Selections from The Diary of A Civilian's Wife In India, 1877-1882

 

 

CHAPTER I.

 

IN THE RED SEA─AUSTRIAN LLOYD’S STEAMER─PILGRIMS FOR MECCA—JEDDAH─EVE'S TOMB─SLAVERY.

 

        Nov. 4, 1877. ─ 'The sun's perpendicular rays illumine the depths of the sea,' and we are in like case with the fishes, and wish that like them we had nothing but scales on. Up till now we have had nothing to complain of, having had charming weather ever since leaving Trieste. The weather was cold at first, and grew steadily warmer every day, until the thermometer stands at  90° in the shade as I write. We are only 6½ cabin passengers in all: our two selves, two German men of business, a German Frau with a little boy of six (he is the half-passenger), who confided to me that his father lived at Cawnpore and sold boots, and an Irish girl just returning to India after spending two years in Germany. She takes daily lessons in the zither from the third officer on board, a pleasant, cheery young Austrian.

 

        The passengers are not a conversational set; we sometimes go and have a chat with the Chief Engineer, an Englishman, whose ideas seem strictly limited to engines. We ask him concerning the ship's course, the currents, and so on, but his invariable answer is that he does not know much about those things, so we fall back on engines, revolutions, and screws. At dinner we talk to the Captain, who speaks French fluently, though German is his native tongue; he has some grievance with the Directors of the Company at Trieste, and gets so excited over their conduct that he forgets to eat his dinner, and sorely tries the patience of the stewards, who are longing to clear away the table. The poor old Captain says he has spent his whole life en lutte with his superiors, and his chief consolation lies in recounting how he confronts the Board of Directors and says, 'Messieurs! vous etes des voleurs! des canailles!!'  One can imagine this does not oil the wheels of their intercourse.

 

        At Port Said we took on board 400 pilgrims from Syria, Palestine, and the coasts, bound for Mecca. It was very amusing watching them come on board and shake down as best they could. A passage running round the dining saloon was put apart for the women and children, where they squatted down with their water bottles and baskets of fruit and provisions for the journey, and where they stayed patiently for a whole week, as patient and well-behaved as the same number of cattle would have been. The male pilgrims arranged themselves and their bundles all over the deck, few of them having enough room to lie out at full length. We thought the ship was as full as it could be, till we reached Suez, when we were told to prepare for another 150 pilgrims! I did not see how it was possible to provide standing room for them, but as boat after boat full of them arrived, and they swarmed up on deck like so many ants, the scene became even more confused and hopeless than I had imagined. They were forced on deck by the weight of those crowding after, but there they stuck in a solid writhing mass, some struggling vainly in one direction, some in another. A few poor women simply succumbed, and sat down to let fate do its worst. I suppose they were of Tristram Shandy's opinion, that men can bear misfortunes best in a recumbent position. I believe they sat where they originally collapsed to the end of the voyage.

 

        When the confusion was at its height, some enterprising pilgrim spied the boats hanging on the davits; instantly there was a rush over the skylights and gangways to obtain a seat in these coveted havens of refuge, and in less than five minutes there must have been twenty human beings in each boat. There they were, without awning or protection, with no room to stir, much less lie down, and there they proposed to remain for three or four days. Truly it is not without reason that a Moslem calls himself 'one of the resigned.'

 

        The batch taken in at Suez were much poorer and more travel-worn than those at Port Said; they had come from Tunis and Morocco, and had doubtless suffered much. We had to pass two nights in the Canal, owing to our bad luck in getting behind a slow lazy collier, which lay to for the night much earlier than she need have done, thereby obliging us to lie to also. We hated that collier, and when after leaving Suez we saw a vessel on the rocks to the east, we were all prepared to see in it an instance of the eternal fitness of things had it been that collier ─ but I believe it was not. The Captain wished to go to the assistance of the unfortunate vessel, but the pilot was very unwilling to go any nearer the reefs with so large a number of souls on board, and his advice and that of the other ship's officers prevailed. We consoled ourselves by thinking that the sea was calm, and we saw Arab feluccas going to the rescue; but the Captain was sorely put out and did not recover his spirits for some days.

 

        Nov. 5. —Here we are still in the Red Sea, but 200 miles south of Jeddah. The heat is very great and the cabins quite unbearable; we sleep on deck under the stars, with only the Milky Way above us. How few people in England know what it is to sleep under the open sky. I do not altogether enjoy it—it makes me feel too small. We dine and breakfast on deck beneath a thick double awning, under which the heat is close on 100°.

 

        We stopped at Jeddah only a day and a half, thanks to the energy of the Captain and crew in unlading cargo and pilgrims. The latter all came out in a striking metamorphosis the morning we anchored, for we had come in sight of the saddle-backed mountain overlooking Mecca, on seeing which every pilgrim must discard turban and shoes, and dress in nothing but Turkish towels. Some of the pilgrims were high Turkish officials from Constantinople, and they had sat every day on the quarter-deck, looking very dignified in their gold-embroidered uniforms, fez, and patent-leather shoes. To see them this morning come on deck with only a towel round their waists and another round their shoulders, leaving their fat arms bare, was a curious but not an imposing sight. They did not, however, appear the least shy, and were quite as stately and dignified as before, only the towels spoilt the effect. The English Consul had traveled with us from Suez, and at Jeddah very kindly invited us to go on shore and dine with him. He has a miniature steam launch which came out to meet him, and we went ashore in it. I never shall forget the intolerable heat of that steam launch; we were sitting aft of the boiler and furnace, and not six feet from it, so that all its heat was blown back to us. The degree of heat was almost beyond human endurance, but in its intensity was almost comical. We simply gasped.

 

        Jeddah is surrounded by coral reefs which prevent a vessel of any size approaching within a mile or more. A large English ship had struck on a reef that morning, and was then discharging her cargo in the hope of getting off, which she did towards evening. On landing we found the Consul's horses waiting, and a guard of Egyptian soldiers. I was mounted on a fine white Arab donkey, very large, and with enormous ears, and a bridle all hung with gay tassels. The saddle was an Arab one, and my seat on it sideways not of the firmest. A most impetuous donkey he was, Selim by name, and I was thankful to have an Arab groom holding hard on to his head all the time. Selim occasionally lifted up his voice in a most powerful and prolonged bray, when I trembled lest he should wind up with a kick. However I wronged this son of the desert; infidel though I was he never threw me off.

 

        The bazaar and most of the streets were roofed in with frail-looking dilapidated boarding, which kept out the rays of the sun certainly, but kept in many evil smells. Most of the good houses are built of coral; it is hewn in great square blocks, and does not look as romantic as it sounds. The streets are very narrow and more or less blocked up by high wooden seats placed for the convenience of the shop-people and their customers. They were now also crowded with hundreds of camels and donkeys waiting for the transport of the pilgrims. We threaded our way miraculously through the sleeping dogs and kneeling camels, and the sweetmeat sellers and bales of goods, and I should have enjoyed the strangeness of the scene more had I not been so much occupied in keeping my seat on that pommelless saddle. Wriggling in and out as we did I could not assume quite the degagee air I should have wished.

 

        Arrived at the Consulate, a fine house profusely covered with wooden balconies, Venetian shutters, and woodwork of the most elaborate and picturesque kind, we were shown up certainly a hundred stone steps into a large upper room, overlooking the city and open to the four winds. It was furnished with wide divans, and divided by carved wooden arches and lattice screens in Moorish style. Here we were offered coffee in Arab fashion; it was quite black, and served in tiny little cups without handles. By each cup was standing a small egg-cup, but what use to put it to I did not know, till our host set the example of putting the coffee cup into the egg-cup; you can then lift both together.

 

        After resting till nearly sundown, we rode out with an escort to see Eve's tomb, which is outside the city wall. There can be no doubt she was a big woman, for there is her tomb to prove it; it is nearly 400 feet long, with a little mosque in the centre, where the guide patted his stomach demonstratively to let us know which part of Mother Eve lay below. We then went to see the tanks and holes (called by courtesy wells) on which Jeddah depends for its water supply, and which in their turn depend on the rainfall. It only rains three or four times in the year, but then with such goodwill that all the tanks are filled enough to last some months.

