find them out in
some lie or fraud, they grin from ear to ear, never dreaming of being
ashamed of themselves.
Ground down as they are by the system of perpetual oppression, we
ceased to wonder at the lowness of their morals as we saw more of the
working of the rule they live under. No nation in the world is taxed
as the Cashmerians are (or were, for I write of 1868). Two thirds of
everything is taxed for the benefit of the Maharajah, and to see that
this is duly paid a host of officials are employed, who in their turn
rob the unfortunate ratepayers, till (I am within the mark) I have been
assured by those who ought to know that three-fourths of every man’s
possessions are yearly taken from him in this grievously burdened land.
It was very long before we understood the small enthusiasm shown when
we congratulated the people on their smiling crops and fair prospect of
a heavy harvest. What matters it to them whether the produce be good or
bad?--enough will be left them for their subsistence, and more for seed
for next year’s sowing. But all the rest finds its way, much lightened
by the hands it passes through, to the Maharajah’s coffers. Our farmers
at home grumble, but they live in a free country--let them be thankful.
The Cashmerian sows his land, a government official comes down on his
inspection visit, and desires that each field should produce so many
maunds of grain. In vain the farmer protests that his land cannot yield
such a crop; he is not listened to, and woe to him if to the last seer
the number of maunds be not forthcoming. He is sold out--everything he
has is taken from him to pay his debt to the Maharajah.
We saw this beautiful and fatherly care of a prince for his people in
full form in the Lolab Valley. We were riding past a village along a
narrow path; it was getting dusk, and we had to leave our road because
four or five men who were sitting down did not get out of the way. It
was an unusual rudeness. Next morning we passed the same way, and there
were the men still on the ground. No wonder they had not moved, even
for a sahib, for their legs were bound fast and firm in stocks, there
to remain till it was the Maharajah’s good pleasure to release them.
All that they could call their own had been sold to pay for deficient
crops, but much more was still marked against them.
‘Cashmere was conquered in A.D. 1587 by Akbar’s brother-in-law, the
Rajah of Jeypore, when the Mahomedan king of that province was enrolled
among the nobles of the court; and this lovely valley, the paradise of
Asia, became the summer retreat of the emperors of Delhi.’--_History
of India, by John Clark Marsham, vol. i._ ‘It was conquered by Runjeet
Sing in 1819.’--_Ibid. vol. iii._
‘In 1846, the Sikh army having invaded our territory, Sir Henry Harding
issued a proclamation confiscating the Cis Sutlege possessions of the
Lahore crown, and he annexed the Jullunder Doab, or district lying
between the Sutlege and the Beeas, to the Company’s dominions, by which
he obtained security for our hill stations, and a position which gave
us control of the Sikh capital (Lahore). The expenses of the campaign
were computed at a crore and a half of rupees--which the Lahore state
was required to make good--but the profligacy of the ministers and the
rapacity of the soldiers had exhausted the treasury, and, of the twelve
crores Runjeet Sing left in it, there remained scarcely fifty lacs of
rupees to meet the demand. Sir Henry therefore determined to take over
the province of Cashmere and the highlands of Jummoo in lieu of the
remaining crore. Since the death of Runjeet Sing, the powerful Raja of
Jummoo, Golab Sing, had always cherished the hope of being able, by
some happy turn of circumstances, to convert his principality into an
independent sovereignty. During the recent contest he had played the
part of an interested neutral, watching the contest, and prepared to
side with the strongest. When called to assume the office of minister
at Lahore, he negotiated with the Governor-General as much for his
own interests as for those of the State. There could be little doubt
that a clear understanding regarding the possession existed between
him and the British Government; and hence it created no surprise when
he stepped forward and offered to pay down the crore of rupees, on
condition of being constituted the independent Raja of Cashmere and
Jummoo. The sovereignty of these provinces was accordingly sold to him,
but it must not be forgotten that he received only an indefeasible
title to that which he actually possessed at the time. Sir Henry
Hardinge by this stroke of policy obtained funds to cover the expenses
of the war.’[2]--_History of India, vol. iii._
CHAPTER IX.
THE VALE OF CASHMERE.
MEDICAL SCIENCE IN CASHMERE--LONG AND FATIGUING
MARCH--CHIKOTI--FORT OF OREE--FAQUEERS--BRIDGE OF
ROPES--AN OLD FRIEND--PLAYFUL MONKEYS--TEMPLE OF
BHUMNIAR--PRIMITIVE FISHING--BARRAMULA PASS--THE HAPPY VALLEY
AT LAST--FORMATION OF THE VALE OF CASHMERE--CHANGE IN MODE
OF TRAVELLING--DONGAHS--HERONS--THE WALLOOR LAKE--FORT OF
SRINAGUR--PUG AND THE AFGHAN WARRIOR--THE MURDERER OF LORD MAYO.
CHAPTER IX.
The heat was very great at Huttie, for we were in a hollow, where no
breeze seemed to reach us, and the mosquitoes were more annoying than
usual. I do not know what we should have done in the event of illness.
We had no medicine to speak of but quinine, which we found very useful,
for the servants constantly had fever, and the faith they had in the
mysterious white powder was implicit. Villagers and coolies used to
come to us to beg for a little, and we had to harden our hearts, and
give to those only who required it.
Medical science is in a very backward state in Cashmere. A surgeon we
met at one of the halting-places told us that he had been entreated
by the head man of the district to come and see his daughter, who
was suffering from a disease of the eye. Our friend went at once to
the house, and found the poor girl in a terrible state. A native
practitioner had taken out her eye, and, having stuffed up the place
with wool, had left Nature to complete a cure, aided by a cloud of
flies. The wretched girl was suffering agonies under this treatment,
the whole side of her face being a mass of inflammation. Dr. ----
trusted that the measures he had taken would save her life. As it
came on to rain in the night, our tents were wet in the morning, but
fortunately our other set of tents had been sent on the night before.
We had a long and fatiguing march up and down hill, through rice
fields, and over so-called bridges. The bridges consist of two stout
logs, roughly fastened together with planks, with no parapets, and
with gaps of several feet between, which made the crossing of a rapid
stream a service of real danger to the horses and of most questionable
pleasure to pedestrians.
After a tremendous climb we came to scenery which recalled home to
our memories. We were hundreds of feet above the Jhellum, whose voice
sounded faint and far in the depths below us. For some miles our
road lay through park land: fine trees waved overhead, ferns nestled
at their roots, and the grass glittered in the sunlight, each blade
weighed down by a drop of the last night’s storm. A pair of eagles were
teaching their young ones to fly; higher and higher they soared in the
blue sky, till our eyes ached watching them. The sun was high in the
heavens when we found ourselves at the barradurrie of Chikoti.
Welcome sight! this white-washed house of rest, and still more welcome
the ‘doctor,’ which M’Kay had ready for us. M’Kay never seemed tired.
Her scons were always ready for breakfast. I do not know how we should
have got on without them, for we had no bread; but as long as we had
M’Kay’s scons we wished for nothing else, and, as we ate them, we
marvelled how she had strength to come such marches and do her work
so untiringly. True she had a dandy to be swung along in, but, if her
coolies were lazy, she used to lose patience, get out, and run along
the steep mountain path, with the swiftness and ease a childhood spent
in a Highland home had given her. Her bearers, for very shame, would
trot along behind her, either grumbling at this newly-developed
eccentricity in the ‘belattee memsahib,’ or grinning at her remarkable
appearance, as she skipped along from rock to rock, a tiny mug, in
which she concocted the ‘doctor,’ strapped on behind her waist, also
any article of dress my wife would require immediately on arrival.
When her pack was opened, the objects she had elected to carry were
slippers, brushes, comb, and sponge-bag--all ready for her mistress.
We slept the sleep of the weary that night. Four o’clock came too
soon, but we never gave ourselves any time to think of the miseries
of early rising, for every mile traversed before the sun climbed the
mountains and shone down on us was worth very much. There was not light
to see a white horse as we came into the cold morning air; the stars
were still out, and only a faint streak in the east showed us that
daylight was coming. How very enjoyable those early morning break-neck
rides and walks were, the fresh, exhilarating mountain breeze giving
us spirits to meet difficulties which in the plains would have seemed
insurmountable, the air fragrant with the breath of roses, jessamine,
and sweet brier, growing in thick and wild luxuriance. The scenery
was very grand; but this was the most fatiguing of all the marches. We
scrambled, struggled, climbed to the top of a rugged, precipitous path
only to descend again, and, having crossed a river, we ascended to the
plateau on which the Fort of Oree is situated. Built by the Sikhs, it
is now garrisoned by the troops of the Maharajah.
The barradurrie is near the fort, and is a two-storied house more than
usually tenanted--by fleas. As we sat out in the verandah, we were
attracted by the sound of a tom-tom, and in a short time appeared some
twenty faqueers, who halted in front of where we were seated, and
proceeded to bivouac. These faqueers are so-called holy men; they wear
no clothes, and their long and tangled locks are covered with ashes,
and their faces painted all sorts of colours. A more disgusting sight
than one of these men can hardly be imagined, but a detachment, such
as were now before us, had a grim kind of comicality. One of them more
hideous than the others possessed a queer-looking umbrella, which he
planted in the ground, and then extended himself at full length--the
picture of a loathsome animal. We were glad when these dreadful
creatures marched away again to the sound of their monotonous music.
There is a curious rope-bridge near Oree; two ropes parallel to each
other span the deep gully formed by steep rocks on each side of the
river. A chair is pulled across, in which the traveller sits and gazes
beneath him at the roaring waters, prepared to engulf him if the rope
were to break. Happily our way lay alongside, not across, the Jhellum.
What a lovely ride we had next morning! There were rough ups and downs
at first, but then came forests of deodars, through the breaks of which
the snow-covered mountains showed sharp and clear against the deep blue
sky. Mighty cliffs rose sheer up to our right in some places, while the
Jhellum on our left roared and thundered in its narrow passage over
huge rocks with such violence that it was impossible to hear ourselves
speak. My wife was riding in front, and, as she turned a corner, her
horse shied to the right. A weird-looking little man, with no garments
on at all, and his head anointed with cinders, was seated on the ground
in a shallow cave formed by a rock, thrumming on a native banjo, with
a huge cat clinging to his shoulder. He looked very uncanny, and took
no notice of us, but seemed quite contented with his surroundings. We
were informed that he was a very holy faqueer, who had lived there
summer and winter for many years, and that every passer-by gave him
something. So we added a few pice to his store.
Further on a long string of large monkeys were turning somersaults
disagreeably near to the high cliffs edge; but their glee seemed
unending, and they raced away above us, springing from branch to
branch, and moving the forest as by a partial breeze. We came to an old
ruin called Pandee Ghur, covered with ivy and buried among the dense
forest.
Still further on there is a splendid ruined temple called Bhumiar,
which is stated to be one of the finest specimens of a familiar kind of
architecture in Cashmere. At certain times of the year numerous Hindoo
pilgrims come to visit it. Perhaps the detachment of faqueers we saw at
Oree may have been returning from the pilgrimage. A thunderstorm which
came on hurried our proceedings, and the thunder rolled grandly as we
arrived at Naoshera.
Our halting-place for the night was in the barradurrie, close to the
rapid Jhellum. Here we got good-sized fish, which were caught in the
most primitive manner. A crooked pin fastened to a string and baited
with a mulberry, was quite enough to ensure a good plate of fish. I
must not forget to mention that the mulberries were in great abundance,
and, when we were in Cashmere, formed the staple article of food for
the lower classes. But the peasants are not particular, and devour
fruit, nowise careful whether the peaches, apples, or melons be ripe or
not.
We felt rather excited as we went off to bed, for the next day would
bring the fulfilment of a long looked-for event, our first sight of
the Vale of Cashmere. It was grey dawn when we marched away in the
morning. The Jhellum sounded louder than ever, its roar preventing any
conversation taking place, and making it expedient for us to ride on
in silence. At first we passed through rugged, narrow glens, but soon
we emerged into a grassy plain surrounded by high wooded hills, and,
amazing metamorphosis! the loud and angry Jhellum flowed smoothly and
quietly past with not a ripple on its waters.
And now, instead of rocky paths, our road was a perfect level, part
of it through rice-fields. Here we met an old friend returning to the
plains, accompanied by several coolies laden with trophies of the
chase, and delighted with his wanderings in the mountains of Cashmere.
There is a great charm in meeting an acquaintance when far from the
haunts of civilized life.
After some pleasant conversation, we bade adieu to our friend, and
continued our ride towards the wooded ridge in front of us, over which
lies the Barramula Pass, which is some hundred feet above the plain.
This was our last scramble, and when we arrived at the summit we both
exclaimed, ‘The Happy Valley at last!’
The top is covered with green grass and shrubs; the view is extensive
over a portion of the Vale of Cashmere. You see the Jhellum, the
Walloor Lake, Sopoor, and the hills enclosing the northern side. I must
own that the first glimpse is rather disappointing. Accustomed for
days to the majestic mountains crowned with snow, the dark, mysterious
valleys through which the river foamed and raged, the Vale of
Cashmere, with its green and fertile pastures, was a sudden change. But
soon our eyes became enamoured with the glowing charms of that sweet
view, and were quite ready to appreciate fully all its delights.
The valley at some time must have been a vast sheet of water. The whole
formation leads one to think this most probable, and the exit and drain
of this vast lake must have occurred when the mass of water made itself
an issue near Naoshera, and, tearing through the rocks, rushed madly
on, leaving behind it the gently flowing river.
The trees in the Happy Valley are the plane, the walnut, the poplar,
the mulberry, and the willow; while, higher up, the mountain sides
are covered with forests of deodar and pine. Fruit is very plentiful,
growing wild, and consists of mulberries, peaches, apples, pears,
cherries, grapes, walnuts, and melons. Vegetables are also in great
abundance. The soil is very rich, and during the summer there is no
climate to be compared with that of Cashmere.
If the country were fairly governed, and the population unoppressed
by tyrannical laws and injustice--in short, if we had retained
possession of it when it once was ours, what a paradise it would now
be! At present the flowers and fruit grow wild and untended, and the
poor peasants are miserable specimens of humanity. Many a better class
farmer has said to me, ‘Would that the English were our masters!’ When
the traveller reaches Barramula, he is in the actual Vale of Cashmere.
‘Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses, the brightest that earth ever gave?’[3]
And now we were to change our mode of travelling--to have a rest from
break-neck rides, and to travel luxuriously in boats. The horses were
to go on by easy marches to Srinagur, there to meet us. They had
carried us well over the hundred miles of difficult road we had come
from Murree. The rocks they had scrambled over had been very hard on
their feet, and repeatedly they had lost shoes; but I had come prepared
for such contingencies, each syce carrying with him four strong leather
boots, and whenever a shoe came off, a boot was slipped on to save the
hoof; at the halting-places a blacksmith could always be found to put
a shoe on, and we had our own with us. The natives keep only one size,
very small, and they have been known to give lockjaw to travellers’
horses from paring away the hoof to fit them. The Jhellum at Barramula
is smooth and broad.
M’Kay was much put out when she discovered there were no steamers, and
puzzled the coolies by vainly trying to find out from them the wharf
from which we were to embark. We had three boats, called dongahs. The
one my wife and I occupied, a flat-bottomed boat, with very pointed
extremities, was sixty feet long, six broad, and about two feet in
depth. A wooden roof, covered with matting, extended about half its
length, and other pieces of matting were fastened on to the sides of
the wooden frame, which can be closed at night and raised during the
day. The crew consisted of a whole family, who lived in the stern part
of the boat. The oars were short, with broad, heart-shaped paddles.
My wife and M’Kay made our gondola most comfortable. The sides of our
cabin were festooned with red and white curtains. In the centre,
hanging from the roof, were large mosquito-nets. During the day our
camp beds were pushed out of the way, and a table took their place, on
which were our books and writing materials. There was room also for an
impromptu sofa of cloaks, pillows, &c.
M’Kay had another dongah, which she shared with our dogs, and the third
one contained our servants and cuisine. Oh! the delicious sense of
repose--after toiling for days among rocks and mountain paths, to feel
ourselves resting in quiet and peace! It was sufficient, for a time,
just to live, and lazily to look at the merry birds glancing past in
the sunlight, and every now and then seeing them drop into the calm
waters.
At first we had to cross a broad part of the river, and one of our
crew stood in the bows, and with a pole pushed us along, while the
remainder, in the stern, propelled us with the heart-shaped paddles.
We soon reached the opposite bank, when most of the family jumped out
on the path, and towed us by a long line, and so we glided past green
pastures, in which hundreds of mares and foals were quietly grazing,
past sedgy pools, where numerous herons arose before us. They had no
fear, these royal birds, protected by the Maharajah, as a heron’s plume
is a token of nobility.
‘When day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule,’[4]
we reached the town of Sopoor, which is built on both sides of the
river, and joined together by a bridge resting on wooden pillars.
Innumerable wild ducks skimmed past us, and the large mahseer rose to
the flies which hovered over the mirror-like water during the still
evening hour.
Before sunrise next day, we had left our moorings at Sopoor, and,
shortly after, entered the Walloor Lake. It is the largest lake in
Cashmere, and the Jhellum flows through it. The boatmen are very
superstitious about crossing the lake. Offer them any amount of
backsheesh, they will not attempt to enter it after the sun has set.
The Walloor is often visited by storms and sudden squalls, and the
flat-bottomed boats, with their heavy top-hamper, are not suitable for
a gale of wind. So we entered the lake after sunrise. The mosquitoes
were innumerable. I sat out on the prow of our boat to get a shot at
the wild fowl, which crossed and recrossed before our gondola, and the
mosquitoes covered my hands with white lumps and blood; for they are
easily killed, and are powerful blood-suckers.
The lake is choked up in many places by reeds and morass. Where the
boats pass on their passage to Srinagur the whole surface of the water
is covered with water-lilies. The scene was fairy-like. High towering
around us were mountains tipped with snow, while green pastures
encircled the lake. In the far distance, in our front, the fort of
Srinagur rose proudly on the horizon, like the Acropolis of Athens,
while on our left the heights above Manisbul Lake marked the entrance
to that lovely spot, and in the hazy distance on our right, could just
be seen the glaciers which show where Gulmurg, the ‘Field of Flowers,’
nestles, a green valley among the snow-clad hills. In the evening,
we entered Shadipore, ‘The Place of Marriage,’ where the Scind river
effects a junction with the Jhellum.
A Hindoo temple on a solid block of masonry is shaded by a chenár.
Tradition says that this tree, which is situated in the middle of the
river, never grows. The boatmen drew up our squadron to leeward of a
large barge not laden with violets, so we insisted on being taken to
some other place. We were accordingly moved to a fine open space, and
moored to a post sunk deep in the mud.
My wife’s favourite pug jumped out of M’Kay’s boat at the first place
where we halted, and now was nowhere to be seen. A great hunt ensued,
and we were beginning to despair of her recovery when the little
black-faced beauty made her appearance quite unconcerned. My wife was
very fond of this troublesome pet, which had most endearing ways, but,
like all her breed, was very selfish and exacting, her mistress often
being compelled to sacrifice her own comfort to that of her favourite
‘Polly,’ a name bestowed on her in remembrance of the very kind donor,
who was wife of the Commissioner of Peshawur.
One day at Peshawur, a tall, fine-looking Afghan made his appearance
at our bungalow, and, having been admitted, entered the drawing-room,
and saluting, produced a little black-nosed animal, which was Pug. The
armed warrior again saluted, and retired, leaving Polly distracted
under a chair, attached to a long chain. She was soon coaxed from
her retreat, and took at once to her new mistress, for whom she ever
afterwards showed a sort of selfish affection.
The tall Afghan was a retainer of the commissioner. His gentle care of
his sahib’s children was very remarkable. He was often in attendance
on them when they went out to ride or drive; a kindly, gentle warrior
he seemed to be. But these Kybaries have strange customs, and one is
the ‘blood feud.’ Like the Corsican vendetta, it descends from father
to son. This man was one day in the city of Peshawur, where he saw a
member of a family with whom he had a blood feud. Perhaps he regretted
having come across his enemy, but the very honesty of the bold soldier
may have made him feel bound to pursue his foe. Anyway, he followed
the man, and on the road to Jumrood overtook him and slew him. Had he
waited but a short time, he would have been out of British territory;
but the deed had been done in our queen’s dominions, where blood
feuds are not recognised by the law. He was imprisoned and tried for
murder, the punishment for which is death. Deep regret was felt for
the faithful retainer, who, however, was not condemned to die, but to
undergo imprisonment for life in the Andaman Islands. Alas! for this
mountain warrior, imprisonment was far worse to him than death. Death
he despised--but imprisonment! We must look at his position in his own
light. We must remember that he was brought up in the faith of blood
feuds. We must bring to bear all in his favour _now_, for soon we
shall loathe his name. This Afghan mountaineer, this man who was the
gentle attendant on children, who carried Pug so carefully into our
bungalow at Peshawur, was the murderer of Lord Mayo!
In the evening it looked like rain, but we did not much mind. We
settled ourselves in our tent-like cabin and laughed at the mosquitoes
which howled outside our curtains, when all of a sudden everyone on
board seemed demented. I jumped up and found the dress of a Highlander
quite unsuited to a gale of wind. My wife also sadly deplored her
scanty costume. The usually quiet going gondola was flying in a most
distracted manner before the wind; our gray, red, and white curtains
flew out like long, dishevelled locks; our mosquito-nets jumped up
and down in extraordinary fits; our boatmen’s family announced their
numbers with great loudness, for in the back part of our vessel the
voices of male and female old age joined in fiendish clamour with those
of youth and babyhood, and our dogs barked incessantly! On flew our
dissipated and ill-behaved, flat-bottomed barge, which had broken loose
from the bonds that bound it to the muddy bank, and had started off on
a lark, when the sudden squall had rushed down from the mountains and
shouted ‘Come!’ How we were ever stopped, I know not; but, after half
an hour of great anxiety, the unwieldy and reckless, flat-bottomed
barge was made fast to the muddy bank, and we were left in peace to
repair damages.
CHAPTER X.
THE MAHARAJAH.
