It blows with a rustle of palms
And a sound of the laurel and bay,
Far voices and clapping of hands,
Like applause at the end of a play:
It strengthens the poet like wine,
And clothes him from head unto feet
In the power and glory of life.
Oh, the South wind, the song-wind is sweet!
It lifts the gold hair of a girl
Till it shines in the sun like a flame,
It flows through the locks of a man
Toiling hard at his song and his fame;
It is heavy with music of birds;
It has whispers no lips can repeat:
The angels float by on its tide.
Oh, the South wind, the song-wind is sweet!
Ah, world! while the South wind prevails—
With flowers and rushes and streams,
Intrude not a sound of thy wheels,
But leave me alone with my dreams—
My reveries born of this breeze;
And my life, though lowly it be,
Will be happier far than a king's
If the South wind, the song-wind kiss me!
James Maurice Thompson.
NORTHWARD TO HIGH ASIA.
From Calcutta my route was northward to Thibet, to reach, if possible, its capital city of Lhassa, residence of the Grand Lama of the Booddhists—the pontifical sovereign of Eastern Asia. My journey thither was planned by the way of Sikkim, and thence through the Cholah Pass in the Himalaya range. I was most anxious to reach a city so interestingly described by the Abbé Huc nearly thirty years ago, and to learn something further about the present condition and prospects of the "Snowy Region of the North" and the lofty table-lands of Central Asia, so seldom visited by European travelers.
The cars of the East Indian Railway carry one in a single night 220 miles to the town of Sahibgunge and the banks of the Ganges. The first sight of the sacred river excited in me but little enthusiasm. It was about a mile in width, shallow and very muddy, with a swift current and dreary sandy banks, where huge crocodiles were basking in the sun. Its religious character among the Hindoos is well known. Though highly esteemed from its source to its mouth, there are some particular places more eminently sacred than others—as Benares, Allahabad and Hurdwar—and to these pilgrims resort from great distances to perform their ablutions and carry off water to be used in future ceremonies. The Ganges water is also valued for its supposed medicinal properties, and in the British courts of justice witnesses of the Brahmanical faith are sworn upon it.
Having been ferried across the sacred flood, I journeyed onward in what is termed a shigram—simply a large palanquin on wheels drawn by two horses. As I reclined at length upon its cushion-covered bottom, I could see that the country through which we passed was an immense plain, and a clump of bamboos or an occasional palm alone hinted at an Oriental and a tropical landscape. The trees were mostly banians, peepuls and mangoes, and there were many large fields of rice and corn. The native huts were made of bamboo reeds and mud, with straw-thatched roofs. A view of their interiors was of course forbidden me on account of that cursed system of caste which prevails from Peshawur to Rangoon and from Cashmere and Thibet to Cape Cormorin and Ceylon. The road was macadamized and shaded by rows of immense trees. The tricky and balky horses (Mongol ponies) delayed us considerably, but it was very amusing to see the methods employed to coax or coerce them. A groom held in his hand a piece of bamboo about two feet in length, at the extremity of which was fastened a strong looped horsehair cord, which was twisted around the ear of a fractious beast, and a very little power applied a few paces in advance generally removed all scruples as to its progress. Horses who would not back into the shafts were assisted by a rope secured round a hind leg, and one who would not start forward was suddenly persuaded to change its mind through a similar combination of rope and pressure applied to a fore leg. Often one native would take a wheel, others would push from behind, some would lift one of the fore feet of the obstinate brutes, a few would take their heads, and then, after much alternate fondling and beating, off we would go at a very break-neck speed for perhaps a mile, when the horses would quiet down into an easy trot for the remainder of the stage.
About twelve o'clock on the first night a very provoking yet amusing incident happened. I had some time previously covered myself with my blankets and closed the sliding doors of the vehicle, as it was a bitter cold night, and had been enjoying a sound sleep, when, waking suddenly, I found the shigram standing in the middle of the road, but without either horses, coachman or groom. I had heard that such an event will occasionally happen in Indian dak-posting and so endeavored not to be disconcerted. Alighting from the shigram, I walked toward a fire which was just discernible through the trees, and found my missing coachman taking a comfortable smoke and a quiet chat with half a dozen bullock-drivers, friends of his, who were camping there for the night. I approached the social group with the feelings of a ghoul, shook my fists in the coachman's face and talked exceedingly loud, making free use of all the bad words in Bengalee of which my then limited vocabulary would admit, placing particular emphasis upon the scathing soour ("pig") and the withering gudha ("fool")—epithets more dreaded by the Hindoos than the most profane oaths. The man jabbered something in his native tongue, about as intelligible to me as if spoken in the language of the Bechuanas of South Africa or in that of our Sioux Indians. Returning to the shigram, I quietly prepared myself to await the issue. But the effects of my furious philippic had been complete, and in less than ten minutes the ponies were harnessed and we were again on our way.