Forty Thousand Miles Over Land and Water

The Lepchas, the aboriginals of Sikkim, are the most picturesque among the medley of races. They are of very small stature, and thick-set frame, with a broad, flat face, oblique eyes, and high cheek-bones. The men wear their coarse black hair in one pigtail, and the women in two—often the only distinguishing feature between the sexes. The Lepcha is an arrant coward, but a born naturalist, and has a name for every shrub and plant in Sikkim. Their dress consists "of a robe of blue and white-striped cloth, woven by the women, crossed over the breast, and gathered in with an ornamented girdle." Into this is stuck the kukerie, or short sword, which none are without. They wear a coloured woollen comforter wound around their caps; and altogether their dwarf stature, flattened faces, and excessive dirt remind one of the Laplanders.

The Limboos can always be known by their mass of black uncombed hair, hanging in elfin locks about their yellow faces. They are gross feeders, being particularly fond of pork.

The Nepaulese emigrate in large numbers to British Sikkim, where they find ready employment in the tea-gardens. British Sikkim has been called a "Cave of Adullam" for Nepaul, whose draconian laws cause offenders to flee across the border for safety.

The Bhootea race is chiefly interesting from its woman-kind. Tall and handsome are the Bhootea women, with a circlet of gold or silver framing their broad, beaming faces. They wear magnificent silver girdles, and curiously wrought necklaces, with earrings so massive that the thin strip of flesh, drawn out in the lobe of the ear, barely supports their weight. They have curious amulets set with turquoise-stones which, though much cracked and flawed, suit the quaint setting and design. The Bhooteas are followers of the red-capped sect of Lamas, a kind of Buddhism, but they offer propitiatory sacrifices to evil spirits, as may be seen by the array of bamboo staffs about their huts, from which float cotton streamers and rags with type prayers, set up to frighten the spirits away.

These Bhootea women have an enormous capacity for carrying weights, being usually employed as porters at the station. They support the whole weight on their heads, suspending it by a string passed round the forehead. It is told how a Bhootea woman once carried a grand piano from Pukabari to Darjeeling in three days, and arrived quite fresh!

During the winter many Thibetans may be seen, coming through that mysterious and forbidden pass into Sikkim for trading purposes. In their encampments it is common to see one woman in the same tent with five or six men, as polyandry prevails among the Thibetans. Most of those rough little ponies, with their creels balanced on either side with merchandise, that we met toiling up in files, come from Thibet.

Ghoom, the highest railway station in the Old World, if not in the universe, was reached in fog. It is 7400 feet above the level of the sea. From here we ran downhill for four miles, till a turn round the angle of a jutting rock brought Darjeeling in view. A gleam of sunshine, weak and watery owing to the vapoury clouds it pierced through, showed us the hill-side, dotted with innumerable pretty bungalows.

Darjeeling lies partly in a basin formed by the mountains, and here is the bazaar and native quarter. On a mount which you would almost think Nature had purposely thrown up midway in the valley for it, stands the Eden Sanatorium. Such a pretty, ornate building it is, where people suffering from the fever of the plains come up to be nursed by the clever Sisters of Mercy from Clewer. There is accommodation for first, second, and third class patients, so all degrees can avail themselves of the Sanatorium.

Immediately under the high mount of the Observatory Hill, on the highest ground of all, lies the pretty stone church and the white villa mansion called the Shrubberies, the official residence of the Lieutenant-Governor.

Darjeeling was originally established as a sanatorium for the invalid soldiers of all the British troops in India. A cantonment was founded at Jellaphor, 700 feet higher than Darjeeling, making in all a height of 7969 feet above the level of the sea. There was a time when for soldiers to come to India, meant it was very questionable whether they would ever return. Darjeeling has been the means of restoration to thousands of England's sons, fever stricken on the plains of Bengal.

Arrived at the barnlike station, the porters—two Bhootea women, carried our luggage up to Woodland's Hotel. The dreariness of this abode could hardly be overdrawn. Dark and chill were the rooms, scant and bad the fare, and great depression ensued under such sad circumstances.

