Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Griffin Marching to Join.

MEMOIRS OF A GRIFFIN
OR,
A CADET’S FIRST YEAR IN INDIA.

BY

CAPTAIN BELLEW.

ILLUSTRATED FROM DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR.

A New Edition.

LONDON

W. H. ALLEN & CO., Ltd., 13 WATERLOO PLACE. S.W.

PUBLISHERS TO THE INDIA OFFICE.

1891.

TO

Major-Gen. Sir ROBERT CUNLIFFE, Bart., C.B.,

OF

ACTON PARK, DENBIGHSHIRE, LATE COMMISSARY-GENERAL OF THE BENGAL ARMY,

IN WHOSE DEPARTMENT THE AUTHOR HAD FOR SOME YEARS THE HONOUR TO SERVE,

THIS LITTLE WORK

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, AS A MARK OF HIS SINCERE ESTEEM.

PREFACE.

Good wine, says the proverb, needs no bush; on the same principle, some will think that a book, if readable, may dispense with a preface. As a general rule this may be true, but there are occasions, and I take leave to deem this one of them, when, from the peculiar nature of the subject, a few preliminary observations, by creating a clear and possibly a pleasant understanding between the author and the gentle reader, may not be unacceptable or out of place. In the following little narrative, in which I have blended fact and fiction—though always endeavouring to keep the vraisemblable in view—my object has been to depict some of those scenes, characters, and adventures, which some five-and-twenty or thirty years ago a “jolly cadet”—alias a Griffin—was likely to encounter, during the first year of his military career; men, manners, and things in general have, since that period, undergone considerable changes; still, in its main features, the sketch I have drawn, admitting its original correctness, will doubtless apply as well to Griffins in the present mature age of the century, as when it was in its teens. The Griffin, or Greenhorn, indeed, though subject, like everything else, to the external changes incident to time and fashion, is, perhaps, fundamentally and essentially, one of the “never ending, still beginning” states, or phases of humanity, destined to exist till the “crash of doom.”

The characters which I have introduced in my narrative (for the most part as transiently as the fleeting shadows of a magic lantern across a spectrum) are all intended to represent respectively classes having more or less of an Oriental stamp, some still existing unchanged—others on the wane—and a few, I would fain hope, who, like the Trunnions and Westerns (parva componere magnis) of the last age have wholly disappeared before the steadily increasing light of knowledge and civilization—influences destructive of those coarse humours, narrow prejudices, and eccentric traits, which, however amusing in the pages of the novelist, are wondrously disagreeable in real life. It is true, the gradual disappearance of these coarser features imposes on the painter of life and manners the necessity of cultivating a nicer perception—of working with a finer pencil, and of seizing and embodying the now less obvious indications of the feelings and passions—the more delicate lights and shades of mind and character—but still in parting in a great measure with the materials for coarse drollery and broad satire, the world perhaps on the whole will be a gainer; higher feelings will be addressed than those which minister to triumph and imply humiliation: for though ’tis well to laugh at folly and expose it—’twere perhaps better to have no folly or error to laugh at and expose.

In the following pages, my wish has been to amuse, and where I could—without detriment to the professedly light and jocular character of the work—to instruct and improve. To hurt or offend has never entered into my contemplation—if such could ever be my object, I should not do it under a mask.

I deem it necessary to make this observation en passant, lest, like a young officer I once heard of in India, who, conscience-stricken on hearing some of his besetting sins, as he thought, pointedly denounced, flung out of the church, declaring “there was no standing the chaplain’s personalities,” some of my readers should think that I have been taking, under cover, a sly shot at themselves or friends. That the characters lightly sketched in these Memoirs have been taken from life—i.e., that the ideas of them have been furnished by real personages—I in some measure candidly allow, though I have avoided making the portraits invidiously exact; as in a dream, busy fancy weaves a tissue of events out of the stored impressions of the brain, so, of course, the writer of a story must in like manner, though with more congruity, arrange and embody his scattered recollections, though not necessarily in the exact shape and order in which the objects, &c., originally presented themselves. Moreover, I believe I may safely add, that the originals of my sketches have, for the most part, long since brought “life’s fitful fever” to a close.

To the kind care of the public I now consign the “Griffin,” particularly to that portion of it connected with India, a country where my best days have been spent, the scene of some of my happiest hours, as alas! of my severest trials and bereavements; hoping, on account of his “youth,” they will take him under their especial protection. To the critics I also commend him, trusting, if they have “any bowels,” that they will, for the same reason, deal with him tenderly.

London—queen of cities!—on sympathetic grounds, I hope for your munificent patronage. Griffins[^[1]] are your supporters, then why not support my “Griffin?”

If encouraged by the smiles of a “discriminating public,” I may, at some future period, impart the late Brevet Captain Gernon’s post-griffinish experiences amongst Burmahs, Pindaries, and “Chimeras dire,” with his “impressions of home,” as contained in the remaining autobiography of that lamented gentleman, who sunk under a gradual decay of nature and a schirrous liver, some time during the last hot summer.

It is proper I should state that these Memoirs, in a somewhat different form, first saw the light in the pages of the Asiatic Journal.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MEMOIRS OF A GRIFFIN.

CHAPTER I.

Pleasant days of my Griffinhood!—green oasis of life’s desert waste!—thoughtless, joyous, happy season, when young Hope told “her flattering tale,” and novelty broke sweetly upon a heart unsated by the world, with what fond and regretful emotions do I now look back upon you through the long, dim, dreary vista of five-and-twenty years!

But I think I hear a raw reader exclaim, “Griffins!—are there griffins in the East?” “Assuredly, sir. Did you never hear of the law of Zoroaster quoted in Zadig, by which griffins’ flesh is prohibited to be eaten? Griffins are so common at the different presidencies of India that nobody looks at them, and most of these animals are very tame.” I will not, however, abuse the traveller’s privilege.

Griffin, or more familiarly a Griff, is an Anglo-Indian cant term applied to all new-comers, whose lot has been cast in the “gorgeous East.” Whether the appellation has any connection with the fabulous compound, the gryps or gryphon of armorial blazoning, is a point which I feel myself incompetent to decide.[^[2]] A griffin is the Johnny Newcome of the East, one whose European manners and ideas stand out in ludicrous relief when contrasted with those, so essentially different in most respects, which appertain to the new country of his sojourn. The ordinary period of griffinhood is a year, by which time the novus homo, if apt, is supposed to have acquired a sufficient familiarity with the language, habits, customs, and manners of the country, both Anglo-Indian and Native, so as to preclude his making himself supremely ridiculous by blunders, gaucheries, and the indiscriminate application of English standards to states of things to which those rules are not always exactly adapted. To illustrate by example:—a good-natured Englishman, who should present a Brahmin who worships the cow with a bottle of beef-steak sauce, would be decidedly “griffinish,” particularly if he could be made acquainted with the nature of the gift; nevertheless, beef steak, per se, is an excellent thing in an Englishman’s estimation, and a better still with the addition of the before-mentioned condiment. But to return to our subject.

At the termination, then, of the above-mentioned period, our griffin, if he has made the most of his time, becomes entitled to associate on pretty equal terms with those sun-dried specimens of the genus homo, familiarly called the “old hands:”—subs of fifteen years’ standing; grey-headed captains, and superannuated majors, critics profound in the merits of a curry, or the quality of a batch of Hodgson’s pale ale. He ceases to be the butt of his regiment, and persecutes in his turn, with the zeal of a convert, all novices not blessed with his modicum of local experience.

Youth is proverbially of a plastic nature, and the juvenile griffin, consequently, in the majority of instances, readily accommodates himself to the altered circumstances in which he is placed; but not so the man of mature years, to whose moral and physical organization forty or fifty winters have imparted their rigid and unmalleable influences. Griffins of this description, which commonly comprises bishops, judges, commanders-in-chief, and gentlemen sent out on special missions, &c., protract their griffinage commonly during the whole period of their stay in the country, and never acquire the peculiar knowledge which entitles them to rank with the initiated. The late most excellent Bishop Heber, for example, who to the virtues of a Christian added all the qualities which could adorn the scholar and gentleman, was nevertheless an egregious griffin, as a perusal of his delightful travels in India, written in all the singleness of his benevolent heart, must convince any one acquainted with the character of the country and the natives of India.

Autobiographers love to begin ab ovo, and I see no reason why I should wholly deviate from a custom doubly sanctioned by reason and established usage. It is curious sometimes to trace the gradual development of character in “small” as well as in “great” men; to note the little incidents which often determine the nature of our future career, and describe the shootings of the young idea at that vernal season when they first begin to expand into trees of good or evil. In an old manor-house, not thirty miles from London, on a gloomy November day, I first saw the light. Of the home of my infancy I remember little but my nursery, a long, bare, whitewashed apartment, with a tall, diamond-paned window, half obscured by the funereal branches of a venerable yew-tree. This window looked out, I remember, on the village churchyard, thickly studded with the moss-grown memorials of successive generations. In that window-seat I used to sit for many a weary hour, watching the boys idling on the gravestones, the jackdaws wheeling their airy circles round the spire, or the parson’s old one-eyed horse cropping the rank herbage, which sprouted fresh and green above the silent dust of many a “village Hampden.” The recollections of infancy, like an old picture, become often dim and obscure, but here and there particular events, like bright lights and rich Rembrandt touches, remain deeply impressed, which seem to defy the effects of time; of this kind is a most vivid recollection I have of a venerable uncle of my mother’s, an old Indian, who lived with us, and whose knee I always sought when I could give nurse the slip. My great uncle Frank always welcomed me to his little sanctum in the green parlour, and having quite an Arab’s notion of the sacred rights of hospitality, invariably refused to give me up when nurse, puffing and foaming, would waddle in to reclaim me. I shall never forget the delight I derived from his pleasant stories and the white sugar-candy, of which he always kept a stock on hand. Good old man! he died full of years, and was the first of a long series of friends whose loss I have had to lament.

My father was, truly, that character emphatically styled “an Irish gentleman,” in whom the suavity of the Frenchman was combined with much of the fire and brilliancy of his native land. Though of an ancient family, his fortune, derived from an estate in the sister kingdom, was very limited, the “dirty acres” having somehow or other, from generation to generation, become “small by degrees, and beautifully less.” He was of a tender frame, and of that delicate, sensitive, nervous temperament, which, though often the attendant on genius, which he unquestionably possessed, little fits those so constituted to buffet with the world, or long to endure its storms. He died in the prime of manhood, when I was very young, and left my mother to struggle with those difficulties which are always incident to a state of widowhood, with a numerous family and a limited income. The deficiency of fortune was, however, in her case, compensated by the energies of a masculine understanding, combined with an untiring devotion to the interest and welfare of her children.

Trades and professions in England are almost as completely hereditary as among the castes of India. The great Franklin derived his “ponderous strength,” physical if not intellectual, from a line of Blacksmiths, and I, Frank Gernon, inherit certain atrabilious humours, maternally, from a long series of very respectable “Qui Hyes.”[^[3]] Yes, my mothers family—father, grandfather, uncles, and cousins—had all served with exemplary fidelity that potent merchant-monarch affectionately termed in India the Honourable John (though degraded, I am sorry to say, into an “old woman” by his native subjects); they had all flourished for more than a century under the shade of the “rupee tree,” a plant of Hesperidean virtues, whose fructiferous powers, alas! have since their time sadly declined. These, my maternal progenitors, were men both of the sword and pen; some had filled high civil stations with credit, whilst others, under the banners of a Clive, a Lawrence, or a Munro, had led “Ind’s dusky chivalry” to war, and participated in many of those glorious, but now time-mellowed exploits, from which the splendid fabric of our Eastern dominions has arisen. This, and other circumstances on which I shall briefly touch, combined to point my destiny to the gorgeous East. My mother, for the reasons given, and the peculiar facilities which she consequently had for establishing us in that quarter, had from an early period looked fondly to India as the theatre for the future exertions of her sons. But long before the period of my departure arrived—indeed I may say almost from infancy—I had been inoculated by my mother, my great uncle, and sundry parchment-faced gentlemen who frequented our house, with a sort of Indo-mania. I was never tired of hearing of its people, their manners, dress, &c., and was perfectly read on the subject of alligators and Bengal tigers. I used, indeed, regularly and systematically to persecute and bore every Anglo-Indian that came in my way for authentic accounts of their history and mode of destruction, &c. One most benevolent old gentleman, a fine specimen of the Indian of other days, and a particular friend of my family, used to “fool us to the top of our bent” in that way. I say us, for the Indo-mania was not confined to myself.

My mother, too, used to entertain us with her experiences, which served to feed the ardent longing which I felt to visit the East. How often in the winter evenings of pleasant “lang syne,” when the urn hissed on the table, and the cat purred on the comfortable rug, has our then happy domestic circle listened with delight to her account of that far-distant land! What respect did the sonorous names of Bangalore and Cuddalore, and Nundy Droog and Severn Droog, and Hookhaburdar and Soontaburdars, and a host of others, excite in our young minds! In what happy accordance with school-boy thoughts were the descriptions she gave us of the fruits of that sunny clime—the luscious mango—the huge jack—the refreshing guava—and, above all, the delicious custard-apple, a production which I never in the least doubted contained the exact counterpart of that pleasant admixture of milk and eggs which daily excited my longing eyes amongst the tempting display of a pastry-cook’s window! Sometimes she rose to higher themes, in which the pathetic or adventurous predominated. How my poor cousin Will fell by the dagger of an assassin at the celebrated massacre of Patna; and how another venturous relative shot a tiger on foot, thereby earning the benedictions of a whole community of peaceful Hindoos, whose village had long been the scene of his midnight maraudings: this story, by the way, had a dash of the humorous in it, though relating in the main to a rather serious affair. It never lost its raciness by repetition, and whenever my mother told it, which at our request she frequently did, and approached what we deemed the comic part, our risibles were always on full-cock for a grand and simultaneous explosion of mirth.

Well, time rolled on; I had doubled the Cape of Good Hope, sweet sixteen, and the ocean of life and adventure lay before me. I stood five feet nine inches in my stockings, and possessed all the aspirations common to my age. “Frank, my love,” one day said my mother to me, at the conclusion of breakfast, “I have good news for you; that most benevolent of men, Mr. Versanket, has complied with my application, and given me an infantry cadetship for you; here,” she continued, “is his letter, read it, and ever retain, as I trust you will, a lively sense of his goodness.” I eagerly seized the letter, and read the contents with a kind of ecstasy. It expressed sympathy in my mothers difficulties, and an invitation to me to come to London and take advantage of his offer.

