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Photo by F. Oertel. From Major Temple’s collection.
A BURMESE TEMPLE.

LIFE AND TRAVEL IN LOWER BURMAH

A RETROSPECT

BY
Deputy-Surgeon-General C. T. PASKE
LATE OF THE BENGAL ARMY

EDITED BY
F. G. AFLALO

(Authors of “The Sea and the Rod,” &c.)

LONDON
W. H. ALLEN & CO., LIMITED,
13, Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, S.W.

EDITOR’S PREFACE.

When my friend asked me to read through these reminiscences in their original form, with a view to editing them, I had to tell him at the outset that the remoteness of the retrospect might probably prove a serious obstacle.

But, being neither a history nor geography, and dealing lightly with a number of topics that should be of interest to many Englishmen, it soon occurred to me that they might perhaps find readers in spite of not being up to date.

It is the fashion nowadays—and it seems to me a somewhat injudicious practice—to publish the record of one’s travels and experiences within a few weeks after returning home, whereas many opinions that the writer would naturally hold while still under the unsettling influence of travel, might be at least very considerably modified, were the final proof corrected ten years later, without losing in value.

The present form of these retrospective glances, which skim lightly over half-a-dozen years in some kind of chronological order, has been prepared from a manuscript that has during the past two years received many amendments; so that the reader has at least an unbiassed account of a few years’ official residence in one of the most promising of our Eastern possessions.

The appalling multiplication of English books is probably destined to continue until Macaulay’s New-Zealander contemplates the ruins of St. Paul’s, and it would almost appear that the classes and masses are alike following Dr. Johnson’s advice: “Read anything for five hours a day and you will soon be learned.”

In spite, however, of the modern facilities for publishing, had there been no further object in view than the narration of a few personal experiences, the author would never have launched another venture on the troubled sea. Our legislators have for some time past been contemplating a distant and hazy vista of Utopia, though faulty navigation has carried the vessel far wide of the destination, and will, not improbably, land her some day on the rocks.

Of particular and terrible interest is their future Indian policy; and those who are good enough to read the following pages will find not a few startling instances of how far such policy has hitherto been based on sound practical lines.

In some cases, the author has maybe expressed his convictions with candour rather than discretion; but as he has ever stood by his guns, I think it would have been exceeding what was expected of me, had I modified one or two expressions of opinion that are almost certain to meet with stormy weather in certain latitudes.

So tiny and insignificant a craft, however, may surely hope to ride the angry waves and arrive safely in port.

London, October, 1892.

F. G. A.

CONTENTS.

MYAMMA:
A RETROSPECT OF LIFE AND TRAVEL IN LOWER BURMAH.

CHAPTER I.
THE VOYAGE.

“So long

As he could make me with this eye or ear

Distinguish him from others, he did keep

The deck with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,

Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind

Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,

How swift his ship.”

Shakespeare, Cymbeline.

The conditions under which we now plough the ocean or fly through continents present so remarkable a contrast to the state of affairs half a century back, that we who are in the autumn of life, with the signal of the “sere and yellow leaf” fluttering feebly at the masthead, can scarce realize the old coaching days, with their thirteen hours’ travel to every hundred miles, as more than an old dream.

Time in those days was, to all appearances, of less commercial value than it is now, when it represents the Golden Calf, and commerce is conducted by means of electricity and steam. The merchant had to wait patiently for months before learning the fate of his argosies; Clive was eleven months reaching India; experience and nautical skill reduced the time to six, and improved routes to four months; while one month now suffices, through the agency of steam, from Southampton to Bombay. The arrival is then flashed home through that “girdle” which Puck offered to put “round about the earth in forty minutes.”

When the Victorian era takes its place in the pages of England’s history, the revolution effected by electricity and steam in its commerce, its battles, and its treaties, will occupy a large and important part of the interesting and glorious chapter.

Long voyages under canvas are nowadays therefore, except as a means of recuperating one’s health, the exception; and it is not surprising that the employment of steam power should be so universal, whether from considerations of time and business, or of sea-sickness and pleasure; a steamer moves through fifteen or twenty miles an hour day and night, independent of wind and weather, whereas a sailing vessel is heavily handicapped, having to quadruple the distance in constant “dogs’ legs,” besides being becalmed in certain latitudes for days together.

The rising generation greet any allusion to the voyages so common in the palmy days of the now defunct East India Company with fin-de-siècle contempt; living, as they do, in an atmosphere of perpetual excitement and unrest, they are almost incapable of comprehending the frame of mind in which their forefathers plodded through their allotted span of life.

But as “many things by season season’d are to their right praise and true perfection,” so the human mind seems able to adapt and accommodate itself to the varying circumstances of this transient sphere. A century or so hence the people of this country will probably look on our modern naval and mercantile craft with as critical an eye as that with which we contemplate the Victory, or the first steamers of the P. and O. We pride ourselves on the combination of size, speed, and comfort, and the graceful lines of our floating palaces, on their electric lighting and luxurious saloons; we feel confident that not much more can be accomplished: yet could we but “revisit the glimpses of the moon” in 1992, we should find ourselves in the midst of a new creation.

On the 1st September, 185—, a majestic old frigate-built East Indiaman lay moored off Spithead, all ready to weigh anchor and awaiting only the arrival of the pilot and one or two passengers, detained by accident or otherwise. She was surrounded by numerous small craft, some laden with various articles for sale, others waiting to convey ashore those who had come aboard to see the last of sons and daughters about to seek their fortunes in the glorious East, where money was reputed to be easily made, and men hungered for wives of the European pattern.

Very mixed were the feelings of the passengers at the moment of parting: regret on the one hand at being separated from loving parents, severed from the tried companions and indelible associations of early youth; on the other, a certain feeling of independence and freedom, and the natural ambition to get on in the world.

Many shook hands for the last time on this side of the grave; and as the tiny craft pulled away and were lost in the distance, the solitude of the cabin was sought, and a blessing implored on the dear ones left behind.

There may be a reluctance on the part of many to utter a prayer under normal conditions, but in an unusual state of things there are, I believe, few who will not deviate from the beaten track and intuitively ask aid from a higher power.

Sorrow, however, takes but a passing hold of the elastic nature of youth; and when the shrill whistle of the boatswain and the stamping of many feet on deck proclaimed that the anchor was being weighed and the canvas loosened, curiosity soon gained the ascendancy, and, in spite of eyes still red with weeping, passengers as yet unknown to each other might be seen occupying every coign of vantage, and watching the sailors as they sped round the capstan to some familiar air played on the fiddle; and anon looking up as sail after sail was loosened, then drawn home and bellied by the freshening breeze. That she was moving soon became evident from the noise made by the water and the gradual diminution of familiar objects ashore. Glasses were brought into requisition, and closed with a sigh when, even with their aid, all was blurred, hazy, indistinct.

So faded that “white-faced shore, whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tide”; and before the end of the year we were to look upon another of a very different complexion, low, swampy, and muddy; fringed with cocoanut trees, at the foot of which jackals shrieked, making night hideous, and around which mosquitoes buzzed and bit, as with the avowed mission of scaring away nature’s sweet restorer.

To the officers and crew all the bustle of getting under weigh was of course familiar; but to some fifty passengers, starting for the most part on their first voyage, it all seemed chaos: anon a stentorian voice gave an order, resulting in a tramping of feet and the thud of ropes falling on the deck, to the accompaniment of “Cheery, boys, oh!” or some other ditty that was prime favourite in those days.

Having made a fair offing, the good old ship bore steadily down channel, the pilot entering his boat somewhere off Start Point, and his “God speed!” seemed to sever the last link that bound us to the mother country.

Even in a comparatively calm sea the movement of an East Indiaman was sufficient to test one’s sea-going qualities, so that, when the bells had been struck for meals, the cuddy table presented numerous gaps, while certain ominous sounds proceeding from the direction of the private accommodation announced to the happy few the advent of that terrible ordeal mal-de-mer. Happily for the majority of mortals it soon wears itself out; and the stomach, conforming to the law that “use is second nature,” soon becomes tolerant of the new order of things, and ceases to resent the innovation of digesting under conditions of perpetual motion. I only came across one case in which sea-sickness became a source of positive danger. The sufferer, a hale and healthy man on coming aboard, was reduced in the course of a couple of months to a mere bag of bones. What medical aid failed to do was accomplished by nature; his sickness ceased, and in lieu thereof he acquired an insatiable appetite which distressed him. He apologized for the amount that he ate at meals, and for filling his pockets with biscuits afterwards; but he was powerless to restrain himself, so that by the time we arrived at our destination he was the counterpart of his original self. I never saw him again, but I imagine that, if he did ever return to Europe, his path lay through unexplored regions, as I believe he would have attempted to traverse them on foot rather than again enter a cabin.

Personally, I never experienced sea-sickness; the only influence that the motion of the ship had over me was that I fell asleep on the least provocation, which was very many times a day, as reading and writing were equally out of the question.

By the time the dreaded Bay of Biscay had been crossed, and the ship had entered warmer latitudes, the deck presented a more animated appearance, and the cuddy table became devoid of gaps. All sorts and conditions of both sexes had now acquired their sea-legs, and their sea-stomachs too; for the most part they ate, I am convinced, more than was good for them. Sea-air enjoys the reputation of stimulating the appetite, and it undoubtedly had that effect in this particular instance, assisted, maybe, by the seductive variety presented at each meal. It was surprising, indeed, how such a number could be so catered for day after day, extending to the third part of a year: mutton, pork, fowls, ducks, and geese were always forthcoming, to say nothing of the ubiquitous ham; nor was there any falling off in fresh bread and pastry, while the cows in the long boat kept up the supply of milk. After each meal the water astern became dotted with empty bottles—for passengers, who could have as much ale, &c., as they pleased, did please—which, as they sank to great depths, were probably shivered into fragments ere they reached the bottom by the increasing pressure. Supposing, indeed, the waters had dried up, the Cape route to India could, I doubt not, have been easily traced by these innumerable fragments of glass. The captious critic, commenting on what we had done for that vast continent extending from the Himalayas to Cape Cormorin, was wont to remark that, had the Mutiny been successful, empty bottles alone would have remained as monuments of a century’s dominion. Thus we should have had the same memorial from Spithead to the Hooghly, and might have figured as a nation in whose administration glass figured as an important ingredient, the captious one ignoring in all probability such insignificant achievements as the Grand Trunk Road, and suppression of Infanticide, Thuggee, and Suttee.

The only article on which any restriction was placed was the fresh water allotted for the purpose of ablution, more than a given quantity being obtainable only under peculiar conditions. But temptation, like slander, “rides on the posting winds, and doth belie all corners of the earth,” and even old East-Indiaman stewards were hardly above its subtle influence.

Unrestricted access, then, to everything save fresh water, was the old order of things; and the P. and O., besides having kept abreast of the requirements of the present day in the matter of shipbuilding, speed, and comfort, deserve more credit than they actually got for being the pioneers of so admirable an innovation as lowering the passage-money, and charging extra for wine, beer, and aërated waters.