We walked down to the post-office and past the club, saw some of the rows of villas built as a speculation, and which command such exorbitant prices (1000 to 2000 rupees per month) during the season, and then the clouds returned with the close of day and we could see no more. I had got a severe chill and touch of fever from our night journey across the plain, and went to bed shivering, and very miserable.

Tuesday, January 13th.—Everybody comes up to Darjeeling with hearts full of bright promise of seeing the most glorious "snowy range" that exists in the world. Very few but go down sadder and wiser. The view, as seen from Mount Sinchul, of the range is described as almost unparalleled,—a panorama of pure white peaks as far as the eye can reach. And then, rising from among this sea of snow and ice, is seen the highest mountain in the world—Mount Everest (29,000 feet), lying in Nepaul, about eighty miles away as the crow flies. The small peak takes the appearance of a soldier's helmet without the spike.

It is a lottery whether travellers going for a few days up to Darjeeling will ever have the chance of seeing the snowy range; very fortunate are those few who do.

Thus, on this morning we talked of getting up early and trying the expedition to Mount Sinchul. Of course it is a question of riding, for at these hill-stations there are no carriages, and you must ride, be carried in a "dandy" or in a "palkee," or perhaps be drawn in a jinricksha. There was however, a thick fog at Darjeeling, and the hope was at best so forlorn of a glimpse, that we gave up the idea.

C. went up to the cantonment to breakfast with an old brother-officer of the 23rd, and when he came back we decided that it was more prudent, on my account (for I was feeling very unwell), to descend to more comfortable quarters in lower altitudes.

The train was full, but the station-master offered to take us down to Kursiong on a trolly. The trolly was attached to the train and we were dragged the four miles up-hill to Ghoom. Then, after shunting and getting in front of the train, we were let loose—down the hill.

Oh, the awful sensation of that first rush downhill! We lost our breath. We were blind. We were cutting the air in twain, so sharp was our concussion against the element. We clung on for our lives. We swung round the corners, raising a cloud of dust to mark our fleeting course. After the first alarm it was delightful.

Wrapped up to the nose in our rezais, the exhilaration and excitement were entrancing. We scudded down the hill, increasing the speed from fifteen to twenty miles an hour. The break put on just before a curve steadied the trolly round it, and then removed, with fresh impetus we dashed along the level incline. We scattered all before us: affrighted children hid their faces, cocks and hens flew at our approach, and dogs slunk away. The entire population of the bazaars rushed out to gape open-mouthed at us. Ponies and horses shied and plunged violently, being far more frightened by our little Flying Dutchman than by any train. Whiz and whir, and they were all left far behind.

The air was bitterly cold, and C.'s moustache was freezing hard; but we thought not of this, but of keeping our breath and our seats. Now we were wrapped in a cloud, unable to see more than a few yards before us; the next instant under the influence of a gleam of sunshine.

We drew up at a signal-box at Toon. The descent to earth was too cruelly sudden, and all that remained to us of our glorious ride on a trolly were the tingling sensations in every limb,—the quickened flow of blood in our veins.

The sudden check came in the form of an announcement from the signalman that a luggage-train had just left the lower station, and we were an instant too late to stop it. We were asked if we were afraid to risk meeting it on the single line. Wound up to a "dare devil" mood, we scorned the idea, and taking on board a man to wave the red flag of danger we started off again. But now we were cautiously creeping round the fog-hidden corners. In the twistings of the line we might any moment find ourselves face to face with the engine; besides, the mist deadened the sound of the approaching train, and obscured any distant view. We listened with all our might, strained every nerve to keep a sharp look-out, only indulging in a feeble "run" on the straight.

Just as we were once doing this, a man breaking stones on the road sprang forward to stop us, and, pulling up sharply, for the trolly is fitted with a break that brings it to a dead stop within six yards, we heard the labouring puff, puff of the engine quite close upon us, and the black monster loomed through the fog. It was the work of a minute to lift the trolly off the line. The train passed, and we reached Kursiong a few minutes afterwards. We had done twenty miles under the hour, and gained fifty minutes on the mail-train.

This gave us just the time we wanted for a visit to one of the tea-gardens in the valley.

It was too early for operations to be going on, but the whole process was kindly explained to us by the manager in the Kursiong Tea Company's plantation.