I will not dwell on the parting scenes. Suffice it to say, that I embraced those dear objects of my affection, many of whom I was never destined to embrace again, and bid a sorrowful long adieu to the parental roof. I arrived in the great metropolis, and prepared for my outfit and departure. Having completed the former—sheets, ducks, jeans, and gingerbread, tobacco to bribe old Neptune, brandy to mollify the sailors, and all et ceteras, according to the most approved list of Messrs. Welsh and Stalker—nought remained but to pass the India House, an ordeal which I was led to view with an indefinable dread. From whom I received the information I now forget, though it was probably from some one of that mischievous tribe of jokers, who love to sport with the feelings of youth; but I was told that it was absolutely necessary that I should learn by heart, as an indispensable preliminary to passing, the “Articles of War and Mutiny Act,” then forming one volume. What was my state of alarm and despondency as I handled that substantial yellow-backed tome, and reflected on the task I had to perform of committing its whole contents to memory in the brief space of one week! It haunted me in my dreams, and the thought of it, sometimes crossing my mind whilst eating, almost suspended the power of swallowing. I carried it about with me whereever I went, applying to it with desperate determination whenever a leisure moment, of which I had very few, would admit; but what I forced into my sensorium one moment, the eternal noise and racket of London drove out of it the next. To cut a long story short, the day arrived, “the all-important day,” big with my fate. I found myself waiting in the India House, preparatory to appearing before the directors, and, saving the first two or three clauses, the “Articles of War” were to me as a sealed volume. I was in despair; to be disgraced appeared inevitable. At last came the awful summons, and I entered the apartment, where, at a large table covered with green cloth, sat the “potent, grave, and reverend signiors,” who were to decide my fate. One of them, a very benevolent-looking old gentleman, with a powdered head, desired me to advance, and having asked me a few questions touching my name, age, &c., he paused, and, to my inexpressible alarm, took up a volume from the table, which was no other than that accursed piece of military codification of which I have made mention. Now, thought I, it comes, and all is over. After turning over the leaves for some seconds, he said, raising his head, “I suppose you are well acquainted with the contents of this volume?” Heaven forgive me! but the instinct of self-preservation was strong upon me, and I mumbled forth a very suspicious “Yes.” Ye generous casuists, who invent excuses for human frailty, plead for my justification. “Well,” continued he, closing the book, “conduct yourself circumspectly in the situation in which you are about to enter, and you will acquire the approbation of your superiors; you may now retire.” Those who can imagine the feelings of a culprit reprieved, after the fatal knot has been comfortably adjusted by a certain legal functionary; or those of a curate, with £50 per annum, and fifteen small children, on the announcement of a legacy of £10,000; or those of a respectable spinster of forty, on having the question unexpectedly popped; or, in short, any other situation where felicity obtrudes unlooked for, may form some idea of mine; I absolutely walked on air, relieved from this incubus, and gave myself up to the most delightful buoyancy of spirits. A few days more, and Mr. Cadet Francis Gernon found himself on board the Rottenbeam Castle, steering down Channel, and with tearful eyes casting a lingering gaze on the shores of old England.

CHAPTER II.

The first scene of this eventful drama closed with my embarkation on board the Rottenbeam Castle, bound for Bengal. Saving an Irish packet, this was the first ship on which I had ever set foot, and it presented a new world to my observation—a variety of sights and sounds which, by giving fresh occupation to my thoughts and feelings, served in some measure to banish the tristful remembrance of home. All, at first, was a chaos to me; but when the confusion incidental to embarkation and departure (the preliminary shake of this living kaleidoscope), a general clearing out of visitors, custom-house officers, bum-boat women, et hoc genus omne, had subsided, things speedily fell into that regular order characteristic of vessels of this description—each individual took up his proper position, and entered in an orderly manner on his prescribed and regular routine of duty; and I began to distinguish officers from passengers, and to learn the rank and importance of each respectively.

Before proceeding further with ship-board scenes, a slight sketch of a few of the dramatis personæ may not be unacceptable. And first, our commander, the autocrat of this little empire. Captain McGuffin was a raw-boned Caledonian, of some six foot three; a huge, red-headed man of great physical powers, of which, however, his whole demeanour, singularly mild, evinced a pleasing unconsciousness; bating the latter quality, he was just such a man of nerves and sinews as in the olden time, at Falkirk or Bannockburn, one could fancy standing like a tower of strength, amidst the din and clash of arms, “slaughing” off heads and arms, muckle broad-sword in hand, with fearful energy and effect. He had a sombre and fanatical expression of visage; and I never looked at his “rueful countenance” but I thought I saw the genuine descendant of one of those stern covenanters of yore, of whom I had read—one of those “crop-eared whigs” who, on lonely moor and mountain, had struggled for the rights of conscience, and fought with indomitable obstinacy the glorious fight of freedom.

I soon discovered I was not “alone in my glory,” and that another cadet was destined to share with me the honours of the “Griffinage.” He was a gawky, wide-mouthed fellow, with locks like a pound of candles, and trousers half-way up his calves; one who, from his appearance, it was fair to infer had never before been ten miles from his native village. It was a standing source of wonder to all on board (and to my knowledge the enigma was never satisfactorily solved), by what strange concurrence of circumstances, what odd twist of Dame Fortune’s wheel, this Gaspar Hauserish specimen of rusticity had attained to the distinguished honour of being allowed to sign himself “gentleman cadet,” in any “warrant, bill, or quittance;” but so it was. The old adage, however, applied in his case; he turned out eventually to be much less of a fool than he looked.

Our first officer, Mr. Gillans, was a thorough seaman, and a no less thorough John Bull; he had the then common detestation of the French and their imputed vices of insincerity, &c., and in endeavouring to avoid the Scylla of Gallic deceit, went plump into the Charybdis of English rudeness. He was in truth, a blunt, gruff fellow, who evidently thought that civility and poltroonery were convertible terms. The captain was the only person whom his respect for discipline ever allowed him to address without a growl; in short, the vulgar but expressive phrase, as “sulky as a bear with a sore head,” seemed made for him expressly, for in no case could it have been more justly applied. The second mate, Grinnerson, was a gentlemanly fellow on the whole, but a most eternal wag and joker. Cadets had plainly, for many a voyage, furnished him with subjects for the exercise of his facetious vein, and “Tom,” i.e. Mr. Thomas Grundy, and myself, received diurnal roastings at his hands. If I expressed an opinion, “Pardon me, my dear sir,” he would say, with mock gravity, “but it strikes me that, being only a cadet, you can know nothing about it;” or, “in about ten years hence, when you get your commission, your opinion ‘on things in general’ may be valuable.” If I flew out, or the peaceable Grundy evinced a disposition to “hog his back,” he would advise us to keep our temper, to be cool, assuring us, with dry composure, that the “cadets on the last voyage were never permitted to get into a passion.” In a word, he so disturbed my self-complacency, that I long gravely debated the question with myself, whether I ought not to summon him to the lists when I got to India, there to answer for his misdeeds. As the voyage drew towards a close, however, he let off the steam of his raillery considerably, and treated us with more deference and respect; thereby showing that he had studied human nature, and knew how to restore the equilibrium of a young man’s temper, by adding to the weight in the scale of self-esteem. Our doctor and purser are the only two more connected with the ship whom I shall notice. The first, Cackleton by name, was a delicate, consumptive, superfine person, who often reminded me of the injunction, “physician, heal thyself.” He ladled out the soup with infinite grace, and was quite the ladies’ man. His manners, indeed, would have been gentlemanly and unexceptionable had they not been for ever pervaded by an obviously smirking consciousness on his part that they were so. As for Cheesepare, the purser, all I shall record of him is, that by a happy fortune he had dropped into the exact place for which nature and his stars appeared to have designed him. He looked like a purser—spoke like a purser—ate and drank like a purser—and locked himself up for three or four hours per diem with his hooks and ledgers like a very praiseworthy purser. Moreover, he carved for a table of thirty or forty, with exemplary patience, and possessed the happy knack of disposing of the largest quantity of meat in the smallest given quantity of time of any man I ever met with, in order to be ready for a renewed round at the mutton.

Of passengers we had the usual number and variety: civilians, returning with wholesale stocks of English and continental experiences and recollections of the aristocratic association, &c., for Mofussil consumption; old officers, going back to ensure their “off-reckonings” preparatory to their final “off-reckoning;” junior partners in mercantile houses; sixteenth cousins from Forres and Invernesshire obeying the spell of kindred attraction (would that we had a little more of its influence south of the Tweed!); officers to supply the wear and tear of cholera and dysentery in his (then) Majesty’s regiments; matrons returning to expectant husbands, and bright-eyed spinsters to get—a peep at the country—nothing more;—then we had an assistant surgeon or two, more au fait at whist than Galenicals, and the two raw, unfledged griffins—to wit, Grundy and myself—completed the list. But of the afore-mentioned variety, I shall only select half a dozen for particular description, and as characteristic of the mass.

First, there was Colonel Kilbaugh, a colonel of cavalry and ex-resident of Paugulabad, who, in spite of his high-heeled Hobys, was a diminutive figure, pompous, as little men generally are, and so anxious, apparently, to convince the world that he had a soul above his inches, that egad, sir, it was dangerous for a man above the common standard of humanity to look at him, or differ in opinion in the slightest degree. His was in truth

A fiery soul, which, working out its way,

Fretted the pigmy body to decay.

He excelled (in his own estimation) in long stories, which he told with an extraordinary minuteness of detail. They generally began with, “Shortly after I was appointed to the residency of Paugulabad,” or, “The year before, or two years after, I left the residency of Paugulabad:” in short, that was his chronological starting-point. The colonel’s yarns principally (though not entirely) related to wonderful sporting exploits, and the greater the bounce the more scrupulously exact was he in the minutiæ, magnanimously disregarding the terrors of cross-examination, should a seven-foot mortal venture one. “It was the largest tiger that, sir, I ever killed; he stood 4 feet 4¾ inches to the top of his shoulder—4 feet 4¾ was it, by-the-bye?—no, I’m wrong; 4 feet 4½. I killed him with a double Joe I got from our doctor; I think it was the cold season before I left the residency of Paugulabad.” It was one of the most amusing things in the world to see him marching up and down the poop with our Colossus of a skipper—“Ossa to a wart”—one little fin of a hand behind his back, and laying down the law with the other; skipper, with an eye to future recommendation, very deferential of course.

Next, in point of rank, was Mr. Goldmore, an ex-judge of the Sudder Dewanny Adawlut; a man of birth and education, and an excellent sample of the distinguished service to which he belonged. His manners were kind and urbane, though he was a little peppery sometimes, particularly when I beat him at chess. He had come home a martyr to liver; and the yellow cheek, the lacklustre eye, and the feeble step, all told too plainly that he was returning to die. His wife, fifteen years younger than himself, exhibited beside him a striking contrast; she, “buxom, blithe, and debonnair”—a vigorous plant in florid pride; he, poor fellow, in the “sear and yellow” leaf. She was a warm-hearted, excellent creature, native goodness beaming in her eye, but had one fault, and that a prominent one. Having in India, as is often the case with the sex, been thrown much at out-stations amongst male society, she had insensibly adopted a “mannish” tone, used terms of Indian conventional slang—bad in a man, but odious from female lips—laughed heartily at stories seasoned with equivoque, and sometimes told such herself with off-hand naïveté at the cuddy-table, producing a wink from Mr. Grinnerson to Ensign O’Shaughnessy, and an uncommon devotion to his plate on the part of Mr. Goldmore himself.

Major Rantom, of the Dragoons—soldierly, gentleman-like, and five-and-thirty—commanded the detachment of troops, to which were attached Ensigns Gorman and O’Shaughnessy, two fine “animals,” that had recently been caught in the mountains of Kerry; and an ancient centurion, Capt. Marpeet, of the Native Infantry, must conclude these samples of the masculine gender. Marpeet was a character, upon the whole—a great man for short whist and Hodgson’s pale ale. The Sporting Magazine, Taplin’s Farriery, and Dundas’s Nineteen Manœuvres, seemed to have constituted the extent of his reading, though some conversation he one day had about “zubber, zeer, and pesh,” and that profound work the Tota Kuhannee, seemed to indicate that he had at least entered on the flowery paths of Oriental literature. Dundas, however, was his strong point—his tower of strength—his one idea. Ye powers! how amazingly convincing and fluent he was when he took that subject in hand! Many a tough discussion would he have with the pompous little colonel, whether the right or left stood fast, &c., and who, having been a Resident, and knowing, therefore, everything, of course knew something of that also.

But places aux demoiselles! make way for the spinsters! Let me introduce to the reader’s acquaintance Miss Kitty and Miss Olivia Jenkins, Miss Maria Balgrave, and Miss Anna Maria Sophia Dobbikins. The first two were going to their father, a general officer in the Madras Presidency; the eldest, Kitty, was a prude, haunted by the “demon of propriety,” the youngest, dear Olivia, a perfect giggle—with such a pair of eyes!—but “thereby hangs a tale.” Miss Maria Balgrave was consigned to a house of business in Calcutta, to be forwarded, by the first safe conveyance, up the country to her dear friend Mrs. Kurrybhat, the lady of Ensign Kurrybhat, who had invited her out; she was very plain, but of course possessed its usual concomitant, great amiability of temper. Miss Dobbikins was a Bath and Clifton belle, hackneyed and passé, but exhibiting the remains of a splendid face and figure; it was passing strange that so fine a creature should have attained a certain age without having entered that state which she was so well calculated to adorn, whilst doubtless many a snub-nosed thing had gone off under her own nose. I have seen many such cases; and it is a curious problem for philosophical investigation, why those whom “every one” admires “nobody” marries.

Having given these sketches of a few of my companions, let me now proceed with my voyage. Leaving Deal we had to contend with contrary winds, and when off Portsmouth, they became so adverse, that the captain determined on dropping anchor, and there wait a favourable change. In three days the wind became light, veered to the proper quarter, and our final departure was fixed for the following morning. My last evening off Portsmouth long remained impressed on my memory. Full often, in my subsequent wanderings in the silent forest or the lonely desert, in the hushed camp, or on the moon-lit rampart, where nought save the sentinel’s voice broke through the silence of the night, have I pictured this last aspect of my native land. I had been engaged below, inditing letters for home and other occupations, the whole day, when, tired of the confinement, I mounted on the poop: the parting glow of a summer’s evening rested on the scene—a tranquillity and repose little, alas! in consonance with the state of my feelings, once more painfully excited at the prospect of the severance from all that was dear to me. Hitherto excitement had sustained me, but now I felt it in its full force.

Land of my sires, what mortal hand

Can e’er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand?

I leant my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to sad and melancholy reflections. On one side stretched the beautiful coast of the Isle of Wight, whilst the fast-gathering shades of evening were slowly blending into one dark mass the groves and villas of Cowes; lights from many a pleasant window streamed across the rippling sea—lights, methought, cheering circles of happy faces, like those I lately gazed upon, but which I might never see more. Many a tall and gallant man-of-war rode ahead of us, fading in the gathering mist; boats, leaving their long, silvery tracks behind them, glided across the harbour; whilst the lights of the town, in rapid succession, broke forth as those of the day declined. The very tranquillity of such a scene as this, to a person in my then state of mind, by mocking, as it were, the inward grief, made it to be more deeply felt. I looked at my native shores, as a lover gazes on his mistress for the last time, till the boom of the evening gun, and the increasing darkness, warned me that it was time to go below.

Calm were the elements, night’s silence deep,

The waves scarce murmuring, and the winds asleep.

In a few days we were in the Bay of Biscay—and now my troubles began.

CHAPTER III.

The Bay of Biscay well merits its turbulent character; of this we soon had ample demonstration, for the Rottenbeam Castle had scarcely entered within its stormy bounds, when the wind, hitherto moderate, became rough and boisterous, and in a little time freshened almost to a gale; the vessel began to pitch and roll—the shrouds cracked—the few sails set were strained almost to splitting—and mountain seas with wild, foamy crests ever and anon burst over us, clearing the waist and forecastle, and making the “good ship” quiver through every plank and timber. These sublimities were quite new to me, and produced their usual effects on the unseasoned—an involuntary tribute to Old Ocean—not a metrical outpouring, but one of a less spiritual quality, on which it would be superfluous to dilate.

Our first day’s dinner on board, with things in the state I have described—i.e. the Rottenbeam Castle reeling and staggering like a drunken man—was a most comical affair, and I should have enjoyed it extremely had my nausea been less. It is true, with some variations, the scene was afterwards frequently repeated (except when sea-pie was the order of the day); but then, though I was no longer qualmish, it in turn had lost the master-charm of novelty. We were summoned to dinner as usual, on the day in question, by the drummers and fifers—or rather, to be more respectful, the “Captains Band;” but, from the difficulty of preserving an equilibrium, these worthies mangled the “Roast Beef of Old England” most unmercifully. The dapper little steward, with his train of subordinates, had some difficulty in traversing the deck with their savoury burthens; unable to march as before, heads erect, like a squad of recruits, the grand purveyor, with his silver tureen in the van, they now emerged theatrically from the culinary regions—advancing with slides and side-steps, like a corps de ballet—now a halt, then a simultaneous run—then balancing on one leg—and finally (hitting the moment of an equipoise) a dart into the cuddy, where, with some little difficulty, each contrived to deposit his dish. The passengers, emerging from various doors and openings, tottering and holding on as best they might, now made their way to seats, and amidst the most abominable creaking and groaning that ever saluted my ears the operation of dinner began. In spite of sand-bags, however, and all other appliances, there was no restraining the ambulatory freaks of the dishes, and we were scarcely seated when a tremendous lee-lurch sent a tureen of peasoup souse over the doctor s kerseymere waistcoat and Brummel tie; and a roast pig, as if suddenly resuscitated and endued with a spirit of frenzy, darted from its dish, and, cantering furiously down the whole length of the table, finally effected a lodgment in Miss Dobbikins’ lap, to the infinite dismay of that young lady, who uttering a faint shriek, hastily essayed, with Ensign O’Shaughnessy’s assistance, to divest herself of the intrusive porker. I, for my part, was nearly overwhelmed by an involuntary embrace from the charming Miss Olivia; whilst, to add to the confusion, at this particular moment, Mr. Cadet Grundy, governed rather by sight than a due consideration of circumstances and the laws of gravitation, made a desperate lunge at one of the swinging tables, which he thought was making a most dangerous approach to the perpendicular, in order to steady it, and the immediate result was, a fearful crash of glasses and decanters, and a plentiful libation of port and sherry.

