CHAPTER XXII.
On the evening of my arrival at Dinapore, I was sitting on the roof of my boat, observing the dobees, or washermen, thumping their clothes, natives cleaning their teeth with primitive tooth-brushes of stick, and other similar sights which diversify the animating scene of an Indian ghaut, when the distant and inspiring strains of a full military band broke upon my ear. “Egad!” thought I, “there’s some fun going on; a promenade, no doubt, with all the beauty and fashion of Dinapore assembled; I’ll go and see.”
I ordered Ramdial to bring out the jubba walla coortie (the laced jacket), which had never yet graced my person in any public assembly. A splendid thing it was, with a huge silver epaulet, and “tastily turned up with a brimstone-coloured lapelle;” I thought there could hardly be its fellow in all Dinapore. A neat white waistcoat, crimson sash (tied in a dégagé knot under the fifth rib), coatee over all, hat a shade on one side, and flourishing a clean bandanna in my hand, with a sprinkling of lavender upon it, me voilà, an ensign of the first water.
I soon reached the scene of attraction in the principal square, and a lively scene it was. There were congregated groups of officers, chatting and laughing around belles seated in tonjons; others, three or four abreast, promenading backwards and forwards, hands behind them, and examining the structure of their legs; gigs and carriages drawn up, their occupants attentively listening; syces walking their masters’ chargers up and down; chuprassies, silver-stick men, and other native servants, mingled with the throng of sepoy orderlies and European soldiers in undress.
I mingled with the crowd, and promenaded too; but, alas! I knew no one; and who so solitary as he who, amongst a crowd, experiences the sickening reflection that there is no one of the many assembled with whom he holds the slightest community of thought or feeling!
The shades of evening were deepening—the assembly thinning—the finale, “God save the King,” was playing—busy memory had awakened thoughts of those who did regard me, far, far away—and I was waxing thoughtful and sad, when I suddenly heard the sound of a familiar voice.
I turned, and recognized in the speaker my shipmate and brother-cadet, honest Grundy. I sprang forward to address him.
God knows—for it is hard to answer for that fickle and selfish thing, the human heart, which has rarely the courage to brave the “world’s dread laugh,” and follow its own more generous dictates—whether I should always have done it with equal promptitude, for Grundy, in a mere fashionable sense, was not an acquaintance to be proud of; but now I stood in need of sympathy, and there are seasons when anything in the shape of a friend is acceptable—when we are not fastidious, and are overjoyed to exchange greetings with aught in the shape of humanity.
“Grundy, my boy,” said I, facing him, “don’t you know me?”
Grundy stared vacantly for a moment, for I was considerably metamorphosed by my new habiliments; but soon recognizing me, his features relaxed into an expression of good-humoured delight.