Forty Thousand Miles Over Land and Water

Dalhousie Square is the old Tank Square, or, earlier still, was called "the green before the fort," for the ancient fort stood on the spot where now we see the magnificent dome of the Post Office.

Inside an arched gateway, at the side of this building, there are some remnants of the old walls of the fort. A plain square of pavement here shows the exact size and spot of the Black Hole of Calcutta. A short and business-like inscription is placed over the archway recording "how 123 victims perished during the night of June 20th, 1757, only 23 being found alive in the morning, confined there by order of the rebel, Suraj-ud-Dowlah."

There are besides in Dalhousie Square the block of government buildings occupying the entire length of one side of it, built of dull red brick faced with yellow stone and ending at the corner with an octagonal tower; also the Telegraph Office, and the Dalhousie Institute.

Government House is a vast yellow structure, with a small dome, standing within railed gardens. The approach is very handsome, with a broad flight of steps leading to the entrance under a portico with Corinthian pillars; but it appears, this is only for use on state occasions, as you are driven up to the unpretentious doorway under the entrance. Four roads with lion-guarded gateways lead up to the four entrances, there being one to each side of the house; and the Sepoy sentries, the mounted escort waiting in attendance, and the chuprassies running hither and thither—scarlet messengers with the royal insignia that you meet in all parts of the city, form a truly Vice-regal surrounding.

The houses in Calcutta have a very Eastern appearance, being painted a pale pink or buff colour, contrasting with the bright green of jalousies and balconies. Added to this, there is the strange, vivid-coloured flow of life going on in the streets below. There are Mohammedans with short-waisted linen tunic, tight trowsers, and huge unwieldly turban; Hindus with the wisp of hair at the back of the head, and the hideous caste mark or patch of clay smeared on the forehead, wrapped in the square of variegated cotton, the corner thrown over the shoulder; coolies naked, save for the single strip of muslin. A few Armenians, Chinese, and Parsees, the latter with the curious semi-conical hat peculiar to that sect, mingle in the heterogeneous crowd of a great Indian metropolis.

The women look so graceful in their flowing "sari," draped loosely about the figure and drawn over the head, with the bright pieces of metal in the forehead or the chin, with rings in noses and ears, and silver bangles worn above the elbow—in masses on the wrist, and circling round their ankles, jangling with each movement. All the women and nearly all the men wear rings on their toes. Generally the "sari" is of white muslin bordered with a strip of red, but sometimes also it is of pink or green or even of a bright yellow gauze—a single strip that is wound round so deftly as to form an entire covering for the figure.

Gharries, ticca gharries (or a gharry of the second class) ply the streets for hire, looking with their closed, sliding doors like a miniature Black Maria, so grim is the appearance of this windowless carriage. There are many palankeens, the familiar "palkee," painted black, and supported by four hurrying, staggering coolies. Through the half-closed doors you see the full-length figure of a luxurious native swell, smoking his hookah. Many private carriages, broughams and victorias, are about the streets occupied by the Anglo-Indian in his never-failing solar topee or tirai hat, for no one thinks of walking the length of the street in India. As you drive along, you are much bothered by natives with a miscellaneous collection of goods, beginning with Japanese trays and peacock screens, and ending with shaving-brushes, soap, and hair-pins, running along and thrusting their wares into the carriage.

In the afternoon we drove through the native quarter of Calcutta, through the Burra Bazaar, on our way to visit the Maharajah of Tagore.

