The government fortifications here will interest travelers, as they are remarkable for completeness, and presenting the advanced ideas in the line which they represent. But we were most entertained and longest occupied in Calcutta by the native bazars, which, as usual, gave one a special insight into the character of the people, their tastes and occupations. An hour was passed of quite an impressive character at a large building inclosing a high-walled area on the banks of the river, known as the Burning Ghat, where the ceremony of cremating the dead is going on at all hours of the day and night. Seven corpses were brought in and placed upon the pyres, built up of unsawed cord wood in cob style, raised to the height of four feet, the fire being applied to a small handful of specially combustible material at the bottom. The whole was so prepared as to ignite rapidly, and in a very few moments after the torch was applied to it, the pile was wreathed in the devouring element. The atmosphere was impregnated with offensive odors, and one was fain to get on the windward side of the smoking mass. The Ghat was open to the sky, so that the ventilation was all that could be obtained. The bodies thus treated are entirely consumed in about three hours, during which the wood requires partial renewal, and all palpable signs having disappeared the ashes are solemnly cast into the sacred river close at hand, the Hoogly being one of the outlets of the Ganges. When first brought to the Ghat, a very simple and brief ceremony is held over each body, and then a member of the family of mourners which attend the burning applies the torch to the pyre. The custom is that this service should be performed by the oldest son of the deceased, if there be such a representative. The first time we witnessed such a scene was at the Calcutta Ghat, but our after experience, as to the disposal of the dead, was still more strange, as we shall have occasion to record in these notes. Close by this Burning Ghat, along the river front, there are a number of sheds, with only partial shelter from the street, where poor dying Hindoos are brought to breathe their last, believing that if they pass away close to the sacred water, their spirits will be instantly wafted to regions of bliss. Here they are attended by persons who make a business of it; and it was intimated to us that they often hasten the demise of the sufferers by convenient means. Human life is held of very little account among these people, whose blind faith bridges the gulf of death, and who were at one time so prone to suicide, by drowning in the Ganges, as to require strict police surveillance on the part of the English to prevent it.
At the close of each day, about an hour before sunset, all fashionable Calcutta turns out in state for a drive on the Maidan,—the Hindoostani name for esplanade,—a broad and finely macadamized roadway, extending along the river's bank, by the fort, the open cricket grounds, the parade, and the gardens, arranged as a circular course of a mile or more in extent, which would be perfection had it only a proper complement of shade trees. It is really a most delightful resort after the trying heat of the day, when the cooling influence of the twilight commences; in short it is the Indian Hyde Park, or Bengal Champs Elysées. The variety, elegance, and costliness of the equipages in grand livery that crowd the Maidan during the fashionable hour was a surprise, the whole scene enlivened by the brilliant dresses of the ladies, the dashing costumes, and gold lace of the nabobs, the quaint Oriental dress of their barefooted attendants, and the spirited music of the military band. The variety of nationality present was infinite; the participants in varied dress were Parsees, Hindoos, Mussulmans, English, Egyptians, with a sprinkling of French and Italians. The twilight hour is brief; the crowd dashed round the long course in the liveliest manner, until the amber shades deepened, and then a hundred electric lights of great power, shielded by ground-glass globes, flashed upon the scene, rivaling in effect the broadest daylight. Then the occupants of the open vehicles and the equestrians gathered about the Eden Gardens, where the music-stand is placed, and in ranks eight or ten lines deep, listened to the popular airs so finely rendered, or chatted gayly with each other during the intervals of the music. These Eden Gardens, always open to the public, with their tropical vegetation, picturesque temples, summer-houses, and refreshing ornamental waters, are a delightful resort in the after-part of the day, when their inviting shade can be best appreciated. The Cascine at Florence, the Pincio at Rome, the Chiaja of Naples, the Prado of Madrid, none of these can compare in point of gayety, variety, and attractiveness with the Maidan of this Indian capital.
