It has been mentioned that the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal has an official residence at the mountain station of Darjeling. Thirty years ago it was no easy task to reach Darjeling, and in 1857 the Lieutenant-Governor marched up from Calcutta to the foot of the hills with a regular camp, at the rate of about ten miles a day, and the march occupied fully six weeks. But now the railway has altered all this. The Lieutenant-Governor gets into his special train at Calcutta at 4 P.M. on Monday, and by noon on Tuesday he finds himself safely in his mountain residence at Darjeling. A steam tramway now runs right up the mountains, and thus Darjeling is much more accessible than Simla, which is not yet provided with a similar tramway. The principal drawbacks to Darjeling are the heavy rain and the dense mists, which too frequently envelop the whole of the mountain ranges. But when there is a clear and bright day, the view of the everlasting snows, with the mighty Kinchenjunga in all its majesty, is grand and glorious beyond all description. It is, however, rather the fashion for the Lieutenant-Governor and his secretaries, and the other great officials who follow in his train to Darjeling, to make themselves out to be great martyrs to colds and coughs and neuralgia and other maladies, which they attribute to the cold and damp and misty climate of the hills. It seems rather strange that if they dislike the climate so much they should take the trouble to go to Darjeling. But these grumblings are really only lip-deep, and they know very well that it is much more comfortable to sleep in a cool room, with a cheerful fire in it, than to remain down in the plains with the thermometer at 80, and to have to court sleep under the influence of a punkah—which has to be pulled by a native who is unpleasantly prone to go to sleep, and so to cease pulling the punkah.
However, when the rain is heaviest at Darjeling, in July or August, the Lieutenant-Governor and the principal grumblers of his suite take the opportunity to descend to the plains, as this is the time when the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal can most conveniently proceed on a tour in his state yacht, or barge, to visit some of the remote portions of his province, which are not easily accessible except by water. The state yacht is built something in the shape and style of the Lord Mayor’s barge, or one of the house-boats now so common on the Thames, only it is much larger, and it is fitted up with everything that is needed to make it tolerably cool and comfortable, for the temperature in the shade in the rainy season is generally about 80° in Bengal. The yacht is towed by a powerful steamer, and all the cooking is carried on in the steamer, which also conveys all the native servants and official clerks, and the horses and ponies which usually accompany the Lieutenant-Governor on tour. When the yacht is under steam, and going along at about ten or twelve miles an hour, it is exceedingly pleasant to sit on the well-sheltered deck and enjoy the cool breeze. The cabins are all fitted up with punkahs, so that those who have to sit and work in their cabins are duly cared for. The scenery on the rivers is not often very attractive, and as the greater part of the country on both sides of the river is under water, the view may be said to be decidedly monotonous. But, however pleasant and cool it may be during the day, and whilst the yacht is in motion, it is when darkness comes on, and it is time to anchor, that the unpleasant heat begins to assert itself; especially if the wind drops, or is shut off by some inconvenient village on the bank of the river. As soon as the lamps are lighted, it often happens that a plague of insects comes on board, either moths, or odoriferous bugs, or flying earwigs, or an army of large grasshoppers. It is wonderful to what a distance these insects come off from the shore as soon as they see the bright lights of the yacht. Fortunately, the dining-saloon is guarded with wire-gauze blinds, so that it is possible to exclude these pests at dinner-time, otherwise the Lieutenant-Governor would have to dine by daylight, which is the custom for ordinary mortals on board the river-steamers and boats.
