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Griffin Marching to Join.

MEMOIRS OF A GRIFFIN
OR,
A CADET’S FIRST YEAR IN INDIA.

BY

CAPTAIN BELLEW.

ILLUSTRATED FROM DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR.

A New Edition.

LONDON

W. H. ALLEN & CO., Ltd., 13 WATERLOO PLACE. S.W.

PUBLISHERS TO THE INDIA OFFICE.

1891.

TO

Major-Gen. Sir ROBERT CUNLIFFE, Bart., C.B.,

OF

ACTON PARK, DENBIGHSHIRE, LATE COMMISSARY-GENERAL OF THE BENGAL ARMY,

IN WHOSE DEPARTMENT THE AUTHOR HAD FOR SOME YEARS THE HONOUR TO SERVE,

THIS LITTLE WORK

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, AS A MARK OF HIS SINCERE ESTEEM.

PREFACE.

Good wine, says the proverb, needs no bush; on the same principle, some will think that a book, if readable, may dispense with a preface. As a general rule this may be true, but there are occasions, and I take leave to deem this one of them, when, from the peculiar nature of the subject, a few preliminary observations, by creating a clear and possibly a pleasant understanding between the author and the gentle reader, may not be unacceptable or out of place. In the following little narrative, in which I have blended fact and fiction—though always endeavouring to keep the vraisemblable in view—my object has been to depict some of those scenes, characters, and adventures, which some five-and-twenty or thirty years ago a “jolly cadet”—alias a Griffin—was likely to encounter, during the first year of his military career; men, manners, and things in general have, since that period, undergone considerable changes; still, in its main features, the sketch I have drawn, admitting its original correctness, will doubtless apply as well to Griffins in the present mature age of the century, as when it was in its teens. The Griffin, or Greenhorn, indeed, though subject, like everything else, to the external changes incident to time and fashion, is, perhaps, fundamentally and essentially, one of the “never ending, still beginning” states, or phases of humanity, destined to exist till the “crash of doom.”

The characters which I have introduced in my narrative (for the most part as transiently as the fleeting shadows of a magic lantern across a spectrum) are all intended to represent respectively classes having more or less of an Oriental stamp, some still existing unchanged—others on the wane—and a few, I would fain hope, who, like the Trunnions and Westerns (parva componere magnis) of the last age have wholly disappeared before the steadily increasing light of knowledge and civilization—influences destructive of those coarse humours, narrow prejudices, and eccentric traits, which, however amusing in the pages of the novelist, are wondrously disagreeable in real life. It is true, the gradual disappearance of these coarser features imposes on the painter of life and manners the necessity of cultivating a nicer perception—of working with a finer pencil, and of seizing and embodying the now less obvious indications of the feelings and passions—the more delicate lights and shades of mind and character—but still in parting in a great measure with the materials for coarse drollery and broad satire, the world perhaps on the whole will be a gainer; higher feelings will be addressed than those which minister to triumph and imply humiliation: for though ’tis well to laugh at folly and expose it—’twere perhaps better to have no folly or error to laugh at and expose.

In the following pages, my wish has been to amuse, and where I could—without detriment to the professedly light and jocular character of the work—to instruct and improve. To hurt or offend has never entered into my contemplation—if such could ever be my object, I should not do it under a mask.

I deem it necessary to make this observation en passant, lest, like a young officer I once heard of in India, who, conscience-stricken on hearing some of his besetting sins, as he thought, pointedly denounced, flung out of the church, declaring “there was no standing the chaplain’s personalities,” some of my readers should think that I have been taking, under cover, a sly shot at themselves or friends. That the characters lightly sketched in these Memoirs have been taken from life—i.e., that the ideas of them have been furnished by real personages—I in some measure candidly allow, though I have avoided making the portraits invidiously exact; as in a dream, busy fancy weaves a tissue of events out of the stored impressions of the brain, so, of course, the writer of a story must in like manner, though with more congruity, arrange and embody his scattered recollections, though not necessarily in the exact shape and order in which the objects, &c., originally presented themselves. Moreover, I believe I may safely add, that the originals of my sketches have, for the most part, long since brought “life’s fitful fever” to a close.

To the kind care of the public I now consign the “Griffin,” particularly to that portion of it connected with India, a country where my best days have been spent, the scene of some of my happiest hours, as alas! of my severest trials and bereavements; hoping, on account of his “youth,” they will take him under their especial protection. To the critics I also commend him, trusting, if they have “any bowels,” that they will, for the same reason, deal with him tenderly.

London—queen of cities!—on sympathetic grounds, I hope for your munificent patronage. Griffins[^[1]] are your supporters, then why not support my “Griffin?”

If encouraged by the smiles of a “discriminating public,” I may, at some future period, impart the late Brevet Captain Gernon’s post-griffinish experiences amongst Burmahs, Pindaries, and “Chimeras dire,” with his “impressions of home,” as contained in the remaining autobiography of that lamented gentleman, who sunk under a gradual decay of nature and a schirrous liver, some time during the last hot summer.

It is proper I should state that these Memoirs, in a somewhat different form, first saw the light in the pages of the Asiatic Journal.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MEMOIRS OF A GRIFFIN.

CHAPTER I.

Pleasant days of my Griffinhood!—green oasis of life’s desert waste!—thoughtless, joyous, happy season, when young Hope told “her flattering tale,” and novelty broke sweetly upon a heart unsated by the world, with what fond and regretful emotions do I now look back upon you through the long, dim, dreary vista of five-and-twenty years!

But I think I hear a raw reader exclaim, “Griffins!—are there griffins in the East?” “Assuredly, sir. Did you never hear of the law of Zoroaster quoted in Zadig, by which griffins’ flesh is prohibited to be eaten? Griffins are so common at the different presidencies of India that nobody looks at them, and most of these animals are very tame.” I will not, however, abuse the traveller’s privilege.

Griffin, or more familiarly a Griff, is an Anglo-Indian cant term applied to all new-comers, whose lot has been cast in the “gorgeous East.” Whether the appellation has any connection with the fabulous compound, the gryps or gryphon of armorial blazoning, is a point which I feel myself incompetent to decide.[^[2]] A griffin is the Johnny Newcome of the East, one whose European manners and ideas stand out in ludicrous relief when contrasted with those, so essentially different in most respects, which appertain to the new country of his sojourn. The ordinary period of griffinhood is a year, by which time the novus homo, if apt, is supposed to have acquired a sufficient familiarity with the language, habits, customs, and manners of the country, both Anglo-Indian and Native, so as to preclude his making himself supremely ridiculous by blunders, gaucheries, and the indiscriminate application of English standards to states of things to which those rules are not always exactly adapted. To illustrate by example:—a good-natured Englishman, who should present a Brahmin who worships the cow with a bottle of beef-steak sauce, would be decidedly “griffinish,” particularly if he could be made acquainted with the nature of the gift; nevertheless, beef steak, per se, is an excellent thing in an Englishman’s estimation, and a better still with the addition of the before-mentioned condiment. But to return to our subject.

At the termination, then, of the above-mentioned period, our griffin, if he has made the most of his time, becomes entitled to associate on pretty equal terms with those sun-dried specimens of the genus homo, familiarly called the “old hands:”—subs of fifteen years’ standing; grey-headed captains, and superannuated majors, critics profound in the merits of a curry, or the quality of a batch of Hodgson’s pale ale. He ceases to be the butt of his regiment, and persecutes in his turn, with the zeal of a convert, all novices not blessed with his modicum of local experience.

Youth is proverbially of a plastic nature, and the juvenile griffin, consequently, in the majority of instances, readily accommodates himself to the altered circumstances in which he is placed; but not so the man of mature years, to whose moral and physical organization forty or fifty winters have imparted their rigid and unmalleable influences. Griffins of this description, which commonly comprises bishops, judges, commanders-in-chief, and gentlemen sent out on special missions, &c., protract their griffinage commonly during the whole period of their stay in the country, and never acquire the peculiar knowledge which entitles them to rank with the initiated. The late most excellent Bishop Heber, for example, who to the virtues of a Christian added all the qualities which could adorn the scholar and gentleman, was nevertheless an egregious griffin, as a perusal of his delightful travels in India, written in all the singleness of his benevolent heart, must convince any one acquainted with the character of the country and the natives of India.

Autobiographers love to begin ab ovo, and I see no reason why I should wholly deviate from a custom doubly sanctioned by reason and established usage. It is curious sometimes to trace the gradual development of character in “small” as well as in “great” men; to note the little incidents which often determine the nature of our future career, and describe the shootings of the young idea at that vernal season when they first begin to expand into trees of good or evil. In an old manor-house, not thirty miles from London, on a gloomy November day, I first saw the light. Of the home of my infancy I remember little but my nursery, a long, bare, whitewashed apartment, with a tall, diamond-paned window, half obscured by the funereal branches of a venerable yew-tree. This window looked out, I remember, on the village churchyard, thickly studded with the moss-grown memorials of successive generations. In that window-seat I used to sit for many a weary hour, watching the boys idling on the gravestones, the jackdaws wheeling their airy circles round the spire, or the parson’s old one-eyed horse cropping the rank herbage, which sprouted fresh and green above the silent dust of many a “village Hampden.” The recollections of infancy, like an old picture, become often dim and obscure, but here and there particular events, like bright lights and rich Rembrandt touches, remain deeply impressed, which seem to defy the effects of time; of this kind is a most vivid recollection I have of a venerable uncle of my mother’s, an old Indian, who lived with us, and whose knee I always sought when I could give nurse the slip. My great uncle Frank always welcomed me to his little sanctum in the green parlour, and having quite an Arab’s notion of the sacred rights of hospitality, invariably refused to give me up when nurse, puffing and foaming, would waddle in to reclaim me. I shall never forget the delight I derived from his pleasant stories and the white sugar-candy, of which he always kept a stock on hand. Good old man! he died full of years, and was the first of a long series of friends whose loss I have had to lament.

My father was, truly, that character emphatically styled “an Irish gentleman,” in whom the suavity of the Frenchman was combined with much of the fire and brilliancy of his native land. Though of an ancient family, his fortune, derived from an estate in the sister kingdom, was very limited, the “dirty acres” having somehow or other, from generation to generation, become “small by degrees, and beautifully less.” He was of a tender frame, and of that delicate, sensitive, nervous temperament, which, though often the attendant on genius, which he unquestionably possessed, little fits those so constituted to buffet with the world, or long to endure its storms. He died in the prime of manhood, when I was very young, and left my mother to struggle with those difficulties which are always incident to a state of widowhood, with a numerous family and a limited income. The deficiency of fortune was, however, in her case, compensated by the energies of a masculine understanding, combined with an untiring devotion to the interest and welfare of her children.

Trades and professions in England are almost as completely hereditary as among the castes of India. The great Franklin derived his “ponderous strength,” physical if not intellectual, from a line of Blacksmiths, and I, Frank Gernon, inherit certain atrabilious humours, maternally, from a long series of very respectable “Qui Hyes.”[^[3]] Yes, my mothers family—father, grandfather, uncles, and cousins—had all served with exemplary fidelity that potent merchant-monarch affectionately termed in India the Honourable John (though degraded, I am sorry to say, into an “old woman” by his native subjects); they had all flourished for more than a century under the shade of the “rupee tree,” a plant of Hesperidean virtues, whose fructiferous powers, alas! have since their time sadly declined. These, my maternal progenitors, were men both of the sword and pen; some had filled high civil stations with credit, whilst others, under the banners of a Clive, a Lawrence, or a Munro, had led “Ind’s dusky chivalry” to war, and participated in many of those glorious, but now time-mellowed exploits, from which the splendid fabric of our Eastern dominions has arisen. This, and other circumstances on which I shall briefly touch, combined to point my destiny to the gorgeous East. My mother, for the reasons given, and the peculiar facilities which she consequently had for establishing us in that quarter, had from an early period looked fondly to India as the theatre for the future exertions of her sons. But long before the period of my departure arrived—indeed I may say almost from infancy—I had been inoculated by my mother, my great uncle, and sundry parchment-faced gentlemen who frequented our house, with a sort of Indo-mania. I was never tired of hearing of its people, their manners, dress, &c., and was perfectly read on the subject of alligators and Bengal tigers. I used, indeed, regularly and systematically to persecute and bore every Anglo-Indian that came in my way for authentic accounts of their history and mode of destruction, &c. One most benevolent old gentleman, a fine specimen of the Indian of other days, and a particular friend of my family, used to “fool us to the top of our bent” in that way. I say us, for the Indo-mania was not confined to myself.

My mother, too, used to entertain us with her experiences, which served to feed the ardent longing which I felt to visit the East. How often in the winter evenings of pleasant “lang syne,” when the urn hissed on the table, and the cat purred on the comfortable rug, has our then happy domestic circle listened with delight to her account of that far-distant land! What respect did the sonorous names of Bangalore and Cuddalore, and Nundy Droog and Severn Droog, and Hookhaburdar and Soontaburdars, and a host of others, excite in our young minds! In what happy accordance with school-boy thoughts were the descriptions she gave us of the fruits of that sunny clime—the luscious mango—the huge jack—the refreshing guava—and, above all, the delicious custard-apple, a production which I never in the least doubted contained the exact counterpart of that pleasant admixture of milk and eggs which daily excited my longing eyes amongst the tempting display of a pastry-cook’s window! Sometimes she rose to higher themes, in which the pathetic or adventurous predominated. How my poor cousin Will fell by the dagger of an assassin at the celebrated massacre of Patna; and how another venturous relative shot a tiger on foot, thereby earning the benedictions of a whole community of peaceful Hindoos, whose village had long been the scene of his midnight maraudings: this story, by the way, had a dash of the humorous in it, though relating in the main to a rather serious affair. It never lost its raciness by repetition, and whenever my mother told it, which at our request she frequently did, and approached what we deemed the comic part, our risibles were always on full-cock for a grand and simultaneous explosion of mirth.

Well, time rolled on; I had doubled the Cape of Good Hope, sweet sixteen, and the ocean of life and adventure lay before me. I stood five feet nine inches in my stockings, and possessed all the aspirations common to my age. “Frank, my love,” one day said my mother to me, at the conclusion of breakfast, “I have good news for you; that most benevolent of men, Mr. Versanket, has complied with my application, and given me an infantry cadetship for you; here,” she continued, “is his letter, read it, and ever retain, as I trust you will, a lively sense of his goodness.” I eagerly seized the letter, and read the contents with a kind of ecstasy. It expressed sympathy in my mothers difficulties, and an invitation to me to come to London and take advantage of his offer.

I will not dwell on the parting scenes. Suffice it to say, that I embraced those dear objects of my affection, many of whom I was never destined to embrace again, and bid a sorrowful long adieu to the parental roof. I arrived in the great metropolis, and prepared for my outfit and departure. Having completed the former—sheets, ducks, jeans, and gingerbread, tobacco to bribe old Neptune, brandy to mollify the sailors, and all et ceteras, according to the most approved list of Messrs. Welsh and Stalker—nought remained but to pass the India House, an ordeal which I was led to view with an indefinable dread. From whom I received the information I now forget, though it was probably from some one of that mischievous tribe of jokers, who love to sport with the feelings of youth; but I was told that it was absolutely necessary that I should learn by heart, as an indispensable preliminary to passing, the “Articles of War and Mutiny Act,” then forming one volume. What was my state of alarm and despondency as I handled that substantial yellow-backed tome, and reflected on the task I had to perform of committing its whole contents to memory in the brief space of one week! It haunted me in my dreams, and the thought of it, sometimes crossing my mind whilst eating, almost suspended the power of swallowing. I carried it about with me whereever I went, applying to it with desperate determination whenever a leisure moment, of which I had very few, would admit; but what I forced into my sensorium one moment, the eternal noise and racket of London drove out of it the next. To cut a long story short, the day arrived, “the all-important day,” big with my fate. I found myself waiting in the India House, preparatory to appearing before the directors, and, saving the first two or three clauses, the “Articles of War” were to me as a sealed volume. I was in despair; to be disgraced appeared inevitable. At last came the awful summons, and I entered the apartment, where, at a large table covered with green cloth, sat the “potent, grave, and reverend signiors,” who were to decide my fate. One of them, a very benevolent-looking old gentleman, with a powdered head, desired me to advance, and having asked me a few questions touching my name, age, &c., he paused, and, to my inexpressible alarm, took up a volume from the table, which was no other than that accursed piece of military codification of which I have made mention. Now, thought I, it comes, and all is over. After turning over the leaves for some seconds, he said, raising his head, “I suppose you are well acquainted with the contents of this volume?” Heaven forgive me! but the instinct of self-preservation was strong upon me, and I mumbled forth a very suspicious “Yes.” Ye generous casuists, who invent excuses for human frailty, plead for my justification. “Well,” continued he, closing the book, “conduct yourself circumspectly in the situation in which you are about to enter, and you will acquire the approbation of your superiors; you may now retire.” Those who can imagine the feelings of a culprit reprieved, after the fatal knot has been comfortably adjusted by a certain legal functionary; or those of a curate, with £50 per annum, and fifteen small children, on the announcement of a legacy of £10,000; or those of a respectable spinster of forty, on having the question unexpectedly popped; or, in short, any other situation where felicity obtrudes unlooked for, may form some idea of mine; I absolutely walked on air, relieved from this incubus, and gave myself up to the most delightful buoyancy of spirits. A few days more, and Mr. Cadet Francis Gernon found himself on board the Rottenbeam Castle, steering down Channel, and with tearful eyes casting a lingering gaze on the shores of old England.

CHAPTER II.

The first scene of this eventful drama closed with my embarkation on board the Rottenbeam Castle, bound for Bengal. Saving an Irish packet, this was the first ship on which I had ever set foot, and it presented a new world to my observation—a variety of sights and sounds which, by giving fresh occupation to my thoughts and feelings, served in some measure to banish the tristful remembrance of home. All, at first, was a chaos to me; but when the confusion incidental to embarkation and departure (the preliminary shake of this living kaleidoscope), a general clearing out of visitors, custom-house officers, bum-boat women, et hoc genus omne, had subsided, things speedily fell into that regular order characteristic of vessels of this description—each individual took up his proper position, and entered in an orderly manner on his prescribed and regular routine of duty; and I began to distinguish officers from passengers, and to learn the rank and importance of each respectively.

Before proceeding further with ship-board scenes, a slight sketch of a few of the dramatis personæ may not be unacceptable. And first, our commander, the autocrat of this little empire. Captain McGuffin was a raw-boned Caledonian, of some six foot three; a huge, red-headed man of great physical powers, of which, however, his whole demeanour, singularly mild, evinced a pleasing unconsciousness; bating the latter quality, he was just such a man of nerves and sinews as in the olden time, at Falkirk or Bannockburn, one could fancy standing like a tower of strength, amidst the din and clash of arms, “slaughing” off heads and arms, muckle broad-sword in hand, with fearful energy and effect. He had a sombre and fanatical expression of visage; and I never looked at his “rueful countenance” but I thought I saw the genuine descendant of one of those stern covenanters of yore, of whom I had read—one of those “crop-eared whigs” who, on lonely moor and mountain, had struggled for the rights of conscience, and fought with indomitable obstinacy the glorious fight of freedom.

I soon discovered I was not “alone in my glory,” and that another cadet was destined to share with me the honours of the “Griffinage.” He was a gawky, wide-mouthed fellow, with locks like a pound of candles, and trousers half-way up his calves; one who, from his appearance, it was fair to infer had never before been ten miles from his native village. It was a standing source of wonder to all on board (and to my knowledge the enigma was never satisfactorily solved), by what strange concurrence of circumstances, what odd twist of Dame Fortune’s wheel, this Gaspar Hauserish specimen of rusticity had attained to the distinguished honour of being allowed to sign himself “gentleman cadet,” in any “warrant, bill, or quittance;” but so it was. The old adage, however, applied in his case; he turned out eventually to be much less of a fool than he looked.

Our first officer, Mr. Gillans, was a thorough seaman, and a no less thorough John Bull; he had the then common detestation of the French and their imputed vices of insincerity, &c., and in endeavouring to avoid the Scylla of Gallic deceit, went plump into the Charybdis of English rudeness. He was in truth, a blunt, gruff fellow, who evidently thought that civility and poltroonery were convertible terms. The captain was the only person whom his respect for discipline ever allowed him to address without a growl; in short, the vulgar but expressive phrase, as “sulky as a bear with a sore head,” seemed made for him expressly, for in no case could it have been more justly applied. The second mate, Grinnerson, was a gentlemanly fellow on the whole, but a most eternal wag and joker. Cadets had plainly, for many a voyage, furnished him with subjects for the exercise of his facetious vein, and “Tom,” i.e. Mr. Thomas Grundy, and myself, received diurnal roastings at his hands. If I expressed an opinion, “Pardon me, my dear sir,” he would say, with mock gravity, “but it strikes me that, being only a cadet, you can know nothing about it;” or, “in about ten years hence, when you get your commission, your opinion ‘on things in general’ may be valuable.” If I flew out, or the peaceable Grundy evinced a disposition to “hog his back,” he would advise us to keep our temper, to be cool, assuring us, with dry composure, that the “cadets on the last voyage were never permitted to get into a passion.” In a word, he so disturbed my self-complacency, that I long gravely debated the question with myself, whether I ought not to summon him to the lists when I got to India, there to answer for his misdeeds. As the voyage drew towards a close, however, he let off the steam of his raillery considerably, and treated us with more deference and respect; thereby showing that he had studied human nature, and knew how to restore the equilibrium of a young man’s temper, by adding to the weight in the scale of self-esteem. Our doctor and purser are the only two more connected with the ship whom I shall notice. The first, Cackleton by name, was a delicate, consumptive, superfine person, who often reminded me of the injunction, “physician, heal thyself.” He ladled out the soup with infinite grace, and was quite the ladies’ man. His manners, indeed, would have been gentlemanly and unexceptionable had they not been for ever pervaded by an obviously smirking consciousness on his part that they were so. As for Cheesepare, the purser, all I shall record of him is, that by a happy fortune he had dropped into the exact place for which nature and his stars appeared to have designed him. He looked like a purser—spoke like a purser—ate and drank like a purser—and locked himself up for three or four hours per diem with his hooks and ledgers like a very praiseworthy purser. Moreover, he carved for a table of thirty or forty, with exemplary patience, and possessed the happy knack of disposing of the largest quantity of meat in the smallest given quantity of time of any man I ever met with, in order to be ready for a renewed round at the mutton.

Of passengers we had the usual number and variety: civilians, returning with wholesale stocks of English and continental experiences and recollections of the aristocratic association, &c., for Mofussil consumption; old officers, going back to ensure their “off-reckonings” preparatory to their final “off-reckoning;” junior partners in mercantile houses; sixteenth cousins from Forres and Invernesshire obeying the spell of kindred attraction (would that we had a little more of its influence south of the Tweed!); officers to supply the wear and tear of cholera and dysentery in his (then) Majesty’s regiments; matrons returning to expectant husbands, and bright-eyed spinsters to get—a peep at the country—nothing more;—then we had an assistant surgeon or two, more au fait at whist than Galenicals, and the two raw, unfledged griffins—to wit, Grundy and myself—completed the list. But of the afore-mentioned variety, I shall only select half a dozen for particular description, and as characteristic of the mass.

First, there was Colonel Kilbaugh, a colonel of cavalry and ex-resident of Paugulabad, who, in spite of his high-heeled Hobys, was a diminutive figure, pompous, as little men generally are, and so anxious, apparently, to convince the world that he had a soul above his inches, that egad, sir, it was dangerous for a man above the common standard of humanity to look at him, or differ in opinion in the slightest degree. His was in truth

A fiery soul, which, working out its way,

Fretted the pigmy body to decay.

He excelled (in his own estimation) in long stories, which he told with an extraordinary minuteness of detail. They generally began with, “Shortly after I was appointed to the residency of Paugulabad,” or, “The year before, or two years after, I left the residency of Paugulabad:” in short, that was his chronological starting-point. The colonel’s yarns principally (though not entirely) related to wonderful sporting exploits, and the greater the bounce the more scrupulously exact was he in the minutiæ, magnanimously disregarding the terrors of cross-examination, should a seven-foot mortal venture one. “It was the largest tiger that, sir, I ever killed; he stood 4 feet 4¾ inches to the top of his shoulder—4 feet 4¾ was it, by-the-bye?—no, I’m wrong; 4 feet 4½. I killed him with a double Joe I got from our doctor; I think it was the cold season before I left the residency of Paugulabad.” It was one of the most amusing things in the world to see him marching up and down the poop with our Colossus of a skipper—“Ossa to a wart”—one little fin of a hand behind his back, and laying down the law with the other; skipper, with an eye to future recommendation, very deferential of course.

Next, in point of rank, was Mr. Goldmore, an ex-judge of the Sudder Dewanny Adawlut; a man of birth and education, and an excellent sample of the distinguished service to which he belonged. His manners were kind and urbane, though he was a little peppery sometimes, particularly when I beat him at chess. He had come home a martyr to liver; and the yellow cheek, the lacklustre eye, and the feeble step, all told too plainly that he was returning to die. His wife, fifteen years younger than himself, exhibited beside him a striking contrast; she, “buxom, blithe, and debonnair”—a vigorous plant in florid pride; he, poor fellow, in the “sear and yellow” leaf. She was a warm-hearted, excellent creature, native goodness beaming in her eye, but had one fault, and that a prominent one. Having in India, as is often the case with the sex, been thrown much at out-stations amongst male society, she had insensibly adopted a “mannish” tone, used terms of Indian conventional slang—bad in a man, but odious from female lips—laughed heartily at stories seasoned with equivoque, and sometimes told such herself with off-hand naïveté at the cuddy-table, producing a wink from Mr. Grinnerson to Ensign O’Shaughnessy, and an uncommon devotion to his plate on the part of Mr. Goldmore himself.

Major Rantom, of the Dragoons—soldierly, gentleman-like, and five-and-thirty—commanded the detachment of troops, to which were attached Ensigns Gorman and O’Shaughnessy, two fine “animals,” that had recently been caught in the mountains of Kerry; and an ancient centurion, Capt. Marpeet, of the Native Infantry, must conclude these samples of the masculine gender. Marpeet was a character, upon the whole—a great man for short whist and Hodgson’s pale ale. The Sporting Magazine, Taplin’s Farriery, and Dundas’s Nineteen Manœuvres, seemed to have constituted the extent of his reading, though some conversation he one day had about “zubber, zeer, and pesh,” and that profound work the Tota Kuhannee, seemed to indicate that he had at least entered on the flowery paths of Oriental literature. Dundas, however, was his strong point—his tower of strength—his one idea. Ye powers! how amazingly convincing and fluent he was when he took that subject in hand! Many a tough discussion would he have with the pompous little colonel, whether the right or left stood fast, &c., and who, having been a Resident, and knowing, therefore, everything, of course knew something of that also.

But places aux demoiselles! make way for the spinsters! Let me introduce to the reader’s acquaintance Miss Kitty and Miss Olivia Jenkins, Miss Maria Balgrave, and Miss Anna Maria Sophia Dobbikins. The first two were going to their father, a general officer in the Madras Presidency; the eldest, Kitty, was a prude, haunted by the “demon of propriety,” the youngest, dear Olivia, a perfect giggle—with such a pair of eyes!—but “thereby hangs a tale.” Miss Maria Balgrave was consigned to a house of business in Calcutta, to be forwarded, by the first safe conveyance, up the country to her dear friend Mrs. Kurrybhat, the lady of Ensign Kurrybhat, who had invited her out; she was very plain, but of course possessed its usual concomitant, great amiability of temper. Miss Dobbikins was a Bath and Clifton belle, hackneyed and passé, but exhibiting the remains of a splendid face and figure; it was passing strange that so fine a creature should have attained a certain age without having entered that state which she was so well calculated to adorn, whilst doubtless many a snub-nosed thing had gone off under her own nose. I have seen many such cases; and it is a curious problem for philosophical investigation, why those whom “every one” admires “nobody” marries.

Having given these sketches of a few of my companions, let me now proceed with my voyage. Leaving Deal we had to contend with contrary winds, and when off Portsmouth, they became so adverse, that the captain determined on dropping anchor, and there wait a favourable change. In three days the wind became light, veered to the proper quarter, and our final departure was fixed for the following morning. My last evening off Portsmouth long remained impressed on my memory. Full often, in my subsequent wanderings in the silent forest or the lonely desert, in the hushed camp, or on the moon-lit rampart, where nought save the sentinel’s voice broke through the silence of the night, have I pictured this last aspect of my native land. I had been engaged below, inditing letters for home and other occupations, the whole day, when, tired of the confinement, I mounted on the poop: the parting glow of a summer’s evening rested on the scene—a tranquillity and repose little, alas! in consonance with the state of my feelings, once more painfully excited at the prospect of the severance from all that was dear to me. Hitherto excitement had sustained me, but now I felt it in its full force.

Land of my sires, what mortal hand

Can e’er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand?

I leant my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to sad and melancholy reflections. On one side stretched the beautiful coast of the Isle of Wight, whilst the fast-gathering shades of evening were slowly blending into one dark mass the groves and villas of Cowes; lights from many a pleasant window streamed across the rippling sea—lights, methought, cheering circles of happy faces, like those I lately gazed upon, but which I might never see more. Many a tall and gallant man-of-war rode ahead of us, fading in the gathering mist; boats, leaving their long, silvery tracks behind them, glided across the harbour; whilst the lights of the town, in rapid succession, broke forth as those of the day declined. The very tranquillity of such a scene as this, to a person in my then state of mind, by mocking, as it were, the inward grief, made it to be more deeply felt. I looked at my native shores, as a lover gazes on his mistress for the last time, till the boom of the evening gun, and the increasing darkness, warned me that it was time to go below.

Calm were the elements, night’s silence deep,

The waves scarce murmuring, and the winds asleep.

In a few days we were in the Bay of Biscay—and now my troubles began.

CHAPTER III.

The Bay of Biscay well merits its turbulent character; of this we soon had ample demonstration, for the Rottenbeam Castle had scarcely entered within its stormy bounds, when the wind, hitherto moderate, became rough and boisterous, and in a little time freshened almost to a gale; the vessel began to pitch and roll—the shrouds cracked—the few sails set were strained almost to splitting—and mountain seas with wild, foamy crests ever and anon burst over us, clearing the waist and forecastle, and making the “good ship” quiver through every plank and timber. These sublimities were quite new to me, and produced their usual effects on the unseasoned—an involuntary tribute to Old Ocean—not a metrical outpouring, but one of a less spiritual quality, on which it would be superfluous to dilate.

Our first day’s dinner on board, with things in the state I have described—i.e. the Rottenbeam Castle reeling and staggering like a drunken man—was a most comical affair, and I should have enjoyed it extremely had my nausea been less. It is true, with some variations, the scene was afterwards frequently repeated (except when sea-pie was the order of the day); but then, though I was no longer qualmish, it in turn had lost the master-charm of novelty. We were summoned to dinner as usual, on the day in question, by the drummers and fifers—or rather, to be more respectful, the “Captains Band;” but, from the difficulty of preserving an equilibrium, these worthies mangled the “Roast Beef of Old England” most unmercifully. The dapper little steward, with his train of subordinates, had some difficulty in traversing the deck with their savoury burthens; unable to march as before, heads erect, like a squad of recruits, the grand purveyor, with his silver tureen in the van, they now emerged theatrically from the culinary regions—advancing with slides and side-steps, like a corps de ballet—now a halt, then a simultaneous run—then balancing on one leg—and finally (hitting the moment of an equipoise) a dart into the cuddy, where, with some little difficulty, each contrived to deposit his dish. The passengers, emerging from various doors and openings, tottering and holding on as best they might, now made their way to seats, and amidst the most abominable creaking and groaning that ever saluted my ears the operation of dinner began. In spite of sand-bags, however, and all other appliances, there was no restraining the ambulatory freaks of the dishes, and we were scarcely seated when a tremendous lee-lurch sent a tureen of peasoup souse over the doctor s kerseymere waistcoat and Brummel tie; and a roast pig, as if suddenly resuscitated and endued with a spirit of frenzy, darted from its dish, and, cantering furiously down the whole length of the table, finally effected a lodgment in Miss Dobbikins’ lap, to the infinite dismay of that young lady, who uttering a faint shriek, hastily essayed, with Ensign O’Shaughnessy’s assistance, to divest herself of the intrusive porker. I, for my part, was nearly overwhelmed by an involuntary embrace from the charming Miss Olivia; whilst, to add to the confusion, at this particular moment, Mr. Cadet Grundy, governed rather by sight than a due consideration of circumstances and the laws of gravitation, made a desperate lunge at one of the swinging tables, which he thought was making a most dangerous approach to the perpendicular, in order to steady it, and the immediate result was, a fearful crash of glasses and decanters, and a plentiful libation of port and sherry.

“Are ye mod, sir, to do that?” exclaimed the captain, with ill-suppressed vexation at the destruction of his glasses, and forgetting his usual urbanity.

“I thought they were slipping off, sir,” said Grundy, with great humility.

“Ye ha’ slupped them off in gude airnest yeersel, sir,” rejoined Captain McGuffin, unable, however, to repress a smile, in which all joined, at the idea of Grundy’s extreme simplicity. “Dinna ye ken, sir, that it’s the ship, and not the swing-table, that loses its pairpendicular? Here, steward,” continued he, “clare away these frogments, and put mair glasses on the table.”

The colloquy ended, there was a further lull, when, heave yo ho! away went the ship on the other side; purser jammed up against the bulk-head—rolls—legs and wings—boiled beef, carrots, and potatoes, all racing, as if to see which would first reach the other side of the table. At this instant snap went a chair-lashing, and the ex-resident of Paugulabad was whirled out of the cuddy door, like a thunder-bolt.

“There she goes again!” exclaimed the second mate; “hold on, gentlemen.” The caution was well-timed, for down she went on the opposite tack; once more, the recoil brought the colonel back again, with the force of a battering-ram, attended by an awful smash of the butlers plate-basket, and other deafening symptoms of reaction. Oh, ’tis brave sport, a cuddy-dinner in an Indiaman, and your ship rolling gunwales under.

“By the powers, now, but this hates everything entirely,” exclaimed Ensign Gorman, who, like myself, was a griff, and had never witnessed anything of the sort before.

“Oh, its nothing at all this—mere child’s play, to what you’ll have round the Cape,” observed the second mate, grinning with malice prepense.

“The deuce take you, now, Grinnerson, for a Jove’s comforter,” rejoined the ensign, laughing; “sure if it’s worse than this, it is we’ll be sailing bottom upwards, and ateing our males with our heels in the air.”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s a mere trifle this to the rolling and pitching I myself have experienced,” said the little colonel, who having recovered his seat and composure, now put in his oar, unwilling to be silent when anything wonderful was on the tapis. “I remember,” continued the ex-resident, picking his teeth nonchalamment (he generally picked his teeth when delivered of a bouncer), “that was—let me see, about the year 1810—shortly after I resigned the residency of Paugulabad—we were off Cape Lagullas, when our vessel rolled incessantly for a fortnight in the heaviest sea I ever remember to have seen; we were half our time under water—a shark actually swam through the cuddy—everything went by the board—live stock all washed away—couldn’t cook the whole time, but lived on biscuit, Bologna sausages, Bombay ducks, and so forth. To give you an idea of it—ladies will excuse me—I actually wore out the seats of two pair of inexpressibles from the constant friction to which they were subjected—a sort of perpetual motion—no preserving the same centre of gravity for a single moment.”

This sally of the colonel’s had an equally disturbing effect on the gravity of the cuddy party, and all laughed heartily at it.

“You were badly enough off, certainly, colonel,” said our wag, the second officer (with a sly wink at one of his confederates); “but I think I can mention a circumstance of the kind still more extraordinary. When I was last in the China seas, in the John Tomkins, she rolled so prodigiously after a tuffoon, that she actually wore off all the copper sheathing, and very nearly set the sea on fire by this same friction you speak of. It’s strange, but as true as what you have just mentioned, colonel.”

“Sir,” said the colonel, bristling up, for he did not at all relish the drift of this story, “you are disposed to be pleasant, sir; facetious, sir; but let me beg in future that you will reserve your jokes for some one else, and not exhibit your humour at my expense, or it may be unpleasant to both of us.”

All looked grave—the affair was becoming serious—the colonel was a known fire-eater, and Grinnerson, who saw he had overshot the mark, seemed a little disconcerted, but struggled to preserve his composure—it was a juncture well calculated to test all the powers of impudence and tact of that very forward gentleman; but, somehow or other, he did back cleverly out of the scrape, without any additional offence to the colonel’s dignity, or a farther compromise of his own, and before the cloth was removed, a magnanimous challenge to Mr. Grinnerson, “to take wine,” came from the colonel (who at bottom was a very worthy little man, though addicted, unfortunately, to the Ferdinand Mendez Pinto vein), and convinced us that happily no other sort of challenge was to be apprehended. And so ended my first day’s dinner in a high sea in the Bay of Biscay.

Now had the moon, resplendent lamp of night,

O’er heaven’s pure azure shed her sacred light.

