LEAVES FROM AN INDIAN DIARY.

Evening Star, Issue 7212, 14 May 1887, Page 6 (Supplement)

LEAVES FROM AN INDIAN DIARY.

[By a Veteran.] No. XVIII. Colonel B commanded the Regiment at Meerut. His eldest son, Frank, was quartered at a neighboring station, and on his sister’s arrival from Home had got ten days’ district leave, and came over to see her and his parents. Mabel had quickly got hold of her brother’s photo-book and was looking over it, inquiring about the different faces in it. Then she came to one, and asked “ Who is this ?” . . " That ? ‘ Oh, charming fellow, friend of mine, 1 as Oscar Wilde said about the Prince of Wales,” “ But who is it, really ?” It was a photograph of a handsome head. The short curly hair was pushed back from a low forehead; the eyes were almost defiant in their steady gaze; and a large mouth and strong chin gave a look of character and determination. The massive throat was encircled by the usual high °°^ B Harry Aldwyn; such a tennis player! ” “ He’s very handsome.” “Oh, good ! I’ll tell Harry that. I always said that photo would take somebody in.” “But ho must be handsome. Photographs never flatter.” “ All right; don’t excite yourself. 111 tell him that ‘ he’s ’ made an impression ; ‘he’ll’be delighted.” “T don’t see why you need laugh like that, Frank.” “My sweet child, you have much to 10 As she had but just left school, and been in India exactly ten days, this was true. “ Frank, how old is ho ?” “ Bless you, how should I know ? Three or four and twenty, I fancy.” Mabel, being seventeen, with much to learn, thought this rather a serious age. “ Is he in your regiment ?’’ Her brother went off into a vulgar and unaccountable burst of laughter, while she looked at him reprovingly. But then she never knew when he was in earnest, or when he was what he called “drawing her,” he being a subaltern of some few years’ standing. “No, * he’s ’ not in our regiment, though I know * he ’ often wishes ‘ he ’ was.” “ What is he, then ?” “An A-l dancer, and one of the beat riders out here.” “Does he play polo ?” Another of those unnecessary fits of chuckling before the answer came—“ Well no ; must draw the line somewhere ; though I believe Harry would try and play if the chance came. ” “ Where does he live ? ” “ Over at Maidanpore, ever so far from here. I daresay you’ll meet at Simla; look out for him when you go there.” Mabel could not understand what her brother found so amusing, but his jokes were frequently recondite, and this one was beyond her. He went out of the room leaving the photograph on the table, and she looked at it again. What a splendid face ! How nice of him not to wear a disfiguring moustache, as most young men did ! Was he tall ? Oh, yes, ho must be, she was sure of that; but she could only guess the colar of those fine eye?. It was no good asking Frank, he was so foolish—always laughing at something or other which was not a joke. Perhaps his name was on the photo, she should like to see his writing. Yes, there it was. “ Harry Aldwyn ”in strong bold letters. She believed in telling characters by handwriting, and fancied she could discern a beautiful and impetuous nature in these few up strokes and down strokes. A nature that showed in the expression of those defiant eyes, and that firm mouth. She was teased for the next few days by joking allusions to Harry Aldwyn; but when her irreverent brother returned to his regiment at Maidanpore, he carelessly left the photo behind, and Mabel took possession of it. She was very young, and not very wise; romantic in a prosaic way, with singularly little common-sense in her pretty head. Therefore Harry Aldwyn, or rather Harry Aldwyn’s photograph, became to her the very embodiment of her ideal—a flimsy impossible person, compounded of many novels, with a strong substratum of MissYonge; for Mabel was simple in her tastes, Frank wrote to her, at long intervals, and occasionally there was some precious mention of her hero.