CHOWNI--SRINAGUR--WOODEN BATHING-HOUSES--BABOO MOHAS
CHANDER--OUR FUTURE DOMICILE--‘ME COME UP’--OUR
SHIKARRAH--SUMMUD SHAH, THE SHAWL-MERCHANT--ANCIENT
TEMPLES--THE MANUFACTURE OF CASHMERE SHAWLS--DINNER WITH THE
MAHARAJAH--A NAUTCH--THE MAHARAJAH’S ‘HOOKEM’--LORD MAYO’S
FETE AT AGRA--UNINVITED GUESTS--RISING OF THE LAKE--THE POPLAR
AVENUE--THE PARIAH DOG--CAUSE OF THE FLOOD.
CHAPTER X.
When morning broke we continued our voyage. As we had left the lake
the day before, the river was now more narrow, and twisted and turned
like a serpent in the green fields through which it made its way.
And then we came to Chowni, which was intended by Golab Sing to be
the dwelling-place of English visitors, but, owing to want of good
drinking-water, was never used.
We breakfasted under the shade of a grove of poplars, and then,
entering our gondolas again, we were towed up to Srinagur, the capital
of Cashmere. As we glided along, we had to pass the old gallows on
which many a mortal has suffered in days of yore; now it is seldom
used, but during our visit to Cashmere a culprit was executed on it,
and was left to hang there for days, filling the air with his horrid
presence. But when we passed the gallows was empty, and a weird-looking
old raven was perched on the cross-beam of the gibbet, croaking
dismally to itself about the good times of Golab Sing, which were
changed completely now. We had pictured this city to ourselves as a
scene of ruined palaces, but all we saw were crazy wooden houses with
pent roofs overlaid with earth and covered with grass and plants.
We passed some ancient temples, which seemed in their ruin to mark
the difference between the rotten buildings of the present day and
the massive architecture of a gone-by age. We glanced for a moment at
splendid marble cause-ways, hanging over hideous wooden bathing-places,
and dwellings erected on wooden piles close to gardens full of fruit
and flowers. As we struggled up the stream, and with difficulty got
under and past the wooden bridges which span the river, boats like our
own, but not so large, shot by us. In some were reclining the English
sahib, exploring. In others, larger and more crowded, were soldiers,
country people, and busylooking men. On each side of this centre
thoroughfare of the town were men and boys swimming and bathing. Not
a house but had a wooden bathing-place, and these were always full of
splashing human beings, while crowding the banks were female figures
washing clothes and children alternately. We swept past the Maharajah’s
palace, the golden roof of its temple being the only attraction there.
Leaving the last bridge, called Ameeri Kudal, we came to a wider
part of the river, and the place where the visitors’ bungalows are
situated opened out. It was a pleasant sight, the calm and placid
Jhellum, on the right bank of which were grand chenars--the Oriental
plane--overshadowing the curious little houses built for the
accommodation of the Maharajah’s British guests. As we toiled on,
a swift and smart-looking gondola drew up alongside, and the Baboo
welcomed us in the name of His Highness the Maharajah of Cashmere.
Baboo Mohas Chander was a courteous, smiling man. When he spoke, his
white teeth sparkled in the sunlight, but, when he ceased to address
us, a sudden darkness seemed to overspread his face, all because the
Baboo had shut his mouth. He informed us our house was ready, and we
found him always civil and attentive.
Ah, me! what a house! Our future domicile was like a square box divided
in the centre, the division being the floor of the upper story. Up a
rickety stair we ascended to our three rooms. The windows had no glass,
but had diamond-cut shutters, the peculiarity of which was that, when
tampered with, they invariably fell on the toes of the unwary. However,
we were delighted with our apartments. Hearing the sound of riders
passing by, we rushed to the window; the effect of which energetic
movement was to make everything in the room dance, as the floor was
very elastic.
As we gazed on the river so near us, and watched the gondolas skimming
past, we became aware that a crowd had assembled in front of our house.
‘Me papier-maché man--me show you fine things--_me come up_.’ ‘Me
Soubona jeweller--very cheap--_me come up_.’ ‘Me leather man--me
bring shot-bags, sandals--_me come up_.’ ‘Me shawl man--very fine,
very cheap--_me come up_,’ and so on, the ‘me come ups’ becoming
really alarming by the constant repetition of the words. So I assumed
the attitude of a popular candidate for parliamentary honours and
requested them to ‘retire till a future occasion,’ and, finding they
were losing time, they vanished.
Gradually the boats, riders, and pedestrians became fewer, night came
on apace, and we were glad to say ‘Good night.’ Next morning we engaged
a shikarrah, a miniature of the boat in which we had come up the river.
It was thirty-six feet long, by three and a half wide, and one foot
deep. Our shikarrah had a flush deck and awning. The crew consisted of
six men, who propelled the boat with heart-shaped paddles. These craft,
which are used by everyone like gondolas at Venice, seem to fly through
the water. My wife and I reclined on rugs and pillows, and gave the
word to proceed to Summud Shah, the great shawl-merchant. The entrance
to this great man’s house is by a flight of stone steps, which are
washed by the river. Through a fine gateway we passed into a courtyard,
and then, ascending stairs, we were ushered into the shawl-room. Summud
Shah received us arrayed in an ample gown, like a night-dress. He could
not speak a word of English, but by his courteous actions seemed to
say: ‘All I have is yours--if you pay me well.’ We were handed to
chairs placed on a divan, and then business began.
What a collection of magnificent shawls! But oh, how wearisome! Our
host gave us Ladok tea, which is not unpleasant to the taste. Instead
of cream, a slice of lemon floats in the cup. Summud Shah was the
banker at Srinagur, and was most attentive to our wants during the
whole of our stay in Cashmere. We saw two kinds of shawls. Those made
by loom, and those by hand.
Some time after this visit, we were wandering through a poor part of
the town, when we observed a number of men with very weak eyes. Our
guide informed us that these were workers of Cashmere shawls, and
that the work they were engaged in was the cause of the weakness of
their eyes, and in some of total loss of sight. We visited some of
their houses, and found them occupied sewing the graceful patterns
on small patches of canvas. When these are completed, they are all
united together, and form the beautiful shawls, some of which we had
been admiring. We were also told that, when the shawls were first
introduced, the inventors were in the custom of ascending the hill
above the town, from which there is a fine view of the Jhellum, winding
and turning in the valley beneath, and that the tortuous pattern of the
Cashmere shawls is a copy of the river’s windings.
I received an invitation to dine with the Maharajah. My wife was also
asked to accompany the Resident’s party, to see the fireworks which
were to be exhibited in the evening. So far as dinner was concerned,
there was amply sufficient to eat and drink, but on an occasion of
that sort one goes with rather a wish to be introduced to the host. My
experience of that one dinner party did not afford me an opportunity
of having that desire gratified. We had been requested to come camp
fashion, which means that each guest is expected to bring his own
plates, knives, forks, tumblers, napkins, &c. I landed at the mean and
dirty entrance to the palace, where the shouting boatmen seemed at war
with each other. I clambered up the steep stairs, but there was no
one to receive me, or to show me the way. I found myself at length in
a large dining-hall, in which some eighty khitmegars were making as
great a noise as the boatmen below, each servant endeavouring to secure
the best place for his master.
After getting past this pandemonium of waiters, I was shown a door,
through which I proceeded to an open terrace, where a number of chairs
were placed in a semicircle, many of them already appropriated by
other guests like myself--their occupants being officers on leave from
British territory--so I took possession of one of them.
In the open space in front of the seats two or three nautch girls were
going through that dreary and unmusical performance called a ‘nautch.’
In the meantime, I discovered some old friends, stranded like myself.
At length, as, somehow or other, everybody intuitively knew that dinner
was ready, a rush was made towards the door. Excited khitmegars seized
their masters and dragged them to the place they had secured for them.
I was charmed to find myself situated between a brother officer and
an old friend I had not met since the Crimean days. The table was
groaning with really a good dinner, for everything had been placed on
it at once. The champagne was Cutler’s best, and our little coterie
had our dinner and jokes in a very pleasant way. We had some fun about
the Maharajah’s hookem (order). I wanted a glass of iced water, and I
desired my servant to bring the water, and pour it into my silver mug.
A great man, clad in red, came behind my chair and informed me ‘that
it was the Maharajah’s hookem (order) that the tumblers were to be
taken to the water, and not the water to the tumblers.’ Verily it was
a jovial party. Then the Resident rose, and proposed the health of the
Maharajah. We cheered uproariously. Some one then proposed the health
of the Resident, ‘the representative of our beloved Queen,’ we soldiers
cheering loudly for our sovereign, more than for her representative.
The costumes worn by His Highness’s guests were peculiar; some
appearing in uniform, others in evening dress, while a number wore
ancient shooting-coats which bore testimony to hard work among the
mountains of Cashmere.
Had the head constable of Agra been present, he would have been sorely
puzzled. That functionary was on duty one evening at the Taj, when the
Governor-General, Earl Mayo, gave a fête, with kind hospitality, to
the residents at Agra. Several uninvited guests had tried to enter the
precincts of Viceroyalty on a former occasion, and a police officer,
by order of the civil authorities, determined that these intruders
should not force their way again into a private party given by the
Governor-General.
‘How shall I know the guests of his lordship?’ asked the anxious
constable.
‘Allow no one to enter who is not dressed in uniform or in evening
costume, like Mr. T----,’ replied the police officer, pointing to the
officiating collector, a tall, handsome man, dressed as an English
gentleman.
In the evening we were all assembled in the garden near the gate, where
a sound of voices in altercation was heard at the entrance. The police
officer proceeded to inquire into the disturbance, and found, to his
dismay and our delight, that Mr. A----, one of the leading swells in
Lord Mayo’s suite, had been stopped because he had a coat differing
very much from Mr. T----; in fact, a political costume.
The weather was so fine and warm that we decided on pitching our camp
not very far from our rickety bungalow. The site where our tents were
placed was on a green knoll, on whose flat surface our whole encampment
found ample room. There were trees dotted all round us, and a straight
path led down to the river, where we usually embarked.
For a day or two after our change of quarters the sun shone brightly,
and there was a balmy breeze blowing; but it came on to rain suddenly,
and never stopped doing so for thirty-six hours. Our tents were
thoroughly waterproof, but to say the best of it we found our space
rather confined, and the time hang somewhat heavily on our hands. My
wife was sitting in the verandah of our tent, and I was not far off
smoking a cigar. For some time I had observed the water round a tree
gradually rising, and in a lazy kind of manner kept watching it growing
deeper and deeper, and felt very pleased that we had pitched our camp
on the green knoll, and not in the grass field below us. All of a
sudden a native _employé_ of the Maharajah came running from the
landing-stage.
‘To the boats, sahib--to the boats! The Maharajah has sent three--the
river is rising.’
We could not understand what had happened, but to hear was to obey,
and then a wild scene of excitement ensued. Everyone began to pack
up something; the servants struck the camp; M’Kay was everywhere,
working hard. The only unconcerned man was an orderly sent by Baboo
Mohas Chander, who was placed at our disposal when we first arrived at
Srinagur. This valiant warrior divested himself of all his clothes,
and, wrapping them in a bundle, squatted in a way which is possible
only to natives, holding over his head an umbrella made of broad
leaves. He had fixed his position at the edge of the green platform on
which our tents were pitched. His apathy was very irritating to M’Kay,
and she managed, when flying from one place to another, to give our
sepoy a gentle push, and bundle, man, and umbrella rolled down the bank
into the water.
At length everything had been transported into the dongahs, which
resembled the craft in which we had travelled from Barramula, so the
same arrangements held good as those which we had adopted in our former
boats. Our horses had been moved at once up to high hills, and they
were in safety. To our repeated question, ‘What does all this mean?’
the answer was astounding. The river was rising from some unknown
reason, and the great danger was that the embankment, which prevented
the lake from overflowing its boundaries, might give way, and, if such
an accident happened, the whole valley would be inundated.
Yes, the river had already risen twenty feet, the green bank on which
our tents had been pitched was gradually becoming covered with water.
The path along which we had hurried was no longer visible. The flood
was entering our old, rickety bungalow, and the walls soon collapsed
like a building of cards. It was a strange and anxious position to
be placed in, for there was nobody to tell us what to do; our real
danger was unknown. My wife and M’Kay having made our big boat quite
comfortable, we trusted ourselves to the care of Providence, whose good
angels had watched over us in many an equally momentous adventure.
The afternoon passed and the river was still rising. The rain, however,
ceased, and evening became night. Our boats just floated on the waters.
The moon rose in its splendour, and the stillness of the hour was only
broken by the howling of homeless dogs, and that fearful sound--once
heard, never to be forgotten--a house crumbling to the ground. Then
all was quiet again, and we were left to imagine scenes of death and
dismay, which in time proved to be too true.
When morning broke, the sun shone forth on a scene of desolation. ‘The
waters covered the earth.’ There was no trace of gardens left. Many of
the visitors’ bungalows had subsided, and all of them had some depth of
water in the lower floors. Our boatmen poled us along through places
which, two days before, were dry land, and into gardens, over which a
mass of water was tearing. Our crew aided their progress by holding on
to cherry-trees, and freely helped themselves to the fruit, which a few
hours previous they would not have reached without the aid of a ladder.
We passed through the poplar avenue, one of the walks near the city,
the tall trees of which had been planted by the Sikhs many years ago.
Now a torrent rushed along the favourite ride. As we glided on, we saw
a poor Pariah dog seated on a door, floating anywhere, and howling
piteously. My wife was most anxious to save the forlorn animal, and
made the boatmen take us near to it. She spoke to it kindly, and coaxed
it to be good; but when its enemy, man, came nearer and nearer, it
distrusted us, and sprang from its door, and was swept away. As we
looked on the vast expanse of waters our wonder was great; but how
much was it increased when we both saw a rat and a serpent swimming
close together, too intent on getting to dry land to take any heed of
each other. As we continued on, we picked up a chicken, which was in
great dismay, but soon fraternised with us, and, being named Nourmahal,
became our companion for a long time after she had been saved.
It would be tedious to enumerate all our adventures. It was an
experience never to be forgotten. We spent several days in our
boats, but it was some time before the waters subsided, and the full
extent of the damage to life and property could be ascertained. The
peril most dreaded--the rising of the lake and the bursting of the
water-gate--when the town of Srinagur would have been, most probably,
swept away, and the whole valley destroyed, was mercifully averted.
A broad embankment is built for protection, and the water-gate is so
formed that, when the lake rises, the gate closes itself; but when at
its proper level the huge wooden doors open.
Our crew brought our squadron to anchor at the base of Tukht Suliman,
on whose sides our horses were picketed. We climbed to its summit to
the little temple where King Solomon once sat, so says tradition.
The view of the valley is the most extensive that can be had, and
from where we stood we saw the full length of the poplar avenue of
magnificent trees. There are in all one thousand seven hundred and
fourteen trees, of which one thousand six hundred and ninety-nine are
poplars, and fifteen chenars (so I find noted down).
The scene presented to us was most interesting. Very many dongahs, like
our own, had taken refuge here, out of which appeared mothers with
children in all states of undress. These poor ladies, like ourselves,
had been obliged to embark in a hurry, and found, no doubt, that a
nursery was an inconvenient obstacle to overcome. But, like true women,
they bowed to the inevitable, and made the best of everything.
We remained a few days near the friendly rocks, till the waters had
subsided. During that time the great Baboo Mohas Chander had often paid
us visits. He informed me that the cause of the flood was the melting
of a glacier in the mountains, which had forced its way in volumes of
water down to the river. I never heard this information contradicted,
so I suppose it was true.
CHAPTER XI.
VALLEY OF THE SCIND.
JOURNEY TO THE NISHAT BAGH--FLOATING GARDENS--SUPERFINE
JOE--ISLE OF CHENARS--INSCRIPTION--NIGHTINGALES--SUDDEN
STORM--SUNBUL--AN IRISHMAN’S DINNER--THE GUARDIAN OF THE
LAKE--GANDERBUL--NOONSER--ENGAGEMENT OF A SHIKARREE--AN IRISHMAN
LOSING HIS ‘PRESENCE OF MIND’--A HOLY MAN--CROSSING A RICKETY
BRIDGE--VALLEY OF THE SCIND--BEARS.
CHAPTER XI.
The weather had quite improved again, so we determined to proceed on
our travels once more, and, having still retained our flat-bottomed
gondolas, we gave orders to our new crew to take us through the
drogjun, or water-gate, into the lake, whose embankments had caused so
much alarm to the Maharajah and to everyone. How enchanting it all was!
We had left our moorings in the afternoon, and the glow of the fading
day was like a halo over mountain and woods.
Our destination was the Nishat Bagh, one of those fine old palaces
built by one of the Mogul emperors. On our way through the clear water
of the lake, we passed the floating gardens laden with melons. On every
side were lotus-flowers and singhara plants. The lake was like a great
mirror, in which the high mountains were reproduced. We landed at a
flight of steps, and, mounting them, found ourselves in the terraced
gardens among flowers and cherry-trees laden with fruit.
The Maharajah comes out occasionally from his gold-roofed dwelling
in Srinagur, and is taken up the lake in his grand barge, landing at
one or other of these summer habitations to spend the day. An order
from our Resident can generally secure the use of rooms in any of
the palaces for officers on leave. The rooms are bare; some of them
quite open to the balcony overhanging the garden. Here we established
ourselves for a time.
As we were idly gazing from the verandah, an arrival attracted our
notice. It was that of a native arrayed in garments of gorgeous
colours; but what was most remarkable was a large embroidery in
silver on his shoulder. For some time we were greatly puzzled by this
ornament; but, having got my glasses to bear on him, our delight was
great to find the word ‘Superfine’ written on it. This conspicuous
ornament was no doubt the English manufacturers’ mark of the quality
of the cloth in which this strange creature had clothed himself. We
hailed him as ‘Superfine Joe,’ at which he seemed greatly pleased, as
he salaamed repeatedly as he swaggered away. When night came on, our
resting-place was in an alcove not far from a marble fountain situated
in the centre of the fine hall. During the hours of darkness the breeze
moaned sadly through this vast apartment, sounding like the sighs of
those who had once lived and loved in this almost ruined palace.
When morning broke, we crossed the lake to Nishat Bagh, where we
pitched our tents under the shade of some magnificent chenars planted
in the time of Akbar. Before us was the calm and placid lake, the
breadth of which is here some miles. Near where we landed is the Char
Chenar, or Isle of Chenars, also called Rupa Lank, or Silver Island.
Vigne visited this isle in 1835, and says there was a square temple
upon it; but it no longer exists. He states a black marble tablet was
placed there which has also disappeared. He informs us that it bore the
following inscription:--
Three travellers,
Baron Carl Von Hugel from Jamu,
John Henderson from Ladâk,
Godfrey Thomas Vigne from Iskardo,
Who met in Sreennugger on November 18, 1835,
Have caused the names of those European
travellers who had previously viewed the Vale of Kashmir
to be hereunder engraved--
BERNIER, 1663,
FORSTER, 1786,
MOORCROFT, TREBECK, and GUTHRIE, 1823,
JACQUEMONT, 1831,
WOLFE, 1832.
Of these, three only lived to return to their native country.
Seated outside our tents, the whole scene was very beautiful. The
lake was dotted here and there in the far distance with boats plying
from one place to another. Then, rising in proud grandeur on the
opposite shore, the lofty mountains towered into the clear blue sky,
while at their feet nestled ancient palaces among green trees and
fruitful gardens. It was a scene of peaceful quiet, which is peculiar
to Cashmere, owing to the absence of all wheeled traffic. The lovely
climate of this beautiful land adds enchantment to every view.
‘Oh, to see it at sunset--when, warm o’er the lake,
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!’[5]
It is no less attractive when seen by moonlight.
‘Or to see it by moonlight--when mellowly shines
The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines,
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool shining walks where the young people meet.’[6]
As we lingered under the shade of the green-leaved trees, I endeavoured
to make a sketch, and thought I had succeeded pretty well. Seeing M’Kay
pass near me, I called, and asked her how she liked my drawing. As she
did not answer, I said,
‘You know where that is?’
Poor M’Kay was always anxious to give pleasure to anyone, so she said,
in her pleasant Scotch voice,
‘Oh yes, sir; that’s your bungalow at Murree.’
Alas for my fine sketch of the Cashmere mountains!
Time fled very pleasantly in our gipsy encampment. The scene was
occasionally varied by the presence of the Maharajah as he went past in
his gilded barge, followed by his courtiers in large and picturesque
boats. Sometimes we paid visits to the gardens of Shalimar, and rested
during the heat of the day in Nourmahal’s Pavilion. This pavilion is
built of marble, and the pillars which support it are of black marble.
It is in the centre of a reservoir of clear water, and there are one
hundred and forty-four large fountains springing from it.
‘Th’ Imperial Selim held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar:
In whose saloons, when first the star
Of evening o’er the waters trembled,
The valley’s loveliest all assembled;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through the foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its fount and streams.’[7]
Now all is silent. The palace is forsaken, and the gardens deserted.
But, happier than our old Scotland, the nightingale is heard among the
trees which surround this fairy place; although, according to a Scotch
assistant-surgeon, there are nightingales in our Highland homes. The
surgeon being asked to describe one, he gave his impression of the
lovely songster in these terms:--
‘It’s got a heed like a caat: aboot the beegness of a pigion; and flits
aboot at night; and cries, hewt! hewt!’
We could linger no longer among the fine forest of chenars near that
beautiful lake, so our camp was broken up, and we reluctantly departed
for the Scind Valley. We were fortunate in having the moon to light
us on our way. Very beautiful was the lake enshrined among the giant
hills. As we moved slowly along, a storm rushed up, sweeping the waters
into real waves. The flash of the lightning was incessant, and the roar
of the thunder never ceased as it rattled among the mountains. But the
storm passed almost as suddenly as it had arrived.
We allowed our boatmen to take us wherever they liked best, only
stipulating that we should find ourselves halted in the morning at some
suitable camping-ground for breakfast.
Sunbul was the place they selected, and there we breakfasted under
the shade of some wides-preading sycamores. There was little variety
in our food. We carried with us tea, and a few tins of soup, which we
only used on the march. Besides these, my wife had a small store of
dainties, which only saw light on special occasions. We trusted for
the rest to the fowls and eggs of the country. Potatoes and bread,
which were always plentiful, we had to send for to Srinagur. Milk
was abundant; but beef we never saw. Bulls and cows being sacred, we
might have answered, as the Irishman did, when asked to dinner by Dan
O’Connell:
‘Come to dinner, a quiet dinner. Ye’ll get nothing but potatoes and
beef.’
‘Bedad,’ answered Paddy, ‘I’ll come. It’s the same dinner I have every
day--_barrin’ the beef_.’