In plain prose, it was past seven bells, and I (like Mahomet’s coffin) was swinging in the steerage, forgetful of all my cares; whether in my dreams I was wandering once more, as in childhood’s days, by the flowery margin of the silver Avon, listening to the blackbird’s mellow note from the hawthorn dell—lightly footing the Spanish dance in Mangeon’s ball-room at Clifton—or comfortably sipping a cup of bohea in the family circle at home—I do not now well remember: but whatever was the nature of those sweet illusions, they were suddenly dispelled, in the dead of the night, by one of the most fearful agglomerations of stunning sounds that ever broke the slumbers of a cadet: groaning timbers—hoarse shouts—smashing crockery—falling knife-boxes—and the loud gurgling bubble of invading waters—all at once, and with terrible discord, burst upon my astonished ear. Thinking the ship was scuttling, or, that some other (to me unknown) marine disaster was befalling her, I sprung up in a state between sleeping and waking, overbalanced my cot, and was pitched out head-foremost on the deck. Here a body of water, ancle-deep, and washing to and fro, lent a startling confirmation to my apprehensions that the ship was actually in articulo immersionis. I struggled to gain my feet, knocked my naked shins against a box of saddlery of the major’s, slipped and slid about on the wet and slimy deck, and finally, my feet flying from under me, came bump down on the broadest side of my person, with stunning emphasis and effect. Another effort to gain the erect position was successful, and, determined to visit the “glimpses of the moon” once more before I became food for fishes, I hurriedly and instinctively scrambled my way towards the companion ladder. Scarcely was I in its vicinity, and holding on by a staunchion, when the vessel gave another profound roll, so deep that the said ladder, being ill-secured, fell over backwards, saluting the deck with a tremendous bang, followed by a second crash, and bubbling of waters effecting a forcible entry. Paralyzed and confounded by this succession of sounds and disasters, I turned, still groping in the darkness, to seek some information touching this uproar, from some one of the neighbouring sleepers. I soon lighted on a hammock, and tracing the mummy-case affair from the feet upwards my hands rested on a cold nose, then a rough curly pate surmounting it, whose owner, snoring with a ten-pig power, would, I verily believe, have slept on had the crash of doom been around him. “Hollo! here,” said I, giving him a shake. A grunt and a mumbled execration were all it elicited. I repeated the experiment, and having produced some symptoms of consciousness, begged earnestly to know if all I had described was an ordinary occurrence, or if we were really going to the bottom. I had now fairly roused the sleeping lion; up he started in a terrible passion; asked me what the deuce made me bother him with my nonsense at that time of night, and then, consigning me to a place whence no visitor is permitted to return, once more addressed himself to his slumbers. This refreshing sample of nautical philosophy, though rather startling, convinced me that I had mistaken the extent of the danger; in fact, there was none at all; so feeling my way back to my cot, I once more, though with becoming caution, got into it, determined, sink or swim, to have my sleep out. On rising, disorder and misery, in various shapes, a wet deck and boxes displaced, met my view; I found my coat and pantaloons pleasantly saturated with sea-water, which it appeared had entered by an open port or scuttle, and that my boots had sailed away to some unknown region on a voyage of discovery. “Oh! why did I ‘list?’” I exclaimed, in the bitterness of my discomfort; “why did I ever ‘list?’” Ye cadets, attend to the moral which this narrative conveys, and learn, by my unhappy example, always to secure your toggery, high and dry, before you turn in, and to study well the infirmities of that curious pendulum balance, the cot, lest, like me, ye be suddenly decanted therefrom on the any-thing-but-downy surface of an oaken deck!

With what feelings of delight does the youth first enter upon the fairy region of the tropics, a region which Cook and Anson, and the immortal fictions of St. Pierre and De Foe, have invested in his estimation with a sweet and imperishable charm! The very air to him is redolent of a spicy aroma, of a balmy and tranquillizing influence, whilst delicious but indefinable visions of the scenes he is about to visit—of palmy groves, and painted birds, and coral isles “in the deep sea set,” float before him in all those roseate hues with which the young and excited fancy loves to paint them. Paul and Virgina—Robinson—Friday—goats—savages and monkeys—ye are all for ever bound to my heart by the golden links of early association and acquaintanceship. Happy Juan Fernandez, too! Atalantis of the wave—Utopia of the roving imagination—how oft have I longed to abide in ye, and envied Robinson his fate—honest man of goatskins and unrivalled resources! But one ingredient, a wife, was wanting to complete your felicity; had you but rescued one of the Miss Fridays from the culinary fate designed for her brother, and made her your companion, you would have been the most comfortable fellow on record.

Griffin as I was I partook strongly of these common but delightful feelings I have attempted to describe, and in the change of climate and objects which every week’s sail brought forth, found much to interest and excite me—the shoal of flying-fish, shooting like a silver shower from the ocean, and skimming lightly over the crested waves; the gambols of the porpoise; the capture of a shark; fishing for bonetta off the bowsprit; a waterspout; speculations on a distant sail; her approach; the friendly greeting; the first and last!—were all objects and events pleasing in themselves, but doubly so when viewed in relation to the general monotony of a life at sea. Nothing, I think, delighted me more than contemplating the gorgeous sunsets, as we approached the equator. Here, in England, that luminary is a sickly affair, but particularly so when viewed through our commonly murky atmosphere, and there may be some truth in the Italian’s splenetic remark in favour of the superior warmth of the moon of his own country. But in the fervid regions of the tropics it is that we see the glorious emblem of creative power in all his pride and majesty, whether rising in his strength, “robed in flames and amber light,” ruling in meridian splendour, or sinking slowly to rest on his ocean couch of gold and crimson, in softened but ineffable refulgence; it is (but particularly in its parting aspect) an object eminently calculated to awaken the most elevated thoughts of the Creator’s power, mingled with a boundless admiration for the beauty of His works. Yes, neither language, painting, nor poetry, can adequately portray that most glorious of spectacles—a tropical sunset.

Ensign O’Shaughnessy having sworn “by all the bogs in Kerry,” that he would put a brace of pistol-balls through Neptune, or Juno, or any “sa God” of them all, that should dare to lay hands upon him; and a determination to resist the initiatory process of ducking in bilge-water, and shaving with a rusty hoop, having manifested itself in other quarters, Captain McGuffin, glad of a pretext, and really apprehensive of mischief, had it intimated to the son of Saturn and his spouse, that their visit in crossing the line would be dispensed with. In so doing, it appears to me that he exercised a wise discretion; Neptune’s tomfooleries, at least when carried to their usual extent, being one of those ridiculous customs “more honoured in the breach than in the observance;” one which may well be allowed to sleep with “Maid Marian,” “the Lord of Misrule” and other samples of the “wisdom of our ancestors,” who were emphatically but “children of a larger growth,” to whom horse play and “tinsel” were most attractive. On crossing the equator, however, the old but more harmless joke of exhibiting the line through a telescope was played off on one greenhorn, sufficiently soft to admit of its taking effect.

“Do you make it out, Jones?” said Grinnerson, who had got up the scene, to one of the middys, a youngster intently engaged in reconnoitering through a glass half as long as himself.

“I think I do, sir,” said Jones, with a difficultly-suppressed grin.

“What is he looking for?” asked the simple victim.

“The Line, to be sure; didn’t I tell you we were to cross it to-day?”

“Oh yes, I remember; I should like amazingly to see it, if you would oblige me with the telescope.”

“Oh, certainly; Jones, give Mr. Brown the glass.”

The soft man took it, looked, but declared that he saw nought but sky and sea.

“Here, try mine,” continued the second mate; “’tis a better one than that you have,” handing him one with a hair or wire across the large end of it. “Now do you see it?”

“I think I do; oh, yes, most distinctly. And that really is the line? Bless me, how small it is!”

This was the climax; the middys held their mouths, and sputtering, tumbled in a body down the ladder to have their laugh out, whilst a general side-shaking at the griff’s expense took place amongst the remaining group on the poop.

Well, the stormy dangers of the Cape safely passed, the pleasant isles of Johanna, sweet as those which Waller sung, duly visited—Dondra Head—Adam’s Peak—the woody shores of Ceylon here skirted and admired, those beautiful shores, where

Partout on voit mûrir, partout on voit éclore,

Et les fruits de Pomone et les présents de Flore;

and the “spicy gales” from cinnamon groves duly snuffed up and appreciated (entre nous, a burnt pastile of Mr. Grinnerson’s, and not Ceylon, furnished the “spicy gales” on this occasion), we found ourselves at last off the far-famed coast of Coromandel, and fast approaching our destination.

It is pleasant at certain seasons to glide over the summer seas of these delightful latitudes, whilst the vessel spreads abroad all her snowy canvas to arrest every light and vagrant zephyr, to hang over the side, and whilst the ear is soothed by the lapping ripple of small, crisp waves, idly breaking on the vessel’s bows as she moves scarce perceptibly through them, to gaze on the sky and ocean, and indulge in that half-dreamy listlessness when gentle thoughts unbidden come and go. How beautiful is the dark blue main, relieved by the milk-white flash of the seabird’s wing! how picturesque the Indian craft, with their striped latteen sails, as they creep along those palm-covered coasts, studded with temples and pagodas! and seaward resting on the far-off horizon, how lovely the fleecy piles of rose-tinted clouds, seeming to the fancy the ethereal abodes of pure and happy spirits! There is in the thoughts to which such scenes give birth a rationality as improving to the heart as it is remote from a forced and mawkish sentimentality. Such were my sensations as we crept along the Indian coast, till in a few days the Rottenbeam Castle came to anchor in the roads of Madras, amidst a number of men-of-war, Indiamen, Arab grabs, and country coasters.

The first thing we saw, on dropping anchor, was a man-of-war’s boat pulling for us, which created a considerable sensation amongst the crew, to whom the prospect of impressment was anything but agreeable. The boat, manned by a stout crew of slashing young fellows, in straw hats, and with tattooed arms, was soon alongside, and the lieutenant, with the air of a monarch, mounted the deck. He was a tall, strapping man, with a hanger banging against his heels, loose trousers, a tarnished swab (epaulette) on his shoulder, and a glazed cocked-hat stuck rakishly fore and aft on his head: in my idea, the very beau idéal of a “first leftenant.”

CHAPTER IV.

In the last chapter I left the Rottenbeam Castle just arrived in the roads of Madras, and the frigate’s boat alongside. Our commander, with a grave look, advanced to meet the officer, who, saluting him in an easy and off-hand manner, announced himself as lieutenant of H.M. ship Thunderbolt, and desired him “to turn up the hands.” Captain McGuffin was beginning to remonstrate, declaring that some of his best sailors had been pressed a few days before (which was the fact), and that he had barely sufficient to carry the ship round to Bengal, &c., when the lieutenant cut him short, declaring he had nothing to do with that matter; that his orders were peremptory, and must be obeyed.

“I shall appeal to the admiral,” said our skipper, rather ruffled.

“You may appeal to whom you choose, sir,” replied the lieutenant, somewhat haughtily, and giving his hanger a kick, to cause it to resume its hindward position; “but now, and in the meantime, if you please, you’ll order up your men.”

These were “hard nuts” for McGuffin “to crack;” on his own deck too, where he had reigned absolute but a few minutes before—

The monarch of all he survey’d,

Whose right there was none to dispute.

But he felt that the iron heel of a stronger despotism than his own was upon him, and that he had no resource but submission. He consequently gave the necessary orders, and straightway the shrill whistle of the boatswain was soon heard, summoning the sailors to the muster.

“Onward they moved, a melancholy band,” slouching and hitching up their trousers, and were soon ranged in rank and file along the deck. The lieutenant stalked up the line (he certainly was a noble-looking fellow, just the man for a cutting-out party, or to head a column of boarders), and turned several of them about, something after the manner in which a butcher in Smithfield selects his fat sheep, and then putting aside those he thought worthy of “honour and hard knocks” in his Majesty’s service, he ordered them forthwith to bring up their hammocks and kits, and prepare for departure. Amongst those thus unceremoniously chosen to increase the crew of the Thunderbolt, were two or three ruddy, lusty lads, who had come out as swabs, or loblolly boys, and were making their first voyage, to see how the life of a sailor agreed with them, little thinking, a few days before, of the change that awaited them. I think I see them now, blubbering as they descended the side, with their hammocks and small stocks of worldly goods on their shoulders, waving adieu to their comrades, and thinking, doubtless, of “home, sweet home,” and what “mother would say when she heard of it.” On one old man-of-war’s man of the Rottenbeam Castle, whom I had often noticed, the lieutenant, keen as a hawk, pounced instanter; his experienced eye detecting at once in the long pigtail, corkscrew ringlets, and devil-may-care air of honest Jack, the true outward characteristics of that noble but eccentric biped, a downright British tar, and prime seamen. “You’ll do for us,” said the lieutenant, taking him by the collar of his jacket, and leading him out. “There’s two words to that there bargain, sir,” said Jack (who had had quantum suff. of the reg’lar sarvice), with the air of one who knew that he stood on unassailable ground. So squirting out a little ’baccy juice, and rummaging his jacket-pocket, he produced therefrom a tin tobacco-box, of more than ordinary dimensions, from which, after considerable fumbling (for Jack was evidently unused to handling literary documents of any kind), he extracted a soiled and tattered “protection,” which, deliberately unfolding (a ticklish operation, by the way, the many component parallelograms being connected by the slenderest filaments), he handed it over to the lieutenant. Having so done, he hitched up his waistband, with his dexter fin, tipped his comrades something between a nod and a wink, as much as to say, “I think that’ll bring him up with a round turn,” and stroking down his hair, awaited the result. The officer cast his eye over the thing of shreds and patches. It contained a “true bill,” so he returned it; and Jack, having carefully packed and re-stowed his “noli me tangere,” gave another squirt, and rolled off in triumph to the forecastle. The only fellow glad to go “to sarve him Majesty”—I blush whilst I record it—was Massa Sambo, a good-humoured nigger, and a fine specimen of the mere animal man, who, having received more of what is vulgarly termed “monkey’s allowance” on board the Rottenbeam Castle than suited him, left us in a high glee, grinning, capering, slapping his hands and singing “Rule Britannia” in regular “Possum up a gum-tree” style, to the great amusement of us all.

Madras, from the roads, wore to me a very picturesque and interesting appearance; the long ranges of white verandahed buildings, the noble fort, with England’s meteor standard floating from the flag-staff, the beach, the blue sky, the cocoa-nut trees, the white wreaths of breaking surf, the shipping, the Massoolah boats, the native craft, all constituted a novel and striking coup d’œil, which fully realized what in imagination I had pictured it. Looking over the side, shortly after we had anchored, I perceived to my astonishment, a naked figure walking apparently on the surface of the sea, and rapidly approaching us. This was a catamaran man, the bearer of a despatch from the shore. His diminutive bark, three or four logs, half submerged, and on which he had ploughed through the surf, was soon alongside, and the brown and dripping savage (for such he looked) scrambling on board. He sprung upon the deck, as a favourite opera-dancer bounds upon the stage, confident of an applauding welcome, and, making a ducking salaam, proceeded, in a very business-like manner, to disengage from his head a conical salt-basket sort of hat, from which, secured under a fold of linen, he produced his letters safe and dry; these with the words, “chit, sahib,” spoken in tones as delicate as the frame of the speaker, he immediately delivered to the captain. The arrival of this messenger caused a considerable sensation, and the griffs of all descriptions gathered round him, conning the strange figure with open mouths and wondering eyes. The ladies, too (stimulated by curiosity), rushed to the cuddy door to have a peep at him, but made a rapid retreat on perceiving the paradisiacal costume of our hero. I shall never forget Miss Olivia’s involuntary scream, or Miss Dobbikins’ expression of countenance, on suddenly confronting this little swarthy Apollo:—

Horror in all his majesty was there,

Mute and magnificent without a tear.

Our admiration of the catamaran man had hardly subsided when a far more extraordinary character made his appearance. “Avast there, my hearties!” sounded the rough voice of a seaman, “and make way for the commodore.” As he spoke, the crowd of sailors and recruits opened out, and his Excellency Commodore Cockle, chief of the catamarans, was seen advancing in great state from the gangway. This potent commander, who, by the way, had performed his toilet in transitu, after passing through the surf, was attired in an old naval uniform coat, under which appeared his naked neck and swarthy bosom; a huge cocked-hat, “which had seen a little service,” a pair of kerseymere dress shorts, without stockings, and a swinging hanger banging at his heels, made up as strange a figure of the genus scarecrow as I ever remember to have seen out of a cornfield.

“By the powers, Pat, and what have we here?” said Mick Nolan, one of the recruits, to his comrade Pat Casey.

“Faith,” says Pat, “and myself can’t tell ye, unless ’tis one of them Ingine rajahs, or ould Neptune himself, that should have been after shaving us off the line.”

“Devil a bit,” rejoined Mick; “I’m thinking it’s something of an Aistern Guy Fawkes, that’s going to play off some of his fun amongst us.”

Thus speculated the jokers, whilst the commodore, fully impressed with a sense of his importance, swaggered about the deck with all the quiet pride of a high official, putting questions, and replying to the queries of old acquaintance. Alas! poor human nature! thou art everywhere essentially the same. Dear to thee is a little power and authority in any shape, and thou exhibitest thy “fantastic tricks” as much in the bells and feathers of the savage, as under the coif of the judge, or the ermine of the monarch! The “Commodore,” to whom the English cognomen of “Cockle” had been given, exercised his high functions under a commission furnished him by some wag, but of which he was quite as proud as if it had emanated from royalty itself. It was couched in the proper lingua technica of such instruments, and commenced in something like the following manner: “Know all men by these presents, that our trusty and well-beloved Cockle is hereby constituted Commodore and Commander of the Catamaran Squadron, and duly empowered to exercise all the high functions thereunto appertaining. The aforesaid Cockle is authorized to render his services to all parties requiring them, on their paying for the same. All captains and commanders of his Majesty’s and the Honourable Company’s ships, and of all other ships and vessels whatsoever, are hereby required and directed to take fruit, fish, eggs, &c., from the said Cockle (if they think fit), on their paying him handsomely in the current coin of the realm, &c.”

The next day the passengers went ashore; officers full fig; ladies, civilians, and cadets, all in their best attire, crowding the benches of the Massoolah boat, and balancing, and holding on as best they could. Of all sea-going craft, from the canoe of the Greenlander to the line-of-battle-ship, the Massoolah boat is, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary. Imagine a huge affair, something in shape like one of those paper cock-boats which children make for amusement, or an old-fashioned tureen, or the transverse section of a pear or pumpkin, stem and stern alike, composed of light and flexible planks, sewn together with coir, and riding buoyant as a gull on the heaving wave, the sides rising six feet or so above its surface, the huge empty shell crossed by narrow planks or benches, on which, when seated, or rather roosted, your legs dangle in air several feet from the bottom: further, picture in the fore-part a dozen or more spare black creatures, each working an unwieldy pole-like paddle to a dismal and monotonous chant—and you may have some idea of a Massoolah boat and its equipage; the only thing, however, that can live in the tremendous surf that lashes the coast of Coromandel.

“Are you all right there, in the Massoolah boat?” shouted one of the ship’s officers.

“Ay, ay, sir,” responded a little middy in charge of us.

“Cast her off then,” said the voice; and immediately the connecting rope was thrown on board, and off we swung, gently rising and falling on the long undulations, which were soon to assume the more formidable character of bursting surges. As we advance, I honestly confess, though I put a bold face on it, I felt most confoundedly nervous, being under serious apprehensions that one of the many sharks I had just seen would soon have the pleasure of breakfasting on a gentleman cadet, cote-lettes à la Griffin, no doubt, if gastronomy ranks as an art amongst that voracious fraternity. On approaching the surf, the boatmen’s monotonous chant quickened to a wild ulluloo. We were in medias res. I looked astern, and there, at some distance, but in full chase, advanced a curling mountain-billow, opening its vast concave jaws, as if to devour us. On, on it came. “Ullee! ullee! ullee!” shouted the rowers; smash came the wave; up flew the stern, down went the prow; squall went the ladies, over canted the major, Grundy, and the ex-resident, while those more fortunate in retaining their seats held on with all the energy of alarm with one hand and dashed the brine from their habiliments with the other. The wave passed, and order a little restored, the boatmen pulled again with redoubled energy, to make as much way as they could before the next should overtake us. It soon came, roaring like so many fiends, and with nearly similar results. Another and another followed, till, at last, the unwieldy bark, amidst an awful bobbery, swung high and dry on the shelving beach; and out we all sprung, right glad once more to feel ourselves on terra firma, respecting which, be it observed, en passant, I hold the opinion of the Persian, that a yard of it is worth a thousand miles of salt-water.

Here then was I at last, in very truth, treading the soil of India—of that wondrous, teaming, and antique land, the fertile subject of my earliest thoughts and imaginations—that land whose “barbaric pearl and gold” has stimulated the cupidity of nations down the long stream of time, from Sabæan, Phœnician, Tyrian, and Venetian, to Mynheer Van Stockenbreech, and honest John Bull himself—whose visionary luxuries have warmed full many a Western poet’s imagination, and whose strange vicissitudes have furnished such ample matter to adorn the moralist’s and historian’s pages.

As I gazed on the turbaned crowds, the flaunting robes, the huge umbrellas, the passing palankeens, the black sentinels, the strange birds, and even (pardon the climax) the little striped squirrels, which gambolled up and down the pillars of the custom-house—sights so new and strange to me,—I almost began to doubt my own identity, and to think I had fallen into some new planet. Assuredly, of all the sunny moments which chequer the path of life’s pilgrimage here below, there are few whose brightness can compare with those of our first entrance on a new and untrodden land. What music is there in every sound! What an exhilarating freshness in every object! The peach’s bloom, the butterfly’s down, or the painted bubble, however, are but types of them. Alas! as of all sublunary enjoyments, they vanish upon contact, or at best, bear not long the grasp of possession.

My feelings were still in a state of tumultuous excitement, when, gazing about, I observed a native, in flowing robes and large gold ear rings, bearing down upon me. With a profound salaam, and the smirking smile of an old acquaintance, he proceeded to address me:

“How d’ye do, Sare?” said he.

“Pretty well, thank you,” said I, smiling; “but who are you?”

“I, Ramee Sawmee Dabash, Sare, come to make master proper compliment. Very glad to see master safe on shore; too much surf, I think, and master’s coat leetle wet.”

“Not a little,” said I, “for we have all had a complete sousing.”

“Oh, never mind souse, Sare; I take to Navy Tavern there makee changee—eat good dinner. Navy Tavern very good place—plenty gentlemen go there.”

“Where you please,” said I; “I am at your service.”

“Ver well, Sare; but (in a tone of entreaty) you please not forget my name, Ramee Sawmee Dabash—master’s dabash—I am ver honest man; too much every gentleman know me.”

Here Ramee Sawmee unconsciously spoke the truth, as I had afterwards full occasion to discover. I was soon besieged with more of these gentry offering their services; but Ramee Sawmee, having the best right to pluck me, by reason of prior possession, ordered them off indignantly; and not to incur risks by unnecessary delays, he called a palankeen, and requested me to get into it. In I tumbled, wrong side foremost, and off we started for the Navy Tavern. He ran alongside, not wishing to lose sight of me for a moment, pouring his disinterested advice into my ear in one voluble and continuous stream.

“Master, you please take care; dis place,” said he, “too much dam rogue, this Madras; plenty bad beebee, and some rascal dabash ver much cheatee gentlemen. I give master best advice. I ver honest man.”

I thought myself singularly fortunate, in the simplicity of my griffinish heart, in having fallen in with so valuable a character; but, in the sequel, as has been before hinted, I discovered what, I dare say, many a griff had discovered before, that Ramee Sawmee had a little overestimated himself in the above particular article of honesty.

Sweltering through a broiling sun, and abundance of dust, we reached the Navy Tavern, a building somewhat resembling, if I recollect rightly, one of our own green verandah’d suburban taverns, in which comfortable cits dine and drink heavy wet in sultry summer evenings. Here I found a vast congregation of naval and military officers, red coats and blue; mates, midshipmen, pursers, captains, and cadets; some playing billiards, some smoking, and others drowning care in bowls of sangaree, in which fascinating beverage, by the way, with guavas, pine-apples, &c., I also indulged, till brought up, some time after, by a pleasant little touch of dysentery, which had nearly produced a catastrophe; amongst the dire consequences of which would have been the non-appearance of these valuable Memoirs. From the Navy Tavern, Grundy and I went the next day to the quarters appointed for young Bengal officers detained at Madras. These consisted of some tents pitched in an open sandy spot, within the fort, and presented few attractions; besides some small ones for dormitories, there was a larger one dignified with the appellation of the mess-tent. Here, at certain stated hours, a purveyor, denominated a butler, but as unlike “one of those gentlemanly personages so called at home as can well be imagined, placed breakfast, tiffin, and dinner, on table at so much ahead. For two or three days I revelled in the delights of sour Madeira, tough mutton, and skinny kid, with yams, and other miserable succedanea for European vegetables. An Egyptian plague of flies, and a burning sun beating through the single cloth of the tent, made up the sum of the agreeables to which we were subjected. My faith in the “luxuries of the East” had received a severe shock, and I was fast tending to downright infidelity on that head, when a big-whiskered fellow, with turban, badge, and silver stick, put a billet into my hand, which was the means of soon restoring me to the pale of orthodoxy. It was from an eccentric baronet, to whom I had brought letters and a parcel from his daughter in England, and ran thus:

“Col. Sir Jeremy Skeggs presents his compliments to Mr. Gernon, and thanks him for the care he has taken of the letters, &c., from his daughter. Mrs. Hearty, Sir J. Skeggs sister, will be happy to see Mr. G., and will send a palankeen for him.”

I packed up my all (an operation soon effected), got into an elegant palankeen, which made its appearance shortly after the note, and escorted by a body of silver-stick men (for Mr. Hearty was “a man in authority”), I bade adieu to the tents, and leaving Grundy and some other cadets, though with a strong commiserative feeling, to struggle with the discomforts I have mentioned, was conveyed at a slapping pace to my host’s garden residence, on the Mount Road. This was a flat roofed building, in the peculiar style of the country, of two stories—a large portico occupying nearly the whole length of the front. It was approached by a long avenue of parkinsonias, and surrounded, and partly obscured, by rich masses of tropical foliage, in which the bright green of the plantain contrasted pleasingly with the darker hues of the mango and the jack. Beyond the house stretched a pleasant domain, slightly undulating, dotted with clumps, and intersected by rows of cocoa-nut trees. Here it constituted one of my chief pleasures to saunter, to chase the little striped squirrels up the trees, or to watch the almost as agile ascent of the toddyman, as he mounted by a most simple contrivance the tall and branchless stems to procure the exhilarating juice; or to pelt the paroquets, as they clung screaming to the pendent leaves. To possess a parrot of my own, in England, had long constituted one of the unattainable objects of my juvenile ambition. I had longed so much for it, that an inordinate idea of the value of parrots had clung to me ever since. To see them, therefore, by dozens, in their wild state, was like in some measure spreading out before me the treasures of Golconda.

Mr. Hearty met me at the entrance, shook me very cordially by the hand, and taking me into the apartment where his wife and several other ladies were sitting, he presented me to the former, by whom I was very graciously received.

“Mr. Gernon, my love,” said he, “whom your brother, Sir Jeremy, has been so kind as to introduce to us.”

“We are very glad indeed to see you,” said the lady, rising and taking my hand, “and hope you will make this house your home whilst the ship remains.” I profoundly bowed my thanks.

“Mr. Hearty, my dear, will you shew Mr. Gernon his room—he may wish to arrange his things—and then bring him back to us?”

This was cordial and gratifying. I am apt to generalize from a few striking particulars. So I set the Madrassees down at once as polished and hospitable in the extreme—a perfectly correct inference, I believe, however precipitately formed by me on that occasion. Mr. Hearty was a fine, erect, fresh old gentleman, of aristocratic mien and peculiarly pleasing address. His manners, indeed, were quite of what is termed the old school, dignified and polished, but withal a little formal; far superior, however, to modern brusquerie, and that selfishness of purpose which, too often disdaining disguise, sets at nought the “small courtesies” which so greatly sweeten existence. His wife, much his junior, was a handsome woman of eight-and-twenty, gay and lively, and apparently much attached to her lord, in spite of the disparity of their years. He, in fact, was one of those rarely-seen well-preserved old men, of whom a young woman might be both proud and fond. My host lived in the good old style of Indian hospitality, of which absence of unnecessary restraint, abundance of good cheer, and the most unaffected and cordial welcome, constituted the essential elements.

In India, from various causes, perhaps sufficiently obvious, the English heart, naturally generous and kind, has or had full room for expansion; and the “luxury of doing good,” in the shape of assembling happy faces around the social board, can be enjoyed, without, as too frequently the case here, the concomitant dread of outrunning the constable, or trenching too deeply on the next day’s quantum of hashed mutton. Certainly, our close packing in these densely populated lands may give us polish, but it rubs off much of the natural enamel of our virtues.

Mr. Hearty’s house was quite Liberty Hall, in its fullest meaning. Each guest had his bedroom, where he could read, write, or doze; or if he preferred it, he could hunt squirrels, shoot with a rifle, as my friend, the Scotch cadet, and I did; sit with the ladies in the drawing room and play the flute, or enjoy any other equally intellectual amusement, between meals, at which the whole party, from various quarters, were wont to assemble, rubbing their hands, and greeting in that warm manner, which commonly results where people have been well employed in the interim, and not had too much of each other’s company. Mr. Hearty’s house was full of visitors from all points of the compass.

There was a captain of cavalry and lady, from Bangalore; a very dyspeptic-looking doctor from Vizagapatam; a missionary, bent on making the natives “all samo master’s caste,” through the medium of his proper vernacular; a strapping Scotch artillery cadet, before alluded to, some six feet two, and who was my particular friend and crony, with several others, birds of passage like myself. Amongst these, to my great delight and astonishment, I found the lovely Miss Olivia and her sister. Now, then, reader, prepare yourself for one of the most soul-stirring and pathetic passages of these Memoirs. Shade of Petrarch, I invoke thee! spirit of Jean Jacques, impart thy aid, whilst in honest but tender guise I pour forth my “confessions.” Yes, as an honest chronicler of events, I am bound to tell it—the candour of a griffin demands that it should out. I fell over head and ears in love—’twas a most violent attack I had, and I think I was full three months getting the better of it. It would be, however, highly derogatory to the dignity of that pleasing passion, were I to trail the account of its manifestations at the fag end of a chapter; I shall, therefore, reserve my confessions of the “soft impeachment,” and my voyage to Calcutta, for the next.

CHAPTER V.

“Peace be with the soul of that charitable and courteous author, who, for the common benefit of his fellow-authors, introduced the ingenious way of miscellaneous writing!”—so says the great Lord Shaftesbury; and I heartily respond to the sentiment, that mode admitting of those easy transitions from “grave to gay, from lively to severe,” which so well agree with my discursive humour. Having thus premised, let me proceed with my story, which now begins to assume a graver aspect.

Love, that passion productive of so many pains and pleasures to mortals, the most easily, perhaps, awakened, and the most difficult to control, begins full early with some of us (idiosyncratically susceptible) to manifest its disturbing effects: the little volcano of the heart (to speak figuratively) throws out its transient and flickering flames long anterior to a grand eruption. Lord Byron’s history exhibits a great and touching example of this; his early but unrequited attachment to the beautiful Miss Chaworth served undoubtedly, in after-life, to tinge his character with that sombre cast which has imparted itself to the splendid creations of his immortal genius. Like him (if I may dare include myself in the same category), when but nine or ten summers had passed over my head, I too had my “lady love,” who, albeit no Mary Chaworth, was nevertheless a very pretty little blue-eyed girl, the daughter of our village doctor. I think I now behold her, in the eye of my remembrance, with her white muslin frock, long pink sash, and necklace of coral beads, her flaxen curls flying wildly in the breeze, or sporting in all conceivable lines of beauty over her alabaster neck and forehead. Full joyous was I when an invitation came for Master Frank Gernon and his brother Tom to drink tea at Dr. Anodyne’s. How motherly and kind was good Mrs. Anodyne on these occasions! how truly liberal of her pound-cake and syllabub!

Dear woman! spite of thy many failings, which all “lean to virtue’s side,” in the sweet relations of mother, wife, sister, friend, thou art a being to be almost worshipped. ’Tis you who hold man’s destinies in your hands. Harden your minds without the limits of blue-stockingism, as a counterpoise to the softness of your hearts; acquire independence of thought and moral courage, and you will yet convert the world into a paradise! The little bard of Twickenham has, on the whole, maligned you: mistaken the factitious for the original; the faults of education for the defects of nature; the belle of 1700 for the woman of all time—but was still right when he said,

Courage with softness, modesty with pride,

Fix’d principles—with fancy ever new;

Shake all together, it produces—you.

Pretty Louisa! my first love, long since perhaps the mother of a tribe of little rustics; or sleeping, perchance, soundly in your own village churchyard! like a fairy vision, you sometimes visit me in my dreams, or, when quitting for a season the stern, hard realities which environ my manhood, I lose myself in the sweet remembrances of boyhood’s days! Well, this was my first grand love affair; now for my next, to which I deem it a fitting preliminary. Griffins, look to your hearts, for you will have some tough assaults made upon that susceptible organ on the other side of the Cape, where (owing, I am told, to the high range of the thermometer) it becomes morbidly sensitive. Take care, too, you do not have to sing, with a rather lachrymose twist of the facial muscles, “Dark is my doom!” or, led on by your sensibilities within the toils of a premature matrimonial union, you have not to inscribe over your domicile, “spes et fortuna valete!”

The party at Mr. Hearty’s, or some of them, rode out every evening in the carriage, and I generally, like a gallant griffin, took up a position by the steps, for the purpose of handing them in—that is, the female portion. The precise amount of pressure which a young lady of sixteen (not stone, but years, be pleased to understand, for it makes a material difference) must impart to a young gentleman’s hand, when he tenders his services on occasions of this nature, in order to be in love with him, is a very nice and curious question in “Amorics” (I take credit for the invention of that scientific term). In estimating it, however, so many things may affect the accuracy of a judgment, that it is perhaps undesirable to rely on deductions therefrom, either one way or the other, as a secure basis for ulterior proceedings. Touching the case of the charming Olivia and myself, though there was certainly evidence of the high-pressure system, I might long have felt at a loss to decide on the real state of her feelings, had not my hand on these occasions been accepted with a tell-tale blush, and a sweet and encouraging smile, that spoke volumes. Let me not be accused of vanity, if I say, then, that the evidence of my having made an impression on the young and susceptible heart of Olivia Jenkins was too decided to be mistaken. I felt that I was a favourite, and I burned with all the ardour of a griffin to declare that the “sentiment si doux” was reciprocal. The wished-for occasion was not long in presenting itself.

One evening, Olivia and some of the party remained at home, the carriage being fully occupied without them. Off drove Mr. and Mrs. Hearty, and a whole posse of friends and visitors, to take their usual round by Chepauk and the Fort; kissing hands to Olivia and one or two others, who stood on the terrace to see them depart. They were no sooner gone than I proceeded to enjoy my accustomed saunter in the coco-nut grove, at the back of the house. There was a delicious tranquillity in the hour which produced a soothing effect on my feelings. The sun had just dipped his broad orb in the ocean, and his parting beams suffused with a ruddy warmth the truly Oriental scene around. Flocks of paroquets, screaming with delight, were wheeling homewards their rapid flight; the creak of the well-wheel, an Indian rural sound, came wafted from distant fields, and the ring-doves were uttering their plaintive cooings from amidst the shady bowers of the neighbouring garden—

The air, a chartered libertine, was still.

I walked and mused, gazing around on the animated scenes of nature, which always delight me, when suddenly one of the most charming of all her works, a beautiful girl, appeared before me. It was Olivia, who met me (undesignedly of course) at a turn of the avenue. She appeared absorbed in a book, which, on hearing my steps, she suddenly closed, and with a blush, which caused the eloquent blood to mount responsive in my cheeks, she exclaimed.

“Oh, Mr. Gernon, is this you? Your servant, sir! (courtesying half-coquettishly); who would have expected to meet you here all alone, and so solemnly musing?”

“Is there any thing more extraordinary in it, Miss Olivia,” said I, “than to find you also alone, and enjoying your intellectual repast, ‘under the shade of melancholy boughs?’ The Chinese, I believe, think that human hearts are united from birth by unseen silken cords, which contracting slowly but surely, bring them together at last. What think you, Olivia?” I continued (we grow familiar generally on the eve of a declaration), “may not some such invisible means of attraction have brought us together at this moment?”

Olivia looked down, her pretty little foot being busily engaged in investigating the character of a pebble, or something of the sort, that lay on the walk, and indistinctly replied, that she had really never much considered such weighty and mysterious subjects, but that it might be even so. Encouraged by this reply, yet trembling at the thought of my own audacity (bullets whizzing past me since have not produced half the trepidation), I placed myself near her, and gently taking the little, soft, white hand which listlessly, but invitingly, hung by her side, I said (I was sorely puzzled what to say),

“I—I—was delighted, dear Olivia, to find you a visitor here on my arrival the other day.”

“Were you, Mr. Gernon,” said the lively girl, turning upon me her soft blue eyes, in a manner which brought on a fresh attack of delirium tremens; “‘delighted’ is a strong term, but Mr. Gernon, I know, is rather fond of such, little heeding their full import.”

“Strong!” I replied, instantly falling into heroics; “it but feebly expresses the pleasure I feel on seeing you. Oh, dearest Olivia,” I continued, all the barriers of reserve giving way at once before the high tide of my feelings, “it is in vain longer to dissemble” (here I gently passed my other unoccupied arm round her slender waist); “I love you with the fondest affection. Deign to say that I possess an interest in your heart.”

A slight and almost imperceptible increase of pressure from the little hand locked in mine, and a timid look from the generally lively but now subdued and abashed girl, was the silent but expressive answer I received. It was enough, for a griff, at least. I drew her closer to my side—she slowly averted her head; mine followed its movement. The vertebral column had reached its rotary limit—so that there was a sort of surrender at discretion—and I imprinted a long and fervent kiss on the soft and downy cheek of Olivia. Oh, blissful climax of a thousand sweet emotions; too exquisite to endure, too precious for fate to accord more than once in an existence—the first innocent kiss of requited affection—how can I ever forget ye?

Let raptured fancy on that moment dwell,

When my fond vows in trembling accents fell;

When love acknowledged woke the trembling sigh,

Swelled my fond breast and filled the melting eye.

Yes, surely, “love is heaven, and heaven is love,” as has been said and sung any time for the last three thousand years; and Mahomed showed himself deeply read in the human heart, when he made the chief delight of his paradise to consist in it; not, I suspect, as is generally imagined, the passion in its purely gross acceptation, but that elevating and refining sentiment which beautifully attunes all our noblest emotions; which, when it swells the heart, causes it to overflow, like a mantling fountain, to refresh and fertilize all around. No, I shall never forget the thrill of delight with which I committed that daring act of petty larceny.

“Yes,” I continued, “dearest Olivia, I have long loved you. I loved you from the first, and would fain indulge a faint hope” (this was hypocritical, for I was quite sure of it) “that I am not wholly indifferent to you.”

The deepest blush overspread Olivia’s neck and face; she was summoning all her maidenly resolution for an avowal: “Dear Mr. Gernon,” she said, “believe me,—”

“Stope him! stope him, Gernon,” roared a stentorian voice at this moment; “cut the deevil off fra’ the tree!”