When the Lieutenant-Governor’s yacht arrives at a civil station or large town, it is a day of great excitement for the inhabitants of all classes and degrees. The principal officials present themselves on board the yacht, and take the Lieutenant-Governor’s orders on the programme which they have devised for his entertainment. It is the correct thing for the Lieutenant-Governor to go and inspect all the Government offices and the local jail. There is a sort of mania for inspecting jails, and if there is a local lunatic asylum it is sure to hold a high place in the programme. The inspection of the Government offices is usually a solemn mockery. Most officers of any tact understand the meaning of eye-wash, and everything is externally furbished up so as to look its best. The Lieutenant-Governor is only human, and in reality sees very little below the surface of that which is exhibited to him. If the Lieutenant-Governor is known to be of a cantankerous disposition, as has, unfortunately, been the case sometimes, the proper thing to be done is to lay traps for him, and to present to his eyes something which will at once give him offence; such, for instance, as a treasure-chest with a broken hinge, or a large bundle of old papers all worm-eaten and almost illegible. He will at once fly at these objects, so shocking to his sense of official propriety, and whilst he is fiercely hunting the foxes which have been thus turned out, he will pass blindly by a dozen other things which might really have been worthy of his notice. With an intelligent and kindly Lieutenant-Governor, who understands his business, it is equally safe to proceed on an entirely different plan, and to point out to him the defects and the wants of the place with the full knowledge that he will make due allowance for them. No sensible Lieutenant-Governor is over-anxious to find fault, or to bring discredit on the local officers, who are obviously doing their little best, as he well knows by the recollection of his own experiences in a similar position. It is often a matter of great convenience if the occasion of the Lieutenant-Governor’s visit can be seized, either to lay the foundation stone of some new public building, or to celebrate the completion and opening of some new institution or work of public utility, such as water-works, or a new bridge or hospital. This affords an opportunity for the presentation of an appropriate address, in which the usual platitudes about the development of municipal institutions and the recognition of the capacity of natives for self-government must find their proper place and expression. The richest and most influential native subscribers to the work are then introduced, and on receiving a few kindly words from the Lieutenant-Governor’s lips they feel at once certain that they will shortly find themselves authorised in the Government Gazette to style themselves C.S.I. or C.I.E., unless a native title is more consonant to their feelings. The principal official of the station then entertains the Lieutenant-Governor and his party at dinner, unless the Lieutenant-Governor takes the precaution to ask all the principal residents to dine on board his yacht, which is by far the safest course for him to adopt. If the Lieutenant-Governor has not a good cook, good food, and good wine with him in his yacht, he is not fit to be Lieutenant-Governor. For in a remote district the best and most liberal local official may have but an indifferent cook, who, perhaps, takes the opportunity to get drunk; and the local supplies of food and wine and ice may not be of the very best quality. Therefore, a Lieutenant-Governor with due respect for his own health and comfort, does well to invite the local people to dine with him in his yacht, instead of going on shore to dine with them. And after dinner the broad deck of the yacht affords an excellent space for an evening party, to which the Lieutenant-Governor can ask all the other local residents, and especially all the native gentlemen who do not care to be invited to dinner. Probably some wealthy native gentlemen illuminate their houses, or get up a display of fireworks on the river-banks near the yacht; and this counts, in the eyes of the assembled crowds, as part of the evening’s entertainment. And so the night wears on, and by the time that the last guest has gone on shore the Lieutenant-Governor has long been slumbering peacefully in his cabin; and the next day, as soon as the rosy-fingered dawn appears, the anchor is weighed, and the steamer and yacht proceed on their journey to some other station, where the Lieutenant-Governor will have again to go through the same kind of business as that which we have attempted to describe. So we will now bid him farewell.
CHAPTER III.
ENGLISH COLONISTS IN BENGAL.
Hitherto we have written of “kings and tetrarchs and all great things” in India. Now let us go to a different degree in the social scale, to those who were alluded to as the real colonists of India in the first of these chapters. There are now hundreds, or rather thousands, of our countrymen settled in India who may be taken as representing the middle-classes of England; though it might be more correct to use the public-school term, the “upper-middle” classes. Some of these are employed in the cultivation and manufacture of indigo, or sugar, or jute, or other mercantile produce, in the hot and steamy plains of Bengal. Others, who are engaged in the management of tea gardens, occupy hilly tracts, many of which are as hot and steamy as the plains; though some tea is grown at high altitudes, and in a comparatively cooler climate, as on the mountain-slopes around Darjeling. Others are employed in managing and working the railways which now traverse the length and breadth of the country, and for these there is no escape from all the perils and vicissitudes of the greatest heat. In most of the large towns throughout the country there are established firms of merchants, of which some of the partners are constantly flitting backwards and forwards between India and England, though there is always some local representative of the name and business of the firm left in India. Amongst the trading or shop-keeping classes there are some who have their branch “establishments” at the great hill stations, such as Simla, to which they migrate in order to escape from the heat of the plains when the Court and fashion of the capital retire there with a similar object.
Under the name of colonists we may readily give the first place to those who are engaged in the cultivation and manufacture of indigo. Owing to circumstances to which we need not further allude, the indigo-planters have not fared well in recent times, especially in some parts of the country, where, to put the case simply, it was no longer possible to grow indigo at a profit, so that the business must have come to an end of itself without the mischievous meddling of agitators, or the irritating intervention of prejudiced Government officials. But there are still many parts of the country, especially in the province of Behar, where indigo may be cultivated successfully; and if the season is favourable, and the crop good, and the London market-price satisfactory, a handsome profit may be made. There are some few indigo-factories or “concerns” which may almost always be trusted year after year to yield a good and profitable out-turn. But it is not by any means a general rule to be so prosperous. At some places either too heavy rain or too little rain may spoil the growing crop. A neighbouring river may overflow its banks and drown all the hopes of the husbandmen, or the much-needed water may refuse to appear in the river at the proper time, so that the well-grown plant cannot be manufactured into the dye. These are but a few out of the many troubles that attend the cultivation of indigo. There are some years when the life of the indigo-planter is a life of mere agony and anxiety, and nothing that his skill or experience can suggest or devise is of the slightest avail to ward off the impending ruin of his crop and of his hopes for a successful season.