It would seem that Calcutta ought to be a healthy city, but, as it regards English residents, it cannot be said to be so. A peculiarity in this connection was explained to us by an officer of the civil service, long resident in the East. Both himself and wife were our companions on board the Kashgar, on the voyage from Bombay to Suez, the gentleman being on leave of absence for a brief month's stay in England, where mother and father were going to meet their three children. It seems that pure blooded European children, even if born in India, are unable to struggle successfully against the enervating effects of its climate, and this applies not alone to Calcutta, but to all parts of the country. Until their sixth year, children apparently retain their health and the ruddy color of the race, but, soon after that age, they grow pale and wan, the listlessness of a premature decay setting in, or some mysterious blight steals over them. Thus, without the symptoms of any fixed disease, they droop and pine, like exotic plants. Nothing but a return to England, the home of their race, will restore them. The utmost care is of no avail. Even removing them to higher table-lands in the hill country has no saving effect. An English gentleman and his wife, who had long resided at Lahore, told us the same; they being also separated from their children, who had been born in India, but necessarily sent home to England to restore their fading health. This singular peculiarity is so well known, that its fatal results are now promptly guarded against by the one and only resort,—of parents and children submitting to separation.
The city is said to contain a million of inhabitants, but this seemed an excessive computation. The frail character of the native houses, in the section of Calcutta occupied by Indians, may be judged of by the fact that the cyclone, which visited the place the year after that of the famine at Orissa, destroyed over thirty thousand of their houses; and, three years later, in 1870, another cyclone was equally destructive among these dwellings. The Hoogly River is visited, during the monsoons, about the last of April, by a tidal wave, which dashes up from the sea at a speed of twenty miles an hour, causing much destruction. Ships lying off the city often part their cables, and are driven on shore; while many small craft, along the eighty miles of river course, are not unfrequently destroyed altogether.
Taking the cars of the Eastern Bengal Railway, we started for Darjeeling, in the extreme north of India, a distance of about four hundred miles from Calcutta. At Damookdea the Ganges was crossed, and the journey resumed by the North Bengal State Railway. At Siliguri the Narrow Gauge Himalayan Railway was taken, by which to ascend the mountains, and a wonderful piece of engineering it was found to be, doubling upon itself frequently in a distance of two hundred feet; in one place the train passing over a bridge which it had passed under a few minutes before. The railroad running up Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, though more precipitous, is less remarkable. The wild, extensive scenery on the route was a constant reminder of the Sierra Nevada mountains, through which we had passed by moonlight, in far-off America. As we progressed upwards, flocks of Tibet goats began to appear, and a hardier race of men and women than those we had left below on the plains of Hindostan. The road was being much improved, and laborers were busy all day along the route, consisting of men and women and young girls, all performing the same style of labor, with shovel and pick, each carrying a small basket of earth and stone on his or her back.
Among these laborers three distinct nationalities were observable, marked by dress, physiognomy, and figure. They were people from Tibet, Nepal, and Cashmere, which border on this part of northern India, and are separated from it by the Himalayan Range. These mingled races formed picturesque groups, the men armed with long, sword-like knives and other weapons, after the fashion of their native lands. Some of the young women were quite pretty, though a little masculine and sturdy in figure, appearing very much like their sisters of Alpine Switzerland. At the noon hour, they gathered in groups near the doors of their shanties on the abrupt hill-sides; where, throwing themselves on the ground, they partook of their coarse, midday meal, quite in gypsy style, about a smoking iron pot, suspended over a fire by a tripod. They watched us curiously, for the passing cars formed the one daily event, connecting them with the far-away populous cities of the plains, places of which they only knew by report. Our train consisted of two cars only, a first and a second class; but the engine, built especially for this service, puffed and snorted like mad, with the wildest vigor, in its struggle to surmount the steep grade, seeming to be vastly refreshed by a few moments' rest at the frequent watering-places. These consisted of a wooden trough running out of the hill-side, and supplied by one of the thousand tiny brooks that burst out everywhere. At these the thirsty little engine drank copiously, and often; until finally, after many hours, we rounded a high projecting cliff, and in a moment after reached the little station of Darjeeling, which signifies "Up in the Clouds."
We arrived early in the afternoon, and fortunately on a clear day, so we anticipated having the rare pleasure of witnessing the sunset upon the loftiest range of snow-clad mountains on the globe. As we rounded the bluff already spoken of, there burst upon our sight, for a few moments, a complete view of the range, lying under a clear sky and warm glow of sunlight, so entrancing as almost to take away one's breath. The imagination had never before depicted anything so grand and inspiring. Our little party could only point at it, and look into each other's eyes. Words would have jarred like a discord upon the ear. What the Bernese Oberland range is to the Alps, this Kinchinjunga group is to the sky-reaching Himalayas. The former, however, are but pygmies compared with these giants at Darjeeling. One gazes in amazement at the peaks, and almost doubts that they belong to the earth upon which he stands. Visitors from a distance are often compelled to depart in disappointment after waiting for days to obtain a fair view of the range. We had reason for gratitude in having reached this elevated spot at so propitious a season.