It was that confounded Patagonian Scotch cadet, in full cry after a squirrel, which, poor little creature, in an agony of fear, was making for a tree near to which we stood. “As you were,” never brought a recruit quicker into his prior position, than did this unseasonable interruption restore me to mine. Olivia hastily resumed her studies and her walk, whilst I, to prevent suspicion, and consequent banter, joined in the chevy to intercept the squirrel, secretly anathematizing Sandy McGrigor, whom I wished, with all my heart, in the bowels of Ben Lomond.

Reader, you may be curious to know whether Olivia Jenkins became in due time Mrs. Gernon. Ah, no! Ours was one of those juvenile passions destined to be nipped in the bud; one of those painted baubles, swelled by the breath of young desire, which float for a brief space on the summer breeze, then burst and disappear: or a perennial plant, whose beautiful maturity passes rapidly to decay.

Our destinies pointed different ways. Too much calculation was fatal to her happiness; too little has been, perhaps, as detrimental to mine. Years on years rolled on, chequered by many strange vicissitudes, when, in other scenes and under widely different circumstances, we met again: the flush of youth had long departed from her cheeks—the once laughing eyes were brilliant no more—and

The widow’s sombre cap concealed

Her once luxuriant hair.

“Do you remember,” said I, adverting to old times, “our meeting in the coco-nut grove at Madras?”

“Ah!” she replied, with a sigh, “I do indeed; but say no more of it; a recurrence to the sunshiny days of my youth always makes me sad: let us speak of something else—the recent, the present, the future.”

There was one little thing dey do call de mosquito,

He bitee de blackmans, he no let him sleep-o-

Sing ting ring, ting ting ring ting, ting ring ting taro.

So then runs the negro’s song; and unless all is illusion and delusion, as the Berkleyans hold, the “whitemans,” as I can vouch from actual experience, are equally entitled to have their misfortunes as pathetically recorded. I believe, however, it would be as difficult to say anything entirely original about musquitoes as to discover a new pleasure, or the long sought desideratum of perpetual motion; nevertheless, my subject being India, it would not be en régle to pass them over altogether in silence; suffice it therefore to say, the first nights of my stay at Mr. Hearty’s I was by a cruel oversight put into a bed without the usual appendage—a set of gauze curtains. The door of my apartment, which was on the ground floor, opened on the garden, and a well, a pool, and a dense mass of foliage, formed a splendid musquito-preserve, within a few yards of it. A couple of oil-lights, in wall-shades, burnt in the room; the doors were open, the night close and oppressive. It was truly “the genial hour for burning,” though not exactly in Moore’s sense of the passage; and then such a concerto!—“Quack! quack! quack!” said the mezzo-soprano voices of the little frogs—“croak! croak! croak!” responded in deep bass the huge Lablaches of the pool—“click! click!” went the lizards—“ghur! ghur!” the musk-rat, as he ricketed round the room, emitting his offensive odour; whilst

Countless fire-flies, gems of light,

Bright jewels of the tropic night,

spangled the trees in all directions. The idea of Aladdin’s garden, to which his soi-disant uncle introduced him, was presenting itself to my mind, when the nip of a musquito recalled me from the fanciful to the consideration of painful realities. The sultry heat of an Indian night in the rains is sometimes terrific: not a breath moving; but, to make up for it, a universal stir of reptile and insect life, with a croak, hum, hiss, and buzz, perfectly astounding. What a prize for the musquitoes was I—a fine, fresh, ruddy griffin, full of wholesome blood, the result of sea-breezes and healthy chylification! and, in good sooth, they did fall foul of me with the appetite of gluttons. Sleep! bless your dear, simple heart, the thing was about as possible as for St. Lawrence to have reposed on his gridiron. I tingled from top to toe with an exquisite tingling. In vain I scratched—in vain I tossed—in vain I rolled myself up like a corpse in a winding-sheet. Nought would do; so out I jumped, half phrenzied, and dipping my hand in the oil glasses of the lamps, I rubbed their unctuous contents over my body, to deaden the intolerable itching—an effect which in some degree it produced. Thus I spent the long hours of the sultry night; towards morning, the musquitoes being gorged, tortured into insensibility, and nature fairly worn out, I procured a little rest.

At breakfast I made my appearance on two consecutive mornings a ludicrous figure, the object at once of pity and amusement: eyes bunged up, lips swelled, and cheeks puffed out, like bully Ajax in Homer Travestie, all of which, to a young man of decent exterior, and who, in those days, rather valued himself on his appearance, was exceedingly annoying. Mrs. Hearty, though with a look in which the comic and the tragic struggled for the mastery, now took compassion on me, expressed great regret for the oversight, and furnished my bed with a set of musquito-curtains. “Whine away, you rascals,” said I then to the musquitoes, exultingly; “blow your penny trumpets, you everlasting vagabonds! you have had your last meal on me, rest assured.” What glorious sleep I had after that!

After a fortnight’s stay at Madras, and a vain search for Ramee Sawmee Dabash, who, having some linen of mine to get washed, and a small balance of money to account for, thought it “too much trouble” to make his appearance, I bid adieu to my hospitable friends, reembarked on board the Rottenbeam Castle, and set sail for Bengal. Our society, officers and passengers, met again with renewed pleasure, temporary separation being a great enlivener of the kindly feelings, which, like everything else, require tact and management to keep them in a state of vigour. Each, during his sojourn on shore, appeared to have renovated his stock of ideas, and to have picked up something congenial to his peculiar humour. The colonel had met with several old friends, and matters to be told, “wondrous and strange,” and quite out of the common, followed as a natural consequence. Grinnerson had had some “rare larks and sprees” ashore, and been “coming the old soldier” over some young hands at the Navy Tavern. Miss Dobbikins criticised rather severely (as her Bath experiences gave her every right to do) the tournure of the Madras belles, whom she had seen at balls and conversazione. Capt. Marpeet, who had been at sundry drills and reviews, favoured us with elaborate discussions on the military performances of the Mulls,[^[4]] which he considered very inferior to those of the Qui hyes, by whom, to borrow his own nervous and expressive phraseology, “they were beaten by chalks.” Even the usually taciturn Grundy became eloquent, when he spoke of the luxuries of the tents, and his sufferings from the musquitoes; and as for myself, being of an artistical turn, I enlarged principally on the interesting character of Oriental scenery, but omitting, of course, some of the peculiar attractions of the “coco-nut grove.”

CHAPTER VI.

On leaving the roads of Madras, we bent our course to the eastward. For a day or two we had light winds and agreeable weather, and our gallant vessel glided on, under a cloud of snowy canvas, like some stainless swan before the dimpling breezes of a mountain tarn, little heeding the coming danger, which was to lay all her bravery low. Soon, however, a (by me) never-to-be-forgotten tornado, which I shall attempt to describe, burst in upon us in all its fury.

The first indication we had of the coming storm (being still but a short distance from Madras) was on the morning of the third day, when a few wild clouds began to scatter themselves over the face of the hitherto spotless sky. The breeze freshened, and an occasional squall made the good ship salaam deeply to the waves. Captain McGuffin looked to windward, shook his head, and appeared grave. He now (for there was evidently mischief brewing) held a brief consultation with Gillans, the chief mate, and then immediately ordered the small sails to be taken in. At about 8 P.M. of the same day, the fore and main topsails, as I was told, were double-reefed, and the mainsail and maintopsail furled. The next morning, the breeze still continued strong, and the albatrosses and gannets, heralds of the storm, skimmed wildly over the yeasty waves. A heavy and a turbulent sea now got up, which broke over the ship, causing her to roll heavily, and admit much water.

“We’re in for it, I’m afraid,” said Grinnerson to the first mate, “and no mistake.”

“You may say that, when you write home to your friends,” growled forth that sententious worthy; “I’d rather be looking at the end than the beginning of it, I can tell you.”

Scarcely were the words out of Gillan’s mouth, when a screeching blast flew through the shrouds and ratlines; “bang!” went one of the sails, with the report of a six-pounder, and the Rottenbeam Castle took a deep and fearful heel to leeward.

“How’s her head now?” said Gillans, with energy, starting up, to the man at the wheel.

“North-east, and by east, sir,” was the quick reply.

“All hands aloft,” roared the mate, “to take in mainsail;” and away went the tars swarming up the rigging, poor little shivering middies and all, and the perilous duty was soon performed, the sail being set to steady her. Towards noon, the wind and sea increased, and the weather wore a still more threatening appearance.

There are few situations which more thoroughly call forth all the noble energies and resources of man’s mind, than the working of a vessel in a tempest, or the ordering of troops in the heat of a battle. A cool head, and nerves as steady as a rock, are essentially necessary in both. McGuffin was quite a Wellington in his way; and on the present occasion, I felt a pride in my countrymen, as I marked him, the officers, and men, calmly preparing, as it were, move by move, for the coming onset of the gale.

“Down royal-masts and top gallant yards,” shouted the iron-tongued Gillans; and down, spite of the flapping of canvas and banging of blocks and ropes, they came in a trice. This precautionary measure was not taken a whit too soon, for the wind rapidly increased to a gale, and the ship rolled heavily, from the violence and irregularity of the sea. At this moment, Grundy, evidently very uneasy, and in violation of all nautical decorum, began to whistle, less, probably, from want of thought, than with a view to drown it. This brought the first mate upon him immediately.

“Halloa, sir,” said he, “haven’t we got wind enough, but you must be whistling for more? Drop that music, if you please.”

Grundy incontinently held his peace. The dismayed passengers now sought shelter in their cabins, with the exception of a few well-muffled storm amateurs, who clung about the cuddy doors, casting furtive glances aloft at the wild-driving scud, and listening to the manly voices of the officers, and seamen as heard above the roaring of the gale. A rough cradle, and a dismal lullaby, indeed, was this, for myself and the other nautical infants on board.

At about 11 o’clock the wind increased; the decks were almost continually submerged, the fore and maintopsails were furled, and soon after the ship was wore, the sea running mountains high, under the fore and maintop-mast stay-sail. The captain, having ordered the foresail to be hauled up, the ship, in nautical language, was hove-to, the gale blowing with uncommon fury. The sky now began to assume a most threatening and lurid aspect. Just such a murky gloom surrounded us as that in which Satan is finely described by Milton; when “aloft incumbent on the dusky air,” he hovered over that “ever-burning” region, which his “unblest feet” were about to tread. The barometer fell rapidly, and our courage, that is, of us landsmen, in a proportionate ratio, whilst the vast and angry billows, like wild and maned steeds above prostrate foes, swept in rapid succession over our quivering bark. With what intense longing to be there did I now think of the snug green parlour and blazing sea-coal fire at home! Ah! thought I, with a sigh, how true it is, “we never know the value of a friend till we lose him!”

An attempt to take in, and house, the top gallant masts, failed, owing to the violent rolling of the ship; but every thing practicable was effected by our indefatigable crew, although reduced by the recent impressment, to secure the masts from the evidently increasing hurricane. The hatches were battened down, and all made snug for the approaching “tug of war.” All was now breathless suspense and a stern gravity sat on the boldest countenance, when a sudden and tremendous blast threw the ship on her beam-ends, and, with a terrific crash, the mainmast went by the board, carrying with it, in its fall, the mizen-yard, poop, sky-lights, hen-coops, larboard quarter gallery, and three of our seamen. Here was “confusion worse confounded”—passengers and servants making their escape from beneath the wreck—sailors shouting, tugging, and hauling—a chaos of disasters enough to daunt, one would suppose, the stoutest heart; but he little understands the stuff of which English seamen are composed, who thinks there was any quailing or relaxation of energy here. Sudden as the disaster were the efforts made to repair it. The voice of the officer was instantly heard above the storm, giving directions, and the active crew immediately at work, with their axes, cutting the shrouds and ropes, for the purpose of detaching the wreck of the mast from the vessel, which, beating furiously against the bottom and sides, seemed to threaten her with instant destruction.

With infinite difficulty, this operation was at last effected, and the short but delusive “pleasures of hope” once more dawned upon us. On getting clear of the wreck, the vessel partially righted, the hurricane raging with awful violence, the sea running right over her, and sweeping, with resistless force, every opposing article from the deck. Our only remaining sail, the foresail, was now, with much difficulty, taken in, and the vessel scudded under bare poles. Throughout the remainder of the day, the hurricane raged with unabated fury: the ship rolled gunwales under, and the water poured in through the aperture caused by the broken mast. Never can I forget the sounds and scenes below—the groaning of the timbers, the labouring and lurching of the ship, like the throes and struggles of a dying man; the moans and cries of the women—stores, cargo, cabin, bulk-heads, baggage, and a cannon or two, all loose and adrift, and dashing with frightful violence from side to side, as if animated by some maddening spirit of destruction.

“Colonel,” said Marpeet rather archly:—who, in or out of season, loved a joke—to the ex-resident, clinging on close to me, his teeth chattering like a pair of castanets; “Colonel, you, I take it, have never seen anything to beat this?”

“Eh! why—no! not exactly,” said the colonel, who, having the fear of Davy’s Locker before his eyes, seemed rather loath to indulge in anything apocryphal.

But the climax was yet to come. About 8 P.M. the wind suddenly shifted to an opposite quarter, and blew, if possible, with greater fury. My feelings, however, exhausted by excitement, now sank into that state of apathetic quiescence which disarms death of all its terrors; when, in fact, we can feel no more, but patiently await the worst. Nature thus wisely, at a certain point, always brings insensibility to our relief—the last sigh of departing hope gives birth to resignation. About one o’clock the next day a tremendous sea broke on board, burst open and destroyed the remainder of the poop-cabins and cuddy, and swept chairs, tables, medicine-chests, and every movable they contained, overboard, filling the lower deck with water; but providentially no more lives were lost. The hurricane still raging, clouds and sea commingled; the foremast snapped short off by the deck, and falling athwart the bows, carried with it the jib-boom, leaving the battered hulk, with one mutilated mast, to contend alone with the fury of the elements. A wave, moreover, at this instant, dashed one of our boats to splinters, and nearly made a wreck of another. Thus were the grounds of hope giving way, like a quicksand, under our feet. To add to the intensity of our distress, a pitchy darkness enveloped us when the foremast fell overboard, and the sea breaking, in one continued mighty volume, over the vessel, none could go forward to cut it away; perilous to our safety as was its continuing attached to the bows. Oh! for the genius of a Falconer, that I might adequately depict the horrors of the scene at this moment! Ye “fat and greasy citizens,” ye grumbling John Bulls of every grade, who own the great oracle of retrenchment as your leader, little need ye grudge the soldier or sailor his hard-earned pittance, the price of perils such as these. An inky night, whose gloom was, ever and anon, pierced by a long, blue, zigzag flash of lightning, like one of those wrath-directed bolts of heaven, which Martin, with such fine effect, introduces into his pictures—the roar of elements—the crippled and lumbered vessel, rolling and plunging like a maddened steed, encumbered with the wreck of a shattered vehicle, the few dim lanterns, buttoned up, and hugged to the bosoms of the quarter-masters, the dripping, comfortless, but uncomplaining tars; the captain and his officers, muffled in fear-noughts, and the group, of which I formed one, clinging on here and there, in order to see the worst of what we had to encounter, formed a portion of the picture. Then the stifled sobs, and shrieks and prayers from the women below, filling, like the voices of wailing spirits, the momentary lullings of the gale; the violent beatings of the fallen mast, like a catapult, against the bows, felt through the whole vessel, and filling, even the stout hearts of the captain and his crew with well-founded dismay at each successive thump, formed some of its alarming accompaniments.

“Gillans, we maun get clear of that mast, or ’twill be the ruin of us all,” shouted the captain through his trumpet.

Gillans paused a moment: “It must be done, sir,” said he; “but how to get to her head through this mountain sea I hardly know.”

“I’ll try it,” said the gallant Grinnerson—the wag now transformed into the hero—“happen what may.”

Saying this, he seized an axe, and accompanied by a part of the crew, dashed forward, holding by the shattered bulwarks as they advanced. A few seconds of breathless suspense now elapsed, when a long dazzling flash illumined the vessel; down she lay, deep in the trough of the sea, whilst, by its light, a mountain wave appeared hanging over her, like a spirit of evil, and about to break by its own enormous weight. It broke—down it came, with a stunning smash, on the devoted vessel, taking her on the forecastle and midships, sparkling and fizzing in the lurid glare of the lengthened flash. The ship dived down, as if about to be engulphed. “We’re gone!” burst forth from many a voice. Slowly, however, she rose again from the effects of the stunning blow, and another flash exhibited a group of sailors on the forecastle, actively cutting and hacking away at the ropes and shrouds. In a few seconds the vessel seemed eased; the mast had been cut away, and shortly after, the heroic Grinnerson, streaming with sea-water, was amongst us. He had escaped, though two of the gallant fellows who had accompanied him had been swept away to a watery grave.

“The Lord be thankt! ye ha’e done weel, sir,” said McGuffin, wringing the second mate’s hand in his iron gripe; “ye ha’e saved the ship.”

The ship was now relieved, and the wind evidently falling, hope revived. I descended below, and throwing myself into my cot, slept, spite of the uproar, soundly till morning.

On rising, I found the wind had greatly subsided; but a heavy sea still remained, in which our mutilated vessel rolled and tumbled like a porpoise. All danger, however, was past, and the sea was rapidly going down. Damages were partially repaired. The crew and passengers refreshed themselves, and deep and heartfelt congratulations were exchanged. Captain McGuffin, towards evening, the vessel being steadier, assembled the crew on deck, and offered up thanksgivings to Him who “stilleth the raging of the storm,” for our happy preservation. It was an impressive sight to behold the weather beaten tars, their hats reverentially doffed, ranged along the deck, their lately excited energies sunk into the calm of a thoughtful and devotional demeanour; the pale and jaded passengers, seated abaft, many an eye gratefully upturned; the wild sea and battered hull; and in the centre, bare-headed and erect, the tall and brawny, yet simple-hearted man, our commander, his prayer-book resting on the capstan, his left hand on the leaves, and his right stretched out, as, with a fervour which nothing but his religious feeling could have excited in him, he read firmly, in his broad but nervous Scotch accents, the form of thanksgiving due to Him who had succoured us in our danger, and “with whom are the issues of life and death.”

To prove a particular providence is a hard and baffling task; but we can never err—or if we do it is on the right side—when we pour out our hearts in gratitude to God, for every blessing or deliverance, come to us by what concurrence of causes it may.

By an observation we now found we were off the Tenasserim coast. The ship’s head was consequently put to the northward, and on we sailed towards our destination. At length, on a fine blowing day in the S. W. monsoon, the good ship the Rottenbeam Castle, after a five months’ voyage, entered on the turbid waters of the Sand Heads, renowned for sharks, shipwrecks, and the intricacy of its navigation, dashing on in good style, despite of the battering of the late gale, under all the sail she could carry on the foremast, and two spars rigged out as substitutes for those we had lost. All eyes were, at this time, anxiously on the look-out for the pilot. At length a sail was visible on the horizon, and ere long, a rakish little brig, with the Company’s Yankee-looking pilot-colours flying from the peak, came bowling down, and was pronounced nem. con. to be (strange misnomer) the pilot schooner. Not a moment elapsed ere a boat, manned by lascars, put off from her, and in a few minutes more, the rattle of oars and the boatswain’s whistle announced its arrival alongside. The pilot, accompanied by a bronzed stripling of fifteen, in a seaman’s round jacket and large straw hat, and whose business was to cast the lead, now mounted the side, and as he stepped on deck, touched his hat in a consequential sort of manner, which plainly indicated that pilots were no small men, in these latitudes. Mr. Merryweather, for so I believe he was called, was one of a numerous class, variously subdivided, called the pilot-service, whose extreme utility none can question who studies a chart of the Sand Heads, and the embouchure of the Ganges. The seniors, or branch-pilots, are, some of them, excellent old fellows, have their vessels in high order, give capital feeds out of silver plate, and have generally some valetudinarian from Calcutta on board, invigorating the springs of existence by copious indraughts of the sea-breeze. Mr. Merryweather had quite the cut of an original, and I cannot, therefore, resist the inclination I feel to present the reader with a sketch of him. He was a sturdy, square-built man, of about forty, of whose jolly countenance it might be truly said, and in the language of the Latin grammar, “qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo.” It presented, at one view, one of the most singular compounds of brown, brickdust, and purple I ever beheld; clearly indicating that it had long been the scene of a fierce struggle for the ascendency between the skyey influences of the Sand Heads, on the one hand, from without, and those of aqua vitæ, from within. Sun and wind, on the whole seemed to have had the best of it; but the forces of aqua vitæ had made a most determined stand on that elevated position, the nose, from which there appeared little chance of their being dislodged. Our sturdy Palinurus was attired in a camlet coat, with the uniform lion button, the colour whereof, once blue, now exhibited in its latter days, like a dying dolphin, a variety of interesting shades; a pair of tight nankeens, extending about half-way down the calf, encased his lower extremities, very fully exhibiting their sturdy and unsymmetrical proportions, in which the line of beauty, admitting that to be a curve, had by Dame Nature been most capriciously applied. He would have met with a distinguished reception in Laputa, being built on strictly mathematical principles; for one leg exhibited the segment of a circle, the other something very like an obtuse angle. In a sinewy and weather beaten hand, “spotted like the toad,” he grasped a huge telescope, covered with rusty green baize, the length of which was nearly “the standard of a man;” whilst a large white hat, which bore nearly the same proportion to his size that a mushroom does to its stalk, completed a manly, but not very inviting, portrait.

“Mr. Merryweather, ma gude friend, I’m glad to see ye luking sae weel,” exclaimed our Scotch commander, who, it appeared, was an old acquaintance of the pilot’s. “Why, somebody telt me at Madras, that ye’ed been near deeing sin’ we were here last.”

“Ay, ay, they told you right, captain; I had a very tightish touch of the mollera corbus, or whatever ’tis called, after you left us. Yes, I was within a pint of getting a birth in Padree Shepherd’s godown; howsomever, the old ’ooman and Dr. Dusgooly brought my head round to the wind somehow, and now I’m as fresh as a lark, as a man might say in a manner, and ready for a tumbler of your toddy, captain, with as little daylight in it as you please,—ha, ha, ha!”

Thus he ran on for some time, and then in a similar style, gave us the latest news of the presidency, which, to the best of my recollection, consisted of a mutiny, death of a puisne judge, and a talked-of-war with Nundy Row Bickermajeet, a potentate of whom none of us had heard before.

The captain now duly deposed, Mr. Merryweather took charge of the vessel, and marched up and down the deck with all the confidence of a small man invested with “a little brief authority,” now peering under the sail, and conning the bearings of the buoys, which here and there rode gallantly in the channel, like the huge floats of some giant “bobbing for whale;” anon asking briskly the man at the wheel how her head was, or thundering out some peremptory order for trimming or shortening the sail. Thus we glided on through the turbid channel, whilst strong ripples or long lines of surf, on either hand, with here and there the slanting masts of a stranded vessel, indicated the perilous nature of the navigation. At last we caught a glimpse of a small island, but recently emerged from the waves, being like many others at the mouths of great rivers, of rapid diluvial formation, and immediately after, the low, marshy and jungle-covered shores of Saugor Island broke in sight.

To those whose Oriental imaginings have led them to expect in the first view of Indian land some lovely scene of groves, temples, and clustering palm-trees, the sight of the long low line of dismal sunderbund and swamp must not be a little disappointing. Saugor, however, Bengal tigers, and the fate of young Munro, are associated subjects, naturally blended with our earliest recollections. Full oft in my boyish days had I gazed on a picture representing the monster springing open-mouthed on his victim, and wondered if it would ever be my lot to visit a country where pic-nics were disturbed by such ferocious intruders. Viewed, then, as the head-quarters of the tigers, and the scene of this memorable exploit of one of their body, and also as the outpost of our destination, I deemed Saugor a sort of classic ground, and gazed upon it with a proportionate interest. Many an eye, too, besides my own, was bent towards the island, which wore a most sombre and miserable aspect.

Thinking Mr. Merryweather a person likely to be well informed on the subject, I ventured to ask him, civilly, if tigers were as numerous on the island as in young Mr. Munro’s time. I at the same time solicited the loan of his telescope, thinking, peradventure, I might by its aid descry a royal Bengal tiger, in full regalia, enjoying his evening perambulation on the beach. The pilot stared at me, with as much astonishment as the Brobdingnag did at the Splacknuck, when he heard him talk, or Mr. Bumble, in Dickens’ admirable novel, when the unfortunate Oliver asked for more soup; but soon settled it in his mind that I was an arrant griffin, and that it was not worth his while to be particularly civil to me.

“Tigers!” he grunted out; “Ay, ay, there’s plenty o’ them, I dare say; but I’ve something else besides tigers to think about, young gentleman; and you mustn’t talk to me d’ye see, when I’m engaged with a wessel. As for the glass, it’s in hand, and you’d better ask some one else to lend you one.”

To borrow the language of the fancy, I was regularly floored by this rebuff, and incontinently held my peace, determining to reserve my zoological inquiries for a fitter occasion and more communicative person; at the same time, lost in astonishment that a man could actually pass his life in sight of Saugor island, and yet feel no interest in royal Bengal tigers. The delusion is a common one, and not confined to griffins, which leads people to imagine that others must be interested in what they are full of themselves.

The wind now suddenly rose, and the sky, which had long been lowering, assumed an inky hue. Mr. Merryweather looked anxious and uneasy, and I heard him observe to the captain, that we were in for a north-wester, and that he feared it would overtake us before we reached the anchorage at Kedgeree. What a north-wester was I did not exactly know, but the precautionary measures taken of diminishing the sail, closing hatches and scuttles, &c., and the appearance of the heavens, left me no room to doubt that it was one of the various denominations of the hurricane family.

Mr. Cadet Francis Gernon, anxious to discover a Royal Bengal Tiger, falls in with a Bear

The scene at this moment, to one unacquainted with these tropical visitants, though rather alarming, was singularly wild and magnificent. All around, to the verge of the horizon, the sky was of the deepest indigo hue, whilst dark masses of rolling clouds, like hostile squadrons, were slowly marshalling over head to the thunder’s deep rumble and the lightning’s flash, which shot like the gleaming steel of advancing combatants across the dun fields of death. From the setting sun, a few long rays, like rods of gold, shot through openings of the clouds, streaming brightly over sea and land, bringing forth the lustrous green of the mangroves, and touching, as with a dazzling pencil of light, the distant sail, or milk-white seabird’s wing.

At length, the sough of the coming tempest was heard mournfully sweeping through the shrouds, and a few heavy drops fell on the deck. The ladies’ scarves and shawls began to flutter, and one two hats were whisked overboard, on a visit to the sharks. This was a sufficient hint for the majority of the idlers, and they forthwith dived below. I lingered awhile, and casting my eyes over the stem at this moment, beheld the storm driving towards us—spray, screaming gulls, and tumbling porpoises heralding its approach. In a moment it was upon us. Sheets and floods of driving rain burst on the ship, as on she hissed through the frying waters. Buoy after buoy, however, was safely passed, though it was once or twice “touch and go” with us; and ere long, to the infinite joy of all on board, we dropped anchor in safety off Kedgeree.

Never did I listen to more pleasant music than the rattle of the chain-cable, as it brought us up safe and sound, or rather unsound, in this harbour of refuge. Here, in the mouth of the Hooghly river, was comparative calm and tranquillity, and as we cast our eyes seaward, and saw the dark brown turbulent sea (for here it is not green) heaving and tossing, with the surrounding tempestuous sky, and night closing in, and contrasted our position with that of several far-off vessels, some of them hull-down, struggling under a press of canvas to reach the safe berth we had gained, before night and the falling tide might leave them “outside,” environed by perils, we could not help indulging in very agreeable self-congratulations. ’Tis a sad reflection that our joys should often derive so much of their intensity from the foil of others’ misfortunes; but, alas! so it is.

Here a fresh supply of fruit, and vegetables, and fish, from the shore; a batch of Calcutta papers; and sundry other little matters, made things very pleasant. All were “alive” and cheerful, and at ten o’clock I turned in and rose in the morning like “a giant refreshed,” full of agreeable anticipations of the scenes on which I was about to enter.

CHAPTER VII.

The morning after our arrival at Kedgeree I arose early, and, on coming on deck, found the weather perfectly calm, and presenting a striking contrast to its appearance on the previous day. A burning Bengal sun, however, shone around in all its glory, and was reflected with painful and dazzling brightness from the now unruffled surface of the Hooghly. Boats, to me of singularly novel and picturesque forms—some thatched, others open, and all with long galley-like prows and sterns—were moving here and there, mingled with market-boats, laden with fruit and vegetables, and light and graceful dingies, or fishing-canoes, floating down with their outspread nets and dusky crews on the gentle undulations of the falling tide. Near us, ships of various descriptions were riding at anchor, from the stately Indiaman of those days, with her double tier of ports, and looking like a seventy-four, to the Arab grab and country-coaster.

This was a day of considerable bustle and excitement. The passengers were looking up their baggage, getting out their letters, or despatching special messengers to their friends in Calcutta. Boats from the presidency were continually arriving alongside, freighted principally with baboos or circars, good-looking fellows for the most part, with huge green or yellow curly-toed shoes, and flowing muslin robes, as light as the gossamer, and white as swans’-down. Some came to secure constituents; others were deputed by merchants or parties interested in the ship or passengers; and not a few keen-witted fellows, like my friend Ramee Sawmee Dabash, were on the look-out for “pigeons.” With all these arrivals, our deck began to assume a very lively and animated appearance.

I could not help being forcibly struck with the marked dissimilarity between the two races, who, here respectively the subjects of a common power, and from the antipodes, were engaged in objects of mutual interest, or busy in the exchange of friendly greetings. There stood the sturdy Englishman, with his ruddy face, iron muscles, and broad shoulders, strong in his straightforward hyperborean honesty; before him, like some delicate spaniel, or Italian greyhound, coaxing a bluff old Jowler of a mastiff, were the wily Asiatics, chattering and salaaming, fearful to offend, their slender and supple limbs all in motion, and supplying by quickness and address the want of energy and boldness.

The family union, which had now for five months so pleasantly subsisted between our party on board, was about to be dissolved, and already were their thoughts and feelings on the wing, impatient for other scenes and objects. The cup of pleasure is seldom unalloyed, and with mine, at that moment, mingled a drop of bitterness, as I thought that an important scene of my life was about to close for ever, and that many of the actors in it, with whom I had so pleasantly “strutted my hour,” I might never see again. To think that we are leaving even an inanimate object for ever is a painful thought, but it acquires almost a solemnity when man, “the mind, the music, breathing from his face,” is the being we are now about to quit. Honest McGuffin, methought, have I heard your broad Scotch for the last time? Grinnerson, my merry wag, will you roast me no more? Gillans, bluntest of seamen, will thy hoarse voice, in the midnight watch, never again startle my ear, when through the shrouds (rudest of Æolians) the rough winds pipe their wild accompaniment? And, oh! Jemmy Ducks, thou Pariar of the Rottenbeam Castle, thou great conservator of chickens, shall I never again see thee scramble over the hen-coops, or be more enlivened with a pleasant vision of thy tarred and ragged breeks? Sic transit gloria mundi!

As a party of us, including the second mate, were chattering and laughing on the deck about noon, our attention was suddenly attracted to a handsome pinnace, with green sides and venetians, and of a light and beautiful rig, gliding down the river, with all sail loosened, which, however, the light winds had barely power to distend. As it approached, we observed an old gentleman, and a numerous group of attendants on the chut or roof. Marpeet immediately observed that we were about to be visited by one of the Calcutta big wigs; and Grinnerson, applying the glass to his eye, exclaimed, after a little reconnoitring and slapping his leg with delight,

“By the piper that played before Moses, if it isn’t that old Tartar, General Capsicum; he’ll keep us all alive if he comes on board.”

The general was seated in an easy chair, smoking a magnificent hooka, the silver chains and other brilliant appendages of which were conspicuous even at a distance. Altogether, with his troop of attendants, he looked not a little like the chief of Loochoo, as depicted in Captain Hall’s voyage to that interesting island. Of the liveried and whiskered group about him, one swung a huge crimson silk punkah, or fan, with a silver handle, the end of which rested on the deck; a second held an umbrella of the same colour over his head; two more worked chowries, or whisks, to keep off the flies; and behind his chair stood his pipeman, or hookhaburdar, a black-bearded fellow, with his arms folded, and looking as grave and solemn as a judge. At the back of all these again, and forming a sort of rear-guard, were a body of mace-bearers and silver-stick men, awaiting the slightest order of the chief. Well, this is something like Eastern magnificence, indeed, thought I—nil desperandum—“Frank Gernon, hold up your head; you may be a nabob yet.”

Upon the arrival of the pinnace within a very short distance of the ship, the old gentleman, assisted by his obsequious attendants, arose from his chair, and moving to the verge of the roof or poop, with a gait almost as unsteady as the toddle of an infant, gave us a full view of about as odd a figure as can well be imagined. In height, he was below the middle size, and as thin and shrivelled as an old baboon, to the physiognomy of which animal his own bore no inconsiderable resemblance; indeed, till I saw him, I never thought much of Lord Monboddo’s theory. He wore a red camlet raggie, or Swiss jacket, with blue collar and facings, which hung in bags about him, and a white waistcoat, wide open, from which a volume of frill protruded. His nether man was encased in a pair of tight nankeens, buttoned at the ancle (a singular perversity common to old gentlemen whose calves have gone to grass), and which exhibited the extraordinary slenderness of his frail supporters in a very striking point of view. A queue (the general being one of the “last of the pigtails”), a round hat of black silk, a good deal battered, with a bullion loop and button, completed the outward appearance of the Bengal veteran, who soon, however, satisfied us that, spite of appearances, he was, as Grinnerson said, a stout-hearted old fellow, with plenty of pluck and mental vigour still about him; one of whom it might be said, that “E’en in his ashes glowed their wonted fires.”

When pretty close, the little old man, from whom a squeaky and faltering treble might have been expected, astonished us by shouting out, in a stentorian voice, and with a tone and accent smacking strongly of the “first gem of the sea,”

“Is that the Rottenbame Castle, sur?”

Being answered in the affirmative, he continued, “Is Captain McGuffin on board, sur?”

McGuffin, who by this time had come to the side, replied to this question himself. Taking off his hat, and waving it, he said,

“Hoo air ye, general? I’m glad to see you, sir, luking sae weel. Will you come on board, sir?”

“Hah! McGuffin, is that you? How are you, my good sur?” returned the general, raising his hat, too, with all the dignity of the old school, or of the guardsman at Fontenoy. “Sorry to see you in this ugly pickle, though. Have you got my Cordalia on board?” alluding to his daughter, a widow lady, one of our passengers from Madras, and who, at this instant, having heard of her father’s arrival, rushed to the side, and kissing one hand with empressement, whilst she waved her handkerchief in the other, soon afforded him satisfactory evidence of her existence.

After some little trouble, the pinnace was safely moored alongside, and the old general securely, though with equal difficulty, and a few volleys of abuse to his servants, deposited by instalments on the deck. Here, however, he appeared in some danger of suffocation, from the vigorous embraces of the buxom young widow, who yielding to the impulses of natural feeling, and regardless of standers-by, rushed into his arms, and kissed him with the warmest affection, knocking off his hat by the collision, and exhibiting to our view the generals venerable head, white with the snows of seventy or eighty winters.

Here, then, in the shrivelled old soldier standing before me, I beheld a warrior of the days of Clive, a last representative, probably, of a generation long gone down to the dust, whose thoughts, dress, and manners so essentially differed from our own, and who (all honour to their three-cornered hats and big waistcoats!) had baffled the Indian in the field and the cabinet, and laid the foundation of this proud dominion, on which I was about to set foot. I looked on him with that respect with which we contemplate a grey ruin of other days, with its silent courts, its “banquet-hall deserted,” and all its glorious associations, and which long has withstood the tempests of the world.

General Capsicum on Board the “Rottenbeam Castle.”

After retiring to the cuddy, and some private conversation with his daughter, the general again came on deck, and had a renewed round of handshaking with the captain, and some other of his acquaintance, whom he expressed himself as devilish glad to see in India again, “the best country in the whole world, by all that’s good!” He concluded with a look redolent of gunpowder and hair-triggers, though half jocular, “And where is the man that will say me nay?” It was obvious at a glance the general was what an old Scotch author calls

A fiery Ettercap, a fractious chiel;

As hot as ginger and as true as steel;

with not a little of that refined savageism in him, which exalts the duello into the first accomplishment of a gentleman.

In Colonel Kilbaugh he recognized an old friend and brother campaigner, and right cordial was the greeting between them. A tremendous refighting of battles would then and there have taken place, it was quite clear, had time allowed of it; unless, upon the principle that two negatives make an affirmative, they should have neutralized their kindred fortes. The general, amongst his peculiarities of the old school, swore like a trooper; indeed, so free was his indulgence in that once fashionable, but now, amongst gentlemen, exploded vice, that had he been in England, he would doubtless have been liable to an indictment from the Society for the Suppression of Vice, for profane swearing.

“By G——, you’re looking well, though, Kilbaugh, d——d well, upon my soul; you’ve taken a new laise of your existence since you went home.”

“Why, eh—yes,” said the little colonel, pulling up his collar-gills complacently, and looking extremely large for his size, “we are certainly a new man, general; nothing like a few hogsheads of Cheltenham waters for setting a dyspeptic man on his legs again.”

“Indeed, then that’s true; but, Kilbaugh, though you and I have had some rale plissant days together in old times—eh?—you didn’t trouble the water much then by G——, and liked your glass as well as any of us, and (with a palpable wink) that same minus the g, too—minus the g—eh? ha, ha, ha!”

With this, he made a pass at the ex-resident’s ribs with his extended finger, which the other dexterously avoided, though with a complacent chuckle which shewed that he was not displeased at this allusion to his youthful frolics.

“Well,” continued the general, “you’ll put up at my place, and I’ll give you a cast in the pinnace. By-the-bye, you liked a good bottle of beer, Kilbaugh, I remember right well, and just now I can give you one, a rale foamer; got in a splendid batch lately; it is from Bell, and by G—— it bears a bell, too.”

So he rattled on; and the ex-resident having signified his acceptance of the general’s offer, the trio, after a hearty leave-taking, were soon on board the pinnace, and on their way to Calcutta.

