From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

Saharanpur is forty-two miles distant from Dehra Doon, the beautiful valley which lies at the foot of the Himalayas. A mail wagon runs daily, but as it suited our convenience better, we chartered a vehicle not unlike an omnibus, and which the natives, improving on the English, call an omnibukus. It is a long covered gharri, that looks more like a prison van than anything else to which I can compare it, and reminded me of the Black Maria that halts before the Tombs in New York to convey prisoners to Blackwell's Island. There are only two seats running lengthwise, as they are made to lie down upon in case of necessity. Much of the travelling is at night, and "old Indians," who are used to the ways of the country, will spread their "resais" and sleep soundly over all the joltings of the road. But we could sleep about as well inside of a bass drum. So we gave up the idea of repose, and preferred to travel by day to see the country, for which this sort of conveyance is very well contrived. The canvas top keeps off the sun, while the latticed slides (which are regular green blinds), drawn back, give a fine view of the country as we go rolling over the road. Our charioteer, excited by the promise of a liberal backsheesh if he should get us into Dehra Doon before nightfall, drove at full speed. Every five or six miles the blast of his horn told those at the next stage that somebody was coming, and that a relay of fresh horses must be ready. As we approached the hills he put on an extra horse, and then two, so that we were driving four-in-hand. Then as the hills grew steeper, he took two mules, with a horse in front as a leader, mounted by a postilion, who, with his white dress and turbaned head, made a very picturesque appearance. How gallantly he rode! He struck his heels into the spirited little pony and set him into a gallop, which the mules could but follow, and so we went tearing up hill and down dale at a furious rate; while the coachman blew his horn louder still to warn common folks to get out of the way, and the natives drew to the roadside, wondering what great man it was who thus dashed by.

But horses and mules were not enough to sustain such a load of dignity, and at the last stage the driver took a pair of the beautiful white hump-backed oxen of the country, which drew us to the top of the pass. The hills which we thus cross are known as the Sewalic range. The top once attained, two horses were quite enough to take us down, and we descended rapidly. And now rose before us a vision of beauty such as we had not seen in all India. The vale of Dehra Doon is enclosed between two walls of mountains—the Sewalic range on one side, and the first range of the Himalayas on the other. It is fifteen miles wide, and about sixty miles long, extending from the Jumna to the Ganges. Thus it lies between two mountains and two rivers, and has a temperature and a moisture which keep it in perpetual green. Nothing can be more graceful than the tall feathery bamboos, which here grow to a great height. Here are fine specimens of the peepul tree—the sacred tree of India, massive as an English oak—and groves of mangoes. Everything seems to grow here—tea, coffee, tobacco, cinnamon, cloves. The appearance of this rich valley, thus covered with groves and gardens, to us coming from the burnt plains of India, was like that of a garden of Paradise. Riding on through this mass of foliage, we rattled into the town, but were not obliged to "find our warmest welcome at an inn." Rev. Mr. Herron had kindly invited us to accept his hospitality, and so we inquired for "Herron-sahib," and were driven along a smooth road, embowered in bamboos, to the Missionary Compound, where a large building has been erected for a Female Seminary, chiefly by the labors of Messrs. Woodside and Herron, the latter of whom is in charge of the institution, one of the most complete in India. Here we were most cordially received, and found how welcome, in the farthest part of the world, is the atmosphere of an American home.

But once in presence of the great mountains, we were impatient to climb the first range, to get a view of the snows. Mr. Herron offered to keep us company. We rose at four the next morning, while the stars were still shining, and set out, but could ride only five miles in a carriage, when we came to the foot of the hills, and were obliged to take to the saddle. Our "syces" had led three horses alongside, which we mounted just as the starlight faded, and the gray light of day began to show over the mountain-tops, while our attendants, light of foot, kept by our side in case their services were needed.