The bazaar in every Indian town is a never-failing source of interest. It is always narrow, dirty, crowded, the inhabitants popping in and out of their filthy dens, in numbers like swarms in a beehive. But the wonderful eye for colour, and the inborn taste of architecture that belongs to every Indian, makes them marvellously picturesque and interesting. There are the carved gateways, which generally lead into the chowk, or narrow street, where no carriage can enter; the curiously wrought overhanging balconies with scarlet striped blinds, from behind which peep out dark-eyed nautch girls. There is the minaret of a mosque in one corner, and the carved remains of a Hindu temple in the other. Here a group of men and women squatting over a hole in the earth, where they are pounding millet; there some children gnawing a stick of raw sugar-cane. Donkeys, goats, and sacred bulls with bead necklaces hung around their necks wander at will about the streets. Sometimes you see a school, with the scholars squatting around their moonshee under the balcony, sing-songing in that curious monotone the Hindustanee lesson. All the manufactures are carried on in the open street, whether it be spinning or dyeing, tinkering or tailoring, or that elaborate kincob work of embroidering in gold thread. All the goods are exposed for sale on the raised step along the street, whilst the owner sits cross-legged, keeping guard over them, never in the least anxious to sell. Here you find all Indian treasures, such as Cashmere and Ramudpugger shawls, exquisite embroideries in silk and gold, Benares work, and gold and silver ornaments and bangles. I was disappointed not to see a greater variety of the latter, but it was explained to me that the women generally bring their own silver in rupees to be made into bangles, thus ensuring the true weight of the silver. You see quantities of the coarse millets, such as goat and bajra, which form the chief food of the natives, spread out to dry in green and yellow heaps in the street. Rice is too expensive in Bengal and in many parts of India for it to be a staple food for the lower orders, and on these millets a native subsists on an average of one penny per day.

In the chowk, family women are allowed to walk, because down this inner street of the native quarter or bazaar no gharry can come, but even many of these cover their faces when abroad. Young married women and girls are only allowed to go in a "sedan" chair, which is a small seat carefully curtained, suspended in the shape of a tripod from a pole. Sometimes these latter peep cautiously out, but modestly withdraw at sight of us; or, again, standing at the door of their huts, women cover and flee at the approach of the "Feringis" (Europeans).

The bustees, or native villages, are a collection of mud huts, cramped together on the damp earth, devoid of ventilation and drainage. They are often built round a tank or pond, which serves as a deposit for their filth and refuse, the water being used at the same time for cooking and washing purposes. During the rains the natives suffer much, their mud huts, without foundations, settling about them, and the miasmic vapours of the over-populated village causing a yearly epidemic of cholera. The baboos, or wealthier class, live in two-storied houses, built so as to form a hollow square, the upper story being alone used for the living-rooms, and the lower one as a stable for goats and bullocks.

The Indian city, if possible, generally lies along a riverbank, and then the bathing-ghât forms a great feature to the native quarter. Men and women bathe daily, and some of the most picturesque and typical scenes of Indian life are to be seen in the early morning at these ghâts.

But to return to the Burra Bazaar. All this and a great deal more we saw, and the entire novelty added to our zest of the enjoyment of the gay surroundings. One sad little scene was taking place in a quiet corner. Under a rude canopy stood the coffin of a child, covered with a pink pall, while some women were busy laying flowers about it, and hanging up tawdry bits of decoration.

The Maharajah of Tajore's palace is in the midst of this native quarter. We were led through whitewashed passages, where numberless attendants were lounging about, through a balcony into a magnificent drawing-room, but which was swathed even to the chandeliers in brown holland. We thought it a typical exemplification of Eastern life, magnificence with meanness, luxury with squalor and dirt.

The maharajah appeared in morning dress, consisting of a loose drab Cashmere shawl covering him from head to foot. He is a man of about forty-five, speaks perfect English, expressing himself with great ease and fluency, and he takes the most enlightened views on the subject of English administration. The conversation lasted for upward of two hours, for my husband is most anxious during our visit to India to hear as much as possible of the native views on Indian affairs. The maharajah is trustee of the vernacular newspaper called the Hindu Patriot, whose editor C. went to see in British India Street, which may be called the Fleet Street of Calcutta—so many members of the press are there established here.