This was the first time I had seen the Mohamedan domestics of this part of India, and I was agreeably struck by their handsome and manly appearance, and the becoming costume of those in the old general’s suite. Their turbans, vests, loose pajammas or trousers, and kummerbunds or girdles, set off by their crimson belts and metal badges, and their massive silver batons, gave them a very striking and picturesque appearance, enhanced by luxuriant beards or mustachios, large eyes, and high features.

There are some strange anomalies attendant on the march of civilization, and none more so, perhaps, than the indifference, or rather want of real taste, which nations in a high state of refinement evince in regard to costume. Whether it is that scientific pursuits, and the busy occupations of the thoughts on matters of high social, moral, political, and commercial interest, leave no time for men to study the graces of attire, or that such a study is really unworthy of, or incompatible with, cultivated minds, or, as the Quakers think, unfavourable to morality, certain it is that the art of decorating the person does not keep pace with other improvements.

Our commander (finding he could not leave Kedgeree till the following morning), Marpeet, Grundy, and I, accepted the obliging invitation of Capt. Grogwell, of the Rohomany barque, country trader, a friend of the captain, to accompany him in his vessel, then under weigh for Calcutta.

“I can give you a glass of grog, gentlemen, and a bit of curry, and there’s my cabin for you to turn into if you should stay with me overnight,” said the frank and good-humoured sailor; “but,” added he, “there’s no time to be lost for those that go, as the tide’s already on the turn.”

A few bags and boxes were soon stowed in Captain Grogwell’s boat, and after many warm adieus from our friends on board, and the expression of mutual hopes that we should meet again in Calcutta, off we pushed for the Rohomany barque.

As we approached her, two or three bronzed faces, surmounted by straw hats, rose above the side, and were directed expectantly towards us, whilst the whistling pipe of the serang, or native boatswain, announced the skipper’s approach alongside. We mounted through a bevy of the sable crew, and soon stood on the deck of the country ship, just arrived from a voyage to the Eastern Islands.

“Welcome on board the Rohomany, gentlemen, where I hope you will make yourselves at home and comfortable,” said Captain Grogwell. “My first officer, Mr. Dobbs, gentlemen,” he continued, presenting a tall, brawny, and fine-countenanced man. Mr. Dobbs made his best leg; was glad to see us on board.

The lascars now began to weigh the anchor to a wild and not unmusical chant, with an agreeable chorus of Ya Ullahs! All was soon bustle, the anchor a-peak, and the mates shouting forth their commands in the most extraordinary lingo that ever grated “harsh music” on my ears.

“Trinkum Garvey de man,” said one; “Garvey brass trinkum de man,” roared another; whilst Mr. Dobbs, in a tremendous fury (why I knew not), and stamping like a madman, sung out “Chop and string your goosey, and be d——d to you all.”

These are a few specimens. On hearing the last, I certainly was inclined to think that the death-warrant of one of those capitol birds who feed on our commons, and on whom our commons feed (excuse the double pun), had been pronounced. I wish some Oriental philologist would give us a history of this nautical jargon, which, I take it, is a sort of olla podrida of Portuguese, Bengalee, and heaven knows what dialects besides—the lingua franca of the Indian seas. On we glided; passed the “silver tree,” a singular vegetable production, composed of brick and mortar; “Diamond Harbour,” another misnomer, but very Golcondahish in the sound; and finally, a stiff wind setting in dead ahead, found it impossible to get round a certain peninsula, sometimes called “Hooghly Point,” but amongst sailors, rejoicing in the less euphonious appellation of “Point Luff and be d——d.” There was no help for it, so down went the anchor, and there seemed every prospect of our having to conjugate the verb ennuyer till a fresh flow of tide and shift of wind should enable us to pass this most troublesome part of the river, and the dangerous shoal of the James and Mary. The reader must understand that all this was before the days of steam.

Leaving the white tavern of Fultah, where the Calcutta bon vivant eats mango-fish—the whitebait of India,—we soon passed Budge Budge, the scene of the sailor’s unique exploit—a story too well known, I fancy, to need repetition here—and in a short time after, on turning “Hangman’s Point” (where once stood an outpost of civilization), found ourselves opposite “Garden Reach,” the sylvan vestibule of Calcutta. I have seen few sights in my wanderings more beautiful and imposing than the approach to this Petersburgh of the East, this magnificent capital of our Eastern empire. On the left was the Botanical Garden, with its screen of tall dark cypress trees; on the right, a long succession of beautiful villas, situated amidst verdant lawns and park-like pleasure-grounds, sloping gently down to the water’s edge. Here the eye was caught by some pretty kiosk or summer-house, like the lust-haus of a Dutch retreat, or such as we sometimes see in the stately gardens attached to some mansion of the olden time here at home. There it rested on a ghaut, or flight of steps leading to the water, with urns or balustrades, before which, in the mellow chiar-oscuro of some overhanging banyan-tree, lay moored the elegant covered pleasure-boat of the owner—hurrying through the grounds, a palankeen would appear, with its scampering bevy of attendant bearers and running peons, the huge red chattah or umbrella to shield the master from the sun, when making his exits and entrées, bobbing up and down—standing before many a porticoed mansion, gigs, or other equipages would appear in waiting, to take the Sahibs to town, or on their rounds of morning visits, and mingling in pleasing contrast with the Europeanized character of these beautiful domains, the lofty palm or kujjoor would here and there raise its head, the perch of a knot of solemn vultures; or parting the grounds one from another, lofty fences of the graceful and pensile bamboo, might be seen drooping in rich clusters, like plumes of ostrich feathers. Numerous boats glided up and down the river, with here and there a vessel like our own, obeying the whirling impulses of the tide, and rapidly approaching its destination—all, in fact, bespoke the close vicinity of a great capital.

The reach nearly past, the proud citadel of Fort William broke in view, its grinning batteries opening upon us, one after the other, and affording a lively idea of the sort of gauntlet which an enemy might reasonably expect, should one sufficiently hardy ever dare to confront them. Here and there on the long-extended rampart, the sentry “walked his lonely round,” his musket and bayonet gleaming brightly in the noontide rays, whilst crowds of natives, passing palankeens, and stately adjutant birds stalking “in grey attire” on the banks, gave life and animation to the scene—a few minutes more, and a long forest of shipping, with masses and lines of stately mansions reposing under the still calm sky, like some Grecian capital of old, bespoke the City of Palaces, the proud metropolis of British India.

Here was a sight at which a Briton might honestly exult, and, young as I was, I gazed with pride on this magnificent creation of my country’s civilization and power—the point from which she governs the countless millions of the dependent Empire which Providence, for the wisest of purposes, has submitted to her benignant sway. Old England! mighty heart! long may thy vigorous pulsations be thus felt to the utmost bounds of our earth! Nations, like individuals, have their stages of existence—their infancy, their manhood, and their decline; some fall into premature decrepitude and dissolution, and leave but the memory of evil deeds behind them; whilst others sink in glorious maturity, under the weight of years and honours, leaving the fruits of a well-spent life behind them, to be embalmed for ever in the hearts of a grateful posterity. May such be thy lot, O my country!

CHAPTER VIII.

We dropped anchor off the city, amongst a crowd of shipping and a swarm of boats, with which the river seemed actually alive; some of them home along by the headlong “freshes,” and athwart the bows of the vessel, with fearful and dangerous velocity. I was all anxiety to get on shore; so, without waiting for Marpeet and Grundy, who had some small toilet-matters, &c., to arrange, I put my boxes and bags into a paunchway—a native boat of a particular description, several of which lay alongside—and, after shaking Captain Grogwell and his mate by the hand, thanking them cordially for their hospitality, and expressing a hope that I should see them again before I left Calcutta, I descended the side, and was soon on my way to the shore.

“Take care of the land-sharks, sir,” said Grogwell, as I pushed off.

“Have your eyes about you, Gernon, my boy, and take care of yourself,” cried Marpeet, “and I’ll beat up your quarters in a day or two.”

At the Ghaut, or landing-place, to which my rowers forced their way through a thick phalanx of boats of all sorts and dimensions—cutters, dingies, and jolly-boats; paunchways, budgerows, and bowlias, the two last with painted venetians and goggle-eyed figure-heads—I landed amidst a crowd and bobbery to which even the Tower-stairs, or the piers of Boulogne and Calais, with all their motley and voluble groups, can hardly furnish a parallel. Men, women, and children, sipping, dipping, and dabbling, like ducklings in a shower; females bearing pots or jars on their heads, and children, resembling little black monkeys, astride on their hips; bhisties, or water-carriers, filling their bags from the turbid tide, well seasoned with cocoa-nut husks, defunct brahmins, dead dogs, &c.; puckalls, or bullocks, bearing huge skins of the same pure element; palankeen-bearers, gabbling (to me) unintelligible abuse, in eager competition, pushing into the very river, and banging their portable boxes one against the other in their struggle to secure fares amongst the frequent arrivals from the shipping; baboos, parroquet-venders, chattah-bearers, sailors, lascars, and adjutant-birds—Europe and Asia commingled in heterogeneous but pleasant confusion.

I had scarcely attained the top of the Ghaut, or flight of steps, where I waited till my baggage was brought up and coolies were obtained to transport it, than I found myself besieged by a bevy of fellows, mentioned before as baboos, or sircars, and who, though of a distinct species, I saw at once belonged to the same genus as my friend Ramee Sawmee Dabash.

“Good marning, Sar,” said one (it was near sunset), ostentatiously displaying his first chop English, approaching with an easy bend, and pressing his right palm somewhat gracefully to his forehead: “Master, I perceive, is recintly arrive at Bengal pris’dency?”

“That’s pretty clear,” said I; “but can you direct me to the Custom-house, and after that to some good hotel or tavern?”

“Oh, sartainly, Sar; every thing master require than I can do; meditly box come up, I disperse off with coolie.”

“Gentilman,” said another, in a milder key, “you require ’spectable sircar; I got highest tistimonial of character; you please read this, Sar; this from Gin’nel Wilkisseen Sahib, this Wakeel Ishtivil Sahib;” and so he ran on, murdering several other English names and titles in succession.

A third, a wizened old fellow, with a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose, proffered his services somewhat in the same way; but I told them not to trouble themselves or me, as I had determined on honouring with my commands the first who had presented himself to my notice. My new employé, who rejoiced in the pleasant cognomen of Chattermohun Ghose, now again put in his oar:

Griffin on Landing besieged by Baboos.

“Masters name, I think, will be Mr. Gernon”—the rascal had read it on my box,—“same gentleman as was expect by Rottenbeam-i-castle?”

“Yes, it is indeed,” said I, astonished to find myself known; “but how the devil came you acquainted with it?”

“Oh,” he replied, “we always ver well know whin military gentilmen are expected at pris’dency from ship; beside—I not know, but I think, master will have some relation this country—face all same—one gentleman I know, only more young—leetle more handsome.”

I interposed with “Stuff! none of your blarney; but, perhaps, you mean, my uncle, Colonel Gernon,” rather pleased to meet so soon after landing with one even amongst the natives who had probably known a relative: young people hear so much of their uncles and grandfathers, &c., at home, that they enter life with an idea that all the world must know something about them.

“What!” exclaimed Chattermohun—who was a thorough Don Raphael in his way,—and with well-dissembled pleasure, “What Connel Gernon Sahib master uncle? I think that all same time. Connel very good gentilman, my bist of frind—always he impeloy me when he come Calcutta. Connel command Europan rig’ment, I think, at Danapoor?”

“Oh, no,” I rejoined; “you mistake; my uncle has been some time dead, and I think was never in a European regiment.”

“That I know, Sar, ver well,” continued Chattermohun briskly, and not at all disconcerted; “but when live, I mean, belong native rig’ment (I make small obliteration before) that some time was that place.”

“Yes, yes; he was in the native infantry, certainly,” said I; “but where stationed is more than I can tell. And so you really knew my uncle, did you, eh? And think me like him? Perhaps, too, you have heard of another relation of mine here in India—Mr. Duggins?”

“What Mr. Duggin, what was civil sarvice?”

“No, no,” I answered; “here in the law, in Calcutta.”

“Oh! what master mean Mr. Duggin ’sliciter? Yes, sar, I know him ver well; he greatly respect-i-me—that time he was live.”

“Why, I trust he’s not dead?” I exclaimed, in astonishment: “he was well at Bombay the last accounts we had of him.”

“No, Sar, not dead; master not underistand; I mean that time was live here, Chowrunghee.”

Though rather green and guileless in those days, as maybe inferred from the foregoing example, and unwilling, unless on something stronger than mere primâ facie evidence, to imagine deception; yet I began to suspect that the rascal was humbugging me for a purpose, and was about to let him know as much, in rather strong terms, when he adroitly changed the key.

“Master will be in ’tillery, I think?”

“No,” said I impatiently; “infantry, infantry; but don’t bother, and us be off.”

“All same,” he continued, determined to have his talk out; “master will require plenty thing, all which I can supply—bist of quality—if require too good-i-sarvant: will you take this man?—plenty character he got.”

So saying, he presented to my notice a queer, raffish-looking fellow, with a bush of hair and a black beard, and dressed in quite a different style of costume to that of the others. This worthy—a Mussulman khidmutgar or footman—made his salaam, and thrust into my hand two or three well-soiled certificates, which stated that Ramjahn Khan (ang. Rumjohnny,) had served the writers (captain this and lieutenant that) with zeal and fidelity, and to their perfect satisfaction. Of these “characters,” by the way, all domestics have a stock, or, if not, they borrow or hire them (being as accommodating one to another in that way, as was the Irish priest who, as related by the pleasant author of Wild Sports of the West, on a pinch, and to save appearances, gave his friend, the Protestant curate of Connemara, the loan of his congregation), with sufficient information touching the subscribers to allow of some slight questioning, though by no means of an adroit cross-examination—a thing at this time, however, in the native language, quite beyond my powers, albeit I had puzzled my brains a little on ship-board with a certain celebrated philologist’s orthoepigraphico-pseudolatitudio-logical works, and could patter a few sentences of Hindostanee in the “Myn nuheen kitai hoon” style, in a way really to “astonish the natives.”

To cut the matter short, however, I hired Rumjohnny on the strength of his testimonials; and having now got my baggage all up, moved off with him and Chattermohun Ghose to the Custom-house. Having arranged matters there, I proceeded through the thronged streets of Calcutta to a tavern or punch-house, somewhere in the aristocratic region of Ranamoody Gully; a sort of place of entertainment which, in those days (though, from their improved character the case is now, I understand, different), it was considered quite infra dig. in a gentleman to visit. However, being a griff, I knew nothing of this, and if the case had been otherwise, I should have been without an alternative. Dirty tablecloths, well spotted with kail and mustard; prawn curries, capital beef-steaks, domestics of the cut of Rumjohnny, a rickety, rusty, torn billiard-table, on which, day and night, the balls were going, lots of shippies, and a dingy bed, were the leading features of this establishment, not forgetting clouds of voracious and well-fleshed musquitoes, to which those of Madras were a mere joke.

I shall not inflict on the reader a dry detail of the occurrences of the next three days; let it suffice to state, that at the end of that period, having duly reported my arrival, &c., I found myself in possession of an advance of 150 sicca rupees, sterling money of Bengal, four bare walls and a puckah floor in the south barracks of Fort William, and about to fit up the same in the first style of griffinish fashion, under the able direction of Chattermohun Ghose.

The south barracks is one of several ranges within the Fort, and allotted principally to the accommodation of unmarried subs. Like the Burlington Arcade, it has a long passage down the centre, into which the doors of the several quarters open; but here the resemblance ceases. Here I had a practical illustration of the ill-working of the social system, the living in a species of community under the present discordant and defective state of our feelings and habits. The passage was sounding and reverberating, and each occupant of a quarter had much of the benefit of his neighbour’s flute, fiddle, or French horn, whether “i’ the vein” for harmony or not; shoe brushings, occasional yells of servants undergoing the discipline of fist or cane, jolly ensigns and cadets clattering up and down, cracking horsewhips, whistling the “Flaxen-headed Cow-boy” or “Begone Dull Care,” the arrival of files of coolies laden with purchases from the China Bazaar or Tulloch’s Auction Room, pleasantly varied by interminable wranglings on the part of master’s sirdar or bursar, touching payments and dustoorie, or custom; payees urging pleas in deprecation of abatement, sirdar overruling the same—constituted a few of the désagrémens of a south-barrack life. The optical department was not less varied and novel; but it could be shut out at pleasure, an advantage not predicable of the former.

The aspect of the passage varied with the hour; he who strolled down it, about the hour of dawn, or a little after, might catch glimpses, through half-opened doors, of all stages of the toilet, from soap-suds and dressing-gowns, to what painters term the “ultima basia” or finishing touches; possibly, too, he might have a peep at the ensign’s lady, “the soldier’s bride,” divested of all the romance with which song-composers and novelists are wont to invest her; hair en papillottes, sleeves tucked up, and washing Augustus or Tommy. At ten, the scene was changed; without the doors, on the ground, might be seen a goodly display of trays, with egg-shells, fish-bones, rice, muffin, and other wrecks of breakfast; sweepers—certain degraded menials, “all same caste as master,”—squatting near and waiting for the said remnants; hookhas or kulians in course of preparation for those who indulged in the luxury of smoking; and here and there, perhaps, a sergeant, havildar, or strapping grenadier sepoy, waiting for the summons from within to give this morning’s report:—noon and evening, tiffin and dinner, each brought its appropriate proceedings, and varied the aspect of the common passage, which will long, with the force of a first impression, remain strongly engraven on my memory.

Of late years, with the view of protecting young officers on their arrival, from those impositions, scrapes, and embarrassments, to which, owing to their youth and inexperience, they were formerly exposed, the Government has considerately created an appointment, called the “superintendent of cadets,”—a measure well calculated to mitigate the evil.

The system of sending youths to India at the early ages of fifteen or sixteen, appears to me to be one fraught with evil, against which its advantages weigh but as dust in the balance. At that early age, the character and principles are generally quite unformed, and, intoxicated on becoming uncontrolled master of himself, emancipated from the thraldom of home or school, the cadet launches or did launch (unless, in this “go-ahead” age, things have greatly altered) into idleness, dissipation, and frivolity, feeling through life (if not cut off in his prime) the effects of habits and follies which, under all circumstances, and knowing youth’s plastic nature, it was not probable he would avoid.

Often the finest natures are the first to fall victims to the absence of salutary restraint, or they plough their way to wisdom through bitter experience, finding that “gem above price” when it is probably too late to be of use to them. The wildnesses and consequent escapades of such boys have tended to lower the European character very considerably in the estimation of the natives; and the sepoys, and above all, the veteran native officers, must, and I am convinced do, feel strongly their being subjected to the control and caprice of such striplings. It is, perhaps, an unavoidable consequence of our anomalous rule in India, that the native should in no case be allowed to command the European; but, wherever possible, we should at least avoid placing hoary age and madcap inexperience in such a degrading juxtaposition. I have known such youths (truth obliges me to include myself amongst the number) order about, and not unfrequently use harsh and unbecoming language to venerable native officers, whose silver beards, and breasts covered with medals, spoke of many a campaign, and services rendered to the state, before probably even the stripling’s sire was in existence. As the empire of opinion—the awe which our superior energy and science have inspired—dies away, and even now it is on the wane—it will be well to have a store of affection on which to fall back—an anchorage in the hearts of the people of India, when our power over their prejudices has relaxed its hold.

Chattermohun Ghose, having, as a preliminary proceeding, given me a list of things which I must have—Bengal indispensables—and having been duly authorized to procure the same, he very soon made his appearance with about a dozen and a half of coolies or porters, bearing, amongst other articles, a camp-table, a cane-bottom sleeping-cot, a setringie, or cotton carpet, about one-third the size of my room, two chairs, some Chinese chinaware, and copper cooking-utensils, and a huge basin, something of the shape of Mambrino’s helmet, on an iron tripod stand, which it puzzled me sorely to guess the use of.

“What do you call this, Chattermohun?” said I; “is it a chafing-dish, or what?”

“Chafey-dish! no, Sar; that call chillumchee, for wash hand, with ablution—all gentilmen have chillumchee.”

The appendages of the toilet, by the way, and the manner in which it is performed, in India, amongst Europeans, differ so essentially from those of home, that they excite considerable surprise in the new comer.

“Master, I think, will want mil’tary coat,” said my grand purveyor!

“Faith! that’s true,” said I; “and it reminds me that I have some red cloth, furnished by Messrs. Welsh and Stalker, for the express purpose.”

“Ver well, Sar; then I bring dhirgee (tailor), make up in room; same time, I bring small piece yellow-cloth for facing; also one ishilki sash, and reg’lation sword, all complit.”

“Bring a tailor!” said I; “what, do your tailors here go out to work?”

“Yes, Sar; this custom this contree; not all same Calcutta as Europe.”

“So I perceive,” I replied.

The tailor shortly after made his appearance, squatted himself cross-legged in the apartment, and was soon hard at work at my red jacket. He was a little old fragile fellow, who sat and plied his needle, the only instrument he seemed fitted to wield, with an air of apathetic quietude and resignation, which it seemed as if no conceivable movement of the outside world could for a moment disturb, and which, to one of my then mercurial temperament, was utterly astounding. This little fractional portion of humanity, who was bent from age or infirmity, took my measure with exceeding gentleness, and I think I now see him with the few scanty hairs of his grey moustache, and his thin horny nose, pinched by a pair of spectacles secured by a thread pinned to the front of his turban, as he moved silently about me, in the calm exercise of this incipient act of his vocation. Poor little old Kalipha! Long since, doubtless, hast thou closed the “even tenor of thy way;” thy quiet, inglorious, though useful occupation; and added thy handful of soda and potash to the ever-changing bosom of old mother-earth!

After having established myself pretty comfortably in the south barracks, I despatched my letters of introduction to the several parties to whom they were addressed; amongst the number was one to General Capsicum. A few were from weighty and influential persons at home, and all had thumping big seals, and “favoured by Mr. Cadet Gernon” written in the corners. I used to reckon them up about once a week on ship-board, as a miser counts his treasures; speculating on their contents, and building chateaux en Espagne touching the pleasant results which would, I imagined, doubtless follow their delivery. This, thought I, constructing my airy fabric after the manner of Alnaschar, and gazing complacently on my cheval de bataille, my “great gun,” furnished by a certain member of the peerage, this will inevitably bring an aide-de-camp, post-haste, to invite me to the Government-house. I shall be placed on the staff, wear a cocked-hat and aiguilettes, carve the hams and turkeys, laugh at the Governor-general’s jokes, carry the Governor-general’s lady’s prayer-book—live in clover, loved and respected, the pet and confidential friend of the family: a capital appointment will follow in due course; wealth, honour, will pour upon me; and, to crown my felicity, some high-born damsel will eventually become Mrs. Gernon! Ye gods! what a career of prosperity did I picture, as I contemplated that massive letter with its coronetted seal and crest (an ominous griffin) all proper. Heigho! Four dinners, three breakfasts, and a tiffin, were all I gained by the whole batch of introductions; and as for the Governor-general, I grieve to say, that I found him lamentably deficient in that penetration and power of just appreciation of character for which I had given him credit.

I was sitting in my barrack-rooms next morning after breakfast, amusing myself by pitching bones and crusts out of the window to a bevy of adjutant-birds below, opening their jaws expectingly, or clattering their huge beaks whilst contending for a bone, with the sound of marrow-bones and cleavers, when the door opened, and, to my agreeable surprise, in walked Captain Marpeet, his face radiant with smiles. A cordial greeting followed for, though coarse and illiterate for a man in his station, Marpeet was a warm-hearted, blunt, and generous fellow, and I had a sincere regard for him. Being an “old hand,” he assumed the Mentor towards Grundy and me, to which office, as it was not often offensively obtruded, I quietly submitted, with proper griffinish humility.

“Well!” said he, looking up and down and round about, “so here you are, all snug and tight, regularly boxed up in this noisy hole?”

“Any thing by way of exchange,” I replied, “after five months on ship-board; but to tell you the truth, it has its merits, and I rather like it on other grounds. Here, you see, I am, with all my comforts about me,” pointing rather ostentatiously to my two chairs, cot, and camp-table, and to my brazen chillumchee, in radiant brightness standing in the corner, “and from these, my head-quarters, I mean to sally out ever and anon, to mingle a little in the gay world of Calcutta, before I start for the Upper Provinces.”

“Well,” said Marpeet, laughing; “I see, ‘for a griff,’ that you have a pretty good notion of things in general, and I don’t care if I join you in a spree or two before I leave. You griffs require an ‘old hand’ to look after you, or you will be always doing some soft thing or another. But have you been playing a knife and fork anywhere yet? been to any grand ‘feed’ since you arrived?”

“Dinners and parties, eh? No, not as yet; but there is abundance of time for that, for it was only yesterday that I fired off a grand salvo of letters, which will doubtless, in due time, bring invitations ‘as thick as leaves on Vallombrosa.’”

“Leaves on! pshaw! can’t you say ‘black-berries’ at once? I wish, Gernon, you were not so confoundedly poetical; I hate poetry mortally; it is griffinish; give me matters of fact, something I can understand. Dundas, or a number of the Sporting Magazine, or the like.”

“There’s no help for it,” said I; “it’s my nature, and nature we may modify, but cannot radically change.”

“Philosophizing; that’s worse still. But, joking apart, don’t be too sure of the invitations, or you may reckon without your host. I’m an ‘old hand’ (Marpeet’s everlasting boast), and have seen a little of Calcutta in my time, and I know, whatever the folks once were, they are now becoming most infernally pucka (stingy), and will soon, I verily believe, be as bad as they are in England, where a leg o’mutton goes through the nineteen manœuvres before it is dismissed, and a man thinks he confers an everlasting obligation if he asks you to dinner.”

“Ha, ha, ha! you old splenetic Qui Hye,” I exclaimed, “you are too hard on us ‘Englishers;’ you don’t consider the difference of circumstances, and that, where mouths are many and legs o’mutton few, we must resort to expedients to square supply and demand.”

“But,” resumed the rough-spun captain, “now let me fulfil the principal object of my visit, which is to congratulate you.”

“For what?” I asked.

“What? why are you so ignorant, so out of the world, as not to know that you are promoted?”

“Promoted!” exclaimed I; “why Grinnerson said I should be in luck if I got my commission in five years.”

The captain put a Gazette into my hand, doubled it up in a compact form, and, striking a particular portion con spirito with his forefinger, “Read that,” said he.

I took it in a sort of ecstacy, caught a glimpse of my own name. Yes—there I was, actually in print: “Mr. Gernon, appointed by the Honourable Court of Directors a cadet on this establishment, having reported his arrival at Fort William, is admitted to the service accordingly, and promoted to the rank of ensign.”

“Yoics! full ensign!” shouted I, springing up, snapping my fingers, and capering round the room arms a-kimbo, hip and toe, like a sailor dancing a hornpipe, to the infinite astonishment of Marpeet, who thought I had been bitten by a scorpion or snake.

“Hey! hey! what’s the matter Gernon? are you mad, you Griff, are you mad?”

“I am mad, old square-toes; come along,” said I, hauling him out of his chair; “come and rejoice with me. Promoted already! Yoics! Tally-ho!”

In the midst of our uproar and saraband, Grundy entered, and gazed with open mouth, like one moonstruck, at our mad dervish dance. His appearance, however, calmed any ebullition, and pushing Marpeet into his seat, I sunk into mine.

“What’s the matter?” said he.

“Why, I’m promoted, my honest young ploughshare,” said I, “that’s all; we were footing a jig on the strength of it. I dare say you will find your name there too.”

“Oh, yes,” observed Marpeet; “the whole batch of the last griffs are in the general orders. There,” added he, tossing the paper to Grundy, “you’ll find yourself there, farmer, at full length.”

Grundy took the paper, and beheld his own mellifluous name; but his pleasure manifested itself in a different manner from mine; he “grinned horribly a ghastly smile.”

“As you are so fond of dancing,” said Marpeet, “what say you to joining a hop to-morrow evening?”

“With all my heart,” said I; “always ready for a ‘trip on the fantastic toe;’ but who is your friend?”

“Why,” rejoined the captain, “I have a ‘provoke’ here from the mistress of the Kidderpore establishment for the orphan daughters of officers (where, by the way, I expect my young Mogulanee will figure some of these days), to attend a dance to-morrow; they have a ball there once a fortnight (I believe), to show off the girls, and give them an opportunity of getting spliced.”

“That’s a new feature of schools; in England, if I remember rightly, the efforts of the mistresses tend all the other way—to keep the girls from getting married.”

“That,” said Marpeet, “would never do in India, where women are thinking of getting buried about the age at which they talk of being married in lat. 50° N. Yes, this is the place for the man who wants a wife, and wishes to be met half-way, detesting, like me, the toil of wooing. There he can go, and if he sees a girl he likes, good fore-hand, clean about the fetlock-joints, free in her paces, sound and quiet, and not too long in the tooth, if not bespoke, he’ll not find much difficulty in getting her. But if you and Grundy will go, I’ll get you smuggled in somehow or other, and will call for you in proper time to-morrow.”

“Thank you,” said I; “never fear for me, for I’m all anxiety to see these young ladies of the equestrian order, whom you so pleasantly describe. Besides, old Stultz, here in the corner, has just finished my red coat, and I am all anxiety to sport it for the first time.”

“Well, good-bye, lads,” said the captain; “I’m off to Tulloh’s auction, to see if I can’t pick up a cheap buggy, and a few other things I want.”

So saying, he disappeared, leaving Grundy and me to ruminate on the foregoing matters.

“Grundy,” said I, after a pause, “you must really get a red coat, sword, and sash, and make yourself look like a Christian, if you go to this ball to-morrow night; excuse my giving you a hint.”

“I’m afraid there’s not time for it,” said Grundy, “and I have nothing of the sort as yet.”

“Well, leave it to me; Chattermohun is a sharp fellow, at a pinch; and I’ll engage, with his assistance, to rig you out for the evening.”

CHAPTER IX.

Captain Marpeet made his appearance at the hour appointed on the following evening, and off we started for the Kidderpore school, which, by the way, is, or was, a rather large and imposing structure, at some distance from Calcutta; mussalchees, or link boys, with blazing flambeaux, scampering ahead in good, tip-top style.

Having passed the bazaar, we turned sharply from the main road, into a pretty extensive compound or domain, and soon found ourselves before the portico of the school, amongst buggies, palankeens, and other conveyances appertaining to visitors who had preceded us. Leaving our palankeens, we entered the house, passed through several rooms, one of them devoted to refreshments, and partly filled with gay Lotharios, some few military, the rest belonging to the orders “shippy” and “cranny,”[^[5]] and finally entered the ball-room. This we found thronged with dancers, in a blaze of light, and resounding to the merry notes of a band, which, though not exactly equal to Weippert’s, seemed, nevertheless, as a locomotive stimulus, to be quite as effective. The country-dance then flourished in its green old age, and the couples at the Kidderpore hop were flying about in great style—poussette, hands across, down the middle, and back again—evincing, in spite of the temperature, all that laudable perseverance so essential to the accomplishment of such laborious undertakings.

Marpeet, at my particular request, and to keep us in countenance, wore his uniform, though he had previously declared (considering the season) that it was a most griffinish proceeding to sport broadcloth, and decidedly against his conscience. “You griffs, however,” said he “will have your way, and we must humour you sometimes.” As for myself, in my scarlet raggie, brimstone facings, black waist-belt, and regulation sword, in my own opinion I looked quite the god of war, and was fully armed for execution.

What an era in the life of a soldier is his first appearance in regimentals, “his blushing honours thick about him!” how he then pants for love and glory; the tented field and the clash of arms! At forty or fifty, possibly, if of a thoughtful vein, his sword converted to a hoe or pen, a mighty change comes o’er him, and he thinks, perhaps, that he might have done better had he stuck to a black or a blue one. Sometimes, it is true, when warmed with a flicker of his youthful fire, like Job’s war-horse, he loves to “snuff the battle from afar,” and “saith to the trumpets, ‘ha! ha!’” But, mainly, war delights him no more, for he sees the wide-spread evils which lurk under its exciting pomp and meretricious glitter, and his heart and mind yearn towards those more ennobling pursuits and occupations, which tend to elevate his species, to give to the intellectual and moral their due ascendency, and which speak of “peace and good-will to man.”

The dancers being in motion, we did not advance, but contented ourselves with occupying a position by the door, and leisurely surveying the scene. At one end of the apartment, on chairs and benches, sat certain elderly matrons, amongst whom were the superiors of the establishment, looking complacently at the young folks, and calculating in all probability the amount of execution likely to result from the evening’s amusements.

The young ladies, however, whose sylph-like forms were gliding through the mazes of the dance, were the “orient pearls at random strung,” which principally attracted my attention. As the flush of a summer’s noon fades by insensible degrees into the ebon shades of night, so did the complexions of these charming damsels graduate from white to black. Youth, however, smiling, buxom youth, like the mantle of charity, covers a multitude of defects, or, if I may help myself to another and apter simile, possesses an alchymic power, which converts all it touches to gold. There were eyes, teeth, sportive ringlets, and graceful forms enough, in the Kidderpore ball-room, stamped with all its freshness, to atone for the darker shadings of the picture.

For the first time, indeed, though previously imbued with the common and illiberal European prejudice against black, I began to experience a wavering, and to think that dark languishing eyes and a dash of bronze imparted what is often wanted in English beauties, somewhat of soul and character to the countenance. Music, lights, the excitement of the ball-room, are, however, it must be confessed, sad deceivers, producing illusions full oft, which painfully vanish with the morning’s light. For young ladies of thirty or thereabouts (an age, though now-a-days, I am credibly informed, never attained by spinsters), the ball-room and its factitious glare have some decided advantages. By day, Cupid, the sly urchin, can only make his attacks from smiles and dimples; but by night, at a pinch, he may launch a shaft with effect even from a wrinkle.

The dance at length ceased; beaux bowed, ladies courtesied, and the throng broke into couples, and promenaded the apartment. Exhausted belles sunk into seats, whilst attentive youths fanned and persiflaged, laughed at nothing, and studied “the agreeable.” Such was the posture of affairs, when the head of the establishment, a lady of about five-and-forty, of pleasing appearance and address, seeing we were strangers, approached, and kindly bade us welcome. There was an amiability, and at the same time a firmness and decision in her manner, a happy admixture of the suaviter and fortiter, which showed that she was peculiarly well qualified for the arduous task she had to perform of presiding over this establishment—a sort of nunnery travestied, in which perpetual celibacy formed no part of the vows, and the vigils differed widely from those which “pale-eyed virgins keep” in the gloomy seclusion of the convent.

“Would you like to dance, sir?” said the lady, addressing herself to Captain Marpeet.

“No, I thank you, ma’am,” said my blunt companion; “I am a little too stiff in the joints, and my dancing days are all over.”

The fact was, that Marpeet had passed five consecutive years of his life in the jungles, where, as it frequently happens in India, he had acquired what, for want of a better term, I will call a gynophobia, or woman-horror, which the occasional appearance of a spinster in those deserts wild rather tended to confirm than allay. A short residence in England had, it is true, in some degree, moderated this dread of the respectable portion of the softer sex; but still much of it remained, and he shunned with morbid aversion all situations imposing the painful necessity of whispering soft nothings and “doing the agreeable” with the ladies. The good dame of the school smiled expressively on receiving Captain Marpeet’s answer; it was a smile which said, as plain as smile could speak, “You are an odd fish, I see, and one on whom pressing would be quite thrown away.”

“Perhaps,” said she, turning to me, “you will allow me to introduce you to a partner, and if so, I shall have great pleasure in presenting you to one of our young ladies?”

I had none of Marpeet’s scruples, expressed my acknowledgments, accepted her offer, and was led full clank across the ball-room, and presented in due form to Miss Rosa Mussaleh, as an aspirant for her fair hand in the ensuing dance. Miss Rosa Mussaleh was a fine bouncing girl of eighteen, still in high blow from the effects of her recent exertions. Form unexceptionable: complexion rather tending to a delicate saffron, bespeaking plainly her Asiatic maternity.

“If not engaged, Miss Rosa,” said the school-mistress, presenting me, “Ensign Gernon” (I had previously communicated my name and rank, though there was not much danger of mistaking me for a major-general) “will be happy to dance with you.”

“I shall be ver happie; I am not engaged,” said Miss Rosa, in a singular variety of the Anglo-Saxon tongue called the Cheechee language (Hindustanee idiom Englished), then new to me—a dialect which constitutes a distinguishing mark of those born and bred in India, and the leading peculiarity of which consists in laying a false emphasis, particularly on such small words as to, me, and, &c. The lady of the establishment having performed her devoir, as mistress of the ceremonies, made a courteous inclination, and withdrew, leaving us to ourselves.

As a rather precocious juvenile, I had danced with some of the fair and well-born damsels of my own land at Bath, Clifton, and elsewhere, and was, therefore, not to be daunted with the mahogany charms of Miss R. M.; so, sans cérémonie, I dashed into conversation.

“You have a great many charming young ladies here,” said I.

“Oh, yes,” said my partner, “great manie; but they are not all here; the little girls are gone to bed. Do you then admire our young ladie?”

This was rather a pointed question; but I replied without hesitation, “Oh, excessively; there appear to be some lovely creatures amongst them, and (giving a flourish) with charms enough to move the soul of an anchorite.”

“Oh,” said Miss Rosa, with a smile and downward look, wishing to be complimentary, “I think dey are more fond of the military.”

I was on the point of emitting that expressive note of astonishment—whew! but checked myself.

“I think,” said I, “you rather mistook me, though I can hardly regret that which has been the cause of so flattering an admission, but I alluded to an ascetic.”

“Asiatic!” said the young lady, with some hauteur, and a toss of the head, “no native come to these ball, I assure you.”

I could not suppress an emphatic “humph!”

The fiddles now began again; I presented my arm, divested myself, though with reluctance, of my trusty Solingen blade, and took my place in the set. A tremendous long set it was, and after slaving for half an hour, I found myself at the head of it. Grundy, with a face like that of the Marquess of Granby on a sign-post, standing next to me, and streaming like the apotheosis of a river god.

“Well, how do you get on, Grundy?” said I.

“Oh, it’s cruel hot work,” said he, with a sigh, which was perfectly heart-rending.

“Hot, indeed,” I rejoined, giving sigh for sigh; “they don’t catch me dancing again in a red coat.”