And now we begin the ascent, turning hither and thither, as the road winds along the sides of the mountain. The slope of the Himalayas is not a smooth and even one, rising gently through an unbroken forest. The mountain side has been torn by the storms of thousands of years. In the spring, when the snows melt and the rains come, every torrent whose rocky bed is now bare, becomes a foaming flood, rushing down the hills, and tearing its way through the lowlands, till lost in the Jumna or the Ganges. Thus the mountain is broken into innumerable spurs and ridges that shoot out into the valley. Where the scanty herbage can gather like moss on the rocks, there is grazing for sheep and goats and cattle; and these upland pastures, like those of the Alps or the Tyrol, are musical with the tinkling of bells. High up on the mountains they are dark with pines; while on the inner ranges of the Himalayas the mighty cedars "shake like Lebanon."

One can imagine how lovely must be the Vale of Dehra Doon, with its mass of verdure, set in the midst of such rugged mountains. Although we were climbing upward, we could but stop, as we came to turning points in the road, to look back into the valley. Sometimes a projecting ledge of rock offered a fine point of view, on which we reined up our horses; or an old oak, bending its gnarled limbs over us, made a frame to the picture, through which we looked down into the fairest of Indian vales, unless it be the Vale of Cashmere. From such a point the landscape seemed to combine every element of beauty—plains, and woods, and streams and mountains. Across the valley rises the long serrated ridge of the Sewalic range. Within this space is enclosed a great variety of surface—undulating in hill and valley, with green meadows, and villages, and gardens, while here and there, along the banks of the streams, whose beds are now dry, are belts of virgin forest.

The industry of the people, which turns every foot of soil to account, is shown by the way in which the spurs of the mountains are terraced to admit of cultivation. Wherever there is an acre of level ground, there is a patch of green, for the wheat fields are just springing up; and even spaces of but a few rods are planted with potatoes. Thus the sides of the Himalayas are belted with lines of green, like the sides of the Alps as one descends into Italy. The view is especially beautiful at this morning hour as the sun rises, causing the dews to lift from the valley, while here and there a curl of smoke, rising through the mist, marks the place of human habitation.

But we must prick up our horses, for the sun is up, and we are not yet at the top. It is a good ride of two hours (we took three) to the ridge on which are built the two "hill stations" of Mussoorie and Landour—which are great resorts of the English during the summer months. These "stations" do not deserve the name of towns; they are merely straggling Alpine villages. Indeed nowhere in the Alps is there such a cluster of houses at such a height, or in such a spot. There is no "site" for a regular village, no place for a "main street." One might as well think of "laying out" a village along the spine of a sharp-backed whale, as on this narrow mountain ridge. There is hardly an acre of level ground, only the jagged ends of hills, or points of rocks, from which the torrents have swept away the earth on either side, leaving only the bare surface. Yet on these points and edges—wherever there is a shelf of rock to furnish a foundation, the English have built their pretty bungalows, which thus perched in air, 7,500 feet high, look like mountain eyries, and might be the home of the eagles that we see sailing over the valley below. From such a height do they look over the very top of the Sewalic range to the great plains of India.

But we did not stop at this mountain to look back. Dashing through the little straggling bazaar of Landour, we spurred on to the highest point, "Lal Tiba"; from which we hoped for the great view of "the snows." We reached the spot at nine o'clock, but as yet we saw "only in part." Our final vision was to come three days later. Away to the North and East the horizon was filled with mountains, whose summits the foot of man had never trod, but the intervening distance was covered with clouds, out of which rose the snowy domes, like islands in a sea.

My first impression of the Himalayas was one of disappointment, partly because we "could not come nigh unto" them. We saw their summits, but at such a distance that they did not look so high as Mont Blanc, where we could come "even to his feet" in the Vale of Chamouni. But the Himalayas were seventy miles off,[4] filling the whole horizon. Nor did they rise up in one mighty chain, like the Cordilleras of Mexico, standing like a wall of rock and snow against the sky; but seemed rather a sea of mountains, boundless and billowy, rising range on range, one overtopping the other, and rolling away to the heart of Asia; or, to change the figure, the mountains appeared as an ice continent, like that of the Polar regions, tossed up here and there into higher and still higher summits, but around which, stretching away to infinity, was the wild and interminable sea.

Thus the view, though different from what I expected, was very grand, and though we had not yet the full, clear vision, yet the sight was sublime and awful, perhaps even more so from the partial obscurity, as great clouds came rolling along the snowy heights, as if the heavenly host uprose at the coming of the day, and were moving rank on rank along the shining battlements.