 

        Afterwards we rode through the Mecca gate, where only a few years ago they would have murdered a Christian for passing through; and just outside we saw a caravan of some hundreds of camels preparing to start for Mecca. They have to go in great force for fear of the Bedouin Arabs. It was a strange sight; the dreary hot expanse of yellow sand, unrelieved by a green blade or bush; the white city wall and the white flat-roofed houses; and a foreground of lean hungry dogs, camels kneeling and standing, loaded and unloaded, veiled women, some with little mats before their eyes, and rascally looking picturesque Arabs in every style of dress and undress.

 

        Jeddah is a very fanatical city, and only eleven years ago the people murdered every Christian there, consuls and all. A man-of-war was sent to shell the town, and hang as many ringleaders as could be caught, and there the matter ended.

 

        We dined with the Consul, waited on by a Nubian who was captured in the Abyssinian War. Jeddah is a thriving slave market in spite of our having a gunboat cruising up and down the Red Sea for the suppression of the slave traffic; but, as the Consul observes cheeringly, 'The market is no longer held inside the city walls,' so who shall say nothing has been done?  The boat in which Robert went ashore next day had a crew of four, out of whom three, they told him, were slaves. At ten o'clock we walked through the bazaar, deafened by the yelling of the dogs, who always are wakeful at night, to the shore, and the Consul sent us out to the ship in a four-oared boat; the water was highly phosphorescent, and every time the oars dipped there was a swirl of light very pretty to see. So ended our day at Jeddah.

 

 

CHAPTER II.

 

ADEN—BOMBAY—ELEPHANTA—BURNING GHAUT—PARSEES’ CRICKET—JOURNEY UP COUNTRY—AVERAGES UNSATISFACTORY.

 

        Nov. 10.—We left Aden yesterday, and have now no halt before reaching Bombay, so we have fairly entered on Fytte ye Laste. The Captain expects to reach Bombay on Sunday, the 18th which will bring our sojourn on board to exactly four weeks: it was a Sunday we sailed from Trieste, Sunday we reached Port Said, and Sunday we reached Jeddah. Now we shall have one Sunday in mid-sea, and the next should see us in harbour. We passed the Straits of Babel Mandeb during Wednesday night; the difference of temperature was at once perceptible the moment we were out of that great stewpan the Red Sea; the thermometer fell immediately to 86°, and the water in the bath felt absolutely cold.

 

        Robert went ashore at Aden, but having once been there and seen the barrenness of the land, I preferred staying on board and driving wonderful bargains with the evil-looking Jews who deal in ostrich feathers, and swarm up on the deck the moment a ship comes in. They shave their heads smooth, leaving only one lone tuft on each side, which they oil to a horrible extent and train into a long ringlet on either side of their face ─ the effect is ruffianly. They have the least conscience of any traders I ever met; most men are content with asking twice or perhaps three times the value of the thing, but I cannot find that with these Jews the value bears any relation to the sum they ask; a bundle of feathers for which they asked 8s. They ended by pressing on my acceptance for 1s. It was probably worth 6d.

 

        The boys, too, who dive for sixpences always amuse me, with their shiny black bodies innocent of clothing, and their woolly wigs looking like close-fitting sponges; they greatly exercised the quartermaster by clambering up on to the awning; he grew very angry, and, taking a long pole in his hand, climbed up himself to drive them off. They enticed him into many difficulties by keeping only just beyond his reach, and, as soon as he had painfully crawled unpleasantly near, they one and all with a derisive shout leaped off into the sea.

 

        In leaving Aden there was some excitement caused by the cable snapping which held us to the buoy and getting entangled with our screw; the buoy was dragged right under the screw, and great fear was felt lest our precious screw should be injured; fortunately no harm was done. We all still sleep on deck, and consequently have cool, pleasant nights; the two Germans sleep under the dining-table, which makes a perfect four-poster and keeps off any dew. It is a trial when at dawn we have to go down to our cabins; I lie down and try to sleep, but sleep is out of the question: the first grief is that a man comes round and shuts all the cabin windows, leaving us to breathe as best we can. He used to shut the dead-lights too, but I made a stand against that, and threatened to complain to the Captain, so now only the window is shut, and that I can open for myself. This is preparatory to washing the deck. Then begins, within eighteen inches of your face as you lie in your berth, the most fearful stamping, banging, scraping, scrubbing, and squeaking (the latter caused I find by dragging an unwilling American chair across a wet deck). Yesterday they varied it by scrubbing the deck with pumice stone. I could hear a load of it thrown down just above me, and felt very much as if my face were being scrubbed with it. All this time the water is sluicing down our window, so we dare not open it, and by the time the deck is clean we are nearly suffocated.

 

        Then begin other noises, showing that the ship is awake. Sheep walk about and bleat; people begin drinking coffee and calling for the stewards. Yesterday the sailors set to work hammering out rivets from the iron mast, turning the ship into an iron foundry, and driving us all distracted. We remonstrated with the Captain, who was somewhat annoyed, but has had the work stopped, so today we are enjoying the cessation of noise.    

 

        Bombay, Nov. 18.─ I am not ungrateful for blessings, and am just now fresh from the enjoyment of one of the greatest earthly luxuries. To eat when hungry, to drink when thirsty, to get warm when cold—all these are delightful; but I hardly think they come up to the supreme pleasure of feeling clean when you were not clean, and this is what I now feel for the first time for a month! A bath on board ship is a delusive thing; the water is salt and makes your skin feel sticky, the soap will not lather, and you are in such a state of heat all the time that you try to get it over as quickly as possible, and even then people come and rap at the door to try and hurry you out that they may come in. The luxury therefore of a very large tub in a cool room, with warm water and plenty of time and space and soap, can hardly be understood by anyone who has never made the voyage to India in a steamer.

 

        We anchored yesterday afternoon at five o’clock, and within a few minutes had transferred ourselves and our baggage to a native sailing-boat and were scudding away merrily to the shore; it took us nearly half an hour, for we had anchored far out, all the nearer places being already occupied. A large fleet, representing most of the countries in the world and including an enormous English troopship just arrived, was lying in the harbour, very picturesque in its variety.

 

        We had been seized by an energetic Parsee tout, who even on board had marked us for his own, and had lured us by fair words and specious promises into going to his hotel. This was strongly opposed by another tout, who kept assuring us that `first man, sir, speak nothing but lies,' a compliment the other returned with interest. Meanwhile we reached the landing place, and vividly it brought to mind our first landing in India seven years ago. The same rows of carriages drawn up for their occupants 'eat the air;' the same gorgeous Parsee turnouts, some with a mounted bodyguard in attendance; Arab horses at every turn; the same silent-footed crowd; the same scent in the air. Had I been blindfold I should have known we had landed in India.

 

        Our Parsee friend put us into, and the whole of our luggage on to, a one-horse rattletrap, and away we drove, darkness falling rapidly, visibly, over the town; past the English quarter and its park and promenades, through the native city with its hot, narrow streets, till we at last pulled up at the Old Byculla Hotel, where we put up seven years ago. We have delightful rooms, opening on to a wide verandah which runs completely round the house; they are almost the same we had before, and the crows and the sparrows which hop familiarly about seem like old friends; I suppose I knew their great-grandfathers.

 

        We told the hotel people I should want an ayah while we are here. This morning on waking an ayah appears, salaams, and brings a cup of tea in the most home-like manner; she shows her testimonials from former mistresses, and I engage her. She falls into my ways immediately, as if she had been with me for years; unpacks, and arranges my room as if she had done so every day. Surely in no country but India can you get so much comfort for so small an outlay; she gets 12l. a year, and feeds herself.  