If working up the dance was fatiguing, the going down it was still more so. My partner, a practised hand, skipped about without the smallest signs of fatigue, whilst I, reeking from every pore, was dragged up and down and whirled round and about till my head spun, and I thought I should have verily gone into a fit, or sunk from sheer exhaustion on the floor. I did, however, contrive to hold out till we finished the dance, five-and-twenty couples at least, when, with a staggering bow, I tendered my arm and led my partner to her seat.

“Are you fond of dancing?” said she, with the coolest assurance.

“A little of it,” said I, with a sigh, “when in practice, the set not too long, and the weather not too hot.”

A gentleman, chained, ringed, and be-broached, stout and bronzed, now came up, and engaged my partner for the next dance, chatted for some time with the air of an old acquaintance, gave a “bye-bye” sort of a nod, and passed on.

“Do you know Captain Trinkum?”

“No,” said I; “what does he belong to?”

“To the Rustomjee Bomanjee,” said she.

“The Rustomjee Bomanjee,” I rejoined; “pray what regiment is that? some irregular corps, I suppose.”

This remark of mine set her off in a violent fit of laughter, of which (rather confused) I begged to know the cause.

“It’s a country ship,” screamed she, “not a regiment.” Going off again at a tangent, “Oh, now I see you are a griffin.”

Thus she balanced the anchorite account, and turned the tables. I can’t say I was sorry when he of the Rustomjee Bomanjee came smirking up, and relieved me from the raillery of Miss Rosa, who, though herself guilty of corrupting the kings English, was an arrant quiz, and not disposed to spare my griffinish blunders.

Marpeet now joined me, and after a little banter touching the style in which Miss Rosa had trotted me about, proposed an adjournment to the refreshment-room. To this I joyfully acceded, suggesting that it would be a charity to take poor Grundy with us, if his dissolution had not already taken place.

“Come, Grundy,” said Marpeet; “come along with us; we’re going to victual and refit, and would recommend the same to you, for you seem in need of it.”

Grundy assented with pleasure, and, linked arm-in-arm we entered the refreshment-room.

Here was a scene of considerable bustle; some were preparing acidulous compounds for the ladies in the ball-room; others doing the like for themselves. As we entered, a staid and exemplary young man, with his cargo of negus and cake, balancing the same with the nicety of a juggler, was making his way out, when in banged a six-foot ensign to do the bidding of his fair inamorata, and charged with her fan and gloves, and going full butt against the exemplary beau, upset both negus and cake. The ensign, a flighty fellow in every respect, made a hasty apology, and off, leaving the beau to wipe his waistcoat and repair the damages as best he might. Knots of young fellows were there, laughing, eating sandwiches or brewing negus, lounging, and clanking their swords. Native servants belonging to the visitors or the establishment were bustling about, and making themselves useful; whilst here and there, in a corner, and availing herself of the solitude of a crowd, a young lady might be seen, her back against the wall, listlessly sipping her negus, or balancing a spoon over a jelly-glass, and listening, with downward look and in mute entrancement, to some handsome militaire, whilst he was pouring into her attentive ear the “leprous distilment” of honied words.

Recruited and refreshed, we returned to the ball-room, and in spite of my recent resolution, I again joined the dance, which was kept up till a late hour, when my friends and I returned to my room in the fort, where, fairly done up, I betook myself to rest, the fiddles still sounding in my head, to dream of Miss Rosa, and all I had seen and heard; and so terminated my first ball in the East.

The Kidderpore hops, I hear, are now no more; from which I conclude that some other matrimonial plan has been devised for disposing of the young ladies, more in consonance with the refined delicacy of the age, which, though recognizing the necessity of matrimony, seems to discountenance any expedient which smacks of the slave-market.

On the following evening, Captain Marpeet, according to engagement, called in a hired buggy, to take me a drive on the Course. The Course, as is well known, is the grand resort of the beau monde of Calcutta, which, like a colony of owls or bats from a ruin, emerge at sundown from all parts of that extensive city, to see and to be seen, and to enjoy the coolness of the evening breeze.

Seated in his gig, Marpeet drew up before the barrack in all his glory, handling the ribbons with the peculiar and finished grace of a man who had made it his study. Great, indeed, were his pretensions in that way, and I am confident he would rather have been the leader of the four-in-hand club, than have written the Principia of Newton.

In I jumped; Marpeet cracked his whip to mettle up his ticca[^[6]] tit—an animal deficient in flesh and blood, certainly, but exhibiting an amazing deal of bone. Away we went. The evening gun had just boomed; the myriad crows of the Fort cawed querulously responsive from the trees; the bugles sounded; the drums beat; the guards at the gates, European and native, were turned out; captains and lieutenants, flushed with tiffin or a nap, swords under their arms, sauntered along to join them. The firefly here and there twinkled in the trees, and the far-off yell of the jackall proclaimed the approach of night, when away we whirled through covered ways and over thundering drawbridges, past scarp, counter-scarp, and glacis, and in a few minutes found ourselves amidst the throng of carriages and equestrians on the Course, the mass of the Government-house, with its capacious dome and lion-crowned gates, rising in front, and the vast semicircle of Chowringhee, with its aggregation of snow-white structures, stretching away far to the right.

What a singular scene here presented itself to my admiring sight! What an admixture of nations, and their several modes and peculiarities—of English turn outs and Indian piebald imitations—with strange equipages, combining European finish with the native original! Carriages and equestrians, walking, trotting, or galloping, passing and repassing!

This is the Hyde Park of the East, where, though less of splendour than in its great prototype, there was far more variety to be seen. There came the Governor-General, the viceroy of British India, open barouche and four (all dignity and gracious bows); cocked hats and feathers flying; black body-guard before and behind, in a long trot; sabres flashing, and scabbards rattling. Near, by way of antithesis, might be seen a palankeen carriage “creepy crawley,” drawn by two enormous bullocks, with monstrous dewlaps, bearing some fat old Portuguese lady, black as Erebus or Nox, to take the air, driver working hard to rouse them to a transient hobble. There, four or five abreast, rode sundry dashing young officers, displaying themselves and their uniforms to the best advantage, “pride in their port, defiance in their eyes;” whilst near, in some open landau or barouche, the “cynosure of neighbouring eyes,” would appear the newly-arrived beauty, the belle of the season, her English roses contrasting with the reigning pallor around, wearing a look of conscious power, and exhibiting herself to the admiring gaze of the gossiping world. Happy creature! all is couleur de rose with you! No thoughts of the future disturb the self-satisfied emotions of thy exulting bosom! And who is he beside her—the handsome young aide-de-camp? With easy bend he leans gracefully towards the carriage, and checks his fiery Arab. Mark how he rattles, and says his agreeable things, with all the airs of a conscious “eligible,” whilst the gratified vanity of the woman sparkles in her eyes and glows in her animated countenance. Here comes an intruder, bound for a distant bazaar—jingle, jingle, jingle! What a contrast! a native ruth or bylie, bullocks in a long trot, a pretty black damsel,

With rings on her fingers,

And bells on her toes—

she of childhood’s song to a nicety—peeping from behind the blinds. “Ah! turn not away those sweet eyes!” Egad, she’s off—driver twisting the tails and goading the quarters of his cattle to “keep up the steam.” There whirl past in tilbury or tandem a brace of recently-arrived writers, regular Meltonians, doing the thing secundum artem, and determined to astonish the crowd. How knowingly, his person obliqued-quarter front, does the driver sit! With what gentlemanly abandon does the drivee loll back in the vehicle! These are high-spirited fellows, who drink their claret, and have never known a care, and “d——n every thing that is low!”

See, with andante movement now advances the ponderous chariot of the great Baboo Maha Raja Spooney Persaud Mullik, the great milch-cow of the lawyers, and who gives his lac at a time from the genuine impulses of a native benevolence; turbaned coachman; Baboo within, wrapped in cashmeres, fat, yellow, and bolt upright as the effigy on a tombstone.

Halloo, there! what’s this? A race—clear the way! There they come, hired for the evening, “two blind uns and a bolter;” heads down, ears viciously inclined. “Go it, my middies!” Look at the reefer in advance—all aback, toes in his horse’s nose, head on the crupper, tugging for bare life to make his craft steer or wear. I thought so—snap go the tiller-ropes—a man overboard—the blue-jacket rolls in the dust: he’s up again, hat rammed over his eyes—but the bolter’s off—catch him who can!

There goes, at a gee-up hobble, a shandry-dan, with two Armenians in it—highly respectable men, with queer velvet caps, and very episcopal-looking aprons—strange mixture of European and Asiatic, neither flesh nor fowl—Topee Wala or Puckree Bund.[^[7]] They nod to two gentlemen passing in a gig, of the gimcrack order—gentlemen in white jackets and ditto hats; highly polished men, i.e. in the face, which seems, indeed, to have had the benefit of a bottle of Day and Martin’s real japan blacking—who are they? Valiant Lusitanians, illustrious descendants of Albuquerque and Vasco de Gama—Messrs. Joachim de Reberero and Gomez de Souza, writers in the office of the salt and opium department. Who is this in cords, top boots, and white jacket—a dapper, well-fed little man, on a tall English horse, to which he bears about the same relative proportions that Falstaffs bread did to his sherris sack?—Ay, who?

Come, tell it, and burn ye—

He is—can he help it?—a special attorney—

an attaché of the Supreme Court.

Such, then, is the Course of Calcutta; and such a little melodramatic sketch may give some idea of the varied objects which there meet the eye.

We drove up and down several times, and recognized not a few of our ship companions; amongst others, the little colonel, in a barouche with some ladies, whom he was evidently entertaining with a “yarn.” Darkness now came on apace. The mussalchees, or link boys, with their flaring mussauls, met their masters at turns of the roads, to light them to their several homes, and we thought it time to depart. Marpeet drove to his quarters, where he invited me to pass the evening, to which I assented. Sitting over our wine, Marpeet discussed the Course, and gave me a few bits of scandal, touching sundry ladies and gentlemen we had seen, over which I yawned, for I have ever abominated what are called private histories.

“Well,” said Marpeet, “I think I shall start for the Upper Provinces, and leave you sooner than I thought. The lads there in the old corps are very anxious to have me amongst them once more. I have a letter to-day from Tippleton—an old friend of mine, who is a real good fellow, with no nonsense about him (I hope to bring you acquainted some day)—urging my going up without delay. Let me see,” said he, feeling his pocket, “I think I have it somewhere about me. Oh, yes, here it is, and you may read it, if you like. He is rather fond, you will perceive, of the Hindoostanee zuban, and so forth, but he does not set up for a great scribe, but is what is better, a devilish honest fellow. Come governor, toss off your heel-taps, and take some more wine.”

Every language has, probably, terms which, from their superior terseness or euphony, express more fully the meanings they are intended to convey than corresponding words in another tongue; and this certainly justifies their adoption. But there is also a practice of using foreign phrases indiscriminately, when the native ones would do quite as well. Shortly after the last peace, novel-writers could express nothing with point and effect but in French and Italian; so in India there are a class of men, generally small wits, who interlard their conversation with Hindoostanee words and phrases; these they often sport in England, where of course they are unintelligible and out of place. Ye guardian genii! who watch over the “well of English undefiled,” whilst you admit what will purify and sweeten, prevent its unhallowed pollution from garbage thrown into it by every idle and thoughtless hand! And now for Captain Tippleton’s letter, which though rather more fully charged with Hindoostanee terms than any the writer ever met with, yet presents some likeness of a certain species of Indian epistolary style (of the slip-slop and slang-wanging order):—

Grillumabad, Aug. 18—

My dear Marpeet,

Just now taking a dekh (look) at the Calcutta Khubber (News), I saw your name amongst those of a batch of griffs and Tazu wulaits (fresh Europeans), having arrived by the Rottenbeam Castle. Welcome back, my dear fellow, to John Kumpany ka raj. I hope you will cut Calcutta, and lose no time in puhonchowing (conveying) yourself up by dawk to join the old pultun (battalion), in which, I am sorry to say, things have been quite oolta poolta (topsy-turvy) since you left us. Tims has quitted the corps, as you probably know. He was a d——d puckha (stingy) hand, and a muggra (sulky) beast into the bargain. However, I don’t think we have gained much by his budlee (successor), our new kummadan (commandant)—a regular bahadur (great person), who dicks our lives out with kuddum ootou (drill), dumcows (bullies) the native officers, and gallees (abuses) the Jacks (sepoys). Tomkins and I still chum together; he, as gureeb and soost (quiet and lazy) as ever, and as fond of the brandy pawney, sends his bhote bhote salaam to Marpeet Sahib. Station dull—no tumasha (fun), as in the old times, when we were first here. The other day, however, old Dickdar, our brigadier, gave a burra khanna (dinner); his loll (claret) was bang-up and you may be sure we did not spare the simpkin (champagne); burra beebee (great lady) very gracious, and a great show-off of the bal butchos (children). We had the old bajja (band), your creation and hobby, in attendance, and got up a nautch. Smirks, our adjutant, quite a burra admee (great man) since he mounted the kantas (spurs), bucking up to and devilish sweet on the spinster; but it won’t hoga (do); nothing under the revenue or judicial department will go down there—Samjah Sahib?—You understand me. Tip us a chit, my dear fellow, by return of dawk, and believe me,

My dear Marpeet, ever yours very truly,

Jonas Tippleton.

“Well,” said I, “as far as I can understand, it seems a very friendly sort of a letter; but I should be better able to judge if you would give me the English of it.”

Marpeet laughed, called me a critical dog, and put the letter in his pocket.

“Come,” added I, “since you have shown me your letter, I will read you mine; one I have received from my factotum, Chattermohun Ghose, accounting for his temporary absence, which, for the choiceness of its language, is quite a bijou in its way. Chattermohun tells me he was for some time a writer in an adjutant’s office, as also in a merchant’s counting-house here in Calcutta, which doubtless accounts for the phraseology smacking not a little of the technical language of both those schools. Here it is:—

“‘Most respectful and honoured Sir,

“‘Greatly labouring for fearful apprehension that sudden non-appearance should dictate condemnation from the sensible benignity of your excellency’s reverence, and feeling in concatenation that explanation was indispensable, I have herewith the honour to inform you, that one of my family (now consisting of six children effective of various denominations) was recently solemnized in holy matrimony and adoptedly conducted according to prescribed rite and custom of native religion. This solemnization was carried into production my house in country by Boitacoolah T’hannah, wither in my patriarchal duty have repair for a few day.

“‘According to last order of your reverence, have instruct to Gopee Nauth, of China Bazaar, to disperse to your quarter goods as per margin,[^[8]] for which he expect the favour of early remittance. I have also passed to credit of master account 16 rupees 8 annas, leaving balance my favour 256 rupees 5 annas 3 pice, as per account enclosed. Trusting from this statement of explanation your honour not think me absent without leave, I have honour to be, with deep respect and consideration,

“‘Your most obedient humble servant,

“‘Chattermohun Ghose, Sircar.

“‘To his Exc. Ensign Gernon, South Bks.’”

“Well,” said Marpeet, “that beats cock-fighting.”

CHAPTER X.

Two great sources of attraction to young men existed in Calcutta at the time of which I am now writing (upwards of twenty-five years ago), and do still exist, for anything I know to the contrary, Tulloh’s and other auction-rooms, and the China bazaar. At the former almost daily sales took place of every kind of property from a ship to a penknife, a rabbit to an elephant; in the latter, all the heterogeneous commodities of an American store were to be seen mingled pell-mell—raspberry jam, Milroy’s saddles, best pickles, regulation-swords, wall-shades, China dishes, hog-spears, Harvey’s sauce, &c.—of which, however, more anon. Catalogues of the various articles to be disposed of at the day’s sale at Tulloh’s are (or were) left daily at the houses in or near Calcutta, and made their appearance, regularly with the newspapers at the break-table, tempting to extravagance, by stimulating latent desires or creating fictitious wants.

In our commercial country and its dependencies, where Plutus is the deity chiefly adored, it seems proper and strictly in character that the pulpits connected with his worship, however remotely, should be ably and efficiently filled. Here, in England, we know this to be generally the case, and what lustre the eloquence of some of our leading auctioneers has shed on the profession; how truly, indeed, more than one of them merit the praise which Johnson, happily quoting from Horace, bestowed on the genius of Goldsmith:—“Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit.”

There was no lack of this shining talent, oratorical power, and technical tact, amongst the auctioneers of Calcutta, seasoned with humour, pathos, or persuasion, according to the occasion. How often have I heard the merits of a venerable steed proclaimed; his infirmities and defects (with a delicate regard to his presence) lightly touched upon, or at most so disposed, like the shades in a picture, as to heighten and improve the general effect! How frequently have I been pleasantly reminded of the good old maxim “de mortuis nil nisi bonum,” when listening to the commendations of a batch of dead and ullaged beer! And how often tempted to make an investment in a cheap “gross of green spectacles,” “a lot of damaged huckaback,” or the like, from a strong impression, fostered by the auctioneers persuasive eloquence, “that they might some day come into use,” a contingent probability largely insisted upon!

What a Herculean task it is to conjure money out of some people’s pockets! Consummate tact is requisite to effect this end. What a world of machinery must be put in motion before the movable crank, the owner’s hand, finds its way into that pecuniary receptacle! A bungler may fumble for a month and not find the motive spring, whilst an adept will touch it in a moment. Yes, I see no reason on earth why the auctioneers should not rank with the liberal professions. Does not the craft combine, in an eminent degree, many of the leading features of those professions, which (always considering the predominant turn of the national mind) unaccountably rank higher in public estimation—the special pleading of the lawyer, the eloquence of the senator, and the business-like airs of the merchant? Does not the auctioneer, like another Charles Martel—ay, and with the same weapon, too—knock down his lots with as much effect as the soldier does his? Does he not pronounce orations over the dead, as has been already shown, and display a beautiful morality in covering, as with the mantle of charity, a multitude of defects? Is not his “going, going, gone,” too, a brief and pithy sermon, touchingly calculated to remind us of our common mortality?

And in all these, are not the functions of a higher pulpit strikingly exercised? Ought he not to be a poet, painter, critic—in short, a man of taste and general information, or how is he to descant with effect on the merits of his multifarious wares? Should he not be a phrenologist, that he may suit his arguments to the several developments of his bidders; a physiognomist, that he may judge of the effect by the unerring index of the countenance, whether rallying, bantering, bullying, or wheedling, is the cue; and a casuist, that he may reconcile his mind to the various tricks of the trade? and, finally, should he not have a deep insight into human nature in general, and know well its various assailable points? “Shall I say, 1,000 rupees for you, sir, for that Arab? no animal can look better, well mounted, I assure you; he will suit your weight and figure to a nicety—was ridden by the Hon. Capt. Dangle, just gone home, a gentleman very much of your appearance, sir, and who lately, to borrow the language of our immortal bard, was wont on our course here ‘to witch the world with noble horsemanship,’ upon that very Arab. Sir—shall I take your bid?” A complaisant nod—the business is done. “Thank you, sir—1,000 rupees for the Arab—going, going, gone!”

One morning, Grundy and I breakfasted together in my room, which was within a few doors of his own, when one of the afore-mentioned catalogues found its way into our possession.

“Grundy,” said I, “whilst I despatch this fish and rice, as you appear to have done, do just read what there is for sale to-day at the auction. I have a feeling that I want something, though, hang me if I can exactly tell what it is.”

Grundy commenced, and read as follows:—“Lot 1st. Three fine alderney cows.”

“Deuce take the cows,” said I; “push on.”

“Three calves belonging to ditto.”

“Fire away.”

“Three Cape sheep, of the Doombah breed.”

“Doombah breed! that sounds well; egad, I think I must have a bid for the sheep—what comes next?”

“A noble French mastiff, two bull-dogs, two wire-haired Scotch terriers, and a greyhound bitch with pup, just imported by the Founderwell.”

“That’s the ticket,” I exclaimed, with eagerness; “I’ll have some of the dogs, if they go reasonably—that’s a settled point—for there’s rare hunting to be had, I hear, on the way up.”

Grundy ran down several columns more of live and dead stock; and there were many things, without which I found I could not comfortably exist for twenty-four hours longer, though, I must confess, I had not thought of them before.

“By-the-bye,” drawled Grundy, “talking of dogs, there was a black fellow at my door just now with one for sale.”

“Was there?” I eagerly asked; “what sort of an animal, and what did the fellow want for it?”

“Why,” said my friend, “I think it was a sort of a terrier; but if you choose, I’ll get my servant to call the man; he can’t be very far off.”

“Do,” said I, “send for him.”

In a few moments, the arrival of the dog and man was duly announced, and both were admitted to my apartment. The vendor was one of those black, dirty, low-caste natives, generally attached to European corps, and denominated “cookboys.” Dress—a soldier’s old castoff coat, a dirty cloth round his loins, and a skull-cap on his head. As for the dog, he is not, perhaps, so easily described; he was reddish, stood high on the legs, and had a wild look; his tail and ears, however, were clipped in a very varment sort of manner, evincing decided science in the operator; and his owner assured me, in broken English, that he was “berry high caste dog,” a thoroughbred terrier; his name Teazer, and a capital fellow to worry a cat or a jackal.

The creature did not certainly look altogether like the terriers I had been in the habit of seeing in England; but still, the state of the ears and tail, the name, and above all, the qualifications, were strong primâ facie proofs that he was one. As for the points of difference, they might, I thought, have resulted from the influence of climate, which, as it alters the appearance of the European biped very considerably, might, I very logically inferred, have a similar effect on the quadrupeds imported, or their descendants, in the first or second generation at least. In short, I bought him for Rs. 10, and a great bargain I thought I had; tied him up to the leg of my cot, intending that he should form the nucleus of a future pack. I was, however, destined very shortly after to be put a good deal out of conceit of him.

A few days after I had made my purchase, Captain Marpeet dropped in, and took a seat on my cot as he was wont. Hearing the rattling of a chain underneath, he said,

“What the deuce have you got here, Gernon?”

“A dog,” said I; “a terrier I lately bought.”

“A terrier! eh? Let’s have a look at him.”

Teazer, on being summoned, came out from under the bed, gave himself a shake, and, on seeing Marpeet, who was strange to him, and rather an odd-looking fellow to boot, incontinently cocked up his nose and emitted a most lugubrious howl, one with which the Pariars[^[9]] in India are wont to serenade “our chaste mistress, the moon.”

“Halloo,” said Marpeet, with a look of surprise, “where on earth did you get this beast? Why, he’s a regular terrier bunnow.”[^[10]]

“A terrier bunnow,” said I, “what’s that?”

“Why,” rejoined the captain, “he’s a thorough Pariar docked and cropped to make him look like a terrier; it’s a common trick played upon griffs, and you’ve been taken in, that’s all. What did you give for him?”

“Why, ten rupees,” I replied; “and I thought I had him remarkably cheap.”

“Cheap!” said the captain, with infinite contempt; “he’s not worth five pice; kick him out! hang him!”

“Thank you,” said I; “but as I’ve bought him, I’ll keep him; he’ll help to make up a pack, and I don’t see why he should not act up to his assumed character, and hunt very well; you see he knows how to give tongue, at all events.”

“Ha! ha!” said Marpeet; “come, that’s not so bad; but he’s a brute, upon my life—a useless brute, kick him to the d—l.”

“No,” I rejoined, a little nettled to hear my dog abused after that fashion; “I tell you I’ll keep him; besides, I have no acquaintance in the quarter you mention, and should be sorry to send him where he would be likely to annoy you again.”

Here were symptoms of downright insubordination. The captain stared at me in astonishment, and emitted a long and elaborate “whew!”

“’Pon my honour, regular disrespect to your superior officer. Well, after that, I must have a glass of brandy-pawny.”

“So you shall,” said I, “with all my heart; but you really were a little too hard, and forgot the saying, ‘Love me, love my dog.’”

To return, however, from this little episode. Grundy and I, in pursuance of our determination to visit the auction, got into our palankeens, and soon found ourselves amidst the dust, noise, and motion of Tank Square, near which the auction, or outcry (as it is more usually termed in India) is held. A long covered place, something like a repository, filled with palankeens, carriages, horses, &c., for sale, had to be passed through before we reached the auction-room, where goods of all kinds were disposed of. This we found crammed with natives, low Europeans, black Portuguese, and others of the motley population of Calcutta, mingled with a few civilians, and a “pretty considerable” sprinkling of redcoats from Barrackpore or the fort, all more or less intent upon the bidding.

The auctioneer, a good-looking man and remarkably fluent, was mounted on his rostrum, and holding forth upon the merits of certain goods, which a native assistant, on a platform a little lower than the pulpit, was handing round for inspection. Grundy and I forced our way in, watching anxiously to see if any thing “in our way” was exhibiting. At last, the auctioneer took up a goodly-sized knife, with some dozen blades, &c. These he opened daintily and deliberately, and then, holding up the knife and turning it about, he said,

“Now here’s a pretty thing—a highly-finished article—a perfect multum in parvo. Don’t all of you bid for this at once, gentlemen, if you please. Here’s a large blade, you see, to cut bread and cheese with, a small one to mend your pens, a corkscrew to open a bottle of Hodgson’s pale ale when you are out shooting, tweezers to pull the thorns out of your toes, pincers, file, gimlet—all complete. A most useful article that, and (with marked emphasis, and an eye towards Grundy and me, which made us exchange looks significant of purchase), one which no young sportsman should be without.”

That was sufficient; I was determined to have it, and after an eager bid or two, it was knocked down to me. I found afterwards, however, to my extreme surprise and dismay, I had unconsciously purchased a lot of three dozen of them, enough to set up a cutler’s stall in a small way. There was no help for it, however; I was obliged to take them all, though I determined in future to study well the catalogue before I ventured on a bid.

The dogs, I found, had attracted the particular notice of more sportsmen than myself. A young ensign from Barrackpore carried off the greyhound hitch for Rs. 200, a little more than a month’s pay. A writer in the buildings bought the French mastiff and the terrier, which went high, and I was obliged to content myself with one of the bull-dogs, a sinister-looking old fellow, with one eye, who went cheap, and would have been cheaper still, had not Grundy, whom I requested to secure it, bidden silently against me in the crowd several times before I had providentially discovered my opponent. Poor beast! he died three months after, on my way up, of nostalgia, I rather think, and I gave him decent sepulture on a spit of sand in the Ganges.

From the auction we proceeded to the China bazaar.

“Grundy,” said I, as we went along, rather nonchalamment, “you need not say anything to Captain Marpeet, about my buying those knives.”

“What knives?” he asked.

“I have my reasons for it,” said I, “that’s enough.”

Grundy promised to be mum.

The China bazaar! What Bengalee, military man in particular, who does not know that attractive resort—that repository of temptations! What a host of pleasant recollections it is calculated to revive!

This place is situated at the back of Tank Square, and is enclosed by walls, and entered by gates, at several points. The shops are in long flat-roofed ranges, generally of (I believe) two stories, intersecting each other at right angles; a margin of terrace, a foot or two from the ground, runs along the front of the several shops or stores. Sheltered here and there by an eave or thatched projection, seated in chairs, cross-legged, and in other un-English attitudes, quite at their ease, and smoking their pipes, the baboos, or shopkeepers, may be seen, each opposite his emporium, into which they invite the numerous visitors to the bazaar to enter, assuring them they will find everything they may want “chip,” and of the first quality.

As Grundy and I sauntered down one of the streets, we were struck by the appearance of one of the native shopkeepers, who, with an air of courtier-like urbanity, invited us to enter his store. In stature, he was about six feet three or four, stout in proportion; a muslin chudder or toga was thrown over his shoulders, and a piece more round his waist, but slightly concealing his brawny form; altogether he was the finest-looking Bengalee I ever beheld; indeed, I thought it a pity such thews and sinews, so well calculated for the tug of war, should be lost in the inglorious inaction of the China bazaar. This worthy I afterwards learnt was that celebrated character “Jawing Jack,” well known amongst cadets for his copia verborum and dignified address. Nature and destiny had evidently been at cross-purposes in the management of Jack; the former had clearly intended him morally for what he was physically, a great man, but his stars had thwarted the design.

Jack rose from his chair as we drew near, overshadowing us striplings with his Patagonian bulk. I, for my part (being then what is vulgarly called a “lathy chap”), felt myself disagreeably small beside him, doubly so he being a “black fellow,” and thought I was under the necessity of speaking pretty big, in order to make up for the deficiency, and to place myself more on a level with him. “Jawing Jack” had had large experience of griffs, and, though he treated us in a kind of patronising manner, he cautiously avoided anything that might lead to offence, and a consequent lowering of his own dignity.

There is a sly satire sometimes in the calm and imperturbable deportment of the Asiatic, when dealing with the rattling, blustering, overbearing European, which conveys a tacit censure well calculated to shame our boasted civilization. “Lately arrived from Europe, gentlemen, I suppose? Hope you are quite well? Will you please do me the honour to walk into my shop—shall be happy to supply anything re-qui-red, at very reasonable price. I have honour to be well known to all military gentlemen at Barrackpore, and sell best of European articles, and no ‘Niverpool[^[11]] goods.’” Having rummaged “Jawing Jack’s” shop, and bought a few articles, we took our departure, promising at parting to honour him with our future custom.

The Bengalese have a wonderful deal of versatility and acuteness, certainly not naturally the mental power and energy of the European; but as they live temperately, and do not clog the intellectual wheels with beef and malt liquor, the mental machinery is generally in capital working order.

On returning to my quarters, I found a chupprassy, or messenger, with a note from General Capsicum, acknowledging the receipt of a letter I had sent him from his friend Sir Toby Tickle, and requesting my company to tiffin and dinner on the following day, at his house at Garden Reach.

A little before the appointed hour, I ordered a palankeen, and proceeded to the general’s residence, situated in a pleasant domain, some two or three miles from Calcutta. On arriving, I was shown up-stairs into the drawing room, which commanded a pleasant view of the Hoogly, with its moving scene of boats and shipping, and a distant peep of Fort William.

I was standing gazing on the prospect, admiring the boats under sail gliding from side to side, walking as it were the minuet of the waters, the shadows skimming over the river, and the milk-white villas on the opposite bank starting out from amidst the bright green of surrounding groves, when the rustle of a gown and a slight touch on the shoulder aroused me from my state of abstraction. It was the young widow of whom I have already made mention, “the softened image” of the rough old general, my Hibernian host.

“How do you do, Mr. Gernon?” said she, extending her hand with exceeding frankness and smiling cordiality; “I am so glad to see you again and not looking in any way the worse for your sojourn in Calcutta.” (Oh! that our English pride and sensitiveness, those adamantine trammels of caste, which strangle so many of our virtues, would let us have a little more of that single-hearted openness “which thinketh no evil”—it is so comfortable!) “Have you seen my father yet?” asked Mrs. Delaval, for that was her name.

I answered in the negative.

“Oh, then,” she continued, “he will be here immediately when he knows of your arrival, for he is anxious, I know, to see you; he is somewhere in the house, amusing himself with his violin. But pray, Mr. Gernon, be seated,” she continued, “and tell me how you like India, now that you have seen a little more of it.”

“I like it much,” I replied, “and never was happier in my life. I have got my commission, and as soon as posted to a regiment, am off to the Upper Provinces by water. I have some idea of applying for a particular corps, but have not yet decided on that point: they say you should not interfere with the operations of the Fates, but leave yourself to their direction. What, madam,” continued I, “would you advise me to do?”

“Oh! really,” said Mrs. Delaval, smiling at the idea of my asking her advice on such a point, “I fear I am incompetent to advise you, not knowing all the circumstances of your position; you ought, of course, to consider well before you act, and having so done, leave the result to Providence. I am, however,” said she, somewhat seriously, “a decided predestinarian, and believe that

‘There is a providence that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them how we will.’”

“It is a puzzling subject,” said I, “and one that is rather beyond me; one if I remember rightly, that even bewildered the devils in Pandemonium. However, I think the safest maxim to hold by is, that ‘conduct is fate.’”

This was rather a philosophical opinion for a griffin, but one which I have always held, though young blood at that time and since has often capsized the philosopher.

“Well, Mr. Gernon,” continued she, “you have my best wishes for your happiness and success in life; all is couleur de rose with you now; may it ever so continue! Already,” said she, and the tear glistened, “the clouds of life are beginning to pass over me.”

As she said this, she crossed her fair white hands on her lap, and the widow’s eyes sadly dropped on her wedding ring, the little golden circlet type of eternal fidelity. I understood it, and was silent. Silence is preferable on such occasions, perhaps, to the commonplaces of condolence. We both continued mute for some moments; she looking at her ring, I out of the window.

At length, I ventured to say,

“Dear madam, do not deem me impertinent, I pray; but cheer up; remember, as my Irish half-countryman beautifully expresses it, ‘every dark cloud has a silver lining,’ and there are doubtless many, many happy days yet in store for you.”

I should have premised, that Mrs. Delaval had lately lost her husband, a fine young fellow, who fell in the storm of a small Polygar fort on the coast, and Time had not yet brought that balm with which in due course he heals the wounds of the heart, unless the very deepest. I was certainly waxing tender, when the idea of Olivia, my poor abandoned Olivia, crossed my mind. “What would Mrs. Grundy say,” thought I, “if she knew of it?”

The widow gave her auburn locks a toss, made an effort at self-possession, smiled through her tears, and was herself again.

“By-the-bye, Mr. Gernon,” said she, “though but a recent acquaintance, I will assume the privilege of an old friend, and give you some little information whilst we are alone, which may be of some advantage to you in your intercourse with this family.”

I looked alarmed, not knowing what was forthcoming. She perceived what was passing in my mind.

“You need not think, Mr. Gernon,” and she smiled, “that you have come amongst giants or ogres, who are likely to form designs against your life and liberty. Nothing quite so bad as that—no. What I wished to say is, that my father is a man of warm and generous impulses, but violently passionate and eccentric; and I entreat you to be cautious in what you say before him, and do not press any subject if you find him evincing impatience. If he likes he may serve you; but if he takes a prejudice, he is exceedingly persecuting and bitter: a warm friend but an inexorable foe. Mrs. Capsicum, to much vulgarity adds all my father’s violence and irritability, with none of his redeeming qualities. You must be submissive, and prove yourself a ‘good listener,’ or you will have little chance of standing well with her.”

This was said with some little asperity of manner, plainly indicating that the step-mother was not more popular than step-mothers generally are.

“As for the others you will see here, you may safely be left to the guidance of your own judgment and discretion in your conduct towards them.”

I thanked Mrs. Delaval for her information, which, I saw, emanated from the purest feeling of womanly kindness, and promised to be on my guard, and endeavour to profit by it.

CHAPTER XI.

I must here interrupt the thread of my narrative, in order to give a few particulars respecting my host and his family, which may serve as samples of the olden time of India.

The general was the youngest of the ten sons of Sir Gerald Capsicum, a fire-eating baronet of a “rare ould ancient Irish family,” and was sent to India about anno 1750, with little more than his sword, his brogue, and the family love of fighting wherewith to assist him on in the world. The general’s career had been varied, and he had gone through all the adventures, public and domestic, which usually happened to those whose lot, in respect to time and place, had been similarly cast.

I have said the general was an Irishman; it follows as a natural consequence, that he was extremely susceptible of the tenderest of passions; and as in his early days there were few white dames in the land, like many others he e’en put up with a black one—attached himself to Sung Sittara Begum (the “Queen of Stars”), one of the gazelle-eyed daughters of Hind.

This union, though not cemented by the forms of marriage, was, on the whole, more harmonious and enduring than many that are. I say on the whole; for if tradition may be depended on, the Queen of Stars was wont, now and then, to exhibit traits of vivacity, which were rather of a striking than of a pleasing nature. With these trifling breaks, the union long harmoniously subsisted, and was not finally dissolved till the angel of death, one fine day, summoned the Begum to the seventh heaven.

By the Begum, the general had Major John Capsicum, an officer in the service, and commanding the forces of his highness Ram Row Bhow Punt, the Jam of Ghurrumnugger, a Mahratta potentate of small note, whose territories it might be difficult to discover in the map; secondly, Augustus, an indigo planter in the district of Jessore, commonly called by the general’s native servants (who, like all the rest of the fraternity, were not au fait at European names) “Disgustus Sahib;” and Mrs. Colonel Yellowly, a lady of high and indomitable spirit, who died some years before the period to which I am referring, and of whom I could learn little more from record or tradition than that she was rather celebrated for the manufacture of Chutnee and Dopiajah curry, talked a good deal of a certain terra incognita called “home,” and ultimately went off rather suddenly,—as some affirm, from chagrin in consequence of having a point of precedence decided against her, arising out of a dispute with Lady Jiggs at a presidency party as to who de jure should first come in or go out.

The stickling for precedency, by the way, is a disorder very prevalent in colonial dependencies; and like gravitation, which increases with the squares of the distance, its intensity seems to be governed by a somewhat similar law, and to exist in an inverse ratio to the apparent cause for it.

Long after the general had passed his fiftieth year, he married the mother of the amiable widow (a nonpareil grafted on a crab), by all accounts a charming person, who, yielding to importunity, took old Capsicum to gratify the ambition of worldly parents, in whose opinion wealth and rank are all that are essential to connubial happiness.

Poor thing! she gave her hand, but her heart was another’s. The worm-i’-the-bud was there, and soon did the business. Opportunity offered—nature was too powerful for the colder suggestions of duty—she eloped with the man she loved; but even love cannot flourish in an atmosphere of scorn. Mankind are intensely gregarious. Shunned—deserted by her own sex, who, like birds (though from more obvious cause), peck their wounded fellows to death—she died in a lone outpost, and the winds of the jungles pipe over her solitary grave.

“C’est bien difficile d’être fidèle

A de certains maris, faits d’an certain modelle,

Et qui donne à sa fille un homme qu’elle haït.

Est responsable au Ciel pour le mal qu’elle fait.”

Admirable Molière! you never penned a more striking truth. Parents, ponder it well.

The general, after the lapse of some years, with the characteristic valour of the Capsicums, boldly ventured, a short time before I knew him, on a second marriage; but here he caught a Tartar. Mrs. Capsicum the second was an Irish lady (woman I should perhaps say), who came out to India avowedly on spec., with the full determination of marrying a good establishment, with comfortable reversionary prospects, however they might happen to be encumbered. She made play at the general, sang “Erin mavourneen” and “Cathleen O’More,” talked of the Callaghans and Brallaghans, revived the general’s boyish reminiscences of the green hills of Sligo, and ultimately led him, or rather had him carried, to the hymeneal altar! Of love—the proper cement of the marriage-union—there was none, on her side at least.