“Are ye mod, sir, to do that?” exclaimed the captain, with ill-suppressed vexation at the destruction of his glasses, and forgetting his usual urbanity.

“I thought they were slipping off, sir,” said Grundy, with great humility.

“Ye ha’ slupped them off in gude airnest yeersel, sir,” rejoined Captain McGuffin, unable, however, to repress a smile, in which all joined, at the idea of Grundy’s extreme simplicity. “Dinna ye ken, sir, that it’s the ship, and not the swing-table, that loses its pairpendicular? Here, steward,” continued he, “clare away these frogments, and put mair glasses on the table.”

The colloquy ended, there was a further lull, when, heave yo ho! away went the ship on the other side; purser jammed up against the bulk-head—rolls—legs and wings—boiled beef, carrots, and potatoes, all racing, as if to see which would first reach the other side of the table. At this instant snap went a chair-lashing, and the ex-resident of Paugulabad was whirled out of the cuddy door, like a thunder-bolt.

“There she goes again!” exclaimed the second mate; “hold on, gentlemen.” The caution was well-timed, for down she went on the opposite tack; once more, the recoil brought the colonel back again, with the force of a battering-ram, attended by an awful smash of the butlers plate-basket, and other deafening symptoms of reaction. Oh, ’tis brave sport, a cuddy-dinner in an Indiaman, and your ship rolling gunwales under.

“By the powers, now, but this hates everything entirely,” exclaimed Ensign Gorman, who, like myself, was a griff, and had never witnessed anything of the sort before.

“Oh, its nothing at all this—mere child’s play, to what you’ll have round the Cape,” observed the second mate, grinning with malice prepense.

“The deuce take you, now, Grinnerson, for a Jove’s comforter,” rejoined the ensign, laughing; “sure if it’s worse than this, it is we’ll be sailing bottom upwards, and ateing our males with our heels in the air.”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s a mere trifle this to the rolling and pitching I myself have experienced,” said the little colonel, who having recovered his seat and composure, now put in his oar, unwilling to be silent when anything wonderful was on the tapis. “I remember,” continued the ex-resident, picking his teeth nonchalamment (he generally picked his teeth when delivered of a bouncer), “that was—let me see, about the year 1810—shortly after I resigned the residency of Paugulabad—we were off Cape Lagullas, when our vessel rolled incessantly for a fortnight in the heaviest sea I ever remember to have seen; we were half our time under water—a shark actually swam through the cuddy—everything went by the board—live stock all washed away—couldn’t cook the whole time, but lived on biscuit, Bologna sausages, Bombay ducks, and so forth. To give you an idea of it—ladies will excuse me—I actually wore out the seats of two pair of inexpressibles from the constant friction to which they were subjected—a sort of perpetual motion—no preserving the same centre of gravity for a single moment.”

This sally of the colonel’s had an equally disturbing effect on the gravity of the cuddy party, and all laughed heartily at it.

“You were badly enough off, certainly, colonel,” said our wag, the second officer (with a sly wink at one of his confederates); “but I think I can mention a circumstance of the kind still more extraordinary. When I was last in the China seas, in the John Tomkins, she rolled so prodigiously after a tuffoon, that she actually wore off all the copper sheathing, and very nearly set the sea on fire by this same friction you speak of. It’s strange, but as true as what you have just mentioned, colonel.”

“Sir,” said the colonel, bristling up, for he did not at all relish the drift of this story, “you are disposed to be pleasant, sir; facetious, sir; but let me beg in future that you will reserve your jokes for some one else, and not exhibit your humour at my expense, or it may be unpleasant to both of us.”

All looked grave—the affair was becoming serious—the colonel was a known fire-eater, and Grinnerson, who saw he had overshot the mark, seemed a little disconcerted, but struggled to preserve his composure—it was a juncture well calculated to test all the powers of impudence and tact of that very forward gentleman; but, somehow or other, he did back cleverly out of the scrape, without any additional offence to the colonel’s dignity, or a farther compromise of his own, and before the cloth was removed, a magnanimous challenge to Mr. Grinnerson, “to take wine,” came from the colonel (who at bottom was a very worthy little man, though addicted, unfortunately, to the Ferdinand Mendez Pinto vein), and convinced us that happily no other sort of challenge was to be apprehended. And so ended my first day’s dinner in a high sea in the Bay of Biscay.

Now had the moon, resplendent lamp of night,

O’er heaven’s pure azure shed her sacred light.

In plain prose, it was past seven bells, and I (like Mahomet’s coffin) was swinging in the steerage, forgetful of all my cares; whether in my dreams I was wandering once more, as in childhood’s days, by the flowery margin of the silver Avon, listening to the blackbird’s mellow note from the hawthorn dell—lightly footing the Spanish dance in Mangeon’s ball-room at Clifton—or comfortably sipping a cup of bohea in the family circle at home—I do not now well remember: but whatever was the nature of those sweet illusions, they were suddenly dispelled, in the dead of the night, by one of the most fearful agglomerations of stunning sounds that ever broke the slumbers of a cadet: groaning timbers—hoarse shouts—smashing crockery—falling knife-boxes—and the loud gurgling bubble of invading waters—all at once, and with terrible discord, burst upon my astonished ear. Thinking the ship was scuttling, or, that some other (to me unknown) marine disaster was befalling her, I sprung up in a state between sleeping and waking, overbalanced my cot, and was pitched out head-foremost on the deck. Here a body of water, ancle-deep, and washing to and fro, lent a startling confirmation to my apprehensions that the ship was actually in articulo immersionis. I struggled to gain my feet, knocked my naked shins against a box of saddlery of the major’s, slipped and slid about on the wet and slimy deck, and finally, my feet flying from under me, came bump down on the broadest side of my person, with stunning emphasis and effect. Another effort to gain the erect position was successful, and, determined to visit the “glimpses of the moon” once more before I became food for fishes, I hurriedly and instinctively scrambled my way towards the companion ladder. Scarcely was I in its vicinity, and holding on by a staunchion, when the vessel gave another profound roll, so deep that the said ladder, being ill-secured, fell over backwards, saluting the deck with a tremendous bang, followed by a second crash, and bubbling of waters effecting a forcible entry. Paralyzed and confounded by this succession of sounds and disasters, I turned, still groping in the darkness, to seek some information touching this uproar, from some one of the neighbouring sleepers. I soon lighted on a hammock, and tracing the mummy-case affair from the feet upwards my hands rested on a cold nose, then a rough curly pate surmounting it, whose owner, snoring with a ten-pig power, would, I verily believe, have slept on had the crash of doom been around him. “Hollo! here,” said I, giving him a shake. A grunt and a mumbled execration were all it elicited. I repeated the experiment, and having produced some symptoms of consciousness, begged earnestly to know if all I had described was an ordinary occurrence, or if we were really going to the bottom. I had now fairly roused the sleeping lion; up he started in a terrible passion; asked me what the deuce made me bother him with my nonsense at that time of night, and then, consigning me to a place whence no visitor is permitted to return, once more addressed himself to his slumbers. This refreshing sample of nautical philosophy, though rather startling, convinced me that I had mistaken the extent of the danger; in fact, there was none at all; so feeling my way back to my cot, I once more, though with becoming caution, got into it, determined, sink or swim, to have my sleep out. On rising, disorder and misery, in various shapes, a wet deck and boxes displaced, met my view; I found my coat and pantaloons pleasantly saturated with sea-water, which it appeared had entered by an open port or scuttle, and that my boots had sailed away to some unknown region on a voyage of discovery. “Oh! why did I ‘list?’” I exclaimed, in the bitterness of my discomfort; “why did I ever ‘list?’” Ye cadets, attend to the moral which this narrative conveys, and learn, by my unhappy example, always to secure your toggery, high and dry, before you turn in, and to study well the infirmities of that curious pendulum balance, the cot, lest, like me, ye be suddenly decanted therefrom on the any-thing-but-downy surface of an oaken deck!

With what feelings of delight does the youth first enter upon the fairy region of the tropics, a region which Cook and Anson, and the immortal fictions of St. Pierre and De Foe, have invested in his estimation with a sweet and imperishable charm! The very air to him is redolent of a spicy aroma, of a balmy and tranquillizing influence, whilst delicious but indefinable visions of the scenes he is about to visit—of palmy groves, and painted birds, and coral isles “in the deep sea set,” float before him in all those roseate hues with which the young and excited fancy loves to paint them. Paul and Virgina—Robinson—Friday—goats—savages and monkeys—ye are all for ever bound to my heart by the golden links of early association and acquaintanceship. Happy Juan Fernandez, too! Atalantis of the wave—Utopia of the roving imagination—how oft have I longed to abide in ye, and envied Robinson his fate—honest man of goatskins and unrivalled resources! But one ingredient, a wife, was wanting to complete your felicity; had you but rescued one of the Miss Fridays from the culinary fate designed for her brother, and made her your companion, you would have been the most comfortable fellow on record.

Griffin as I was I partook strongly of these common but delightful feelings I have attempted to describe, and in the change of climate and objects which every week’s sail brought forth, found much to interest and excite me—the shoal of flying-fish, shooting like a silver shower from the ocean, and skimming lightly over the crested waves; the gambols of the porpoise; the capture of a shark; fishing for bonetta off the bowsprit; a waterspout; speculations on a distant sail; her approach; the friendly greeting; the first and last!—were all objects and events pleasing in themselves, but doubly so when viewed in relation to the general monotony of a life at sea. Nothing, I think, delighted me more than contemplating the gorgeous sunsets, as we approached the equator. Here, in England, that luminary is a sickly affair, but particularly so when viewed through our commonly murky atmosphere, and there may be some truth in the Italian’s splenetic remark in favour of the superior warmth of the moon of his own country. But in the fervid regions of the tropics it is that we see the glorious emblem of creative power in all his pride and majesty, whether rising in his strength, “robed in flames and amber light,” ruling in meridian splendour, or sinking slowly to rest on his ocean couch of gold and crimson, in softened but ineffable refulgence; it is (but particularly in its parting aspect) an object eminently calculated to awaken the most elevated thoughts of the Creator’s power, mingled with a boundless admiration for the beauty of His works. Yes, neither language, painting, nor poetry, can adequately portray that most glorious of spectacles—a tropical sunset.

Ensign O’Shaughnessy having sworn “by all the bogs in Kerry,” that he would put a brace of pistol-balls through Neptune, or Juno, or any “sa God” of them all, that should dare to lay hands upon him; and a determination to resist the initiatory process of ducking in bilge-water, and shaving with a rusty hoop, having manifested itself in other quarters, Captain McGuffin, glad of a pretext, and really apprehensive of mischief, had it intimated to the son of Saturn and his spouse, that their visit in crossing the line would be dispensed with. In so doing, it appears to me that he exercised a wise discretion; Neptune’s tomfooleries, at least when carried to their usual extent, being one of those ridiculous customs “more honoured in the breach than in the observance;” one which may well be allowed to sleep with “Maid Marian,” “the Lord of Misrule” and other samples of the “wisdom of our ancestors,” who were emphatically but “children of a larger growth,” to whom horse play and “tinsel” were most attractive. On crossing the equator, however, the old but more harmless joke of exhibiting the line through a telescope was played off on one greenhorn, sufficiently soft to admit of its taking effect.

“Do you make it out, Jones?” said Grinnerson, who had got up the scene, to one of the middys, a youngster intently engaged in reconnoitering through a glass half as long as himself.

“I think I do, sir,” said Jones, with a difficultly-suppressed grin.

“What is he looking for?” asked the simple victim.

“The Line, to be sure; didn’t I tell you we were to cross it to-day?”

“Oh yes, I remember; I should like amazingly to see it, if you would oblige me with the telescope.”

“Oh, certainly; Jones, give Mr. Brown the glass.”

The soft man took it, looked, but declared that he saw nought but sky and sea.

“Here, try mine,” continued the second mate; “’tis a better one than that you have,” handing him one with a hair or wire across the large end of it. “Now do you see it?”

“I think I do; oh, yes, most distinctly. And that really is the line? Bless me, how small it is!”

This was the climax; the middys held their mouths, and sputtering, tumbled in a body down the ladder to have their laugh out, whilst a general side-shaking at the griff’s expense took place amongst the remaining group on the poop.

Well, the stormy dangers of the Cape safely passed, the pleasant isles of Johanna, sweet as those which Waller sung, duly visited—Dondra Head—Adam’s Peak—the woody shores of Ceylon here skirted and admired, those beautiful shores, where

Partout on voit mûrir, partout on voit éclore,

Et les fruits de Pomone et les présents de Flore;

and the “spicy gales” from cinnamon groves duly snuffed up and appreciated (entre nous, a burnt pastile of Mr. Grinnerson’s, and not Ceylon, furnished the “spicy gales” on this occasion), we found ourselves at last off the far-famed coast of Coromandel, and fast approaching our destination.

It is pleasant at certain seasons to glide over the summer seas of these delightful latitudes, whilst the vessel spreads abroad all her snowy canvas to arrest every light and vagrant zephyr, to hang over the side, and whilst the ear is soothed by the lapping ripple of small, crisp waves, idly breaking on the vessel’s bows as she moves scarce perceptibly through them, to gaze on the sky and ocean, and indulge in that half-dreamy listlessness when gentle thoughts unbidden come and go. How beautiful is the dark blue main, relieved by the milk-white flash of the seabird’s wing! how picturesque the Indian craft, with their striped latteen sails, as they creep along those palm-covered coasts, studded with temples and pagodas! and seaward resting on the far-off horizon, how lovely the fleecy piles of rose-tinted clouds, seeming to the fancy the ethereal abodes of pure and happy spirits! There is in the thoughts to which such scenes give birth a rationality as improving to the heart as it is remote from a forced and mawkish sentimentality. Such were my sensations as we crept along the Indian coast, till in a few days the Rottenbeam Castle came to anchor in the roads of Madras, amidst a number of men-of-war, Indiamen, Arab grabs, and country coasters.

The first thing we saw, on dropping anchor, was a man-of-war’s boat pulling for us, which created a considerable sensation amongst the crew, to whom the prospect of impressment was anything but agreeable. The boat, manned by a stout crew of slashing young fellows, in straw hats, and with tattooed arms, was soon alongside, and the lieutenant, with the air of a monarch, mounted the deck. He was a tall, strapping man, with a hanger banging against his heels, loose trousers, a tarnished swab (epaulette) on his shoulder, and a glazed cocked-hat stuck rakishly fore and aft on his head: in my idea, the very beau idéal of a “first leftenant.”

CHAPTER IV.

In the last chapter I left the Rottenbeam Castle just arrived in the roads of Madras, and the frigate’s boat alongside. Our commander, with a grave look, advanced to meet the officer, who, saluting him in an easy and off-hand manner, announced himself as lieutenant of H.M. ship Thunderbolt, and desired him “to turn up the hands.” Captain McGuffin was beginning to remonstrate, declaring that some of his best sailors had been pressed a few days before (which was the fact), and that he had barely sufficient to carry the ship round to Bengal, &c., when the lieutenant cut him short, declaring he had nothing to do with that matter; that his orders were peremptory, and must be obeyed.