After a two hours’ halt, we proceeded on to Manusbul Lake, passing
through a narrow canal, and under a very ancient one-arched bridge.
The canal is about a mile long, and then you emerge into the clearest
water of this most picturesque lake. In the shallow parts the lotus
abounds, the leaves of which are very long and of great diameter. We
saw on our left an elevated table-land, at the foot of which is the
village of Manusbul. Near this hamlet are the ruins of Bádsháh Bágh,
an old palace built by Jehángir for his wife, the lovely Nourmahal. On
the right, a low range of hills extends from high mountains. We landed
and paid a visit to the guardian of the lake, a very holy fakeer, with
a gentle, good expression of face, who is spending his life digging
himself a grave. When we were there, he had tunnelled out some fifty
feet, and as he was then a man in the prime of life, if he is still
alive, he must have burrowed a long way in. Whatever fruit happens to
be in season in the valley at the time of a visitor’s advent, this holy
man will give it in greater perfection than it can be procured anywhere
else.
The mosquitoes were very troublesome here, so we embarked again, and
floated away over the clear deep water of the lake, and finally arrived
at Ganderbul, where our horses awaited us. We encamped for the night in
a tope of fine trees, and next morning continued our march up the Scind
Valley. The river Scind was still in flood, and two bridges had been
swept away, and the waters were over the lower path, so we decided to
proceed to Noonur, which is only three miles from Ganderbul, and there
to halt. The distance being so short, we thought it better to walk,
and never did a march seem longer than this one. There was no shade,
and we were on a narrow path in the midst of rice-fields. The sun beat
down piteously on the marshy ground, from which exhaled a stifling air.
At length we arrived at Noonur, which is a pretty, English-looking
village, nestling among fruit-trees and chenars. Our four tents were
pitched under the shade of one of these nobles of the forest. The
horses were picketed at a little distance off, near a walnut-tree, and
a tiny stream of clear and sparkling water ran past our encampment.
Here we were regularly beset by ‘shikarries,’ the gamekeepers of the
valley.
We had reached the bear country. I selected one of these men,
a nice-looking fellow, who had only one ‘chit,’ or letter of
recommendation, but that one was most satisfactory, the writer
testifying to all that was said in favour of ‘Jan of Kangan.’ On being
asked for his other ‘chits,’ he said they were left in his home in the
mountains--‘But surely,’ he added, ‘that was sufficient;’ and so he was
engaged, and we were spared the continual announcement, ‘A shikarrie
waits.’ Our new gillie made himself useful, bringing us any amount of
unripe mulberries. M’Kay also went off into the woods, and returned
with basketfuls of cooking pears and apples. We remained at Noonur some
days--quiet, dreamy, unremarkable days.
One morning our honest gamekeeper was brought before me like a
prisoner, guarded by three other greatly roused shikarries. They
salaamed most respectfully, and inquired if the sahib had engaged this
man, the prisoner, as ‘Jan of Kangan.’ He was not the said Jan of
Kangan, for Jan of Kangan was the man who now addressed ‘your royal
highness, the provider of the poor.’ This fellow was a common coolie,
who had stolen Jan’s ‘chit’--here were the others to prove what he had
said was not true. The false Jan was speechless, and had nothing to
say. He had not the ready wit of an Irish soldier-servant I once had,
whom I found telling a most palpable falsehood. On being afterwards
accused by me of saying what was not true, be drew himself up to
military attention and said, ‘Plase, sir, I lost my prisince of mind.’
The only drawback to Noonur was an excessively holy fakeer, who
appeared at unexpected moments, gesticulating furiously, evidently
perfectly mad. The Cashmerians looked on him with intense respect, and
our servants told us that the Maharajah had begged the holy man to come
and live with him, and had offered him beautiful presents, but the
fakeer had refused his highness’s offers, and had thrown the gifts in
his face.
We had not had any rain for a week, so the Tickedar was summoned,
and coolies ordered. Bitterly cold it was at half-past three in the
morning, as we felt our way out of the tent ropes, and we were only
too glad to walk and keep our blood circulating. When day broke, we
had fairly entered the Scind Valley, in which we overtook numbers of
flat-faced, Chinese-looking coolies, all laden, travelling generally in
the employment of some merchant back to Ladâk.
At first the path was good, but we were soon in difficulties. The river
had carried away one part of the track, and in others the water had
overflowed and then receded, leaving a most slippery road. So there was
nothing for it but to ride our horses into the river, the Scind, which
had covered the whole of the low ground. At last we had to retrace our
steps, clamber up the mountain-side, and hit off another approach to
the bridge. Many misgivings assailed us when about a mile from where
our guide told us was Kangan. We saw what was evidently a sahib’s horse
grazing, and its syce squatting on the bank opposite to us. We asked
him why he was there. He did not dare to face the waters, he said, so
he was waiting till the river subsided, or till his sahib returned. On
we rode beside the foaming torrent to a place where it widened into
three branches. The chokedar called a halt; we had arrived at the
bridges. There were two very rapid rivers to cross, which we had to do
by wading, and then the main body was bridged. A native went first,
and, although the waters surged around him, he was able to hold his own
against the tide.
So we followed on our horses. Having crossed in safety the two
branches, we then came to the bridge, a pile of loose stones on either
side, round which the waters madly rushed. It supported a frail ladder,
turfed over in some places, the sods kept down by heavy stones that
weighed the trembling structure down to the waves. However, M’Kay must
have got over, for there was no trace of her, and our advance-guard
of coolies and servants had also certainly managed to get across.
We dismounted, and handed the nags to their respective syces. Nila
climbed the pile of loose stones supporting the bridge like a cat, and
fearlessly followed the syce over the troubled waters, hopping over
holes in the neatest possible fashion. But Silver Tail, more impetuous,
made a rush at the stone-work, to the vast alarm of his syce, who saw
the near approach of a watery grave, and held on with all his might to
his charger’s head, shouting for assistance. But at length they both
got over all safe. My wife held on to one end of a stick, while the
chokedar had the other end firmly grasped in his hand. She landed all
right from this swaying structure, which had no parapet, and through
which the furious flood was plainly visible beneath.
In my opinion the dogs gave us most trouble in our efforts to get over
this rickety structure. We were all rejoiced when we were assembled on
the Kangan side of the river, and, when everything was fairly over the
bridge, we continued on our way to where our tents were pitched under
the shade of some walnut-trees, and where M’Kay was ready to receive us
with the welcome ‘doctor.’
The valley of the Scind is narrow, but the scenery is very grand and
beautiful. On each side rose lofty mountains whose summits were covered
with snow, and whose precipitous sides are clothed with forests of
deodars. Lower down chestnut, sycamore, and walnut-trees take the
place of those giant firs. Villages surrounded by cultivated land
are sprinkled here and there on the banks of the river; fruit-trees
afford a welcome shade, and the green carpet of grass a pleasant place
on which to pitch the wanderer’s camp. We enjoyed our luncheon very
much, for in honour of the occasion my wife produced some of her most
precious stores, and we had among other dainties a Stilton cheese and a
bottle of milk punch; so we decided to devote the remainder of the day
to rest and quiet enjoyment under the shade of a huge walnut-tree.
I smoked a cigar, while my wife, by the aid of my glasses, examined
every nook and corner of the high mountain which towered above us.
All of a sudden she exclaimed, ‘I see a bear!’ and there, far up on
the hill-path, a bear and her cub were plainly seen. It was a pretty
picture, for the mother was playing with her child, rolling it over
and running away, then coming back and falling down, while the little
cub jumped over her. Well, I did not go after them. Perhaps the milk
punch and the cheese prevented me; anyway, I left them alone, but a
brother officer, arriving soon after, encamped not far from us, and he
went and shot the cub and then the mother, but nearly lost his life
in doing so, for the old bear was so furious when her cub was killed
that she charged my friend at a moment when his rifle was not loaded.
Fortunately for him, however, another sportsman came up to the rescue,
and Bruin received a bullet which finished her.
There were several bears seen during our halt at this charming
camping-ground. I went out several times to shoot, but was not
successful. My shikarrie generally got me out of bed about three in the
morning, and we sallied forth by the light of the moon, and climbed up
one of those steep mountains on which my wife had spied the mother and
child. The bears came down during the night from their haunts in the
mountains to feed on the ripe mulberries in the valley.
My shikarrie’s plan was to take me up the mountain before dawn, and
to post me behind a rock where the bears were likely to pass, as they
always returned up the mountain from the valley when the day broke. I
may safely say that, on these occasions, I never saw a bear. A strong
smell of a menagerie was sometimes perceptible, and the broken branch
of a mulberry-tree would give evidence that Bruin had been there; but I
was never fortunate enough to get a shot at one. I think the fur of the
American bears finer than that of the Cashmerian ones.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RESIDENT OF CASHMERE.
GOND--OFFICER OF THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS--A STATE PRISONER--OUR
GASCON CAPTAIN--SILVER TAIL--M’KAY ON EASTERN MOUNTAIN
SCENERY--THE WALLOOR LAKE--PALHALLAN--OUR CHOKEDAR--TAKEN
FOR WANDERING JUGGLERS--VALE OF GULMURG--OUR CAMPING
GROUND--A FAVOURITE EXCURSION--HOSPITALITY OF THE RESIDENT OF
CASHMERE--POLLY THE PUG--CALLING THE MARES HOME--HINDOOS AND
ANIMAL SUFFERING--EFFECTS OF CAMPAIGNING ON SERVANTS.
CHAPTER XII.
We left Mamur and encamped at Gond, intending to proceed to Sonamurg,
but I did not feel at all well, so we had to give it up. The scenery
had become wilder and grander at every turn round each rugged cliff,
and then the mountains seemed to close entirely, so that there was
apparently no possibility of getting further on, till a turn of the
path led us to where the valley widened into a green enclosure. On our
way we got lots of apricots, the trees being fairly weighed down with
their yellow load.
Gond is a very wild place. Our tents were pitched close to a brawling
stream that clamoured so loudly as it hurried past to join the Scind
that we could hardly hear ourselves speak. My wife, accompanied by
the dogs, proceeded alone for about five miles up the valley. She
brought back a glowing account of glorious combinations of mountain,
wood, and river. The intense stillness of the place imparted a feeling
of solemnity to the scene. While my wife was on her way a figure
appeared, at first wholly unrecognisable, face burned red, and hair
a perfect thatch, dress indescribable. This was an officer of the
Connaught Rangers. How amazed I was when my wife returned to our camp
with this singular-looking being. He had been to Leh, and was full
of stories of his adventures. He had walked thirty miles that day.
As he had left his servants behind, we made an impromptu bed for him
in our spare tent. He told us he had seen a state prisoner at a fort
called Tillet, a man tall in height, cramped up in an iron cage where
he could not sit upright. My friend measured this cruel prison, and,
as far as I remember, his conclusion was that it was only four feet
high, and narrow in proportion. The poor man had been immured there
for years. At the time of the death of Gholab Sing (the father of the
present Maharajah) the prisoner plotted to raise another branch of the
family to the throne, his intention being that the prince who now
reigns was to have been slain. The plot was discovered, and the unhappy
author of it was condemned to a life-long incarceration in an iron
cage. It is so long ago since the story was told on the valley of the
Scind river by this wandering Ranger, that now my written description
of the event seems quite tame; but at the time his portrait of the
unfortunate wretch he had seen, and the measurement of the cage which
he had marked on his stick, made us all thrill with horror, and we made
a fresh inroad on the fluids in my wife’s stores. I hope my friend had
no difficulty in getting off his boots, as I might have chaffed him as
I was once chaffed myself.
In the Crimea, during the last winter there, my old friend and comrade,
Nat Steevens, and I built, with the aid of one of the Rangers, named
Hopkins, a very good man, ‘a moighty foin house,’ consisting of two
rooms, divided by a very thin partition. Nat resided in one room, while
I was possessor of the other. Nat said to me one morning:
‘I always can tell when you have been dining out.’
I innocently inquired, ‘How?’
‘Because,’ said Nat, ‘I can hear you say to your servant, on your
return from one of those festive parties, “_Schnopkins_, pull off
my boots!”’
We had great difficulties in procuring any food, and at length I had to
send in to Srinagur, to Baboo Mohas Chander, requesting him to give me
a Sepoy orderly, to get us supplies. After his arrival, we did better;
for we got what there was to be had--small, half-fed sheep--but we had
to pay double for everything, owing to our new attendant. I do not
believe the peasants gained by the change; for our ‘Gascon captain,’
as we named him, was a great swaggerer, and pocketed most of the money
himself.
We had to cross the Scind river twice, on our return journey, to enable
us to get to a better path than the one we came by, and we met with no
mishaps till we reached a tributary of the river. It came brawling down
from the mountains, a goodly sized stream. My wife was walking, and
Silver Tail, with the side-saddle on, was being led by the syce. They
came to a rickety bridge, where the impetuous pony, as usual, made a
rush. The syce checked him, but down went Silver Tail into the water,
and rolled twice over in the flood! The knowing rascal seemed rather to
enjoy it, and swam to a shallow place, where he coolly began to drink,
allowing the alarmed syce to catch him. Not a scratch was on him, nor
was the little demon strained in the least. My wife’s saddle was, of
course, very wet, but uninjured.
We arrived early at our camping-ground at Mannur, and M’Kay started off
on an expedition up a mountain at the back of our tents. It towered
up many thousand feet, and from its summit a view could be obtained
over the ridge on the other side of the Scind Valley, right away to
Srinagur, Gulmurg, and Baramoula.
It was some hours before M’Kay rejoined us. We had seen her, through
my glasses, climbing steadily on; and, when she returned, her account
of the splendour of the panorama she must have gazed on was short and
pithy.
‘There was nothing to be seen at the top but more mountains, and
villages. As to the wonderful height, there was not a mountain of the
lot to be compared in size, or anything else, with the mountains at the
back of my father’s house in Sutherlandshire.’
The heat in the valleys was becoming oppressive, so we determined to
move up to higher ground. We turned our steps, in the first place,
towards Srinagur, there to make all arrangements for a protracted
expedition. Baboo Mohas Chander strongly recommended us to retain the
services of the Sepoy, so the Gascon captain remained with us. We left
Srinagur by boats on a lovely moonlight night, and drifted down the
Jhellum with little aid from our crew. The tinkling sound of zitaras,
mingled with laughing voices, came on the breeze, and added to our
enjoyment as we floated along, inhaling the perfume from the flowers in
the gardens on the banks of the river. The grim old temples, black with
age and decay, were softened in the moonlight, and the squalid wooden
houses appeared almost cheerful as seen in that sweet evening hour.
In the morning, we entered the Walloor Lake, and crossed over to
our landing-place at Palhallan. The mosquitoes were more voracious
than usual, and positively attacked our mosquito-nets in millions,
but, baffled in their attempts to come through, they howled outside.
From Palhallan we walked to Wangan, where the horses met us, they
having come round by land. Our Gascon captain was in great force, and
swaggered about, trying to get coolies. His moustache had an extra
curl, and he proved--by his overbearing ways--a great addition to
our importance, as every article of food was charged nearly double
to us. Our other retainer was a chokedar, full of conceit, and what
the Americans call _bounce_. When we landed at Palhallan, this
man buckled on his sword, and swung my gun, in its leather-case, over
his shoulder, arming himself also with a long pole, on which he fixed
an old Union Jack belonging to me; and marched with pompous gravity
in front of our party, greatly to our amusement, but not much to our
edification.
As we passed through a village, the little naked children rushed
forth clapping their hands and shouting: ‘Ho! tomasha wallah. Ho!’ To
be taken for a party of travelling jugglers increased the delight,
but not the dignity of the wanderers. Before daylight the march was
begun, and when morning broke we had left the low land, and were
beginning the ascent of the real mountains. A slight shower brightened
everything. The note of the cuckoo, so home-like and sweet, the
fir-trees refreshed by the rain, the balmy, bracing morning air, all
made our hearts rejoice. We toiled up through pine forests, among which
were many fine deodars blasted by lightning. We arrived in due time
at Baba-murchi, where we were met by two of my brother officers, who
were looking out for us, and welcomed us with the intelligence, ‘We
have breakfast ready for you,’ a most satisfactory meeting. Need I say
how we appreciated the meal provided for us by these two kind friends,
one of whom now rests in his grave in India; but we were longing for
news of the outside world, not having met anyone in our brief halt at
Srinagur. They told us of rumours of disturbances among the hill tribes
near Peshawur, always an anxious report for officers on leave, as, if
anything serious breaks out, it means recall to the plains. However,
the air of Cashmere makes one look on the bright side of things, and it
was with wills resolved thoroughly to enjoy our holiday as long as it
lasted that we got on our horses and proceeded on our way.
For two or three miles our road continued ascending through pine
forests, but at length, like
‘Lord Lovel’s brier-er-r,
It couldn’t get high-er-r,’
so we began the short descent to the Vale of Gulmurg. Gulmurg means the
‘meadow of flowers,’ and in few places in the world except Cashmere
could such a pleasant spot be found.
The long, narrow green valley, on whose sweet grass many mares and
foals were grazing, is traversed by a clear stream of pure water. On
each side of the valley are high broad banks, on which grow lofty
deodars. On one side the bank goes up, still covered with pines, till
it joins the hill behind it, and then it rises upward and upward till
it reaches the line where the snow always lies. In snug nooks above the
valley were to be found various tents.
Gulmurg is the most favourite resort for the less adventurous visitors
to Cashmere. It was a pretty sight, for the encampments were many, and
each one had some decoration, either of arbours or flags, to enliven
the scene.
We had some difficulty in finding a good camping-ground, for a rather
large terrace was required, not only for our own accommodation, but
also for our retainers and the ponies. At last we were satisfied. For
some time we had ample occupation in arranging our gipsy camp. Our
tents were cosily pitched beneath some giant deodars, more than sixty
feet high. It occurred to the syces, both good men, whom I had had in
my service for long, that the ponies might be led down the valley to
enjoy a good feed of grass. It was an unlucky thought, for no sooner
did the nags find themselves in the neighbourhood of the mares than,
casting decorum to the winds, they squealed, and kicked, and pranced
most gallantly. The men held on to their charges as long as they could,
but at last I saw the discomfited grooms prostrate on the ground, and
our excited horses tearing away after the long-tailed denizens of the
valley. It was next day before they were recovered. By many a bite and
cut, we saw that their advances had not been too well received.
When night came, the scene was very picturesque. The large fires,
always lit, near every camp reminded me of old campaigning days. We
had our huge log fire, and the moon rose soft and silvery from behind
the dark woods, a bright gleam occasionally piercing the gloomy
darkness of the thick forest, which loomed grandly between us and the
cloudless sky. It is like a dream recalling these pleasant hours, for
the inevitable discomforts are all forgotten, and memory reproduces the
bright side alone.
One of our favourite excursions was to the end of the valley by which
we had come in, and then into the woods, along a narrow path through
lordly pines, to an open vista made by the Resident. The view was very
beautiful; the far-off mountains were often hid in mist, but sometimes
at sundown the lofty Hurra-Mukh showed his snowy head, and the clouds
faded away like a veil lifted from his god-like brow. Then the
magnificent ice-clad giant, flushed in the rosy sunset glow, quickly
shrouded himself again in a covering of impenetrable clouds. Beneath us
was the green plain, through which the broad Jhellum shone like a band
of silver, and the Walloor Lake seemed but very small indeed. Villages
were dotted here and there. In the far distance a gleam of light showed
Srinagur’s Fort and the golden-roofed palace glistening in the sun’s
departing rays.
Our constant companion was a large Thibetian dog--poor fellow, he
always kept at a respectful distance, but followed us on all occasions,
fascinated by our lady pack of canine charmers. He appeared to have no
master, and we were told that he was the self-constituted guardian of
the mares, which graze everywhere at Gulmurg, against the wild beasts
that prowl down from the heights above. We liked the shaggy old dog,
which never came too near; but one day we missed him, and were told
that this honest old watch had been shot, so his troubles were over.
It must be difficult for the keepers to know to whom the different
horses belong. Most of them are the property of the Maharajah, but some
are not. I suppose they have a distinguishing mark.
The Resident of Cashmere, Colonel Cracroft, was most prince-like in his
ideas of hospitality. No one could be more courteous and kindly than
were both he and his wife. They endeavoured in every way to promote our
amusement and good-fellowship. A hearty welcome was given to everyone
who was bid to their hospitable board. Cricket was established as well
as archery; polo was also greatly patronised.
Time flew gaily among the woods and flowers of Gulmurg. It was a pretty
sight to see the care-takers of the innumerable mares and foals call
their horses home at the fall of day by the sound of a long-prolonged
cry which the guardians gave. A stampede ensued, and from hidden nooks
and glens numbers of mares gallopped towards the man whose voice they
knew. Some moved with a long stride, while others cantered quietly,
followed by their little foals. From our green hill it was amusing
to note the different manœuvres these wild horses went through. They
formed up in troops, and changed front in a compact form. The place to
which they had been called was not enclosed, but was at the entrance
of the valley, and no straggling was allowed, owing to the dread of
wild beasts. One day I saw a great number of vultures collected in the
valley immediately in front of our position; with my glasses I could
see that a poor little foal had died, and that its carcase was being
devoured by these horrid foul scavengers of the East; but my disgust
can be imagined when through the same glasses I saw Polly, the pug,
enjoying herself quite as much as the gorged carrion crows. If there
was not a row soon established at that detestable feast, it was not the
fault of our servants, for the Gascon captain, chokedar, and syces, led
on by M’Kay, charged down among these festive guests. Polly was seized,
and washed, and rubbed, and if anyone had been ill, and wanted castor
oil, Polly, if she could have spoken, would have informed any inquirers
where most of the bottle had gone to. Polly was a very greedy little
animal. At a croquet-party given by General Dunsford at Peshawur we
were all deeply engaged showing our science at that now obsolete game,
when, happening to turn round, I saw the pug on the table, surrounded
by strawberries and sugar, which she did not appreciate, but up to the
eyes in a large jug of cream, which had been provided by our hospitable
host for his guests.
On a knoll in the valley, across the clear running stream, a little
church, constructed of deodars and green branches, had been erected.
Here every Sunday a small congregation assembled, and it was very
touching to join in the service in this far-off beautiful land. The
clergyman was chaplain to the 79th Highlanders, and he took great
interest in his little church in the vale.
We were going one Sunday to the morning service, when we passed on the
way a young horse with a broken leg, a very pitiable sight. The poor
animal was trying to hobble along, its fore leg, which was broken,
hanging powerless. The poor beast was evidently suffering great agony.
