THE HIMALAYAS.
I have already spoken of a German Baron and a French gentleman whom I met at Agra, and I have said that they, like myself, were travelling in search of the picturesque, and with a view to become acquainted with Oriental character from personal observation.
While staying with my friend at Barnapore, I received a letter from the former, proposing that we should meet on a certain day at Mussoorie, in the Himalaya mountains, and travel into the interior together. I agreed with all my heart; and my friend, the assistant magistrate, was tempted to apply for six weeks' leave, in order that he might accompany us.
Let me describe these foreign gentlemen. They were respectively about my own age—thirty-two—had seen a great deal of the world, and of the society at every court and capital in Europe. They were both possessed of considerable abilities, and of the most enviable dispositions; always good-natured and good-tempered; patient and cheerful under those innumerable little difficulties that almost invariably beset a wanderer in the East, or, in fact, a wanderer in any part of the world. They had, moreover, a keen sense of humour; and, each in his own peculiar way, could relate a story, or an incident in his life, in such a manner as to make it wonderfully mirth-provoking. They were men of refined understanding and of very refined manners: take them all in all, they were the most charming companions I ever encountered. They were utterly devoid of vulgar nationalities—of any enthusiastic admiration of their own fatherlands, and would just as soon ridicule the foibles peculiar to their own countries, respectively, as the foibles of a man of any other country. My friend the assistant magistrate was also a desirable companion. He, too, was a good-tempered, good-humoured being, with a keen sense of humour, and some wit. He had read a great deal of late years, in that out-of-the-way station to which he had been appointed, and he had profited by his reading.
It was beginning to be very hot in the plains, and my friend and myself were not a little glad when we found ourselves on the road to a colder clime. We drove as far as Deobund in the buggy; and, at three p.m. threw ourselves into our palanquins (palkees), bound for Dehra Dhoon at the foot of the hills; at which place we arrived at about nine o'clock on the following morning, and were deposited—both of us fast asleep—in the verandah of the hotel, kept by a Mr. William Johns, who had been formerly a professional jockey in the North-West Provinces of India.
So much has been written of Dehra Dhoon and Mussoorie, that even a brief sketch of these places would be unwarranted in this narrative.
As soon as we arrived at Mussoorie we began to collect coolies (hill-men), to carry our baggage and stores. We required in all about one hundred and fifty for the expedition, and by the time that we had got these people together, and made arrangements with them, and the guides whom we required, and had laid in our stock of provisions, &c., the foreign gentlemen joined us, and expressed their readiness to start at any given moment. We lingered, however, for two days, in order that they might take some rest, and make the acquaintance of the gentlemen at the club, who, at the instance of my friend, had made them as well as myself honorary members of the institution.
On the third morning, in the front of the club-house, our marching establishment was collected, and the one hundred and fifty men of whom it was composed were laden with the baggage and stores. There were tents, the poles thereto belonging, camp tables, chairs, beds, bedding, leather boxes of every kind, containing our clothing, &c., deal chests, containing all sorts of provisions, dozens of cases of wine—port, sherry, claret—beer, ducks, fowls, geese, guns (rifles and others), umbrellas, great-coats, &c., &c., &c. Having seen this train fairly off, we, the four of us, followed shortly after on foot, and overtook them at the Landour Hill, a mountain about nine thousand feet above the level of the sea. We were all in high spirits—including my friend the assistant magistrate—notwithstanding he put on his lady love's cloak as soon as we were out of sight of the club, and began to quote in a melancholy but very loud voice, which reverberated through the valleys on either side of us, those glorious lines of the poet Thomson:—
"There is a power
Unseen, that rules th' illimitable world—
That guides its motions, from the brightest
Star to least dust of this sin-tainted mould;
While man, who madly deems himself the lord
Of all, is nought but weakness and dependence.
This sacred truth, by sure experience taught,
Thou must have learnt, when wandering all alone:
Each bird, each insect flitting through the sky,
Was more sufficient for itself than thou!"