“I shall appeal to the admiral,” said our skipper, rather ruffled.

“You may appeal to whom you choose, sir,” replied the lieutenant, somewhat haughtily, and giving his hanger a kick, to cause it to resume its hindward position; “but now, and in the meantime, if you please, you’ll order up your men.”

These were “hard nuts” for McGuffin “to crack;” on his own deck too, where he had reigned absolute but a few minutes before—

The monarch of all he survey’d,

Whose right there was none to dispute.

But he felt that the iron heel of a stronger despotism than his own was upon him, and that he had no resource but submission. He consequently gave the necessary orders, and straightway the shrill whistle of the boatswain was soon heard, summoning the sailors to the muster.

“Onward they moved, a melancholy band,” slouching and hitching up their trousers, and were soon ranged in rank and file along the deck. The lieutenant stalked up the line (he certainly was a noble-looking fellow, just the man for a cutting-out party, or to head a column of boarders), and turned several of them about, something after the manner in which a butcher in Smithfield selects his fat sheep, and then putting aside those he thought worthy of “honour and hard knocks” in his Majesty’s service, he ordered them forthwith to bring up their hammocks and kits, and prepare for departure. Amongst those thus unceremoniously chosen to increase the crew of the Thunderbolt, were two or three ruddy, lusty lads, who had come out as swabs, or loblolly boys, and were making their first voyage, to see how the life of a sailor agreed with them, little thinking, a few days before, of the change that awaited them. I think I see them now, blubbering as they descended the side, with their hammocks and small stocks of worldly goods on their shoulders, waving adieu to their comrades, and thinking, doubtless, of “home, sweet home,” and what “mother would say when she heard of it.” On one old man-of-war’s man of the Rottenbeam Castle, whom I had often noticed, the lieutenant, keen as a hawk, pounced instanter; his experienced eye detecting at once in the long pigtail, corkscrew ringlets, and devil-may-care air of honest Jack, the true outward characteristics of that noble but eccentric biped, a downright British tar, and prime seamen. “You’ll do for us,” said the lieutenant, taking him by the collar of his jacket, and leading him out. “There’s two words to that there bargain, sir,” said Jack (who had had quantum suff. of the reg’lar sarvice), with the air of one who knew that he stood on unassailable ground. So squirting out a little ’baccy juice, and rummaging his jacket-pocket, he produced therefrom a tin tobacco-box, of more than ordinary dimensions, from which, after considerable fumbling (for Jack was evidently unused to handling literary documents of any kind), he extracted a soiled and tattered “protection,” which, deliberately unfolding (a ticklish operation, by the way, the many component parallelograms being connected by the slenderest filaments), he handed it over to the lieutenant. Having so done, he hitched up his waistband, with his dexter fin, tipped his comrades something between a nod and a wink, as much as to say, “I think that’ll bring him up with a round turn,” and stroking down his hair, awaited the result. The officer cast his eye over the thing of shreds and patches. It contained a “true bill,” so he returned it; and Jack, having carefully packed and re-stowed his “noli me tangere,” gave another squirt, and rolled off in triumph to the forecastle. The only fellow glad to go “to sarve him Majesty”—I blush whilst I record it—was Massa Sambo, a good-humoured nigger, and a fine specimen of the mere animal man, who, having received more of what is vulgarly termed “monkey’s allowance” on board the Rottenbeam Castle than suited him, left us in a high glee, grinning, capering, slapping his hands and singing “Rule Britannia” in regular “Possum up a gum-tree” style, to the great amusement of us all.

Madras, from the roads, wore to me a very picturesque and interesting appearance; the long ranges of white verandahed buildings, the noble fort, with England’s meteor standard floating from the flag-staff, the beach, the blue sky, the cocoa-nut trees, the white wreaths of breaking surf, the shipping, the Massoolah boats, the native craft, all constituted a novel and striking coup d’œil, which fully realized what in imagination I had pictured it. Looking over the side, shortly after we had anchored, I perceived to my astonishment, a naked figure walking apparently on the surface of the sea, and rapidly approaching us. This was a catamaran man, the bearer of a despatch from the shore. His diminutive bark, three or four logs, half submerged, and on which he had ploughed through the surf, was soon alongside, and the brown and dripping savage (for such he looked) scrambling on board. He sprung upon the deck, as a favourite opera-dancer bounds upon the stage, confident of an applauding welcome, and, making a ducking salaam, proceeded, in a very business-like manner, to disengage from his head a conical salt-basket sort of hat, from which, secured under a fold of linen, he produced his letters safe and dry; these with the words, “chit, sahib,” spoken in tones as delicate as the frame of the speaker, he immediately delivered to the captain. The arrival of this messenger caused a considerable sensation, and the griffs of all descriptions gathered round him, conning the strange figure with open mouths and wondering eyes. The ladies, too (stimulated by curiosity), rushed to the cuddy door to have a peep at him, but made a rapid retreat on perceiving the paradisiacal costume of our hero. I shall never forget Miss Olivia’s involuntary scream, or Miss Dobbikins’ expression of countenance, on suddenly confronting this little swarthy Apollo:—

Horror in all his majesty was there,

Mute and magnificent without a tear.

Our admiration of the catamaran man had hardly subsided when a far more extraordinary character made his appearance. “Avast there, my hearties!” sounded the rough voice of a seaman, “and make way for the commodore.” As he spoke, the crowd of sailors and recruits opened out, and his Excellency Commodore Cockle, chief of the catamarans, was seen advancing in great state from the gangway. This potent commander, who, by the way, had performed his toilet in transitu, after passing through the surf, was attired in an old naval uniform coat, under which appeared his naked neck and swarthy bosom; a huge cocked-hat, “which had seen a little service,” a pair of kerseymere dress shorts, without stockings, and a swinging hanger banging at his heels, made up as strange a figure of the genus scarecrow as I ever remember to have seen out of a cornfield.

“By the powers, Pat, and what have we here?” said Mick Nolan, one of the recruits, to his comrade Pat Casey.

“Faith,” says Pat, “and myself can’t tell ye, unless ’tis one of them Ingine rajahs, or ould Neptune himself, that should have been after shaving us off the line.”

“Devil a bit,” rejoined Mick; “I’m thinking it’s something of an Aistern Guy Fawkes, that’s going to play off some of his fun amongst us.”

Thus speculated the jokers, whilst the commodore, fully impressed with a sense of his importance, swaggered about the deck with all the quiet pride of a high official, putting questions, and replying to the queries of old acquaintance. Alas! poor human nature! thou art everywhere essentially the same. Dear to thee is a little power and authority in any shape, and thou exhibitest thy “fantastic tricks” as much in the bells and feathers of the savage, as under the coif of the judge, or the ermine of the monarch! The “Commodore,” to whom the English cognomen of “Cockle” had been given, exercised his high functions under a commission furnished him by some wag, but of which he was quite as proud as if it had emanated from royalty itself. It was couched in the proper lingua technica of such instruments, and commenced in something like the following manner: “Know all men by these presents, that our trusty and well-beloved Cockle is hereby constituted Commodore and Commander of the Catamaran Squadron, and duly empowered to exercise all the high functions thereunto appertaining. The aforesaid Cockle is authorized to render his services to all parties requiring them, on their paying for the same. All captains and commanders of his Majesty’s and the Honourable Company’s ships, and of all other ships and vessels whatsoever, are hereby required and directed to take fruit, fish, eggs, &c., from the said Cockle (if they think fit), on their paying him handsomely in the current coin of the realm, &c.”

The next day the passengers went ashore; officers full fig; ladies, civilians, and cadets, all in their best attire, crowding the benches of the Massoolah boat, and balancing, and holding on as best they could. Of all sea-going craft, from the canoe of the Greenlander to the line-of-battle-ship, the Massoolah boat is, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary. Imagine a huge affair, something in shape like one of those paper cock-boats which children make for amusement, or an old-fashioned tureen, or the transverse section of a pear or pumpkin, stem and stern alike, composed of light and flexible planks, sewn together with coir, and riding buoyant as a gull on the heaving wave, the sides rising six feet or so above its surface, the huge empty shell crossed by narrow planks or benches, on which, when seated, or rather roosted, your legs dangle in air several feet from the bottom: further, picture in the fore-part a dozen or more spare black creatures, each working an unwieldy pole-like paddle to a dismal and monotonous chant—and you may have some idea of a Massoolah boat and its equipage; the only thing, however, that can live in the tremendous surf that lashes the coast of Coromandel.

“Are you all right there, in the Massoolah boat?” shouted one of the ship’s officers.

“Ay, ay, sir,” responded a little middy in charge of us.

“Cast her off then,” said the voice; and immediately the connecting rope was thrown on board, and off we swung, gently rising and falling on the long undulations, which were soon to assume the more formidable character of bursting surges. As we advance, I honestly confess, though I put a bold face on it, I felt most confoundedly nervous, being under serious apprehensions that one of the many sharks I had just seen would soon have the pleasure of breakfasting on a gentleman cadet, cote-lettes à la Griffin, no doubt, if gastronomy ranks as an art amongst that voracious fraternity. On approaching the surf, the boatmen’s monotonous chant quickened to a wild ulluloo. We were in medias res. I looked astern, and there, at some distance, but in full chase, advanced a curling mountain-billow, opening its vast concave jaws, as if to devour us. On, on it came. “Ullee! ullee! ullee!” shouted the rowers; smash came the wave; up flew the stern, down went the prow; squall went the ladies, over canted the major, Grundy, and the ex-resident, while those more fortunate in retaining their seats held on with all the energy of alarm with one hand and dashed the brine from their habiliments with the other. The wave passed, and order a little restored, the boatmen pulled again with redoubled energy, to make as much way as they could before the next should overtake us. It soon came, roaring like so many fiends, and with nearly similar results. Another and another followed, till, at last, the unwieldy bark, amidst an awful bobbery, swung high and dry on the shelving beach; and out we all sprung, right glad once more to feel ourselves on terra firma, respecting which, be it observed, en passant, I hold the opinion of the Persian, that a yard of it is worth a thousand miles of salt-water.

Here then was I at last, in very truth, treading the soil of India—of that wondrous, teaming, and antique land, the fertile subject of my earliest thoughts and imaginations—that land whose “barbaric pearl and gold” has stimulated the cupidity of nations down the long stream of time, from Sabæan, Phœnician, Tyrian, and Venetian, to Mynheer Van Stockenbreech, and honest John Bull himself—whose visionary luxuries have warmed full many a Western poet’s imagination, and whose strange vicissitudes have furnished such ample matter to adorn the moralist’s and historian’s pages.

As I gazed on the turbaned crowds, the flaunting robes, the huge umbrellas, the passing palankeens, the black sentinels, the strange birds, and even (pardon the climax) the little striped squirrels, which gambolled up and down the pillars of the custom-house—sights so new and strange to me,—I almost began to doubt my own identity, and to think I had fallen into some new planet. Assuredly, of all the sunny moments which chequer the path of life’s pilgrimage here below, there are few whose brightness can compare with those of our first entrance on a new and untrodden land. What music is there in every sound! What an exhilarating freshness in every object! The peach’s bloom, the butterfly’s down, or the painted bubble, however, are but types of them. Alas! as of all sublunary enjoyments, they vanish upon contact, or at best, bear not long the grasp of possession.

My feelings were still in a state of tumultuous excitement, when, gazing about, I observed a native, in flowing robes and large gold ear rings, bearing down upon me. With a profound salaam, and the smirking smile of an old acquaintance, he proceeded to address me:

“How d’ye do, Sare?” said he.

“Pretty well, thank you,” said I, smiling; “but who are you?”

“I, Ramee Sawmee Dabash, Sare, come to make master proper compliment. Very glad to see master safe on shore; too much surf, I think, and master’s coat leetle wet.”

“Not a little,” said I, “for we have all had a complete sousing.”

“Oh, never mind souse, Sare; I take to Navy Tavern there makee changee—eat good dinner. Navy Tavern very good place—plenty gentlemen go there.”

“Where you please,” said I; “I am at your service.”

“Ver well, Sare; but (in a tone of entreaty) you please not forget my name, Ramee Sawmee Dabash—master’s dabash—I am ver honest man; too much every gentleman know me.”

Here Ramee Sawmee unconsciously spoke the truth, as I had afterwards full occasion to discover. I was soon besieged with more of these gentry offering their services; but Ramee Sawmee, having the best right to pluck me, by reason of prior possession, ordered them off indignantly; and not to incur risks by unnecessary delays, he called a palankeen, and requested me to get into it. In I tumbled, wrong side foremost, and off we started for the Navy Tavern. He ran alongside, not wishing to lose sight of me for a moment, pouring his disinterested advice into my ear in one voluble and continuous stream.

“Master, you please take care; dis place,” said he, “too much dam rogue, this Madras; plenty bad beebee, and some rascal dabash ver much cheatee gentlemen. I give master best advice. I ver honest man.”

I thought myself singularly fortunate, in the simplicity of my griffinish heart, in having fallen in with so valuable a character; but, in the sequel, as has been before hinted, I discovered what, I dare say, many a griff had discovered before, that Ramee Sawmee had a little overestimated himself in the above particular article of honesty.

Sweltering through a broiling sun, and abundance of dust, we reached the Navy Tavern, a building somewhat resembling, if I recollect rightly, one of our own green verandah’d suburban taverns, in which comfortable cits dine and drink heavy wet in sultry summer evenings. Here I found a vast congregation of naval and military officers, red coats and blue; mates, midshipmen, pursers, captains, and cadets; some playing billiards, some smoking, and others drowning care in bowls of sangaree, in which fascinating beverage, by the way, with guavas, pine-apples, &c., I also indulged, till brought up, some time after, by a pleasant little touch of dysentery, which had nearly produced a catastrophe; amongst the dire consequences of which would have been the non-appearance of these valuable Memoirs. From the Navy Tavern, Grundy and I went the next day to the quarters appointed for young Bengal officers detained at Madras. These consisted of some tents pitched in an open sandy spot, within the fort, and presented few attractions; besides some small ones for dormitories, there was a larger one dignified with the appellation of the mess-tent. Here, at certain stated hours, a purveyor, denominated a butler, but as unlike “one of those gentlemanly personages so called at home as can well be imagined, placed breakfast, tiffin, and dinner, on table at so much ahead. For two or three days I revelled in the delights of sour Madeira, tough mutton, and skinny kid, with yams, and other miserable succedanea for European vegetables. An Egyptian plague of flies, and a burning sun beating through the single cloth of the tent, made up the sum of the agreeables to which we were subjected. My faith in the “luxuries of the East” had received a severe shock, and I was fast tending to downright infidelity on that head, when a big-whiskered fellow, with turban, badge, and silver stick, put a billet into my hand, which was the means of soon restoring me to the pale of orthodoxy. It was from an eccentric baronet, to whom I had brought letters and a parcel from his daughter in England, and ran thus:

“Col. Sir Jeremy Skeggs presents his compliments to Mr. Gernon, and thanks him for the care he has taken of the letters, &c., from his daughter. Mrs. Hearty, Sir J. Skeggs sister, will be happy to see Mr. G., and will send a palankeen for him.”

I packed up my all (an operation soon effected), got into an elegant palankeen, which made its appearance shortly after the note, and escorted by a body of silver-stick men (for Mr. Hearty was “a man in authority”), I bade adieu to the tents, and leaving Grundy and some other cadets, though with a strong commiserative feeling, to struggle with the discomforts I have mentioned, was conveyed at a slapping pace to my host’s garden residence, on the Mount Road. This was a flat roofed building, in the peculiar style of the country, of two stories—a large portico occupying nearly the whole length of the front. It was approached by a long avenue of parkinsonias, and surrounded, and partly obscured, by rich masses of tropical foliage, in which the bright green of the plantain contrasted pleasingly with the darker hues of the mango and the jack. Beyond the house stretched a pleasant domain, slightly undulating, dotted with clumps, and intersected by rows of cocoa-nut trees. Here it constituted one of my chief pleasures to saunter, to chase the little striped squirrels up the trees, or to watch the almost as agile ascent of the toddyman, as he mounted by a most simple contrivance the tall and branchless stems to procure the exhilarating juice; or to pelt the paroquets, as they clung screaming to the pendent leaves. To possess a parrot of my own, in England, had long constituted one of the unattainable objects of my juvenile ambition. I had longed so much for it, that an inordinate idea of the value of parrots had clung to me ever since. To see them, therefore, by dozens, in their wild state, was like in some measure spreading out before me the treasures of Golconda.