In the Maidan centres all the attractions of Calcutta. This broad plain is truly called "the lung of Calcutta," and is bordered on one side by Chowringee Road and a succession of fine palaces, and on the other by the Strand Road, the Esplanade and the Hooghley, with its sea of masts and rigging. In the centre of the Maidan stands Fort William. The High Court and Government House looks over its broad expanse. Here, too, are the Eden Gardens, and that collection of statues increased with each outgoing viceroy. The inscriptions on some of them are very fine, and full of patriotic enthusiasm. That on the equestrian statue of Lord Mayo is grand:—"To the honoured and beloved memory of the Earl of Mayo, Humane, Courteous, Resolute, and Enlightened, struck down in the Midst of a Patriotic and Beneficent Career on the 18th of February, 1872, by the treacherous hand of an Assassin. The People of India, mourning and indignant, raise this Statue." So also is that to Sir James Outram, where they say:—"His Life was given to India; in early Manhood he reclaimed wild Races by winning their hearts; Ghazni, Khelat, the Indian Caucasus, witnessed the daring deeds of his prime; Persia brought to sue for peace; Lucknow relieved, defended, and recovered, were fields of his later glories. Faithful servant of England, large-minded and kindly ruler of her subjects; in all the True Knight; 'The Bayard of the East.'"

It is towards five o'clock in the afternoon, when the miasmic mist that rises daily at this hour, and only lifts the following morning at nine o'clock, that the Maidan is seen to perfection.

Then appear those magnificent equipages, the lumbering barouche, with the pair of "Walers" (so called because they are horses imported from New South Wales), with their attendant "syces." These native servants in their long coats, girded with a sash of cords, and flat-brimmed hats, are dressed in all kinds of fanciful liveries. Free play is given to pretty combinations of colour, such as brown with old gold, purple with scarlet, green and orange, blue and silver, black and white. The number of these syces walking beside the horses, or standing up behind the carriage, flourishing fly-wisps, gives an idea of Oriental magnificence.

The Eden Garden; so called after the sisters of Lord Auckland, who caused them to be made, are the rendezvous at that hour for all the children of Calcutta, and you see these pampered little darlings, dressed up in plush and satins, arriving in their own carriages, in charge of their ayahs, with one, or even sometimes two, men-servants in attendance, ready to play at ball or cricket with them.

On the Maidan, too, is seen the familiar sight of the troops of "bheesties" watering the roads at sundown. This primitive way of laying the dust becomes a great nuisance in crowded thoroughfares, when the bheestie is as likely as not to spurt the contents of his skin into the carriage.

Very curious figures these bheesties look as they come up from the riverside with their inverted goat-skin, the outline of the legs still seen, and slung, full to bursting, on their backs. They then begin to run along the road, ejecting the water to right and left of them by opening and closing sharply the small aperture. One would almost think that the municipality of Calcutta might have imported some watering-carts by this time.

It is a very funny sight to see a native squatted on the ground before his horse in a beseeching attitude, holding up to him a handful of hay; or, again, whilst the carriages wait by the Eden Gardens, to see the servants collected around a "hubble-bubble," drawing at it and passing it round in turns.

There is generally a camp near the fort in the Maidan, and polo is played there in the afternoon. Passing the rank and fashion of Anglo-Indian society, we drove to the Belvidere, the official residence of the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Henry Riders Thompson. It is a very beautiful house, and was the favourite residence of Warren Hastings. We came home round the other side of the Maidan, by Chowringee Road. The prison is the first building in this road, "and No. 1, Chowringee" has become a familiar name for it.

Friday, January 9th.—Morning after morning the sun rises in an unclouded sky, and this is the only advantage of the Indian climate. You may depend on fine weather, "may settle," as some one said to me, "the exact date of a picnic two months beforehand," without fears for the weather. The rainfall of the year is condensed into the three months of July, August, and September—the rainy season, the season of malarious fevers.

We went out early, and drove to Fort William. Inside those palisaded defences and once strong walls and towers, you find broad gravelled roads laid out round the quiet quadrangles, with neat barracks and arsenals, magazines, and storerooms. There are six gateways with drawbridges, and over each is a house for the commander-in-chief and the officers. The fort church and the Catholic chapel complete the military and non-bellicose-looking little town. In the centre there is the circular pillar with the sliding boom that daily drops at the hour of 1 p.m.

"Abdullah," our guide and native servant, then took us through the bathing-ghât on the Hooghley, and stopped before a space walled in, from the centre of which issued smoke. It was the "Nimtolla Burning-Chat," or crematorium, where the bodies of the natives are burnt.