Many of my contemporary travellers will remember how from start to finish of a voyage the table was crowded at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with bottles containing various wines; in addition to which there were frequent descents to the cuddy to slake an imaginary thirst with a B. and S. This inordinate and imaginary thirst died a natural death under the new system of paying for what is ordered. A bottle of claret on the breakfast table became the exception rather than the rule: few made it “eight bells” to any extent, and the pop of soda-water bottles became very rare.

From the suspicious way in which we English approach each other, whether in a private room or in a public conveyance, it would seem as if there lurked in our composition some of that cautious mistrust so characteristic of the wild beast. But after having been a week or so in each other’s company, the passengers positively began to thaw towards one another; a welcome change that was, however, succeeded by a still harder frost. For a time, indeed, we constituted a happy family, dancing, singing, and acting together; but this temporary and unstable fusion of minds was doomed to resolve itself into two antagonistic elements, an untoward state of affairs that culminated only as the good ship drew near her destination. There were two ways of accounting for this division in the camp; my own view of the matter was that we saw too much of each other from “rosy morn till dewy eve,” which, besides breeding contempt, gave birth to that “green-eyed monster,” jealousy. But the sailors ascribed all that went wrong to the presence of so many clergymen, whom they looked upon as the fons et origo of storms and everything undesirable. It is, however, a melancholy yet undeniable fact that a number of human beings herded together for any considerable length of time will be sure to fall out, behaving in all probability rather less charitably than so many tigers and jackals.

But on the whole, much as there was to lament in the matter of ruffled tempers and petty ways, the outward-bound vessel represented a perfect paradise during the four months’ voyage, compared with the ordeal of a similar period aboard a homeward-bound Indiaman. To give even a faint idea of the angry conflagration of passions by which the passengers in the latter were wont to distinguish themselves, one would have to borrow from the “Inferno” of Dante, and conjecture what must be going on in Pandemonium, where the evil spirits meet in council!

The living freight was of the most volatile and combustible nature, while the perpetual friction of its conflicting elements—swarms of noisy children, and touchy old men with disordered livers—kept the ship in perpetual danger of destruction. But a merciful Providence has tempered the wind to the Anglo-Indian by pointing out an overland route, and consigning the homeward-bound Indiaman, in so far as passengers are concerned, to the pages of history; so that the danger of spontaneous combustion is now confined to the cargo.

To resume our outward voyage. By the time we had finished taking stock of each other, conjecturing why So-and-so was going out to the East, the beautiful island of Madeira hove in sight; but to our united earnest entreaties to be allowed to land for a few hours at Funchal the captain turned a deaf ear, expecting the wind to change at any moment to a more favourable quarter. For some time, however, it continued dead against us, and the repeated tacking enabled us to obtain different views of the peaceful isle, so near and yet so far, with the land sloping up from the sea to some 6000 feet, and patches of cultivation appearing here and there amid the thick woods.

With all the selfishness of youth, I fervently hoped to remain weather-bound in such a paradise for an indefinite period; but my hopes were literally blown away by the wind itself, which “chopped” round, and Madeira faded from view.

The beautiful is said to be a joy only as long as it lasts; but my recollections of this island on which nature has been so lavish have outlived so evanescent a period, and I have often dreamt of it in later days. Had it only fallen in with the eternal fitness of things to have made it a part of the outlying British Empire, English capital and enterprise would have developed its resources, seconding the efforts of Nature’s prodigality, instead of counteracting them. We may possibly have already acquired more than our share in all five quarters of the globe without casting longing eyes on Naboth’s vineyard; our possessions may reasonably excite the jealousy of other powers, but no one can deny that we are specially adapted, both physically and mentally, for colonization far above any other nation; and that Madeira would have shone with especial brilliancy in the British Crown is a foregone conclusion.

On my first return voyage, years after, we landed at St. Helena, which, interesting as it is from its historical associations, cannot in my opinion compare with Madeira in natural beauty.

Among the least pleasant experiences of the whole voyage was the ordeal of being becalmed near the line, where an oily sea sent back the glare of perpendicular rays: several days of this sort of thing proved too much for the tempers of the passengers, without evoking very choice selections from the copious vocabulary of the crew.

The cuddy table was patronized in stately silence, and at any time, indeed, conversation became as spasmodic and laconic as the merest courtesy would allow. We of the civilized persuasion have somehow drifted into the notion that it is imperative on us to talk at all times and seasons, so that few tongues ever rest from morning to night, when the timely interference of Providence paralyzes for a time our power of speech.

Being becalmed in such a spot has its ludicrous as well as its painful side; and few could help feeling amused at the sight of the ship’s bows pointing at different times to every direction of the compass, as the under-currents made us drift where we would not, intensifying our utter helplessness.

Then, too, the captain would come on deck, look around and aloft, whistle, and betake himself once more to the sacred precincts of his cabin. The officer on watch would imitate his chief with pious precision, especially the whistle, in which he had the faith peculiar to sailors in need of a favourable wind. But the son of Astræas remained in obdurate seclusion in his Thracian cave, and passengers and crew rose to the verge of desperation.

One early hour out of the twenty-four contained, indeed, some element of enjoyment, and that was when the decks were undergoing the beneficial process of “holy-stoning,” which consisted in rubbing them from stem to stern with a species of pumice and a plentiful supply of sea water. Then it was that the early bird could get a most enjoyable bath, not in the sea, indeed, which was infested with sharks, but on deck under the full play of a hose.

The bath was customarily followed by a cup of tea, extracted by bribery and corruption from the cook; and then we generally paced the deck barefoot and with just a suspicion of clothing, until the levée of El Señor Sol, whom, from his nasty habit of insinuating himself under the brim of one’s hat, I have always found most trying at daybreak. The bath, the cup of tea, and an anteprandial pipe were not the only advantages of early rising, as one also escaped thereby the extremely trying noise of “holy-stoning” directly over one’s cabin.

No Hindoo, Mohammedan, or Buddhist ever went through his religious ceremonies with such unerring regularity and unshaken faith as inspired the sailors in their “holy-stoning,” in which process they seemed to take especial delight, so that it almost amounted to fetichism; and the face of the chief mate, who usually presided at this daily celebration, would assume an angelic expression that apparently stimulated the men to further efforts.

Unquestionably great as are the benefits conferred by the modern appliances and improvements in the art of shipbuilding, in one respect at least the old Indiaman had the whip-hand of its successor, and that was a roomy cabin, a bed- and sitting-room combined, amply, if not elegantly, furnished. Contrasted with the berth—or “pigging”—system of modern ships, this was a prodigious advantage, compensating to a great extent for the length of the voyage. Being caged up with several utter strangers, passing, for example, through the Red Sea, and in a state of insufferable heat, is an ordeal that one is not likely to forget; having to climb at nights into an upper shelf, and, if one is fortunate enough to sleep through the night without being pitched out, putting one’s bare foot on the bald head of the gentleman below, who also wanted to get up at the same moment—these are instances of the luxury of modern travel of which one hears so much. And we bear it all with a patient shrug worthy of Shylock!

Another digression! But how can one help philosophizing on board ship?

Whether from whistling or more natural causes, the wind at last sprang up, and there was a visible accession of spirits to the cuddy table—animal-spirits, I mean; for the health of the breeze was drunk by one and all in sparkling champagne.

“Holy-stoning,” too, proceeded on the following morning with unexampled vigour, and the chief mate’s face positively beamed.

And now we crossed the line. The elaborate and rather cruel ceremonies with which a previous generation used to celebrate the “crossing” were by this time considerably modified; though even now it was made an opportunity for levying blackmail and inflicting personal discomfiture on such as were in little favour with the rest. We do not know for certain whether nectar was intoxicating—though we should shrewdly suspect such to be the case, considering the unaccountable behaviour of some of the gods in Olympus—but it is certain that Neptune, who shortly arrived on board, was not superior to a mundane predilection for Jamaica rum, an extra allowance of which was meted out to all; so that he probably fell asleep in his chariot, leaving his horses to find the way home by themselves.

Homeward-bound vessels were rarely visited by the sea-god, from whose unwelcome attentions one was exempted by having once crossed the line.

The next diversion on board was created by the capture of a large shark that had been hovering in our wake for several days, and suspected of having purloined more than one joint of sailors’ pork, suspended from the bowsprit to wash out superfluous salt. At last he was caught in the act and duly reported; a deputation waited on the chief mate, and, averse as captains are as a rule to the mess that such a capture makes on the “holy-stoned” deck, the dire decree went forth for his punishment. This involved the sacrifice of yet another leg of pork, and in a few moments he was on deck, his spine being at once severed at its caudal extremity with a blow from an axe.

The shark, though in reality but little out of harmony with the law of Nature, which is “one with rapine,” has acquired with all nations, civilized and barbarian, a reputation even worse than that enjoyed by its terrestrial prototype—the tiger. It would be superfluous on my part to describe the arrangement of his fins, or the size and number of his serrated, lancet-shaped teeth; for do they not nowadays teach Natural History even in Board schools!

Still more remarkable than anything about the shark itself is the presence of the two pilot-fish that almost invariably flank its head on either side. These interesting creatures instantly swim towards anything that is thrown on the water, swim round it, and then return to their patron; if it be a bottle, or any other inedible object, all three then remain aloof, but if fit to eat, the shark immediately makes for it.

When he is captured, indeed, they will swim for days on either side of the rudder, with the fidelity of dogs; and on one occasion I managed, after several hours’ hard work, to entrap them both in a bucket. Belonging, as they do, to the Scomberidæ, they bear in shape a pronounced resemblance to the mackerel; the average length is one foot, and the body, which is of a silvery gray, is marked with five transverse dark bands; while the dorsal fin, when erect, reminds one forcibly of the perch, but the family to which they belong, and which includes the albacore, bonito, and mackerel, has no representative in fresh water.

Fried steaks cut from the tail-end of the defunct shark were served that day at the Junior Officers’ Mess, of which I was elected an honorary member; and I must say that the dish was palatable in spite of the associations that clung to the monster. The sailors of those days had a firm conviction that the appearance of a shark forecasted a death on board. A lady occupying a cabin next to mine was rapidly nearing her end from the ravages of consumption, and I never looked out upon the warm, still sea without perceiving a huge shark swimming leisurely round the ship as it crept slowly on. It was, of course, the merest coincidence, and a word of encouragement from the captain would have again placed shark-steaks on the ménu; I was so impressed, however, with the hideous idea, that only the presence of several invalids on board and the consequent necessity for avoiding all unnecessary disturbance, prevented me from putting a rifle-bullet into him as he neared the surface.

At last the unfortunate lady succumbed, and the shark immediately dived after the coffin, which was, however, extra-heavily weighted at one end and pierced with numerous holes; whether he accomplished his nefarious purpose after the coffin rested amongst seaweeds, strange crustaceans, and nautili, who shall say? Anyhow, we saw no more of him.

