‘Behold us here, my Queen Lily[39] and I, encamped in the midst of a Sikh village, and living in a tent, without lock or key, with as little sensation of danger as I had at Woodlands or Firlands....
‘It was indeed romantic to travel along that wild path by starlight.... Do you remember the well-known engraving of Una with her lion entering a witch’s cave? Now, as I jogged along in my duli,[40] while Margaret rode on her white pony, she made me think of that picture of Una. She is so fair, so graceful, so pure-looking, with her chiselled profile and her sweet expression; I could not make out, however, anything that would do for the lion.
‘Dear Leila’s most useful bag is now fastened up in our tent.... Poor Sarah Jones’ night-bag is on my bed; please ask dear Leila to tell her so, when she sees her, with my kind remembrances.
‘Oh, a Sikh village is a curious place; built of mud, and pretty thickly populated, it reminds me of an ant-hill. I wonder how such houses stand the rains. The people are not very dark, and they seem to be very friendly. It is not from rudeness that they crowd about one, and examine one’s dress.
‘It would have amused you to have seen Margaret and me perambulating the village, going through its muddy lanes; sometimes so narrow that one could have touched the walls on either hand,—or nearly so. Do not suppose that we walked alone. We had wished to take a quiet stroll together, but this was out of the question. We carried a train with us; and when we had entered a tiny court, inhabited by four families, when I raised my eyes I saw a set of spectators perched on the wall above, like so many sparrows, gazing down on the English ladies. One had not in the least the feeling of being amongst enemies,—only once or twice I saw a man look sternly at us. I concluded that these men were Muhammadans, of whom there are, I believe, a few in this village. The Sikhs seem to be a good-humoured, friendly set, who have not the slightest objection to our speaking as much about our religion as we like. Some of the people here—like the Pandit[41]—know Urdu, but by no means all of them.
‘But, Laura, you who have an eye for the picturesque, and a soul for the romantic, you should have had a glimpse of us yesterday in the Pandit’s house, at evening prayer! The long mud-built room looked strange enough by day; but at night seen by the gleam of one lamp, it looked—like the entrance to a cave or a catacomb.
‘There sat the Pandit on his large mat, and at a little distance his wife on a very small one, the dull lamp throwing their black shadows on the mud wall behind them. A black buffalo calf was at one end of the apartment; but the place was too dark for us to see much of it. The Pandit bending over his book was a study for an artist, with his white turban and his extraordinary spectacles. I was asked to choose the chapter; I chose Romans xii. The Pandit had such difficulty in finding the place, that it seemed evident that he is not familiar with the Epistles. But he must have been pleased with the chapter, when he did find it; for he not only read it, but the one which followed it. Then came a long Sanscrit prayer.’
‘March 7.—One of the things most admired has been a prism, which I have as a letter-weight. The splendid colours which through it an Indian sun casts on the walls excite much admiration and pleasure. My little Ayah to-day asked me what my Zouave had cost. I should hardly call her my Ayah, as, luckily for me, I have only one-third part of the little woman. To have a whole Ayah would be too much of a good thing.
‘I took your Illustrated yesterday to show to the Mother-in-law of the German Missionary.... I tried as I walked to the house to get up a little German; but, O Laura, the Urdu had driven it almost all out of my head. If I wished to call up a German word, up would come an Urdu one! I did indeed remember “wunderbar,” and “shrecklich,” so that helped me with the Illustrated, but they would not have been very useful in a lengthy conversation.
‘If I had had time to write yesterday, I might have given you such an interesting account of the Panjabi Munshi, which I heard from Mr. H. This Munshi, I forget his name, is the son of one of the four priests of the Golden Temple, and a man of character, some talent, and influence. Mr. H., who is translating some of the Bible into Panjabi, wanted ——‘s assistance. The Munshi courteously declined, as he feared that the Bible would be contrary to the “Granth,” the Sikh Scriptures. These Scriptures, so far as they go, Mr. H. says, are not bad at all; and true Sikhs detest idolatry. “Well,” says Mr. H., “both you and I worship the Great God. We will make a bargain. If in the Bible we meet with anything against the Great God, we will close the book at once.” The Munshi instantly closed with the offer; and the result is that at last he has told Mr. H. that there is no book in the world like the Bible. When the Munshi’s sister lay dying, he nursed her night and day, and used to carry to her what he had been reading with Mr. H.