But to return to my narrative.

The widow and I had not been long engaged in conversation (which, as I before hinted, was becoming rather interesting), when we heard the scrape of a violin outside in the passage.

“Oh, here is my father,” said Mrs. Delaval, “coming from his room. Now remember my caution.”

I was about to reply, but she laid her finger on her lip expressively, as much as to say, “Another time; he’s here.”

The old general now entered, with a black velvet sort of nightcap stuck rakishly on his head, and playing rather jauntily “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” to which he hummed an accompaniment—his voice displaying, as usual, all that vigour in its tones which, as I have before remarked, afforded so striking a contrast to his dried-up and time-worn frame: as he entered with his spindle shanks, huge frill, voluminous upper works, pigtail, and velvet cap, I thought I never saw a droller figure. Still the gallant bearing and nonchalance of the little old Irishman, who evidently was unconscious of anything at all out of the way in himself, rather neutralized any feeling of disrespect which his figure was at first calculated to excite.

On seeing me, he finished off the saint with a few galloping flourishes, pushed the fiddle on the table; transferred the stick to his left hand, and made a rapid advance, or rather toddle, towards me, with his right extended.

“Hah, sur, I’m glad to see you,” said he; “Mr. Gernon, I believe? Very happy indeed to have your company, sur; shall be glad to show you ivery attintion in ivery sense of the word, sur, for the sake of my old friend Sir Toby; and I doubt not,” he continued, with a low bow of the old school and a smile, “that I shall be able also to add, on your own.”

As he made this courteous speech and inclination, his eye lighted on a letter lying on the table, which quickly threw the irritable old fellow off his balance, and put the courtier to flight.

“Why,——mee heart, Cordalia,” he thundered out in a voice that startled me; “by all that’s good, that egragious ass, Ramdial, has gone without the letter. A man naid have the timper of an angel to dale with these fellows.”

Mrs. Delaval, to cut the affair short, rose immediately from her seat, and taking the letter, called a servant to the head of the stairs, and quickly rectified the omission.

“Thank ye, Cordalia, mee love,” said the old general as she returned; “thank ye, mee darling;” and taking her hand and drawing the graceful creature towards him, he imprinted a kiss on her cheek.

There’s no use mincing matters—I certainly envied him the privilege.

This little interruption over, I returned to a speech which, having previously worded and fashioned in rather a superior style, I thought it a pity should be lost.

I said, after a hem or two, that I felt deeply obliged for his cordial reception of me, that I should study to deserve his good opinion, and to realize the gratifying anticipations he had so obligingly expressed, &c. &c.

“Ye will, sur; ye will, sur,” said the general; “I’ve not the laste doubt of it; and, plase God, we’ll some day see you as accomplished a soldier as was your poor uncle, the colonel.”

“What! sir,” said I, pleased with the discovery, and with no fear that he was about to come Chattermohun over me; “did you then know my uncle, Colonel Gernon?”

“Know him!” said the general, with energy and warmth—“I did, and right well too; we were in Goddard’s march together and the Rohilla campaign, and in many places besides. Yes,” he continued, warming as he went on, “poor Pat Gernon and I have broiled under the same tint and fought under the same banner, ay, by G——, and mounted the same brache together; yes,” added he, clutching his fiddlestick, and looking as fierce as if he was bursting through the fire and carnage of an assault, “I think I now hear the shouts of the inimy, and see your brave uncle lading on his gallant Sapoys through fire and smoke, his beaver in one hand and his sword in the other. Ah,” he went on, touched and overcome, whilst his eye moistened, “them were the days: the thought of them—it is now long, long back—and of all my old companions gone, comes over me sometimes like a faint air or a summer’s drame. Know your uncle! Ay did I, and a braver soldier or a better man (though he had his faults, and who the divil has not?) never broke the bread of life.”

I felt a sensation of choking, whilst all the ancient blood of the Gernons mantled in my cheeks, as I listened to the veteran’s animated laudation of my deceased relative.

“Well, sur,” continued the general, suddenly changing the subject, and as if a little ashamed of the weakness and enthusiasm into which he had been betrayed, “and how did you lave my old friend, Sir Toby? Is he as fond of his bottle and his rubber as he used to be? I think he played the best hand at whist of any man I ever knew.”

“I believe, sir,” said I, “that Sir Toby’s habits are unchanged in those respects; though I am unable to speak much of him from personal knowledge, having obtained the letter of introduction which I have had the honour to deliver to you through the kindness of a mutual friend.”

“Well, never mind how ye got it, so that ye did get it. I am extramely happy that it has been the manes of introducing to my acquaintance the nephew of my old companion in arms, to whom, by the way, you bear a strong resemblance: so now,” he continued, “talk to my daughter, or amuse yourself in any way ye plase till tiffin, and I’ll do the same; this is liberty hall, where every man does as he plases. Cordalia, my love, where is your mother?”

“I have not seen Mrs. Capsicum, sir, this morning since breakfast,” replied Mrs. Delaval; “but I believe she has gone out to pay some visits.”

“Has she?” said the general dryly; “well, now, I thought I noticed a remarkable stillness over the house.”

This was said in a manner, I thought, which smacked of what may be termed a bitter mirth.

This conversation had scarcely terminated, when we heard a loud and angry voice on the stairs or landing; and next moment, in sailed Mrs. Capsicum Secunda, with a face that would have made a fine study for a Hecate, a Gorgon, a Fury, or any other of those celebrated characters, in whose countenances the ancients were wont to depict all the wildest play of the passions. Mrs. Delaval turned pale, the old general looked dismayed, and I, for my part, groped for my hat, thinking I might doubtless be de trop and better out of the way before the family breeze sprung up, and of which there were such alarming indications.

Mrs. Capsicum seated herself majestically—her lip quivered with rage, and an unhappy poodle, who came to be caressed, and received a sweeping blow from her foot, which caused him to throw a ludicrous somerset. Now, thought I, “look out for squalls.”

General Capsicum knew, probably from experience, that his spouse would generally have the last word, but on the present occasion he was determined (or deemed it politic) to have the first.

“Mrs. Capsicum, mee dear,” said he, in a deprecating tone, “you don’t appear to persave our young friend here, Mr. Gernon” (wishing clearly to throw me out as a tub to the whale). The lady measured me with a momentary glance, and made the stiffest conceivable inclination, accompanied by a look of the concentrated essence of vinegar and brimstone; it was positively annihilating.

After certain premonitory symptoms of Mrs. Capsicum’s passion, out it came:—

“Ginrel Capsicum,” said she, “aither I lave your house, or that rascal Khoda Buccas, coachmaun, laves your service.”

She then proceeded to detail some neglect of which the unfortunate Jehu had been guilty. The general tried to mollify her, but without success, and Khoda Buccas was summoned to the “presence” to answer for his misdeeds: in he came, with a low salaam, and trembling from head to foot.

The general was about to open the charges when Khoda Buccas, who knew all about it beforehand, broke in upon him, and, with the full energy of alarm and great volubility, entered clamorously on his defence.

“Mera kooch kussor nuheen Kodabund (No fault of mine, servant of the Lord, and protector of the poor), but Bijlee Goorah (the horse Lightning), was sick (sick maun Hogeya),[^[12]] and then the roan had lost her hind shoes, Gureebpurwar. Here and there, all over the bazaar, your slave hunted for the blacksmith, and could not find him. At last your slave found him, and said, ‘Come quick and shoe Summon Goorah (the roan horse), for the lady will want the carriage, and her disposition is a little warm (misaj tora gurrum), and your slave will be beat and get into trouble;’ and so he said to me ‘Brother,’ said he, &c., &c., and so I was late.”

This and a good deal more, as explained to me by Mrs. Delaval, was the rambling defence of Khoda Buccas, coachmaun. The old gentleman seemed disposed to admit its sufficiency; but madame peremptorily ordered off the unhappy charioteer, with the comfortable assurance that he should be flogged and dismissed.

Oh, tyranny, thou propensity of ungenerous souls! like Othello’s love, thou growest with indulgence; till, like to every other evil, thou at last evokest the spirit that lays thee low!

Well, the storm at last having fairly subsided, the general hobbled to the couch, and took up a paper, as if glad for a season to retreat within himself. Mrs. Delaval and I carried on a conversation in an under-tone, whilst Mrs. Capsicum in silence digested her choler.

The silence was interrupted by the entrance of a native servant, who, with closed hands, and in a manner profoundly respectful, said something in an under-tone to the beebee sahib.

“Ginrel Capsicum,” said Mrs. C., as the servant withdrew, “here is your son Augustus arrived.”

“Is he?” said the old general, jumping up and throwing down the paper; “faith, then, I’m glad of it, and ye haven’t told me a pleasanter thing for a long time, my deer.”

These words were scarcely uttered, when a dark black-whiskered man, of a frank and ingenuous countenance, with a hunting-cap on his head, and a whip in his hand, entered the room, and running up to the old general and seizing his extended hand in both his own, in a manner which bespoke genuine warmth and affection, exclaimed:

“How are you, sir? quite recovered, I hope, from your last attack?”

“Well, my boy, well!” said the general, his eyes sparkling with pleasure as he measured his stalwart dark offspring from head to foot, as if in some doubt as to whether he could really be the sire of such a brawny chiel. “Well! and right glad to see you here; how did you come?”

“Why, I left the factory early this morning, sir,” said “Disgustus;” “came on as far as the Budlampore ghaut in the pinnace; from that I drove the buggy down to the Thannah, and there I found Golaub in waiting; I rode him in here at a rattling pace—confounded hot work it was, though; and I expect I’ve rather taken the shine out of the Arab.”

“That’s well,” said the general, “and now be sated. Augustus, my young friend, Mr. Gernon; Mr. Gernon, my son, Mr. Augustus Capsicum.”

I bowed with English formality, but the hearty man of blue did not appear to understand that sort of thing, but came up and shook me by the hand; asked me if I was lately arrived, and said he was glad to see me. This was a pleasing trait, and showed me the frankness of his disposition.

After some little conversation with his mother-in-law, with whom it was easy to perceive he was no particular favourite, and a lively chat with his lovely and generous-minded sister, who it was equally obvious loved her dark brother, in spite of the bend sinister in his escutcheon,[^[13]] General Capsicum again addressed his son:

“Well, Augustus,” said he, “what are the prospects of indigo this year? how does the blue look?”

“Oh! fair, sir, very fair. If we have no further rise of the river, and get a few light showers, and the rain does not fall too long to wash the colour out of the plant, and this wind continues, we shall do very well this year. The price is well up, Rs. 300 a maund for the best, and I think we shall make 600. The plant looks beautiful on the Chuckergolly churs—at least it did till the Bobberygunge Talookdar’s cows and buffaloes got into it. However, after all, I think we shall, on the whole, have a capital season.”

“That’s well,” said the general. “Egad, I think we’ll see you go home with your plum, Augustus, yet.”

“Home, sir!” said Augustus; “I know of no home but India. Here I was born, and here, please God, I will die, however singular the determination.”

Tiffin was now announced, and we descended to the dining-room. Tiffin, or lunch, is in Bengal a delightful meal, suitable in its character to the climate, which renders the supererogatory one of dinner, particularly in the hot season, with its hecatombs of smoking meat and general superfluity of viands, often very much the reverse.

The tiffin on the whole passed off very agreeably. Mrs. Delaval described society as it exists in the Madras presidency, and much she had seen and heard there. Augustus told us of a recent battle-royal, a sort of Bengalee Chevy Chase, which had been fought between his followers and those of a neighbouring Zumeendar, by way of settling the right to some disputed beegahs of indigo; in which many crowns were cracked, and astonishing feats of chivalry displayed on both sides.

But the parts of his conversation which most delighted me, were the accounts he gave of sundry wild hog and buffalo hunts, which after deducting about 50 per cent. on account of embellishments—for sportsmen, like poets, must be allowed some considerable latitude in that way—were really very exciting. In fact, I told him I was dying to have a touch at the hogs and buffaloes myself, and that I hoped it would not be long before I fleshed my maiden spear on a few of the former.

This looked rather like a fish for an invitation to the Junglesoor Factory, and I won’t swear that I was wholly without design on the worthy indigo planter’s hospitality in making the remark; whether he, viewed it in this light, or not, I cannot say, but he promptly said he should be happy to gratify my longing in that line, if I would go and spend a fortnight with him at his factory.

I replied, “I should be delighted to accompany him, if I could obtain leave.”

“Oh!” said he, “that difficulty can easily be overcome; my father, I dare say, will give you a note to a friend of his in the adjutant-general’s office, who’ll procure you leave at once.”

“I shall have a grate dale of pleasure in so doing,” said the general; “but Augustus, now, I entrate you, lade the young man into no scrapes: and don’t let us hear of his being gored by a buffalo, or ate up by a tiger, or killed by some of them brutes of horses of yours.”

“Oh! no,” said Augustus, laughing and winking at me; “well take care of all that, sir.”

CHAPTER XII.

My last chapter left us seated around the social board at Tiffin. A little incident occurred during this meal, which for a moment disturbed the harmony of the party, and, whilst strongly elucidating the character given by Mrs. Delaval of her father, showed that her caution to me, to be on my guard with the atrabilious old hero, was not bestowed without reason. The general’s temper truly was like a pistol with a hair-trigger (as I had afterwards further occasion to observe), going off at the slightest touch, and requiring infinite caution in the handling.

Like many old Indians of that day, and I may add, most old gentlemen, the general piqued himself on the quality of his wines. He had a history for every batch; generally ramifying into almost interminable anecdotes of the Dicks and Bobs, defunct bon vivans of other days, who in the course of half a century had partaken of his hospitality.

“What do you think of that claret, Mr. Gernon?” asked the old general, after I had duly engulphed a bonum magnum of it. “I’ll engage you find that good.”

Now I must confess that, up to that period (sundry glasses of ginger and gooseberry inclusive), the aggregate quantity of vinous fluid consumed by me, and constituting the basis of my experience, could not have exceeded two or three dozen at the most. But I was flattered by the general’s appeal, and, as a military man, I felt that I ought not to appear ignorant and inexperienced on such a matter.

Many young Oxonians and Cantabs, whom I had known at home, little my seniors, had talked flingingly in my presence of “their wine,” and the quantity consumed by the “men” of their respective colleges; and why should not I, methought, assume the air of the “savoir vivre,” and appear at home in these things, who have already figured in print and buckled cold steel on my thigh? I had heard much, too, of light wines, and dry wines, wines that were full and strong-bodied, &c., and, though I attached no very clear and definite ideas to these terms, I had still a hazy conception of their meaning, and was determined, at all events, to sport one or two of them on the present occasion.

In reply to the general’s question, I filled a glass, and after taking an observation of the sun through it (just then darting his evening rays through the venetians) with my right eye, accompanied by a scientific screw of the facial muscles, pronounced it, with a smack, to be a fine full-bodied wine, adding, unhappily, that “I should have almost taken it for port.”

The general laid down his knife and fork. “Port! Why, sir, sure ye never drank a drop of good claret in your life, if you say so.”

“I beg pardon, sir!” said I (I saw I was getting into a scrape), “but I may perhaps be wrong in saying it resembles port. I meant to say—to imply—that is—that it is very strong claret.”

“Pooh, nonsense,” said the general pettishly, on whom my explanation was far from producing the desired effect. “Ye can know nothing about claret” (he was not very wide of the mark there). “Strong! like port, indeed!!”

“My dear father,” said Mrs. Delaval (the women are ever our good geniuses on these occasions), who marked, I have no doubt, the clouds gathering on my brow, “never mind; what does it signify? You know,” said she, laying her hand on the general’s shoulder, and looking at him with a sweet and beseeching expression, “you know, Mr. Gernon is quite young, and cannot have had much experience in wines.”

“Then let him take my advice, Cordalia, and not talk about what he does not understand. Strong! ha! ha! Port, indeed!”

I was thunderstruck, and thought verily I should have launched the bottle at the head of the testy old veteran, so deep a wound had my pride received. I could hardly believe it possible that one of evidently so fine a character in the main, could give way to such unbecoming conduct on so trifling a matter.

The fact is, the general had had his crosses and trials, and such often shatter the temper irretrievably, though the heart and principles may remain sound—much charity and discrimination are requisite to enable us to form a just judgment of others, to decide on the predominant hue of that mingled skein which constitutes individual character.

Augustus, worthy fellow that he was, saw my distress and redoubled his civility, whilst Mrs. Delaval, by that tact and kindness which women best know how to exhibit on such occasions, endeavoured to soften my sense of the indignity; even Mrs. Capsicum took up the cudgels in my behalf, and told the general roundly that he made himself quite ridiculous about his wine. But all would not do; the affront was too recent, and I was moody and glum, pondering within myself as to whether there were any well-established precedents on record, of ensigns of seventeen calling out and shooting generals of eighty.

General Capsicum’s irritability, however, soon subsided, and compunctious visitings arose; I could see this by his eye and the softened expression of his countenance, and that he was moreover anxious to make the amende honorable; at last he reached the bottle and filled himself a bumper and me another.

“Come,” said he, good-humouredly, “let us try another glass, and d——n the port. Here’s your very good health, and success to your first day’s hog-hunting with Augustus.”

I returned the salutation rather stiffly, for, though of a placable nature, I had not digested the affront; however, the tide of my anger was turned, and by dinnertime the general and I were as good friends as if nothing had happened.

We lingered for an hour or two at the tiffin table, Augustus Sahib entertaining me with some details of snipe-shooting, and arranging a programme of our future sporting operations, the general drowsily smoking his hookah and nodding in his chair, with an occasional start and muttered commentary on our conversation, indicative, I once or twice thought, of some fresh explosion.

At length, on the approach of evening, the servants, as is usual in India, unbolted and threw open the long venetian doors, to admit the cool air, and out we sauntered on the lawn, to join the ladies (to whose number some addition had been made), and who had preceded us, and were admiring the moving scene on the river.

The sun had just gone down, and all nature seemed to be with one accord putting forth a rejoicing shout, an excess of that luminary producing all the torpid effects which arise from a deficiency of his beams elsewhere. The kite whistled querulously from the house-top, the maynas and squirrels chattered joyfully in the trees, ring-doves cooed, and the bright yellow mango birds and the dark coel (loved of Indian maids) shot through the cool groves and glades of cocoa-nut and bananas (plantains), uttering their clear and shrilly notes.

Mr. Augustus joined the stately Mrs. Capsicum and the newly-arrived spinster, whilst I paired off with the widow, towards whom I felt myself drawn by an irresistible power of attraction. I felt great delight certainly in the society and conversation of this lady; though then too young to analyze the sources of my admiration, reflection has since shown me what they were, having passed them through the prism of my mind, and separated those pencils of moral light which, united, produced the sum of her excellence. I cannot here resist drawing a little portrait of her.

To a full, yet graceful, person Mrs. Delaval united a countenance, which, if not regularly beautiful, still beamed with goodness and intelligence—sensible, lively, yet modest and discreet, she was all that man should desire, and woman wish to be. Above the common littlenesses of the world, her heart was deeply fraught with feeling and sensibility—though, unlike her sex in general, she could direct and restrain them both by the powers of a clear and masculine understanding. Her Irish paternity had given her impulses; her Saxon blood had furnished their regulating power. She played, sang, drew, and, in a word, was mistress of all those lighter accomplishments which serve to attract lovers, but which alone rarely suffice to keep them; to these she added a mind of an original turn, improved by reading and reflection. Much good advice did she impart, the nature of which the reader may readily imagine, and which it will therefore be unnecessary to repeat. It is from the lips of such Mentors, that “truth” indeed “prevails with double sway”—one smile from them goes further towards convincing than a dozen syllogisms.

Many years have now passed since I took that stroll on the banks of the “dark rolling Hooghly;” many a hand I then clasped has since become cold; and many a voice I loved to listen to, mute for ever; but the scene remains pictured in my mind in strong and ineffaceable colours.

I think I now behold the group we formed, the white dresses of the ladies, making them to look like spirits walking in a garden, and honest Augustus, with his solah topee,[^[14]] looking down on his shoes, and saying agreeable things, the shadows of evening closing around us; the huge fox bats sailing heavily overhead; the river spreading its broad surface before us, suffused with the crimson flush of departing day; the boats moving across it afar, their oars dabbling as it were in quicksilver; the mists rising slowly from neighbouring groves stealing over the scene, and then the stilly, tranquil hour, broken only by the plash of passing oars, the sound of a distant gong, or the far-off music of a marriage ceremony, or the hum and drumming of the bazaar—those drowsy sounds of an Indian eve. It was a bit of still life to be ever remembered.

The guests for the burra khana now began to arrive. Gigs, carriages, and palankeens, flambeaux, dancing lights, and the musical groans of the cahars, or bearers, as they hurried along the winding road, made the general’s domain, a few moments before buried in repose, a scene of life and animation.

We returned to the mansion. The reception room was fast filling. Generals, colonels, judges, barristers of the Supreme Court, merchants, agents, writers, with their ladies, the élite of Calcutta fashionable society, was, now, for the first time, submitted to my observation. White jackets, and still whiter faces, were the predominating features of the group (except where relieved by English blood and up-country brickdust), whose manners on the whole struck me as being more frank and open than those of people in England, although that freedom occasionally bordered, I thought in many, on a rough, familiar, horse-play sort of manner, which then, at least, was too common in India, where the causes which predispose to a disregard of courtesy are unfortunately too rife.

Some of the party discussed politics, horse-racing, the latest news from up the country, the promotions and appointments, and so forth, in groups; whilst others, four or five abreast, stumped up and down the broad verandah, talking and laughing energetically; their spirits evidently enlivened by the rapid locomotion in which they were indulging.

General Capsicum was very pleasant with the burra beebee, a fine stately old dame, with a turban of bird of paradise plumes, and with whom, I afterwards learned he had actually walked a minuet in the year of grace 1770. Mrs. Capsicum, surrounded by a group of military men and young writers, was endeavouring to reduce her large mouth to the smallest possible dimensions—mincing the kings English, and “talking conversation” “mighty illigant” to the whole ring, in whose countenances a certain mock gravity indicated pretty evidently what they thought of her.

At last, the khansaman-jee, or chief butler, a very important and respectable personage, with an aldermanic expansion of the abdominal region, a huge black beard, and a napkin hanging from his kummerbund, or girdle, with hands respectfully closed, head on one side, and an air most profoundly deferential, announced to the general that the dinner was served “Tiar hyn?”

“Dinner ready, did ye say?” said the general, who was a little deaf, and turning up his best ear to catch the reply.

“Han khodabund” (“yes, slave of the Lord),” repeated the khansaman-jee.

“Come, gintlemen; come, leedies—those who have any mind to ate may follow me.”

Thus saying, the general, with great gaité de cœur, presented his arm to the old lady of the bird of paradise plume, and hobbled off with her, chattering and laughing, and followed by the whole company. I, the lanky griffin, brought up the rear, looking, on the whole rather “small.”

The coup d’œil of a grand dinner party in Calcutta, given by a rich merchant or high official, is a very splendid affair, and perhaps eclipses anything to be seen in the mansions of persons of the same rank in England.

The generals presented a brilliant sample of oriental style: a long and lofty room in a blaze of lustre, from a row of wall lights; a table, covered with a profusion of plate and glass, occupied nearly the whole length of the apartment; the huge punkahs, suspended from the ceiling, with their long fringes, waved to and fro, gently agitating the air in the room, which would otherwise have been hardly endurable from the crowd it contained.

There was much lively conversation, taking wine, and clashing of knives and plates; altogether far less quiet, I thought, than at a dinner in England. The peculiar feature, however, of the scene, and that which marked most strongly its eastern character, was the multitude of servants in attendance on the guests; behind each chair, on an average, stood two khidmut-gars, or footmen, with black beards and mustachios, and attired in the various gay liveries of their masters, adapted to the turban and Indian costume; most of them were the domestics of great people, and exhibited in their looks a good deal of that pampered, self-satisfied importance, so often observable in our metropolitan servants here at home—the vulgar reflection of their masters’ consequence. Many stood, their arms folded, with Roman dignity, gazing consequentially about them, and mentally making their observations on their fellow-servants and the guests. Dinner over and the ladies withdrawn, the gentlemen closed up, and the conversation became more general.

The Calcutta dinner parties are not usually scenes of uproarious conviviality; yet, as this was the anniversary of some great event in the history of the general, he seemed determined on its being celebrated with something approaching to a “jollification.” “Fill your glasses, gintlemen,” said he, as we closed up after the usual loyal toasts, “and I’ll give ye a sentiment that I remember was a favourite of my father’s.”

There was a profound silence—the little veteran arose, and valorously grasping his glass, and stretching out his arm, delivered the following, with a rich brogue and a most determined emphasis:—

“May hemp bind the man that honour can’t, and the devil ride rough-shod over the rascally part of the community.”

The sentiment was drunk with much glee, and many a hearty response, followed by songs and speeches.

It was late when, taking leave of the general’s family, I returned to my room in the barracks.

CHAPTER XIII.

Having, by General Capsicum’s promised interest, obtained a fortnight’s leave of absence, I took an affectionate leave of Grundy and Marpeet, and sent on my two or three servants to Mr. Augustus’s boat, accompanied by Teazer and the one-eyed bull-dog. The next day, in the early grey of morning, I proceeded with him to Tolly’s Nullah, a creek near Calcutta, communicating with the Balliaghāt Passage, where the boat was lying. It was a cool and pleasant morning, the air delightfully fresh. On our way, we met several ladies and gentlemen of Calcutta on horseback.

In India, bathing and early rising principally contribute to create the amount of health generally enjoyed there, which would be far greater and less precarious than it is, were it not for an immoderate indulgence in the pleasures of the table, which inflames the blood, disorders the liver, and renders the whole system peculiarly susceptible of disease; then steps in mercury—the remedy—which is a fearful shatterer of the constitution, and in the end proves worse than the disease.

I would earnestly advise all my brother-griffins, if they value their happiness, to live moderately and simply though generously, and to guard against the insidious habit of drinking brandy pawney, to which a hot climate offers strong and peculiar temptations. These precautions observed, and the mid-day sun avoided, a fair average amount of health may be enjoyed for years.

My friend’s boat rowed ten or twelve oars, and was of a kind a good deal in use in Calcutta. The front part was decked, and behind it had a cabin, with Venetian windows, occupying about half the length, and rising several feet above the gunwale; inside there was a small table, and on each side lockers, which served for seats; to the back of these again were some cots or dormitories. It differed from the up-country going craft in being keeled, and having on the whole far more of the European long-boat build.

As we shot along the creek for a few miles, each turn gave us peeps of the rich and luxuriant scenery of this part of Bengal. Gardens of plantain, mango, and jack-trees lined the banks, intermixed with clumps of the tapering bamboo; clusters of neat huts, with arched roofs, appeared half-buried beneath their umbrageous foliage, through openings of which, in the dim, chequered light, village girls, with water-pots on their heads, might be seen gliding along, and imparting to the whole scene an air of primeval and truly Eastern simplicity.

Here and there, in front of a hut, mantled with its creeping gourd, would appear the milk-white cow or petted calf, picketed by the nose, and munching his boosa[^[15]] under the cool shade of the tamarind or plantain, whilst kids and goats, in various picturesque attitudes, sunned themselves on the ruined wall or prostrate tree. Sometimes we came on fishermen, in their dingies, or canoes, with outspread nets catching the much-prized hilsa;[^[16]] or we looked on the dark peasantry in the green rice-fields, engaged beneath a fervid sun in their various rural occupations.

Occasionally we came suddenly upon a market, with its congregated fleet of boats, and its busy, squabbling assemblage of villagers, fish, grain, and vegetable venders, &c.; or a thannah, or police station, would break into view, known by its picturesque burkundazes lounging about in front, armed with spears or tulwars, and the portly, bearded thannahdar, en déshabille, smoking his kulian under the projecting thatch of the entrance. The novelty of the scene, so truly un-English and Oriental, delighted me, and my heart bounded with joy from a feeling of vitality and freedom.

At length we began to approach those vast forests, called the Sunderbunds,[^[17]] stretching for two or three hundred miles across the delta of the Ganges, and through a considerable part of which our route lay. The vicinity of this wild tract was indicated by the gradual termination of the cultivated country, and the commencement of the half-reclaimed lands on the borders, presenting to the view stumps of trees, patches of jungle, and some paddy fields, occasionally a few scattered huts, with their sickly inhabitants huddled around them.

The boatmen being somewhat exhausted, and the tide on the turn, Mr. Capsicum ordered them to drop anchor in the stream not far from the shore, that they might refresh themselves. It was a curve in the river where we brought to, deep and broad, and remote from the habitations of men. The lazy dark tide rolled slowly on, its movement barely indicated by a slight set in the current, with here and there a few tiny curling whirlpools, which seemed to my imagination to tell of the fearful depths and frightful monsters below. An open spot of green sward approached the bank on one side, whilst beyond this, on both banks, the huge trees of the sombre forest hung darkling over the Stygian stream—here emerging into light, as from a realm of dolorous shade which might have daunted Rinaldo himself.

How my thoughts now flew back, awakened by the contrast, to the flowery meads and crystal streams of merry England! My companion now ordered chairs and his hooka to be taken to the roof of the boat, and there, with a teapoy and tumblers between us, we seated ourselves at our ease, a hearer with a large chattah, or umbrella, shielding us from the noontide rays of a powerful sun. A few faint airs, wafting the chirp and pipe of unknown birds, came fanning from the woods, which, with the monotonous bubble of Mr. Augustus’s hooka, produced a tranquil and soporific effect upon me.

In the little patch of grass meadow I have mentioned, which lay nearly opposite to us, two or three miserable stunted white cattle were feeding, one of them considerably nearer the margin than the others. Whilst looking towards them, I thought I discerned something dark slowly emerging from the water where the muddy shelving shore dipped into it. I kept my eye steadily fixed upon the object, which evidently moved and presented to my view the resemblance of two large foot-balls, at the end of a rough log of wood. I directed my companion’s attention to it, at the same time asking him what it was.

“There, yonder,” said I, “just beyond the tuft of reeds. See! see! it moves.”

“Oh, I perceive the rascal,” said he; “it’s a huge alligator, making a point at that poor beast of a cow; but I’ll spoil his sport. Bearah Bundook laou juldee! bring up the rifle quickly.”

Ere gun, however, could be brought, the monster, as if anticipating our intentions, suddenly rushed from his concealment, with a rapid and wriggling motion, and in an instant had the unsuspecting cow by the nose.

The poor brute struggled, her tail crooked with agony, her two fore-feet stuck out, and bellowing most lustily, whilst the alligator hacked rapidly towards the water, dragging the cow along with him.

“Quick! quick!” shouted Augustus, as the servant blundered along, capsizing a bucket or two in his hurry, and handed up the gun.

“Click,” went the lock—the rifle was pointed, but it was too late: the scaly monster sunk with his prey, as the bullet cracked sharply over the eddy; a few bubbles and a slight curl of the deep waters alone marking the spot where the poor cow had disappeared in a doleful tragedy—her last appearance in public.

“What a ferocious monster!” I exclaimed; “do they often carry away animals in this way?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Augustus, vexed that he had been foiled. “Alligators in the salt and brackish waters of the lower parts of Bengal are dangerous and ferocious; but as you recede from the sea, for some reason or another, they become comparatively harmless, and seldom molest man or beast, confining their depredations to the finny tribe. Near my factory they are continually carrying off the villagers from the ghauts, and I have heard and believe, though I have never witnessed a case, that they sometimes adroitly knock the fishermen from off their dingies by a blow of the tail, and then snap them up in a moment.”

“Why do not the people hunt and destroy the brutes?” I asked.

“They require more salt to be put upon their tails than your sparrows at home,” said Augustus with a roguish smile, which made me think that he had been cognizant of an early attempt of mine in that way. “However,” he continued, “after a good many poor devils have been carried off, blacky’s apathy is a little disturbed, and he does sometimes catch them in the following manner. A party row slowly up the stream, dragging a number of hooked lines after them; when these are arrested by the horny hide of the alligator, as he lies in the mud at the bottom, they slowly raise the torpid brute (who seldom makes any resistance) till he appears above the surface; they then simultaneously dart a number of small barbed harpoons into him, to the heads of which (whence the shafts are made to detach easily) stout cords are fastened, and thus they secure his body; to prevent his doing mischief with his jaws, they present a stick, and when he seizes it with a snap, they belay a cord round those formidable instrument of destruction.”

After the crew had refreshed, we pursued our voyage, plunging into the dreary solitude, intersected by a labyrinth of creeks and rivers; on each side arose a wall of forest, with a thick undergrowth of the most luxuriant vegetation, springing from the fat alluvial soil.

The silence of death was around, broken only at intervals by the distant crow of the jungle fowl, the cry of the deer, or the blowing of a porpoise, and the measured dash of our oars, as we swept along, sometimes on the surface of a broad river, with bright green trees on each side, and black-faced monkeys chattering in the branches; at others, in some lateral creek, where the boughs almost brushed our deck.

There is something solemnly impressive in such a scene, which seems truly to speak in majestic tones of the power and greatness of the Creator. Such a scene in the howling wilderness carries the imagination back to that primeval period when man was not on this earth, when shipless seas broke on voiceless shores, and the mammoth and the mastodon roamed undisturbed amongst its silent forests and lonely retreats.

Occasionally a Mugh or Arracanese boat, of peculiar construction, with its broad-faced crew and banks of oars, laden with bees’ wax, ivory, &c., glided by, or a raft, heavily laden with piles of wood or charcoal for the Calcutta market, swept past us, a momentary relief to the death-like loneliness of the place: the wood they carry is cut and collected by a particular class of men, who pursue their perilous trade in these jungles.

Sometimes, too, the continuity of the forest was broken by a cleared patch, and piles of timber ready for lading; or the hut of one those religious devotees or fakeers, whose austerity acquires for them the respect of the ignorant and superstitious boatmen, whom, by their charms and incantations, they profess to insure from assaults of the alligator and the tiger. Boatmen, however, and even fakeers, are continually carried off; but as superstition always counts the hits, and never reckons the misses, a few favourable predictions sets all to rights again.

At one of these fakeer stations, we made a halt, and a more wretched locality for a man to take up his abode in imagination can scarcely picture. A small spot of about half a quarter of an acre, was cleared from the forest, and in the centre of it was a fragile hut of thatch and bamboo, which a puff of wind might have blown away; a tapering bamboo, with a small red pennon, rose above it, and a little clay durgah for prayer adjoined, to indicate the sacred calling of the lonely occupant.

As we brought to, the fakeer came down to the boat, and was most respectfully received by the crew. He was an aged man, withered up like a potsherd, and smeared with dust and ashes; his long, grizzled, and matted beard swept his breast, and a tiger skin was thrown over his shoulders; he held a long stick in one hand, on which he supported his bent, decrepid form, whilst in the other he carried a dried gourd-shell, or calibash, to receive the contributions of the boatmen.

Here was a Trappist of the East, submitting to every danger and privation from motives somewhat similar to those which actuate the ascetic order all the world over—motives which we cannot but respect, however mistaken we may deem them.

Bidding adieu to this recluse of the woods, we once more pursued our course to the eastward, and after nearly a day’s rowing, changed it to the north, following the line of one of the many rivers which, spreading out as they approach the sea in various lateral directions in the Sunderbunds, form that intricate maze.

In a little time, the forest became less dense, and a few miles more brought us again into the cleared and cultivated country. Our eyes once more rested with pleasure upon the green rice-fields, the patch of sugar-cane, the cluster of coco-nuts, and the busy haunts of men.

“Well, Mr. Gernon,” said Augustus, “I suppose you are not sorry to be nearly at the end of your voyage.”

“No,” I replied; “though I have been greatly interested by the wild scene through which we passed. But how far are we now from the Junglesoor factory?”

“Not far,” said my friend; “please God we’ll sup at my house to-night. There, look!” said he; “do you see yonder white building, and the thick cluster of trees, overhanging it at the turn of the river?”

“I do.”

“Well, that’s one of my out-factories; there I’ve ordered some of my people to be in waiting with horses, or an elephant, to take us on to my shop, which is about six miles inland.”

“An elephant!” I ejaculated, as I mentally rubbed my hands.

The boatman plied their oars with redoubled vigour, their cheerful songs and shouts bespeaking that buoyancy of hearts which an approach to “home” ever inspires amongst all mankind.

We now neared the white building, which proved to be a small temple, crowning a little ghaut or flight of steps, running down to the water’s edge, backed by something like an old ruined fort or factory, overshaded by masses of foliage of the banyan and peepul trees, growing out of fissures of the walls.

On the crest of the ghaut stood an elephant caparisoned with his bright red jhoul and howdah[^[18]] fanning himself with the branch of a tree; hard by him were a couple of horses, saddled, and held by their syces or grooms, each of whom bore a hog-spear; whilst near and around, groups of villagers, factory servants, and followers of Mr. Augustus, in various picturesque costumes and attitudes, some squatting in masses, some standing, others reclining on the steps or abutments of the ghaut, were all impatiently awaiting the arrival of the boat.

These groups, backed by the ruined walls, the massive banyan with its twining roots, and a little sort of bungalow, or summer-house, on the projecting bastion, which stood out in strong relief against the evening sky, all constituted, when viewed in the mellow sunlight of the rich Claude-like repose of the hour, a scene well worthy of the pencil of a Daniell.

The boat moored, a lively meeting and embracing took place between those on board and their friends at the factory, for the Indians, I have observed, though in some thing apathetic, are remarkably affectionate to their relatives.

Augustus himself now stepped ashore with all the dignity of a monarch returning from exile to his dominions, amidst the bows and prostrations of his rejoicing subjects. Great were the salaamings, and manifold the signs of life, which his arrival caused in the group. The syces tightened the girths of the horses; two stately greyhounds rose from a recumbent posture, whilst a couple of little pepper and mustard terriers ran yelping and wagging their tails to greet their master; the mahout dug his ankous, or goad, into the elephant’s head, to rouse him from his drowsy state of abstraction, exciting a loud trumpeting scream, as he drove down towards the boat. The gomastah, or manager, a Bengalee, in flowing muslin robes, now advanced with dignified salaam, and made a report of how things had gone on in his absence, whilst a Portuguese, of the complexion of charcoal, with a battered hat and white jacket, named Alfonso da Silva, also had a great deal to say touching the recent operations connected with the manufacture of his master’s indigo.