But for all this, the life of an indigo-planter is generally healthy and happy, and at all events it is more suited to the taste and disposition of most young Englishmen than the dull routine of a merchant’s office or a bank. Let us try to picture to ourselves the buildings and surroundings of the indigo-planter’s home. There is a cheerful and substantial house nestling in the shelter of some fine trees; there is a broad lawn, and a flower-garden full of roses and myrtles and variegated flowering shrubs. There is the well-stocked kitchen-garden with its constant supplies of English vegetables. There are the stables and coachhouses which we may presently inspect. There are the poultry-yards, where no small flock of fowls and ducks and geese and turkeys will be found. The rabbithutches are not neglected, and the pigeon-house literally swarms with pigeons. The sleek milch-cows, with their calves, have their appointed places; and you may be sure that there are good kennels for the dogs. A little apart from the dwelling-house the factory-buildings will usually be found, with the vats and apparatus for steeping and pressing the indigo to extract the dye, and the boiling-house with its tall and ugly chimney, and the drying-houses where the cakes of indigo are kept until it is time to pack and despatch them to Calcutta for sale. All the factory-buildings usually stand in one compound, as the local term goes, and this is in size almost equal to a small park, surrounded by a high grassy bank or fence to keep off trespassers, and usually studded with some fine groups of trees, in the shade of which the cattle take shelter from the mid-day heat. The English colonist is ever anxious to keep up the appearance of a comfortable English home, and not merely the appearance but the solid substance, so far as the difference of climate permits.
An indigo factory is usually managed by one of the owners or partners in the concern. Let us take the case of a healthy hardy man a little past thirty years of age, who has served an apprenticeship of several years as an assistant in the factory of which he at length stands forth as manager. He has acquired a certain share as part-owner in the factory, and will thus earn his quota in the profits of the season, whilst he has a separate fixed salary and sundry emoluments in his special capacity as manager. His position is thoroughly independent, if so be that he and his partners have sufficient capital of their own to carry on the expenditure of the concern. If they have not the requisite capital, their agents in Calcutta finance the concern, making such advances as are needed for the purchase of seed, the cost of cultivation, payment of rents, and all the other expenses which must be provided for until the produce of the season can be sold and brought to account. The profitable condition of an indigo factory depends chiefly on the capacity of the owners to provide their own funds, or on their having to borrow them. For as the cultivation is precarious, and the amount of the produce varies from year to year, money cannot be borrowed on such security except at a heavy charge for interest. With commission and other charges the borrower has to pay about twenty per cent. for the capital which he borrows. Of course, it makes a very great difference at the end of the season if twenty per cent. has to be deducted from the net profits of the concern.
At certain times of the year the indigo-planter has rather a hard-worked life. In what may be termed the spring-time, when the plant is growing, he must be up with the dawn for a long ride through the fields to see that the cultivators are looking properly after their work. The hot and blazing sun rises, but he heeds it little, as his anxious eyes are bent on noting any changes for good or bad that may have occurred in the crop since he last rode in this direction. He does not, however, disdain the shelter of a friendly tree, if so be that his course is arrested by a party of anxious villagers who seek his advice or orders about the right to use some water for irrigation, or to fish in some particular pond, or to settle some minute question of caste—such, for instance, as the grave question whether some new arrival is entitled to be shaved by the village barber. I have sat for more than an hour with a planter listening to all the earnest arguments submitted for his decision on this point. Sometimes also, his ride may be interrupted by less peaceable demonstrations, for an aggressive neighbour may have trespassed on his cultivated lands, or he may find a hostile force arrayed to prevent him from ploughing certain fields to which he considers himself entitled. Fortunately the stand-up fights of armed retainers, which were not uncommon years ago, are now almost unknown, and those who are wisest in their generation now are careful to avoid any recourse to force in settling their disputes with their neighbours. At length the morning round is finished, and he gallops home through the fiery sunshine, giving his horse the benefit of a little practice at a few jumps over any banks and ditches that lie conveniently in his path.
As he rides up to his house the children and the “placens uxor” appear, probably to chide him for being so late out in the hot sun, as it seems to be the first duty of a good wife always to remind her husband that he ought to take more care of himself. Probably, however, the lady is anxious for her breakfast; whilst the children, who have had their breakfast, are only too glad to welcome their father and to follow him into his dressing-room to have their little talk with him, and to watch all the mysterious operations of dressing which seem to have such a fascination for children. In India each little child of two or three years old has its own special man or boy servant in charge of it, so that the children can be still cared for in their father’s dressing-room, which might be not quite so convenient in England, where children are in charge of nurses. But when their father has bathed and dressed, the children lead him out into the breakfast-room, and, probably having got some spoil from the breakfast-table, they retire to their mid-day slumbers and are seen no more.