After the seed is planted it requires three years before attaining to full growth and production, and altogether six years must elapse without profit to the planter. At the end of this period the stem is from three to four feet in height. It is then pruned during the months of November to February, when the sap is down, to two feet in height, and this is an operation requiring great care. "Flushes," viz. new shoots, will continue to appear at intervals varying from fifteen to twenty days during these months. Each "flush" is plucked as it comes on, the principle in plucking being to leave the bud at the axis of each leaf intact, and ready for the next shoot to start from. According to the leaves plucked are the different classifications of tea. For instance, in a flush of four leaves, the first would be called Orange or Flowery Pekoe, the second Souchong, the third Congou, and the fourth Bohea or broken tea. The classification varies with the different districts.

At five o'clock in the evening the factory gong sounds, and the pluckers bring their baskets to the withering-loft, where the leaves are laid in thin layers on the floor till the following morning. Then the test of its being dry, by seeing whether the leaf is still green enough to crackle is applied, after which it is put into the rolling machine. This machine is a heavy weight, which moves alternately to one corner of the square slab, and then returns to the opposite one; thus giving the leaf a double twist. It is hand-rolled afterwards if necessary. Then it is left to ferment, the process of fermentation being the most delicate and crucial operation for the tea. Great experience is necessary to know the exact moment when fermentation should be stopped. The leaf is spread in thin layers over a charcoal fire, and finally sifted by means of a machine, which has trays of different degrees of coarseness, allowing the finest tea, or Pekoe, to pass to the lowest division. The remaining, or broken tea, is then put through a breaking machine, and sold as coarse tea. Lastly the tea is packed in lead, and in boxes containing eighty maunds exported to England. There is great depression in the Indian tea-trade, owing to its being found impossible to compete with the cheaper production of China. Darjeeling is one of the great centres for Indian tea, Assam being the other.

We got places in the mail at Kursiong, and all through the afternoon were gently descending, thoroughly enjoying the splendour of the views we had missed in the fog coming up. Every 1000 feet of descent brought an atmosphere twenty degrees warmer: very pleasant to us after our sufferings from the cold. The wheels being heavily dragged made a strangely melodious music (impossible as it may seem), like that produced by running the finger round the edge of a glass.

At Teendaria, where the railway workshops are situated, the engine-driver asked us to come on to the engine, and we had a charming ride perched up one on each side of the brakesman. The engine was turned back foremost, that the driver might the better be enabled to see the steep gradients, and we had a magnificent view from our post of observation. Every time that we passed under a bridge, lest any passenger should protrude his head, I blew the whistle thrice; and I was only sorry when we reached Siliguri, and the journey was at an end. Here we had dinner, and were fortunate enough to get a saloon to ourselves, where we slept soundly till we reached Sara at 6.30 the next morning. Embarking once more on the steam-ferry, crossing the Ganges, and seeing the sun rise over its waters, we reached Calcutta at twelve the same morning.

Thursday, January 15th.—At the invitation of Mr. Rustumjee, the head of a large Parsee family, well known and respected in commercial circles, we paid a visit to his house on Chowringee. We found the members of the family, twenty-three all told, including three generations, gathered under the paternal roof. The Parsee dress for women is very graceful and becoming. A robe of soft material, generally silk, covers the head, falling away from one shoulder, drawn over the other, and descending in graceful folds to the ankles. A white band across the forehead, like that of a nun's, gives a grave and sad look to the face. The colours chosen among the upper classes are usually soft greys, or browns, or purples; but amongst the lower orders you see the bright sea-green and cerise colours peculiar to the Parsee women. The children wear little silk pantaloons; even those of the poorer classes are made of silk, and no inferior material is used; the long white tunic of muslin, the "shasta," which no Parsee is without, the short jacket, usually of velvet, and the embroidered skull-cap. The men for the most part wear European dress, and are distinguished only by that square, receding hat of black or purple satin, that I could not help remarking was useful on one occasion as a pin-cushion, and on another as a card-case, during the few times that we were with Parsee gentlemen.