Mr. Hearty met me at the entrance, shook me very cordially by the hand, and taking me into the apartment where his wife and several other ladies were sitting, he presented me to the former, by whom I was very graciously received.

“Mr. Gernon, my love,” said he, “whom your brother, Sir Jeremy, has been so kind as to introduce to us.”

“We are very glad indeed to see you,” said the lady, rising and taking my hand, “and hope you will make this house your home whilst the ship remains.” I profoundly bowed my thanks.

“Mr. Hearty, my dear, will you shew Mr. Gernon his room—he may wish to arrange his things—and then bring him back to us?”

This was cordial and gratifying. I am apt to generalize from a few striking particulars. So I set the Madrassees down at once as polished and hospitable in the extreme—a perfectly correct inference, I believe, however precipitately formed by me on that occasion. Mr. Hearty was a fine, erect, fresh old gentleman, of aristocratic mien and peculiarly pleasing address. His manners, indeed, were quite of what is termed the old school, dignified and polished, but withal a little formal; far superior, however, to modern brusquerie, and that selfishness of purpose which, too often disdaining disguise, sets at nought the “small courtesies” which so greatly sweeten existence. His wife, much his junior, was a handsome woman of eight-and-twenty, gay and lively, and apparently much attached to her lord, in spite of the disparity of their years. He, in fact, was one of those rarely-seen well-preserved old men, of whom a young woman might be both proud and fond. My host lived in the good old style of Indian hospitality, of which absence of unnecessary restraint, abundance of good cheer, and the most unaffected and cordial welcome, constituted the essential elements.

In India, from various causes, perhaps sufficiently obvious, the English heart, naturally generous and kind, has or had full room for expansion; and the “luxury of doing good,” in the shape of assembling happy faces around the social board, can be enjoyed, without, as too frequently the case here, the concomitant dread of outrunning the constable, or trenching too deeply on the next day’s quantum of hashed mutton. Certainly, our close packing in these densely populated lands may give us polish, but it rubs off much of the natural enamel of our virtues.

Mr. Hearty’s house was quite Liberty Hall, in its fullest meaning. Each guest had his bedroom, where he could read, write, or doze; or if he preferred it, he could hunt squirrels, shoot with a rifle, as my friend, the Scotch cadet, and I did; sit with the ladies in the drawing room and play the flute, or enjoy any other equally intellectual amusement, between meals, at which the whole party, from various quarters, were wont to assemble, rubbing their hands, and greeting in that warm manner, which commonly results where people have been well employed in the interim, and not had too much of each other’s company. Mr. Hearty’s house was full of visitors from all points of the compass.

There was a captain of cavalry and lady, from Bangalore; a very dyspeptic-looking doctor from Vizagapatam; a missionary, bent on making the natives “all samo master’s caste,” through the medium of his proper vernacular; a strapping Scotch artillery cadet, before alluded to, some six feet two, and who was my particular friend and crony, with several others, birds of passage like myself. Amongst these, to my great delight and astonishment, I found the lovely Miss Olivia and her sister. Now, then, reader, prepare yourself for one of the most soul-stirring and pathetic passages of these Memoirs. Shade of Petrarch, I invoke thee! spirit of Jean Jacques, impart thy aid, whilst in honest but tender guise I pour forth my “confessions.” Yes, as an honest chronicler of events, I am bound to tell it—the candour of a griffin demands that it should out. I fell over head and ears in love—’twas a most violent attack I had, and I think I was full three months getting the better of it. It would be, however, highly derogatory to the dignity of that pleasing passion, were I to trail the account of its manifestations at the fag end of a chapter; I shall, therefore, reserve my confessions of the “soft impeachment,” and my voyage to Calcutta, for the next.

CHAPTER V.

“Peace be with the soul of that charitable and courteous author, who, for the common benefit of his fellow-authors, introduced the ingenious way of miscellaneous writing!”—so says the great Lord Shaftesbury; and I heartily respond to the sentiment, that mode admitting of those easy transitions from “grave to gay, from lively to severe,” which so well agree with my discursive humour. Having thus premised, let me proceed with my story, which now begins to assume a graver aspect.

Love, that passion productive of so many pains and pleasures to mortals, the most easily, perhaps, awakened, and the most difficult to control, begins full early with some of us (idiosyncratically susceptible) to manifest its disturbing effects: the little volcano of the heart (to speak figuratively) throws out its transient and flickering flames long anterior to a grand eruption. Lord Byron’s history exhibits a great and touching example of this; his early but unrequited attachment to the beautiful Miss Chaworth served undoubtedly, in after-life, to tinge his character with that sombre cast which has imparted itself to the splendid creations of his immortal genius. Like him (if I may dare include myself in the same category), when but nine or ten summers had passed over my head, I too had my “lady love,” who, albeit no Mary Chaworth, was nevertheless a very pretty little blue-eyed girl, the daughter of our village doctor. I think I now behold her, in the eye of my remembrance, with her white muslin frock, long pink sash, and necklace of coral beads, her flaxen curls flying wildly in the breeze, or sporting in all conceivable lines of beauty over her alabaster neck and forehead. Full joyous was I when an invitation came for Master Frank Gernon and his brother Tom to drink tea at Dr. Anodyne’s. How motherly and kind was good Mrs. Anodyne on these occasions! how truly liberal of her pound-cake and syllabub!

Dear woman! spite of thy many failings, which all “lean to virtue’s side,” in the sweet relations of mother, wife, sister, friend, thou art a being to be almost worshipped. ’Tis you who hold man’s destinies in your hands. Harden your minds without the limits of blue-stockingism, as a counterpoise to the softness of your hearts; acquire independence of thought and moral courage, and you will yet convert the world into a paradise! The little bard of Twickenham has, on the whole, maligned you: mistaken the factitious for the original; the faults of education for the defects of nature; the belle of 1700 for the woman of all time—but was still right when he said,

Courage with softness, modesty with pride,

Fix’d principles—with fancy ever new;

Shake all together, it produces—you.

Pretty Louisa! my first love, long since perhaps the mother of a tribe of little rustics; or sleeping, perchance, soundly in your own village churchyard! like a fairy vision, you sometimes visit me in my dreams, or, when quitting for a season the stern, hard realities which environ my manhood, I lose myself in the sweet remembrances of boyhood’s days! Well, this was my first grand love affair; now for my next, to which I deem it a fitting preliminary. Griffins, look to your hearts, for you will have some tough assaults made upon that susceptible organ on the other side of the Cape, where (owing, I am told, to the high range of the thermometer) it becomes morbidly sensitive. Take care, too, you do not have to sing, with a rather lachrymose twist of the facial muscles, “Dark is my doom!” or, led on by your sensibilities within the toils of a premature matrimonial union, you have not to inscribe over your domicile, “spes et fortuna valete!”

The party at Mr. Hearty’s, or some of them, rode out every evening in the carriage, and I generally, like a gallant griffin, took up a position by the steps, for the purpose of handing them in—that is, the female portion. The precise amount of pressure which a young lady of sixteen (not stone, but years, be pleased to understand, for it makes a material difference) must impart to a young gentleman’s hand, when he tenders his services on occasions of this nature, in order to be in love with him, is a very nice and curious question in “Amorics” (I take credit for the invention of that scientific term). In estimating it, however, so many things may affect the accuracy of a judgment, that it is perhaps undesirable to rely on deductions therefrom, either one way or the other, as a secure basis for ulterior proceedings. Touching the case of the charming Olivia and myself, though there was certainly evidence of the high-pressure system, I might long have felt at a loss to decide on the real state of her feelings, had not my hand on these occasions been accepted with a tell-tale blush, and a sweet and encouraging smile, that spoke volumes. Let me not be accused of vanity, if I say, then, that the evidence of my having made an impression on the young and susceptible heart of Olivia Jenkins was too decided to be mistaken. I felt that I was a favourite, and I burned with all the ardour of a griffin to declare that the “sentiment si doux” was reciprocal. The wished-for occasion was not long in presenting itself.

One evening, Olivia and some of the party remained at home, the carriage being fully occupied without them. Off drove Mr. and Mrs. Hearty, and a whole posse of friends and visitors, to take their usual round by Chepauk and the Fort; kissing hands to Olivia and one or two others, who stood on the terrace to see them depart. They were no sooner gone than I proceeded to enjoy my accustomed saunter in the coco-nut grove, at the back of the house. There was a delicious tranquillity in the hour which produced a soothing effect on my feelings. The sun had just dipped his broad orb in the ocean, and his parting beams suffused with a ruddy warmth the truly Oriental scene around. Flocks of paroquets, screaming with delight, were wheeling homewards their rapid flight; the creak of the well-wheel, an Indian rural sound, came wafted from distant fields, and the ring-doves were uttering their plaintive cooings from amidst the shady bowers of the neighbouring garden—

The air, a chartered libertine, was still.

I walked and mused, gazing around on the animated scenes of nature, which always delight me, when suddenly one of the most charming of all her works, a beautiful girl, appeared before me. It was Olivia, who met me (undesignedly of course) at a turn of the avenue. She appeared absorbed in a book, which, on hearing my steps, she suddenly closed, and with a blush, which caused the eloquent blood to mount responsive in my cheeks, she exclaimed.

“Oh, Mr. Gernon, is this you? Your servant, sir! (courtesying half-coquettishly); who would have expected to meet you here all alone, and so solemnly musing?”

“Is there any thing more extraordinary in it, Miss Olivia,” said I, “than to find you also alone, and enjoying your intellectual repast, ‘under the shade of melancholy boughs?’ The Chinese, I believe, think that human hearts are united from birth by unseen silken cords, which contracting slowly but surely, bring them together at last. What think you, Olivia?” I continued (we grow familiar generally on the eve of a declaration), “may not some such invisible means of attraction have brought us together at this moment?”

Olivia looked down, her pretty little foot being busily engaged in investigating the character of a pebble, or something of the sort, that lay on the walk, and indistinctly replied, that she had really never much considered such weighty and mysterious subjects, but that it might be even so. Encouraged by this reply, yet trembling at the thought of my own audacity (bullets whizzing past me since have not produced half the trepidation), I placed myself near her, and gently taking the little, soft, white hand which listlessly, but invitingly, hung by her side, I said (I was sorely puzzled what to say),

“I—I—was delighted, dear Olivia, to find you a visitor here on my arrival the other day.”

“Were you, Mr. Gernon,” said the lively girl, turning upon me her soft blue eyes, in a manner which brought on a fresh attack of delirium tremens; “‘delighted’ is a strong term, but Mr. Gernon, I know, is rather fond of such, little heeding their full import.”

“Strong!” I replied, instantly falling into heroics; “it but feebly expresses the pleasure I feel on seeing you. Oh, dearest Olivia,” I continued, all the barriers of reserve giving way at once before the high tide of my feelings, “it is in vain longer to dissemble” (here I gently passed my other unoccupied arm round her slender waist); “I love you with the fondest affection. Deign to say that I possess an interest in your heart.”

A slight and almost imperceptible increase of pressure from the little hand locked in mine, and a timid look from the generally lively but now subdued and abashed girl, was the silent but expressive answer I received. It was enough, for a griff, at least. I drew her closer to my side—she slowly averted her head; mine followed its movement. The vertebral column had reached its rotary limit—so that there was a sort of surrender at discretion—and I imprinted a long and fervent kiss on the soft and downy cheek of Olivia. Oh, blissful climax of a thousand sweet emotions; too exquisite to endure, too precious for fate to accord more than once in an existence—the first innocent kiss of requited affection—how can I ever forget ye?

Let raptured fancy on that moment dwell,

When my fond vows in trembling accents fell;

When love acknowledged woke the trembling sigh,

Swelled my fond breast and filled the melting eye.

Yes, surely, “love is heaven, and heaven is love,” as has been said and sung any time for the last three thousand years; and Mahomed showed himself deeply read in the human heart, when he made the chief delight of his paradise to consist in it; not, I suspect, as is generally imagined, the passion in its purely gross acceptation, but that elevating and refining sentiment which beautifully attunes all our noblest emotions; which, when it swells the heart, causes it to overflow, like a mantling fountain, to refresh and fertilize all around. No, I shall never forget the thrill of delight with which I committed that daring act of petty larceny.

“Yes,” I continued, “dearest Olivia, I have long loved you. I loved you from the first, and would fain indulge a faint hope” (this was hypocritical, for I was quite sure of it) “that I am not wholly indifferent to you.”

The deepest blush overspread Olivia’s neck and face; she was summoning all her maidenly resolution for an avowal: “Dear Mr. Gernon,” she said, “believe me,—”

“Stope him! stope him, Gernon,” roared a stentorian voice at this moment; “cut the deevil off fra’ the tree!”

It was that confounded Patagonian Scotch cadet, in full cry after a squirrel, which, poor little creature, in an agony of fear, was making for a tree near to which we stood. “As you were,” never brought a recruit quicker into his prior position, than did this unseasonable interruption restore me to mine. Olivia hastily resumed her studies and her walk, whilst I, to prevent suspicion, and consequent banter, joined in the chevy to intercept the squirrel, secretly anathematizing Sandy McGrigor, whom I wished, with all my heart, in the bowels of Ben Lomond.

Reader, you may be curious to know whether Olivia Jenkins became in due time Mrs. Gernon. Ah, no! Ours was one of those juvenile passions destined to be nipped in the bud; one of those painted baubles, swelled by the breath of young desire, which float for a brief space on the summer breeze, then burst and disappear: or a perennial plant, whose beautiful maturity passes rapidly to decay.

Our destinies pointed different ways. Too much calculation was fatal to her happiness; too little has been, perhaps, as detrimental to mine. Years on years rolled on, chequered by many strange vicissitudes, when, in other scenes and under widely different circumstances, we met again: the flush of youth had long departed from her cheeks—the once laughing eyes were brilliant no more—and

The widow’s sombre cap concealed

Her once luxuriant hair.

“Do you remember,” said I, adverting to old times, “our meeting in the coco-nut grove at Madras?”

“Ah!” she replied, with a sigh, “I do indeed; but say no more of it; a recurrence to the sunshiny days of my youth always makes me sad: let us speak of something else—the recent, the present, the future.”

There was one little thing dey do call de mosquito,

He bitee de blackmans, he no let him sleep-o-

Sing ting ring, ting ting ring ting, ting ring ting taro.