A message was sent off at once to the native in charge at Gulmurg, but
his answer was that he had received no _hookem_ to destroy the
horse. So Colonel Macpherson, of the Ghoorkas, took the case into his
own hands, and the suffering animal was shot. The Hindoos are very
careless about animal suffering though they avoid taking their lives. I
have often seen at Cawnpore a worn-out camel lying all alone near the
river Ganges, a small supply of food beside the forsaken beast. It is
impossible to imagine a picture of desolation more complete than the
dying camel alone on the river’s bank.
We made many excursions from Gulmurg, once to the range of mountains
one thousand feet above our valley. The path was very steep, but we
were rewarded when in about two hours we arrived at Killun, another
plateau above Gulmurg. But our route was higher up, and we passed banks
covered with every kind of wild flowers. The breeze was cold as it
came over the ice. The view of the valley and the distant Thibetian
mountains was very splendid. Beneath us was green Gulmurg, with its
white tents dotted here and there. Above us were glaciers and perpetual
snow. In a shaded nook near the frozen stream we established our
bivouac; a _pâté de foie gras_, together with some black bottles,
was placed in the snow, and, in due time, we enjoyed a luncheon fit
for a king. One of our party naïvely remarked that after luncheon
in these high altitudes the ground seemed to rise towards him. We
had no attendants with us, so we helped ourselves. Gipsy life, like
campaigning, makes servants forget the required polish of every-day
life.
In 1858, the Rangers marched into Lucknow. A brother-officer and myself
were dining with the Commissioner, Sir R. Montgomery. My friend was
seated between the hostess and another lady, and was making himself
very agreeable, delighted to be in ladies’ society again, after
wandering about the country for months in pursuit of rebels. Dinner
over, dessert was discussed, when, to my friend’s dismay, his servant,
who had been campaigning with his master, stole gently behind his
chair, and, with great care, placed beside his plate an old black cutty
pipe and a ‘screw of cavendish,’ wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper.
The murg of Killun is too high up to be frequented as a camping-ground;
supplies are very difficult to be got, everything having to be carried
up from the bazaar which the Resident had got established for the
necessaries of life at Gulmurg. Rain is more frequent there than lower
down. But, all the same, it is a capital place for a picnic. We often
dined with the Resident and his wife, whose camp was pitched high up
on the green hill which overlooks on one side Gulmurg, and on the
other the Happy Valley. Our departure after dinner on dark nights was
remarkable, and like a triumphal procession. The ‘Gascon captain’ and
the ‘Chokedar’ were both in attendance with blazing flambeaux of pine
wood, which burn like lamps, owing to the liquid turpentine which they
contain. One preceded us, armed to the teeth, while the other followed,
with his head all wrapped up to keep out the cold air. Occasionally
a difference of opinion arose between the rival light-bearers as to
the correctness of the path to pursue. The ponies usually decided the
question by taking a line of their own, and the joyful welcome of our
four dogs proved that the log-fire we had been making for was the
right one. We were struck by the absence of small birds. The woods are
silent during the day, but at night large owls scream with a weird and
mournful sound.
Much as we were enjoying our life at Gulmurg, we felt, if we were
thoroughly to explore the Valley of Cashmere, there was no more time
to linger; so reluctantly the order was given to strike tents and to
move on. We returned to Srinagur for a few days before starting again
on another expedition. Great part of our time was passed in Summad
Shah’s shawl-room, where we chose some beautiful shawls for friends
at home and for my wife. Nothing combines lightness with warmth so
perfectly as a chuddar--there is no more comfortable dressing-gown
than a choga, the ordinary dress of a better-class native. Of course,
we had an immense deal of bargaining to go through, but we had a fair
idea of what we ought to give both for shawls and dressing-gowns. On
the true Cashmerian principle of no business transaction being possible
without ‘backsheesh,’ the chief man of our boat’s crew anxiously, and
apparently as a matter of course, watched our purchases, he being
entitled to a percentage on the same, and so also was my bearer. My
wife, too, claimed that a something should be thrown in with the
shawls, and Summad Shah presented her with a pretty silk many-coloured,
hand-worked table-cover. I think all parties were satisfied.
CHAPTER XIII.
TRAVELLING IN CASHMERE.
VISIT TO ISLAMABAD--AVANTIPORE--KUNBUL--PITCHING OUR
CAMP--TRAVELLING CAMP FASHION--PALACE OF SIRKARI BAGH--ANUT
NAG, THE SACRED SPRING--SHAWL MANUFACTORY--VISIT TO THE GARDEN
AT ATCHIBUL--IRISH ACUTENESS--PLEASURE GARDEN--PICNIC IN THE
RUINS OF MARTUND--SACRED SPRING OF THE BOWUN--A PUNDIT EAGER FOR
BACKSHEESH--EXPEDITION TO THE LOLAB--REVIEW OF THE MAHARAJAH’S
TROOPS.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Khansama having announced that his part of the preparations for a
fresh start were complete, after dinner on a fine summer’s evening,
our squadron of boats left Srinagur. We had decided on paying a visit
to Islamabad. Our crew, as usual composed of a whole family, towed our
big boat up the winding river. Had we gone by land with the horses,
we should in an hour have done what it took us by boat much longer to
accomplish, the river twists and winds in such a tortuous manner. This
is the part of the Jhellum that we looked on from the heights of Tukht
Suliman, and whose serpented bends gave the idea for the well-known
pattern on Cashmere shawls.
At night, as usual, we halted, and in the early morning continued
our voyage, towed against the stream. We passed the day in a truly
lazy manner, enjoying the balmy breeze as we glided noiselessly along,
all Nature basking in soft repose. We passed green woods and rocky
eminences, every now and then sighting the road. We got fresh fish from
men who had merely to take the trouble of casting a net and hauling up
lots of one-pounders. We came to a picturesque ruined village, all in
decay, once the capital town of Cashmere, named Avantipore, after King
Avante Verna. We passed under a fine old wood bridge at Bajahara, and
floated past ruined mosques and gardens--for once upon a time it was a
place of vast repute.
On the second day, in the afternoon, we arrived at Kunbul. There was
more than usual fuss at that landing-place, for a great English lord
was about to embark for Srinagur, and all honour was to be shown to
him, by order of the Maharajah. Owing to this redoubtable party, we
had some difficulty in getting coolies, and the ‘Gascon captain’ had
to twirl his moustaches and look very fierce before we could get our
proper number. My wife and I walked on in the cool evening hour. Our
road was along the banks of a stream hid by flowering shrubs and long
grass. The fields looked well cultivated and green.
It was a pleasant walk, and we soon arrived at an orchard of
fruit-trees, underneath the shade of which our camp was to be pitched.
A venerable old fellow, the head man of the village, came up to us,
and with profound salaams conducted us to our ground. In the twinkling
of an eye the place was swept clean, and then began the clatter of
tent-pegs being knocked into the ground. The servants placed every
table and box in exactly the same corners of the tents as they had
occupied when our camp was pitched at Gulmurg. No life can be more
comfortable when travelling than camp-fashion, make as long or as short
a day’s journey as you like. You sleep on your bed in your own room,
and are waited on by your own servants. Now, however luxurious and well
appointed an hotel may be, you have not your own odds and ends round
you; the waiters do not know your ways, and the pillows are sometimes
distracting.
We passed several pleasant days at Islamabad, making excursions in
the neighbourhood, and visiting the various objects of interest in
the town. There is a palace here, called Sirkari-Bagh, in which the
Maharajah and his ladies repose, on their way to Srinagur from Jumrood.
It is not a very interesting building, but there is a nice fruit
garden, surrounded by a high wall.
The Barradurrie of the town is close to the Anut Nag, and is encircled
by a high wall, which encloses a vast space about sixty or seventy
yards square. The sacred spring, Anut Nag, issues at the foot of a hill
which overlooks the town, and is received into a tank, from whence it
flows through a canal into a lower tank. It then continues its course
by another canal to the outside of the high wall, where it rushes forth
in a fine cascade about seven or eight feet high. The tanks and canals
are full of tame fish, which are regularly fed by the faqueers, and
are considered very sacred. The Sonur Pookur is a stone tank, not very
far from Anut Nag, and the stream which flows to it has its source in
the hill overlooking Islamabad. There are two other streams, one of
which is sulphurous. The medicinal properties of this mineral water are
peculiar in their effects.
The Barradurrie is a picturesque, though not over clean-looking
wooden edifice, round the entrance of which numerous curious faqueers
establish their bivouac. We preferred our camping-ground, and remained
there.
Whilst here, we visited a shawl manufactory, the entrance to which was
situated in an unwholesome quarter of the town. The perfume was not
that of roses, and the workers were miserable-looking objects, with
sore eyes. It was curious to see these squalid creatures employed at
that intricate work, which in time produces shawls of great value. The
small squares shown to us were of most beautiful fabric, and no doubt
the weak eyes which gazed on us got the lacklustre look from hard work
at the looms. The rugs and carpets made at Islamabad are much cheaper
than those sold by the merchants at Srinagur, though in reality most of
them are made here. We bought several handsome hearth-rugs, besides a
long, warm blanket, called ‘loué,’ peculiar to Cashmere.
The old tickedar was very civil, and brought us to his house, where his
wife and daughters came and gazed with smiling faces at my wife. After
a great deal of good-will dumb-show, which reminded me of the ‘Bono
Johnny’ of old Crimean days, we left the delighted family open-mouthed
with admiration.
The environs of Islamabad are very pretty. There are pleasant rides
through gardens near the river, and a long avenue of poplar-trees
extends for more than a mile through green pastures.
Next day we determined to visit Atchibul, where there is a beautiful
pleasure-garden, laid out by the Emperor Shah-Jehan, and we were told
there was a summer-house in the centre of the grounds, where we could
rest. The charm of our gipsy life was that we were enabled to start
whenever we pleased. My wife and M’Kay made all arrangements for a
picnic, and the amiable tickedar provided coolies on the shortest
notice to carry our food. As our expedition was only to last one day,
the tents were not struck. When M’Kay brought the tea at an early hour,
we anxiously asked how the weather was looking, and felt proportionably
delighted when we were informed that it was very fine. Clouds had been
gathering the day before, and rain appeared imminent. We mounted our
horses, and sallied forth. M’Kay accompanied us on foot, all our dogs,
plus two puppies, came also. Our way lay through the rather dirty town,
and we were very pleased when we emerged from narrow lanes to green
orchards in the open country.
After crossing the river, we followed the right bank along which the
road continued. Then our path lay through rice-fields, very treacherous
to ride over. Our horses constantly sank in the boggy ground. In front
of us were mountains, whose summits were covered with dark clouds when
we started, but, as the day went on, rain and fleecy mist succeeded
the lowering curtain, and, as if by magic, the mists faded away, and
left the clear outline of the green hills painted on the autumn sky.
As we advanced on Atchibul, a hill clothed with young deodars rose
grandly before us, and, as we approached the gate of the gardens, we
passed under magnificent chenars. The entrance is rather formal, but
the Pavilion, situated in the centre of a tank of clear water, is very
charming.
A civil old fellow bade us welcome in the name of the Maharajah, and,
after bringing us some fine peaches, left us to ourselves. In a short
time the _jets d’eau_ which surrounded us began to play, and
continued doing so all the time we were there. The day was warm, as the
sun had conquered the clouds, and the splashing music of the waters was
soothing and thoroughly Eastern. The old gardener brought us grapes,
peaches, and plums, so we passed a few hours very happily, having
brought a supply of books. The fruit which is to be got in India is
not equal to what we have cultivated at home in hot-houses. There are,
of course, certain fruits peculiar to the country, such as mangoes,
bananas, and oranges, which we cannot surpass, but as a cart-horse may
be a very fine animal, yet in refinement cannot be compared with a
thorough-bred, neither can the natural produce of the soil be compared
with the highly-cultivated results of skill. In Cashmere there is an
abundance of the fruits of the earth when they are in season. No high
walls and locked doors are required to keep out thieves, or to prevent
visitors from wandering about among the extensive garden-paths.
But at home it is different. A friend of mine in the south of Ireland
was taking some ladies to see his very fine hot-houses. When they
reached the garden, the door was found to be locked, and the key was
there, but in the inside. Great perplexity was felt on the part of
the Irish host how to get in. He shouted to the gardener, and a voice
answered, but not much to the purpose. There was much excitement and
confabulation as to how the party outside the walls was to be admitted.
Finally a happy thought struck the master. ‘Whisper, Pat!’ he shouted,
‘throw the key over the wall, and we shall let ourselves in.’ So, with
many a ‘Stand clear--are ye ready?’ whiz the key came over the wall,
and, with considerable triumph, our friend said, ‘Now we’ll get in!’ It
had never occurred to any of them that the easiest way would have been
to unlock the door on the inside.
Several notabilities of Islamabad came to pay their salaams, among
them a Sikh officer from Peshawur, who went into ecstasies about the
place, and concluded by saying, ‘Oh, if the English were possessors
of this land, what a paradise it would be!’ The hill which rises in
the background is covered with young deodars, which the Maharajah
preserves most strictly, and which add very much to the quiet beauty
of the scene. In the time of the Emperor Shah-Jehan, when this
pleasure-garden was trimly kept, when the cascades were full of water,
and everything was cared for, this place must have been unsurpassed in
loveliness. The spring of water in this rare old garden is considered
the finest in Cashmere, and the water sparkles in its clear purity when
poured into a glass.
Atchibul only requires careful looking after, for the ground is
fertile; peaches, quince, plums, and grapes grow in abundance in its
orchards. The day was far spent as we rode away, and as we passed
through the curious gate which divides Shah-Jehan’s garden from the
outward world we both exclaimed, ‘How often shall we look back with
pleasure on our day at Atchibul!’ Our path homewards was the same by
which we came in the morning. The shades of night had closed round us
before we reached the camp.
Our next picnic was to the wonderful ruins of Martund. M’Kay was left
in charge of the camp, and we started in the morning towards the
village of Bowun, which is about six miles from our ground, on the
northern side of what is called in Cashmere a kuraywah, or table-land.
These kuraywahs vary in height from three to four hundred feet, and in
length from one to five miles. They are divided from each other by wide
ravines, through which flow mountain streams. The upper part, which is
generally bare and flat, is composed of very rich soil. The scenery is
not very grand, and the path skirts along the foot of the kuraywah, on
which the temple of Martund is built.
In due time we arrived at the sacred spring of Bowun, whose holy waters
are received in a large tank full of tame fish. On the one side of
this tank is a temple, from which emerged a very holy man, in search
of backsheesh. We did not respond to his appeals, but a stout khansama
belonging to an English family in Cashmere, seemed a great find; for he
had to pay for everything. First he was mulcted of his coin to provide
food for the fish, then he had to pay before he was allowed to kneel
down to try to embrace a fish, which, as he was stout and rather old,
I need not say he did not succeed in doing. I then saw him paying for
admittance into the temple, to be blessed by the holy man. The last
I saw of him was when he was surrounded by little boys shouting for
backsheesh. The limp state of his money-bag, however, showed that he
had no more to give.
Yet why should we laugh at this poor Hindoo. It was faith that carried
him on, faith as powerful as that which inspires the pilgrims of
Russia to leave their homes, and crowd the Church of the Sepulchre at
Jerusalem, and the same faith as that which caused the martyrs of old
to smile as the fire was lit to consume their bodies. Magnificent old
chenars are near the sacred spring.
There were so many faqueers here that we determined not to halt, as
these gentlemen are not particular about wearing any clothes, and
despise soap and water. We declined all offers of a guide, for our
ancient tickedar had provided us with a coolie who knew the road. So
we turned our backs on Bowun, fully convinced that Nature was most
bountiful to this beautiful land, but that man ruined it by extortion
and folly.
We proceeded by a very steep path to the top of the kuraywah, on which
are the ruins of Martund. The view was fine. In the far distance we
saw the woods of Atchibul on one side, and in front the green entrance
to Kunbul. Martund is a wonderful place. Vigne says in his ‘Travels
in Cashmere,’ ‘As an isolated ruin, this deserves, on account of its
solitary and massive grandeur, to be ranked, not only as the first
ruin of the kind in Cashmere, but as one of the noblest among the
architectural relics of antiquity that are to be seen in any country.’
And what did we see? We went out on a calm summer evening on a rocky
coast, where Nature had cast about in endless confusion great rocks of
ponderous size; that is what we seemed to see, but these massive blocks
of stone and masonry, tumbled about in magnificent disorder, once on
a time formed walls surrounding the temple. The temple still stands,
in spite of the loss of its surroundings, which have succumbed to the
gales and storms of ages. It rears its noble front in proud grandeur
and disdain of overwhelming and destructive time. We entered this
ancient edifice through a gateway. It seemed to us to be built on a
cruciform plan. The aisle was there, and, towards the east, the altar
recess, while at each corner the cross was completed by projecting
spaces like chapels. On the walls of stone were strange figures cut,
but the roof in most parts had failed, and the blue sky formed the
canopy overhead.
There was something pathetic in finding ourselves alone in this
monument of by-gone days. Those who once worshipped in this very grand
building must have been some of the great ones of the world, and now
their very existence is unknown. The knowledge of who they were is but
dimly seen through the ages of the past. Were it not for these grand
mementoes which outlived the memory of those who worshipped in them,
who now would think of them?
We prepared to pass the hot hours of the day in this sacred retreat,
delighted to be left alone to our thoughts, which must, under the
circumstances, be somewhat solemn. Our hopes of solitude were doomed to
disappointment, for, entering the portals of the temple, a salaaming
figure advanced, and, having arrived at a respectful distance, squatted
down on the ground before us. He was a young, well-dressed Pundit,
and, as we were actually reposing in a Hindoo temple, we received
him courteously, though, like many callers, his absence would have
been preferable to his presence. He observed that the ruins were very
large, to which undoubted fact we, of course, agreed. He produced a
long roll of parchment signed by many names, and pointed with pride to
the signature of Vigne. This roll had belonged to his father. He then
brought out several ‘chits’ or characters, and requested me to give him
one. Being rather puzzled what to write, I looked over the numerous
sheets of note-paper, one of which particularly attracted my attention.
‘This is to certify that Pundit--is the greatest bore and nuisance I
ever met. Signed ----.’ They were all to the same effect. Having never
met this worthy man before in my life, and being most anxious to get
rid of him, I wrote, ‘This to certify that Pundit--is the son of his
own father,’ and signed it. He received this certificate with great
pleasure; but, as he did not understand a word of English, I cannot
make out what good he could possibly derive from it. I bowed him out,
as is the custom in the East, and sincerely hoped we had seen the last
of him.
We passed a very quiet day, and when the sun began to sink to rest
we prepared to leave this grand old monument of ancient Cashmere. We
sallied forth from the venerable ruin, and who should be there but the
Pundit? He said a good deal, but all I could make out was backsheesh.
So we gave him a small silver coin, and he asked for more, ‘as his
day was spoilt.’ The quiet and the calm of the time-worn temple was
forgotten, and with wrath we turned away from this extortionate beggar,
and, with ruffled tempers, began our return march to Islamabad. Instead
of retracing our steps to Bowun, we continued along the kuraywah
on which Martund is built. After riding for two or three miles, we
descended a steep path and entered again the road on which we had been
in the morning.
As the evening was very close, we dismounted, and, seating ourselves
under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, we made our syces take the
horses to a clear, running stream close to our resting-place, and our
thirsty nags enjoyed a cool drink. As there was no water to be had at
the temple, a coolie carried a serai of drinking water for us. But the
shades of night warned us to loiter no longer, so we remounted, and
soon found ourselves once more in our pleasant camping-ground.
Our time in Cashmere was drawing very near to its end. We began to
count the days of our holiday. One more expedition we resolved to make,
to the Lolab, said to be a beautiful and fertile valley, situated on
the north-western side of Cashmere. As the way to it was partly on our
return journey, we sent off our horses to meet us at Sopoor. Our return
to Srinagur was uneventful. We floated down the stream from Kunbul,
where we embarked. There seemed to be a calm everywhere, and, as we
stole past gardens, the perfume of flowers came to us on the breeze,
and the sound of children’s voices was toned down to music by distance.
We remained a day or two at Srinagur, during which time a grand parade
of the Maharajah’s troops took place, and his army nearly came to
grief, for somehow or other the ammunition in one of the men’s pouches
took fire, and a most extraordinary scene ensued, as the fire went
down the whole of one of the ranks, and some men were badly wounded. I
daresay the men would do well enough if called on to fight, but their
ideas of discipline are different from ours.
It came on to rain one day, and a sentry posted near where we were
taking shelter coolly took off all his clothes and waited till the
storm was over till he dressed again! Baboo Mohas Chander came to see
us, and looked quite sorrowful at our departure; but he showed his
white teeth with delight when we expressed our hopes of returning some
day to Cashmere. He gave us some skinny fowls and a tray of sweetmeats,
and then vanished from our sight. In all probability I shall never
see the Baboo again, and can say with truth that he always was most
courteous to us and attentive to our wants. But oh, how we loathed the
skinny fowls! The very sight of chicken was enough to make us shudder.
Now in England a chicken is a delicacy--not so, however, in Ireland.
Many years ago, the dépôt of the Rangers marched all through Ireland,
and we never could get anything to eat at the inns on which we were
billeted but cock and bacon. At length we really had cock and bacon
on the brain. It was always our question, on arriving at the inn,
when the waiter appeared, ‘Pat, what can we have for dinner?’ and
the invariable answer was, ‘Anything yer honour chooses to order.’
‘Well, then, we’ll have a roast leg of mutton.’ ‘Faith, sorr, there’s
not a sheep been killed for the last month or two.’ ‘Oh, then,’ we
frantically exclaimed, ‘roast beef.’ ‘Sorra a bit of beef at all, at
all.’ ‘What _can_ we have?’ we all shouted in despair. ‘Cock and
bacon, sorr,’ triumphantly roared our present tormentor.
Fish at Srinagur was very difficult to be procured. The large mahseer
are coarse food, and no fish were allowed to be caught between the two
bridges on that part of the river on which the palace is situated, as
the soul of the Maharajah’s father now dwells in a fish. The Maharajah,
who is very attentive to his religious duties according to his light,
visited the faqueer’s temple every day.
CHAPTER XIV.
FAREWELL TO CASHMERE.