Traversing the ocean in a modern steamer would give one the idea that it is but scantily inhabited; the churning of the screw is heard some way ahead, and all the fish are scared away to the depths, so that an occasional school of porpoises, too eager in the pursuit of flying-fish, is about the only sight worth recording, and then it only lasts a few moments, while the affrighted creatures tumble headlong over one another in their frantic endeavours to escape. Of a sailing vessel, however, they take but little notice, gambolling around in the most leisurely manner. They are gregarious, not unlike the dolphin, but with a less elongated snout, well armed with teeth adapted for seizing the small fish that form their staple article of food.

Another fish partial to the wake of a sailing-ship, on account of the amount of animal refuse which is thrown overboard, is the bonito, closely allied to the tunny, though smaller and more graceful. The average length is between two and three feet, and it is, for its size, the strongest fish I ever met with. Like the mackerel, its congener, it is most beautiful directly after its removal from the water; its back is steely-blue, which grows lighter at the sides and eventually shades off into silver under the belly, along which run several horizontal lines of darker hue. The sailors harpoon it for sport rather than for the sake of its flesh, which is coarse and somewhat rank. When the ship is only creeping along with but little wind, it is possible to take bonito on a spinning bait; but very strong tackle is requisite for bringing it on board. I have seen a successful (?) handliner, who hooked a large bonito while fishing from a small boat, towed in every direction for a considerably exciting time before he could come to closer quarters with his capture.

On one occasion I enjoyed some excellent mackerel-fishing off St. Helena, catching enough to fill two ship’s buckets in a very short time and with no other bait than a few shreds of red rag. Suddenly the biting ceased, and as the water was beautifully clear, one could plainly discern the approach of a dim figure, large and powerfully built—in fact, a bonito—which just sniffed at the hooks and passed on majestically, after which the terrified mackerel returned—to the buckets!

This novel sport was very enjoyable, lasting until I was called away to conduct a party over the island and make a few purchases. The scenery was certainly lovely, and the various spots connected with the brief imprisonment of Napolean Buonaparte excited the interest of the entire party; yet I must confess that I should not care about it as a place of residence for any length of time: it is not to be compared with Madeira in any one particular.

The albacore, another of the Scomberidæ, is also frequently caught or harpooned; it is a much thicker and deeper fish than the last-named, sometimes attaining to an enormous size. Its flesh, too, is in much higher repute, and was equally appreciated by the nations of antiquity who dwelt upon the shores of the Mediterranean, in which sea it thrives along with its near relative the tunny. The dorsal fin, which is situated rather far back, graduates somewhat abruptly, vanishing into a number of small finlets up to its unusually crescentic tail with the same arrangement of finlets underneath.

Very interesting to the voyager are the performances of those creatures called flying-fish, which probably cause more amusement to passengers round the Cape than any other members of the finny tribe.

The apparatus by which they are on special occasions propelled for a short time through the air is nothing but an unusual development of the pectoral fins; but it is at least extremely doubtful whether they employ these exactly as a bird uses its wings. I have many a time observed them most carefully, but have always failed to detect any flapping motion: the fins were merely extended, and I noticed that in the direction of the wind they could move through the air for some distance, when they would fall back abruptly into their own element, as if their muscular energy was suddenly expended; while any attempt to proceed against the wind invariably resulted in failure. I am, therefore, of opinion that as they emerge from the water with considerable “way” on, the pectorals fully expanded, the wind drives them as long as the latter keep moist; so that the whole proceeding is a vis a tergo rather than a flight, though it is doubtless extremely useful in escaping from their greedy enemies, much as small fry will often take to the air when pursued by a large jack.

For the most part, they only rise a short distance from the water, though often sufficiently high to fall upon the deck. Illustrations of the flying-fish generally depict it as if about to mount up in the air and ascend to the altitude patronized by larks, where, in company with its fellows, it flits to and fro across the disc of the sun like a swift. I like these illustrations; they show a considerable power of imagination and not a little impudence: unfortunately, however, the flying-fish is not quite so amphibious. One variety—the Exocœtus volitans—has now and again been found in British waters, having presumably lost its way; or perhaps, after all, the afore-mentioned illustrations are based on fact, and the creatures have indeed flown overland from the Mediterranean, where they abound along with the flying-gurnards and similar species.

Occasionally, in the warmer latitudes, the ship would be surrounded by a fleet of argonauts, or paper-nautili, which, if one excepts the fairer portion of the passengers, are quite the prettiest creatures to be seen during a voyage. The creature can easily quit the shell, which resembles in shape that of the true nautilus, not being attached to it as is the case with the majority of molluscs. Beautiful as the creature unquestionably is, yet it reminds one of the hideous octopus, in that both are provided with a number of tentacles, two of which, dilated to a circular membraneous expansion and raised above the water, bear a decided resemblance to sails, while the others, which move under water, suggest the action of oars. Hence arose the idea, which, still prevalent at the time of which I am writing, has only been combated comparatively recently, that they actually sailed and rowed about.

The membranes, when unfurled, as it were, in the rays of the sun, certainly display a variety of delicate colours, that the famous “Judson” himself might envy but could never imitate; but they are only seen to perfection on a calm sea; the least disturbance sends them precipitately into the inmost recesses of their shells, when they instantly sink to the depths, presumably by some specially devised apparatus, that enables them to exhaust the air, since they cannot contract the volume of their habitat. Perhaps the same arrangement permits of their generating some kind of gas when they feel inclined to go to the surface for a sail and a “look round.”

Sailors not infrequently confuse them with the so-called “Portuguese man-o’-war,” which is, however, a much lower and headless organization, living by suction, and bearing but slight resemblance to the delicate and many-coloured argonaut. This name will doubtless recall to the reader’s mind that fabulous band of Greek heroes who, under the leadership of Jason—not the aforesaid Judson!—sailed forth to Colchis for the lofty purpose of hoodwinking the sleepless dragon and stealing the ram’s Golden Fleece.

At the time when the Exhibition of 1851 gave such an impetus to Science and Art, the “argonaut,” “Portuguese man-o’-war,” “Paper”-, and True-Nautilus were very much confused in the minds of men generally, and of sailors in particular. The shell of the last named was sent from the East, and its nacred interior excited the admiration of all. In lieu of the discs common to the cephalopods, it is provided with calcareous mandibles with which it crushes the numerous small crustaceans, on which it feeds as greedily as the octopus of the Mediterranean and Southern Seas, or the “squid” that plays such havoc in the Channel trawl-nets.

The only other sight worth recording was the occasional blowing of a whale, that curious marine mammal, whose incongruities have puzzled even eminent biologists. There are many interesting questions in the life-history of the whale of which we are in almost total ignorance; such are, for example, its average age, which conjecture has extended to centuries, and the period of gestation before it launches its baby on the troubled waters—think of it, a “baby” whale of some ten or twelve feet in length! But what has always appeared to me the most interesting point in the whale is the extraordinary disproportion of its tiny throat—a throat not two inches in diameter, so that an ordinary herring would choke the largest whale. It behoves us, however, in all justice to the most remarkable book that has ever appeared as the universal delight of castle and cottage, to disregard the emphasis with which its scientific detractors are wont to decry some of its more remarkable assertions, and to exculpate it, at least in this case—I refer, of course, to the famous history of the rebellious prophet—where it makes no mention of the exact species to which the “great fish” belonged; the whale having been associated with the story in later days by romancers whose intellect is scarcely less remarkable than that of a somewhat puerile clergyman, whom I once heard endeavour to prove that the “great fish” was simply a common alligator, which is about as abundant in the Mediterranean as the whale itself!

In excessively warm latitudes, where certain winds are contending for the mastery, waterspouts are not uncommon, and are, of course, dreaded in proportion to their proximity to the ship. They are analogous to the whirlwind on land, the ascending column in the latter being charged with particles of dust, instead of, as at sea, with condensing vapour.

In either case, distance lends enchantment!

Such, then, were a few of the sights and speculations afforded, in the days when journeys were calculated by months, by the great world without, as a means of beguiling the time when wind and weather permitted one to stay on deck.

Scarcely less remarkable were the diversions of the little world within; the shifts to which we were put in our unflagging endeavours to relieve the monotony of “life below stairs;” but I must leave these to another chapter, in which I hope to reach the end of my voyage.

CHAPTER II.
STILL UNDER CANVAS.

“O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,

Survey our empire, and behold our home!”

Byron, Corsair.

Some portion of the time, however, was necessarily spent below. Dancing was the favourite pursuit with the majority, but was only practicable when the wind was light and the sea calm.

Although Terpsichore was my least beloved of the Nine, one had but little choice when the promenade deck was cleared, and the pale light of the moon supplemented by all the lanterns that could be spared.

Music, too, furnished a deal of enjoyment, both to those who could perform themselves and to the majority who could only appreciate the performances of others.

A large stern cabin, almost the only one unoccupied by passengers, was turned into a saloon, where singing could be indulged in without fear of disturbing others. The custodian of this sanctum was the captain’s wife, herself a well-trained musician; and she only issued invitations on the strict stipulation that there was to be no flirting. And I think, indeed, that the few flirtations were strictly of the Platonic order; and that most of the young ladies were led to the Hymeneal alter within a few weeks of their landing, not—be it observed—by any of their shipmates, but by older residents in the country; some may have succumbed in the “City of Palaces,” but the majority were probably in request farther up country.

Yes, India was a famous place for matrimony in those days. The supply almost equalled the demand: the arrival of an Indiaman sent a thrill of excitement through many a manly breast; and much manœuvring was resorted to in order to see the young ladies land.

But the whirligig of time and the agency of steam have considerably modified the Furlough Rules; and men come to England to marry the women, instead of the women going to India to marry the men.

Without meaning to be hypercritical, one is tempted to wish that Indiamen were freighted as of yore!

The efforts of those who most did congregate in the music-room soon led to a concert, which was an undeniable success. The great feature of the evening was an Ethiopian entertainment, preceded by a prologue given by Bones and Banjo, part of which still lives in my memory, especially a borrowed epigram, levelled at a certain individual who laboured under the delusion that he was no mean vocalist:

“Swans sing before they die: ’twere no bad thing

Should certain persons die before they sing.”

A higher flight in the intellectual domain was now attempted in the shape of a weekly paper, over which a man of erudition, one at least who had successfully climbed the rungs of a University career, was soon persuaded to preside, while his wife undertook to provide a manugraph.

Contributions, signed only with a nom-de-guerre, had to be placed in a box affixed to the mainmast, of which the editor had the key; and, from the conspicuous absences, it soon became evident that many were deep in the agonies of composition.

But even this flower of promise was nipped in the bud; and the captain showed his experience of the ways of passengers when he prognosticated that it would share the fate of any other nine days’ wonder.

Before its extinction, however, this unhappy organ fanned into a flame the smouldering embers of cliqueism, which had originated with dancing.

Except during the prevalence of the trade-winds, our “runs” varied very considerably. These particular winds, however, brought contentment to all; they are uniformly cool and steady by day and night; every stitch of canvas is set, and the ship heels over to a certain angle and there remains for days together, so steady, indeed, that on a specially inclined table one could with comfort indulge in billiards.

The officers and crew have a comparatively easy time of it as long as these winds last, being exempt from all necessity of furling, reefing, or bracing of yards—while the enjoyment extends even to the dumb portion of the “live stock,” the cows in the long-boat, the sheep in their pens, and the poultry—everywhere.