 

        Allahabad, Nov. 24.—Another stage of our journey is over, and a long wearisome one of thirty-seven hours together in the train; the heat was very trying, and at night went down to 62°, which is so much colder than anything we have had this side of the Canal that we were perished with cold, and were thankful to open our bundle of wraps and ulsters, things we have loathed the sight of till now.  A friend of ours truly remarked that ′human nature unfortunately will not be satisfied with averages, and it is no consolation for being suffocated with heat all day, to lie awake with cold at night.′

 

* * * * *

     

        March 1. — Yesterday we were brought face to face with the memories of—how many?   generations, for we went to see the Kutab Minar, near Delhi. Oddly enough, my first feeling on seeing it was one of disappointment. I knew that nearly seven hundred years have passed since it was built, and expected to see an air of hoary antiquity over it, especially as most old buildings in India look so very old for their age. But yesterday, when a sharp turn in the road brought us suddenly within the Kutab enclosure, I looked up and saw a building which as regards appearance might have been built last year, so clean and sharp and perfect was all the masonry and carving.

 

        This feeling of disappointment was quickly over, and the view I first had of the monument when standing only twenty feet from its base and looking upwards will be the one most impressed on my memory. It tapers gradually from the very base, and this, combined with the perspective, makes it look from below as though it shot up into the clouds. In reality it is 240 feet high, but its proportions make it look higher.

 

        It was built by Kutab-ud-din, as a monument of victory over the heathen king of Delhi, and is built entirely of stones taken from the Hindu temples he in his zeal destroyed. Their columns he preserved, and sanctified by rearranging them so as to form the cloisters of a Mahommedan mosque close by. In the court of this mosque is an iron pillar twenty-two feet high, of wrought iron with inscriptions on it, and believed to date from the year 300 A.D.
 

        The antiquity of the site as a city is unknown, as its history fades into legend, and each race as it succeeded another seems to have done its best to efface all traces of the former inhabitants. It is now left pretty peaceably to the jackals and the green parrots, which will perhaps do less damage than any of their betters.

 

        We climbed to the top of the monument, stopping long and often on the way. Towards the top the stairs get very narrow, and it would not be pleasant to meet a leopard there, as once happened not many years ago. He was shot, but not killed and escaped down the stairs again to warn his family against going up the Kutab.

 

        The view from the top is very extensive, but dreary and ugly in the extreme; an endless flat plain, treeless and waterless, hot, stony, barren — the very abomination of desolation — with ruins abounding, and wicked thorn bushes.

 

        At twelve miles' distance you see the river Jumna, and Delhi — the modern Delhi, for the Kutab is on the site of old Delhi — but too far off to relieve the barrenness of the stony desert.

 

        In no Western country can ruins ever look so utterly dreary and forsaken as here in the East. In Europe the friendly ivy climbs over and seems to clothe and care for them, and trees grow by them and grass. But here their ruin is so uncompromising, and their desertion is so utter;—not a creeper winds itself about them, not a tree will live when those which watered it are gone; the grass is yellow and dry, nothing will grow but thorns,— not thorns like our beautiful English thorns, but thorns with no leaves and only long cruel hooks to catch or tear anything that comes near.

 

        From the Kutab we went to see Humaion's tomb on the road back to Delhi. It is a fine specimen of the usual type of Mussulman tombs, built in red stone and white marble and raised on a magnificent basement — a thing in itself showing the grand scale on which the men of those days built. There is nothing, however, to make the tomb especially interesting, except that it was there, in 1857, that the two sons of the king of Delhi were captured and afterwards shot.

 

        The road to Delhi is through a desert of ruins — tombs, temples, forts; some of the domes still brilliant with enameled tiles of glorious colours, glittering in the sun as if in mockery of the dreary desolation around. Their time will soon come, and then they too will be only a ruinous heap of stones. 'Sic transit gloria mundi.'

 

* * * * *

 

        March 15.— I find it is a common idea at home that three months in the hills will tide one over the hot season; but the Punkah season is really the best definition of the length of one’s sojourn in the hills, and may be reckoned from the end of March to the end of October. The first three months are the dry hot ones, the next three are the rainy hot ones, and then October is the drying month, in which people on the plains begin to revive, though they cannot dispense with punkahs till quite the end of the month.

 

        October is the most perfect month in the hills, so no one who can help it comes down till the punkahs have ceased wagging and are laid peacefully by in an outhouse till next March.

 

        The heat has begun early this year, and I shall be very glad to get the boy away to the hills as soon as possible. We hope to start on the 31st for Landour.

 

        March 18. - Robert had a letter yesterday which obliged us to change our plans and decide on starting on the 25th. In order to have our heavy baggage up at Landour by that time the carts had to start off yesterday evening, so you can fancy the scrimmage there was to get everything packed in one day. Fortunately men are plentiful in India, and we had quite fifteen at work, all active cheerful servants who worked with a will. Stores had to be packed, and wine, crockery, glass, plate, house-linen, books, clothes, a few pieces of furniture, and lastly the piano. To add to all, it was mail day and I was late with my letters, so I bobbed up and down, alternately writing and packing, till at last our home letters were stamped and sent off. These three ounces off my mind were a huge relief, as I was then free to attend to the packing.

 

        By evening all was ready, and we sat out in the moonlight after dinner, resting on our oars and watching the loading of the bullock carts. A great deal of shouting and talking goes to the lifting of heavy boxes, and a newcomer would think some catastrophe had occurred, hearing the Babel of excited voices.

 

        The only perfectly passive spectators were the bullocks and their driver. The latter was not burdened with much clothes and stood by with arms folded, a bronze statue, only remarking, as each box was put on, that his bullocks would certainly die. This, however, was his cue, as he had been impressed for the journey, and his object was to make out that he was quite unfit for it. His bullocks and himself, however; were in fine condition, and the load by no means heavy, so no one paid any sort of attention to his gloomy remarks, and by eleven o'clock both carts were ready and started on as lovely a night as ever Jessica and her lover can have seen.

 

        The heat in the daytime now is tremendous, but the nights have not yet begun to be hot; they are simply exquisite, soft and warm, and laden with the scent of many flowers, and lit by stars shining as they will not shine a month later when the heat-haze spreads its stifling pall over the land.

 

        To-day is the flower show, and as I am one of the judges I feel glad to be leaving the station so soon afterwards, as we are told that the envy, hatred, and malice caused by the judges’ award is very great. There has not been a show here for two years. There have already been dire quarrels among the committee, and a soldier, who was at work in the tents while a quarrel was raging as to the qualification of a certain coleus to be exhibited, remarked, 'By Jingo, if there is all this boiling over a leaf, what will it be when the flowers come!'

 

* * * * *

 

        Sept. 17.—A few days ago my ayah came to me and informed me that she was going to turn Mahommedan.  She belongs to the Sweeper caste, whose religion is vague, I fancy, as they are repudiated as co-religionists both by Mahommedans and Hindus, not being considered respectable enough to have any recognized faith. The immediate cause of her change of faith is that the Sweeper caste here bully and harass her and her family, exacting fines on various pretences, and so on. So she would turn Mahommedan. I asked her how she was able to alter her belief so conveniently. She told me there was no alteration required, save as to the washing of pots and pans, the abstaining from eating food cooked by Christians, and a few other such matters; that the Hindus and Mahommedans equally believed in God, and it was the same God, as there was only one—the one who 'caused her to be born '—and that it mattered not whether He was called Khuda or Allah.

 

        I saw she was profoundly ignorant of any religious tenets save this. But possibly in her ignorance she may have said words that are not foolish:— 'There is one God only, by whatever name He is worshipped.'

 

        There was a curious instance to-day of how easy it is to alarm and impose upon very ignorant people. Government is taking a census of the population of the hill stations, and the paper was to be filled up today. Yesterday afternoon the servants informed me that news had come of a great earthquake that was to take place that night, and when they had asked a native clerk why the census was to be taken, he told them it was in order to know how many people were killed by the earthquake!  They were in a violent state of alarm all the evening, but, finding on waking this morning that they are not all dead men, are quieting down again.

 

        The rainy season is nearly over, but Jupiter Pluvius is making one tremendous struggle for the sceptre that is passing away from him. Yesterday it began to rain hard, and many times as I woke in the night I heard the steady splash of heavy rain and the howling of the wind. This morning it was still raining as though it had never rained before—in a thick white sheet; and up to this moment, nearly bedtime as I write, it has never ceased and never slackened, and looks likely to go on all night again.