So then runs the negro’s song; and unless all is illusion and delusion, as the Berkleyans hold, the “whitemans,” as I can vouch from actual experience, are equally entitled to have their misfortunes as pathetically recorded. I believe, however, it would be as difficult to say anything entirely original about musquitoes as to discover a new pleasure, or the long sought desideratum of perpetual motion; nevertheless, my subject being India, it would not be en régle to pass them over altogether in silence; suffice it therefore to say, the first nights of my stay at Mr. Hearty’s I was by a cruel oversight put into a bed without the usual appendage—a set of gauze curtains. The door of my apartment, which was on the ground floor, opened on the garden, and a well, a pool, and a dense mass of foliage, formed a splendid musquito-preserve, within a few yards of it. A couple of oil-lights, in wall-shades, burnt in the room; the doors were open, the night close and oppressive. It was truly “the genial hour for burning,” though not exactly in Moore’s sense of the passage; and then such a concerto!—“Quack! quack! quack!” said the mezzo-soprano voices of the little frogs—“croak! croak! croak!” responded in deep bass the huge Lablaches of the pool—“click! click!” went the lizards—“ghur! ghur!” the musk-rat, as he ricketed round the room, emitting his offensive odour; whilst

Countless fire-flies, gems of light,

Bright jewels of the tropic night,

spangled the trees in all directions. The idea of Aladdin’s garden, to which his soi-disant uncle introduced him, was presenting itself to my mind, when the nip of a musquito recalled me from the fanciful to the consideration of painful realities. The sultry heat of an Indian night in the rains is sometimes terrific: not a breath moving; but, to make up for it, a universal stir of reptile and insect life, with a croak, hum, hiss, and buzz, perfectly astounding. What a prize for the musquitoes was I—a fine, fresh, ruddy griffin, full of wholesome blood, the result of sea-breezes and healthy chylification! and, in good sooth, they did fall foul of me with the appetite of gluttons. Sleep! bless your dear, simple heart, the thing was about as possible as for St. Lawrence to have reposed on his gridiron. I tingled from top to toe with an exquisite tingling. In vain I scratched—in vain I tossed—in vain I rolled myself up like a corpse in a winding-sheet. Nought would do; so out I jumped, half phrenzied, and dipping my hand in the oil glasses of the lamps, I rubbed their unctuous contents over my body, to deaden the intolerable itching—an effect which in some degree it produced. Thus I spent the long hours of the sultry night; towards morning, the musquitoes being gorged, tortured into insensibility, and nature fairly worn out, I procured a little rest.

At breakfast I made my appearance on two consecutive mornings a ludicrous figure, the object at once of pity and amusement: eyes bunged up, lips swelled, and cheeks puffed out, like bully Ajax in Homer Travestie, all of which, to a young man of decent exterior, and who, in those days, rather valued himself on his appearance, was exceedingly annoying. Mrs. Hearty, though with a look in which the comic and the tragic struggled for the mastery, now took compassion on me, expressed great regret for the oversight, and furnished my bed with a set of musquito-curtains. “Whine away, you rascals,” said I then to the musquitoes, exultingly; “blow your penny trumpets, you everlasting vagabonds! you have had your last meal on me, rest assured.” What glorious sleep I had after that!

After a fortnight’s stay at Madras, and a vain search for Ramee Sawmee Dabash, who, having some linen of mine to get washed, and a small balance of money to account for, thought it “too much trouble” to make his appearance, I bid adieu to my hospitable friends, reembarked on board the Rottenbeam Castle, and set sail for Bengal. Our society, officers and passengers, met again with renewed pleasure, temporary separation being a great enlivener of the kindly feelings, which, like everything else, require tact and management to keep them in a state of vigour. Each, during his sojourn on shore, appeared to have renovated his stock of ideas, and to have picked up something congenial to his peculiar humour. The colonel had met with several old friends, and matters to be told, “wondrous and strange,” and quite out of the common, followed as a natural consequence. Grinnerson had had some “rare larks and sprees” ashore, and been “coming the old soldier” over some young hands at the Navy Tavern. Miss Dobbikins criticised rather severely (as her Bath experiences gave her every right to do) the tournure of the Madras belles, whom she had seen at balls and conversazione. Capt. Marpeet, who had been at sundry drills and reviews, favoured us with elaborate discussions on the military performances of the Mulls,[^[4]] which he considered very inferior to those of the Qui hyes, by whom, to borrow his own nervous and expressive phraseology, “they were beaten by chalks.” Even the usually taciturn Grundy became eloquent, when he spoke of the luxuries of the tents, and his sufferings from the musquitoes; and as for myself, being of an artistical turn, I enlarged principally on the interesting character of Oriental scenery, but omitting, of course, some of the peculiar attractions of the “coco-nut grove.”

CHAPTER VI.

On leaving the roads of Madras, we bent our course to the eastward. For a day or two we had light winds and agreeable weather, and our gallant vessel glided on, under a cloud of snowy canvas, like some stainless swan before the dimpling breezes of a mountain tarn, little heeding the coming danger, which was to lay all her bravery low. Soon, however, a (by me) never-to-be-forgotten tornado, which I shall attempt to describe, burst in upon us in all its fury.

The first indication we had of the coming storm (being still but a short distance from Madras) was on the morning of the third day, when a few wild clouds began to scatter themselves over the face of the hitherto spotless sky. The breeze freshened, and an occasional squall made the good ship salaam deeply to the waves. Captain McGuffin looked to windward, shook his head, and appeared grave. He now (for there was evidently mischief brewing) held a brief consultation with Gillans, the chief mate, and then immediately ordered the small sails to be taken in. At about 8 P.M. of the same day, the fore and main topsails, as I was told, were double-reefed, and the mainsail and maintopsail furled. The next morning, the breeze still continued strong, and the albatrosses and gannets, heralds of the storm, skimmed wildly over the yeasty waves. A heavy and a turbulent sea now got up, which broke over the ship, causing her to roll heavily, and admit much water.

“We’re in for it, I’m afraid,” said Grinnerson to the first mate, “and no mistake.”

“You may say that, when you write home to your friends,” growled forth that sententious worthy; “I’d rather be looking at the end than the beginning of it, I can tell you.”

Scarcely were the words out of Gillan’s mouth, when a screeching blast flew through the shrouds and ratlines; “bang!” went one of the sails, with the report of a six-pounder, and the Rottenbeam Castle took a deep and fearful heel to leeward.

“How’s her head now?” said Gillans, with energy, starting up, to the man at the wheel.

“North-east, and by east, sir,” was the quick reply.

“All hands aloft,” roared the mate, “to take in mainsail;” and away went the tars swarming up the rigging, poor little shivering middies and all, and the perilous duty was soon performed, the sail being set to steady her. Towards noon, the wind and sea increased, and the weather wore a still more threatening appearance.

There are few situations which more thoroughly call forth all the noble energies and resources of man’s mind, than the working of a vessel in a tempest, or the ordering of troops in the heat of a battle. A cool head, and nerves as steady as a rock, are essentially necessary in both. McGuffin was quite a Wellington in his way; and on the present occasion, I felt a pride in my countrymen, as I marked him, the officers, and men, calmly preparing, as it were, move by move, for the coming onset of the gale.

“Down royal-masts and top gallant yards,” shouted the iron-tongued Gillans; and down, spite of the flapping of canvas and banging of blocks and ropes, they came in a trice. This precautionary measure was not taken a whit too soon, for the wind rapidly increased to a gale, and the ship rolled heavily, from the violence and irregularity of the sea. At this moment, Grundy, evidently very uneasy, and in violation of all nautical decorum, began to whistle, less, probably, from want of thought, than with a view to drown it. This brought the first mate upon him immediately.

“Halloa, sir,” said he, “haven’t we got wind enough, but you must be whistling for more? Drop that music, if you please.”

Grundy incontinently held his peace. The dismayed passengers now sought shelter in their cabins, with the exception of a few well-muffled storm amateurs, who clung about the cuddy doors, casting furtive glances aloft at the wild-driving scud, and listening to the manly voices of the officers, and seamen as heard above the roaring of the gale. A rough cradle, and a dismal lullaby, indeed, was this, for myself and the other nautical infants on board.

At about 11 o’clock the wind increased; the decks were almost continually submerged, the fore and maintopsails were furled, and soon after the ship was wore, the sea running mountains high, under the fore and maintop-mast stay-sail. The captain, having ordered the foresail to be hauled up, the ship, in nautical language, was hove-to, the gale blowing with uncommon fury. The sky now began to assume a most threatening and lurid aspect. Just such a murky gloom surrounded us as that in which Satan is finely described by Milton; when “aloft incumbent on the dusky air,” he hovered over that “ever-burning” region, which his “unblest feet” were about to tread. The barometer fell rapidly, and our courage, that is, of us landsmen, in a proportionate ratio, whilst the vast and angry billows, like wild and maned steeds above prostrate foes, swept in rapid succession over our quivering bark. With what intense longing to be there did I now think of the snug green parlour and blazing sea-coal fire at home! Ah! thought I, with a sigh, how true it is, “we never know the value of a friend till we lose him!”

An attempt to take in, and house, the top gallant masts, failed, owing to the violent rolling of the ship; but every thing practicable was effected by our indefatigable crew, although reduced by the recent impressment, to secure the masts from the evidently increasing hurricane. The hatches were battened down, and all made snug for the approaching “tug of war.” All was now breathless suspense and a stern gravity sat on the boldest countenance, when a sudden and tremendous blast threw the ship on her beam-ends, and, with a terrific crash, the mainmast went by the board, carrying with it, in its fall, the mizen-yard, poop, sky-lights, hen-coops, larboard quarter gallery, and three of our seamen. Here was “confusion worse confounded”—passengers and servants making their escape from beneath the wreck—sailors shouting, tugging, and hauling—a chaos of disasters enough to daunt, one would suppose, the stoutest heart; but he little understands the stuff of which English seamen are composed, who thinks there was any quailing or relaxation of energy here. Sudden as the disaster were the efforts made to repair it. The voice of the officer was instantly heard above the storm, giving directions, and the active crew immediately at work, with their axes, cutting the shrouds and ropes, for the purpose of detaching the wreck of the mast from the vessel, which, beating furiously against the bottom and sides, seemed to threaten her with instant destruction.

With infinite difficulty, this operation was at last effected, and the short but delusive “pleasures of hope” once more dawned upon us. On getting clear of the wreck, the vessel partially righted, the hurricane raging with awful violence, the sea running right over her, and sweeping, with resistless force, every opposing article from the deck. Our only remaining sail, the foresail, was now, with much difficulty, taken in, and the vessel scudded under bare poles. Throughout the remainder of the day, the hurricane raged with unabated fury: the ship rolled gunwales under, and the water poured in through the aperture caused by the broken mast. Never can I forget the sounds and scenes below—the groaning of the timbers, the labouring and lurching of the ship, like the throes and struggles of a dying man; the moans and cries of the women—stores, cargo, cabin, bulk-heads, baggage, and a cannon or two, all loose and adrift, and dashing with frightful violence from side to side, as if animated by some maddening spirit of destruction.

“Colonel,” said Marpeet rather archly:—who, in or out of season, loved a joke—to the ex-resident, clinging on close to me, his teeth chattering like a pair of castanets; “Colonel, you, I take it, have never seen anything to beat this?”

“Eh! why—no! not exactly,” said the colonel, who, having the fear of Davy’s Locker before his eyes, seemed rather loath to indulge in anything apocryphal.

But the climax was yet to come. About 8 P.M. the wind suddenly shifted to an opposite quarter, and blew, if possible, with greater fury. My feelings, however, exhausted by excitement, now sank into that state of apathetic quiescence which disarms death of all its terrors; when, in fact, we can feel no more, but patiently await the worst. Nature thus wisely, at a certain point, always brings insensibility to our relief—the last sigh of departing hope gives birth to resignation. About one o’clock the next day a tremendous sea broke on board, burst open and destroyed the remainder of the poop-cabins and cuddy, and swept chairs, tables, medicine-chests, and every movable they contained, overboard, filling the lower deck with water; but providentially no more lives were lost. The hurricane still raging, clouds and sea commingled; the foremast snapped short off by the deck, and falling athwart the bows, carried with it the jib-boom, leaving the battered hulk, with one mutilated mast, to contend alone with the fury of the elements. A wave, moreover, at this instant, dashed one of our boats to splinters, and nearly made a wreck of another. Thus were the grounds of hope giving way, like a quicksand, under our feet. To add to the intensity of our distress, a pitchy darkness enveloped us when the foremast fell overboard, and the sea breaking, in one continued mighty volume, over the vessel, none could go forward to cut it away; perilous to our safety as was its continuing attached to the bows. Oh! for the genius of a Falconer, that I might adequately depict the horrors of the scene at this moment! Ye “fat and greasy citizens,” ye grumbling John Bulls of every grade, who own the great oracle of retrenchment as your leader, little need ye grudge the soldier or sailor his hard-earned pittance, the price of perils such as these. An inky night, whose gloom was, ever and anon, pierced by a long, blue, zigzag flash of lightning, like one of those wrath-directed bolts of heaven, which Martin, with such fine effect, introduces into his pictures—the roar of elements—the crippled and lumbered vessel, rolling and plunging like a maddened steed, encumbered with the wreck of a shattered vehicle, the few dim lanterns, buttoned up, and hugged to the bosoms of the quarter-masters, the dripping, comfortless, but uncomplaining tars; the captain and his officers, muffled in fear-noughts, and the group, of which I formed one, clinging on here and there, in order to see the worst of what we had to encounter, formed a portion of the picture. Then the stifled sobs, and shrieks and prayers from the women below, filling, like the voices of wailing spirits, the momentary lullings of the gale; the violent beatings of the fallen mast, like a catapult, against the bows, felt through the whole vessel, and filling, even the stout hearts of the captain and his crew with well-founded dismay at each successive thump, formed some of its alarming accompaniments.

“Gillans, we maun get clear of that mast, or ’twill be the ruin of us all,” shouted the captain through his trumpet.

Gillans paused a moment: “It must be done, sir,” said he; “but how to get to her head through this mountain sea I hardly know.”

“I’ll try it,” said the gallant Grinnerson—the wag now transformed into the hero—“happen what may.”

Saying this, he seized an axe, and accompanied by a part of the crew, dashed forward, holding by the shattered bulwarks as they advanced. A few seconds of breathless suspense now elapsed, when a long dazzling flash illumined the vessel; down she lay, deep in the trough of the sea, whilst, by its light, a mountain wave appeared hanging over her, like a spirit of evil, and about to break by its own enormous weight. It broke—down it came, with a stunning smash, on the devoted vessel, taking her on the forecastle and midships, sparkling and fizzing in the lurid glare of the lengthened flash. The ship dived down, as if about to be engulphed. “We’re gone!” burst forth from many a voice. Slowly, however, she rose again from the effects of the stunning blow, and another flash exhibited a group of sailors on the forecastle, actively cutting and hacking away at the ropes and shrouds. In a few seconds the vessel seemed eased; the mast had been cut away, and shortly after, the heroic Grinnerson, streaming with sea-water, was amongst us. He had escaped, though two of the gallant fellows who had accompanied him had been swept away to a watery grave.

“The Lord be thankt! ye ha’e done weel, sir,” said McGuffin, wringing the second mate’s hand in his iron gripe; “ye ha’e saved the ship.”

The ship was now relieved, and the wind evidently falling, hope revived. I descended below, and throwing myself into my cot, slept, spite of the uproar, soundly till morning.

On rising, I found the wind had greatly subsided; but a heavy sea still remained, in which our mutilated vessel rolled and tumbled like a porpoise. All danger, however, was past, and the sea was rapidly going down. Damages were partially repaired. The crew and passengers refreshed themselves, and deep and heartfelt congratulations were exchanged. Captain McGuffin, towards evening, the vessel being steadier, assembled the crew on deck, and offered up thanksgivings to Him who “stilleth the raging of the storm,” for our happy preservation. It was an impressive sight to behold the weather beaten tars, their hats reverentially doffed, ranged along the deck, their lately excited energies sunk into the calm of a thoughtful and devotional demeanour; the pale and jaded passengers, seated abaft, many an eye gratefully upturned; the wild sea and battered hull; and in the centre, bare-headed and erect, the tall and brawny, yet simple-hearted man, our commander, his prayer-book resting on the capstan, his left hand on the leaves, and his right stretched out, as, with a fervour which nothing but his religious feeling could have excited in him, he read firmly, in his broad but nervous Scotch accents, the form of thanksgiving due to Him who had succoured us in our danger, and “with whom are the issues of life and death.”

To prove a particular providence is a hard and baffling task; but we can never err—or if we do it is on the right side—when we pour out our hearts in gratitude to God, for every blessing or deliverance, come to us by what concurrence of causes it may.