To the uninitiated it appeared strange that we should, when outward bound, have to proceed so far south in order to round the Cape, while on the homeward journey we could hug it so closely as to see the low-lying coast; but the phenomenon was easily to be accounted for by the prevalence of certain winds and oceanic currents.

The history of the art of navigation, from the mariner’s compass of the fifteenth century, when Columbus discovered its variations, down to the perfect instruments of the present day, has always seemed to me highly interesting. Even in the sailing days the captains practised it with wonderful accuracy. Far out in mid-ocean, we were bearing right on an island laid down in the chart, and I asked the captain whether he intended altering the ship’s course. “Not at all,” he replied; “we shall sail right over it.” We did so. An early navigator probably saw a dead whale there, which he duly entered on the chart. And unquestionably as logarithms and modern instruments have simplified matters, it is even now not quite so easy as it appears.

We had now entered colder latitudes, where we were glad to put away the easy-chairs and fold up the awning, and in lieu thereof pace the decks in a vigorous manner enveloped in warm clothing. But we were not unprepared for the change, which came on gradually; and, even in its extremes, did not approach that which was once experienced by a Bishop of Newfoundland, who had to visit a small island in his diocese that lay right in the Gulf Stream. He left his main charge, so he told me, enveloped in furs, but the moment his steam yacht crossed the line of demarcation—perceptible by the change of colour in the water—he had to exchange them for the thinnest garments he could muster. The exact readings of the thermometer plunged in on either side the line, as he told them to me, I no longer remember; but I do recollect being struck by the great difference—so great, indeed, that, had the information not come from such a source, I should have been incredulous. Great as are the irregularities in the weather that one experiences during a sea voyage, they vanish when compared with the caprices of the true British climate. And yet we take a kind of gloomy national pride in it; and I have known homeward-bound Englishmen quite looking forward to a “Channel fog” from the moment they left Bombay. A juster appreciation of its merits is shown by our Yankee cousins, one of whom said of our atmosphere: “No climate, not even weather; nothing but samples”; while another is responsible for the following excellent parody of a well-known rhyme:

“Dirty days hath September, April, June, and November;

From January to May, the rain it raineth every day;

From May until July, there’s not a dry cloud in the sky;

All the rest have thirty-one, without a blessed ray of sun;

And if their days were two and thirty, they’d be just as wet and
quite as dirty.”

The evenings were now long, and our share of daylight was curtailed, so that a still greater proportion of our time was spent below in conversation, cards, chess, &c.

Our habits with regard to “turning-in” were somewhat primitive; all lights had to be out by 10 p.m., and a responsible officer went the rounds to see that the dictum was scrupulously carried out.

The very thought of “fire” on a wooden ship well saturated with tar, and far away in mid-ocean, was enough to make one’s blood run cold; and so it is not to be wondered at that the captain showed his teeth on one occasion, when one of the passengers was reported for infringing this law, and threatened to place him in irons for the rest of the voyage. Need I say that the offender gave no further cause for complaint?

We may be thankful that nowadays the chances of a fire breaking out on board ship are, thanks to the electric light and the less combustible materials of which our ships are built, reduced to a minimum.

The ladies were invariably the first to retire, though they probably continued prattling until long after we were in bed and asleep; a habit which, as Dundreary said, “No fellow could understand.” Precept and example have been tried in vain: for as it was in the beginning, &c., &c.

After we had been at sea for some time without seeing a living thing other than fish, the air suddenly became alive with Cape pigeons and albatrosses; and I managed to capture one of the latter on a stout hook baited with a piece of pork. After a little hesitation, he pounced upon the prize, and, raising his beak, swallowed it at a gulp.

I was fully prepared for his taking flight, and, indeed, had he got my line foul of the rigging, I should soon have been in difficulties. But, discarding such a course, he planted his webbed feet firmly before him, offering thereby such resistance to the water that it was no easy matter to get him alongside. At last, after I had received timely assistance from a passing sailor, the bird stood on deck, and was at once violently sick, vomiting great quantities of a clear, oily liquid. I have since learnt that all sea-birds are sick on board ship, and quite unable to use their wings.

According to my invariable practice of despatching my victims as quickly as possible, I killed this one immediately—one might almost add painlessly—with a small dose of prussic acid. He turned out to be a very plump bird, measuring fifteen feet from tip to tip of his outspread wings. By an unfortunate misunderstanding on the part of one of the sailors, my capture was thrown overboard before I had set up the skeleton; the only use that was made of it being the employment of a few of the feathers to show the direction of the wind, or, as one of our passengers with a poetical turn of mind put it:

“Oh! bid them beware of ships that go from London to the Indies,

Else they’ll be caught, and their feathers plucked to show which way the wind is.”

By far the most graceful of the many other species of sea-birds that were continually hovering about the ship were the stormy petrel, or, as the superstitious sailors call them, “Mother Carey’s Chickens.” Their wonderfully rapid flight, now in the hollow between two waves, anon on the foaming crest of another, really looks more like walking on the water; and I understand that petrel is only a corruption of Peter. Among the sailors they have a bad reputation, and are regarded as birds of ill omen, a superstition which, on the principle of “give a dog a bad name,” &c., has clung to them, but which is in reality quite undeserved. Ignorance and tradition have, in fact, placed the cart before the horse: the stormy petrel follows storms, but cannot possibly foretell them.

By a modification of my albatross line, I managed to capture several of them; a proceeding, however, which had to be conducted with great secrecy; as, had the sailors got wind of it, and a storm followed by coincidence, I should probably have figured as the hero in a repetition of Jonah’s history—minus the “great fish”; and I am by no means sure whether even that important detail would have been wanting.

About this time we fell in with an emigrant ship; signals were exchanged under Marriott’s Code, and it was intimated that the presence of our captain was wanted on board. Both ships accordingly hove to; and in a weak moment of impulse I sought permission to occupy a place in the captain’s gig. The request was readily acceded to, and, if confession be at all desirable, I am quite prepared to confess to a slight degree of nervousness, as the small craft rose and fell in the most frolicsome manner, as if indeed she were glad to feel herself once more in the water. All sorts of horrible fancies coursed through my mind: what if the wind suddenly shifted, causing those flapping sails to belly out and carry both the ships farther away! We were hundreds of miles from land, and we had not so much as a biscuit or a drop of fresh water in the gig. Then I reviewed mentally all the terrible stages—casting lots, glaring at each other, &c., &c., and—we were alongside. The captain disappeared below, but I of course stayed on deck talking to the emigrants. How brave and sanguine they were; how little they seemed to heed the dreary prospect of a far-off country full of privations, where all would be up-hill work for many a long year. They saw Hope pointing to the bright to-morrow, to fields ripe with golden corn, the fruit of their labour, and homesteads made glad with the merry laughter of children. I wonder how many realized the vision! They crowded on deck, and their “Cheer, boys, cheer,” gradually waxed fainter and fainter as we neared our own ship.

When standing once more amongst my fellow-passengers, who plied me with all manner of questions, my thoughts reverted to those brave emigrants, and I dwelt with almost selfish complacency on the great difference between their prospects and our own.

Most of us were going out in the employ of a Company that reputedly paid its servants handsomely, and treated them kindly; we were to be enrolled as units in an administration never equalled in the world’s history: where all grades performed their duty con amore, and where officers were happy and contented, knit together by ties of brotherhood.

I will not sigh for the old order of things: it would be unseemly in one who has served under the new; but one cannot help remarking that it was the Mutiny which swept away the old peaceful era, substituting one of an opposite nature both in the European and the native elements. The Company gauged and respected the prejudices of the community over which it ruled; and, if it was not exactly loved, it was at least respected.

Now, however, Western ideas and Western methods of thought have, in spite of protest, been forced upon the aborigines. Up to the end of 1858-9 their respect for us was as sincere as could be expected from the people of a conquered country; but since that time the gulf has gradually widened, till, if another Mutiny were to break out, the whole of the population would be against us, instead of, as on the former occasion, for us. Under the cloak of giving them a quid pro quo for all the incalculable benefits which they have, however involuntarily, bestowed upon us, we continually force ourselves into places which they hold most sacred, and add insult to injury by endeavouring to propitiate them with dolls and other refuse of our fancy bazaars!

As to the Mutiny, the exciting cause was undoubtedly the manner in which home influence and interference undermined the discipline of the army: the annexation of Oude and the episode of the greased cartridges were but handles to lay hold of. But of this more anon.

One evening a circumstance occurred which for the moment aroused the monster envy, that had, for a time at least, slumbered peacefully, and overthrew all our confidence in our captain and our pride in our vessel. A bright light was reported astern, which rapidly loomed larger and larger, bearing down upon us with most astounding speed. Some thought it must be a pirate, and propounded ingenious and reassuring questions as to the latest fashion in “walking the plank.”

Presently, two more lights were reported just above the horizon, which gained upon us equally rapidly, and then it dawned upon the mind of one of the passengers that the Cape route was to be essayed with a large steamer, of which the first was the pioneer.

She came, she saw, she conquered; and we, who had hitherto regarded our ship as a veritable hare, now discovered, to our intense chagrin, that she was but a tortoise after all.

Added to this discomfiture, we had to listen to such banter as: “Can we do anything for you in Calcutta, besides telling them that you’re coming some day?”

Her lights soon vanished far ahead! Was it a phantom vessel, the creature of a distempered brain?

For some time we maintained a significant silence round the cuddy; after which, thanks to the genial influence of the old system of provisioning, tongues were loosened and opinions freely expressed.

For my own part, I was in no hurry for the voyage to draw to a close; not only did the dangers of being at sea appear to me no greater than those with which we are beset on land, but I looked upon it as a respite from the pestilence that was ever strutting about the land for which we were bound.

What if the steamer did arrive many days before us; would it make any practical difference in the life ahead? Others, I regret to say, thought differently; they fretted and fumed, vilified sailing vessels in general, ours in particular, and made themselves generally miserable, frowning whenever their eye fell on the unoffending sails, and sneering at the “run,” which, seeing that it kept a steady ten or twelve miles an hour, was hardly to be grumbled at.

Man is a strange creature, and he exhibits himself under a variety of phases; but nowhere, perhaps, so remarkably as during a long sea-voyage.

We had now reached our southernmost point, and were steering in a north-easterly course.

The only break in the monotony of this part of the voyage was made by our passing the extremities of these deserted volcanic islets, St. Paul’s and Amsterdam, of which I attempted a sketch, which occasioned no little amusement.

These dreary oases of fused rock are said to contain two springs in juxtaposition, one of boiling and the other of cold water. These might, as I reflected, afford invaluable assistance to a shipwrecked mariner, who could possibly boil a fish or a stray gull’s egg in the former, while the latter would supply the means of performing his ablutions and quenching his thirst. The only geographical interest attaching to these spots is that they are equidistant from the Cape of Good Hope, Ceylon, and Tasmania.