We ascended the nearest hill soon after arriving at the hotel, and, looking across the intervening valley, could count twelve peaks, the lowest of which was over twenty thousand feet in height, and the highest over twenty-eight thousand, upon which rested eleven thousand feet of perpetual snow,—the snow line being distinctly marked from east to west, as far as the eye could reach. There can be no animal life in that Arctic region, no pulsations of vitality. Only the snow and ice rest there in endless sleep, cold, pitiless, and solemn. The sun was slowly declining in the west, faintly burnishing a few silvery, transparent clouds, while it touched the pearl-white tops of the Himalayas with ruby tints, and cast a glow of mingled gold and purple down the sides most exposed to its rays. Every hue of the rainbow seemed to hang over the range, through which gleamed the snowy robe in which the peaks and sides were clad. The top of Kinchinjunga, the loftiest of them all, towering three thousand feet above its fellows, as it radiated the glory of the sunset, made one hesitate whether it was indeed a mountain top or a fleecy cloud far up in the sky. As we watched with quickened pulse, the sunset glow, like a lingering kiss, hung over the grand, white-turbaned peaks for a moment, as though unwilling to say good night, and then it suddenly vanished. The cool, dewy shadows gathered on the brow of Kinchinjunga like parting tears, and night closed swiftly over the deep intervening valley, shutting out the loveliness of the vision, but leaving its impress glowingly fixed upon the memory forever.
The Himalayas—meaning in Sanskrit the Halls of Snow—form the northern boundary of India, and shut out the country from the rest of Asia. Tibet, which lies just over the range from whence we viewed it and the wild region between, is virtually impassable for travel; and yet bold parties of traders from time to time, wrapped in sheep-skins, force their way over the passes at an elevation of eighteen thousand feet. It is a hazardous thing to do, and the bones of worn-out mules mark the frozen way, telling of suffering and abandonment. The little Yak cow, whose bushy tail is manufactured into lace, has been found to be the best and most enduring animal to depend upon when such journey's are made. She will patiently toil up the steep gorges with a heavy load on her back, and will drop in her very tracks before she shows any stubbornness or want of courage. Sheep are also used at times to carry bags of borax to market near the plains, where they are shorn of their fleece, and return to the mountains laden with salt. The culminating point of the range, and the highest peak in the world, is Mount Everest, a little more than twenty-nine thousand feet above the level of the sea; but it is rarely visible from Darjeeling. In an unsuccessful attempt to ascend Kinchinjunga not long since, an English physician very nearly lost his life, and was obliged to submit to the partial amputation of his feet. He still resides in the neighborhood in government employment.
The sunset view, already spoken of, had fully repaid us for the four hundred miles journey due north. On the following morning we rose betimes to see the meeting between the god of day and those white-robed sentinels of time. We hardly dared to hope for a clear atmosphere. Only the stars, perhaps a little weary with night-watching, were visible now. A fine sunrise to follow so beautiful a sunset would be almost too good fortune. The air was sharp and frosty, but we cared naught for the cold, now at freezing-point, as we were between seven and eight thousand feet above the level of the plains. Our anticipations were sufficiently exhilarating to keep us warm. First came a delicate gray tinge in the leaden sky as the morning seemed to partially awake from its slumber, and gradually a fitful light beamed out of the east, as the stars grew paler and paler. Objects about us became more distinct, until presently the white peaks came into view one after another. Then the veil of night was slowly removed, as Aurora extinguished the last of those flickering lamps, and the soft amber light touched the brow of each peak, causing it to blush like a beautiful maiden aroused from sleep, at sight of one beloved. After the first salutation the rays became bolder, more ardent, and poured their depth of saffron hues all over the range, which now blushed and glowed like mountains of opals, flashing and burning in the glad, glorious sunlight. Dazzling to look upon, it grew yet stronger every moment, until the mountains and valleys were flooded in an atmosphere of azure and gold, and every outline was filled in by the clear, fresh light of the dawn, completing for us an experience never to be forgotten, the loveliness of which neither tongue nor pen can adequately express.