By an observation we now found we were off the Tenasserim coast. The ship’s head was consequently put to the northward, and on we sailed towards our destination. At length, on a fine blowing day in the S. W. monsoon, the good ship the Rottenbeam Castle, after a five months’ voyage, entered on the turbid waters of the Sand Heads, renowned for sharks, shipwrecks, and the intricacy of its navigation, dashing on in good style, despite of the battering of the late gale, under all the sail she could carry on the foremast, and two spars rigged out as substitutes for those we had lost. All eyes were, at this time, anxiously on the look-out for the pilot. At length a sail was visible on the horizon, and ere long, a rakish little brig, with the Company’s Yankee-looking pilot-colours flying from the peak, came bowling down, and was pronounced nem. con. to be (strange misnomer) the pilot schooner. Not a moment elapsed ere a boat, manned by lascars, put off from her, and in a few minutes more, the rattle of oars and the boatswain’s whistle announced its arrival alongside. The pilot, accompanied by a bronzed stripling of fifteen, in a seaman’s round jacket and large straw hat, and whose business was to cast the lead, now mounted the side, and as he stepped on deck, touched his hat in a consequential sort of manner, which plainly indicated that pilots were no small men, in these latitudes. Mr. Merryweather, for so I believe he was called, was one of a numerous class, variously subdivided, called the pilot-service, whose extreme utility none can question who studies a chart of the Sand Heads, and the embouchure of the Ganges. The seniors, or branch-pilots, are, some of them, excellent old fellows, have their vessels in high order, give capital feeds out of silver plate, and have generally some valetudinarian from Calcutta on board, invigorating the springs of existence by copious indraughts of the sea-breeze. Mr. Merryweather had quite the cut of an original, and I cannot, therefore, resist the inclination I feel to present the reader with a sketch of him. He was a sturdy, square-built man, of about forty, of whose jolly countenance it might be truly said, and in the language of the Latin grammar, “qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo.” It presented, at one view, one of the most singular compounds of brown, brickdust, and purple I ever beheld; clearly indicating that it had long been the scene of a fierce struggle for the ascendency between the skyey influences of the Sand Heads, on the one hand, from without, and those of aqua vitæ, from within. Sun and wind, on the whole seemed to have had the best of it; but the forces of aqua vitæ had made a most determined stand on that elevated position, the nose, from which there appeared little chance of their being dislodged. Our sturdy Palinurus was attired in a camlet coat, with the uniform lion button, the colour whereof, once blue, now exhibited in its latter days, like a dying dolphin, a variety of interesting shades; a pair of tight nankeens, extending about half-way down the calf, encased his lower extremities, very fully exhibiting their sturdy and unsymmetrical proportions, in which the line of beauty, admitting that to be a curve, had by Dame Nature been most capriciously applied. He would have met with a distinguished reception in Laputa, being built on strictly mathematical principles; for one leg exhibited the segment of a circle, the other something very like an obtuse angle. In a sinewy and weather beaten hand, “spotted like the toad,” he grasped a huge telescope, covered with rusty green baize, the length of which was nearly “the standard of a man;” whilst a large white hat, which bore nearly the same proportion to his size that a mushroom does to its stalk, completed a manly, but not very inviting, portrait.

“Mr. Merryweather, ma gude friend, I’m glad to see ye luking sae weel,” exclaimed our Scotch commander, who, it appeared, was an old acquaintance of the pilot’s. “Why, somebody telt me at Madras, that ye’ed been near deeing sin’ we were here last.”

“Ay, ay, they told you right, captain; I had a very tightish touch of the mollera corbus, or whatever ’tis called, after you left us. Yes, I was within a pint of getting a birth in Padree Shepherd’s godown; howsomever, the old ’ooman and Dr. Dusgooly brought my head round to the wind somehow, and now I’m as fresh as a lark, as a man might say in a manner, and ready for a tumbler of your toddy, captain, with as little daylight in it as you please,—ha, ha, ha!”

Thus he ran on for some time, and then in a similar style, gave us the latest news of the presidency, which, to the best of my recollection, consisted of a mutiny, death of a puisne judge, and a talked-of-war with Nundy Row Bickermajeet, a potentate of whom none of us had heard before.

The captain now duly deposed, Mr. Merryweather took charge of the vessel, and marched up and down the deck with all the confidence of a small man invested with “a little brief authority,” now peering under the sail, and conning the bearings of the buoys, which here and there rode gallantly in the channel, like the huge floats of some giant “bobbing for whale;” anon asking briskly the man at the wheel how her head was, or thundering out some peremptory order for trimming or shortening the sail. Thus we glided on through the turbid channel, whilst strong ripples or long lines of surf, on either hand, with here and there the slanting masts of a stranded vessel, indicated the perilous nature of the navigation. At last we caught a glimpse of a small island, but recently emerged from the waves, being like many others at the mouths of great rivers, of rapid diluvial formation, and immediately after, the low, marshy and jungle-covered shores of Saugor Island broke in sight.

To those whose Oriental imaginings have led them to expect in the first view of Indian land some lovely scene of groves, temples, and clustering palm-trees, the sight of the long low line of dismal sunderbund and swamp must not be a little disappointing. Saugor, however, Bengal tigers, and the fate of young Munro, are associated subjects, naturally blended with our earliest recollections. Full oft in my boyish days had I gazed on a picture representing the monster springing open-mouthed on his victim, and wondered if it would ever be my lot to visit a country where pic-nics were disturbed by such ferocious intruders. Viewed, then, as the head-quarters of the tigers, and the scene of this memorable exploit of one of their body, and also as the outpost of our destination, I deemed Saugor a sort of classic ground, and gazed upon it with a proportionate interest. Many an eye, too, besides my own, was bent towards the island, which wore a most sombre and miserable aspect.

Thinking Mr. Merryweather a person likely to be well informed on the subject, I ventured to ask him, civilly, if tigers were as numerous on the island as in young Mr. Munro’s time. I at the same time solicited the loan of his telescope, thinking, peradventure, I might by its aid descry a royal Bengal tiger, in full regalia, enjoying his evening perambulation on the beach. The pilot stared at me, with as much astonishment as the Brobdingnag did at the Splacknuck, when he heard him talk, or Mr. Bumble, in Dickens’ admirable novel, when the unfortunate Oliver asked for more soup; but soon settled it in his mind that I was an arrant griffin, and that it was not worth his while to be particularly civil to me.

“Tigers!” he grunted out; “Ay, ay, there’s plenty o’ them, I dare say; but I’ve something else besides tigers to think about, young gentleman; and you mustn’t talk to me d’ye see, when I’m engaged with a wessel. As for the glass, it’s in hand, and you’d better ask some one else to lend you one.”

To borrow the language of the fancy, I was regularly floored by this rebuff, and incontinently held my peace, determining to reserve my zoological inquiries for a fitter occasion and more communicative person; at the same time, lost in astonishment that a man could actually pass his life in sight of Saugor island, and yet feel no interest in royal Bengal tigers. The delusion is a common one, and not confined to griffins, which leads people to imagine that others must be interested in what they are full of themselves.

The wind now suddenly rose, and the sky, which had long been lowering, assumed an inky hue. Mr. Merryweather looked anxious and uneasy, and I heard him observe to the captain, that we were in for a north-wester, and that he feared it would overtake us before we reached the anchorage at Kedgeree. What a north-wester was I did not exactly know, but the precautionary measures taken of diminishing the sail, closing hatches and scuttles, &c., and the appearance of the heavens, left me no room to doubt that it was one of the various denominations of the hurricane family.

Mr. Cadet Francis Gernon, anxious to discover a Royal Bengal Tiger, falls in with a Bear

The scene at this moment, to one unacquainted with these tropical visitants, though rather alarming, was singularly wild and magnificent. All around, to the verge of the horizon, the sky was of the deepest indigo hue, whilst dark masses of rolling clouds, like hostile squadrons, were slowly marshalling over head to the thunder’s deep rumble and the lightning’s flash, which shot like the gleaming steel of advancing combatants across the dun fields of death. From the setting sun, a few long rays, like rods of gold, shot through openings of the clouds, streaming brightly over sea and land, bringing forth the lustrous green of the mangroves, and touching, as with a dazzling pencil of light, the distant sail, or milk-white seabird’s wing.

At length, the sough of the coming tempest was heard mournfully sweeping through the shrouds, and a few heavy drops fell on the deck. The ladies’ scarves and shawls began to flutter, and one two hats were whisked overboard, on a visit to the sharks. This was a sufficient hint for the majority of the idlers, and they forthwith dived below. I lingered awhile, and casting my eyes over the stem at this moment, beheld the storm driving towards us—spray, screaming gulls, and tumbling porpoises heralding its approach. In a moment it was upon us. Sheets and floods of driving rain burst on the ship, as on she hissed through the frying waters. Buoy after buoy, however, was safely passed, though it was once or twice “touch and go” with us; and ere long, to the infinite joy of all on board, we dropped anchor in safety off Kedgeree.

Never did I listen to more pleasant music than the rattle of the chain-cable, as it brought us up safe and sound, or rather unsound, in this harbour of refuge. Here, in the mouth of the Hooghly river, was comparative calm and tranquillity, and as we cast our eyes seaward, and saw the dark brown turbulent sea (for here it is not green) heaving and tossing, with the surrounding tempestuous sky, and night closing in, and contrasted our position with that of several far-off vessels, some of them hull-down, struggling under a press of canvas to reach the safe berth we had gained, before night and the falling tide might leave them “outside,” environed by perils, we could not help indulging in very agreeable self-congratulations. ’Tis a sad reflection that our joys should often derive so much of their intensity from the foil of others’ misfortunes; but, alas! so it is.

Here a fresh supply of fruit, and vegetables, and fish, from the shore; a batch of Calcutta papers; and sundry other little matters, made things very pleasant. All were “alive” and cheerful, and at ten o’clock I turned in and rose in the morning like “a giant refreshed,” full of agreeable anticipations of the scenes on which I was about to enter.

CHAPTER VII.

The morning after our arrival at Kedgeree I arose early, and, on coming on deck, found the weather perfectly calm, and presenting a striking contrast to its appearance on the previous day. A burning Bengal sun, however, shone around in all its glory, and was reflected with painful and dazzling brightness from the now unruffled surface of the Hooghly. Boats, to me of singularly novel and picturesque forms—some thatched, others open, and all with long galley-like prows and sterns—were moving here and there, mingled with market-boats, laden with fruit and vegetables, and light and graceful dingies, or fishing-canoes, floating down with their outspread nets and dusky crews on the gentle undulations of the falling tide. Near us, ships of various descriptions were riding at anchor, from the stately Indiaman of those days, with her double tier of ports, and looking like a seventy-four, to the Arab grab and country-coaster.

This was a day of considerable bustle and excitement. The passengers were looking up their baggage, getting out their letters, or despatching special messengers to their friends in Calcutta. Boats from the presidency were continually arriving alongside, freighted principally with baboos or circars, good-looking fellows for the most part, with huge green or yellow curly-toed shoes, and flowing muslin robes, as light as the gossamer, and white as swans’-down. Some came to secure constituents; others were deputed by merchants or parties interested in the ship or passengers; and not a few keen-witted fellows, like my friend Ramee Sawmee Dabash, were on the look-out for “pigeons.” With all these arrivals, our deck began to assume a very lively and animated appearance.

I could not help being forcibly struck with the marked dissimilarity between the two races, who, here respectively the subjects of a common power, and from the antipodes, were engaged in objects of mutual interest, or busy in the exchange of friendly greetings. There stood the sturdy Englishman, with his ruddy face, iron muscles, and broad shoulders, strong in his straightforward hyperborean honesty; before him, like some delicate spaniel, or Italian greyhound, coaxing a bluff old Jowler of a mastiff, were the wily Asiatics, chattering and salaaming, fearful to offend, their slender and supple limbs all in motion, and supplying by quickness and address the want of energy and boldness.

The family union, which had now for five months so pleasantly subsisted between our party on board, was about to be dissolved, and already were their thoughts and feelings on the wing, impatient for other scenes and objects. The cup of pleasure is seldom unalloyed, and with mine, at that moment, mingled a drop of bitterness, as I thought that an important scene of my life was about to close for ever, and that many of the actors in it, with whom I had so pleasantly “strutted my hour,” I might never see again. To think that we are leaving even an inanimate object for ever is a painful thought, but it acquires almost a solemnity when man, “the mind, the music, breathing from his face,” is the being we are now about to quit. Honest McGuffin, methought, have I heard your broad Scotch for the last time? Grinnerson, my merry wag, will you roast me no more? Gillans, bluntest of seamen, will thy hoarse voice, in the midnight watch, never again startle my ear, when through the shrouds (rudest of Æolians) the rough winds pipe their wild accompaniment? And, oh! Jemmy Ducks, thou Pariar of the Rottenbeam Castle, thou great conservator of chickens, shall I never again see thee scramble over the hen-coops, or be more enlivened with a pleasant vision of thy tarred and ragged breeks? Sic transit gloria mundi!

As a party of us, including the second mate, were chattering and laughing on the deck about noon, our attention was suddenly attracted to a handsome pinnace, with green sides and venetians, and of a light and beautiful rig, gliding down the river, with all sail loosened, which, however, the light winds had barely power to distend. As it approached, we observed an old gentleman, and a numerous group of attendants on the chut or roof. Marpeet immediately observed that we were about to be visited by one of the Calcutta big wigs; and Grinnerson, applying the glass to his eye, exclaimed, after a little reconnoitring and slapping his leg with delight,

“By the piper that played before Moses, if it isn’t that old Tartar, General Capsicum; he’ll keep us all alive if he comes on board.”

The general was seated in an easy chair, smoking a magnificent hooka, the silver chains and other brilliant appendages of which were conspicuous even at a distance. Altogether, with his troop of attendants, he looked not a little like the chief of Loochoo, as depicted in Captain Hall’s voyage to that interesting island. Of the liveried and whiskered group about him, one swung a huge crimson silk punkah, or fan, with a silver handle, the end of which rested on the deck; a second held an umbrella of the same colour over his head; two more worked chowries, or whisks, to keep off the flies; and behind his chair stood his pipeman, or hookhaburdar, a black-bearded fellow, with his arms folded, and looking as grave and solemn as a judge. At the back of all these again, and forming a sort of rear-guard, were a body of mace-bearers and silver-stick men, awaiting the slightest order of the chief. Well, this is something like Eastern magnificence, indeed, thought I—nil desperandum—“Frank Gernon, hold up your head; you may be a nabob yet.”

Upon the arrival of the pinnace within a very short distance of the ship, the old gentleman, assisted by his obsequious attendants, arose from his chair, and moving to the verge of the roof or poop, with a gait almost as unsteady as the toddle of an infant, gave us a full view of about as odd a figure as can well be imagined. In height, he was below the middle size, and as thin and shrivelled as an old baboon, to the physiognomy of which animal his own bore no inconsiderable resemblance; indeed, till I saw him, I never thought much of Lord Monboddo’s theory. He wore a red camlet raggie, or Swiss jacket, with blue collar and facings, which hung in bags about him, and a white waistcoat, wide open, from which a volume of frill protruded. His nether man was encased in a pair of tight nankeens, buttoned at the ancle (a singular perversity common to old gentlemen whose calves have gone to grass), and which exhibited the extraordinary slenderness of his frail supporters in a very striking point of view. A queue (the general being one of the “last of the pigtails”), a round hat of black silk, a good deal battered, with a bullion loop and button, completed the outward appearance of the Bengal veteran, who soon, however, satisfied us that, spite of appearances, he was, as Grinnerson said, a stout-hearted old fellow, with plenty of pluck and mental vigour still about him; one of whom it might be said, that “E’en in his ashes glowed their wonted fires.”

When pretty close, the little old man, from whom a squeaky and faltering treble might have been expected, astonished us by shouting out, in a stentorian voice, and with a tone and accent smacking strongly of the “first gem of the sea,”

“Is that the Rottenbame Castle, sur?”

Being answered in the affirmative, he continued, “Is Captain McGuffin on board, sur?”

McGuffin, who by this time had come to the side, replied to this question himself. Taking off his hat, and waving it, he said,

“Hoo air ye, general? I’m glad to see you, sir, luking sae weel. Will you come on board, sir?”