Meanwhile the ship was rapidly approaching her destination; the days of the voyage were already numbered, and it was resolved to give a grand fancy dress ball on the first evening that we should spend at anchor in the river. From the difference in the colour of the water, it soon became apparent that the remainder of the voyage might be counted by hours; the Gangetic delta was pouring forth its mud from many gaping mouths; and the water grew more and more uninviting, till we at last passed the Pilot Brig, and anon came in sight of a low-lying, muddy-looking coast, fringed with cocoanut trees. In an hour or so we were in the Hooghly; and I cannot say that either the river or its banks impressed me very favourably.

We were now in the month of December, which, being the coolest season of the year, is the favourite time of arrival for all sorts and conditions of ships; and it was probably in consequence of this that no steam tug was at first available to tow us the remaining hundred miles. Very reluctantly, therefore, we had to let go the anchor only a short distance from the mouth of the river.

That night we were to have enjoyed the fancy dress ball for which so much preparation had been made, when an untoward accident put an end to all our merriment. A young middy, a promising lad and a great favourite on board, fell from the mizen-top—

“To die! to sleep:

To sleep! perchance to dream.”

Such is fate! William III, whose diseased and emaciated form had survived the thickest of a dozen frays, dies through his horse stumbling on a mole-hill in his own park; a great African explorer is killed by the accidental explosion of his own gun; so, too, our poor little middy, after having many a time helped furl a sail in mid-ocean, with the billows raging in their fury, and the lightning playing about the yards, must needs fall here, with the vessel riding at anchor in a very duck-pond! He was probably a victim to sunstroke. Never shall I forget the thud that brought me up from below, caused by his head being shattered against the deck. One of the ship’s boats conveyed his remains to a small European cemetery not far from the shore, where others of his countrymen had preceded him—a lonely spot, around which the jackal yelled and the tiger prowled.

As the tug could not be with us till the following day, I seized the opportunity of going ashore in one of the native craft with which European ships are invariably beset on entering an Eastern river.

I proceeded on foot through a small village, very clean and regularly built, composed of well-thatched, one-storied houses. Something—I suppose it was the manner in which the men were lolling about and smoking, while the women did all the work—reminded me of small villages that I had seen in Ireland.

But what first attracted my attention was the ubiquitous sparrow, just as impudent and pugnacious-looking as ever. I now came to a tract of dried-up rice-fields, as hard as brick-bats, where the trees were few and far between, and were for the most part alive with parroquets of gorgeous plumage, chattering and jabbering, as if, forsooth, they had to settle the affairs of the whole country. I therefore varied the monotony of the walk by shooting an occasional bird, which, however, proved quite useless for culinary purposes. As it grew late in the day, I turned back towards the shore; and it appeared to me a favourable opportunity for returning the kindness of the junior officers, at whose hospitable mess I had discussed many a leathery piece of salt pork and weevil-eaten biscuit, washed down with rum and water. By means of a great deal of gesticulating—for I knew not a word of the language—I became the proud possessor of a goodly store of live fowls, eggs, and plantains, for what I afterwards discovered to be about three times the correct price. I was received with thanks on board, and, from my doubtless grotesque appearance, armed with a gun and umbrella, and surrounded by my provisions, was forthwith dubbed “Robinson Crusoe.”

While anchored in the lower reaches of the river, we experienced a slight foretaste of some of the pleasures that awaited us in the land we were about to reside in; our night’s rest was ever and anon disturbed by the weird and startling cry of a jackal; and the dermic irritation caused by mosquito-bites was a source of great pain to novices.

At last the tug arrived, and we once more got under weigh, rapidly bridging over the remaining part of the voyage, and perhaps, too, the most dangerous, on account of the St. James and Mary shoals, and many others almost equally hazardous. But these were passed in safety; the river became narrower and narrower—crowded, too, with all manner of small craft freighted en route to market. The whole scene was certainly striking, rendered, indeed, still more picturesque by the setting sun; so that, as we passed up that suburb of Calcutta so appropriately called “Garden Reach,” the entire bank was bathed in a flood of light, while our ears were assailed by the chants of natives pulling at their oars—chants not devoid of a weird kind of beauty. Not far above this we dropped anchor, and the ship swung round with the tide. All was bustle and excitement; and with a shake of the hand, and a hurried “Good-bye; mind you call on us soon,” &c., &c., the passengers dropped one by one over the side; and in this wise the voyage of those days came to an end.

CHAPTER III.
THE CITY OF PALACES.

“Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.”

Franklin.

For my own part I remained on board till the deck had assumed a less chaotic appearance, when I resolved to migrate temporarily to one of the hotels. This, however was not to be; for an old friend, anticipating my resolve, and bent on frustrating it, suddenly appeared on board with the welcome information that he had hired a room for me at his quarters. Nothing loth, I bundled my traps into the boat, and prepared to accompany my friend, bidding au revoir to the officers with no little regret; they had throughout the voyage treated me with the utmost courtesy, and I had almost grown to look upon the old ship as my home. Nor was the City of Palaces just then calculated to impress a new arrival very favourably, or to raise his spirit-barometer. Darkness was coming on apace, as it always does in the East, and the dim, weird light afforded by the few oil lamps scattered about was considerably obscured by the dense mist that was rising from a large open space, through which we drove in my friend’s “buggy.” This sombre picture was completed by the dusky figures that flitted hither and thither; and, taken altogether, I found it gruesome and depressing.

The house in which my friend resided was a boarding-establishment (with table d’hôte), very convenient for temporary sojourners of the male persuasion; we sat up till a very late, or rather, early hour, as there was much to chat about; and eventually my friend consigned me to the care of his own special valet, with the most detailed instructions—for I knew not a word of the language—and wished me “Good night.” With sundry misgivings, I followed my swarthy attendant, who glided noiselessly in front of me. The room that had been assigned to my use was evidently very spacious—one can tell somehow when one is in a large room, even in total darkness—but as it was only very dimly illuminated by a small wick steeped in oil, I was unable to ascertain its exact dimensions until the next morning. I remember that it also struck me as chilly and damp, and I wished myself back in the cosy cabin in which I had enjoyed many an uninterrupted night’s rest for the last four months. In the middle of the apartment I discerned a bed, surmounted by an enclosure of netting; on one side was a strip of carpet, and close at hand stood a chair. Now, my friend had particularly impressed on me that the mosquitoes were just now very strong on the wing, and as hungry as hunters; also that on the manner in which I got under the netting depended all my chances of sleep. He further instructed me to sign to the “bearer” when I was ready, who would, he said, just raise the edge of the curtain, when I must jump in. The eventful moment arrived: I signed to the “bearer,” and pointed to the bed, whereupon he commenced beating the air around with a kind of switch, and lifted a corner of the net.

By this time I began to realize in the whole proceeding a pleasurable element of excitement, and as he raised the net, I darted in. Alas! it was but to fall out the other side. I felt myself going, and as a drowning man will clutch at a straw, I held on to the bedclothes, dragging them along with me, curtains and all. When I had at length got clear, there was the “bearer” staring at me as if I were a wild beast or a lunatic; then he fled—returning shortly afterwards with another set of curtains, after which he once more made the bed. This entrée was successfully accomplished; but my troubles did not end here. The fact was, I felt uncommonly cold; suddenly a happy thought occurred to me, and stealthily thrusting out an arm from under the curtains, I dragged in my clothes and the strip of carpet. I slept soundly, but woke betimes—as who, indeed, even of the Seven Sleepers, would not have?—for of all the discordant uproars I had ever heard, the réveille of the feathered tribe—crows, minahs, and other villains—certainly stood first.

Shortly afterwards the “bearer” entered, noiseless as a tiger, and proceeded to open the shutters and admit the morning light. He next advanced to my couch with the evident intention of rousing me, but seeing the additions that I had made in my bed-clothing, stopped short. I pretended to be asleep, but watched him carefully. The poor fellow opened his eyes to their widest, looked round the room, thought for a moment, and then fled as before; returning this time in the company of my friend, who glanced at the bed, and immediately roared with laughter. It was all very funny, no doubt; but, not being quite able to appreciate the joke, I took refuge in pretended sleep. Later on, at breakfast, I gave a detailed account of what had happened, which my friend supplemented with the “bearer’s” version. Poor bearer! In spite of repeated explanations, he avoided me as much as possible, and evidently considered me dangerous. A day or two after I was claimed by a relation, and that domestic at least was greatly relieved by my departure! There is, gentle reader, a right and a wrong way of getting into bed as well as out of it, as I found to my cost on more than one occasion; as, for example, the first stormy night at sea, when I made use of my swing-cot.

Ignorance both of the language of the country and of the vast vocabulary of Anglo-Indian expressions was a sad drawback to anything like real enjoyment in those early days; as, besides feeling a bore of the first-water, having to ask so many questions, one felt more or less at every one’s mercy.

At my first dinner-party I well recollect a gentleman inviting me to take “simkin” with him; politeness constrained me to accept “with pleasure”—and also with some secret misgivings; and some coagulated stuff was shot into my glass, which, on melting, turned out to be champagne—a word beyond any native’s power of pronunciation, and, in consequence, corrupted into “simkin” by natives and Europeans alike.

Another friend begged me to call on him at some house in “Mango Lane.” I promised to do so, but, unfortunately suspecting a practical joke, I retaliated by telling him that my abode was “Pine-Apple Alley.” Had I only inquired, matters would have turned out otherwise. As it was, the poor fellow drove all over the town in search of a place that did not exist; while I never took the slightest trouble to find out his abode, though it was situated in one of the most important thoroughfares in Calcutta, where merchants most did congregate. Shortly afterwards we met out driving; and after the ensuing explanation, I made the amende honorable.

I have already said that Calcutta did not impress me favourably at first; and after each subsequent visit I disliked the place more and more.

The event of the day, to which all looked forward with great eagerness, was the evening drive up and down a road running parallel with the river; but its duration was of the briefest. As if by magic, the place would suddenly swarm with all sorts of conveyances, from the well-appointed barouche to the modest buggy. The ladies, one and all, looked cadaverous, so much so that I felt quite concerned about them; but was somewhat reassured by my friend’s reply to my inquiries: “Oh! no, they are all ill; they all get like that after they have been out here a short time.”

As far as I could judge, the aim of each native coachman was to outdrive his fellow Jehu, for we certainly moved at a break-neck pace. Consequently, I seldom saw any of my shipmates there. That rapid transit for a brief hour in an open conveyance, with occasionally an hour’s visiting and shopping in a closed one, seemed to me all the outdoor exercise that the ladies had, and this accounted in a great measure for the extreme pallor of their complexions.

In the way of contrasts, I do not think I ever beheld anything so pronounced as the fresh, rosy, and yet bronzed complexions of the new arrivals, and those of the more acclimatized specimens of the gentler sex; yet at the same time, where there prevailed any redundancy of colour and tendency to coarseness, the climate appeared to exercise an ameliorating effect, imparting grace and refinement.

I thought, of course, that every one would be abroad in the early morning, but the Europeans were conspicuous by their absence; and, during the colder months at least, the state of the atmosphere was none too inviting, as a chilly mist invariably hung over the place like a pall, to be dispersed only when the sun was too high to render going forth at all agreeable.