LAST WANDERINGS IN CASHMERE--LALPARI--RETURN TO MURREE--A
MURREE CART--RETURN TO MILITARY LIFE--FEVER IN THE
REGIMENT--DEATH OF M’KAY--ORDERED TO AGRA--INTELLIGENCE OF
ELEPHANTS--GOATS--REGIMENTAL PETS--A DRUNKEN OLD GOAT--HUNTING
REBELS--THE VALUE OF A FLOGGING--SAPIENT JACKDAWS--PAINFUL
TIDINGS--BRIGADIER NICHOLSON--ENGLISH STORES--LAHORE--FLIGHT OF
LOCUSTS--FLOCKS OF GEESE.
CHAPTER XIV.
And now the time was come to bid adieu to Srinagur. In the cool
evening hour we floated away, under the bridges and past the old
temples, till we came to Sopoor, where we found our horses, and our
tents pitched. Next day commenced our last wandering in Cashmere. It
was a fine bracing morning when we rode away to Arwun, where some
iron-works have been established. We went through green fields and
orchards and vineyards; a cool breeze tempered the heat of the sun. But
a thunderstorm came on, with a gale of wind, which lasted but a short
time, leaving us, however, rather dishevelled. Our path next day still
continued through fields and orchards, and then we climbed a steep
hill, at the other side of which was a good road, which brought us to
Kundee, amid scenery that recalled the Alps.
Next day we continued our journey to Lalpari, where we found a house,
in which we took possession of some empty rooms, and established
ourselves for a few days. The weather was very good all the time we
lingered here, and the walks under the shade of the fruit-trees in the
cool and invigorating air was a strengthening tonic before beginning
again the busy scenes of military life in the plains.
During one of our rides, we came on the camp of Colonel Bright of
the 19th Regiment, who, with his wife, was enjoying a _dolce far
niente_ existence in the green valley before returning to work once
more. The regiment to which the colonel belonged had been associated
with the Rangers in many a quarter at home and abroad. Officers and men
of both corps were sworn friends, and during the Crimean campaign the
19th, 77th, and 88th formed the left brigade of the light division, and
were like one regiment.
It was a pleasant feature among the old battalions of the _ancien
régime_ the friendship which existed between them, and which feeling
had descended for years like an article of faith. On the other hand,
animosity, that sometimes existed between two regiments, was also an
hereditary feeling. There is one corps now, under some new name in Her
Majesty’s army, which never meets with the 88th without a serious row
among the men from a feeling of hostility which began in the Peninsular
war.
We made the most of our days in the Lolab, for we well knew that it
was the last scene in our Cashmerian experiences, and most thoroughly
we enjoyed our remaining hours in that peaceful, beautiful valley. At
last the time came for us to start on our return journey. We met with
no special adventures on our way, and after ten days’ march we found
ourselves again cordially welcomed at Colonel Brown’s house at Murree.
The cart to take us down the hill to Rawul Pindee had been secured
weeks before our arrival; for at the close of the leave season there
is always a great rush for conveyances. A Murree cart is a very low,
strong-built dog-cart, with canvas roof, most suitable for bad roads.
They are usually well horsed with a pair of strong ponies, which
travel at full speed, and accomplish the distance down in four hours.
At Rawul Pindee we chartered a dawk-gharry, and after the inevitable
difficulties occasioned by unbroken horses refusing to start, we
arrived at Nowshera, where we once more began the busy life of soldiers
in the plains during the cold weather. It was the middle of October,
and the weather was very pleasant. The thermometer in the verandah at
4 p.m. stood at 78°, in the drawing-room 66°. But during that season
there was an immense deal of fever in the Peshawur valley, two-thirds
of the regiment suffering from it. It was just the ordinary prostrating
Indian fever, not by any means of a deadly nature. The men went to
hospital for a few days, and came out well, though weak.
When M’Kay announced one evening that she had got ‘the fever,’ we
thought nothing of it; she was so strong and sturdy. It was only the
doctor’s imperative orders that made her remain in bed; she was so
unwilling to leave her work undone. But instead of shaking off the
fever as others did, and getting up at the end of a few days, she
sank, and, before we quite realised the calamity that was threatening
us, she was gone. Her death was a real grief to us; she had so
thoroughly identified her interests with ours that we felt we had lost
a friend. The sergeants of the 88th volunteered to carry her to her
last resting-place in her grave at Nowshera, far from the home in the
Highlands of Scotland she was so fond of.
We had only a year to remain in India before our turn for home service
came round, and one day the order was received that the 88th Regiment,
Connaught Rangers, was to hold itself in readiness to proceed to
Kurrachee. The years we had spent in India had been passed in the
north-west provinces and the Punjaub, and we all regretted that our
last year of Indian service was to be in the Bombay Presidency, as
it entailed the necessity of parting with our carriages, furniture,
&c., before we set out on our long journey. However, we had no choice,
and Indian fashion-lists were made out of all our possessions and
sent to the regiment that was to succeed us at Nowshera. Carriages
and horses were advertised in the papers, and it was with the barest
necessaries of life, minus even our fine tents, as I had accepted
a good offer for them, and had borrowed two from the commissariat
for our march to Loodiana, that we rode away before the regiment to
our first camping-ground at Akhara. I there received a telegram from
head-quarters changing our destination from Kurrachee to Agra--a
most welcome order, had it come a little sooner, as the sale of our
possessions would not have taken place, and present loss and future
expense would have been saved to every one of us; for carriages,
horses, and furniture were all required at Agra. However, as it was,
we were glad to hear we were to have another year in the north-west
provinces, and in such a good quarter as Agra.
In former marches, during the Mutiny time, a number of elephants were
attached to our battalion, but now we only had camels. The former were
very amusing to watch; their ways are so peculiar. When I went to visit
them on the line of march when halted, the mahout in charge would
shout out to them ‘salaam!’ and then all their trunks would go up in
the air. These great animals were each fastened by a thin chain bound
round the hind fetlock, and attached to a tent-peg, driven into the
ground. I have been often amused to see how much they disliked flies or
mosquitoes. When troubled by these tormentors, they would take up a lot
of dust in their trunks, and throw it on their backs, and give a gentle
little squeal, which, coming from such a huge frame, was intensely
comical. I have seen a mahout fearlessly leave his baby in charge
of an elephant. Sweeping a space clear within reach of the animal’s
trunk, and placing the black child before him, he departed with the
warning, ‘kubbardar’ (take care), which the huge creature, perfectly
understanding, anxiously watched if the baby tried to crawl beyond the
assigned limit, and gently swept it back with his trunk, if it did.
It was very amusing, when out riding, to meet an elephant. My horse
had not the least fear of them, but some nags grow quite wild at their
approach. So elephants have been taught to scuttle away on the approach
of equestrians, and hide themselves. I have often seen a monster
rushing behind a wall, and stand there, with its eyes just over the
fence, looking as wise as possible, and full of mischievous fun. We
had a goodly number of animals belonging to ourselves: horses, dogs,
goats, and poultry. The goats are a necessary of life; for their milk
is the only kind procured in most places in India. Their feeding is
a simple business. A man goes out with a large flock of them in the
early morning, and, after they have picked up a subsistence in the
open country, they are returned to their various bungalows before
milking time in the evening. I had, one time, a very curious goat--poor
Nan--who was killed by a jackal. In the hot weather at Cawnpore, when
the evening came, and all the doors and windows were opened that the
weary inhabitant of the bungalow might emerge, half dead, to breathe
the outer air, and to recline for a short time in one of those long
easy-chairs made of cane, my goat would be sure to make her appearance
at my elbow, and whisper a gentle, subdued ‘ma-a!’ I knew perfectly
what she wanted: a good-sized tumbler of brandy and water; after
drinking every drop of which, her spirits became very lively, and she
danced about on her hind-legs, and really was a drunken old goat.
These were the days of hunting rebels. The Rangers formed part of a
column under command of Colonel G. V. Maxwell. The camel-corps, under
Colonel Ross, Rifle Brigade, was attached to the column. We were
ordered to a place called Ackberpore, there to await orders. Sir Hugh
Rose was triumphantly marching through India, and then was approaching
Calpee, a stronghold of the rebels not far from where we were then
encamped. With our column was a civilian magistrate, who had all power
to punish ill-doers in the most summary way. Ross’s camel-corps was
ordered away on what was called a ‘dour,’ or expedition in search of
rebels. He marched early in the morning.
I was in my tent that same day, when some of the men of the 88th came
up, leading my goat Nan, and marching prisoner a native. They stated
that the man had been trying to get Nan to go with him, and that she
had resented this very much, which attracted their notice, and then
they recognized the colonel’s goat, so they seized the robber, and
brought him prisoner. Not one of us understood a word the man said,
so I desired the soldiers to take the native and hand him over to
the magistrate sahib. When they arrived at the civilian’s tent, the
magistrate was just mounting his horse to proceed on some duty, so
the order was given to have the thief placed in some safe place till
the official’s return. I thought no more of the affair, as it was out
of my hands, and old Nan was reposing close to my tent. Next morning,
I received an indignant note from Ross, informing me that when the
camel-corps was marching off in the morning, he had seen my goat
straying away, and that he had desired one of his coolies to take it
to the 88th camp and give it to the colonel sahib. The native, as I
have described, had been taken prisoner, but the very sad part of the
story has to come. The magistrate had not believed the coolie’s story,
and had ordered him to be flogged and turned out of camp. Naturally,
Colonel Ross was much displeased, and I was equally distressed, but I
explained matters, and sent the poor man a good present of rupees, and
I received a letter saying that the coolie was quite pleased, and would
willingly be flogged every day for the same amount.
The common crow or jackdaw of India is a most sapient bird. I have
often watched them holding counsel together, apparently hatching
plots, and the conclusion of their consultation always seemed to end
in a shout of raven delight. My wife and I were sitting outside our
bungalow one evening, and my old dog Nelly had either stolen or been
presented with a mutton bone, which she was enjoying. Two jackdaws
appeared on the scene, and hopped about in front of Nelly, evidently
with a view to getting her bone; but she made sudden rushes at them,
and away they flew, laughing. After a bit one of the rascally birds
advanced very near, so near that Nelly thought she could catch him,
and made a rush, at the same time leaving her bone, when down came the
other bird to seize the prey; but Nelly was too quick for them, and got
back to her prize. A fresh noisy conference then ensued between the
two villainous conspirators, which chattered and laughed, and again
flew away. Next time they renewed the attack, one of them danced before
Nelly, while the other hopped up in the rear, and actually took hold
of the old dog’s tail. This was too great an insult. Nelly flew round
indignantly, and pursued the insulting miscreant, when in a trice the
other crow popped in and flew away with the mutton bone, old Nelly
returning quite abashed, and evidently not appreciating our laughter at
all.
The march down country was conducted in the same way as it had been
four years ago, when we came up from north-west provinces; the heavy
baggage, married people, and impedimenta going on the day before. As I
have already said, we had got rid of everything we could before leaving
the Punjaub. So it was with deep dismay I received the tidings that
greeted us when we rode into camp at Hattee, two marches from Nowshera,
that robbers from the hill tribes had come down during the night and
emptied several of my boxes, carrying off my best uniform and almost
all my valuables. It was inconceivable how the robbery could have been
effected, as my bearer lay between the boxes that were broken into. Of
his honesty I never had a suspicion. There is always, however, a silver
lining to every dark cloud, and ours in this case was, that it would
have been a much heavier loss if my wife’s boxes had been carried off,
containing, as they did, diamonds and other jewels. I may here mention
that some months after the robbery I got back my blue patrol jacket,
which had been found by the police in a suspected house in Peshawur;
but nothing else was ever recovered, and for the rest of the march, so
far as I was concerned, it did not take many carts to carry my baggage.
During all the remainder of my stay in India, I was haunted with this
robbery, for it seemed to me that I never asked for anything, but I was
told it had been carried off by the hill tribes.
The day before we marched into Rawul Pindee we were halted at
Janee-ke-Sung, near Brigadier Nicholson’s monument. The brigadier was
a _preux chevalier sans peur_. I have often read the inscription
on his tomb at Delhi, where he fell at the siege in 1857; but he lived
long enough to know that the enemy had been beaten and their stronghold
taken. He was only thirty-five years old when he fell, but he had
obtained a most wonderful influence among the natives of the north, by
whom he was both feared and loved. There is a sect in existence called
after his name, who worship his memory.
Our next halt was at Rawul Pindee, and at the wonderful _store_
that provided all sorts and kinds of ‘English goods,’ from candlesticks
to flannel shirts, I was able to replenish my exhausted wardrobe.
These ‘English stores’ are one of the great features of Indian life.
I daresay now, with a railway up to Peshawur, home goods are cheaper,
but in the days of which I write everything of English manufacture
was enormously dear, and there was apt to be a tarnished, spotted
appearance in the goods that made their acquisition a doubtful
pleasure. The merchants conducted business in a very superior manner.
To appear behind their own counter was a thing unheard of. In short,
ready money in those days was not the way of the country. Even the
collections at church were made with slips of paper and a pencil, the
money being called for next day.
I have an amusing letter in my collection from one of the store-keepers
in the Punjaub. An officer in the Rifle Brigade, having ordered a
forage-cap, addressed the letter to Mr. ----, shopkeeper, &c., from
whom he received the following reply:--
‘SIR,--I will do our best in having a forage-cap made up for
you as kindly desired. I would, however, remark that we prefer not
being addressed as “shopkeepers,” as we have no claim to such.’
From Rawul Pindee we tramped on past various camping-grounds to
Goojerat, where we spent many rupees on presents for home friends.
Goojerat is celebrated for its inlaid gold on iron-work. I got a very
handsome brace of pistols and various knick-knacks done in the same
style. Near our camping-ground was the scene of the great battle of
that name. Of course the cultivation of the fields has altered the
appearance of the surrounding country. Our march along the high-road
was varied by crossing the rivers of the Punjaub, which at this season
had dwindled into small, deep, rapid streams, traversed by bridges of
boats. But it was heavy work for men and animals getting over the wide
reach of deep sand that we met with on each side of the streams. It was
as much as could be accomplished in one day.
Six days after crossing the Chenab, we arrived at Shadera, and encamped
near Jehangir’s tomb. Runjeet Sing took away all the marble of the tomb
to make the gardens of Shalimar. It is about two miles from Lahore, the
capital of the Punjaub, which stands on the opposite bank of the Ravi,
and, like most Indian towns of any pretensions, looks more imposing
in the distance than it does when you explore it. But Lahore is very
majestic. It is eight miles in circuit, and is surrounded by a high
wall flanked by bastions and by a broad moat. There are some very fine
mosques here, notably the mosque of Padshah, with its lofty minarets
and cupolas, and of Vizier Khan, covered with painted and lacquered
tiles. The bazaars were good, and some of the work of Lahore, such as
the lacquered work and the gorgeous shawls sewn with gold and silver
threads, are well worth buying.
I met with a sad misfortune while halted at Shadera. We were exploring
the lovely gardens round Jehangir’s tomb, in which everything was in a
state of wildest luxuriance. A protruding thorn branch fastened itself
in my one red tunic, and inflicted injuries too deep for the most
skilful tailor to be able to make a neat mend. More sorely than ever
did I feel the evil wrought me by those thievish hill-tribes. Though it
was only the end of February, it was getting very hot in tents, and the
sun was already high before the morning marches were accomplished. The
dusty encampment at Meau Meer was very disagreeable, not a green leaf
or a tree near us; we had to stop here to change our carts; our last
important halt before completing our march.
My wife and I let the regiment get a day ahead of us when we reached
Ferozepore, as we stayed with an old friend who welcomed us most
warmly. It is a pretty green station, once the British boundary. We
saw here the most wonderful flight of locusts pass over the place. The
whole air was darkened with them. I can only compare the effect to that
of a blinding snowstorm; but the colour was grey instead of white. All
the populace turned out with tin pots, kettles, drums, and tom-toms to
prevent the enemy settling, and the main body passed the station in
about an hour, but thousands of stragglers kept flying after them all
the afternoon, and many thousands more dropped exhausted. The natives
collect the fallen, and make curries of them, which is not at all a
bad dish; but woe to the green fields if they be allowed to alight
on them--not a blade of grass or green leaf escapes these fearful
marauders.
The next flight of winged things we saw was a flock of wild geese, so
numerous that the whole goose tribe seemed to be emigrating to more
temperate zones.
CHAPTER XV.
THE HIMALAYAS.
AGRA--LETTER-WRITERS IN BAZAAR--A DILEMMA--THE RAJAH OF
ULWAR--THE TAJ-MAHAL--DESERTED CITY OF PALACES--FUTTEHPORE
SEKRI--RAILWAY TRAVELLING--THE SEWALLIC RANGE--THE
HIMALAYAS--THE SNOWY RANGE--DEHRA--THE TRAINING
SEASON--CHOLERA--PROCLAIMING BANNS OF MARRIAGE--PRESAGES OF A
STORM.
CHAPTER XV.
It was the 9th of March when we reached Loodiana, having left Nowshera
the last day of January, and here we were at what was then the
terminus of the Indian railway. We got down to Agra in a couple of
days, breaking the journey at Meerut to let the men have their rations
cooked, and on the 13th of March we arrived at Agra, well pleased to
have reached our final destination.
The general at Agra, having been sent home on sick leave, I got command
of the brigade, which I retained till the 88th left the station on
their way to England. Agra is a very pleasant quarter, and although the
heat was great, yet we managed to keep our houses cooler than at Rawul
Pindee during the hot weather. India is so well known now that I shall
not minutely describe the early morning ride to welcome the only cool
breeze in the twenty-four hours, which is wafted like flowers strewn in
the path of the conqueror, the sun. Nor shall I dwell on the dark rooms
and the kuss-kuss tatties fixed into the window-frames, and always
kept wet by coolies dashing water on them. The sweet fresh perfume
these scented grass shutters gave forth was quite delightful. The day
passed quickly enough, and then, when the sun sank in the evening hour,
the doors and windows were all opened, and we sallied forth, pale and
exhausted, for a drive, to ‘eat the air’ on the Mall. The water-carts
had laid the dust and created a fictitious coolness. Energetic young
officers cantered past on their ponies to the tennis-court. The crows
sat on the branches with their beaks wide open, and the green paroquets
chattered merrily and flew past like a flash of light. On certain
evenings the residents at the station met each other at the band stand,
and listened to the regimental bands discoursing very good music. It
was wonderful, however, how everyone plucked up as the evening went on.
We were very fortunate in our domestics, many of whom had been with me
all the years I was in India. I never engaged any servant who could
speak English, as those who can do so are generally the worst of their
class. Our communication was necessarily limited, as I never mastered
more of the Hindostanee language than was sufficient to give orders.
One day I found on my dressing-table the following letter, evidently
written by one of the men in the bazaar who made letter-writing a
profession, and who no doubt had charged my house-bearer for the same:
‘HONOURED SIR,--I humbly beg to inform your honour that my
mother is so apprehended in a hard illness that she cannot sit and get,
and my wife will bring forth after some days. Wherefore I most humbly
beg to inform your honour that, if you kindly and graciously bestow
upon me the favour of leaving, I shall ever pray for your long life and
prosperity.--I am, sir, &c., &c., THAKUR, bearer.’
Taking into consideration the lamentable state of his family, I
bestowed the favour, and never saw Thakur again.
This letter reminds me of what took place at Cawnpore some years
before. The young Rajah of Ulwar (since dead) arrived at Cawnpore with
a large camp. The officers of the 88th wished to be civil to this young
native prince, so a card was dispatched, worded in the usual form:
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Maxwell and officers 88th (Connaught Rangers)
request the honour of his highness the Rajah of Ulwar’s company to
dinner,’ &c., &c., &c. My feelings may be imagined when I received the
following reply: ‘Moha, Rajah of Ulwar, and his company give thanks to
you, and excepted the dinner this evening, but requests to distribute
the rations to all men from the bazaar as Hindoo regulation, also we
are meet with you this evening at seven o’clock, March 19th, 1864.’
The Rajah’s company consisted of several hundred followers, for whom
I was expected to distribute rations in the bazaar! I forget how we
got out of the dilemma, but we certainly did not provide food for
the followers. The young noble came in a magnificent dress, covered
with jewels, accompanied by about twenty of the most fierce-looking
attendants, also arrayed in grand suits. His highness would eat
nothing, but seemed to appreciate cherry brandy, and caused me some
anxiety, as he insisted on drinking it out of a large claret-glass.
There are many interesting relics of by-gone grandeur in and near Agra.
Everyone has heard of the Taj-Mahal, but no one who has not seen it
can imagine the perfect beauty of this tomb. Built as it is of white
marble, in a climate which does not tarnish the purity of the stone, it
rises gracefully in clear lines from its surroundings of green trees
against the blue sky. But night is the time to see it, and we were
especially favoured when Lord Mayo paid his visit to Agra, and gave a
garden-party among the flowers and fruit-trees of this most romantic
spot. The guests were received in front of a temple in the gardens,
from which there is a fine view of the tomb. Suddenly a flood of
brightness came from blue lights lit upon the height in the background,
and the Taj stood out clear and distinct in startling beauty. Every
pinnacle and cornice of the exquisite marble of that most dream-like
monument of love was seen for a moment, and, as the light faded away,
the tomb glided back into a sepulchral gloom.
Near Agra there is a deserted city of palaces, called Futtehpore Sekri.
We drove there one evening, when the moon shone clear and bright,
and the air was cool and balmy. In five hours we reached the gates of
this ancient place. There was no one to receive us, for there are no
inhabitants. We took possession of Miriam’s palace, so stately, yet
quite deserted. The moon shone on white marble walls, and the noise our
servants made getting things ready for us re-echoed through the vast
and empty corridors. During the night the sound of jackals’ hideous
laughter was strange and uncanny, and the scream of some wild bird
startled the listener; no one but visitors like ourselves had rested
there for several hundred years, Futtehpore Sekri having been abandoned
for that period.
When the morning broke, we wandered about among massive ruins, and
everything looked different in the glowing sunshine; but still no
living being was to be seen, we were the sole inhabitants of the
palaces. I cannot attempt to give more than an idea of the forsaken
city.
