Subsequent experience of them has convinced me that a finer body of men is hardly to be found than the sepoys of Hindostan, particularly in their own country; for, taken out of it into a climate where the food, water, &c., disagree with them, they lose much of their spirit and stamina.
Our countryman, the British soldier, possesses an unrivalled energy and bull-dog courage, which certainly, when the tug of war—the hour of real danger—comes, must, as it ever has done, bear everything before it; but justice demands the admission that, in many other respects, the sepoy contrasts most favourably with him—temperate, respectful, patient, subordinate, and faithful—one of his highest principles being “fidelity to his salt,” he adds to no ordinary degree of courage every other requisite of a good soldier.
A judicious policy towards these men, based on a thorough knowledge of their peculiar characteristics, may bind them to us for ages yet to come, by the double link of affection and interest, and enable us, as an Indian power, to laugh alike at foreign foes and domestic enemies; whilst a contrary course, and leaving their feelings and customs to be trifled with by inexperienced innovators, may, ere long, produce an opposite effect, and cause them, if once alienated, to shake us off “like dew-drops from the lion’s mane.”
Serais, or places of entertainment for wayfarers—well known to all readers of Eastern tales as caravan-serais—I frequently met with at towns on my march, and sometimes encamped within or near the walls. The serais, like the generality of buildings in India, are almost always in a ruinous state, it being nobody’s business to keep them in a state of repair.
These structures, some of them the fruits of the piety and munificence of former times, are a great public benefit; their construction is generally similar, and consists of four walls of brick, stone, or mud, sometimes battlemented, forming a parallelogram, having gateways at two opposite sides, through which the high road usually passes. Small cells or apartments, with arched entrances, run round the interior, in any one of which the weary traveller may spread his mat, smoke his pipe, and enjoy his repose as long as he pleases.
Each serai has its establishment of attendants, bunyahs (shopkeepers), bhistees and mehturs (water-carriers and sweepers), who ply their several occupations, and administer to the traveller’s wants.
What a motley and picturesque assemblage do these serais sometimes exhibit! In one part saunters a group of fair and athletic Afghans from Cabul or Peshawur, proceeding with horses, greyhounds, dried fruits, and the like, to sell in the south; their fearless bearing and deep voices proclaim them natives of a more invigorating climate. In another, a drove of bunjarra bullocks repose amongst piled sacks of grain, and quietly munch the cud, whilst their nomade drivers smoke or snore around.
Under the shade of yon drooping tamarind-tree, on a branch of which his sword and shield are suspended, a Mahomedan traveller has spread his carpet, and with his face towards Mecca (his kibla), his head hanging on his breast, and his arms reverentially folded, he offers up his evening’s devotions; near him, on the little clay terrace, is to be seen the high-caste bramin, his body marked with ochres and pigments, and, surrounded by his religious apparatus of conch, flowers, and little brazen gods, he blows his shell, tinkles his bell, and goes through all his little mummeries, with the full conviction that he is fulfilling the high behests of Heaven.
Groups of camels, tatoos, or the gaunt steed of some roaming cavalier—some Dugald Dalgetty of the East, seeking employment for his jaws and sword, or rather for his sword and jaws, for such is the order—serve to fill up the little picture I have been describing, and which in my griffinish days, and since, I have contemplated with pleasure.
In a day or two we reached Allyghur, where my good friend the missionary and I were destined to part, his route lying to the southward towards Agra, mine in a more northerly direction to Delhi. Here I received a few lines from Marpeet, saying that he was looking for my arrival with great pleasure. “You had better push on as fast as you can, my dear Gernon, for your commandant, who is a crusty old fellow, and a very tight hand, has been heard to express his surprise at your not having long since made your appearance.”