Notwithstanding, I used to make my way through it from one end of the large, open space—the “Maidan”—to the other, returning home with my hair and moustache covered with dewy moisture.

I used on these occasions to meet with one countryman, who, like myself, felt bound to have his morning “constitutional” at any price; and after various stages of recognition we became closely acquainted. I came across him a year ago—nearly forty years after the time of which I write—in Richmond; we were both walking!

During the day, with the sun shining upon it, the City of Palaces looked somewhat imposing, especially the business quarters, alive with people of almost every nationality, and the most heterogeneous collection of conveyances, foremost among which was the indigenous “Palkee.” It was pleasant to watch—from a distance; in fact, the perfumes of Arabia did not predominate; and, as water-carts were an unknown quantity, the dust and the glare combined to produce headache and thirst, the latter being temporarily quenched by various American drinks, in which, as my head told me, rum predominated.

There was an amazing demand for these drinks; and, without wishing to enlarge on their merits or the reverse, I must say they were honest drinks, compounded of the best materials, and very unlike those that I have tasted under similar names at certain of our Exhibitions.

The most appalling thing about the Calcutta of those days was the nauseating effluvium that arose from all parts of it; this was a smell sui generis, noticeable indeed in and around “Chowringhee,” the European quarter; still more so in the neighbourhood of the best shops; and reaching its climax in the China Bazaar, a den of the most arrant thieves to be met with in any country. I imagine that it was a peculiar distillation of sewage, brought about by the action of a hot sun; and I remarked its peculiar intensity at daybreak, and just after nightfall. On one occasion, I mistook the hour for a funeral, and arrived a great deal too soon at the rendezvous, which was close to that exceedingly filthy river the Hooghly; I was, I remember, well-nigh poisoned—a dissecting-room could hardly come up to it. I had almost said that, on the part of the residents, familiarity with the odour had bred contempt; but that would be falling short of the mark, inasmuch as I believe they had positively learned to like it.

The mention of smells associated with sewers brings to my mind the “bandicoot” rat, one of which, to my considerable discomfiture, I saw making its way across my friend’s “compound.” It appeared to me quite as large as a leveret, and considerably more formidable, nor was I greatly reassured by the information, “Oh! that’s only a bandicoot; plenty of them about.” The term “bandicoot” is a corruption of the native name pandikoku, which signifies pig-rat. It is a clean feeder living on grain and roots, and is said to be as delicate eating as the porcupine. The internecine “war of the rats,” waged in our country between the black and the brown, terminated in favour of the former, those useful scavengers that, for the most part, live in our sewers; but in the East—from which they were, like most other nasty things, originally imported—they swarm everywhere, and are most destructive. For the sake of the grain, which my sheep would turn out of their troughs, each in his eagerness to obtain the lion’s share, they positively honeycombed my field. Having in vain tried extermination by means of drowning and smoking, I bethought me as a last resource of phosphorescent paste, and by spreading it on pieces of native bread and placing it near their holes, I killed heaps of them, which were buried under my vine with good effect.

I thoughtlessly tried the same experiment in my bungalow; this time, however, instead of coming out to die as they had done in the field, the rats preferred to die in retirement. I consequently had to vacate the house for six weeks, during which time it was thoroughly dismantled and purified. They not unfrequently show fight. On one occasion, going to a cupboard late at night, in search of some supper for a friend and myself, I found everything in the possession of rats. We drove them off for a time, but they returned to the charge, and even came on the table in numbers, literally fighting with us for the mastery. Carving-knives, however, gained the victory, but not until a dozen or so had been disposed of. Fortunately the bandicoot is not aggressive, otherwise not knives but swords would be necessary.

During the first few weeks at Calcutta I had occasion to make a few purchases in the way of light clothing, and boldly dived into that unsavoury locality the China Bazaar. The dealers recognized the novice by their own inherent instinct, and set to work accordingly.

No. 1 informed me that he was an honest man, the only one indeed to be found in the place; would I step inside his shop and see the wares, that were very good and ridiculously cheap; he also very kindly and emphatically warned me against dealing with the man over the way, “one d—— big thief!” No. 2 came up and vituperated No. 1: told me that the articles offered were worthless, but that his shop, &c., &c. No. 3 next arrived on the scene, and in a patronizing tone vilified Nos. 1 and 2; they were both thieves, and in league to cheat me. At length, sick at heart, I took refuge in my conveyance and drove home, sending my servant for the articles I required, a thing that I ought to have done at first.

The whole thing was on a par with the mercantile qualifications of a native who once sold a bird to a friend of mine on the Upper Congo, and who, by way of summing up all the warbler’s good qualities, exclaimed,—

“Father cock, mother cock, sing from three in the morning till late at night—so help me!”

All Calcutta was wrapt at night time in impenetrable gloom; I occasionally drove to the Barrackpore end of the town, the deserted streets only lit by the faint glimmer of an occasional oil lamp, and the stillness broken now and again by a troop of jackals yelling, and then scampering off, as if pursued by the Prince of Darkness. On such occasions one of the troop is supposed to say—and it certainly sounds remarkably like it—“I smell the body of a dead Hindoo,” when the rest join in with, “Whe-re, whe-re, whe-re!” in a very shrill voice.

Of places of amusement, theatres and the like, there seemed absolutely none. I soon discovered too that everything in the East was diametrically opposed to our Western notions, and, among other instances, it was customary for new arrivals to call on the residents, instead of vice versa, as at home.

I derived much amusement from the spectacle afforded by a ball, where the dancers of both sexes partook for the most part of the “shadowed livery of the burnished sun.” White dresses and gay colours contrasted rather strangely on the female form divine, though evening dress was not altogether unbecoming on the males. The women were, on the whole, remarkably good-looking, and displayed faultless figures, as well as being very graceful dancers. They also had an eye to the main chance, and were somewhat less reserved on such matters than is sanctioned by the usages of society elsewhere; and an old chum told me that a coloured beauty, with whom he had danced several times during the evening, without being aware of having held her more tightly than usual, murmured to him, as she was leaving, “Why for you squeeze my chumrah (skin) and not propose me matrimony?”

Bad as Calcutta was from a sanitary point of view, it would have been ten times worse but for the huge army of nature’s scavengers that swarmed in the atmosphere, chief among which were the kites and crows. But the most dignified was the Argala, or “Adjutant,” a wading bird, not unlike the stork, especially in its preference for human society. This species particularly affected the roof of Government House. They are about five feet high, and their head and neck almost destitute of feathers; and the beak is so large as to enable them to seize and swallow a dead cat or bandicoot.

The new arrival in the East has, it will be seen, much to see and learn, and still more to unlearn. He buys his experience at a considerable cost, for, although the sky may change, the mind is too indelibly stamped with old impressions for them to be easily effaced. For some time he is a very helpless being, tossed about in a sea of trouble, and dependent for assistance on those around him.

I most unexpectedly came across kind friends, else I should indeed have felt a fish out of water. They have joined the great majority—peace to their souls!

CHAPTER IV.
ON THE MOVE ONCE MORE.

“Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!

He makes a solitude, and calls it peace!”

Byron.

Just as I was getting more reconciled to the new order of things it was ordained that I should move farther south; move, too, in light marching order, for the dogs of war were already astir in a land flowing with milk and honey, the inhabitants of which professed that wonderful faith that takes its name from Buddha, about which I shall have more to say anon.

A week’s steaming brought us to Rangoon, the then head-quarters of the conquering army, which was located within a stockade several miles in circumference, protected by a deep, broad ditch, then upright massive timbers backed by earthwork eight feet broad. The story of its capture is too well known to bear repetition.

I now found myself confronted with a new phase of Eastern life, and on the whole infinitely preferred it to what I had just quitted: the one was civilization grafted, so to speak, on an alien stock; the other was to all appearance still the abode of “primeval primitiveness.”

There were, of course, many—those especially with wives and children far away—who thought otherwise; and while some regretted the comforts of civilization, which they never appreciated until they had experienced the want of them, there were others who pined for the soothing influence of female society.

The space enclosed by the stockade was sufficiently large to accommodate all the barracks, besides affording room for short walks and rides. It was also possible to venture a short distance beyond, though the unsettled state of the country rendered it the height of imprudence to travel far; indeed, a friend and myself, who had ridden on one occasion to a native village beyond the vast plantation of Jack-fruit and pine-apples, gathered from the unmistakably hostile proceedings of the inhabitants that discretion was the better part of valour, and urged our ponies somewhat precipitously homeward.

I have called Burmah a land “flowing with milk and honey,” in allusion to Nature’s prodigality in the animal, vegetable, and, in all probability, mineral kingdoms, though the resources of the underground wealth had at that time but little prospect of speedy development.

In comparison with its area, the country was very sparsely populated, the majority of its inhabitants living on the immediate banks of its many rivers, and leaving hundreds of square miles in undisputed possession of the most luxuriant forests and the creatures that lived therein.

There was only as much in the way of cultivation as just ministered to their immediate wants, which were the most modest, the more so, as they were for the most part vegetarians, and the soil and climate brought forth abundantly with a minimum of trouble.

Then, too, the ubiquitous bamboo furnished material for their dwellings, for holding water, and a host of other purposes. The bamboo stands, indeed, in much the same relation to the Burmese as coal to us, and any cessation in the supply would be attended with consequences scarcely less calamitous.

The pine and custard-apples, plantain or banana, and Jack-fruit grow to perfection.

A well-grown and thoroughly ripe custard-apple, eaten when just ready to fall to pieces on the slightest provocation, is certainly a pleasant and enticing fruit, which may be eaten with impunity, but which, like the rose, is not without its thorn, in the shape of a very unpleasant after-taste. The hills on the right bank of the Irrawaddy, opposite Prome, were celebrated for them, and the plantations, tastefully laid out, formed quite a feature in the landscape.

The plantain of the East, or banana of the West, grows to perfection in Burmah; those of Bengal are vastly inferior, while those grown under glass in this country are sickly exotics, forming but a very poor substitute for that which they pretend to be.

The Jack-fruit did not commend itself to the palate of Europeans: in smell and taste it closely resembles the durian, which abounds in the Malay Archipelago. The taste of both resembles that of the Jargonelle pear; and both, strange to say, smell like rotten eggs.

There was a perfect forest of Jack-fruit trees extending many miles to the west of the stockade. This was a favourite resort, both on account of its numerous shady groves, in which the pine-apple grew in wild luxuriance, and by reason of the number and variety of birds, reptiles, insects, etc., which it afforded to the observant naturalist.

To ride or walk there required, however, some degree of caution. Below lurked scorpions and snakes; above, running along the branches, were numbers of very large and fierce black ants, furnished with formidable nippers, which they did not hesitate to use most effectually whenever they chanced to alight on the nape of one’s neck.

The fruit of these trees sometimes attains to an enormous size; one suspended at either extremity of a bamboo being as much as a strong man could carry.

Another creature that abounded in these forests was the kalong, or flying fox, a large bat, which sleeps the whole day, hanging head downwards from the branches, to which it clings with hooked claws.

