The fort of Chunarghur, to which we ascended from the town side by a somewhat steep road, occupies the summit of a table rock, some hundred feet above the surrounding country, and terminating abruptly on the river side. A strong wall, defended by numerous towers, runs round the edge, and the interior contains modern ranges of barracks, magazines, &c., and some fine masses of old buildings, in the Moorish style of architecture, characterized by the cupolas, horseshoe arch, &c.
The views on all sides are extensive and interesting: on the one, you look down upon the roofs of the closely-built native town, its temples and intermingled foliage, and tall bamboo pigeon-stands, with the white houses and luxuriant gardens of the adjacent station, the broad Ganges skirting the verdant slopes in front, and stretching away through many a sandy reach towards Benares; on the opposite side, above the fort, a rich and cultivated country, waving with crops, adorned with mango groves, and dotted here and there with old mosques or tombs, extends far in the distance, traversed by bold sweeps of the river, which, sprinkled with many a white sail, or strings of heavy boats, advancing with snail-like pace against the current, glistens brightly below.
The general pointed out to me the particular part of the wall where we made our unsuccessful assault in the year 1764, with some other lions of the place; after which we left the fort by another gateway, and a somewhat zigzag descent, on the opposite side to that on which we had entered.
In passing a guard of invalids, however, before emerging, I was highly entertained to see the old veterans, who were rather taken by surprise, hobbling out from their pipes and repose in a mighty pother, to present arms to the general, which they managed to effect before he had left them far behind, with a most picturesque irregularity.
Chunar, some thirty or forty years before the period to which I am adverting, had been, I believe, one of our principal frontier stations, and the head-quarters of a division, though then, as now, scarcely occupying a central point in the immense line of the British dominions on this side of India. The cantonments of this large force were situated on the plain last noticed, above the fort, and present small station, though almost every trace of it has long disappeared, at least of the abodes of the living, for the mansions of the dead still remain nearly in statu quo to tell their pensive tale.
We paid a visit to this now remote and forgotten burying ground (or rather to one of them, for there are two) a mile or two beyond the fort; and I confess, albeit a juvenile, that I was touched at the sight of these lonely mementoes of the fact, that a bustling military cantonment, of which hardly a vestige remains, once occupied the immediate vicinity.
How changed is now the scene from what it was in the qui hye days of our fathers! The clang of the trumpet, the roll of the drum, and the gleaming ranks, have long given place to more peaceful sounds and sights; the creak of the well-wheel, and the song of the ryot, as he irrigates his fields, supply the place of the former. Grain now waves where troops once manœuvred, whilst the light airs of the Ganges pipe, amidst the white mausoleums, the dirges of those who “sleep well” beneath, many of the once gay inhabitants of the scene:—
“Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;
Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.”
There are few things which address themselves more strongly to the feelings than the sight of the tombs of our countrymen in a far distant land. In the cemetery to which I am referring, now rarely visited, it being out of the track of travellers, where grass and jungle are fast encroaching, and time and the elements are pursuing their silent dilapidations, many a Briton—many a long forgotten Johnson and Thompson—quietly repose, far from the hearths of their fathers.