 

        Saturday, Sept. 18.— After a terrific night, day dawned on a downpour as heavy as ever, and not till twelve o'clock did the rain cease, after pouring unceasingly for thirty-nine hours. We shall be curious to hear how many inches have fallen, and with what results. I remember once in Oudh thirteen inches falling in twelve hours, when most of our servants' houses and many hundreds in the native city collapsed, and the floods were most disastrous.
 

* * * * *

 

        Chakrata, Oct. 22.— Our march yesterday was an easy and uneventful one of nearly five hours, along a road carried at a high level, about 7,000 feet, and singularly free from great ups and downs. Part of the way lay through very pretty scenery, where it ran along the northern slopes, which are clothed with ferns and mosses and timbered with magnificent old rhododendrons and oaks.

 

        Within a few miles of this place we came again on to the southern side of the hill, where the khuds are horribly deep and precipitous, and the road or ledge unusually narrow and rocky. I have not the nerve to allow my pony to walk along the extreme outer edge, as he would prefer; but here and there it was unavoidable, and I saw my feet projecting quite over the edge of a precipitous descent rolling smoothly down a couple of thousand feet. I held my umbrella so as to keep out the sight as much as possible, for I do not enjoy these bold and eagle-like positions.

 

        Spiker was untiring in exploring the slopes wherever practicable, and was wild with excitement on spying a troop of monkeys. The khud was so smooth and steep that he would almost certainly have broken his neck in going after them, but we had the greatest difficulty in keeping him back.

 

        The Dak bungalow here is most inconveniently placed, being a long way from the post office, and everything. We had looked forward to being in clover here, and getting bread and eggs, things we have not seen since leaving Landour. However, nothing was to be had last night, but this morning we have managed to get one loaf, a perfect prize!

 

        We took some luncheon with us, and rode out to see something of Chakrata, which is one of the largest military sanitariums in the hills. There is a splendid cart road between it and the plains; a great broad, smooth road, never steep, and with a low stone wall on the side of the khud. We rode along it to the far end of the station, where, as a cart road, it ceases, and then went along the road to Simla, which is an ordinary hill road, five or six feet wide, and indifferently kept. The scenery was beautiful; steep rolling grassy slopes covered with huge grey rocks and fine trees, with great perpendicular crags jutting out here and there, casting a deep black shadow on the hillside. We picnicked in a lovely nook among the grey rocks, spreading our rugs over the long warm grass and bracken, while close by were holly-trees bright with berries, and other trees clad gorgeously in the scarlet festoons of the Virginian creeper which had overrun them.  

 

        We were reluctantly thinking of starting home again, when to our surprise we saw a party of soldiers with rifles coming along the path, and with them an officer whom on nearer approach we recognised as having known at Meerut. He gave us the rather startling news that they were out after a tiger which was supposed to be somewhere close by our luncheon place, but it was too late to do anything more to-day. It seems that one of the men was out this morning after pheasants, when suddenly, to his speechless horror, he nearly stumbled over a large tiger lying on the bank overlooking the road, in wait doubtless for some unlucky coolie, as two man-eating tigers are still known to be in the neighbourhood, and Government has offered a reward of 50l. for each of them. Tommy Atkins was nearly paralysed with terror, but had just enough wits left to turn and fly, and fled back with the news to the station. When the shooting party reached the place, the tiger had vanished, but they tracked his fresh footprints across the road and down the ravine just in front of us. They now expect to hear of a 'kill' to-morrow morning, and are full of hope of bagging the monster.

 

        We were taken to see the cairn erected on the spot where three weeks ago the celebrated  man-eater was killed, not fifty yards from where we had so peacefully eaten our luncheon! I never was in so tigerish a neighbourhood before, and for all we know the tiger may have been crouching on the bank this morning, and watched us pass within almost paw's reach of him. But we should not have run much risk even were it so, for tigers are great respecters of persons, and never eat any people but of the humblest castes.

 

* * * * *

 

        June 4.— Going to bed in India is such a  very different process from going to bed in England, that I must bring the difference before you. To begin with, it is a far less formal process. There is (in the hot season) no shutting of the door, no cutting yourself off from the outer world, no going upstairs, and finally no getting into bed. You merely lie down on your bed, which with its bedding is so simple as to be worth describing. The bed is a wooden frame with webbing laced across it, and each bed has a thin cotton mattress. Over this one sheet is spread, and two pillows go to each bed, bolsters not being used.  Voila tout!  Some people do not even have the mattress, preferring the coolness of a piece of fine matting. Across the two beds hangs the punkah, with a great quilted towel hung on to it so low as nearly to sweep our faces and keep mosquitoes off; it is very nice when once you are down, but highly enraging as it flaps your head first on one side and then on the other before you can lie down.

 

        Our room is a cube of twenty feet as near as may be, so we have quite the required hospital number of cubic feet of air to breathe! Besides which it has four large doors, all of which stand permanently open, with only a chintz purdah across the lower part. This chintz purdah is all that divides you from the punkah coolies in the verandah and the world at large. The bedroom is purely a sleeping-room; we each have a dressing-room and bath-room besides.

 

        June 15.— I wish some of the good people who talk at home of its being 'positively Indian heat' when the thermometer goes up to 90˚ for a few hours could come now on a week's visit to us. It would wonderfully enlighten their minds or freshen their memories as to what Indian heat is, and might prevent their talking so wildly of  'positively Indian heat.'

 

        Every one who has been in India, and also in Africa and Australia, knows that, owing to some peculiarity of the atmosphere, heat is felt very much more in India than the same degree of heat in Australia would be. Of this there is sufficient proof in the fact that, although the thermometer sometimes goes as high in Australia as it does here, yet the country can be colonized by Englishmen, nor are punkahs or tatties required to keep people or dogs alive. Whereas it has always been impossible to colonize the plains of India, as the second generation, or so many as survive childhood, are weak miserable creatures, destroyed in body and mind by the heat.

 

        The heat, therefore, registered by the thermometer does not convey an accurate idea of the heat and suffering felt, and allowance must always be made for this. But here are a few facts, taken from the Allahabad weather report, for you to bear in mind when next you hear any one comparing English heat with Indian:— ′ For the last week in May the register showed never less than 105˚ as the maximum temperature in the shade. June opened with 110˚. The figures rose steadily day by day until on the 7th 117˚ was reached. For three days in succession 116˚ was registered, and the thermometer is now (June 14) stationary at 113˚. The maximum temperature in the sun's rays was 169˚. The minimum registered at four o’clock A.M. on the 11th was 93˚.

 

        The excessive dryness of the air— sometimes the humidity being as low as 8˚ out of a possible 100˚ — makes it feel like the blast of a furnace; it heats any ironwork, in the shade, till you can hardly bear your hand on it, and it heats the bath-towels till they make me gasp as I dry my face!

 

        Everything possible is done to keep our house cool. It is almost hermetically closed, and only thrown open during the coolest hours of the night. But though in this way we keep it down to 92˚ in the day, we cannot get it cooler even at night; and that is what makes it so wearing, that you never get any respite from the heat. The deaths from heat apoplexy have been many, but that is the case every year. At the great railway stations they have coffins in readiness for the dead bodies which are sure to be found daily in the trains, dead not from sun heat, but from sheer air heat.

 

        My head often feels as if it were being fried, and all night I keep it and my pillow well sopped with cold water.                     

 

        We are having a punkah rigged up out of doors, and mean to dine and sit out of doors at night, as the temperature is always some degrees lower then in the open than in the house. You, thinking of a hot English summer night, will think how delightfully cool and pleasant it must be, but I can assure you it is only mitigated misery; the thermometer stands at 100˚.

 

 

CHAPTER XXVII

 

VISIT TO PATTIALA—LOSS OF CAMELS—WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?— GUNROOM—MOHARRAM FESTIVAL—WEARING          SHOES NOT A MARK OF DISRESPECT—GREAT WELL—NATIVE BEDS—ECLIPSE OF THE MOON—COMPONENT PARTS OF NATIVE BAND—AMATEUR FIREWORKS.

 

        Moti Bagh, Pattiala, Dec.13.—I am writing this from Pattiala, where we are guests of the Maharaja.    We reached Rajpura, the nearest railway station to this, at six o'clock this morning, and were received by some of the Maharaja's servants, who had prepared tea for us, and hot water to wash our hands, both of which were very welcome after a cold dusty night in the train.