Nothing could, perhaps, be more marked than the differences, both physical and mental, that exist between the Burmese and the Hindoos and Mohammedans of India. They have not a single feature in common—customs, religion, ways of thinking are equally different. Burmah, as it was—for I know not how far the conquering hand may have altered the spirit of its dream since I knew it—was infinitely preferable. The pages of history furnish us with proofs as abundant as they are sad, that no nation can advance as long as the hand of the conqueror weighs it down; there may be a spasmodic and artificial progress, but in reality the conquered races recede, since there is in the East no possibility of their absorbing and assimilating their conquerors, as did the Greeks and Saxons of old, which is the only chance of their deriving lasting benefit from the victors.

It would be about as easy “to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear” as to bring aborigines round to our way of thinking and acting; they acquire the vices of the dominant power, but unhesitatingly eschew its virtues.

In the days that I am recalling, the Burmese were by no means faultless, yet they acted up to their own idea of the eternal fitness of things; and were, I doubt not, happier in their way, under their own form of government, bad as we profess to consider it, than under ours.

Men and women were alike characterized by an independence of spirit, the like of which I have never yet encountered in any other race; they absolutely scorned any form of menial employment, so that Burmese domestics were then unknown. This was sheer love of freedom, and not merely the pride attaching to caste, which has no existence in Burmah; their independence was visible in every action, so the yoke must bow these haughty necks very low.

In average intelligence, too, they are infinitely above most of the inhabitants of Hindostan: while the latter would merely pass one by with a “salaam,” the Burmese used frequently to stop and speak, perchance asking for a light, and always evincing the most undisguised gratification if you but let them have a peep at the mechanism of your watch.

The physical advantages are scarcely less striking; the men are not handsome, and the women may be far from pretty, but the former were sturdy, muscular specimens of humanity, and the latter possessed a good figure and a striking head of raven hair, and were besides extremely graceful.

Both were seen to the best advantage when trooping en masse to the pagoda with offerings to “Gautama,” the most imposing sight of its kind that I ever witnessed in the East.

All were scrupulously clean, and dressed in their best, while the women set off the blackness of their hair by interlacing with it the blossoms of a white, waxy flower.

A little in advance of each group marched a Pongyee, a priest or monk, sounding a loud gong; otherwise the silence was unbroken. One remarked a total absence of the drumming, shouting, dancing, and general turmoil that characterize most religious rites in India, rendering them an unmitigated nuisance, for they necessitate police supervision and sanitary precautions on an extensive scale. On these occasions the sexes were separated, the men and women marching on different sides of the road, both going and returning.

Their code of morality was said to be of a not very exalted order; but, I blush to own it, this has become much a matter of opinion—

“And two in fifty scarce agree

On what is pure morality.”

Anyhow, they can in all probability compare very favourably in this respect with any other Oriental nation, and, for the matter of that, with many a European one.

Their detractors, or rather the preachers of the disinterested process of civilization, have made capital out of their practice of parting with their daughters for a pecuniary consideration; but this came into vogue only when the European arrived on the scene and offered prices for the girls that to their simple fathers appeared fabulous.

Nor, in their opinion, did the transaction cast the slightest slur on the young lady’s character, since she was always at liberty to return home and resume her old place in the family, if such were the desire of the principal parties concerned. Moreover, Anglo-Indians are—I apologize, were—unfortunately among those who, in some encounters at all events, could not afford to throw stones; it used to be emphatically impressed upon young ladies that a civilian was worth so much, “dead or alive;” while the market-value of a military man was fixed at considerably less.

Marriage was represented to them as a mere matter of £ s. d., a form of social barter; they were to pass by the “red coat” on principle, concentrating all their blandishments on the “black” one. In our insufferable egotism, which drivelling patriots dignify with the name of insular pride, we are very apt to lay down a code of ethics for others, without thinking it at all necessary to practise the morality we preach.

As is customary in the East, most of the work fell to the lot of the women, their lords and masters only condescending to lend a helping hand whenever resources threatened to fail. The besetting vice of the Burmese was gambling and betting, as much, in fact, a part and parcel of their nature as with “Mr. John Chinaman;” on the whole, indeed, I am of opinion that they cast the Celestial into the shade. At a certain popular boat-race I remember sitting beside a Burmese of some position, whose proceedings were veritably those of a lunatic; he danced and cried, he undid his long black hair and tried to pull it out.

I too, so he deigned to inform me, should have behaved likewise, if I had had such a bet on the race as he. In reply to my interrogation as to the extent of this wonderful bet that appeared so to affect him—“What have I betted? Oh! only my wife, children, house, clothes and furniture!” He positively lost all, and disappeared.

Cock-fighting was another amusement at which large parties would gladly assemble. The birds came of a good stock, were large, heavy, well-spurred, and carefully bred, with, as I suspected, a strain of the “jungle-fowl,” a shapely bird, which abounds in the jungle, though difficult to get at on foot, and which, if hung for the proper time, eats as well as pheasant.

The fanciers, each with his bird under his arm, would resort of an evening to any convenient shady spot, clear a ring, and set to work amid prodigious excitement. One never, perhaps, thoroughly grasped the utter brutality of this sport until he had seen it practised by those poor “savages;” in this case, however, it would have been too glaring a case of “glass houses,” etc., etc., to have even criticized it!

The one physical exercise of which the Burmese had but a very imperfect idea was the art of horse-riding. As they used very short stirrups, and consequently kept their knees right above the saddle, their seat was extremely insecure, only practicable indeed at the “amble,” a pace peculiar to their ponies, horses being unknown.

The European eye measured the qualities of that indigenous animal, with the result of soon placing it beyond the reach of ordinary mortals. I bought one for 3l.; in five years the price rose to 30l. In fact, one of those crazes for which our society is famous, took that direction; it suffered from “Pegu ponies” on the brain, talked of them, dreamed of them.

The enthusiasm of Phaeton the ill-starred to emulate Jehu was scarcely greater or more unfortunate than that of all sorts and conditions of both sexes to drive a pair in a well-appointed, low carriage.

They were certainly well-bred animals, yet withal most docile; many a night did mine carry me home with unerring instinct, when, owing to a darkness that could be felt, I could not see his head.

The natives looked with undisguised amazement on our cavalry and artillery horses: to begin with, the process of mounting sorely puzzled them. Later on, when it was decided to weed them out, a few, sold by auction, came into the possession of ambitious and adventurous Burmese, one of whom I watched with great amusement in his fruitless endeavours to mount. The climax was reached when, in despair, he tied the animal to one of the posts of his verandah, and climbing over the railing from inside, lowered himself into the saddle. Delighted beyond measure at the success of his stratagem, he cautiously proceeded to “cast adrift,” and doubtless enjoyed a famous ride, of which the element of excitement was by no means the least attraction.

There was a peculiar kind of football in which these people excelled, which in so far resembled our own “Association” that the use of the hands was strictly forbidden. There, however, the resemblance ceased: the ball, about the size of those used at croquet, was constructed of strips of cane, and consequently very light; some thirty players would form a large circle, and would keep the ball going from one to another, with toes, heels, and knees, with wonderful skill and accuracy.

But the most striking of their national amusements was the theatrical performance known as a “Pooay,” which was given in a kind of large “Punch and Judy” show.

Seats were literally taken early; that is to say, every one brought a brick, deposited the same according to fancy, and forthwith squatted upon it.

The dramatis personæ were dolls dexterously manipulated by a complicated arrangement of wires, while the men behind proved no mean ventriloquists; the performance, too, was as lengthy as it was excellent, for I have seen the audience assemble of an evening, and break up when I have passed that way again next morning!

Any clever joke would be received with uproarious mirth, and—let the reader be lenient in his judgment of these poor, untaught savages!—the broader the allusion, the more they relished it.

Comparisons are, as a rule, odious, but the pharisaical suppression of many native Burmese modes of recreation gives rise to reflections that will find expression ere long in the outcry of an injured people. We lay the flattering unction to our souls that we are not as others; we, forsooth, forbid the natives to bet and gamble. Why can we not at least have the honesty to admit that we hold India and Burmah solely and entirely for the sake of the “loaves and fishes,” without descending to cant about our duty as the pioneers of a religion with which such races can have but little real sympathy, and a civilization that—if, indeed, it be nothing worse—is at least no improvement on their present state?

The new arrival is at once struck by the large number of places of worship scattered broadcast over the country. They generally culminate in a pagoda, a wonderful tapering structure, very solidly built, and covered from the base upwards with gold-leaf, while the apex is generally surmounted by an umbrella, the insignia of royalty, or some other fantastic device. They were built in honour of Buddha, the labour and material being voluntary gifts of the people. If offerings of produce could be relied on as a measure of their devotion, then were the Burmese an essentially religious people. Plantains, boiled rice, curiously concocted native dishes, flowers, umbrellas—all were presented in profusion, and all—not excepting the more perishable portion of even the umbrellas—were disposed of by swarms of crows, the more adventurous of which pounced upon the good things while the worshippers were still busy with their devotions.

Of the many wondrous natural phenomena that so puzzle us Europeans in the far East, the extraordinary instinct possessed by vultures and other birds of prey is by no means the most inconsiderable. But a few moments need elapse after a bullock falls dead on the march, and one already sees black spots not far above the horizon, which soon prove to be vultures making straight for the carcase with unerring precision. Naturalists are divided in opinion as to whether this extraordinary power of perception owes its origin to some unusual development of the sense of vision, or to an equally unintelligible transcendency of the olfactory organs: one fact, I believe, speaks strongly in favour of the former hypothesis, and that is, that the birds as often as not approach from windward.

The numerous roadside temples offered unlimited opportunities for “looting,” the panacea for all military hardships; though the occasions were indeed better than the prizes, which consisted for the most part of images of Gautama covered with gold and silver foil.

All is, I imagine, fair in war; though in how far that rule admits of modification in the case of a war declared by a dominant power against a race of half-naked Orientals, I do not care to inquire. The Burmese certainly bore the pillage of their temples in a philosophic spirit, not to be met with even in a Christian country; they bowed to the inevitable, they made a virtue of necessity, they trusted to the teachings of their faith, rendering good for evil, so as to ultimately reach Nirvana, the goal of all their earthly and spiritual ambition, in the hope of which life was alone worth living.

CHAPTER V.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

“He hears, alas! no music of the spheres,

But an unhallowed, earthly sound of fiddling.”

“A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.”

These temples were by no means good specimens of Burmese architecture, which perhaps culminated in the Kyoungs, or resorts of the priests: a large quantity of elaborately carved timber entered into the construction of these edifices, the roof of which gradually diminished from below upwards, and were on this account far more pleasing to the eye than the more abrupt style adopted in Chinese temples.

They were for the most part raised in quiet and secluded groves, whither the pious Pongyees could retire for purposes of contemplation, in humble imitation of the founder of their creed.

These Pongyees, who were always clean-shaven, and clad in yellow robes, transcended in purity of life and devotion to their sacred cause any others of like persuasion that I ever came across. They were, moreover, courteous, unassuming, and affable to a degree, always ready to impart any information that lay within their ken, and supporting it with such written documents as they possessed.