In the centre of the square there was a burning pile, on which, face downwards, with the arms crossed behind the back, lay a body. The legs were also doubled up, but as we looked, first one and then the other relaxed with the heat and dropped down. A little further on there was a smouldering pile, where another body had been reduced to ashes, and in a corner a stretcher with a body covered over awaiting cremation. It takes three hours for each body to burn, and after it has been reduced to ashes, they are gathered up and cast into the sacred waters of the Hooghley. The Hindu lays the body on the pile, and places the fire in the mouth, but the Mohammedan (who has no caste) does the meaner parts of lighting and attending to the funeral pile. Government provides the wood and the attendants, making a charge of three rupees, seven annas, for an adult, with a reduced scale for children. Strange and wrong as it may seem to say so, there is no doubt that the horror of seeing the process seemed greatly lessened by the shade of the skin; were it white, we should not get over the ghastly sight for many a day.

That afternoon we drove out to the Botanical Gardens, crossing the Hooghley on a wooden bridge, and driving through the busy manufacturing suburb of Howrah, and the village of Seebpore. They are five miles from the town, and their beauty is consequently lost to Calcutta. Not one single person did we meet there that afternoon. The triad of noble trees, the banyan, with the peepul on either side, the glorious avenue of Palmyra palms, with others of asoke and mahogany branching off, are truly "wasting their freshness on a desert air."

There are groups of casuarina-trees about the lake, draped with tropical "climbers," or rattans, and a palmetum, or palm nursery, where different species of the family are tended and reared. We went into the cool, shady retreat, where the light struggles dimly through the cocoa-fibre netting on to the festoons of tropical parasites, the orchids and the ferns, forming a beautiful, natural outdoor conservatory. Passing the marble urn which bears an inscription by Bishop Heber to Dr. Roxburgh, curator of the garden, and to which so many avenues converge, we come to a grove. Under this we walked along, looking at the network of trunks, as we thought; but as we came to trace them home, we discovered that they were but gigantic roots, depending from the branches—part of the stupendous banyan-tree, that thus extends its monstrous bulk to a diameter of 800 feet. This grove is very beautiful, formed as it is of a colonnade of branches—of the 170 aërial depending roots.

As we drove home we were overtaken by one of those unhealthy river mists, densest in the villages we passed through, owing to the smoke of their dung fires being unable to rise through the pall.

Saturday, January 10th.—C. went out to Dum-Dum, the military cantonment of Calcutta, to see a battalion of his old regiment, the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers, quartered there. Later in the day we went to the Memorial Meeting at the Town Hall, in honour of the memory of the "Great Hindu Patriot," the late Kristodas Pal. The Maharajah of Tagore assented to my wish to go, but on being led up to the platform, I was not prepared to find myself the only lady amongst the thousands, chiefly natives, assembled. However, I was rewarded for the discomfort of the situation by the great interest of a speech delivered by Dr. Mohendra Lal Sircar, a homœopathic doctor, after those of the Lieutenant-Governor, the Chief Justice, Sir Richard Garth, and Sir Stewart Bayley, member of council, &c., which for eloquence and impressiveness was most remarkable.

Kristodas Pal was editor of the Hindu Patriot, a member of the Legislative Council, and a man of most brilliant parts and oratorical gifts—respected equally by European and native, as the representative meeting of that day testified, including as it did the highest European officials and members of council, with a large number of maharajahs and rajahs. It was terribly hot, and the meeting lasted for over two hours.

Sunday, January 11th.—To the cathedral for morning service. The exterior of the Gothic architecture is entirely spoilt by the discoloration of the stone by stress of weather, and the interior produces a curious effect in the morning light, which comes reflected through bright, blue glass. The finest part of the cathedral is the vestry or entrance, containing some beautiful tablets and the statue of Bishop Heber. As no one in India thinks of walking, not even to church, it is here that the waiting crowd, with the police manœuvring at the file of carriages, somewhat resembles the getting away after an entertainment.

We left Calcutta by the Sealdah terminus that afternoon on an expedition to Darjeeling, the hill station in the Himalayas.