Ackbar was the founder of Futtehpore Sekri, and he built it with
the full intention of making it the seat of government. His hall of
judgment is a curious erection, consisting of a single apartment,
with a massive pillar in its centre. He was throned on the summit,
and on four cross beams branching out from the centre were seated his
four principal ministers to administer laws to the world. There is the
hide-and-seek palace, full of tortuous passages, where the ladies of
the court amused themselves. In a court near this palace is Ackbar’s
chess-board. The pavement is laid in squares of marble, and tradition
says that the knights, bishops, and pawns were his queens. His durgah,
or holy palace, is a magnificent structure, with its splendid mosque
on one side, and on the other an enormous gate. In the durgah is the
exquisite marble shrine of a holy man. The elephant gate, guarded by
two monster elephants with intertwined trunks, has an uncommon effect.
Beyond it is a tower, bristling with very good stone imitations of
elephants’ tusks. From this tower Ackbar used to review his troops. We
had our friend, the Assistant-Commissioner at Agra, with us, and he
most kindly acted as cicerone, and told us what we were looking at.
In all my wanderings I never saw anything more entrancing than this
deserted city. The dry climate has not touched the red sandstone of
which the palaces are built, and we could imagine its streets swarming
with busy life, its edifices filled with the splendour of Ackbar’s
magnificence. But the dream faded away, and left the reality of utter
desolation.
Tradition says that Ackbar deserted his capital to satisfy the caprice
of a very holy faqueer who had been in possession before Ackbar made
his appearance. Certain it is that, as suddenly as they had come,
kings, queens, courtiers, nobles, followers, and men of lesser degree,
vanished away, taking up their quarters twenty-two miles off on the
banks of the sacred Jumna, and called the place Agra.
The general commanding, having been summoned away for some reason, I
got command of the division, and it became my duty--a very pleasant
one--to proceed to Mussoorie and Landour, to inspect the dépôt at
the latter-named station. It was no new ground to me, for I had paid
a visit to Mussoorie during the hot weather of several years, and I
was well acquainted with its many beauties. I was also glad to take a
farewell glance at old remembered haunts. My wife accompanied me. We
travelled by train as far as Seharanpore. In spite of all that has
been done to make railway travelling luxurious in the hot weather, it
is a terrible ordeal. The dust sifts through the closed, jalousied
windows in clouds, and, swiftly as we may fly through the air, it is
the atmosphere of a furnace that we breathe. Cases of heat apoplexy
were so common that at all the principal stations shells were ready for
the bodies of those who had succumbed, and at each stoppage a scrutiny
was made of every carriage to see who required assistance. We had a
huge block of ice with us to cool the atmosphere, so we arrived in
safety at the end of the railway part of our journey. A dāk-gharry
was waiting for us, and we rattled along the dusty high-road, past
miles and miles of ripe corn-fields.
In the distance, through the haze of heat, we saw the well-remembered
giant mountains of the Himalayas. Before reaching them an advance low
ridge of hills, known as the Sewallic range, has to be crossed. It is a
wild, jungly country. Tigers and huge snakes have their haunts in the
fastnesses of the Terai. At the Mohun Pass we changed from gharry to
doolies, and were borne at a steady trot by four bearers up and down,
the way abounding in huge boulders and rocks. They keep up a monotonous
chant as they move along, the words often applying to the burden. I was
not a light weight; and ‘Oh, the elephant! oh, the elephant!’ was the
refrain of their song, which changed occasionally to ‘Oh, the great
man, the great prince! Backsheesh from the great king.’
Dawn was breaking as we emerged from the pass, and apparently
immediately before us, though really fourteen miles distant,
towered the mighty Himalayas. A rest for a bath and breakfast at
the delightful, cool, and clean hotel at the foot of the mountains,
prepared us thoroughly to enjoy our steep climb up to Mussoorie. As we
rose higher and higher, we got, as it were, into the very heart of the
hills, and to us, direct from the breathless plains, the air seemed
strangely rarefied, and gave one a sensation of deafness, which passed
away after a short time. We were pleasantly lodged at a private hotel
not far from the club.
After the duty was performed which had brought me away from the heat
to the delightful temperature of the hills, we wandered about among
many well-remembered places, not forgetting Landour, where we had
passed some months a year or two before this visit. Mussoorie is the
fashionable part of this hill station, but is not to be compared with
Landour in purity of air and grandeur of scenery. In the early morning
there is nothing to equal the view. When the sun has just risen above
the mountains, and the soft breeze fans you gently, the distant sounds
are heard like far-off music, and it is difficult to realize--looking
down on the plains, which extend in the boundless horizon like a
glistening sea--that the thermometer, which marks 70° in this mountain
retreat, is registering well over 100° in the beautiful country on
which you are now gazing. Then on the other side of the heights, far
off in the heavens, tower the snowy range. In the world, there can
be nothing more superb than the view of the snowy range as it bursts
suddenly into sight, peak upon peak glittering bright and cold under
the cloudless sky. There is a hitherto unknown, intense feeling of
solemn awe as one gazes on the still grandeur of perpetual snow. Nearer
and nearer come mountains and valleys. Down hundreds of feet below
appears a silver line, so far off that it requires glasses to discover
the washer-men beating the clothes with fearful energy in the stream.
The mountain on whose spur Landour’s many cottages are gathered, is two
thousand feet higher than the one on which Mussoorie is built, and the
air is so exhilarating that one feels inclined to shout out for joy.
I was grieved to say farewell to this favoured spot, and often, when
a cold east wind is blowing, the remembrance of Landour and its soft,
sweet breeze comes back to my memory like a dream.
As we prepared to descend the mountain to Rajpore and Dehra, we had to
pass the club, where we saw the well-dressed young officers lounging
forth, on their way to the Mall, where all Mussoorie assembled to talk
sense or nonsense, as suited the occasion. Some delicate ladies and
children were in jampans, while others rode or walked.
At Dehra we got into our dāk carriage, and proceeded on our journey
to Agra. Dehra is a green and wooded station, with bungalows, most
of which have gardens round them; and, although sometimes fever and
cholera visited the place, it was not generally unhealthy. The great
attraction to many was that Dehra was the Newmarket of the north-west
provinces. The stables were filled during the hot weather with horses
in training for the first meeting of the season, which generally
took place in October. I had a stable in charge of Henry Hackney,
whose knowledge and care, added to his great honesty, made me fully
appreciate his value. My stable consisted of thirteen horses, and, as
the leave season began in April, I used to proceed to Dehra as early in
that month as I could get away. What a pleasant time it was! Up every
morning at sunrise, a light-hearted lot of fellows would meet in the
stand on the race-course, and there criticise the different horses as
they took their long slow gallops. When these performances were over,
coffee would be discussed, and then, before the sun had dried the dew
on the grass, the various members of that little coterie would disperse
to their several stables to see the horses rubbed down, and to get the
opinion of the different trainers. Some would then mount their hacks
and gallop off up the mountain to the Mussoorie Club, in time to eat
the good breakfast which early rising and exercise entitled them to
enjoy. I always liked the training season better than the race week,
for the watchful interest was over when that week came round, although
it was very satisfactory to win the rupees, which helped to pay the
expenses of the stable.
For days before the races took place, Dehra assumed a very gay
appearance. Tents were pitched everywhere, and the whole station
was excited and merry; and, when the first day came, four-in-hands,
dog-carts, carriages, and pedestrians assembled on the course. A week
after the races were over, Dehra looked deserted, for not only had all
the tents disappeared, but the leave season was past, and the Mussoorie
Club empty.
The natives in India do not flock to a race-course the way our
country-people do, nor do they take such interest in the sport as
Irishmen did. When I was quartered at Boyle, a sporting squire had a
horse called Harry Lorrequer, which was entered for a steeple-chase to
be run near our barracks. A young, fresh-looking Englishman had just
joined our dépôt as ensign, and the owner of Harry Lorrequer, having
seen him ride, liked his seat, and fancied the way he managed his
horse, so he asked the new-comer to ride for him. The young officer did
not know what he was undertaking when he agreed to pilot the nag in the
Boyle Steeple-chase. The day was fine, and a great crowd of countrymen,
staunch supporters of the owner of Harry Lorrequer, were assembled near
the temporary stand. They were all armed with shilelaghs, and were very
vehement in their declarations ‘that niver another horse would win’ but
their one. The start took place amid shouts of defiance, ‘the boys’ ran
like madmen over the course, but Harry had it all his own way, and won
in a canter. ‘The boys’ were frantic with delight; they crowded round
the winner, seized hold of the young Englishman, roaring and cheering
as if they were going to murder him, carried him on their shoulders
everywhere, and at length allowed the exhausted youth to escape.
Some days after, I was driving my young friend in my dog-cart, and
happened to stop at an inn on the road, when a quiet, mild-looking
Paddy touched his hat and said,
‘More power to ye, captin, ye rode fine the other day, yer honour.’
‘Oh, you were at the Boyle Steeple-chase,’ was the reply.
‘Is it me, sorr?--sure I was one of the boys that carried ye round the
coorse,’ said the countryman, cocking his hat, and looking surprised at
not being recognised.
‘If I had lost the race, what would you have done?’ was the question
then put by my friend.
‘Bedad, captin, I don’t know,’ replied the man, scratching his head;
‘but any way the other horse would never have been let to win. Yer
honour was quite safe to do it.’
My young friend’s face was a picture worth seeing.
Dehra, with all its pleasant memories, has some sad ones too. That
fearful scourge, cholera, lurks among green trees and dense vegetation,
and suddenly declares its dreaded presence. One autumn the station was
more than usually filled by owners of horses who had many stables.
The hotel was very comfortable, as Mr. Williams did all he could to
make the time pass pleasantly by attention to the cuisine and the
arrangement of his hotel. It consisted of two bungalows and extensive
stabling. My stables had thirteen loose boxes, and the whole of the
first floor in one of the bungalows was my dwelling-place. Captain
Dowdeswell, 7th Dragoon Guards, had a stable and lived in the other
bungalow in the compound. One morning I went as usual to the stand
on the race-course, and found those already assembled there in great
wonderment at the severe pace. Dowdeswell was taking one of his horses
round the course. As he passed the stand, I shouted to him that the
coffee was ready; but he only waved his hand, and then we saw him soon
after get on his pony and canter home. As usual, we dispersed, and I
well remember going to Dowdeswell’s bungalow in great spirits, for my
horses had done their gallops very well, and Hackney was confident
of success. The room opened on a verandah on the ground-floor, and I
called out Dowdeswell’s name, and, receiving no answer, went in, and
was greatly distressed to find that he was very ill.
As the doctor lived at some distance, I ordered my trap, and went off
to find Dr. Allan of the Ghoorkas, a most able man; but, although I
went to different places, I failed to meet him, so I left messages
asking him to come quickly to the hotel. I returned, only to be
summoned to Dowdeswell’s room; but he was dead. In less than four hours
that dreadful disease had carried him off. These sudden shocks amid a
gay and thoughtless party are very startling. The day before he was as
well as any of us assembled there. The next morning we saw him take his
last ride, and the following day he was in his grave!
It is surprising how time slips away in the quiet, drowsy atmosphere of
an Indian hot weather. The punkah waves to and fro for ever; the coolie
who pulls it sits outside in the verandah like a black machine wound
up. Meals must be eaten, but it is difficult to know what to order;
when the meat that comes in the early morning is unfit to be used in
the evening, we fall back a good deal on fowls, curry, quails fattened
by ourselves, and tinned provisions. What would the lady of a house
in India do without tinned provisions? The salmon which looks so well
at her ‘burra khana’ has journeyed from afar in hermetically sealed
boxes; in some ladies’ opinion, those who have never left the shores
of Hindostan, the use of these sealed dainties is quite general in the
highest society at home.
‘So you dined with the Queen?’ said one of these untravelled ladies to
some general officer lately returned from Britain. ‘I suppose that at
Her Majesty’s table there was nothing but tinned provisions.’
It is some years since the charming lady I allude to made this
remark. The constant communication between England and India must
have enlightened even those who have never left the country. In the
hot weather Sundays mark that the weeks are passing; there is little
else to do so. Divine service was at six in the evening, and the pale
congregation gathered under punkahs to follow the clergyman, who, under
his special punkah, read the service and preached a sermon. How very
much hotter he must have been than we, who were melting, I can answer
for, as I frequently officiated as clergyman in various quarters of
India, owing to the absence, from sickness or other cause, of the padré
sahib.
I remember on one occasion the clerk whispering that there were banns
of marriage to be proclaimed, and he only handed me the names of the
pair. I utterly forgot the words of the form to do this, and could not
find the place in the prayer-book; then, with startling distinctness,
the old Scotch formula came to my mind, which I had often heard in the
days of my boyhood: ‘There is a purpose of marriage between So-and-so,
of this parish, &c.,’ announcing the same, to the considerable
entertainment of some of my hearers. Occasionally, when the heat
seemed to have reached its highest pitch, the bearer would appear,
and ask leave to roll up the outside verandah chicks, as a storm was
coming. The air felt thick and heavy, and the breathless stillness was
overpowering. In a moment all was changed, and a raging tempest was
upon us. A dust-storm is a terrible sight--the whole atmosphere a red
mass, a whirlwind of dust, and all as dark as night around. I have
stood at the window looking out into the darkness, and felt that there
was some one beside me, without being able to distinguish who it was.
Then the rain came down in torrents--we sallied forth always with an
expectation of finding it cooler, but the sensation is that of a hot
vapour bath.
CHAPTER XVI.
OUR FINAL JOURNEY.
INDIAN HOSPITALITY--REMINISCENCES OF HINDOSTAN--MY
BEARER--A SPINSTER IN A DILEMMA--DEOLLALEE--OUR FINAL
JOURNEY--BOMBAY--VOYAGE IN THE JUMNA--ESCAPE OF A MINAR--LOSS
OF A PARROT--RETURN TO ENGLAND--ESCAPADE OF A YOUNG
OFFICER--ANECDOTE.
CHAPTER XVI.
On the 6th of November, 1870, the head-quarters of the Connaught
Rangers left Agra by train for Bombay. It was our last journey in
India. I had passed many pleasant years in the country, and I had
received great kindness from friends, many of whom I most probably
would never see again. Indian hospitality has not been over-rated. I
have been told that now-a-days there are so many railways that hotels
take the place of dāk bungalows; but in my time it was different,
and at the various halting-places the burra-sahib of the place
generally came himself to welcome any wanderer to his own house, and to
show him all the attention he possibly could think of. When I look back
at the days passed in Hindostan, the names of Lind, the Commissioner,
and Judge Spankie, of the High Court, stand out among a crowd of
others, and recall to my memory very happy days. So it was with mingled
feelings that I bid adieu to the burning plains.
At Allahabad I had to part with my bearer. I am certain it was with
mutual regret we went our different ways. I see now his erect figure
marching away out of the railway-station, laden, as usual, with his
beloved copper cooking-pots. He was a Hindoo, but more attentive to
his devotions than many an enlightened Christian. An honest, good man
like him, although a heathen, must surely have his reward. We were five
nights in the train before we reached Deollalee, from whence the final
departure for home is made. The train pulled up during the heat of the
day, and was put into a siding, while the men got their meals cooked.
Our first halt was at Allahabad. We spent the day with my friend, Judge
Spankie. Our last experience of Indian hospitality was in the house of
a friend whose unvarying kindness I shall never forget. Some of the
places we stopped at were merely railway-sidings; tents were standing
for the accommodation of the regiments. Our cook, who travelled down
country with us, always managed to give us a tolerable dinner, making
up a little mud fire-place beside the train, and, as a matter of
course, going through all the ordinary dishes.
Jubbulpore is a large station, and there we got into the hotel, which
was very full. A large party, newly arrived from home, were going up
country, among them half a dozen pretty, fresh, English girls. When we
were quartered at a certain station in India, there was only one ‘spin’
in the place, and she, poor thing, received such overwhelming attention
that quite inadvertently she was engaged to two men at the same time.
Deollalee, where our last few days in India were spent, was an immense
erection of wooden barracks and huts. Regiments newly arrived from home
were halted here, as well as those about to leave the country, and the
respective arrangements were made between the various departments of
the in-coming and out-going corps. The servants who had accompanied us
down country now left us, taking service with the new-comers.
On the evening of the 16th of November, we got into the train for our
final journey. It was daylight when we descended the Ghauts, a most
wonderful piece of engineering. The railway goes down a sheer fall of
nineteen hundred feet, in a succession of zig-zags. Our train was a
long one. The carriage we were in was at the end, and, in looking out
of the window, the engine, with its following, seemed another train on
quite a different line far below us.
It was the afternoon when we reached Bombay. It has left no very
distinct impression on my mind, as we proceeded direct from the station
to the tug, which took us off to the huge _Jumna_, that was lying
waiting for us. We were fortunate in every respect in our voyage in
her. The weather was perfect, and Captain Richards, the captain of
_H.M.S. Jumna_, was unvaryingly kind and courteous. On the 17th of
November, the shores of India faded away, never to be looked on by me
again. The splendid ship we were in, with its luxurious comforts, was a
contrast to the vessel in which I had come out to India thirteen years
before.
Now, on our return home, we were embarked in a magnificent troopship.
I think there were seventeen hundred souls on board, but everything was
in such beautiful order that there was no confusion. My regiment got on
capitally, and Captain Richards reported very favourably of the men’s
conduct when in his ship.
1870–71 was the last season that regiments were conveyed across the
isthmus from Suez to Alexandria by train. We left the _Jumna_
with much regret. The train was drawn up almost immediately alongside.
We started in the evening from Suez, and arrived at Alexandria about
seven o’clock next morning--one man short. He got out in the desert
to get a drink--as we heard long afterwards--and the train went on
without him, in consequence of which he lost his home passage, as well
as his train. On arrival at Alexandria, we embarked at once on a tug,
and proceeded on board the _Crocodile_. One of the many children
that were accompanying their parents home distinguished himself on the
short trajet from the wharf to the troopship by carefully untying the
fastenings of a cage-door, and letting loose a very valuable minar,
which the unconscious owner had brought at great trouble to himself
from the far north of India. I do not think he ever knew how his bird
escaped. Minars speak most perfectly, much more distinctly and with a
better imitation of the human voice than a parrot.
It is very annoying losing a pet, especially when the conviction must
be that it will inevitably come to grief. I recall a curious case of
the sort which happened in Scotland at my old home. My sister-in-law
had a parrot, which had been the object of her care for many years.
In fine summer weather, when the windows were open, it flew out, and
enjoyed itself very much among the trees in front of the house, and,
when called, returned to its cage. One day a sudden gale of wind came
on, and the poor bird was carried away before it. A great search was
made; but it never came back. My sister read in the county paper an
advertisement, couched in the following term: ‘Found, a parrot. Anyone
having lost the same, apply to,’ &c., &c. In hopes that this referred
to her lost favourite, she wrote a full description of Lorry, and
anxiously waited for the reply. Her disappointment was great when she
received the following answer to her application: ‘Milady, i am sorry
to say that it was a _farot_’ (ferret), ‘and not a _parot_,
that was found.’
The _Crocodile_ was a fac-simile of the _Jumna_, with the exception
of not being painted white. In the Mediterranean, we were caught in
a gale, and found that the _Crocodile_ was not distinguished without
cause for her powers of rolling. The storm delayed us three days, as we
could make no headway against the wind. It was the last rough weather
we encountered, but as we neared our own latitudes the cold became
intense. Nothing could have looked much more miserable than we poor
denizens of a warm climate did that 21st of December, as, with eager
eyes and longing expectation, we crowded the sides, and looked at the
goal of our hopes for long years--home! Take the Solent on a fine,
bright, sunny day in summer, with yachts and pleasure-boats glancing
over the surface of the rippling water, and you will say it is a fair
sight to see, but what we looked on now was a grey and leaden sky,
the whole country under snow, and an occasional flake in the air,
proving there was a good deal more to fall. Slowly we came into our
berth alongside the quay, and it did seem a realization of our long
dreams when friends and relations flocked over the gangway, and warmly
welcomed us back to the old country.
The next day we disembarked. The snow that had been threatening was
now falling, and it was freezing very hard. One month previous the sun
was shining and the thermometer marked 86°. The men of the 88th, with
their white-covered helmets on their heads, had, like all of us, red
noses and yellow faces. We thought it was positively cruel to bring us
suddenly from intense heat to bitter cold, but, in spite of shudders
and chattering teeth, we all felt an exhilarating glow on that 22nd of
December, 1870, when we disembarked during an eclipse of the sun and
in a blinding snowstorm. The 88th regiment proceeded to Fort Grange,
and that night thirty men were taken into hospital with bronchitis.
The regiment did not remain very long quartered in the forts, but were
moved over to Portsmouth, where it occupied the Cambridge Barracks.
What a changed place is Portsmouth now that the old walls have been
removed! It has assumed a gay and youthful look. Midshipman Easy
would not recognise it, and the old tars of former days would feel
quite adrift. The last ten years have greatly improved its outward
appearance. It was always a favourite quarter, being so near the Isle
of Wight, and the young officers of the different regiments stationed
in Portsmouth and the neighbourhood kept the ‘tambourin a-roulin,’ as
no doubt they do still.
There was a good anecdote told about the subaltern of the main guard
at Portsmouth during the time that a noble lord was commanding the
district. A ball was to take place at the Southsea Rooms, and, as
ill-luck would have it, the hero of my story was in orders for guard
the very day of the ball, and could get no one to exchange duties with
him. Despair filled his mind, for _she_ was to be there, and he
was engaged to her for several dances. Cupid, they say, laughs at
locksmiths, so, I presume, goes into fits when a subaltern’s guard is
mentioned as an excuse for being a recreant knight. So our hero decided
he would, like Cinderella, go to the ball for only a certain time. As
the other officers were in uniform, his costume was not remarkable,
but he kept his eyes on the general, and once, when whispering soft
words into his fair one’s ears, he saw his lordship give a start as he
looked towards him, and felt sure he saw his lips form themselves into
the appearance of a strong expletive.
In a short time the general called his aide-de-camp, and our young
warrior looked out for squalls. He followed his lordship to the door,
saw him get into his carriage, and heard him give the order, ‘To the
main guard!’ Away flew the fiery steeds. On arrival of the general,
‘Guard turn out!’ was shouted. Everything was correct. The officer
was at his post, and reported ‘all correct.’ This ought to have been
sufficient for the visiting officer, and satisfied him that he had made
a mistake, but, if all stories be true, the then commander-in-chief at
Portsmouth never made a mistake, _in his own opinion_. He called
the young officer to him, and asked him, ‘Did I not see you, a few
moments ago, in the Southsea ball-room?’ And the only reply he got was,
‘How could that be, sir, as I am now here in command of my guard?’