The people at large held them in the greatest veneration, and the funeral obsequies of any distinguished member of the order were of an elaborate and somewhat costly nature. The first process was the embalming, in which art the Burmese must have been little inferior to the ancient Egyptians. When this process had been completed and the limbs were bound up and covered with a kind of varnish, the body was placed in a kyoung, where it lay in state for a month or six weeks, during which time there was always a light burning within the building, while prayers, intercessions, and offerings of every kind were made by devotees from all parts.

The last rite of all, cremation, I had the good fortune to witness, on a very important occasion, amid a large concourse of worshippers. The mummified remains were reverently laid on an iron grating between two low parallel walls, and a fire was ignited below, fuel being added as required; and although the wood was dry, and both it and the body burned furiously, the latter took a considerable time to incinerate.

While the deceased was lying in state, some foolish Europeans, possessed, I regret to say, of more zeal than honesty, made off one night with a few of his ornaments, and escaped only by the skin of their teeth.

Thus, even to Burmese philosophy there was a limit; they could endure with stoical indifference the spoliation of their temples; they uttered no audible protest against the unholy appropriation of pagodas sacred to Buddha, “the Wise,” “the Enlightened,” but when their offerings for the repose of a high priest’s soul were surreptitiously made away with, then their anger was kindled. The images were coveted, not for their intrinsic value, but because they were clever caricatures of the invader, both the civil and the military element being represented. Thus the resentment of the marauder predominated over even his cupidity; though no one who knew the character of the Burmese could ever suppose for one moment that they intended this as an insult, for, being themselves almost proof against the shafts of ridicule, they not unnaturally concluded that a nation so superior in intellect would be above such trifles. And here they erred; their intercourse with Europeans had hitherto been fragmentary—limited to a casual trader, and it had consequently never dawned on them that the sensitiveness of a race varies directly with its organization.

But for the stockade, the pilferers’ chance of escape would have been small indeed, and even as it was, they reached the main gate not a moment too soon. The sentry on duty shut it in the faces of the enraged pursuers and called out the guard. By restoring the images, and vouchsafing some sort of explanation, an episode which might have been attended with serious consequences was thus happily tided over.

I have already contrasted the Burmese with the natives of Hindostan, and I am constrained to compare them with the Mongolidæ. They closely resemble the Chinese in their features and habits; their language, too, is monosyllabic, and they also remain in a stationary condition for all time. This latter feature of their national existence is due to the generosity of nature; we northern races are engaged in an everlasting pitched battle with the elements, and where nature adds difficulty she adds brain; but with a warm climate, an abundant fauna and flora, rivers teeming with fish, and just enough intelligence to appreciate these gifts, besides a religion which fitted in with their mode of thought, what need had the Burmese of progress?

Their misfortune lay in being interfered with, because they did not understand the customs of what we are pleased to call “civilization,” and their country was wrested from them in consequence by the superior force of might. The rubbish indulged in as regards “improving and elevating them” I have but little patience with; it is, in the first place, right down dishonest, and it is, moreover, impossible even were it desirable.

In the “commercial advantages,” which were—let us be frank—the mainspring of the whole movement, there figured largely certain mines that had for years dazzled our eyes and excited our thirst for gain: well, we took them as the price of our “improvements,” and how have they been manipulated?

I have already had occasion to discuss the variety and strength of Oriental smells; one could, in fact, very well do without the sense of smell while in the East; the scent even of the flowers, of mango, orange, lime, and dedonia, is oppressive in the sultry atmosphere. But the “artificial” smells are something to experience; that of an Indian bazaar—a compound of assafœtida, decayed produce, and stagnant drains—clings to a person for ever; that of a Burmese market is delightfully enhanced by the perfume of Gua-pu, a speciality of the country, in which stale fish, lime, and other similar ingredients are incorporated secundum artem.

The display in the Rangoon market included meat, fish, poultry, fruit, vegetables, and flowers, in variety and abundance; but every other odour was assimilated and overcome by Gua-pu. Yet who shall ridicule so acquired a taste?

The alderman likes his green turtle, the Chinaman his birds’ nests, and the Frenchman his frogs’ legs; so, too, the Burmese will have his Gua-pu.

The fact is, there is Gua-pu and Gua-pu!

On one occasion, proceeding up the river with the Commissioner, the late Sir A. Phayre, I was roundly abusing this native delicacy; he fetched a stone jar and begged that I would taste the contents. When I had done so and reported favourably, he informed me to my astonishment that it was a superior quality of the compound I had been vilifying. Had he not been so perfect a gentleman, and so considerate to all that had the pleasure of acting under him, I should have suspected that he inwardly enjoyed my obvious discomfiture at having so erroneously condemned anything in toto.

He was certainly far above the ordinary run of rulers in all those qualities that adorn a man and a Christian. It was my good fortune to be near him for weeks together, when heavy responsibilities weighed upon him: we had to traverse wild tracts of country with dangers at every turn, and the end—if ever reached—bristled with difficulties. To be acquainted with him was a matter for congratulation; to serve under him was a privilege; to know him was to love him.

When circumstances had parted us, I had very undesirable occasions for studying the reverse of the medal—egotistical, fussy, fault-finding men, to please whom was beyond the range of human attainment; men primed with theory, but worse than useless in practical administration, whose one object seemed to be to offend and estrange their fellow-countrymen, and to oppress and outrage the natives.

The one type elevated the service; the other lowered both the service and all concerned therein, causing the tide to ebb to a very low mark.

The words of the Bard concerning the good and evil deeds of mankind have no application to the lamented Commissioner; he left no evil deeds to survive him, nor were his many good ones lost with him, for as long as Burmah is inhabited—and there is not at present any very startling prospect of a decrease in its population—his memory will be revered by Native and European alike, a monument more lasting than stone or brass.

For a conquered race the Burmese certainly held their heads remarkably erect, looking the usurper straight in the face without any shame for their own position. The fact was, a very superficial acquaintance with our habits and mode of living had convinced them of our superiority in every respect—save one.

It is very curious that every Eastern native looks down on our music with undisguised contempt. Our bands might discourse the gems of Chopin, Beethoven, and Balfe, but only the veriest loiterer would stop to listen, and, to judge by his expression, it fell as flat on his ear as a penny trumpet would on ours.

Real music was too refined and complicated for nerves accustomed throughout generations to coarser measures in harmony. This was the same all over Hindostan; and it is therefore surprising that our regimental native bands were remarkably good before the Mutiny.

A Burmese band consisted of a number of drums in a circle, and diverse brass instruments, awful to look upon, and still more awful to hear; though what they lacked in harmony they certainly made up for in noise. With the exception of the ubiquitous and irrepressible mosquito, the whole of the lower creation fled before it; and only a sense of dignity prevented many of us from following suit.

The performers must have been animated by extraordinary zeal, if the manner in which they hammered on the drums and blew through the wind-instruments be any criterion. As I invariably hastened in a direction opposite to that which was taken by the performers, I never witnessed the climax of the celebration; but if it continued for long on the same crescendo principle as that with which it passed me, I should think it must ultimately have resulted in rupture of the drum-heads and explosion of the remaining instruments.

The effect of music on nations, and through them on individuals, certainly furnishes matter for a deal of interesting study and comparison. In the primitive state it is simple and natural: Eastern nations make use of it to produce temporary excitement, a method that we have retained in our military bands, or, combined with dancing, as the food of love.

It has always been inseparably connected with religion and religious observances, from the organ and choir of Western religions to the drum and cymbals of the East. If the imagination of the poet can give to “airy nothing a local habitation and a name,” music has a yet greater power; and they are indeed twin sisters, poetry and music raising the civilized mind far above the ordinary range of things earthly. There will doubtless always be some mortals, even in the highest stage of civilization, who are nowise susceptible to the beauties of music; of them our poet for all time has spoken in uncomplimentary terms, perhaps harshly; but, if such a being is not to blame, he is at least incomprehensible.

Among the many disadvantages under which Eastern nations labour, is the absence of melody in the voices of the feathered tribe. Our nightingale, thrush, and lark are all birds of sober plumage; but in the East there are no vocal artists; no lark poising itself in mid-air warbling forth in the early morn, and gladdening the heart of man with its song; no thrush singing to its lady-love from the topmost branch of a may-tree; no nightingale to lend its charm to a summer twilight—nothing but gaudy plumage and burnished colours that dart hither and thither “brief as the lightning in the collied night.”

The birds utter for the most part harsh, discordant sounds; and it appears to me that the reason for this want of vocal sweetness is to be found either in the climate or in the number of carrion-eaters. A nightingale, for instance, singing from the leafy branch of a tamarind tree, with a pack of jackals yelling beneath, would be a contrast repugnant to nature, a dislocation of the fitness of things.

Our English vanity enables us to tolerate peacocks in the gardens of the wealthy. For the sake of seeing them strut about terraces and spread their tails in the sunlight, people will endure their torturing cry at daybreak, and even turn a deaf ear to the complaints of the gardener, who soon loses all patience with this most mischievous of birds. I do not remember them in Burmah, but in India they are very numerous, affecting in particular the denser jungles frequented by tigers.

An idea prevails indeed among the natives that the peacock follows such animals, but its only foundation lies in the coincidence that both love solitude. I remember on one occasion coming upon some hundreds of these beautiful birds committing rare havoc in a cultivated field. But they soon took cognizance of the intruder, and I had only just time to shoot a male and a young female, when all traces of them had vanished; the former for the sake of his feathers, the latter for the table. Certain shady trees bordering a canal near our encampment turned out to be a favourite roosting-place for them, but ere they could settle down for the night a general scrimmage would take place for the best seats: fine feathers may make fine birds, but do not always cover amiable dispositions—not, at least, in the ornithological biped!

Oh, my digressions! You wanted to hear about Burmah and its inhabitants, and here I have been discoursing on music and peacocks!

Being subject to a heavy annual rainfall, all their dwellings are built on piles, and are thereby raised to several feet above the ground. This expedient, a sanitary precaution against damp floorings and emanations from the soil, a sine quâ non, in fact, under such climatic conditions, gave a special character to their villages, which were constructed for the most part of bamboos.

But while steering clear of Scylla, they ran into Charybdis. Fire played great havoc with them, and its annual course was “short, sharp, and decisive.” The wonder was that it did not occur a dozen times a year instead of once; and I doubt whether a hydrant close at hand, with an unlimited supply of water, would have been of any real service.

They never took the least precaution with regard to fire, although their houses, furniture, and mats, and all consisted of nothing but bamboo; perhaps they thought that the annual fire was as inevitable as the annual monsoon. Indeed—to borrow an illustration from our own historians of the seventeenth century—I am strongly of opinion that this annual conflagration stifled the origin and prevented the spread of epidemic disease. Witness the fact that, a few years later, when more substantial buildings had taken the place of these flimsy wooden structures, thereby reducing such visitations to a minimum, cholera raged with great virulence, a disease hitherto almost unknown to the country, where doctors had been occupied chiefly with cases of fever and dysentery.