“Hah! McGuffin, is that you? How are you, my good sur?” returned the general, raising his hat, too, with all the dignity of the old school, or of the guardsman at Fontenoy. “Sorry to see you in this ugly pickle, though. Have you got my Cordalia on board?” alluding to his daughter, a widow lady, one of our passengers from Madras, and who, at this instant, having heard of her father’s arrival, rushed to the side, and kissing one hand with empressement, whilst she waved her handkerchief in the other, soon afforded him satisfactory evidence of her existence.

After some little trouble, the pinnace was safely moored alongside, and the old general securely, though with equal difficulty, and a few volleys of abuse to his servants, deposited by instalments on the deck. Here, however, he appeared in some danger of suffocation, from the vigorous embraces of the buxom young widow, who yielding to the impulses of natural feeling, and regardless of standers-by, rushed into his arms, and kissed him with the warmest affection, knocking off his hat by the collision, and exhibiting to our view the generals venerable head, white with the snows of seventy or eighty winters.

Here, then, in the shrivelled old soldier standing before me, I beheld a warrior of the days of Clive, a last representative, probably, of a generation long gone down to the dust, whose thoughts, dress, and manners so essentially differed from our own, and who (all honour to their three-cornered hats and big waistcoats!) had baffled the Indian in the field and the cabinet, and laid the foundation of this proud dominion, on which I was about to set foot. I looked on him with that respect with which we contemplate a grey ruin of other days, with its silent courts, its “banquet-hall deserted,” and all its glorious associations, and which long has withstood the tempests of the world.

General Capsicum on Board the “Rottenbeam Castle.”

After retiring to the cuddy, and some private conversation with his daughter, the general again came on deck, and had a renewed round of handshaking with the captain, and some other of his acquaintance, whom he expressed himself as devilish glad to see in India again, “the best country in the whole world, by all that’s good!” He concluded with a look redolent of gunpowder and hair-triggers, though half jocular, “And where is the man that will say me nay?” It was obvious at a glance the general was what an old Scotch author calls

A fiery Ettercap, a fractious chiel;

As hot as ginger and as true as steel;

with not a little of that refined savageism in him, which exalts the duello into the first accomplishment of a gentleman.

In Colonel Kilbaugh he recognized an old friend and brother campaigner, and right cordial was the greeting between them. A tremendous refighting of battles would then and there have taken place, it was quite clear, had time allowed of it; unless, upon the principle that two negatives make an affirmative, they should have neutralized their kindred fortes. The general, amongst his peculiarities of the old school, swore like a trooper; indeed, so free was his indulgence in that once fashionable, but now, amongst gentlemen, exploded vice, that had he been in England, he would doubtless have been liable to an indictment from the Society for the Suppression of Vice, for profane swearing.

“By G——, you’re looking well, though, Kilbaugh, d——d well, upon my soul; you’ve taken a new laise of your existence since you went home.”

“Why, eh—yes,” said the little colonel, pulling up his collar-gills complacently, and looking extremely large for his size, “we are certainly a new man, general; nothing like a few hogsheads of Cheltenham waters for setting a dyspeptic man on his legs again.”

“Indeed, then that’s true; but, Kilbaugh, though you and I have had some rale plissant days together in old times—eh?—you didn’t trouble the water much then by G——, and liked your glass as well as any of us, and (with a palpable wink) that same minus the g, too—minus the g—eh? ha, ha, ha!”

With this, he made a pass at the ex-resident’s ribs with his extended finger, which the other dexterously avoided, though with a complacent chuckle which shewed that he was not displeased at this allusion to his youthful frolics.

“Well,” continued the general, “you’ll put up at my place, and I’ll give you a cast in the pinnace. By-the-bye, you liked a good bottle of beer, Kilbaugh, I remember right well, and just now I can give you one, a rale foamer; got in a splendid batch lately; it is from Bell, and by G—— it bears a bell, too.”

So he rattled on; and the ex-resident having signified his acceptance of the general’s offer, the trio, after a hearty leave-taking, were soon on board the pinnace, and on their way to Calcutta.

This was the first time I had seen the Mohamedan domestics of this part of India, and I was agreeably struck by their handsome and manly appearance, and the becoming costume of those in the old general’s suite. Their turbans, vests, loose pajammas or trousers, and kummerbunds or girdles, set off by their crimson belts and metal badges, and their massive silver batons, gave them a very striking and picturesque appearance, enhanced by luxuriant beards or mustachios, large eyes, and high features.

There are some strange anomalies attendant on the march of civilization, and none more so, perhaps, than the indifference, or rather want of real taste, which nations in a high state of refinement evince in regard to costume. Whether it is that scientific pursuits, and the busy occupations of the thoughts on matters of high social, moral, political, and commercial interest, leave no time for men to study the graces of attire, or that such a study is really unworthy of, or incompatible with, cultivated minds, or, as the Quakers think, unfavourable to morality, certain it is that the art of decorating the person does not keep pace with other improvements.

Our commander (finding he could not leave Kedgeree till the following morning), Marpeet, Grundy, and I, accepted the obliging invitation of Capt. Grogwell, of the Rohomany barque, country trader, a friend of the captain, to accompany him in his vessel, then under weigh for Calcutta.

“I can give you a glass of grog, gentlemen, and a bit of curry, and there’s my cabin for you to turn into if you should stay with me overnight,” said the frank and good-humoured sailor; “but,” added he, “there’s no time to be lost for those that go, as the tide’s already on the turn.”

A few bags and boxes were soon stowed in Captain Grogwell’s boat, and after many warm adieus from our friends on board, and the expression of mutual hopes that we should meet again in Calcutta, off we pushed for the Rohomany barque.

As we approached her, two or three bronzed faces, surmounted by straw hats, rose above the side, and were directed expectantly towards us, whilst the whistling pipe of the serang, or native boatswain, announced the skipper’s approach alongside. We mounted through a bevy of the sable crew, and soon stood on the deck of the country ship, just arrived from a voyage to the Eastern Islands.

“Welcome on board the Rohomany, gentlemen, where I hope you will make yourselves at home and comfortable,” said Captain Grogwell. “My first officer, Mr. Dobbs, gentlemen,” he continued, presenting a tall, brawny, and fine-countenanced man. Mr. Dobbs made his best leg; was glad to see us on board.

The lascars now began to weigh the anchor to a wild and not unmusical chant, with an agreeable chorus of Ya Ullahs! All was soon bustle, the anchor a-peak, and the mates shouting forth their commands in the most extraordinary lingo that ever grated “harsh music” on my ears.

“Trinkum Garvey de man,” said one; “Garvey brass trinkum de man,” roared another; whilst Mr. Dobbs, in a tremendous fury (why I knew not), and stamping like a madman, sung out “Chop and string your goosey, and be d——d to you all.”

These are a few specimens. On hearing the last, I certainly was inclined to think that the death-warrant of one of those capitol birds who feed on our commons, and on whom our commons feed (excuse the double pun), had been pronounced. I wish some Oriental philologist would give us a history of this nautical jargon, which, I take it, is a sort of olla podrida of Portuguese, Bengalee, and heaven knows what dialects besides—the lingua franca of the Indian seas. On we glided; passed the “silver tree,” a singular vegetable production, composed of brick and mortar; “Diamond Harbour,” another misnomer, but very Golcondahish in the sound; and finally, a stiff wind setting in dead ahead, found it impossible to get round a certain peninsula, sometimes called “Hooghly Point,” but amongst sailors, rejoicing in the less euphonious appellation of “Point Luff and be d——d.” There was no help for it, so down went the anchor, and there seemed every prospect of our having to conjugate the verb ennuyer till a fresh flow of tide and shift of wind should enable us to pass this most troublesome part of the river, and the dangerous shoal of the James and Mary. The reader must understand that all this was before the days of steam.

Leaving the white tavern of Fultah, where the Calcutta bon vivant eats mango-fish—the whitebait of India,—we soon passed Budge Budge, the scene of the sailor’s unique exploit—a story too well known, I fancy, to need repetition here—and in a short time after, on turning “Hangman’s Point” (where once stood an outpost of civilization), found ourselves opposite “Garden Reach,” the sylvan vestibule of Calcutta. I have seen few sights in my wanderings more beautiful and imposing than the approach to this Petersburgh of the East, this magnificent capital of our Eastern empire. On the left was the Botanical Garden, with its screen of tall dark cypress trees; on the right, a long succession of beautiful villas, situated amidst verdant lawns and park-like pleasure-grounds, sloping gently down to the water’s edge. Here the eye was caught by some pretty kiosk or summer-house, like the lust-haus of a Dutch retreat, or such as we sometimes see in the stately gardens attached to some mansion of the olden time here at home. There it rested on a ghaut, or flight of steps leading to the water, with urns or balustrades, before which, in the mellow chiar-oscuro of some overhanging banyan-tree, lay moored the elegant covered pleasure-boat of the owner—hurrying through the grounds, a palankeen would appear, with its scampering bevy of attendant bearers and running peons, the huge red chattah or umbrella to shield the master from the sun, when making his exits and entrées, bobbing up and down—standing before many a porticoed mansion, gigs, or other equipages would appear in waiting, to take the Sahibs to town, or on their rounds of morning visits, and mingling in pleasing contrast with the Europeanized character of these beautiful domains, the lofty palm or kujjoor would here and there raise its head, the perch of a knot of solemn vultures; or parting the grounds one from another, lofty fences of the graceful and pensile bamboo, might be seen drooping in rich clusters, like plumes of ostrich feathers. Numerous boats glided up and down the river, with here and there a vessel like our own, obeying the whirling impulses of the tide, and rapidly approaching its destination—all, in fact, bespoke the close vicinity of a great capital.

The reach nearly past, the proud citadel of Fort William broke in view, its grinning batteries opening upon us, one after the other, and affording a lively idea of the sort of gauntlet which an enemy might reasonably expect, should one sufficiently hardy ever dare to confront them. Here and there on the long-extended rampart, the sentry “walked his lonely round,” his musket and bayonet gleaming brightly in the noontide rays, whilst crowds of natives, passing palankeens, and stately adjutant birds stalking “in grey attire” on the banks, gave life and animation to the scene—a few minutes more, and a long forest of shipping, with masses and lines of stately mansions reposing under the still calm sky, like some Grecian capital of old, bespoke the City of Palaces, the proud metropolis of British India.

Here was a sight at which a Briton might honestly exult, and, young as I was, I gazed with pride on this magnificent creation of my country’s civilization and power—the point from which she governs the countless millions of the dependent Empire which Providence, for the wisest of purposes, has submitted to her benignant sway. Old England! mighty heart! long may thy vigorous pulsations be thus felt to the utmost bounds of our earth! Nations, like individuals, have their stages of existence—their infancy, their manhood, and their decline; some fall into premature decrepitude and dissolution, and leave but the memory of evil deeds behind them; whilst others sink in glorious maturity, under the weight of years and honours, leaving the fruits of a well-spent life behind them, to be embalmed for ever in the hearts of a grateful posterity. May such be thy lot, O my country!

CHAPTER VIII.

We dropped anchor off the city, amongst a crowd of shipping and a swarm of boats, with which the river seemed actually alive; some of them home along by the headlong “freshes,” and athwart the bows of the vessel, with fearful and dangerous velocity. I was all anxiety to get on shore; so, without waiting for Marpeet and Grundy, who had some small toilet-matters, &c., to arrange, I put my boxes and bags into a paunchway—a native boat of a particular description, several of which lay alongside—and, after shaking Captain Grogwell and his mate by the hand, thanking them cordially for their hospitality, and expressing a hope that I should see them again before I left Calcutta, I descended the side, and was soon on my way to the shore.

“Take care of the land-sharks, sir,” said Grogwell, as I pushed off.

“Have your eyes about you, Gernon, my boy, and take care of yourself,” cried Marpeet, “and I’ll beat up your quarters in a day or two.”

At the Ghaut, or landing-place, to which my rowers forced their way through a thick phalanx of boats of all sorts and dimensions—cutters, dingies, and jolly-boats; paunchways, budgerows, and bowlias, the two last with painted venetians and goggle-eyed figure-heads—I landed amidst a crowd and bobbery to which even the Tower-stairs, or the piers of Boulogne and Calais, with all their motley and voluble groups, can hardly furnish a parallel. Men, women, and children, sipping, dipping, and dabbling, like ducklings in a shower; females bearing pots or jars on their heads, and children, resembling little black monkeys, astride on their hips; bhisties, or water-carriers, filling their bags from the turbid tide, well seasoned with cocoa-nut husks, defunct brahmins, dead dogs, &c.; puckalls, or bullocks, bearing huge skins of the same pure element; palankeen-bearers, gabbling (to me) unintelligible abuse, in eager competition, pushing into the very river, and banging their portable boxes one against the other in their struggle to secure fares amongst the frequent arrivals from the shipping; baboos, parroquet-venders, chattah-bearers, sailors, lascars, and adjutant-birds—Europe and Asia commingled in heterogeneous but pleasant confusion.

I had scarcely attained the top of the Ghaut, or flight of steps, where I waited till my baggage was brought up and coolies were obtained to transport it, than I found myself besieged by a bevy of fellows, mentioned before as baboos, or sircars, and who, though of a distinct species, I saw at once belonged to the same genus as my friend Ramee Sawmee Dabash.

“Good marning, Sar,” said one (it was near sunset), ostentatiously displaying his first chop English, approaching with an easy bend, and pressing his right palm somewhat gracefully to his forehead: “Master, I perceive, is recintly arrive at Bengal pris’dency?”

“That’s pretty clear,” said I; “but can you direct me to the Custom-house, and after that to some good hotel or tavern?”

“Oh, sartainly, Sar; every thing master require than I can do; meditly box come up, I disperse off with coolie.”

“Gentilman,” said another, in a milder key, “you require ’spectable sircar; I got highest tistimonial of character; you please read this, Sar; this from Gin’nel Wilkisseen Sahib, this Wakeel Ishtivil Sahib;” and so he ran on, murdering several other English names and titles in succession.

A third, a wizened old fellow, with a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose, proffered his services somewhat in the same way; but I told them not to trouble themselves or me, as I had determined on honouring with my commands the first who had presented himself to my notice. My new employé, who rejoiced in the pleasant cognomen of Chattermohun Ghose, now again put in his oar:

Griffin on Landing besieged by Baboos.

“Masters name, I think, will be Mr. Gernon”—the rascal had read it on my box,—“same gentleman as was expect by Rottenbeam-i-castle?”

“Yes, it is indeed,” said I, astonished to find myself known; “but how the devil came you acquainted with it?”

“Oh,” he replied, “we always ver well know whin military gentilmen are expected at pris’dency from ship; beside—I not know, but I think, master will have some relation this country—face all same—one gentleman I know, only more young—leetle more handsome.”

I interposed with “Stuff! none of your blarney; but, perhaps, you mean, my uncle, Colonel Gernon,” rather pleased to meet so soon after landing with one even amongst the natives who had probably known a relative: young people hear so much of their uncles and grandfathers, &c., at home, that they enter life with an idea that all the world must know something about them.

“What!” exclaimed Chattermohun—who was a thorough Don Raphael in his way,—and with well-dissembled pleasure, “What Connel Gernon Sahib master uncle? I think that all same time. Connel very good gentilman, my bist of frind—always he impeloy me when he come Calcutta. Connel command Europan rig’ment, I think, at Danapoor?”

“Oh, no,” I rejoined; “you mistake; my uncle has been some time dead, and I think was never in a European regiment.”

“That I know, Sar, ver well,” continued Chattermohun briskly, and not at all disconcerted; “but when live, I mean, belong native rig’ment (I make small obliteration before) that some time was that place.”

“Yes, yes; he was in the native infantry, certainly,” said I; “but where stationed is more than I can tell. And so you really knew my uncle, did you, eh? And think me like him? Perhaps, too, you have heard of another relation of mine here in India—Mr. Duggins?”

“What Mr. Duggin, what was civil sarvice?”