The daughters of the house spoke English perfectly, and were well read and well informed. Fifteen years ago, Parsee ladies were "purdah women," or confined to the zenana; but the restriction has been gradually lapsing as their views become more enlarged.

We dined in the evening at Government House to meet the Duke and Duchess of Connaught; a state dinner of seventy, followed by a reception.

The next morning we were up at 6 a.m., and drove on to the Maidan to see a review. The fog was so dense that the whereabouts of the troops was undiscoverable at first. Fortunately it lifted just before the arrival of the vice-regal carriage containing the Duchess and Lady Dufferin, which took up its position by the royal standard. In the march past the naval brigade came first, followed by the volunteers, who possess a unique feature in their fine body of mounted infantry, and then followed our troops. But what excited our admiration most was the magnificent marching of the native infantry from the Punjaub. Men of grand physique and carriage; nothing could exceed the perfect unity and compactness of the line, as with one foot they marched, with one body they moved. Their uniform of scarlet faced with buff, with loose trowsers gathered in by white gaiters, added to their general smartness.

We were home to breakfast at nine o'clock. Afterwards C. went to a meeting of the Legislative Council, and heard the now celebrated Mr. Ilbert speak, and we then visited together the High School on Chowringee for the free education of Eurasians—the name given by Lord Auckland to half-castes, or those whose parents come the one from Europe, the other from Asia.

In the afternoon we drove across Tolly's Nullah, or the canal excavated at the expense of Colonel Tolly, to the very dreary and deserted Zoological Gardens. Every maharajah has his own band, in uniform, which they permit to play in the Eden Gardens and in public places. It was that of the Maharajah of Cooch Bahar that was playing in the gardens this afternoon. The latter, well known in society circles at Calcutta, is considered a most promising young man. Educated by an English tutor, he has been completely Europeanized; recites, plays polo, tennis, and cricket, and dances like an Englishman.

Driving home by my favourite Maidan, we saw anchored by the banks the Palgrave, 3400 tons, the largest sailing-vessel afloat in the world.

In the evening we went to the ball given at Government House in honour of the Duke and Duchess of Connaught, and the first of the new viceroyalty. The display of costly robes, magnificent jewels, and diamond aigrettes worn by the Maharajahs and Rajahs, both this evening and the previous one, added much to the brilliancy of the rooms. Eight hundred were able to sit down at the same moment to supper in the marble halls, a feat only equalled, I believe, at the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg.

Saturday, January 17th.—We went to a presentation of prizes at the City College, for natives, in Mirzapore Street. It was interesting to hear the scholars sing a Bengali hymn of welcome, and recite a very lively dialogue, which, after listening to for some minutes, we discovered was a scene from "Uncle Tom's Cabin." With gesticulation and expression far happier than would be found in English schools, they represented the scene where Topsy is brought before Mrs. Walker as incorrigible. Then a Bengali scholar knelt on the corner of the platform, and with hands clasped, and his large liquid eyes upturned, repeated, "Abide with me." There was something very curious in hearing thus the old familiar words repeated so earnestly, yet in such strong guttural accents that it was well-nigh unrecognizable.

One of the sudden "dust storms" to which Calcutta is subject came up after this, obscuring the air, and whirling the dust in a typhoon in the streets. It cooled the air by several degrees, but prevented us from fulfilling our wish of finding out in the churchyard of St. John's the grave of Job Charnoch, the real founder of Calcutta.

On the eve of our departure from Calcutta we dismissed the native servant we had engaged for our tour in the North-West Provinces, and whom we had been told was absolutely necessary for travelling in India. We found we were always running after him, instead of he after us, and we determined to adhere to our original plan, hitherto so successful, of travelling without the encumbrance of servants.

We left Calcutta that evening at eight o'clock, that is by Madras time, which the East India Railway follows, or at 8.30 by Calcutta time. There was a great crowd at the Howrah Terminus, on account of Saturday being one of the nights on which the mail-train leaves for Bombay, and we were unlucky in not getting a carriage to ourselves.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SHRINES OF THE HINDU FAITH

The next morning we awoke to find ourselves on the fruitful and cultivated plain of Bengal. We were flying by mud settlements, and passing through numberless paddy-fields, rice, pân, or betel-nut plantations. Here and there we came upon a field white with the poppy of the opium plant, or with a tall, standing crop of castor-oil shrub. Others again were filled with barley, and those coarse millets on which the natives subsist; and all the crops were kept alive and green by that terribly laborious process of irrigation. How familiar we became with the inclined causeway, up and down which the yoke of oxen toil, the native riding on the rope which draws the water up in leathern bags, and empties it into the irrigating channels. Each patch of cultivation, each field, has to be watered by this toilsome method.