“Now, Mr. Gernon,” said Augustus, “these matters settled, which are you for, a gallop, or a ride on the elephant? take your choice.”

“Oh! the elephant,” said I, “by all means. I have never ridden on one, and long to be on that noble fellow, who looks like a moving mountain.”

“Then,” said my kind-hearted host, “let us mount. I see they have put the guns in the howdah, and we may have a shot at something as we go along. I must give you a lesson in shooting off an elephant, which is no easy matter to a young hand. Here, hauthee laou (‘bring the elephant’).”

Another dig and another startling blast, and the leviathan was alongside of us.

“Buth! buth?” said the driver, and down knelt the docile beast to receive us.

The coolie, or attendant, now applied the ladder, to his side; Augustus ascended, and I followed him. Here, then, was one of my Oriental day-dreams realized, and I fairly boxed up on “the elephant and castle.”

’Tis a fine thing to be mounted on a gallant charger, to spurn the sod, and, catching all his fire, to feel yourself “every inch” a hero; or to dash away in a brave ship over the blue billows with a spanking breeze, as free as the winds that propel you; but I doubt if even they can impart such sensations as you experience when towering aloft on the back of an elephant, nine feet high, moving, with majestic and stately stride, through palmy scenes of orient beauty, you find yourself raised far above the humble pedestrian, and taking in the whole country as with an eagle glance.

We now started at a good, swinging pace, followed by the horses, whilst sundry burkundazes and peons, with spears and staves, trotted on nimbly before, clearing the way of the boys, cows, village pariar dogs, and idlers. Thus we wound through the village, and soon entered on the open country, which for the most part was perfectly flat, and bounded by villages and topes of mango trees. Here and there the land rose a little, forming a sort of rough pastures, on which herds of the black slouching buffaloes were feeding, mingled with small white Bengalee cows and bullocks, their bells tinkling, and tended by herdsmen enveloped in blanket sort of hoods, with long sticks over their shoulders.

We had not proceeded far on the plain, when a horseman appeared in the distance, approaching us at a hand gallop.

“Halloo!” said Augustus, “here comes my neighbour and brother planter, Mons. De la Chasse, as funny, but as good a fellow as ever breathed. I hope you have a tolerable command of countenance, for you’ll require it when you hear our friend’s English.”

By this time Mons. De la Chasse was sufficiently near for me to distinguish the Gaul in every lineament. He was a long and gaunt man, with the face of a vieux mousquetaire, wore a white solah hat, with a vast amplitude of brim, a white jacket, and long military boots. His horse was a large hatchet-faced animal, of a cream colour, with a swish tail, which, however, bore him along over bush and jungle in capital style. As he approached brandishing a hog-spear, he rather brought to my mind the picture of a Spanish bull fighter.

“Velcome! velcome! goot friend; glad to see you back,” said he, riding up, and waving his hand as he wheeled his horse about “You look ver well by Jhobs.”

“Thankyee, thankyee, Monsieur; all’s right with me, but what have you been doing in this part of the world?”

“Oh, de old vay. Ve have had de jodge down, and one of his amis, abote some cochery affairs; had him out for a day after de hogue; killed two, tree—one old boar give fine sport—ver fine; near kill us though, by Jhobs; ha! ha!—but who that wid you, Capsicome?”

“Oh! a young friend of my father’s come to see how we carry on the war down here. Let me introduce him to you—Gernon, Mons. De la Chasse, &c.”

“Appi see you amongst us, Sare.—By de vay, I not tell a-you I have had ’noder kick ope with dat Bobberygunge talookdar: d—m fellow, his bulloke spoil twenty beegah my plant. I shall him have ope to de jodge, by Jhobs—he is a—a—a (casting about for a suitable expression, and setting his teeth) a frightful shackass.”

This moved my risibles, in spite of a gentle poke from Augustus’s elbow, and a reproving look compounded of gravity and laughter. Fortunately, at this juncture, a dismal yell broke on our ears, and we perceived ahead of us, slinking across the plain, two animals somewhat larger than foxes.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Oh! a couple of jackals,” said my companion. “Would you like to see a run?”

I eagerly expressed my assent.

“De la Chasse,” said Mr. Augustus, “take a gallop after those jackals; our friend here wants to see a hunt.”

“Oh! ay, ve’ll stir dem ope,” said the light-hearted Frenchman, who, like his countrymen in general, seemed ready for any thing that promised excitement. “Choorda khoota choorda!” (“let loose the dogs, let loose”) he shouted, and in a moment the greyhounds were slipped.

“Hark away!” shouted Augustus; the Gaul gave the View halloo, and after the jackals darted the beautiful animals; their bodies undulating like serpents as they emulously strove to pass each other. The small dogs followed in full cry, and my matur, or master of the hounds, not to be outdone, and justly anxious for the reputation of his charges, drew the cords of the bull-dog and Teazer, lustily cheering them on.

After killing the jackals, which was soon effected, we regained the road, and in half an hour reached the Junglesoor factory. The residence was a square building of one story, surrounded by a terrace and covered verandah; on one side was a large garden, filled with orange and other trees. Further back were groves of bamboo, mango, &c., intermingled with buildings, vats, stables, &c.

We dismounted, and Augustus invited the Frenchman to come in and sup; but he declined, pleading a necessity for returning home; but he added, “Ven vil you come take your luck-pote vid me?”

“Ha! ha! ha! pot-luck, I suppose you mean, Monsieur?”

“Yais, to be sure,” said the good-natured Frenchman; “but I put de horse before de cart only. What you mean, you dam Capsicome, by laugh at me?” said he, poking at him with the butt-end of his hog-spear.

After other good-humoured passes between them, it was arranged that La Chasse was to come over the day after the ensuing, to breakfast, make a day of it, and “hunt ope de hogue,” and he was to bring a friend.

I now entered with my companion, and proceeded to the dining-room. We found the candles lighted and every preparation for a comfortable meal. We had a roast goose, curry-fish, prawns, &c., to which we did ample justice; a cool bottle of claret was then produced; Augustus changed his boots for slippers, cocked his legs on the table, ordered his hookha, and another for the purpose of initiating me, and we were soon in that blissful state, compounded of overflowing health, light hearts, moderate fatigue, and a delightful sense of repletion, when the heart expands, and all the better feelings of our nature predominate. I have always thought, though an inversion of the orthodox rule, that the first and most effectual step towards making men good is to make them happy.

The following day was devoted by Augustus to repose and domestic arrangements—things having fallen a little into arrear during his absence. In the course of the morning, however, he took me round his estate, showed me his garden, his stables, and his farm-yard; also his indigo vats, his drying-houses, &c.; whilst exhibiting the latter, he explained to me the process of manufacturing the dye.

The morrow at length arrived, the sun rose in splendour, the weather for the season (the beginning of October) was breezy and cool, and all things seemed to wear a propitious aspect, and to promise a delightful day’s sport. In a short time, De la Chasse arrived, accompanied by a square, tight-built little man, named Tupper, who had recently (as is not unfrequent in India) changed his berth of mate of a country ship for that of an Indigo planter’s assistant.

An abundant breakfast duly despatched, there was a buckling of spurs, a slinging of brandy-bottles, an examination of hog-spears, and other preliminary movements for the foray. Outside, too, was a great muster of Augustus’s retainers, coolies or factory men, real “blue demons,” in almost Paradisaic costume, with long sticks, or latees, over their shoulders, wherewith to beat the jungles.

Augustus now vaulted on his Arab, a beautiful creature, with a high reputation, as I was told, as a hog-hunter (horses in India enjoy the sport as much as their masters), and with his spear in hand gave the signal for departure. Out marched the whole cavalcade, I mounted on a sturdy little hill pony, called a tangan, as hard-mouthed and headstrong a little devil, as I afterwards discovered to my cost, as ever tumbled a griffin.

Each of us hunters was armed with a spear, whilst spare ones were carried by the syces. The spear used in this sport, by the way, is a very formidable weapon. The shaft is about seven feet long, the head an elongated heart, or rather leaf-shape, as keen as a razor, and to aid its murderous effect, the butt-end is loaded with about a half-pound of lead.

We now wound along, bending our course for the banks of a river, where wild hogs and other game were said to abound. Having crossed the plain, we found, ourselves amongst mango groves and woodland, interspersed with scattered huts and small villages, and I became, by some accident, separated a good distance from my companions.

In passing the edge of a tope, or mango grove, an adventure happened, which, though somewhat derogatory to my dignity in its results, my integrity as a historian obliges me to relate. A pause in the narrative may, however, be expedient, in order to give me the requisite degree of composure.

CHAPTER XIV.

In passing the grove mentioned in the last chapter, by the edge of a fosse, or ditch, overgrown with bushes, and not far from some miserable huts, I thought I heard a rustling, and reining up my tangan and listening, I could distinguish the deep bass of a grunter, with the running treble of sundry little pigs. My heart went pit-a-pat; here, thought I, is a glorious discovery! I shall be the first to rouse the grizzly monster from his lair, and launch a spear at him. I wished, however, to be sure, and listened again—’twas a palpable grunt.

“Yoicks! tally-ho!” shouted I, waving my hat, as a signal for my friends to come up and share in the anticipated sport.

Roused by my voice, and a stone cast into the ditch by my syce, an unclean beast of large dimensions, black and mangy, issued therefrom, and, rather leisurely, I thought, for a wild boar, jogged across the open space, followed by a tribe of young ones. Now then, Frank Gernon, I mentally exclaimed, gird up the loins of thy resolution, and prepare for desperate deeds.

Thus internally soliloquizing, I slacked my rein, put spurs to my tangan, and, spear in hand, rode furiously at him. La Mancha’s knight did not charge his windmill more valiantly. I pushed him hard, but he kept ahead, dodging, joltering, and grunting, and for the life of me I could not place myself in a position to give him the coup de grace. At length, by vigorously urging my beast, I found myself alongside; my arm was raised; the glittering javelin poised with as direful a presage as that of one of Homer’s heroes; already in imagination my burnished point had searched out the seat of life, and I saw the crimson tide distilling from the wound; I rose to deal the mighty stroke, when snap went the stirrup-leather, away flew my spear, and I, and not the hog, incontinently bit the dust. Yes, down I came, a thundering thump.

Painful was the revulsion of feeling—I never felt more foolish in my life. Away went pig and tangan—and so they might, for aught I cared—whilst I, like a dying gladiator, lay prone on the earth, applying vigorous friction to my shoulder. In a few seconds, my companions rode up, to my confusion, convulsed with laughter, which they vainly strove to repress.

“You’re not hurt, I hope, Gernon?” said my host, endeavouring to compose his features into a look of commiseration (a dead failure, by-the-bye).

“No, not much,” said I, writhing with pain; “nothing to speak of. It was that confounded rotten stirrup; but I should not have cared, had I speared the hog.”

Upon this, there was another volcano of laughter. I felt annoyed, and begged to know, fiercely, what they found so amusing in a friend’s nearly breaking his neck.

“Oh, my good ami,” exclaimed the Frenchman, “you most pardonnez—but ha! ha! ha! you ave hunt the village pig, ha! ha! ha! and not the vild hogue. Oh, mon Dieu, je vais mourir—oh! oh!”

“Yes,” added Augustus, “oh! oh! oh! you really must excuse us, Gernon, he! he! he! for laughing a little at your griffinish mistake; indeed, you have been chasing a villager; but you are not the first that has made such a blunder. Come,” he continued, “here’s your steed; mount once more, and we’ll show you some real sport. I see you are game to the backbone, and will prove a staunch hog-hunter.”

I was mortified at my blunder, but this piece of flattery acted as a cataplasm to my wounded spirit; so I thought it best to join in the laugh against myself, and remounting my tangan, and re-adjusting the stirrup, we once more continued our route.

After crossing a bare plain, we found ourselves on the banks of the river, covered for miles with a belt of grass and long reeds. The beaters were now put in, and dismal yelling and shouting commenced. In a few minutes the cry of sewer, sewer! (“hog, hog!”) arose from many voices; the reeds ahead waved and rustled, and in a moment a tremendous boar burst from the cover, and bore right away across the hard plain, towards the cultivation.

Away went Augustus in gallant style, with a yell or war-whoop that made the welkin ring. The second mate joined chase right before the wind; my little hard-mouthed Punch stuck down his head, laid back his ears, and, unbidden, followed next, keenly alive to the sport, though I had a hard matter to manage him and my long spear to boot; and in a moment more the Frenchman thundered past, with brandished spear and horse tight in hand.

“Ha! ha!” said he, as he passed me, “now you vill see de death of de veritable vild hogue.”

Augustus gained on the boar, who, with his milk-white tusks, bristly back, and sidelong look, presented a most formidable aspect, and was evidently an ugly customer. The planter pushed him closely, and, in passing, delivered his spear with such effect, that it stuck bolt upright in the back of the boar, who nevertheless continued his onward course, as if spitted for the feast.

It was now the turn of De la Chasse; up he came, and in capital style delivered his spear with a coup de théâtre just behind the shoulder, wheeled round his horse with a “ha! ha!” and the monster rolled over and over. He was a magnificent boar, with a hock like a bullock’s, terrific tusks, and such a neck of brawn! e’en such a brute as one sees Madame Diana flying after, barelegged, in an old tapestry, or playing pitch and toss with a score of dogs in one of Snyder’s noble pictures. But ’twas all up with him now; his little blood-shot eyes were half-closed, his tongue was out, and all his sinews and muscles were stiffened in death.

“’Tis ver fine hogue,” said the Frenchman, looking up, after contemplating, him for some minutes in mute delight, and pulling out his gory spear, buried two feet deep in the shoulder; “but I give him dat last poke ver well, eh! by Jhobs?”

“Yes, you certainly finished him in very sportsmanlike style, Monsieur,” replied Augustus; “I thought he would have charged me as I delivered my spear, and am glad he did not, for with those tusks of his, gentlemen, he would have been an ugly customer, and have left his mark on my gallant Rustum and me. But come, we will try up the river again.”

The legs of the boar were now tied, a pole was thrust through them, the huge animal was hoisted on the shoulders of four of the coolies, and home along with us.

The beaters now once more advanced, latees waved, the shouts were renewed, and in a few minutes there was a cry of some animal, when a creature of the deer kind, of a slate colour and clumsy shape, bolted from the reeds, and with an awkward up and down sort of movement, made across the plain.

“A hog-deer,” shouted Mr. Tupper; and with arms and legs working like a mannikins, spurred after him, the rest of party following.

The hog-deer have little speed or bottom, so he was soon overtaken and killed—casting up a piteous look, as Augustus, who on this occasion gave the Frenchman the go-by, drove his keen spear into him.

After the death of the deer, we all by acclamation voted an adjournment to a neighbouring shady tree; there dismounting, and throwing ourselves on the ground, we commenced a vigorous attack on the cold meat and pale ale, chatting, joking, laughing, and masticating, at one and the same time. The game was laid out before us, in order that we might feast our eyes on that, at the same time that we gratified our palates.

Returning Home from the Hog Hunt.

The lunch fairly discussed, I was surprised to see a servant hand a small hookha, or kulian, covered with silver chains, and emitting a delicious odour, to Augustus. Upon my honour, I mentally exclaimed, you indigo gentlemen seem to have a good notion of comfort. Mr. Augustus wiped the mouth-piece with his thumb and finger, put it between his lips, and emitting an elaborate whiff of a yard and a half long, slowly leaned his back against the trunk of the tree, half-closed his eyes, and exhibited the most perfect appearance of unalloyed sublunary bliss I have ever beheld. After half an hour’s rest, and partaking of the kulian, which was generously passed round by our friend, we arose, and prepared for a renewal of the campaign.

In this we were as successful as in the commencement of the day. Three more small hogs were killed; on one of which, after sundry abortive attempts, and one or two imminent risks of unshipment, I fleshed my maiden spear—a feat marked by such uncommon skill and unique adroitness on my part, that I made it the leading subject of conversation for a month afterwards.

Our sport over, and man and beast fairly exhausted, we now bent our course towards home, wending our way over the plain we had crossed in the morning. We four cavaliers, our spears over our shoulders, mounted on our steeds of various statures, led the way; then came straggling attendants, lagging heavily along; and lastly, the goodly show of game, slung on poles, and borne on the shoulders of coolies, brought up the rear.

The cavalcade, the game, the wild track of reeds, the distant masses of wood topped with the coco-nut and betel-palm, all seen in the streaming light of the setting sun struggling through the evening’s haze, would have made a fine subject for that prince of animal painters, Landseer.

A pleasant meal at my friend’s house closed this my first day’s hog-hunting in India. I had become a mighty hunter at once, and stood two inches higher whenever the feats I had witnessed crossed my mind; the feeling of exultation would have been unalloyed indeed, but for the adventure of that cursed village pig.

The supper was capital, and, ye powers that preside over gastronomy, how we did eat! It is a fortunate dispensation of Providence that all men are not hog-hunters, or frequent famine would be the inevitable result. Augustus was pleasant, the Frenchman loquacious, Mr. Tupper had much to say, and the hogs were, at a moderate computation, slain over again half a dozen times at least before supper was ended.

Amongst other subjects incidentally discussed, was that of several dacoities, or gang-robberies, lately committed in the neighbourhood, attended with great atrocities.

This part of Bengal had long been famous, or rather infamous, for these plunderers, who, led on by their chiefs, the Robin Hoods of India, were a terror to the country. The bands move about, at times levying contributions from the inhabitants, in numbers often sufficiently great to enable them to defy the police, which is, or was, very inefficient—their leaders are great desperadoes.

“I hear,” said Augustus, “that Ramsunker has been plundering in this neighbourhood, and swears he will pay me a visit one of these days; but let him come, and we’ll endeavour to give him a warm reception.”

De la Chasse and Tupper said they should like nothing better than a skirmish with the banditti, and begged that Augustus would send off an express for them if the aforesaid Ramsunker should ever make his appearance at the Junglesoor Factory.

Augustus promised to do so, saying that he should be equally ready to attend their summons if they were first selected for plunder; in short, a treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, was then and there struck; after which the high contracting parties, becoming full of Bacchus, sung several songs, disputed, quarrelled, became maudlin, wept, swore everlasting friendship, and retired to rest.

Besides that one to which the permanent residence was attached, Mr. Augustus had several out-laying factories, which he visited from time to time, to superintend the manufacture of his indigo; at all of these he had little bungalows, or temporary abodes, where we tiffed and passed the heat of the day.

We were one morning at the factory on the river, where I have stated that we first landed, quietly smoking in the little turret, or summer-house, when a great hubbub below, and the noise of people running, saluted our ears. Mr. Augustus rose hastily, and ran out to see what was the matter, I following him, at the same time despatching a servant to ascertain the cause of the uproar. He soon returned, and stated that a youth had just been carried off from the ghaut by an alligator, which had snapped him up whilst in the act of washing his cloth or dhotee.

Excited by this account, we posted off to the ghaut, where a clamorous crowd was collected, many of them looking and pointing towards the centre of the river. On inquiry, we learnt that the alligator was there, playing with his victim; and, casting our eyes to the middle of the stream, there, sure enough, in the centre of the rapid current, his long jagged tail rising above and occasionally lashing the surface, was the monster, tossing and shaking the lifeless body of the poor black boy, and amusing himself as a cat does with a mouse before she makes a meal of it.

Mr. Augustus sent immediately to the bungalow for his rifle, which soon made its appearance: it was a piece of the kind called commonly in India a “bone-breaker,” and carrying a weighty ball, eight or ten to the pound. Having loaded it, he took a deliberate aim at the alligator.

I waited in breathless suspense for the result—bang went the rifle, and the ball dashed up the spray within a foot of the creature’s head, and then went ricochetting over the expanse of water.

“A close shave,” said Augustus; “but come, we’ll try him again.”

Once more the rifle was loaded and fired, but on this occasion with more success, a dull, lumpish sound telling that the ball had taken effect. It requires, however, ordinarily, many balls to kill an alligator; but down sunk the head of the monster, his long serrated tail waving in air as he descended to the depths of the river, like a sinking warrior flourishing his broken brand.

This fellow, it appeared, had long been carrying on his depredations in this part of the river, and the boatmen and fishermen determined at last to make an attempt to capture him; this they next day effected in the usual way by dragging the bottom with hooks.

We slept at the out-factory of Gurrialpore that night, and were agreeably surprised the next morning, shortly after breakfast, by a man running in to inform us that the alligator had been captured, and that the muchwas, or fishermen, were then in the act of towing him on shore. We immediately proceeded to the river’s brink, and there, sure enough, we observed two dingies, or canoes, fast approaching, and lashed closely side by side.

As they came near, we perceived that the alligator was between them, well secured, his head above the water and projecting in front between the prows, and his long tail laving in the wake behind; in his huge jaws was a stout stick, well belayed with a cord above and below; in short, bridled and bitted for any gentleman who, like the adventurous Mr. Waterton, might have felt disposed to take a ride upon him, which, not being particular, and preferring a horse myself, I certainly felt no inclination to do.

On the boats touching the shore, we stepped on board, and looking between them, found the space, a breadth of a foot or two, occupied by the horny and rugged back of their prize, into which were wedged the barbed heads of some half a dozen small iron harpoons, with cords attached in the manner I have mentioned in a former chapter.

By dint of ropes and bamboo poles, the natives, who showed themselves wonderfully adroit at the business, soon had him on the shelving bank, when my host proceeded very deliberately to put ball after ball through his head, to the number of four or five.

This, for any description of landsman, would have been more than enough; but, as I before observed, an alligator is an inordinate glutton in the way of punishment, and requires much to give him his quietus. However, he was considerably damaged, no doubt—sufficiently so to admit of his being easily thrown on his back, care being still taken to prevent his doing mischief, by the pressure of long bamboo poles on his body and tail.

One of the muchwas now, with a sharp axe, or some such instrument, proceeded to cut him open, and having done so, he removed the intestines as completely as the cook does those of a fish preparatory to consigning it to the frying-pan.

Mr. Augustus now gave the order to remove the “pressure from without,” which was accordingly done, when, strange to relate, but nevertheless perfectly true, the unkillable monster sprang bodily up, recovered his natural position, and lashing his tremendous tail right and left, made both the dust and the crowd to fly, the latter skipping off nimbly, and giving him what sailors term a wide berth. Thus he continued to lash his tail and move his liberated jaws for some time after, though unable to stir from the spot.

This extraordinary tenacity of life is common to all reptiles and cold-blooded creatures, though not in all to an equal degree; it is very remarkable in the turtle of the Indian rivers, which I have known to scuttle off to the water minus their heads, when cut off by the enraged piscator, as the shortest way of getting the hooks out of their mouths.

As I watched the dying throes of the alligator, after so long resisting all attempts to extinguish his vital spark, under every circumstance of advantage to his assailants, I could not help feeling in all its length and breadth the utter state of impotency to which the lord of the creation—man—would be reduced, however well supplied with weapons, offensive and defensive, when once fairly grappled by him in his native element. Humiliating thought!

A post mortem examination of the alligator showed us Mr. Augustus’s ball firmly wedged into the thick part of the tail; and an analysis of the contents of the stomach brought to light two legs, half an arm, and sundry rings and silver bangles, which had once adorned the slender limbs of some hapless village maiden.

Having now gratified our curiosity, and performed our duty to the public, the inquest broke up—verdict, of course, “justifiable alligatricide”—and we returned home.

One morning, a few days after this—the most eventful, as will be seen in the sequel, which had occurred to me since I had trodden Indian ground—we were seated at table after breakfast, my host drowsily smoking his hookha and conning the Calcutta paper, I concocting a despatch for home, when suddenly a confused and distant noise was heard, including the rapid beat of a doog-doogie, or small native drum.

My host laid down his paper and listened; for a moment it died away, then again rose on the wind; there was a hubbub of voices—of flying footsteps—and lastly, of one or two dropping shots.

“By heavens! there’s something wrong,” said Augustus, half-rising from his chair, and still intently listening. “Quon hye?” (‘who waits?’)

The words were scarcely uttered, when, wild with alarm, a servant rushed in followed by one or two others, exclaiming, in almost frantic tones, “Sahib! sahib! dacka! dacka!”

My host turned pale, started from his chair, and rapidly interrogated the affrighted men, who answered him all clamorously at once, and with the most animated gesticulations.

“In the name of all that’s good,” said I, thunderstruck at the scene, “what on earth is the matter?”

“Matter! my dear fellow, the dacoits—that’s all; the robbers are upon us; we must defend our lives; there is not a moment to be lost.”

The plot now began to thicken: three burkundauzes rushed in, with a confirmation of the intelligence that Ramsunker and his gang were close at hand, bent on fulfilling their recent threats, and that they had already plundered two or three neighbouring hamlets.

Not an instant was wasted; the doors were banged to and bolted in a trice, bars laid across, and some heavy boxes piled up against them. Guns, pistols, and hog-spears were put in requisition; the burkundauzes loaded their matchlocks and blew their matches, and the whole of us immediately ascended to the flat roof, determined to defend the fortress.

Having gained this position, the next point was to reconnoitre the force of the enemy, and the posture of affairs outside.

A low parapet wall, some three feet high, encompassed the flat roof of the planter’s mansion; and over this last, sheltering as much of our persons as possible, we cast our eyes in the direction of the mass of bamboo and other foliage, amongst which the indigo vats and other out-buildings were principally situated.

All there was ominously still, except that, every now and then, a factory coolie, like a startled hare, would burst forth from his concealment, and with looks of terror, fly across the opposite rice-fields.

The vat-houses, &c., had now, it was clear, been abandoned by all the planters followers, and were in possession of the dacoits, who were probably rifling them. Of this we had speedy confirmation, by perceiving three or four dark, undersized figures, almost naked, and armed with swords and spears, creep cautiously out and cast furtive glances towards the house.

“There they are,” said Augustus: “those are some of the rascals preparing, no doubt, to make an assault upon us. Well, we must give them a warm reception. I wish with all my heart we had De la Chasse with us; but how to communicate with him and the distant police station, surrounded as we are, I know not. However,” he added, “he cannot fail sooner or later, to learn our situation from some of the runaways. Here, Gernon,” said he, handing me a double gun, “here is something for you; now do your best, like a valiant knight, and win your spurs.”

Here, thought I, is a pretty adventure! I shall inevitably be figuring in a return of killed and wounded, without ever having joined a regiment. Call you this a party of pleasure, i’faith? I had soliloquized to this extent, when a little white cloud of smoke puffed itself forth from the brightly verdant screen formed by the drooping bamboo hedge, followed by the whistling of a matchlock ball within a few feet of my pericranium.

To tell the truth, this music had no particular charms for me; though, when “honour pricked me on,” I could listen to it awhile, buoyed up by visions of glory, promotion, prize-money, and so forth, as well as another.

On hearing the whine of this ragged missile, I instinctively bobbed my head a shade lower than the parapet wall: this little involuntary working of the conservative principle, however, was speedily succeeded by an energetic display of its opposite, as by an active rebound up I started, presented my gun, and dropped shots—one, two—quick as thought, into the spot from which the cloud of smoke had yet hardly disappeared;—how many I killed, I can’t say.

Augustus also fired; and immediately, as if roused by our daring, a numerous band of some 200 or 300 dacoits, as ill-looking a set of fellows as I ever beheld, armed with swords, spears, and a rusty matchlock or two swarmed forth from their places of concealment, rushed down upon the house with a frightful yelling, sprung upon the terrace, and endeavoured to force the doors. These, however, though rather fragile, as Indian doors generally are, were sufficient for the moment to resist their efforts.

Our garrison replied by loud shouts of defiance, which, with a volley from the guns and matchlocks, sent them, to our astonishment, to the right-about, and they again sought shelter amongst the trees, carrying off two or three wounded.

I congratulated Mr. Augustus on their unexpected retreat, expressing a hope that we had seen the last of them, for the disparity of force went far towards diminishing the liveliness of the joke.

“Ah!” said my friend, “I would not have you halloo before you’re out of the wood, or draw precipitate conclusions; I know the villains too well; they have plenty of pluck, and are now, depend on it, going to make sure of us in some way attended with less risk to themselves.”

We now listened, and soon heard the sound of axes in the wood, followed by the crash of falling bamboos.

“What can they now be at?” said I.

“I suspect,” replied Augustus, “that they intend to scale the house, and are making ladders of bamboo for the purpose.”

Some conversation with the native garrison tended fully to confirm this view of the matter, and 200 or 300 to eight or ten are overwhelming odds.

“I fear,” said the planter, “we must beat a parley, unless immediately relieved by De la Chasse or the thannah folks, and make the best terms we can for ourselves, or they will scale the roof, massacre us all in a trice, and then plunder the place. What is your idea of the matter, Gernon?”

“Oh,” said I, “I’m for fighting as long as there’s a fair chance; but if there’s none, as I’ve no wish to ‘adorn a tale’ by figuring in a massacre, I vote with you that we give in, provided they grant us an honourable capitulation.”

As we were thus speaking, a servant exclaimed that a man was advancing from the wood where the dacoits were carrying on their operations: he was unarmed, and made a sign that he had something to communicate. One of our intelligent burkundauzes hailed and asked him what he wanted.

The reply, as explained to me, was, that he had a message from his sirdar, or chief, the redoubtable Ramsunker, to deliver to the sahib.

He was told to advance with confidence, that he would he admitted to deliver his message, and that no harm would be done to him. On the promise of safe-conduct, the herald came forward, nowise distrustful, and was forthwith admitted.

He was a middle-sized but wiry and athletic fellow, intensely black, half-naked, with matted hair, small, loosely-twisted turban, and a broad untanned leathern belt over his shoulder.

Being asked by Mr. Augustus what he had to say or propose, he replied, that he was sent by his sirdar to state that he was now making ladders, with which he would in a few minutes scale the house at all points, and put every soul to death, unless his terms were at once complied with: these were the immediate payment of Rs. 300, upon which he would at once draw off his band, and give no further molestation to any one.

The indigo planter, finding further resistance would be useless, and knowing that these dacoits, on the principle of honour amongst rogues, were men of their word, fulfilling every engagement, whether to rob and murder, or abstain, with scrupulous fidelity, determined on acceding to their terms; this he intimated to the little plenipo, who thereat made a salaam, grinned horribly a ghastly smile, and returned to report to his superior the success of his mission.

To be brief, there was an immediate stir in the grove, and presently the chief, as sinister-looking a villain as I ever beheld, came forward to about the middle of the open space fronting the house, accompanied by a body of some ten or twelve of his followers.

Mr. Augustus gave him a bag containing the Rs. 300, for which he made an obeisance, and then wheeling about, he rejoined his band, who, after several loud shouts, moved off with their plunder, and without offering us any further annoyance.

“Well,” said Mr. Augustus, shaking me by the hand, “how do you find yourself, after being stormed and besieged?—a pretty piece of business this, eh? You little thought of witnessing such an adventure, I’ll be sworn, when you came down to sport at the Junglesoor Factory. This was not the shooting you expected.”

“I did not, indeed,” said I; “however, I think we have saved our honour, and our bodies are certainly intact, albeit you have lost your rupees.”

“That’s true,” said my friend; “but I should still like to give the rascals a trouncing and recover the spolia opima, and will try it, if De la Chasse and the police make their appearance before they have got a long start of us.”

This was scarcely said when we heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, and in a moment De la Chasse and Tupper, in breathless haste, came spurring up to the house. The former threw himself from the saddle, and in a moment had us by the hands.

“My goot Capsicome! my dear young friend! are you all a—live? all well? Dat’s goot; thank God—thank God! I hear you vas beseiged by dis raskal dacoit; so Tupper and me, ve mount our ’orse, ride off to the tannah for de police—dey vill be here directly, tannahdar and all, little and pig. But come, tell me vraiment all vat was happen—vere are dey?—who have dey kill?—vat have dey rob?—vere are dey gone?—Come tell it all, for I am dam impashant to know all.”

“It is soon told, Monsieur,” said Augustus. “Ramsunker and 300 of his men attacked us; we stood one assault, capitulated, and paid Rs. 300, black-mail, to get out of the scrape.”

“Black male! vat de devil’s black male?—you mean, I suppose, you pay Rs. 300 to de black males—I not suppose you pay to de black females.”

Augustus laughed, and explained.

“Vell, vell, you did your best; de grand Napoleon himself vas obleege to yield to numbers; 300 to ten is too moch. But,” added he, “I do hope ve may yet catch dis dacoit, get de money back, and give dem goot trashing beside; dere is 100 of de police, and twenty or thirty more of us—vat say you?”

“Just what I was proposing to our young friend here, as you came up; undoubtedly, let us try; but there’s no time to be lost, if we would wish to succeed, for they have already a considerable start of us.”

The proposal, indeed, was generally relished; the horses were ordered to be saddled; each of us armed himself in some way or other, and in a few minutes more, the portly thannahdar, or head of the police, as burly a fellow as Shakspeare’s fat knight, mounted on a rat of a pony, made his appearance at the head of a numerous body, some 80 or 100, of the neighbouring police, drawn from several stations.

Mr. Augustus intimated to the thannahdar his determination to pursue the dacoits, so soon as his followers had slightly refreshed themselves, of which, after the distance they had come, they evidently stood in need. This the thannahdar intimated to his men; some of whom began to smoke in little knots or groups, squatting on their hams; others drank water, which they drew in their brazen lotas from a neighbouring well; whilst others unfolded little stores of rice, or parched gram, tied up in corners of their vestments, and set to daintily picking and eating the same. Poor prog to fight upon, thought I, holding as I do that the stomach, and not the heart, is the seat of valour.

All the above was mingled with an incessant gabble touching the recent event, with a plentiful outpouring of abuse on the female relations of the aforesaid dacoits.

The police refreshed, off started our little army in pursuit of the enemy, who we calculated could not be many miles off, the four Europeans, (if Augustus may be included under that denomination) and the thannahdar—the cavalry of the division—taking the lead, whilst the police peons—the infantry—principally armed with spears and tulwars, brought up the rear.

As we advanced, we learnt from the villagers that the body of the dacoits (too large to move unobserved) had proceeded in the direction of a certain ferry on the river. Thither we bent our course, and learnt from the ferry people that they had recently crossed and were close at hand. The remainder of the adventure I shall sum up in a few words.

The dacoits were soon overtaken; like Cæsar, we came, and saw—would I could add, we conquered! but in that, the most essential point, the parallel with the great Roman’s despatch unhappily fails.

On approaching the dingy array of the dacoits, they halted and showed a bold front. Augustus and De la Chasse marshalled their men, and addressed what were intended for some spirit-stirring exhortations to them. Tupper and I took the flanks, and doubtless felt (I can speak for myself) rather queer.

We advanced; the dacoits, sword and spear in hand, came forward doggedly to meet us—our line wavered—in vain we screamed and exhorted; the dacoits dashed in—cut down three or four; sauve qui peut was the word, and away flew our men over the plain. After a little irregular cutting and slashing, we followed, and with difficulty saved ourselves by the speed of our cattle.

I will leave the reader to imagine the rage of Mr. Augustus, the vehement pestes and sacres of the Gaul, and the downright straightforward abuse of the stiff little mate, elicited by this shameful misbehaviour of our troops; the censures, reports, &c., arising out of it; and the uneasiness felt, after we had got back to the factory, of another visit from the exasperated Ramsunker. Fortunately, however, he came not; and from fugitives and others we learn that, satisfied with putting us to the rout, he had made off with his gang and booty to a distant part of the country.

All this, of course, formed matter for animated discussion and commentary amongst us four at the factory, De la Chasse and his friend remaining for a couple of days to afford us their countenance and protection. We had a very merry time of it—shooting and boating in the day, and a rubber of whist or a song at night.[^[19]]

CHAPTER XV.

I had now been about twelve days a visitor with my hospitable friend, the indigo planter—a period, as the reader has seen, fertile in events—when I began to think of returning, and a letter or two which I received served to hasten my departure. One was from an old friend and schoolfellow, Tom Rattleton, a good deal my senior, and whom I had not seen or heard of for four or five years. It ran thus:—

My dear Frank,

It was by the merest chance that I heard from a Captain Marpeet, who has been staying here, in his way up, of your arrival in India. How I missed seeing your “well-known” name in the papers or General Orders I really cannot imagine. Marpeet says, you only want a little more of his tuition to become a ne plus ultra—in short, I must not tell half the handsome things he has said of you; but in all I could not fail to recognize, clearly and distinctly, my old class-mate and companion of the third form.

How I long, my dear fellow, to have a good dish of chat with you about school-days, and all the fun and frolic we have had together in times past! Do you recollect lame Tomkins, the pieman, and your unsuccessful attempt to prove to him, synthetically and dialectically, that long credit and great gains were preferable, as a mercantile principle, to small profits and quick returns, to which logic many an empty pocket sent forth, doubtless, a confirmatory echo? But oh, that stony-hearted man! Orpheus himself could not have moved him—no eloquence, no wiles—nought but the ipsa pecunia, the money’s chink.

My regiment has lately arrived here from Berhampore. I have been for some time out of my griffinage, and though but a “jolly ensign,” like yourself, and not very deep in the mysteries of the Hindee Bolee, have lately obtained the command of a company—we being rather deficient in old hands. This works me a good deal, but I like my new powers, and if I could but understand the fellows, I should get on famously.

I have a small bungalow near the river, and am comfortable enough, all things considered, so you must come and spend a month with me at least. Why not get to do duty with our regiment at once? it can be easily managed. I hope you enjoy life amongst the “True Blues” in the Mofussil. I have had some experience of them myself, and a kinder-hearted and more hospitable set of fellows, taking them in a body, does not exist.

Give me a few lines to say on what day I may expect you here, and I will ride out and meet you (if you dawk it) and have breakfast ready. So for the present adieu—au revoir.

Your friend and schoolfellow,

T. Rattleton.

P.S.—By-the-bye, do you recollect your changing old Thwackem’s digestive pill, daily deposited at the corner of his desk, for a pea rolled in flour (or a bolus of your own manufacture), and how unsuspectingly the old boy would gulp it down, preparatory to locking up his cane and descending from his awful elevation? Many a good laugh I’ve had at this piece of friponnerie of yours.