So the older wise one departed, and the younger retired to his
guard-room to smoke and dream. But the affair was not over. Next
morning the A.D.C. arrived at our subaltern quarters, requesting his
attendance at Lord ----’s house, and our friend went at once. The
general, I have always been told, was very kind-hearted. He received
the young officer most courteously, and then said,
‘Mr. ----, the guard you were on is a thing of the past. We meet now
as friends. I want to know how the mischief you ever managed to get to
your guard, for I am positive I saw you in the ball-room.’
On receiving the reply: ‘Behind your lordship’s carriage!’ it may be
imagined how the general laughed, and, no doubt, was of opinion that
the young officer had shown a great deal of cleverness in getting out
of what might have been a serious scrape.
This escapade recalls to my memory a story I heard given by a most
amusing _raconteur_ in Scotland. The colonel of a regiment
quartered in Edinburgh Castle had been much annoyed at the number of
men who not only were brought up to the orderly-room for drunkenness,
but also for absence without leave, so he was determined to make an
example of some one on the first opportunity. One morning the regiment
was on parade, and a private soldier appeared with his coat all muddy
and his cap in a battered condition, quite sober, but evidently having
been engaged in a row, and ‘absent all night.’ Here was a ‘horrid
example.’ So the colonel ordered a corporal’s guard to make the man a
prisoner, and, forming the regiment in line, he marched the culprit in
front, so that every soldier might see him. On arriving at the left
flank of the line the prisoner saluted, and said, ‘Thank you, colonel;
it is one of the finest regiments I ever saw. You may dismiss them,’
which rather altered the colonel’s intentions with regard to this
‘horrid example!’
I would like to command a regiment formed of officers like the
Portsmouth subaltern and men like the Edinburgh private, although
neither of them, I daresay, knew anything about Spenser’s ‘Faerie
Queen,’ a knowledge of which is required at examinations for
commissions in the army of the present day.
But I must finish now. At Portsmouth I said farewell to my dear old
home in which I had passed all the years of my soldiering life, and now
again I say God speed to you, old 88th; luckier than most time-honoured
corps, you are Connaught Rangers still, but full of by-gone memories
are the numbers 88, the sound of which has echoed in peace and war, at
home and abroad.
THE END.
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very striking light some of the most recent discoveries in English
history.”--_Athenæum._
“In these volumes the author exhibits in a signal manner his special
powers and finest endowments. It is obvious that the historian has
been at especial pains to justify his reputation, to strengthen his
hold upon the learned, and also to extend his sway over the many who
prize an attractive style and interesting narrative more highly than
laborious research and philosophic insight.”--_Morning Post._
“The thanks of all students of English history are due to Mr. Hepworth
Dixon for his clever and original work, ‘History of two Queens.’ The
book is a valuable contribution to English history.”--_Daily News._
VOLS. III. & IV. OF THE HISTORY OF TWO QUEENS: CATHARINE OF
ARAGON and ANNE BOLEYN. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Second Edition._
Demy 8vo. Price 30s. Completing the Work.
“These concluding volumes of Mr. Dixon’s ‘History of two Queens’ will
be perused with keen interest by thousands of readers. Whilst no less
valuable to the student, they will be far more enthralling to the
general reader than the earlier half of the history. Every page of what
may be termed Anne Boleyn’s story affords a happy illustration of the
author’s vivid and picturesque style. The work should be found in every
library.”--_Post._
HISTORY OF WILLIAM PENN, Founder of Pennsylvania. By W. HEPWORTH
DIXON. A NEW LIBRARY EDITION. 1 vol. demy 8vo. With Portrait.
12s.
“Mr. Dixon’s ‘William Penn’ is, perhaps, the best of his books. He
has now revised and issued it with the addition of much fresh matter.
It is now offered in a sumptuous volume, matching with Mr. Dixon’s
recent books, to a new generation of readers, who will thank Mr. Dixon
for his interesting and instructive memoir of one of the worthies of
England.”--_Examiner._
VOLS. III. & IV. OF HER MAJESTY’S TOWER. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON.
DEDICATED BY EXPRESS PERMISSION TO THE QUEEN. Completing the
Work. _Third Edition._ Demy 8vo. 30s.
FREE RUSSIA. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Third Edition._ 2 vols. 8vo.
With Coloured Illustrations. 30s.
“Mr. Dixon’s book will be certain not only to interest but to please
its readers and it deserves to do so. It contains a great deal that
is worthy of attention, and is likely to produce a very useful
effect.”--_Saturday Review._
THE SWITZERS. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Third Edition._ 1 vol. demy
8vo. 15s.
“A lively, interesting, and altogether novel book on Switzerland.
It is full of valuable information on social, political, and
ecclesiastical questions, and, like all Mr. Dixon’s books, is eminently
readable.”--_Daily News._
OUR HOLIDAY IN THE EAST. By Mrs. GEORGE SUMNER. Edited by the
Rev. G. H. SUMNER, Hon. Canon of Winchester, Rector of Old
Alresford, Hants. SECOND AND CHEAPER EDITION. One vol. crown
8vo. With Illustrations. 6s. bound.
“‘Our Holiday in the East’ may take its place among the earnest
and able books recording personal travel and impressions in those
lands which are consecrated to us by their identification with Bible
history.”--_Daily Telegraph._
“A most charming narrative of a tour in the East amongst scenes of the
deepest interest to the Christian. No one can rise from the perusal
of this fascinating volume without the pleasant conviction of having
obtained much valuable aid for the study of the inspired narrative of
Our Blessed Lord’s life.”--_Record._
LIFE IN WESTERN INDIA. By Mrs. GUTHRIE, Author of “Through
Russia,” “My Year in an Indian Fort,” &c. 2 vols. crown 8vo.
With Illustrations. 21s.
“This is a remarkable book, for the variety and brilliance of the
pictures which it sets before us. Mrs. Guthrie is no ordinary observer.
She notes with a keen interest the life and character of the native
population. Altogether this is a charming book, in which we can find no
fault, except it be an embarrassing richness of matter which makes us
feel that we have given no idea of it to our readers; we can only say,
Let them judge for themselves.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._
“Mrs. Guthrie’s ‘Life in Western India’ is worthy the graphic pen of
this accomplished writer. Her familiarity with Indian life enables
her to portray in faithful and vivid hues the character of Hindoo
and Mohammedan tribes, noting the peculiarities of their social and
religious traditions, and representing their personal habits and
manners with picturesque fidelity.”--_Daily Telegraph._
MY JOURNEY ROUND THE WORLD, via CEYLON, NEW ZEALAND, AUSTRALIA,
TORRES STRAITS, CHINA, JAPAN, AND THE UNITED STATES. By CAPTAIN
S. H. JONES-PARRY, late 102nd Royal Madras Fusileers. 2 vols.
crown 8vo. 21s.
“A very pleasant book of travel, well worth reading.”--_Spectator._
“It is pleasant to follow Captain Jones-Parry on his journey
round the world. He is full of life, sparkle, sunlight, and
anecdote.”--_Graphic._
“A readable book, light, pleasant, and chatty.”--_Globe._
A VISIT TO ABYSSINIA; an ACCOUNT OF TRAVEL IN MODERN ETHIOPIA.
By W. WINSTANLEY, late 4th (Queen’s Own) Hussars. 2 vols. crown
8vo. 21s.
“A capital record of travels, cast in a popular mould. The narrative is
written in a lively and entertaining style.”--_Athenæum._
MY OLD PLAYGROUND REVISITED; A TOUR IN ITALY IN THE SPRING
OF 1881. By BENJAMIN E. KENNEDY. 1 vol. crown 8vo. With
Illustrations, by the Author. 6s.
“‘My Old Playground Revisited’ will repay perusal. It is written with
the ease that comes of long experience.”--_Graphic._
PRINCE CHARLES AND THE SPANISH MARRIAGE: A Chapter of English
History, 1617 to 1623; from Unpublished Documents in the
Archives of Simancas, Venice, and Brussels. By SAMUEL RAWSON
GARDINER. 2 vols. 8vo. 30s.
“We doubt not that the reception of Mr. Gardiner’s valuable and
interesting volumes will be such as is due to their high merit. For the
first time in our literature the real history of the Spanish match, and
what took place when Charles and Buckingham were at Madrid, is here
revealed. Mr. Gardiner has brought to bear upon his subject an amount
of historical reading and consultation of authorities which we believe
to be almost without a parallel.”--_Notes and Queries._
“These valuable volumes are profoundly and vividly interesting.”
--_Telegraph._
“Mr. Gardiner has given us a more complete and perfect account
of this interesting period of our history than any which has yet
appeared.”--_Observer._
MONSIEUR GUIZOT IN PRIVATE LIFE (1787–1874). By His Daughter,
Madame DE WITT. Translated by Mrs. SIMPSON. 1 vol. demy 8vo. 15s.
“Madame de Witt has done justice to her father’s memory in an admirable
record of his life. Mrs. Simpson’s translation of this singularly
interesting book is in accuracy and grace worthy of the original and of
the subject.”--_Saturday Review._
“This book was well worth translating. Mrs. Simpson has written
excellent English, while preserving the spirit of the French.”--_The
Times._
“We cannot but feel grateful for the picture that Mme. de Witt has
given us of her father in his home. It is a work for which no one can
be better qualified than a daughter who thoroughly understood and
sympathised with him.”--_Guardian._
“M. Guizot stands out in the pages of his daughter’s excellent
biography a distinct and life-like figure. He is made to speak to us
in his own person. The best part of the book consists of a number of
his letters, in which he freely unfolds his feelings and opinions,
and draws with unconscious boldness the outlines of his forcible and
striking character.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._
WORDS OF HOPE AND COMFORT TO THOSE IN SORROW. Dedicated by
Permission to THE QUEEN. _Fourth Edition._ 1 vol. small 4to. 5s.
bound.
“These letters, the work of a pure and devout spirit, deserve to find
many readers. They are greatly superior to the average of what is
called religious literature.”--_Athenæum._
“The writer of the tenderly-conceived letters in this volume was Mrs.
Julius Hare, a sister of Mr. Maurice. They are instinct with the
devout submissiveness and fine sympathy which we associate with the
name of Maurice; but in her there is added a winningness of tact, and
sometimes, too, a directness of language, which we hardly find even in
the brother. The letters were privately printed and circulated, and
were found to be the source of much comfort, which they cannot fail to
afford now to a wide circle. A sweetly-conceived memorial poem, bearing
the well-known initials, ‘E. H. P.’, gives a very faithful outline of
the life.”--_British Quarterly Review._
“This touching and most comforting work is dedicated to THE
QUEEN, who took a gracious interest in its first appearance, when
printed for private circulation, and found comfort in its pages, and
has now commanded its publication, that the world in general may profit
by it. A more practical and heart-stirring appeal to the afflicted we
have never examined.”--_Standard._
“These letters are exceptionally graceful and touching, and may be read
with profit.”--_Graphic._
LIFE OF MOSCHELES; WITH SELECTIONS FROM HIS DIARIES AND
CORRESPONDENCE. By HIS WIFE. 2 vols. large post 8vo. With
Portrait. 24s.
“This life of Moscheles will be a valuable book of reference for the
musical historian, for the contents extend over a period of threescore
years, commencing with 1794, and ending at 1870. We need scarcely
state that all the portions of Moscheles’ diary which refer to his
intercourse with Beethoven, Hummel, Weber, Czerny, Spontini, Rossini,
Auber, Halévy, Schumann, Cherubini, Spohr, Mendelssohn, F. David,
Chopin, J. B. Cramer, Clementi, John Field, Habeneck, Hauptmann,
Kalkbrenner, Kiesewetter, C. Klingemann, Lablache, Dragonetti, Sontag,
Persiani, Malibran, Paganini, Rachel, Ronzi de Begnis, De Beriot,
Ernst, Donzelli, Cinti-Damoreau, Chelard, Bochsa, Laporte, Charles
Kemble, Schröder-Devrient, Mrs. Siddons, Sir H. Bishop, Sir G. Smart,
Staudigl, Thalberg, Berlioz, Velluti, C. Young, Balfe, Braham, and
many other artists of note in their time, will recall a flood of
recollections. Moscheles writes fairly of what is called the ‘Music of
the Future,’ and his judgments on Herr Wagner, Dr. Liszt, Rubenstein,
Dr. von Bülow, Litolff, &c., whether as composers or executants, are in
a liberal spirit. He recognizes cheerfully the talents of our native
artists: Sir S. Bennett, Mr. Macfarren, Madame Goddard, Mr. J. Barnett,
Mr. Hullah, Mr. A. Sullivan, &c. The volumes are full of amusing
anecdotes.”--_Athenæum._
A YOUNG SQUIRE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, from the Papers of
CHRISTOPHER JEAFFRESON, of Dullingham House, Cambridgeshire.
Edited by JOHN CORDY JEAFFRESON, Author of “A Book about
Doctors,” &c. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 21s.
“Two volumes of very attractive matter:--letters which illustrate
agriculture, commerce, war, love, and social manners, accounts of
passing public events, and details which are not to be found in
the Gazettes, and which come with singular freshness from private
letters.”--_Athenæum._
“Two agreeable and important volumes. They deserve to be placed on
library shelves with Pepys, Evelyn, and Reresby. The Jeaffreson
letters add very much to our knowledge of other people, and of
other acts than those recorded by Pepys, Evelyn, and Reresby, and
are pleasantly supplementary in sketches of contemporaneous men and
manners.”--_Notes and Queries._
MY YOUTH, BY SEA AND LAND, FROM 1809 TO 1816. By CHARLES LOFTUS,
formerly of the Royal Navy, late of the Coldstream Guards. 2
vols. crown 8vo. 21s.
“Major Loftus played the part allotted to him with honour and ability,
and he relates the story of his life with spirit and vigour. Some of
his sea stories are as laughable as anything in ‘Peter Simple,’ while
his adventures on shore remind us of Charles Lever in his freshest
days. A more genial, pleasant, wholesome book we have not often
read.”--_Standard._
MY LIFE, FROM 1815 TO 1819. By CHARLES LOFTUS, Author of “My
Youth by Sea and Land.” 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.
“The praise which the _Athenæum_ gave to the first portion of
Major Loftus’s work, may be fairly awarded to the second. These
reminiscences are pleasantly told. There is a cheeriness about them
which communicates itself to the reader.”--_Athenæum._
“A thoroughly interesting and readable book, which we heartily
recommend as one of the most characteristic autobiographies we ever
read.”--_Standard._
A LEGACY: Being the Life and Remains of JOHN MARTIN,
Schoolmaster and Poet. Written and Edited by the Author of “JOHN
HALIFAX.” 2 vols. crown 8vo. With Portrait. 21s.
“A remarkable book. It records the life, work, aspirations, and
death of a schoolmaster and poet, of lowly birth but ambitious soul.
His writings brim with vivid thought, touches of poetic sentiment,
and trenchant criticism of men and books, expressed in scholarly
language.”--_Guardian._
THE VILLAGE OF PALACES; or, Chronicles of Chelsea. By the Rev.
A. G. L’ESTRANGE. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.
“Mr. L’Estrange has much to tell of the various public institutions
associated with Chelsea. Altogether his volumes show some
out-of-the-way research, and are written in a lively and gossipping
style.”--_The Times._
“Mr. L’Estrange tells us much that is interesting about Chelsea. We
take leave of this most charming book with a hearty recommendation of
it to our readers.”--_Spectator._
COSITAS ESPANOLAS; or, EVERY-DAY LIFE IN SPAIN. By Mrs. HARVEY,
of Ickwell-Bury. _2nd Edition._ 8vo. 15s.
“A charming book; fresh, lively, and amusing.”--_Morning Post._
MEMOIRS OF QUEEN HORTENSE, MOTHER OF NAPOLEON III. Cheaper
Edition, in 1 vol. 6s.
“A biography of the beautiful and unhappy Queen, more satisfactory than
any we have yet met with.”--_Daily News._
WORKS BY VARIOUS AUTHORS.
WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘JOHN HALIFAX.’
Each in One Volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated, price 5s.
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.
A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN.
A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
NOTHING NEW.
MISTRESS AND MAID.
THE WOMAN’S KINGDOM.
CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE.
A NOBLE LIFE.
HANNAH.
THE UNKIND WORD.
A BRAVE LADY.
STUDIES FROM LIFE.
YOUNG MRS. JARDINE.
WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘SAM SLICK.’
Each in One Volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated, price 5s.
NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE.
WISE SAWS AND MODERN INSTANCES.
THE OLD JUDGE; OR, LIFE IN A COLONY.
TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOUR.
THE AMERICANS AT HOME.
WORKS BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
Each in One Volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated, price 5s.
ADAM GRAEME.
THE LAIRD OF NORLAW.
AGNES.
THE LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING.
A ROSE IN JUNE.
PHŒOBE, JUNIOR.
WORKS BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.
Each in One Volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated, price 5s.
DAVID ELGINBROD.
ROBERT FALCONER.
ALEC FORBES.
SIR GIBBIE.
Under the Especial Patronage of Her Majesty.
_Published annually, in One Vol., royal 8vo, with the Arms
beautifully engraved, handsomely bound, with gilt edges, price 31s.
6d._
LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE,
CORRECTED BY THE NOBILITY.
THE FIFTY-FIRST EDITION FOR 1882 IS NOW READY.
LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE is acknowledged to be the most complete,
as well as the most elegant, work of the kind. As an established and
authentic authority on all questions respecting the family histories,
honours, and connections of the titled aristocracy, no work has ever
stood so high. It is published under the especial patronage of Her
Majesty, and is annually corrected throughout, from the personal
communications of the Nobility. It is the only work of its class in
which, _the type being kept constantly standing_, every correction is
made in its proper place to the date of publication, an advantage which
gives it supremacy over all its competitors. Independently of its full
and authentic information respecting the existing Peers and Baronets
of the realm, the most sedulous attention is given in its pages to the
collateral branches of the various noble families, and the names of
many thousand individuals are introduced, which do not appear in other
records of the titled classes. For its authority, correctness, and
facility of arrangement, and the beauty of its typography and binding,
the work is justly entitled to the place it occupies on the tables of
Her Majesty and the Nobility.
LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS.
Historical View of the Peerage.
Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords.
English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their orders of Precedence.
Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain and the United
Kingdom, holding superior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage.
Alphabetical list of Scotch and Irish Peers, holding superior
titles in the Peerage of Great Britain and the United Kingdom.
A Collective list of Peers, in their order of Precedence.
Table of Precedency among Men.
Table of Precedency among Women.
The Queen and the Royal Family.
Peers of the Blood Royal.
The Peerage, alphabetically arranged.
Families of such Extinct Peers as have left Widows or Issue.
Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the Peers.
The Archbishops and Bishops of England and Ireland.
The Baronetage alphabetically arranged.
Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by members of Noble
Families.
Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of Peers, usually borne
by their Eldest Sons.
Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Dukes, Marquises, and
Earls, who, having married Commoners, retain the title of Lady
before their own Christian and their Husband’s Surnames.
Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Viscounts and Barons,
who, having married Commoners, are styled Honourable Mrs.; and,
in case of the husband being a Baronet or Knight, Hon. Lady.
A List of the Orders of Knighthood.
Mottoes alphabetically arranged and translated.
“This work is the most perfect and elaborate record of the living and
recently deceased members of the Peerage of the Three Kingdoms as it
stands at this day. It is a most useful publication. We are happy to
bear testimony to the fact that scrupulous accuracy is a distinguishing
feature of this book.”--_Times._
“Lodge’s Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind, for two
reasons: first, it is on a better plan; and secondly, it is better
executed. We can safely pronounce it to be the readiest, the most
useful, and exactest of modern works on the subject.”--_Spectator._
“A work of great value. It is the most faithful record we possess of
the aristocracy of the day.”--_Post._
“The best existing, and, we believe, the best possible Peerage. It is
the standard authority on the subject.”--_Standard._
HURST & BLACKETT’S STANDARD LIBRARY
OF CHEAP EDITIONS OF
POPULAR MODERN WORKS,
ILLUSTRATED BY SIR J. GILBERT, MILLAIS, HUNT, LEECH, FOSTER,
POYNTER, TENNIEL, SANDYS, HUGHES, SAMBOURNE, &c.
Each in a Single Volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated,
price 5s.
1. SAM SLICK’S NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE.
“The first volume of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett’s Standard Library
of Cheap Editions forms a very good beginning to what will doubtless
be a very successful undertaking. ‘Nature and Human Nature’ is one
of the best of Sam Slick’s witty and humorous productions, and is
well entitled to the large circulation which it cannot fail to obtain
in its present convenient and cheap shape. The volume combines with
the great recommendations of a clear, bold type, and good paper, the
lesser but attractive merits of being well illustrated and elegantly
bound.”--_Post._
2. JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.
“This is a very good and a very interesting work. It is designed to
trace the career from boyhood to age of a perfect man--a Christian
gentleman; and it abounds in incident both well and highly wrought.
Throughout it is conceived in a high spirit, and written with great
ability. This cheap and handsome new edition is worthy to pass freely
from hand to hand as a gift book in many households.”--_Examiner._
3. THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.
BY ELIOT WARBURTON.
“Independent of its value as an original narrative, and its useful and
interesting information, this work is remarkable for the colouring
power and play of fancy with which its descriptions are enlivened.