One unconsciously acquires the idea that India is a country covered with vast primeval forest and jungle. Rather disappointing therefore are the two thousand miles or so one travels across from ocean to ocean, from Bombay to Calcutta, without seeing a vestige of either. Often we saw a herd of buffaloes, or a troop of monkeys, while paroquets, the little green love-birds, and other tropical species of the feathered tribe, perched along the telegraph wire. Here and there also a solitary heron, with grey wings and red bill, standing solemnly on the edge of a marshy pool.

The trains are heavy and enormously long, on account of the immense numbers of natives travelling, their rates being as low as one-third the first-class fares. The native servants are locked into a compartment next to the first class, where their masters are. There are outside venetian shutters to all the carriages, and every other window of the long carriage has blue or coloured glass—very charming, doubtless, for the glare of summer, but a great nuisance now, with short days and an early twilight. The refreshment-rooms on all the lines are exceptionally good; we have often dined there in preference to the hotel; but as for the luxuries of Indian travelling you often hear about, we did not find them. True, the Anglo-Indian invariably travels with an army of servants, a well-stored hamper, and thinks sixty pounds of ice in the carriage indispensable, but he is an exceptional mortal. A triangle, or fork of steel, thrice struck, and which gives forth a clear, melodious tone, is the signal at the stations for the "all aboard." Such is a description which fairly answers to all our succession of long railway journeys in India.

At 1 p.m. we crossed the bridge over the Kurumnasa, a river abhorred by the Indians, hence its name, signifying "virtue destroyer," and which forms the boundary-line between Bengal and the North-West Provinces. A branch line brought us to Rajghat, the station for Benares, as the city lies away on the further bank of the Ganges.

We crossed the Ganges on a bridge of boats, and from here obtained that magnificent coup-d'œil of the river frontage, with its palaces, its mosques and temples, its terraces and flights of steps, that is so striking. Rising above all the confused mass of buildings are the two beautiful minarets of the Mosque of Aurungzebe, slightly turned eastwards to catch the first gleams of the rising sun over the sacred waters.

It is four miles to Sekrole, the European quarter, and to reach it we drove through the narrow, crowded lanes of the native town, clustering most thickly near the river. Mud has been a mighty factor in the making of Benares. It is of mud that the walls of the huts are built; mud that forms the fence around fields and compounds; mud that protects the newly planted trees; and, lastly, it is mud in which the little brown babies in the streets are dabbling to their heart's content.

There are hedges and bushes—rather trees I should call them—of cacti growing in all directions. Here we saw weaving being carried on by the roadside, in a very primitive fashion. A double row of stakes were placed at long intervals, and women, walking up and down, were winding the thread in and out. It produced a very pretty effect when the thread was of bright red, and the simple loom some yards in extent. Then we saw for the first time that comical little native carriage called the ekka. The trappings of the pony are gaudy, and the bamboo shafts are attached by coloured cords to the high-peaked Spanish collar. The carriage itself is like a diminutive gig with a bamboo head, producing exactly the effect of a "curricle" standing on end.

On arriving at Clark's Hotel we found we were just in time for evening service, for which the bell was tolling from the church in the compound opposite.

Monday, January 19th.—By seven o'clock we found ourselves driving down to the banks of the Ganges, to see one of the most animated and picturesque sights of India.

The bathing-ghât is a bright-coloured hive, swarming with a religious people performing the ceremony of bathing in the sacred waters. A "budgerow," or ancient barge, glides slowly with us up and down along this splendid river frontage. For one mile these palaces and temples line the bank, facing every way, joining each other at right angles, with ancient stairways and broken walls hidden under the foliage of some sacred peepul or feathery tamarind.