This letter delighted me, and Mr. Capsicum, to whom I read it, seemed also a good deal amused. I felt an intense longing to see my friend Tom again, and in fact fell into such a fidgety and excited state, that I could take an interest in nothing. Old Time, instead of flying, seemed to me all of a sudden to have lost the power of locomotion altogether. Battleton and I were the Castor and Pollux of the school, sworn brothers—backers and abettors of each other in all fights, scrapes, and difficulties, of which we generally had quantum suff. on hand.

School was truly a black passage in my life, in which the happiness was to the misery in about the proportion of honest Jack Falstaff’s bread to his quantum of Sherris sack.

“Ah, chien de livre, tu ne me fera plus répandre de pleurs!” exclaimed the enraged Scipio of Le Sage, as he wreaked his vengeance on the “maudite grammaire,” the passive instrument of all his sufferings.

I can too well understand the feelings which actuated, on this occasion, the little son of the honest usher of St. Hermandad, for never to this day do I enter a school-room, or my eye light on a grammar, dictionary, or other buff-coloured associate of the long-past days of my pupilage, but a host of painful and degrading recollections rush on my mind, of the hundred thwackings, confinings, mortifications, of which they were the proximate cause, as nauseous to the feelings as the remembrance of a black dose, or James’s powder, “grating harsh music” through its envelopment of black-currant jelly. And as I look at a pedagogue, I have such a lively idea of a caning, that I am glad to get out of his way.

The young mind may, in truth, be likened to the notes of an instrument, from which a harmonious result can only be extracted by the hand of a master, acquainted with their respective powers; whilst a bungler may thump away at them to the end of the chapter, and nothing but discord, or the instrument irretrievably put out of tune, will be the consequence. In fact, the art of developing, governing and improving “the young idea,” the most important of all, is yet in its infancy, particularly as regards the moral training.

But to curb my erratic vein, and proceed with my narrative.

A period having been fixed for my departure, Mr. Augustus asked me in what manner I proposed to return. I told him, that was a matter I had not considered, but that I should be entirely guided by him.

“Well,” said he, “there’s the boat you came in at your service; but the Sunderbunds are roundabout, and I’d strongly recommend your going by dawk; you’ll find it pleasanter, as you’re alone, and you’ll reach your destination much sooner.”

“Very well,” I replied, “let it be so; but may I ask what mode of transport this said dawk is of which I have heard such frequent mention made—’tisn’t any sort of animal, is it?”

“Animal!” exclaimed my friend in astonishment, and laughing heartily, “why you are a greater griffin than I took you for: this beats your spearing the village pig. A dawk is a relay of bearers at stages of ten or twelve miles apart, to carry you, at the rate of four or five miles an hour, to your journey’s end.”

“Thank you,” said I, “for the information; but not possessing intuitive knowledge, you see, one can’t be expected to know all things until told of them.”

Augustus admitted that there was reason in the observation.

Well, it was decided that I was to proceed to Barrackpore on the second night after the day on which this conversation took place; so I wrote at once to my friend Tom, to tell him that he might expect me immediately.

The last day of my stay, De la Chasse and his fidus Achates dined with us, and we all appeared depressed at the prospect of separation, for our short acquaintance had already ripened into a friendly feeling.

Like towns in an ill-governed country, where, owing to the absence of sound laws and honest administrators of them, every one is afraid of his neighbour, hearts, in artificial England, are too often petty fortresses, in which pride, caution, and suspicion are incessantly on the watch to guard against surprise, and to break down these barriers and effect a lodgment is frequently the work of years; but in India, amongst Anglo-Indians, the case is reversed; the gates are thrown wide open, and intimacies and cordial (though, perhaps, not always lasting) feelings are generally the result of a few day’s acquaintance.

Both extremes are bad, as all extremes are; but it is indubitably far pleasanter to live amongst those, the approaches to whose confidence and kindness are supinely, rather than too rigorously guarded; the one system, ’tis my belief, shuts out more good than the other admits of evil.

“Sahib, ka daktiar hyr,” said a servant entering the apartment some time after dark, on the day of which I am speaking.

“Gernon,” observed Mr. Augustus, “the best of friends must part: your palankeen is ready outside, and only waits your orders.”

I arose, walked to the terrace, and there was my equipage. The sentimental St. Pierre, with all the accuracy of a Frenchman, thus describes the equipage of his truth-seeking doctor, who, if as subject to blundering as himself, might have been a long time in discovering that valuable treasure.

“The Company’s superintendent of Calcutta furnished the doctor with everything necessary for his journey to Juggernauth, consisting of a palankeen, the curtains of which were of crimson silk, wrought with gold; two relays, of four each, of stout coolies or bearers; two common porters; a water-bearer; a juglet-bearer, for his refreshment; a pipe-bearer; an umbrella-bearer, to shade him from the sun; a nuslogee (!) or torch-bearer, for the night; a wood-cutter; two cooks; two camels and their leaders, to carry his provisions and luggage; two pioneers, to announce his approach; four sepoys, mounted upon Persian horses, to escort him; and a standard-bearer, bearing the arms of England!”

I, being no philosopher, and bound on a less important mission, could pretend to none of this splendour; my turn-out consisted of a palankeen, eight or ten cahars or bearers (for in my time, whatever may have been the case in the doctor’s, it was not usual to carry the palankeens upon coolies); a bangby, or two baskets, containing my immediate necessaries, slung on an elastic bamboo; and a mussaulchee, or link-bearer; the torch carried by the latter being formed of rags rolled about an iron spindle, and looking something like a bandaged stump.

I thought there would have been no end to the handshaking and last “adieus,” with the repeated injunctions not to forget that I should always find a knife and fork and a hearty welcome at the Junglesoor Factory.

At last, however, I “broke away,” as the fox-hunters say, I believe, and threw myself into the palankeen; the bearers, with a groan, lifted their burthen on their shoulders; the mussaulchee poured oil on his link from its long-spouted receptacle, which, flaring up, brought out the whole scene, house, trees, and congregated group on the terrace, with a wild and spectral glare. I waved my hand, half-closed the doors of my palankeen, threw myself back:—the curtain had dropped on act the second of my griffinage, and I was soon on my journey to Barrackpore.

On we went, through the murky gloom of night, dispelled for fifty yards around by the glare of the mussaul; sometimes on a fair and beaten track, at others, splashing through wet rice-fields, or traversing with infinite caution some causeway or embankment, as perilous as the bridge of Al Sirat.

The monotonous Urree-hy-he-haw chant of the bearers soon sent me off into a doze, from which I was only aroused occasionally by blundering attempts to put me and my palankeen on board a boat, in crossing some lazy river, on which occasions, the torch-light, the red glare on the water, and the dark figures on board, would bring old Charon and his Stygian ferry to my imagination; or the disturbance arose when they set me down, not over gently, on the skirts of some village or thannah, preparatory to a change of bearers.

At the end of the first stage, one of my active bipeds opened the doors of my palankeen, popped in his greasy frontispiece, reeking with oil and perspiration, and, with a grin, said something I did not understand, but in which the word buckshish (presents) was remarkably distinct.

“Go to the d——l,” exclaimed I; “boxes, no sumjha[^[20]] boxes.”

My friend now tried it on another tack, and, placing the finger of one hand in the palm of the other, with a knowing look, repeated the word “rupee.”

Oh, thought I, are you there? I see your drift; but, knowing they had already been paid, I abruptly closed the doors and the conversation at once, with thundering “Jow-jehanum!”[^[21]] a phrase I had picked up (without knowing the precise meaning of it) from Capt. Marpeet, who, in his intercourse with the natives, made frequent use of it, as a sort of receipt in full.

I passed the greater part of the following day with a planter on the road, a friend of Mr. Capsicum’s, and started again in the evening.

The fresh air of the morn aroused me after my second nocturnal journey, and I looked out. We were in a rich, flat, and luxuriant country; all nature seemed smiling; the ryot was moving out to his work, and ruddy streaks appeared through the tall, tufted stems of coco-nut and taree-palms, blushing Aurora truly looking out of the barred casements of the East.

I calculated that I must now be nearly at the end of my journey; and this supposition was, in a few minutes, most agreeably confirmed by a young officer, in a red raggie and hunting-cap, riding up on a pony, and addressing a few words to my bearers in Hindostanee.

I looked hard at him, and in an instant recognized the well-known features of my schoolfellow, Tom Rattleton. The recognition was mutual, and electrical the effect; out I rolled, sans chapeau; off he tumbled from his tattoo, and we were soon locked in a close embrace—aye, I say in a close embrace; true affection, like true courage, is a desperate grappling affair, and a mere handshaking would have been high treason to the feelings which at that moment swelled our bosoms.

“My dear Frank!”

“My dear Tom!”

“How glad I am to see you!”

“How you are grown! but I should have known you anywhere, old fellow.”

“So should I you, old boy.”

“Well—eh—and how goes it?”

Thus we exploded a volley of queries and interjections, which escaped by fitful jerks, like water from bottles suddenly inverted. There was no acting here, but a hearty burst of honest nature—fresh as the morning air we were breathing.

The warmth of our greeting a little subsided, I resumed my recumbent position in the palankeen, and on went the bearers, jolting along at a rattling pace, having apparently caught all our animation, with revived hopes of “buckshish.” Rattleton trotted alongside, talking incessantly, and in a short time the military cantonment of Barrackpore broke in view.

We crossed the parade, where all was life and animation; soldiers drilling, recruits on one leg doing the goose-step, drums beating, drill-sergeants shouting, and bugles sounding.

We passed through the lines, thronged with sepoys in their graceful undress, and were soon at my friend’s bungalow, in which, after dismissing my bearers, I entered to take up my quarters. Rattleton gave me another shake, as if he had been working a pump handle and cordially bidding me welcome.

A certain writer, who laid the scene of a romance in India, when not quite so well known as at present, describes our hero, I have been told, as sailing in a bungalow on the broad and placid surface of the Ganges, which, by a slight geographical error, is made to traverse the vale of Kashmere. Now, though I give my reader credit for knowing something more of the matter than this, a slight description of a bungalow may not be unacceptable, nevertheless.

The houses occupied by Europeans in India are of two descriptions; the pucka house—havilee, or kottee—and the bungalow. The former of brick or stone, is flat roofed, and, excepting in Calcutta, almost always of one story; i.e. the rooms are all on the ground floor, though considerably raised from the ground; they have green Venetian windows, and are encompassed, wholly or partially, by a terrace, covered with cement, shaded by a verandah or awning.

The bungalow partakes more of the cottage, or, I should perhaps rather say, the barn, being, in nineteen cases out of twenty, covered with a ponderous thatch, requiring frequent renewal, the operations of the white ants and periodical rains soon converting it into a cake of mud, through which pactolean rills frequently find their way to the interior, meandering down the walls.

The bungalow is invariably of one story, and constructed on the principle of a single or double-poled tent, or routie, according to the size; the resemblance to tents occupied by officers is indeed striking, though which is the original and which the copy I cannot say. It has usually double walls, though in some cases that which answers to the outer is little more than a range of pillars.

The space between, called the verandah, is occupied by master’s palankeen, camp equipage, &c.; there, too, the bearers, or cahars, lie and snore during the sultry hours, till roused from their slumbers by a kick from master’s foot; there, too, the patient dirgee, or snip, sits cross-legged, hard at work on the beebee sahib’s ball-dress, or the sahib’s nether garments, which he holds on with his great toe and the next one to it with all the skill of the Order Quadrumana, to the astonishment of the griffinish beholder.

Talk of our “light fantastic toes,” indeed; what are they to a black fellow’s,—adorned, too, with a fine silver great-toe-ring to boot! Mais revenons. The ceilings, instead of lath and plaster, are composed of coarse cotton cloth, whitewashed, and tied with numerous tags or strings to a framework of bamboo running round the apartment, and concealed from view by the projecting cornice; between this and the rafters is a dark void, the airy hall of the rats and bandicoots, who sometimes hold their soirées dansantes and conversazione in it, careering over the cloth with lively and varied squeakings. Purdahs, chicks (blinds), and jhamps (frames of straw and bamboo), and sometimes glass doors, serve to close the entrances; the latter are, indeed, pretty common, except at very uncivilized and out-of-the-way stations.

Furniture harbours reptiles and is expensive to carry about; officers’ bungalows are, consequently, but slenderly supplied with moveables. A couch, one or two tables, half a dozen chairs, a book-shelf, a settrinjie (or cotton carpet, with blue and white stripes, and which also serves for the tent when marching), and a few wall-shades &c., generally constitute the adornments of an Indian officer’s residence.

In the abodes of civilians, whose lots are cast in pleasanter places, and who lead less erratic lives than the military, and have far longer purses, things approximate more nearly to the English standard of luxury and comfort.

At military stations, puckha flat-roofed houses are rare, and generally occupied by the general commanding, or some other exalted functionary in the receipt of large allowances.

My friend’s bungalow was a regular Indian sub’s abode, and fell wofully below my standard of comfort, though in his opinion, formed on more experienced views of Indian life, it was quite as it should be.

In the first place, the grand salon, or salle à manger, contained one square camp-table, two chairs and a half, a footstool of basket work, in the shape of a devil (the thing played with two sticks, I mean); his hog-spear and gun occupied one corner, and hard by hung suspended his library; not quite so large as the Bodleian, to be sure, but containing, nevertheless, some very good cut-and-come-again sort of books.

First, there was a family Gibbon, properly docked and curtailed, a present from his grandmother; Gilchrist’s Grammar; Williamson’s Vade Mecum, and Taplin’s Farriery; the Tota Kuhanee,[^[22]] Mother Glass’s Cookery, and a ponderous tome, which I at first took for a Family Bible with explanatory notes, but which turned out to be an abridgment of the rules and regulations of the Bengal army, monuments of the legislative skill of all the commanders-in-chief and governors-general from the time of Clive downwards.

Tom’s dormitory was still more scantily furnished: it contained a small camp-cot, on which, much at its ease, reposed a terrier bunnow—own brother to Teazer, I could have sworn—a chair, a washhand stand, or chillumchee, a cracked looking-glass, two camel trunks, and as many pataras; whilst on a peg hung what he sometimes jocularly termed his badges of slavery—to wit, a sword, a sash, and shoulder-belt.

The third apartment in the bungalow, small and bare, was assigned to me, and Rattleton good-naturedly sent a servant off to the fort to bring up the things I had left there in a paunchway.

After showing me the interior, we proceeded to the shady side of the bungalow, where, on a terrace, stood a chair, a teapoy, a small carpet, and other preparations for my friend’s second toilet. After parade or the morning’s ride, it is the invariable custom to dress again, an operation which, in the hot seasons, is repeated sometimes two or three times in the course of the day.

We should be rather surprised to see gentlemen in England sitting al fresco on the lawns, barring a short pair of drawers, as naked as gladiators; but, as I said before, the sun makes a very considerable difference in our perceptions of things in general.

Prior to dressing, it is usual to take a bath, which is effected by the bhistee’s (water-carrier’s) sluicing over you the frigid contents of a mussack, or tanned sheepskin bag. This braces the whole system, and adds a fresh edge to the appetite, already sharpened by the ride in the morning air. Breakfast is, consequently, attacked with a degree of vigour and determination not often seen even in our hyperborean clime.

After a comfortable meal, and disposing of a vast quantity of fish, rice, and muffins, Rattleton cocked his legs on the table, bade me do the same, and make myself quite at home. The pipeman brought the hookha, and the bearer pulled the punka, and we proceeded to discuss a plan of proceeding for the morning.

“In the first place, we must call on the colonel this morning,” said Rattleton; “he is a very good sort of man, takes matters easily, and patronizes me especially, but is rather tenacious of having proper respect paid to him; then, after that, I’ll introduce you to the general, and some of the other officers of the corps and station, and in the evening we’ll drive you out in the park, where you’ll see all the beauty and fashion of Barrackpore. By the way, Frank, there are some devilish nice spins just now here, which, perhaps, you’ll not be sorry to hear.”

“Certainly not,” I replied; “but I hope, Tom, you’re not thinking of committing matrimony just yet, are you?”

“Why, I don’t exactly know,” said Tom; “there’s a very sweet little girl here, who has made a sad hole in my heart; such a pair of eyes as she has—oh! Frank—but you’ll see. I have made a hundred resolutions against being spliced, but one glance of those death-dealing orbs sends them all to shivers in a minute. I am like a moth flitting about a candle, and shall go plump into the mischief at last, I see that very plainly. Perhaps, though, Frank, as you are not a bad-looking fellow, you may keep down or divert a little of the fire of that terrible artillery.”

“Why, I don’t know,” said I, laughing; “it is not so easy to create a diversion in these cases, and not over safe; besides, who knows, if successful, but that the fire of your love may be changed into that of jealousy, and that you may be opening another sort of battery on me! But seriously, I can feel for you, Tom, for already my poor heart has been amazingly riddled by a charming young lady we left at Madras, and more recently by a widow. ’Pon my life, I begin to think the Orientals do wisely in locking up their women.”

Tom Rattleton receiving the Morning Report of the “Fat Lord” and the “Red Lion.”

“I begin to think so too,” said Tom, with a sigh: “they do a confounded deal of mischief; at all events, those radiant and Mokannah-visaged dames should be closely veiled with good opaque stuff, as you muzzle dangerous dogs.”

“What a simile, Tom! But your plan would be of no avail; a mere masking of the battery, which, upon fit occasions, would open upon us with more deadly effect.”

Whilst we were thus chatting, the blind of the room was drawn aside, and Cherby Khan and Loll Sing (which translated mean “the fat lord” and “the red lion”), the subadar and lance-naick or corporal of my friend’s company, marched in to make their morning’s report.

A native of Hindostan, well off in the world, and with a mind at ease, fattens as regularly and surely as a pig or a stall-fed ox. The subadar was consequently a punchy, adipose little fellow, something of the cut and build of “Mon oncle Gil Perez.” The naick, on the contrary, was tall and spare, and a very proper and handsome man of his inches.

On entering (stiff as a ramrod), the little subadar, who showed a good civic rotundity in front, threw out his right arm horizontally, with a jerk, which might have almost dislocated it from the shoulder-joint, and then bringing up his hand to his cap, saluted in a most military style, and reported that “all was well,” “sub ucha” in the company of the “Gurreeb Purwar,” or “protector of the poor,” for so he designated my friend Tom.

This was the statement in the gross, with which, however, it appeared there was little correspondence in the items; these proved, I afterwards understood from Tom, to be—two men dead, five gone to hospital, three deserted, a musket lost, and sundry other mishaps.

The “red lion” now stepped briskly forward, as if going to knock Tom down; recovered his arms with a crack, which made me almost jump out of my chair, and proceeded at once to “unfold a tale” of considerable length, to which my friend replied, “Ucha,”[^[23]] and “Bhote khoob,”[^[24]] though it was pretty clear, from his perplexed look and embarrassed air, that he did not understand one-third of it. In point of fact, the aforesaid statement was evidently one which involved some knotty point for “the protector of the poor’s” decision, and requiring something more tangible in the way of comment than the aforesaid “Bhote khoob.”

My friend, however, dismissed him with a “Peechee hookum,” “orders deferred,” a sort of “call again to-morrow” phrase, much used in India, when time is sought to be gained. Another salute from the subadar, another formidable crack of the fusee from Loll Sing, and both wheeled on their heels, and exeunt. “Buggy lou juldee” (“bring quick the gig”), “Jal kreech do” (and “give me my sash and sword”), shouted Rattleton.

A sort of whiskey, which my friend sported on his ensign’s pay, was soon at the door. He was duly equipped, and in we both stepped, and drove off to the bungalow of Colonel Lollsaug, the commandant of my friend’s regiment, which I shall call the 95th N.I., or “Zubberdust Bullumteers.”

We were ushered in, and found the colonel smoking his hookha, with a sneaker of cold tea before him, a sort of prolongation of the breakfast almost universal in India. He rose as we entered, and shook hands with Tom, who presented me as his friend recently arrived.

The colonel was a gaunt figure of six feet two, or thereabouts, with sallow sunken cheeks, and two little tufts of grizzled whisker near the corner of his mouth; he was dressed in a not uncommon morning dishabille, consisting simply of a shirt and red camlet jacket, a pair of immense pajammas, or native trousers, tied with a silken string at the waist, whilst an immense pair of spangled Indian slippers, with curly toes as long as rams’ horns, adorned his feet; an embroidered velvet scull-cap was perched on the top of his head: and altogether he was as striking a specimen of the epicene gender of the Orientalized European as I had as yet seen.

The colonel asked me if I had recently arrived? how I liked India? what the folks were doing at home? if St. Paul’s stood where it used to do? and sundry other questions of a like nature, to all of which I gave suitable replies.

Rattleton told him we were old schoolfellows, and that I had a strong desire to do duty with his corps for a month, if it could be so arranged. The colonel kindly undertook to manage the matter, and told Tom to introduce me to the adjutant, who would have me instructed in the drill, and manual and platoon, with some other young men then with the regiment.

The colonel now asked my friend if he had been at the grand ball an evening or two before, and how it went off?

Tom said he had, and they had a very pleasant evening, second supper, lots of dancing, and some good songs, and that there were strong suspicions that the general was a little “fou.”

“Well,” said the colonel; “that’s all right, but was she there?”

“Who, sir?” asked my friend, very innocently.

“Come, come, that won’t do, Mr. Slyboots,” said the colonel; “I know all about it; ha! ha! ha!”

“’Pon my honour, sir,” said Rattleton, blushing, “you are too enigmatical for me.”

“Capital,” said the colonel, who was in a bantering humour; “why, Prattle tells me it’s all settled, license written for, and that you are going to cart her[^[25]] immediately—ha! ha! ha!”

I saw, of course, that all this had reference to the spinster with the fine eyes. Though my friend affected ignorance of the matter, he was evidently flattered by being made the subject of such an agreeable on dit.

Whilst this was going on, I was startled and surprised by seeing the head of a very pretty Indian lady, with jet black locks, large gazelle eyes, and a huge gold ring in her nose, pop from behind the purdah, or curtain, and the owner of which exclaimed, at the top of a very shrill voice, “Urree Dhyya Paundaunneelou.”[^[26]]

The colonel said something rather sharply.

“To vau,” pettishly exclaimed the apparition, and the head and a pretty be-ringed hand were withdrawn, and immediately from an opposite door an elderly black duenna, with a pair of wrinkled trousers, or pajammas, and half-concealed by a cowl-like sort of muslin robe, marched in a stately manner, sans cérémonie, her anklet bells jingling, right across the apartment, with a huge metal box under her arm, which I afterwards learnt was a betel-box, and which it seems was the article which the colonel’s sultana stood in need of.

Egad, thinks I to myself, they order things in the East rather differently from what they do in the West.

After a little more conversation we took our leave, having previously received an invitation to dine the next evening with the quaint commandant.

CHAPTER XVI.

The space to which I have limited myself in these Memoirs will not admit a minute account of all I saw, heard, said, and did, during my months sojourn at Barrackpore; it will, therefore, suffice if I touch lightly on a few prominent characters and occurrences illustrative of Indian life, during this period of my griffinage.

“Tom,” said I, as we left the colonel’s bungalow, “do tell me who that fine dark damsel was, with the ring in her nose, of whom we had a glimpse from behind the curtain.”

“Why, that’s the native commandant,” said Tom.

“Nonsense,” said I; “what do you mean?”

“Why, I mean that the colonel commands the regiment, and she commands the colonel.”

“Ha! ha! well, that’s made out logically enough, certainly; but in that way I suspect you’d have no difficulty in proving a peticoatocracy all the world over: man, good easy soul, fancies himself a free agent, puffs and struts, and is but a puppet after all, of which woman pulls the strings, and yet these provoking creatures are always complaining of want of power and due influence.”

“Well done, Frank; ably put, my boy. I see you’re as great an inductive philosopher as ever; it’s a true bill though; the strongest fortress, too, has its weak points. There’s the colonel, for example, a deeply-read man, understands everything, from metaphysics to a red herring; will touch you off a page of Xenophon, or a chapter of Sanscrit, with perfect ease; a man who has thought and read, and read and thought, in that Fortunatus’ cap and those curly-toed slippers of his, for the last thirty years, in all the leisure of camp and out-station, fort and jungle; brave as a lion, generous as a prince, and in most matters firm as a rock; and yet that little Delilah can wheedle and wind him round her finger as she pleases. She makes half the promotions in the regiment, I am told; and no one better than blacky understands the value of back-stairs influence, and the mode of working it successfully. But by all accounts these are the men who square best with Jack Sepoy’s notions of a proper commander; these are the men whom they would go to the devil to serve; who know how to treat them in their own way, and not your pipe-clay, rigid disciplinarians, who would utterly extinguish the native in the soldier, who make fine troops for a parade, but bad ones for the tug of war, or when their loyalty is assailed. It’s splendid to hear the colonel talk to the Jacks; he understands them thoroughly; can make them roar with laughter, or shake in their shoes, as he pleases; true it is, if you would govern men effectually, it must be through the medium of their peculiar feelings and prejudices, and not by taking the bull by the horns.”

As he said this, we drove into a pretty extensive compound, and drew up before a large puckha-house, with a bevy of servants and orderlies in the verandah; this was the residence of the general commanding, to whom I was presented in due form.

Tom next took me to the adjutant’s, and the rest of his brother-officers, of whom he promised to give me some account on a future occasion, and then we went home to tiffin.

In the evening we had a delightful ride in the Governor-General’s park, and as we wheeled along through its mazy rounds, saw all the beau monde of Barrackpore, as also my friend’s innamorata, with whom we had some very lively conversation, as we drove slowly alongside the barouche in which, with a party, she was taking the air.

Having visited the menagerie in the park, stirred up the tigers, and plagued the monkeys a little, we drove to Colonel Lollsaug’s.

The colonel gave us an excellent dinner, wine admirably cooled, foaming pale ale—India’s prime luxury—and some capital home-fed mutton. There were five or six officers present, and the conversation, which was unrestrained and agreeable, turned upon old recollections of former stations; on the prospect of promotion and war or rather war and promotion, for such is their natural order; and gave me a greater insight into what was passing in the Indian military world than I had yet enjoyed.

Being young, and a griffin, I thought it was better for me to listen than to be prominently loquacious; and it was fortunate that I adopted this conclusion, for, amongst other topics, the extreme forwardness and assurance of the youth of the present—i.e. of that day—was discussed with much animation.

“It’s too true, I fear,” said the colonel; “they don’t conduct themselves as the young lads did in my juvenile days. I remember,” said he, with the regretful air of the laudator temporis acti, “when I was a young man and first came out, we thought it necessary and proper to exhibit some little deference and respect to our seniors in age and rank—some reserve and diffidence in our opinions, not, however, inconsistent with a due degree of firmness and self-respect; but now, forsooth, your beardless younker, fresh from school, claps you on the shoulder, and is hail-fellow-well-met with you in an instant, exhibiting all the confidence of a man of fifty—quite destitute of that master-charm of modesty, which, in man or woman, takes so powerful a hold on the affections and good-will.”

These observations, though perhaps true in themselves, I thought a little ill-timed, and not wholly consistent with his own proceedings. However, they were cordially assented to by some of the “old hands” present, particularly by one ill-dressed, caustic, and slovenly old captain, named Langneb.

“You’re right, colonel, quite right, sir; they’re all major-generals now, sir, at starting; know everything and care for nobody. There’s young Snapper, who joined us the other day—an idle, dissipated young scamp; keeps four horses, gives champagne tiffins, and is spending three times the amount of his pay—hailed me only last night in the park by my surname, sir—no prefix, by George! no handle, though I haven’t spoken to him five times—told me I had got a pretty beast there (meaning my horse), and asked me for the loan of my buggy to-morrow! What do you think of that, sir? Never met such a forward, self-sufficient young fellow in all my life; but he’s going to the dogs as fast as he can.”

“I am afraid he is,” said another; “but there’s some allowance to be made for him. Thompson, who knows his family at home, tells me he was brought up by a doating grandmother, who spoilt him, indulged him to the top of his bent, never contradicted—money ad libitum—things all his own way: hence pride, selfishness, and an inordinate love of pleasure, the natural results. Never send your children to be brought up by grandmothers; owing to their unbounded affection, which passes through the parent as through a lens, they’re sure to spoil them.”

A rubber of whist and a game of chess concluded the evening very pleasantly at the colonel’s. At parting, he told me with great kindness that he hoped soon to see me on parade, and that he had desired the adjutant to take me in hand, and give me a little preliminary instruction.

The next day Rattleton took me another round of visits to some of the married men of his acquaintance, many of whom seemed agreeable people, but possessed of various degrees of refinement; also to the houses of two or three widow ladies residing at the station, all of whom had pretty daughters or nieces seeking that which it was natural and proper they should seek, eligible partners, youthful “John Andersons,” with whom to jog up the hill of life together.

It was abundantly clear, and I soon discovered, that Rattleton’s little affair of the heart had got wind pretty extensively, for wherever we went he had to run the gauntlet of banter and sly innuendo in one shape or another. Like Mr. Dangle, however, with his “volunteer fatigue” and “solicited solicitations,” he bore it all very philosophically.

Tom was a handsome fellow, and it was well known that he was to have the first vacant regimental staff appointment, his aunt being married to a first cousin of the Governor-General’s military secretary’s second wife’s first husband. Under these circumstances, my friend ranked as an “eligible,” and the old ladies could not forgive him altogether for passing over the more valid claims of their daughters and nieces; and the daughters and nieces, though they endeavoured to conceal their chagrin under the guise of a very transparent indifference, were evidently not a whit more satisfied with Mr. Rattleton’s presumed election in favour of Miss Julia Heartwell.

The first widow to whom we paid our respects was Mrs. Brownstout; the relict of a field officer who had fallen a victim to jungle fever several years before, and who was residing in great respectability on her pension at Barrackpore, as many other widows did and do. She had lived for some time in England after her husband’s death, but quitted it after a time in disgust, finding both climate and people too cold to suit the warmth of an Indian temperament; her frankness startled folks, and her unreserved expression of opinion was looked upon, amongst the worldly-wise, as the evidence of a doubtful sanity.

Of this lady, as one of a class, I must present the reader with a slight memoir.

Mrs. Brownstout, after the loss of her husband, “her poor dear Browny,” as she always called him, had nobly set her shoulder to the wheel, and, with all that admirable perseverance quickened by a lively sense of duty and parental affection, which the sex (and none more so than Indian widows) thus circumstanced so often exhibit, had fought a stout battle for her children; for two sons she had obtained military appointments in India, having (armed with those potent weapons, the prayers of the widow and the orphan) laid siege to a good-hearted director, and carried him by storm, after a feeble show of resistance on his part; and for a third she had obtained the management of an indigo factory.

Of three daughters, one had married a doctor within hail of the Medical Board, and Lucinda and Maria were still unmarried, though it was shrewdly suspected they had no intention to die vestal virgins, if it could be decently avoided.

Mrs. Major Brownstout was rather dark, and in Abyssinia, where bulk and beauty are synonymous, would have been considered a remarkably fine woman; but as it was, she exceeded the English standard of beauty by some five or six stone.

Fatness and good-humour are almost invariably found united, but which is the cause and which the effect—whether fat breeds good-nature or good-nature fat—is one of those profound mysteries of nature which old Burton might decide, but for which I have in vain sought a satisfactory solution.

Mrs. Brownstout was quick, penetrating, and possessed a large fund of that frankness and kindliness of heart which I have, in the course of my Eastern experience, almost invariably found to characterize the ladies of mixed blood in India.

Society full oft, by its folly, oppression, and prejudice, begets the faults which it affects to hate and despise; and the fact of any classes being looked down upon, which is more or less the case as regards the half-caste or Eurasian throughout India (though less so in Bengal than in the sister presidencies), has a depressing tendency, which naturally places individuals of that description in a highly disadvantageous position, deadening the energies, and preventing that free and natural play and expansion of the mind and feelings which are ever the results of knowing that we stand well with the world.

In spite, however, of these sinister influences (having the same origin with those which actuate our American brethren in their conduct to their coloured countrymen, and which we so loudly condemn), I must bear my humble testimony in favour of our Eurasian fellow-subjects, who, far from combining the vices and defects of both races, as has often been cruelly and flippantly declared, seem, on the contrary, as far as my experience goes, from griffinage upwards, to unite with the gentleness, placability, and fidelity of the native many of the sterling virtues of the European character, though certainly lacking its strength and energy.

But iron nerves, in which consists the secret of English superiority, require regulation as well as the weak and more delicate organizations of the East; for if the one tends to effeminacy, the other, under the fancied character of manliness, too often tends to ferocity, and that one-sided freedom called tyranny. “Call this a land of freedom where a man mayn’t shoot his own nigger!” said Matthews’ Yankee; and a volume could not better express that Irish reciprocity of rights which John and Jonathan are so prone to patronize.—But to return.

This engraftment will probably produce those permanent social, moral, and political fruits, which there from neither European nor native singly could be expected.

The English greyhound, taken to India, dies, or loses in time most of his energy and valuable qualities, and the produce decidedly degenerates; but the cross with the native dog of that species produces an animal in which is united the Indianized constitution of the one with much of the speed and courage of the other.

I am sorry to seek an illustration of my position amongst the lower order of creation, but it perhaps holds good.

We found Mrs. Brownstout in the act of explaining some mystery of dress to a dirgee (tailor), a little slender ungirdled shrimp, standing, scissors in hand, amidst a vast accumulation of muslin and ribbon. One of the young ladies was penning a billet, the other painting flowers.

“How d’ye do, Rattleton, how d’ye do?” said the old lady, as we entered, addressing my friend bluntly, who was evidently one of her “boys.” “I can’t get up to you, you see, so talk to the girls.”

The young ladies, however, arose, and Tom introduced me to them.

On taking my seat they asked me a few common-place questions, such as how long I had been in India? how I liked it? if I had lately arrived at Barrackpore? and so forth; to all of which I made suitable replies.

This piece of formality over, the old lady and her daughters, evidently impatient to unburthen themselves, opened upon Tom instanter.

“Well, Rattleton,” said Mrs. B., drily, “what have you been doing with yourself lately? you have become a perfect stranger. Have you brought us any news? what is doing in cantonments? who is dead and who is wed?”

“I know nothing of buryings or weddings,” said Tom; “they’re grave and melancholy subjects, about which I do not trouble myself.”

“Well, indeed!” retorted Mrs. Brownstout; “I admire that amazingly; we all consider you one of the greatest gossips of the station.”

“Perhaps, mamma,” said Miss Lucinda, archly, “Mr. Rattleton is too much engaged with his own approaching nuptials to think much about those of other people.”

“Oh, that’s true,” said Mrs. B., with mock gravity; “they say you are going to get married; is it true, Rattleton?”

“Oh, nonsense! mere Barrackpore gup and scandal; who could have told you that?”

“Oh, we have had it from the very best authority.”

Tom laughed.

“Well, Mr. Rattleton, when is it to take place?” asked Miss Lucinda, dipping her brush in her pallet, and touching up her drawing with all the nonchalance imaginable. “I do so long to know; and who are to be the bridesmaids? I hope Maria or I shall be admitted to that honour.”

“Oh, yes, when I am married, you shall be the bridesmaid, certainly, the lady consenting; but that event, I take it, is rather remote. What on earth should a sub like me do with a wife, who can hardly take care of himself?”

Many a true word spoken in jest, Mr. Tom, thought I.

“You’ll wait for the vacant interpretership, eh?” said the mamma.

“Well, that’s right, and like a prudent young man.”

“That is an appointment admirably suited for you, Mr. Rattleton; you speak the language with such fluency and purity,” observed Miss Lucinda.

“Upon my life,” said Tom, “you’re a great quiz; how long, Miss Maria, is it since your sister became so satirical? but as for the language,” added Tom, a little piqued, “I don’t think I speak that badly, after all. Now I appeal to you, Mrs. Brownstout—you’re a judge, and will do me justice.”

“Why,” said Mrs. B., “pretty well—pretty well, considering you’re almost a griffin.”

“Oh, yes, you speak it like a native—of England,” added Lucinda, laughing.

Tom stood this and a good deal more pretty well, being evidently accustomed to this badinage with the Brownstouts. However, three at once were too much, and I, being a stranger, was inefficient and dummy.

Tom exhausted his stock of repartee; was “beat to a dead stand-still,” to borrow the language of the Ring and began, I thought, to look a little grave and cross. The ladies, consequently, changed the theme, and the conversation flowed on in a more equable and rational stream.

At length we arose and took our leave, Mrs. Brownstout begging me to come with Tom and pass the evening with them whenever I felt so disposed.

The following day, at eleven, Rattleton and I walked over to the adjutant’s bungalow. I had had two or three days’ law and liberty, and it was intimated to me by Tom that I must now attend to duty, or expose myself to be considered one of what are cantly denominated “John Company’s hard bargains.”

The adjutant was a good-looking young man, of five-and-twenty, somewhat of an exquisite in dress, with large Cossack trousers (then the fashion), and long brass spurs, which I thought he clanked rather ostentatiously.

With all this, however (for the exquisite and the soldier are not incompatible), Adjutant Wigwell was evidently a zealous officer, proud of his regiment, and devoted to drill and duty; this I had learnt, indeed, from recent observation and common report.

We found him amidst a bevy of khote havildars (i.e. pay-sergeants), with the sergeant-major, havildar-major—deeply engaged in the very important matter of regulating the length of a pouch-strap, the number of holes it should have, and the precise position of the buckle, and trying the fit of the same on a stalwart grenadier of some six feet two.

The sergeant-major, a thick-set Englishman, little more than half the length and twice the breadth of the gigantic sepoy, was in the act of adjusting it, with the assistance of the havildar-major, the adjutant’s native right hand in a sepoy regiment.

Adjutant Wigwell received us kindly, shook me by the hand, and begged us to be seated and amuse ourselves till he had dismissed the business he was then attending to, which would not detain him a moment. This being over, he asked me if I had ever been drilled, and knew any thing of the manual and platoon, &c.; to which questions I was constrained to reply in the negative.

“Well,” said he, smiling, “we must take you in hand a little, and make a soldier of you. Sergeant-major,” said he, addressing that sturdy little functionary, standing in the verandah.

“Sir,” said the sergeant, touching his hat, and slipping in.

“Sergeant Giblett,” continued he, “this young gentleman, Mr. Gernon, is doing duty with us; he will soon have to attend all drills and parades; but, in the meantime, you must give him a little instruction in marching, and the manual and platoon, with the other young officers recently arrived to do duty.”

The sergeant again saluted, and said it should be atended to.