 

        As soon as the day had fairly broken, we started on our sixteen-mile drive to Pattiala in an open carriage with four horses, which did the first nine miles in forty minutes. The scenery was utterly uninteresting—bare and flat, with but little cultivation visible, and for the first twelve miles no trees of any kind but the Babul (acacia Arabica), which, however excellent for firewood, and sweet-scented when in blossom, is very poor and monotonous as timber. It would be a dreary drive in a hired carriage and with the ponies of the country.

 

        When we were within two miles of the city a scarlet-coated horseman met us and told us that the Maharaja was coming out to meet us. He then sped back to give the news of our approach, and soon after we saw a troop of Lancers coming towards us with their green and gold pennons flying. After them came trumpeters and kettledrums, and then a fine carriage and four with the little Maharaja seated alone in state, his brother following in another carriage and four, and some of the great officials, in a third. It was quite a fine procession, as all the horses, carriages, and liveries were handsome and well turned out.

 

        Robert got down from the carriage, and Pattiala got down, and after the formal greeting Robert got into the Maharaja’s carriage, and the procession drove through the city to the Moti Bagh palace, where guests are entertained—the guns banging, and crowds gathering all along the route to salute their young chief, who is a. boy of eight years old. As we neared the Moti Bagh the road was lined with troops, and as his carriage came in sight the band struck up 'God save the Queen' out of compliment to us. The little Raja and his suite came into the house with us and sat in state for a few minutes, after which they departed and left us to have our baths and breakfast.

 

        This is a pretty house of thoroughly native style, in the middle of a large garden with artificial pieces of water and many fountains—all of which were playing on our arrival, almost sprinkling the orange trees which bent over the water, laden with their golden fruit.

 

        Later in the day we were taken to see the city and the improvements which are being made by the Council of Regency which now forms the Government. A fine college and a dispensary are being built, but both are only half finished, and the general impression made on me was very dreary: sandy barren neglected looking wastes, covered with buildings not finished and others which had fallen down and were more or less ruinous heaps.

 

        Canal water is being brought to the city at an enormous outlay, and no doubt when the water is actually brought the appearance of the country will be greatly changed. I only speak of it as it impressed me.

 

        The city itself looks busy and prosperous, though I saw no fine houses or streets such as in Jaipur or Alwar. The state, however, is said to be financially highly prosperous, and is almost the only native state not in debt, so one cannot judge by things which seem to us evidences of poverty and decay. It has just contributed 10,000l. to the Patriotic Fund, and is spending three millions sterling on its canal works, which looks as if money were plentiful.

    

        The Maharaja sent a regiment of cavalry and one of infantry to Cabul in this war, as well as 300 camels, of which only 100 returned. Is it not strange if no one be held responsible for the death of the hundreds and thousands of camels and ponies in this weary war?    

 

        After we had been taken round the city we drove to the palace, where the little Maharaja received us in full Durbar. He and his brother came to the head of the steps to receive us, and, Pattiala gravely taking Robert by the hand, and his little brother me, they led us to the chairs of state placed in a semicircle.

 

        After sitting chiefly in silence for some time, an array of trays containing shawls, weapons, &c., were brought in and laid at Robert's feet, when he accepted a puggri of fine muslin and declined the rest, officials not being allowed in these degenerate days to accept the 'nuzzurs' which of old were the fruit of the pagoda tree. After the usual Atar and Pan had been presented, the Maharaja asked if we would like to see his palace. 

 

        We then passed on to the clock-room, where are kept clocks enough to stock several shops; clocks from London, clocks from Paris, cuckoos clocks, skeleton clocks, musical clocks, magical clocks—and if there be any other clocks, there they were, none of them going, and none of any use or pleasure to anyone. Then there were two large cases full of watches; gold, silver, jeweled, enameled, with banks and mounds of' chains of all patterns and sizes. Also musical boxes enough to drown a bagpipe if all set going together, some of the size of a small portmanteau, others quite miniature.

 

        But all this was nothing to the next room, the gun-room, where on a long table extending the whole length of a long room, lay two rows of nice new leather gun-cases, containing breech-loading guns and rifles by all the best English makers, besides other cases in heaps on the floor and piled on every available shelf. It was indeed a gun-room!  The official in charge told us there were 400 guns in cases, besides 100 without cases, and 150 pistol cases! The late Maharaja, who died four years ago, would spend a lakh of rupees in one morning at Calcutta, buying the contents of one or two gunsmiths’ shops.

 

        We saw a beautiful sword in a blue velvet case presented by Lord Lytton to the young Maharaja a year or two ago, and another to his father by the Prince of Wales. But the swords could be counted by dozens, and were therefore nothing to speak of.

 

        We were then invited to go and sit with the Maharaja and look on at the procession of Tazias, for it was the great day of the Moharram festival and was a public holiday. It was a sight never to be forgotten; the great quadrangle of the palace filled with a holiday crowd of thousands and thousands of men—all men—not a woman in all that assembly but myself.  Every balcony and every window was crammed with heads and bright puggris, while the sky-line of the building was marked by an irregular closely-serried living line of colour, which overflowed in a stream wherever there were flights of steps leading down into the quadrangle.

 

        The Maharaja and his court were seated under a fine canopy supported on silver poles and raised on a high dais. The two boys wore coats of splendid kincob, shimmering with gold and colour, while the Maharaja wore the famous Pattiala necklace, a double row of emeralds and pearls, the pearls as big as peas and the emeralds as big as hazelnuts. I noticed particularly that all the court wore patent-leather English shoes, and did not take them off even in Durbar; so it is evidently no breach of etiquette or respect for a native to keep shoes on, provided they be of patent leather and of English pattern.

 

        The Tazias are supposed to be models of the tomb of two early Mahommedan martyrs, and the Moharram festival is to commemorate their martyrdom. Immense trouble and expense are bestowed on the making of the Tazias, and on the last day of the festival they are all solemnly paraded in procession and then destroyed—sunk under water, or thrown into pits and buried. Some of those we saw were perfect gems of artistic work, and it would have gone to my heart to destroy them.   Some, again, were poor common little things, borne along recklessly and all on one side by two very small and ragged children, who would cast a look of awe and admiration at their young chief as they passed. He, poor little boy, seemed to take no pleasure in anything; his face wore a weary vacant look of perfect apathy, most unchildlike.  I could not but pity the poor little fellow, weighed down apparently by his grandeur and state and unable to feel pleasure like other boys of his age.

 

        In front of him was a space kept clear for wrestlers, jugglers, and other performers. The wrestlers would have made fine bronze groups; their muscles were grandly developed, like a gladiator's, and when a man was thrown a roar rose from the crowd as I can fancy it used to do in the Coliseum, when a gladiator lay with the sword-point at his throat.

 

        We stayed till we were tired, and then took our leave of the Maharaja and his Prime Minister, Sir Dewa Sing, K.C.S.I., a fine man with a kindly face, honest and intelligent. Indeed, we were very favourably struck with the countenances of all three members of the council; honest, honourable men all of them, to judge by looks.

 

        We then drove back to our house, and Robert took me through the gardens, where are little temples and beautiful white marble seats scattered among the orange and cypress trees, and numbers of semi-tame pea-fowl.

 

        But the wonder of the garden is a well, which might rank with an old Roman work; it is built of very small bricks such as the Romans used, and has a diameter of fifty feet clear, besides three stories of arched galleries running round it, contained in the thickness of the wall. There is a broad road running at an easy slope from the water—which is a long, way down, and said to be very deep—to the surface of the ground, which it reaches at a considerable distance from the mouth of the well. The water is raised by bullocks, of which four pairs can work at the same time; and an aqueduct leads to one of the bastions of the garden wall, in which is a large reservoir. It is a wonderful work, and Robert says there is another precisely similar at the opposite corner of the garden, but that was too long a pilgrimage for me to take.