Among its greatest and most lasting charms is its reverent and serious
spirit.”--_Quarterly Review._
4. NATHALIE. By JULIA KAVANAGH.
“‘Nathalie’ is Miss Kavanagh’s best imaginative effort. Its manner is
gracious and attractive. Its matter is good.”--_Athenæum._
5. A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“A book of sound counsel. It is one of the most sensible works of its
kind, well-written, true-hearted, and altogether practical. Whoever
wishes to give advice to a young lady may thank the author for means of
doing so.”--_Examiner._
6. ADAM GRAEME. By MRS. OLIPHANT.
“A story awakening genuine emotions of interest and delight by its
admirable pictures of Scottish life and scenery. The author sets before
us the essential attributes of Christian virtue, with a delicacy,
power, and truth which can hardly be surpassed.”--_Post._
7. SAM SLICK’S WISE SAWS & MODERN INSTANCES.
“The reputation of this book will stand as long as that of
Scott’s or Bulwer’s Novels. Its remarkable originality and happy
descriptions of American life still continue the subject of universal
admiration.”--_Messenger._
8. CARDINAL WISEMAN’S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LAST FOUR POPES.
“A picturesque book on Rome and its ecclesiastical sovereigns,
by an eloquent Roman Catholic. Cardinal Wiseman has treated a
special subject with so much geniality, that his recollections
will excite no ill-feeling in those who are most conscientiously
opposed to every idea of human infallibility represented in Papal
domination.”--_Athenæum._
9. A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“In ‘A Life for a Life’ the author is fortunate in a good subject, and
has produced a work of strong effect.”--_Athenæum._
10. THE OLD COURT SUBURB. By LEIGH HUNT.
“A delightful book, that will be welcome to all readers, and
most welcome to those who have a love for the best kinds of
reading.”--_Examiner._
11. MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS.
“We recommend all who are in search of a fascinating novel to
read this work for themselves. They will find it well worth their
while. There are a freshness and originality about it quite
charming.”--_Athenæum._
12. THE OLD JUDGE. By SAM SLICK.
“The publications included in this Library have all been of good
quality; many give information while they entertain, and of that
class the book before us is a specimen. The manner in which the Cheap
Editions forming the series is produced, deserves especial mention. The
paper and print are unexceptionable; there is a steel engraving in each
volume, and the outsides of them will satisfy the purchaser who likes
to see books in handsome uniform.”--_Examiner._
13. DARIEN. By ELIOT WARBURTON.
“This last production of the author of ‘The Crescent and the Cross’
has the same elements of a very wide popularity. It will please its
thousands.”--_Globe._
14. FAMILY ROMANCE.
BY SIR BERNARD BURKE, ULSTER KING OF ARMS.
“It were impossible to praise too highly this most interesting
hook.”--_Standard._
15. THE LAIRD OF NORLAW. By MRS. OLIPHANT.
“The ‘Laird of Norlaw’ fully sustains the author’s high
reputation.”--_Sunday Times._
16. THE ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY.
“Mrs. Gretton’s book is interesting, and full of opportune
instruction.”--_Times._
17. NOTHING NEW.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“‘Nothing New’ displays all those superior merits which have made ‘John
Halifax’ one of the most popular works of the day.”--_Post._
18. FREER’S LIFE OF JEANNE D’ALBRET.
“Nothing can be more interesting than Miss Freer’s story of the life
of Jeanne D’Albret, and the narrative is as trustworthy as it is
attractive.”--_Post._
19. THE VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS.”
“If asked to classify this work, we should give it a place between
‘John Halifax’ and ‘The Caxtons.’”--_Standard._
20. THE ROMANCE OF THE FORUM.
BY PETER BURKE, SERGEANT AT LAW.
“A work of singular interest, which can never fail to
charm.”--_Illustrated News._
21. ADELE. By JULIA KAVANAGH.
“‘Adele’ is the best work we have read by Miss Kavanagh; it is a
charming story, full of delicate character-painting.”--_Athenæum._
22. STUDIES FROM LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“These ‘Studies from Life’ are remarkable for graphic power and
observation. The book will not diminish the reputation of the
accomplished author.”--_Saturday Review._
23. GRANDMOTHER’S MONEY.
“We commend ‘Grandmother’s Money’ to readers in search of a good
novel. The characters are true to human nature, and the story is
interesting.”--_Athenæum._
24. A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS. By J. C. JEAFFRESON.
“A delightful book.”--_Athenæum._
“A book to be read and re-read; fit for the study as well as the
drawing-room table and the circulating library.”--_Lancet._
25. NO CHURCH.
“We advise all who have the opportunity to read this book.”--_Athenæum._
26. MISTRESS AND MAID.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“A good wholesome book, gracefully written, and as pleasant to read as
it is instructive.”--_Athenæum._
“A charming tale charmingly told.”--_Standard._
27. LOST AND SAVED. By HON. MRS. NORTON.
“‘Lost and Saved’ will be read with eager interest. It is a vigorous
novel.”--_Times._
“A novel of rare excellence. It is Mrs. Norton’s best prose
work.”--_Examiner._
28. LES MISERABLES. By VICTOR HUGO.
AUTHORISED COPYRIGHT ENGLISH TRANSLATION.
“The merits of ‘Les Miserables’ do not merely consist in the
conception of it as a whole; it abounds with details of unequalled
beauty. M. Victor Hugo has stamped upon every page the hall-mark of
genius.”--_Quarterly Review._
29. BARBARA’S HISTORY. By AMELIA B. EDWARDS.
“It is not often that we light upon a novel of so much merit and
interest as ‘Barbara’s History.’ It is a work conspicuous for taste
and literary culture. It is a very graceful and charming book, with a
well-managed story, clearly-cut characters, and sentiments expressed
with an exquisite elocution. It is a book which the world will
like.”--_Times._
30. LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING.
BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
“A good book on a most interesting theme.”--_Times._
“A truly interesting and most affecting memoir. Irving’s Life ought to
have a niche in every gallery of religious biography.”--_Saturday
Review._
31. ST. OLAVE’S.
“This charming novel is the work of one who possesses a great
talent for writing, as well as experience and knowledge of the
world.”--_Athenæum._
32. SAM SLICK’S AMERICAN HUMOUR.
“Dip where you will into this lottery of fun, you are sure to draw out
a prize.”--_Post._
33. CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“A more charming story has rarely been written. Even if tried by the
standard of the Archbishop of York, we should expect that even he would
pronounce ‘Christian’s Mistake’ a novel without a fault.”--_Times._
34. ALEC FORBES. By GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.
“No account of this story would give any idea of the profound
interest that pervades the work from the first page to the
last.”--_Athenæum._
35. AGNES. By MRS. OLIPHANT.
“‘Agnes’ is a novel superior to any of Mrs. Oliphant’s former
works.”--_Athenæum._
“A story whose pathetic beauty will appeal irresistibly to all
readers.”--_Post._
36. A NOBLE LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“This is one of those pleasant tales in which the author of ‘John
Halifax’ speaks out of a generous heart the purest truths of
life.”--_Examiner._
37. NEW AMERICA. By HEPWORTH DIXON.
“A very interesting book. Mr. Dixon has written thoughtfully and
well.”--_Times._
“We recommend every one who feels any interest in human nature to read
Mr. Dixon’s very interesting book.”--_Saturday Review._
38. ROBERT FALCONER. By GEORGE MAC DONALD.
“‘Robert Falconer’ is a work brimful of life and humour and of the
deepest human interest. It is a book to be returned to again and again
for the deep and searching knowledge it evinces of human thoughts and
feelings.”--_Athenæum._
39. THE WOMAN’S KINGDOM.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“‘The Woman’s Kingdom’ sustains the author’s reputation as a writer of
the purest and noblest kind of domestic stories.”--_Athenæum._
40. ANNALS OF AN EVENTFUL LIFE.
BY GEORGE WEBBE DASENT, D.C.L.
“A racy, well-written, and original novel. The interest never flags.
The whole work sparkles with wit and humour.”--_Quarterly Review._
41. DAVID ELGINBROD. By GEORGE MAC DONALD.
“The work of a man of genius. It will attract the highest class of
readers.”--_Times._
42. A BRAVE LADY. By the Author of “John Halifax.”
“A very good novel; a thoughtful, well-written book, showing a
tender sympathy with human nature, and permeated by a pure and noble
spirit.”--_Examiner._
43. HANNAH. By the Author of “John Halifax.”
“A very pleasant, healthy story, well and artistically told. The book
is sure of a wide circle of readers. The character of Hannah is one of
rare beauty.”--_Standard._
44. SAM SLICK’S AMERICANS AT HOME.
“This is one of the most amusing books that we ever read.”--_Standard._
45. THE UNKIND WORD.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“The author of ‘John Halifax’ has written many fascinating stories,
but we can call to mind nothing from her pen that has a more enduring
charm than the graceful sketches in this work.”--_United Service
Magazine._
46. A ROSE IN JUNE. By MRS. OLIPHANT.
“‘A Rose in June’ is as pretty as its title. The story is one of
the best and most touching which we owe to the industry and talent
of Mrs. Oliphant, and may hold its own with even ‘The Chronicles of
Carlingford.’”--_Times._
47. MY LITTLE LADY. By E. F. POYNTER.
“There is a great deal of fascination about this book. The author
writes in a clear, unaffected style; she has a decided gift for
depicting character, while the descriptions of scenery convey a
distinct pictorial impression to the reader.”--_Times._
48. PHŒBE, JUNIOR. By MRS. OLIPHANT.
“This novel shows great knowledge of human nature. The interest goes on
growing to the end. Phœbe is excellently drawn.”--_Times._
49. LIFE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE.
BY PROFESSOR CHARLES DUKE YONGE.
“A work of remarkable merit and interest, which will, we
doubt not, become the most popular English history of Marie
Antoinette.”--_Spectator._
“This book is well written, and of thrilling interest.”--_Academy._
50. SIR GIBBIE. By GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.
“‘Sir Gibbie’ is a book of genius.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._
“This book has power, pathos, and humour. There is not a character
which is not life-like.”--_Athenæum._
51. YOUNG MRS. JARDINE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”
“‘Young Mrs. Jardine’ is a pretty story, written in pure
English.”--_The Times._
“There is much good feeling in this book. It is pleasant and
wholesome.”--_Athenæum._
52. LORD BRACKENBURY. By AMELIA B. EDWARDS.
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of high-class novel-writing, and succeeded in no small measure in
attaining it. There is plenty of variety, cheerful dialogue, and
general ‘verve’ in the book.”--_Athenæum._
“‘Lord Brackenbury’ is pleasant reading from beginning to
end.”--_Academy._
THE NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS.
PUBLISHED BY HURST & BLACKETT.
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EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS, Author of “Kitty,”
“Doctor Jacob,” &c. 2 vols.
A GOLDEN BAR. By the Author of “Christina North,” “Under the
Limes,” &c. 3 vols.
RED RYVINGTON. By WILLIAM WESTALL, Author of “Larry Lohengrin,”
&c. 3 vols.
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and in his hands the rough Lancashire folk and the grimy purlieus of
the cotton towns lend themselves not unpicturesquely to the needs of
fiction.”--_Athenæum._
“One of the most readable novels of the year. The author’s interests
are wide and intelligently directed, and his way of describing incident
is exceedingly graphic. The conversations are both interesting and
amusing, preserving, as they do, the racy and humorous manners and
modes of expression of the self-made men who hold them.”--_Daily
News._
“A very pleasant and readable tale of English life and manners. The
character of Dora, the honest, straightforward English girl, is very
charming. Mr. Westall’s large circle of readers will welcome this
latest effusion from his pen.”--_Life._
GABRIELLE DE BOURDAINE. By Mrs. JOHN KENT SPENDER, Author of
“Godwyn’s Ordeal,” “Both in the Wrong,” &c. 3 vols.
“We advise all who can enjoy a pretty story, well told, to read
‘Gabrielle de Bourdaine.’ It is the best of Mrs. Spender’s novels.
It is in her character-drawing that the author shows so marked an
improvement.”--_Standard._
“‘Gabrielle de Bourdaine’ is a pleasant story in its quiet and simple
way. It is readable and attractive.”--_Athenæum._
“Like every work of Mrs. Spender’s, this novel bears many traces of
cultivated power and deep thought.”--_John Bull._
“This novel is deeply interesting.... There are many passages which
would make the reputation of a novelist. Gabrielle is drawn with a
powerful pen, and is a delightful study.”--_Scotsman._
SAINT AND SIBYL. By C. L. PIRKIS, Author of “A Very Opal,”
“Wanted, An Heir,” &c. 3 vols.
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touches of poetical art, some highly dramatic scenes, some pretty and
pathetic pictures.”--_St. James’s Gazette._
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many striking passages.”--_The Queen._
“A cleverly written, readable story. The two girls, Rose and Sibyl,
are ably contrasted: Sibyl in especial is an original, clever
conception.”--_Daily News._
DAISY BERESFORD. By CATHARINE CHILDAR, Author of “The Future
Marquis.” 3 vols.
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popularity very widely.”--_John Bull._
“Several of the characters in ‘Daisy Beresford’ are cleverly drawn.
Two old maiden aunts are very well done, and the heroine is also
good.”--_Athenæum._
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character and entertaining talk. Daisy Beresford is a charming
creation.”--_Daily News._
DONOVAN. By EDNA LYALL, Author of “Won by Waiting.” 3 vols.
“‘Donovan’ is distinctly a novel with a high aim, successfully
attained. The character-drawing is vigorous and truthful.”--_Pall
Mall Gazette._
THE BRANDRETHS. By the RIGHT HON. A. J. B. BERESFORD HOPE, M.P.,
Author of “Strictly Tied Up.” _Second Edition._ 3 vols.
“In ‘The Brandreths’ we have a sequel to Mr. Beresford Hope’s clever
novel of ‘Strictly Tied Up,’ and we may add that it is a decided
improvement on his maiden effort. He has not only laid a firmer grasp
on some of those characters which in his earlier work were rather
wanting in outline and individuality, but he has secured the interest
of his readers by simplifying his story. ‘The Brandreths,’ although it
abounds in the study of personal character, investigating the innermost
life and analysing the feelings of the hero, is, nevertheless, in great
measure a political novel. Mr. Hope writes of political life and the
vicissitudes of parties with the knowledge and experience of a veteran
politician. Not a few of the casual pictures of society are exceedingly
faithful and lively. We repeat, in conclusion, that the novel is one
which will repay careful reading.”--_Times._
“There are many sayings in these volumes--many wise, many witty, many
tender, many noble sayings--that we should wish to cite to our readers,
but doubtless their pleasure will be greater in finding them out for
themselves. The book is full of clever epigrams.”--_Standard._
NEW BABYLON. By PAUL MERITT and W. HOWELL POOLE. 3 vols.
“This story is clever and amusing. Vivid and graphic scenes follow in
changeful succession.”--_Daily Telegraph._
“‘New Babylon’ will attract attention at the libraries, where an
exciting story is always welcome. The tale hurries along from one
stirring incident to another, and compels the reader to admire the
inventive power of the writers, and their ingenuity in weaving a
complicated series of incidents.”--_Era._
FORTUNE’S MARRIAGE. By GEORGIANA M. CRAIK, Author of “Dorcas,”
“Anne Warwick,” &c. 3 vols.
“‘Fortune’s Marriage’ is gentle, tender, and unexaggerated. It is
carefully written and has been carefully thought out.”--_Daily
News._
“‘Fortune’s Marriage’ is naturally and pleasantly written, like all
Miss Craik’s stories. Both Fortune and Ronald are thoroughly well
drawn.”--_St. James’s Gazette._
REDEEMED. By SHIRLEY SMITH, Author of “His Last Stake,” “All for
Herself,” &c. 3 vols.
“Her Majesty the Queen and Princess Beatrice have perused this
story with great interest, and they have been especially pleased
with the manner in which the incidents that led to the death of
the Prince Imperial have been introduced in the latter part of the
novel.”--_Nottingham Guardian._
THE MERCHANT PRINCE. By JOHN BERWICK HARWOOD, Author of “Lady
Flavia,” &c. 3 vols.
“A clever, stirring novel.”--_Daily Telegraph._
“‘The Merchant Prince’ is an interesting story of English commercial
life, told quietly and easily in Mr. Harwood’s well-known
manner.”--_Daily News._
A FAITHFUL LOVER. By Mrs. MACQUOID, Author of “Patty,” “Diane,”
&c. 3 vols.
“A pretty, graceful, and agreeable novel, in which there is plenty of
charming portraiture and abundance of love-making.”--_Illustrated
London News._
IRIS. By Mrs. RANDOLPH, Author of “Gentianella,” “Wild
Hyacinth,” &c. 3 vols.
“‘Iris’ has all the pleasant characteristics which are peculiar to the
writer. As usual, the story is refined, agreeable, and interesting
throughout.”--_John Bull._
A BROKEN LILY. By Mrs. MORTIMER COLLINS. 3 vols.
“This novel has many points of interest, and the construction
is workmanlike. There is much that is clever and amusing in the
story.”--_John Bull._
HURST AND BLACKETTS SIX-SHILLING NOVELS
MY LORD AND MY LADY.
By Mrs. FORRESTER,
Author of “Viva,” “Mignon,” &c.
“This novel will take a high place among the successes of the season.
It is as fresh a novel as it is interesting, as attractive as it is
realistically true, as full of novelty of presentment as it is of close
study and observation of life.”--_World._
“A love story of considerable interest. The novel is full of surprises,
and will serve to while away a leisure hour most agreeably.”--_Daily
Telegraph._
“A very capital novel. The great charm about it is that Mrs. Forrester
is quite at home in the society which she describes. It is a book to
read.”--_Standard._
“Mrs. Forrester’s style is so fresh and graphic that the reader is kept
under its spell from first to last.”--_Post._
SOPHY:
OR THE ADVENTURES OF A SAVAGE.
By VIOLET FANE,
Author of “Denzil Place,” &c.
“‘Sophy’ is the clever and original work of a clever woman. Its merits
are of a strikingly unusual kind. It is charged throughout with the
strongest human interest. It is, in a word, a novel that will make its
mark.”--_World._
“A clever, amusing, and interesting story, well worth reading.”--_Post._
“This novel is as amusing, piquant, droll, and suggestive as it can
be. It overflows with humour, nor are there wanting touches of genuine
feeling. To considerable imaginative power, the writer joins keen
observation.”--_Daily News._
“‘Sophy’ throughout displays accurate knowledge of widely differing
forms of character, and remarkable breadth of view. It is one of
the few current novels that may not impossibly stand the test of
time.”--_Graphic._
STRICTLY TIED UP.
By the Right Hon. A. J. B. BERESFORD HOPE, M.P.
“A clever story. In ‘Strictly Tied Up’ we have vigorous sketches of
life in very different circumstances and conditions. We have the
incisive portraiture of character that shows varied knowledge of
mankind. We have a novel, besides, which may be read with profit as
well as pleasure.”--_Times._
“‘Strictly Tied Up’ is entertaining. It is in every sense a novel
conceived in a light and happy vein. The scheme of the story is well
proportioned and worked out in all its complications with much care and
skill.”--_Athenæum._
“This novel may be described as a comedy of life and character. There
is humour as well as excitement in the book, and not a few of the
descriptions both of people and scenery are exceedingly graphic and
piquant.”--_Saturday Review._
HIS LITTLE MOTHER: and Other Tales.
By the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.”
“This is an interesting book, written in a pleasant manner, and full of
shrewd observation and kindly feeling. It is a book that will be read
with interest, and that cannot be lightly forgotten.”--_St. James’s
Gazette._
“The Author of ‘John Halifax’ always writes with grace and feeling, and
never more so than in the present volume.”--_Morning Post._
“‘His Little Mother’ is one of those pathetic stories which the author
tells better than anybody else.”--_John Bull._
“This book is written with all Mrs. Craik’s grace of style, the chief
charm of which, after all, is its simplicity.”--_Glasgow Herald._
“We cordially recommend ‘His Little Mother.’ The story is
most affecting. The volume is full of lofty sentiments and
noble aspirations, and none can help feeling better after its
perusal.”--_Court Journal._
LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A mussack is the entire skin of a sheep or goat. In India our
bhiesties (water-carriers) bring water from the wells in no other way.
Bowed down under the weight of a huge mussack full of water, a man has
the appearance of carrying a living animal.
[2] Treaty between the British Government on the one part, and
Maharajah Golab Sing of Jummoo on the other, concluded on the part of
the British Government by Frederick Currie, Esq., and Brevet-Major
Henry Montgomery Lawrence, acting under the orders of the Right Hon.
Sir Henry Hardinge, G.C.B., one of Her Britannic Majesty’s Honourable
Privy Council, Governor-General, appointed by the Honourable Company
to direct and control all their affairs in the East Indies; and by
Maharajah Golab Sing in person:--
ARTICLE 1.--The British Government transfers and makes over
for ever, in independent possession, to Maharajah Golab Sing, and the
heirs male of his body, all the hilly or mountainous country, with
its dependencies, situated on the east-ward of the river Indus, and
westward of the river Rávee, including Chumba, and excluding Lahoul,
being part of the territory ceded to the British Government by the
Lahore State according to the provisions of Article 4 of the Treaty of
Lahore, dated 9th March, 1846.
ARTICLE 2.--The eastern boundary of the tract transferred by
the foregoing article to Maharajah Golab Sing, shall be laid down by
Commissioners appointed by the British Government and Maharajah Golab
Sing respectively for that purpose, and shall be defined in a separate
engagement after survey.
ARTICLE 3.--In consideration of the transfer made to him and
his heirs by the provisions of the foregoing articles, Maharajah Golab
Sing will pay to the British Government the sum of seventy-five lacs
of rupees (Náruksháhee); fifty lacs on completion of this Treaty, and
twenty-five lacs on or before the 1st of October of the current year,
A.D. 1846.
ARTICLE 4.--The limits of the territories of Maharajah Golab
Sing shall not be at any time changed without the concurrence of the
British Government.
ARTICLE 5.--Maharajah Golab Sing will refer to the arbitration
of the British Government any disputes or questions that may arise
between himself and the Government of Lahore or any other neighbouring
state, and will abide by the decision of the British Government.
ARTICLE 6.--Maharajah Golab Sing engages for himself and his
heirs to join, with the whole of his military force, the British troops
when employed within the hills, or in the territories adjoining his
possessions.
ARTICLE 7.--Maharajah Golab Sing engages never to take, or retain, in
his service any British subject, nor the subject of any European or
American State, without the consent of the British Government.
ARTICLE 8.--Maharajah Golab Sing engages to respect, in regard
to the territory transferred to him, the provisions of Articles 5, 6,
and 7 of the separate engagement between the British Government and the
Lahore Durbar, dated 11th of March, 1846.
ARTICLE 9.--The British Government will give its aid to Maharajah Golab
Sing in protecting his territories from external enemies.
ARTICLE 10.--Maharajah Golab Sing acknowledges the supremacy
of the British Government, and will, in token of such supremacy,
present annually to the British Government one horse, twelve perfect
shawl-goats of approved breed (six males and six females), and three
pairs of Cashmere shawls.
Then come the signatures, &c., and date, 16th of March, 1846.
[3] ‘Lalla Rookh.’
[4] ‘Lalla Rookh’.
[5] ‘Light of the Harem’--‘Lalla Rookh’
[6] ‘Lalla Rookh.’
[7] ‘Lalla Rookh.’
Transcriber’s Notes:
1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been
corrected silently.
2. Where hyphenation is in doubt, it has been retained as in the
original.
3. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words have
been retained as in the original.
4. Italics are shown as _xxx_.
5. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
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