We were now in Sikkim proper, the thin wedge of a valley which runs from the plains to the watershed of the Himalayas, and separates Nepal from Bhutan. For luxuriance and for variety of vegetation, and of animal, bird, and insect life, it must, I should say, be unequalled by any other country in the world, for it lies in the tropics, and rises from an elevation of only a few hundred feet above sea-level to a snowy range, culminating in a peak 28,178 feet in height.
The valley bottom was narrow, and the Teesta River, 100 yards or so broad, dashed down over great boulders and beside precipitous cliffs with immense velocity. Both the main and the side valleys were very deep, the slopes steep, and the whole packed with a dense forest of rich and graceful and variegated foliage. Tropical oaks of gigantic size, a tree with a buttressed trunk growing to a height of 200 feet, “sal,” sago-palms, bamboos, bananas, bauhinias, “took,” screw-pine, and on the ridges Pinus excelsus. An immense climber, with pendulous blossoms, and which bears a fruit like a melon, was very prevalent, and aristolochias, with their pitcher-like flowers, orchids, and ferns. Tropical profusion of vegetable growth was nowhere better exemplified. But almost more remarkable were the number and the variety of the butterflies. I counted seventeen different species in a couple of hundred yards, some of the most exquisitely beautiful colouring, flashing out every brilliant and metallic hue; others mimicking the foliage, and when at rest shutting their wings together, and exactly resembling the leaves of a tree. Less beautiful, but equally abundant, was the wealth of insect life. And here with a vengeance was the thorn which every rose possesses. Midges, mosquitoes, gnats, every conceivable horror and annoyance in this particular line, was present here; also beetles in myriads; some spiders, too, of enormous size; cockchafers and cockroaches, winged ants, and, in addition to all these insect pests, the countless leeches on every leaf and every blade of grass. It is indeed a paradise for a naturalist, but only for such a naturalist as has his flesh under due subjection to the spirit. And such a naturalist was the great Sir Joseph Hooker, the friend of Darwin, who first explored this country in 1848 and 1849, and who is even now living amongst us.
The stillness of these parts I have already referred to. There is seldom a breath of air stirring, and one feels in a gigantic hothouse. But it is not noiseless, for, apart from the roar of the main river as it dashes impetuously through the languid forest, and, apart from the thundering of the voluminous waterfalls, which, fringed with rich masses of maidenhair and many other delicate and graceful ferns, form yet another striking feature in the landscape, one hears also in the forest depths the incessant chorus of the insects. Bird-life there is scarcely any, and therefore very little song of the birds; but there is an incessant rhythmic rise and fall of insect whirring, broken at intervals by the deafening, dissonant screechings of invisible crickets.
All this was very beautiful and very interesting as an experience, but I felt no temptation to linger in the stifling valley, and was glad when the road began to rise to Gantok and the temperature to lower. Then the more distinctly tropical vegetation began to disappear, and at between 4,000 and 5,000 feet a kind of birch, willows, alders, rhododendrons, and walnuts grew side by side with the plantains, palms, and bamboos. Among the plants grew balsam, climbing vines, brambles, speedwells, forget-me-nots, strawberries, geraniums, orchids, tree-ferns, and lycopodiums.
Embedded amidst all the luxuriance of forest and plant life, and facing the snowy range with a view of Kinchinjunga itself, is the Gantok Residency, a charming English house, clustered over with roses, and surrounded by a garden in which rhododendrons, magnolias, canna of every rich variety, tree-ferns, lilies, and orchids, and all that could excite the envy of the horticulturist, grow almost without the trouble of putting them into the ground.
Here I enjoyed the hospitality of Mr. White, who had preceded me to make preparations. He and Mrs. White had lived there for fourteen years. They were devoted to their garden, in which they found a never-ending interest with all the English flowers—narcissus, daffodils, pansies, iris—in the spring, and the beautiful tropical plants in the summer.
They were also devoted to the people amongst whom they lived. These Lepchas are, says Mr. White, in his recent book, “Sikkim and Bhutan,” "quite an exceptional people, amongst whom it is a pleasure to live." And he says they make excellent and trustworthy servants. Certainly these people were devoted to Mr. White, who, in a kindly patriarchal way, did many a kindness for them as he toured through their valley. And I was particularly interested in observing them, and hearing Mr. White’s opinion of them, because they have been the subject of so many encomiums on the part of Herbert Spencer. On account of their truthfulness and gentleness they had been held up by him as an example to civilized people, and I was anxious to see whether at close quarters they were as estimable as they had appeared at a distance to the philosopher.
They are of the Mongolian type of feature, yet they have very distinctive features of their own, and would never be mistaken for either the Tibetans, the Nepalese, or the Bhutanese, who touch them on either side, and they seem to have come along the foothills from Assam and Burma. Their chief characteristic is undoubtedly their gentleness. Timidity is the word which might better describe it. They live in a still, soft, humid climate, and their character is soft like the climate; but their disposition is also attractive, like their country. They are great lovers of Nature, and unequalled as collectors. In their own country and unspoiled they are frank and open, good-natured and smiling, and when they are at their ease, amiable, obliging, and polite. They are indolent and improvident, but they seldom have private or political feuds. They never aggress upon their neighbours. And by nature they are scrupulously honest. Their women are chaste, and neither men nor women drink in excess.
These 6,000 Lepchas certainly have every estimable quality, and many for which we Europeans are not strikingly remarkable. Yet mere gentleness, without strength and passion at the back, can hardly count much in the world, and it is not possible seriously to regard the Lepchas as an ensample for our living. Even the naughty little Gurkhas, who would, except for our protection of the Lepchas, have long since swallowed them up, we really prefer.
We remained only a few days in Gantok, and then pushed on toward the Tibetan frontier, for we were well on in the summer now, and we wanted, if possible, to get the matter settled before winter. The rain never ceased: bucketfuls and bucketfuls came drenching down. The ordinary waterproofing in which we wrapped our luggage was soaked through as if it had been paper. In the valley bottom we passed the camp of the 32nd Pioneers engaged in improving the road, and anything more depressing and miserable I have never seen. Tents, clothes, furniture—everything was soaking. The heat was stifling, the insect pests unbearable. Fever sapped the life out of the men, and one shuddered at the misery of life under such conditions: day after day, week after week, month after month, digging and blasting away at a road which as soon as it was made was washed into the river again; wet through with rain and with perspiration while at work, and finding everything equally moist on returning to camp; tormented with insect pests at work and in camp by night and by day. Yet it was only by mastering such conditions as these that the eventual settlement with Tibet was ever rendered possible.