The journey across some burnt-up plains, with occasional settlements of mud huts in the neighbourhood of a gheel, or a mango tope, was very hot and dirty. At sundown we were obliged to close the windows, on account of the malarious mist rising from the marshes. A fellow-passenger, an indigo-planter, left the carriage at one of the small stations, who was going to be carried thirty-three miles in a "palkee" by sixteen coolies in relays. He told us he should sleep comfortably in the bed prepared inside, whilst they carried him all through the night over hill and dale, and across four rivers in boats.

At eight in the evening we arrived at Damookdea, and embarked on a steamer to cross the Ganges, meanwhile having dinner on board. At Sara, on the opposite side, we settled ourselves for the night in the short, narrow carriage running on the mètre-gauge line, and which oscillates so very unpleasantly. There are no sleeping-cars on the Indian railways, but with a carriage to ourselves we managed seven or eight hours' sleep—not bad, when we think of the random rolling we experienced. Here is where the rezai and pillow rolled up in a strap in the daytime are an absolute necessity for travelling in India. Every one has them and not only are they useful for railway travelling, but invaluable also in hotels. Many is the bitter, cold night on which we have arrived, and been shown into a grateless and fireless room, with only a single sheet on the bed.

Chota hazri and a wash at Siliguri the next morning sent us on our way rejoicing, in the little toy-train of the Darjeeling and Himalayan Railway. It is in reality a steam tramway, and runs along by the side of the old cart hillroad, on a gauge only two feet in width. The first class compartments are divided by a trellis-work, and the second and third are open cars. They run along smoothly and swiftly, raised but a few inches off the ground.

This railway is considered a great, by some "the greatest," engineering feat, mounting as it does 7000 feet into the heart of the Himalayas, with a gradient as steep as one in twenty, and radii of one to sixteen. It was undertaken chiefly for the humane purpose of giving work to the natives during the great Bengal famine of 1874. Two years saw its completion, at the moderate cost of 3000l. a mile.

Creeping cautiously across the Mahanuddi River, on the crankiest of wooden bridges, we ran rapidly over the plain for nine miles, and then entered an avenue in the forest.

The ascent began through a sâl forest, densely overgrown with jungle, and then proceeded to a forest more varied with birch, maple, oak, and wild mango. The trunks of these huge trees were clothed with epiphytes, a creeper of large green leaves, of much the same shape as our "lords and ladies." It was curious to note how the higher we ascended the hardier became the species of trees. Thus in one day we were to pass through varying vegetation and varying climes; from the oppressive heat of the plain to the moist rarified atmosphere of the mountain altitudes; from the tropical wealth of vegetation to the hardier kinds of trees and shrubs. Strangely enough, in these latter you do not see the pine, spruce fir, or larch, for the hardiest species found in the Himalayan peaks are magnolia, laurel, holly, olive, maple, and oak.

On and on through this forest-clad side of the mountain we travelled, fascinated by the dense tangle of jungle on either hand. These impenetrable depths we knew were the lair of the leopard and cheetah. We longed to see the glare of green eyes in the undergrowth, and to hear the crash of an elephant's approach. But a mild pleasure lay in the monkeys, who crept out in great numbers, and swung on the branches of the trees overhead, jabbering and mocking us as we passed. The gullies were filled with wild banana-trees, yielding a bitter, acrid fruit.

All this time we were rising rapidly above the vast plain of Bengal, that lay like a shining sheet at our feet, melting away into golden mist. We were now coming to the first of the great engineering wonders of this line of wonders—the circle. Passing under a bridge, we described a distinct circle round the circumference of a small hill, and, gradually ascending round the further curve, were immediately afterwards passing over the same identical bridge.

Here, as with all the Himalayan range, the Sikkim Hills run in tiers, one above the other, rising in the first instance sheer out of the plain. There opened before us one of those gorgeous amphitheatres of hills, seen so often during the ascent. You come upon an immeasurable hollow, and lying literally in amphitheatrical tiers beneath are ranges of mountains within the mountains, dwindling so far away, down, down, into hills, and the hills again into mere knolls, by comparison with the gigantic monsters of the background.

Frequently looking down into this crater, filled with hilltops, we saw perched up on one a planter's bungalow and factory, with the tea-garden terracing up and down the side of the mountain—the regular lines of the stunted bushes, with the space of earth between.