 

        When we went indoors we warmed ourselves by a great brazier of charcoal, there being no fireplaces, and amused ourselves by counting the chandeliers and candelabra in the room. You may suppose it was a large room when I say that, so far from the chandeliers being very noticeable, I can quite fancy an unobservant person never even noticing their existence unless when lighted. We counted nineteen chandeliers and sixteen standing candelabra, many of them with rose coloured shades, which must look very well when lit up. But for our benefit only eight lamps were brought in, which made but a dim general light.

 

 

CHAPTER XXX.

 

JOURNEY TO MURREE—START FOR KASHMIR—A RACER— SWIMMING THE JHELUM—SATANIC CHARACTER OF CHIKOR—AYAH’S APPRECIATION OF SCENERY.

 

        Saturday, Oct. 1:  Murree.—After much difficulty and many delays about getting leave, Robert received a telegram last Saturday evening to say he might go on two months' leave at once; so, as there was much sickness about, we determined to try and get off on Monday if possible. That very night, Carlie and I got fever, and it was a bad preparation for the two days' hard work that had to be got through, especially as the ayah fell ill too, and could hardly help at all in the packing. However, one way and another, all was done that had to be done, and on Monday evening we started from Saharanpur, a wan and hollow-eyed set of mortals fleeing from the regions of sickness.

 

        We booked all our heavy luggage through to Rawul Pindi, but we ourselves broke the journey at Lahore, where we arrived about nine o'clock Tuesday morning. We rested for the day at a hotel, starting again at five o’clock on the second half of our railway journey. We were now on the Punjab Northern State Railway—a fact we soon became aware of by the extraordinary slowness of our progress; during a great part of the way they only profess a speed of twelve miles an hour, but even that was too reckless for our driver, and we often reduced it to eight. We were very lucky to secure a carriage to ourselves, for there were only two first-class carriages, and they were very small; our compartment was the last one, and had two back windows like a coupe, which faced two others belonging to the reserved carriage for native women. Finding they could see into our carriage, they fully availed themselves of the privilege, and watched us with untiring interest and curiosity with which we might watch a family of gorillas.  At night we wished them anywhere else, for a carriage full of macaws could not have been more noisy; all night long a Babel of shrill chattering and laughing, with a few still more noisy wrangles.             

 

        The ayah was too ill almost to move and I was so worn out by the shaking and the pains in my head and bones from fever that I did not know whether to sit or lie or stand. The heat, too, was oppressive and suffocating, and poor little Carlie moaned and tossed about all night, once rolling off the seat with a thud. When morning dawned, we found we had left the interminable monotonous dead flat of the plains, and were passing through broken country, worn into curious ravines and walls by the action of water. We actually passed through quite deep cuttings, in which strata of waterworn stones, sand and clay alternated. On reaching Rawul Pindi, we went to a hotel to rest before doing anything further; we found it much cooler than Lahore, being only 83˚ in the house; indeed we hardly needed punkahs, but had them to keep off the mosquitoes.

 

        We started off the heavy luggage at once for Murree, in a two-wheeled cart, under the charge of our bearer and bhisti. The distance is only thirty-eight miles, but these carts take twenty-four hours to do it.

 

        We ourselves started the next morning at dawn in a tonga, which is a two-wheeled thing drawn by two or three horses, and will carry six people, including the driver; it has a canvas hood, and combines strength and lightness as much perhaps as is possible. I had the seat of comfort, by the driver. All the others are side-ways as in a waggonette, and as the cart is much tilted back by the weight of the syces who stand somewhere at the back, it makes the position a very tiring one to maintain for six hours of incessant jolting. No invalid could attempt the journey in a tonga, he would have to go in a doolie carried by men.

 

        The jolting is quite wonderful. Our three half-broken ponies flew along, driven with a loose rein and a resounding whip, and away we leapt and banged and hopped behind them, occasionally getting a jolt that really made our teeth clatter as we hopped over a piece of rock as big as your head that had been put to scotch some former cart-wheel.

 

        For the first seventeen miles there is very little rise, but after that the road rises steadily and often steeply. The scenery then begins to be lovely, the hills clothed with beautiful pine trees that rustled in the fresh breeze which put new life into us as it swept past.

 

        We had very good ponies, too, as soon as the ascent began—strong, steady beasts, who played no pranks, but threw their weight into the collar (bearing-reins happily being unknown) in a business-like way most contrary to the habits of ordinary dak ponies. One pony is in the shafts, and the other two are harnessed, one on each side of him, to a splinter bar, which is simply laid across the shafts behind two iron pins, and on which a syce generally sits in order to balance the cart better.

 

        At the end of six hours we had reached Murree, and the driver pulled up exactly opposite the thirty-eighth mile post, and calmly told us he could go no farther—it was against orders, and we must get out and walk to the hotel!  To anyone feeling tired and ill this is not a pleasing surprise; but there is no help for it, and a clamouring crowd of coolies quickly surrounded us and laid forcible hands on all our effects.

    

        Fortunately we had only half a mile to walk, and the air was so exquisitely cool and pure that it made one feel a different creature. It is a pleasure merely to breathe in such air, and the contrast with the heavy sultry air we have breathed for the last six months makes it act like a strong tonic on us. Carlie has quite shaken off his fever now, and it is delightful to see his eyes so bright and clear after their heavy glassy look this last week. We are now only waiting for the servants to get well before we make our start into Kashmir.

 

        We have bought dandies, cooking pots, camp beds, a small tent, and other necessaries, and shall have everything ready in a day or two.

 

        Murree is in no way very different from other hill stations; you look down upon a vast heaving ocean of hills, and perhaps get the idea of being far in among the hills, more than at any other station I have seen. Its height is the same as Mussoorie—about 7,000 feet.

 

* * * * *

 

        On the Jhelum, Oct. 17.—This boat life is most slow and lazy; we seem to be passing through the land where it is always afternoon. We are towed up by three of our crew, usually a man, woman, and small child, who plod manfully but slowly along the bank or through the shallow water. The boat often grounds on a sand bank, when one of the women on board jumps over and pushes till we are afloat again. Occasionally the crew take to their paddles and paddle in a curious intermittent way, working furiously for a little while, and then ceasing altogether—but on the whole we progress about two miles an hour!

 

        Last night when dusk fell we moored by the bank, and stayed there till daybreak. We found it extremely cold, but fortunately were well provided with furs and blankets, and slept soundly as soon as we had become accustomed to the rats which scrabbled about the boat.

 

        All yesterday the banks of the river were very ugly, flat, muddy, and treeless; but to-day the scenery has altered, and grand mountain ranges have come in sight, beautiful in outline and colour. The view is most lovely just above the village of Sopura, a village with wooden houses and the same dolls' windows as at Baramulla, and a bridge on wooden stacks.

 

        The whole river is in places alive with boats, shaped not unlike gondolas, having both ends standing high out of the water. Some are very large and heavy, and are laden with wood going to Srinagar, a voyage that takes them ten days. Other boats of all sizes are laden with singaras or water chestnuts, which grow in the shallow water at the river's edge, and it is said bring in an annual revenue of 10,000l. to the Maharaja. There are two kinds of them, both such curious looking things, with long spikes like horns; one is like the head of an ox-fiend, and both are rather Satanic but small, not bigger without the horns than a cobnut. They are much liked by the natives, and are nice to eat when once you can get their shells off, but I should never eat them if I had to shell them.

 

        Srinagar, Oct. 20.—On the afternoon of the third day we sighted the city of Srinagar, the Venice of India. As we neared it the boats on the river got thicker and thicker till it seemed a wonder that our boatmen avoided collisions, especially as they took to paddling and sent us along at a really good pace.

 

        Presently we passed under the first of the six bridges which cross the river at Srinagar, all built on the same pattern as the one at Baramulla. The resemblance of Srinagar to Venice lies chiefly in the way in which everyone lives on the water, and in the busy crowd of boats of pleasure and of business, either darting about or moored in close rows at the bank. The houses have little resemblance to the stately Venetian palaces; they are nearly all of them built of wood, many in a perfectly ruinous condition, and all with a fair crop of grass on the roof which gives a peculiarly uncared for and ruinous look to the whole. The lower part of a house is little more than foundation or cellar, and must be under water when the river is high; the upper part projects and is supported on tall piles, and almost every house has pretty wooden balconies and a great deal of carved lattice work. Glass in the windows is almost unknown, and the cold in winter must be intense, as the window openings have only shutters of open lattice; in many instances these have paper pasted over them, which by no means adds to the look of tidiness, being generally torn and flapping in sundry places.

 

        All this notwithstanding, the general effect is picturesque in the extreme, and Srinagar must be Elysium to an artist. There is hardly a house but would make a charming picture, in spite of ruin and paper, and hardly a boatwoman but would make a still more charming one—dirt and rags included.  

 

        After passing the fifth bridge we came to the Maharaja's palace which adjoins the fort. It is a big rambling building, but neither grand nor beautiful from the outside. Opposite to it are some of the most wretched and ramshackle of all the wooden houses along the river—St. James’s and St.Giles's in juxtaposition.

 

        Another bridge and we come in sight of a fine reach of the river, bordered by a wall of poplars planted so close that they seem almost to touch one another.  They are now in their brilliant autumn robe of pale yellow, and interspersed with them are some magnificent chenar trees (Plantanus orientalis), now in all the glory of deepest red and orange and russet, while in the background rise mountains of softest blue and darkest purple—the whole reflected in the broad smooth river as in a mirror, making the most gorgeous piece of colouring I ever saw in nature.

 

        On the south bank are good houses belonging to various Government officials, and still higher up and on the north bank are the bungalows built by the Maharaja for the use entirely of English visitors, who have them rent free, subject only to certain conditions.

 

        Here we landed at five o'clock and our boatmen took us to see some of the houses and choose which we would have, for nearly all are now empty. We finally chose a set of rooms in what is called the Barracks—not so dignified a title as a bungalow, but then the Barracks actually have six small panes of glass in each door, so that you can shut up your room without being in total darkness, the only alternative in the bungalows. We are extremely glad that we did so decide, for the weather changed the very day we came, and in the morning the mountains were covered with snow that had fallen in the night. Since then it has been cold and rainy —the first rain here for six months we are told.

 

        We keep a fire burning, and with the doors shut (that is to say, shut as well as they will shut, a gap of an inch or two not counting for anything in this country), we manage to be comfortable enough.  I cannot think what people do to keep warm in the bungalows; perhaps, being in the dark, they go to bed and stay there.

 

        The next day we took a small boat, and went down to the fourth bridge, an hour's good quick paddle. There we landed and went to look at the silversmiths' work; there are only three silversmiths, and they all live in a large square opening out from a labyrinth of steep, narrow, disgusting streets, as bad as any in Naples.

 

        Our boatmen escorted us and liberally cuffed anyone who was too curious or pertinacious in following us; they took us to the shops, accompanied us upstairs, and stayed in the most matter-of-fact way while we were inspecting the things. How odd it would be if a London cabman accompanied one into Emanuel's shop and offered his advice or showed his interest in one's purchases!

 

        The work is very beautiful, and most of the shapes extremely elegant, but I cannot bring myself to admire a very favourite pattern on the model of the kang native brazier; it seems to me to be as beautiful as a coal-scuttle and though I can fancy getting one as a model, it seems to me a singular taste to admire the shape in a teapot. Another favourite pattern, the model of the common native chiragh oil lamp, I think charming; but indeed I admire all the genuine native shapes excepting that of the kang, which looks as if it had been crushed out of shape on one side by some heavy blow.

 

        We went to all three silversmiths and compared their work, and on the whole I think we admired Kaddu's things the most.  We then went up some narrow grimy stairs to see the famous papier mache work, and saw the men at work, grinding their colours, painting, and varnishing. The price of the work depends on its fineness and some of it is extremely delicate and of lovely design. The man showed us an order of 100 Rs. worth for the Prince of Wales. Everyone who buys anything at these shops writes in a book what things he has bought, what their description is, or weight in silver, and what he has paid or agreed to pay for them. Some of the men have orders for hundreds of pounds' worth at a time, yet they live in little mean, dirty, wretched- looking houses, with their men at work on the first floor, and no attempt at attractive display of any sort. Their whole stock is kept in boxes, and each separate thing taken out of its wrappings to show you, and carefully wrapped up and returned to the box as soon as you leave.

 

        Srinagar, Oct. 21.—We went yesterday with Dr. Downes and Mr. R ___ to see the wine manufactory set up by the Maharaja many years ago under the management of a Frenchman, M. Ermand. It is situated on the shore of the Dal Lake, a beautiful sheet of water with mountains enclosing it, on whose slopes are the vineyards from which the wine is made. The day was cold and threatening, with the clouds so low that we could only see the lower part of the mountains. The grape season is quite over, so there was nothing to be seen of the wine-making; we went through the cellars, and Robert and the others tasted various clarets, brandies, and sparkling wines. Their praise seemed to me rather faint, but most of the wines are perhaps too new to be fairly criticized.

 

        There is a huge still at work, and they make brandy from pears, apples, mulberries, and apricots. If it can be made to pay, it should certainly pay under the present system, for we hear that the fruit is not paid for except when taken from the immediate neighbourhood, and that the wretched owners have into the bargain to bring it in gratuitously from their villages, often many days' march distant.

 

        It is no doubt always difficult to know what reliance to place on what one hears in a new country, but some facts with regard to the Kashmir system of government are indisputable, and need only to be known to be condemned. It seems that a great part of the revenue is collected in kind, and in a way peculiarly objectionable, as affording so great an opportunity for extortion and oppression on the part of the collectors. Mr. R____ was traveling in Kashmir this summer, and, noticing that the barley crops were over-ripe and dropping the grain, he asked a villager why they did not cut them.  'Oh!' said the man, 'we cannot cut them until the Collector has been to see them and give permission.'   'What would happen if you were to cut them without his permission?'  'We should be thrown into prison and our families ruined. We have to see the crop spoilt sometimes while we are waiting for the Collector's permission, but we dare not cut it.'

 

        A week or so later Mr. R____ was returning by the same route; the weather had changed, and rain was threatening. The barley was all lying cut, but no attempt being made to carry it. On asking the reason he was again told that now it was cut the Collector must again see it and value it before it might be stacked.

 

        This system would be a sufficient evil if the weather alone had to be considered; but when you think of the enormous power over the people that it puts into the hands of corrupt officials with itching palms, you may fancy how heavily it weighs on the wretched cultivator. A man, we will say, has a fine crop of corn ready to cut, and he knows that until he sends a bribe to the Collector he will not come to inspect the crop or give the necessary permission to cut it; the bribe has of course to be sent, and, if insufficient, to be followed by a second.

 

        Mr. R____ has seen a great deal of the country this year, and knows something of other native governments, and says he never saw so bad and corrupt a system as in Kashmir. The people are crushed and helpless; they know that any attempt at seeking redress would only put them in a worse position than before, and that it is useless to try and amass a little wealth, for that would only mark them out for extortion and oppression.

 

        This coincides with much that one has heard from others. It is said that the cause of the terrible famine here three years ago was the delay of the officials in giving permission for the crops to be cut, which in consequence spoilt as they stood. How patient and long-suffering the national character must be to bear all this without revolting! Mr. R____ says he believes the Kashmiris to have nearly every vice under the sun, but their cheerfulness and patience under trials are unfailing and wonderful, and compel one’s admiration. He thinks that the wretched state of things is owing chiefly to the want of sympathy between the governing classes and the people. The people are Mahommedan, their rulers Hindu, and between these two there seems to be an even wider gulf than between either of them and us Christians.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

 

SOLOMON’S THRONE—THE DAL LAKE—FLOATING GARDENS—JACKDAWS' AMENS—AN EPICURE IN TOMBS—THE KORAN EXPOUNDED—BY BOAT TO ISLAMABAD—RUINS OF MARTAND.

 

        Srinagar, Oct. 22.—We have been to see the copper work, which is precisely similar to that in silver—the shapes the same, and the chiseling quite equally fine. Like the silver, it is sold by weight. I wish English silversmiths made a practice of doing the same, as then you would know what the intrinsic value was of the thing you bought, and what the charge was for workmanship.

 

        Afterwards we went to a shawl merchant's, and saw some of the famous Kashmir shawls, but steeled ourselves against being tempted by them. We bought, however, several rugs of beautiful design worked on what is called 'namda' or felt; it is the same material as is used universally in India for saddle-cloths and comes from Persia or Affghanistan. The original colours are white, brown, and black, and then the white ones are dyed red and many other colours; on them the designs are worked in coarse wool, and are thoroughly pure and Oriental. The only thing to be regretted is the use of magenta and one or two other European dyes, cheap and easy to use, but their introduction is fatal and much to be deplored.

 

        The merchant offered us tea, which we gladly accepted, as we are too far from the city to run back for luncheon.  The tea here is brought principally from Ladakh, and is, I suppose, Chinese; it was brought in a samawar, which is a kind of urn containing a space down the centre in which charcoal is placed so that the tea is kept boiling. I do not think the tea leaves can be left in after being infused, as the colour of our second cups was no darker than the first. With it was handed a tray with dried apricots, sugar-biscuits, and apricot kernels; the biscuits are for sweetening the tea, which is drunk without milk: you throw one into your cup and it dissolves entirely.

 

        While Robert explored the bazaar further I went and sat in the boat and made a sketch of some boats that were moored on the opposite side; happening to turn my head, I found a row of young street-Arabs sitting on the lowest step, close by, watching me intently, but seeing that I had observed them they rose and fled precipitately, with an expression of comical terror.

 

        Srinagar, Oct. 25.—Yesterday we went to the top of a hill called the Takht-i-Suliman, or Solomon's Throne, which rises abruptly from the valley to a height of 1,000 feet, and has a small Hindu temple built on the very top, looking from below much like a pepper-caster. The ascent is very steep, being in many places up rough broken steps of unshaped stone. Robert walked and I went in a dandy. The path is extremely narrow, and the hill-side often precipitous, and as my bearers were not well-accustomed to the work and rather blundered along, I was not without nervousness lest I should be tipped out. My walking ten yards was, however, out of the question, so I made a virtue of necessity, and sat in my dandy with an air of as much sangfroid as I could assume till we came to the last hundred feet, up which no dandy could be carried; so there I got out, and in course of time clambered up to the little ancient temple. Inside it is the sacred symbol of the Lingam, anointed with milk and ghee brought by the devout, and surrounded with flowers, while the air was heavy with the scent of some pastille burning in a niche.

 

        I had thought that the practice of writing one’s name on walls was confined to English and Americans, or to European nations. But here in this Hindu temple were thousands of Hindu autographs, and it is evidently the proper thing for any pious Hindu, who can write his name to do so on these walls.

 

        There is a splendid view over the whole valley, bounded by a semi-circle of beautiful jagged snow-covered mountains. The question must rise in every Englishman's mind, what could have induced our Government to sell this beautiful country for a wretched three quarters of a million of money! It was little better as a bargain than Esau's mess of pottage.

 

        In coming down again the weakness of my nerves prevailed against the weakness of my muscles and I walked or hopped or dropped down the worst parts of the road, causing my knees to tremble all the rest of the day. In spring there are evidently quantities of wild flowers, but now all is withered and bare, and the hill-side nothing but masses of rock covered with dark velvety moss and beautiful lichens. Huge fragments have from time to time broken off and rolled down to the shore of the Dal Lake, where they lie piled in fantastic confusion.

 

        The rock is peculiarly hard, the formation being trap, I believe, and can seldom be used for building, costing too much to cut into shape. Perhaps that is why hardly any steps or buildings are made of shaped blocks.

 

        To-day we have been by boat to the Dal Lake, an hour and a half’s paddle with six men and a steerer—i.e. a woman at the stern with another paddle. We went up a small stream in which the water was exquisitely clear, and saw shoals upon shoals of minnows, and occasionally a good-sized fish was seen and speared by man at the prow. The spear was a long slender pole, sometimes used for punting, and having at one end a circular bunch of small barbed prongs: the men are very clever in using it.

 

        We passed by the Chenar Bagh, or Garden of Chenars; and very beautiful the groups of these trees are—the grand trunks and limbs with their smooth milk-white bark looking now still whiter by contrast with the deep crimson and orange tints of the splendid foliage. The water of the lake was like glass, and the reflections of the mountains most beautiful and perfect; in many places the water was covered with lotus leaves, and their bent stalks, with the reflections of them, made curious and graceful geometrical figures all over the surface, the reflection being so bright and strong that only by halving the figure could one tell where reality began and ended. We went to Nishat Bagh, a country house belonging to the Maharaja; it is on the shore of the lake and might be a villa on Como; but if it were on Como it would have a decent landing place, and we should not have had to be punted by main force through thick mud till we reached some squashy land, where boards were thrown out for us to step on, and then picked up and again thrown in front of us till we reached firm ground.  Of course this is only when the lake is low, as it is at this season, but still it would be easy, even then, to make some kind of landing place.

 

        The grounds are very pretty, and in the spring evidently have a mountain stream rushing down some stone-built channels with fountains in numbers. Behind the gardens rise the hills quite abruptly—grand towering walls of rock. The old Mogul monarch who laid out the pleasure grounds showed very good taste in the situation he chose.

 

        I was greatly disappointed in the floating gardens, for which the lake is celebrated and of which I had often read. Without knowing anything about them, you would merely think they were flat marshy bits of ground, cultivated in some way—so that you need to know how curiously they are made before you see anything the least remarkable about them. It seems that one of the water plants in the lake has a habit of matting its root fibers very thickly together, and the natives take advantage of this by cutting off the stems below the matted part, thereby unmooring the matted plants; they then put brushwood and earth on to the floating mass, and moor it by stakes driven through and down, into the mud. They grow melons and many vegetables very successfully on these floating earth-rafts, which are certainly very curious— but not to look at.

 

* * * * *

 

        Jan. 25.—The last few days we have had the District Superintendent of Police marching with us, who has had to inspect sundry villages near here suspected of practicing female infanticide, and put therefore under special police surveillance. They have to pay themselves for the special police force, and have to report all births, and show all dead bodies of children to some police or medical authority. Their lives are in every way made a burden to them until such time as they shall see the error of their ways and consent to bring up more girls than they can provide for.

 

        The Superintendent has been at this work now for years, and says he is perfectly certain that the practical result of our legislation is that now an equal number of boy babies are destroyed in order to balance the proportion of male and female deaths.

 

        You cannot force parents to rear a child. You may prevent their killing it by an overdose of opium, because that can be detected and punished. But you cannot punish them when a child simply will not thrive, and after a few painful months dies ' a natural death.'

 

        This, therefore, is another result of our efforts, that the children die a death of suffering instead of a quick and unconscious one. As to the children themselves, there can be small doubt that it is better for them to die as soon as born, than to live, to grow up and struggle, and finally die of starvation or lead a life of wickedness—and the other lies before these girls as long as long as the country is over-populated. As to the moral guilt of the parents, it cannot be great. Till we made the law against infanticide it was perhaps nil, for sin surely includes, and signifies consciousness of sin, and of that they had none. It was the immemorial custom of their people, and they could not bring up more than a certain number of girls in decency.

 

        It might perhaps be well to make England clean in this respect before interfering with these people; and when such things as baby-farms are no longer known in Christian England, and no such things as foundling hospitals needed, then to begin to remodel Indian customs with a more encouraging result to point to as our aim than the England of the present day affords.

 

        If a cup is full it is a truism to say that more cannot be poured in without some being spilt. And yet this is a problem—substituting countries and population—which all our legislators are bent upon solving. To what end? is the unavoidable question. Is it truly thought better to rear 100,000,000 to poverty, famine, and vice, than to rear 50,000,000 who can live and find work and food? This seems to be the question, and the modern tendency is decidedly to say, 'Rear your 100,000,000,' and to add, 'and the Lord will provide'—knowing practically that the Lord, having made certain fixed laws as to food and population as well as to cups and water, will not interfere in the working out of these laws—not even to favour the most humane legislation.

 

From: Mrs. Robert Moss King, The Diary of A Civilian's Wife in India: 1877-1882. London: Richard Bentley, 1884, 1-20, 37-41, 44-47, 70-72, 85-89, 102-107, 116-120, 122-127, 156-162, 183-203, 213-216.