How well she bad judged his character ! All she heard of him fitted in so perfectly. “ Went for a ride yesterday with your friend Harry Aldwyn—‘he’[why, wondered Mabel, did he always put Ac in quotation marks when writing of Mr Aldwyn?] on an awfully kicking beast, that would have done for most people; but Harry doesn’t know what fear means.” Noble soul! Of course he didn’t ! She could imagine him looking like a knight of old, as he curbed a restive horse. She had quite made up her mind by this time about his hair and eyes—fair eurls, almost golden, and clear keen blue eyes. He could not be dark ; photos always looked dark. One could never judge by them. The time for going to the hills drew near, and Mabel looked forward to it eagerly. Perhaps he would be at Simla. An opportune letter from Frank set her doubts at rest. “ The Aldwyns left for Simla yesterday ; mind you look out for Harry.” Only that, but it was enough to give the goose pleasant thoughts all the long journey. The day after their arrival Mabel and her mother walked down the Mall, Mabel looking attentively at everyone they met. A girl rode past, and she started, and almost exclaimed. It was the face of the photograph. “ That is Miss Aldwyn,” said her mother. Then he had a sister; and Frank had never mentioned her. How strange ! Mabel went to a tennis party the following week, and watched Miss Aldwyn playing for some time. She was wonderfully like her brother, though her hair was dark brown. Perhaps he would come later. “ Who is that girl ?” she asked a lady next her, only for the sake of hearing the name she knew so well. “Harry Aldwyn. Doesn’t she play splendidly ?” * “ Has she a brother ?” “ No; she is an only child.” “ Horrid girl! She looks just like a man !” said Mabel indignantly. No. XIX. Eheu fugaces, Postutne, Postume, Labuatur anni—“ and are lost to me, lost to me.” If a man has led a good, wholesome, clean life I see no reason for joining Horace cum Hood in whining over the past. The years have no doubt slipped away, but taking up the old diaries there are lots of incidents which are amusing to recall. Take the following London, June 1851.—A great many Frenchmen over for the Exhibition. One of them daily walks down Regent street at a certain hour, and at the corner of the Quadrant always meets a boy carrying parcels. The invariable salutation from the latter is “Tol do rol de raido, Frog !” This is borne for some days, but with decreasing patience. At last the boy is seized and asked “ For why you always say Frog when I come!” The answer given is prompt as becomes a London gamin: “For why you always come when I say Frog?” The Frenchman is unable to argue the point and passes on. Looking further back I find : There has been a difference between Sir Robert Peel and Dan O’Connell. The former sent a challenge which was reluctantly accepted by the latter. Dan had been out before, but for some reason did not wish to fight this time, so he and his second managed to let slip the information that a fight was coming oif. They got a big case of pistols and went ostentatiously by eoach —the former ta bid adieu to his mother, the latter to take an affectionate farewell of his daughter. The result anticipated took place: the police interfered, and both parties were bound over to keep the peace, upon which a wag in Dublin wrote:— Those heroes of Erin, unconscious of slaughter, Improved en the Jewish command— One honored his mother, the other his daughter, That their days might be long in the land. The practice of duelling was not an unmixed evil, for it had the wholesome effect of curbing men’s tongues. People were obliged to think before they spoke, especially about others, so that there was lees unlimited speechifying and unbridled gabble than we

have now to endure. A man was held responsible for whatever his tongue give utterance to, and the excuse that the words had been used in the heat of an electioneering speech was never admitted. There was another fitness in the arrangement, viz., that the big bully could not use his fists to pound his smaller brother senator, but the bigger the bully the bigger the target for the pistol bullet, and some of the scenes which have lately taken place at this end of the world could never have occurred under the old rules. Duelling, though prohibited, was not extinct when I entered the service. I am a great believer in the old distich: Early to bed and ear y to rise Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise ; for without controversy the arrangement is good for health. It also eaves the pocket from that everlasting drain at the bar, the billiard table, or card table I have seen lots of men win money at cards and billiards, but never knew them to got wealthier by it; on the contrary, their gains have generally led them to plunging, with the inevitable cropper at the end. Wisdom, too, is more easily wooed by the cool brain of the early morning than by the fatigued mind and eyeballs tired by the midnight oil. How often at school have the Latin or Greek verses, and in after life the official report, otc., which at night refused to be arranged, became complaisant in the morning and flowed smoothly from the current reed. Ask any sportsman, too, and he will tell you that if you want a steady eye and firm nerve you must go to bed early. In India every one has perforce to rise early, and the habit naturally makes a person sleep lightly towards morning. On one occasion I was camped out in a small tent, and one morning a little before dawn, in a state of half-sleep, I heard what I thought was a pariah snuffing at the biscuits left on the table for my early morning repast. These dogs had robbed me for several days past, so I slipped out of bed, took my revolver from under my pillow, and stole to the door, intending to have my revenge on that individual pariah, but to my utter astonishment a man jumped up within half-a-dozen yards of me. Ho had got my gun-case and half-a dozen tin pots on his head, and it was his hand feeling on the table for something more which to my waking ear had sounded like the snuffing of a dog. I was as much taken aback as the thief, and, without thinking, presentad my pistol and fired. Th 6 bullet sped true—right through one of the tin pots. Then there was an upset. The man, the guncase, and all the pots and pans went head over heels amongst the tent ropes, with an awful brattle, and long before I had recovered my senses the fellow had slipped round the tent and was off into the darkness —my candlestick and lamp were gone, so I had to wait for daylight before I knew the extent of my losses. Fortunately my pistolshot scared the robbers, and I found most of my things intact in an adjoining field. They are wonderfully clever thieves, and will take the very sheet from under you. The operator of course takes care you are fast asleep. Then he goes behind you and rolls up the sheet close to the back; next he passes to the other side and gently tickles your face with a feather. The sleeper fancies it is a fly or mosquito, and rolls over and off the sheet, which is then quietly removed. But it requires great patience and the lightness of nand and touch of a regular professional to do this. He also guardsagainst being seized bycoraingin quite naked, with all the hair shaved off his head, and* the body covered with oil, so that you cannot hold him.

On another occasion, when marching with my battery through Cawnpore, I was awakened by a tremendous rumpus, and on going out heard some of the men saying “ Sure he’s iled, he’s iled.” However, they knocked that thief down and rolled him in the dust, when they were able to hold him. On the uorth-w est frontier the border men are much more reckless and daring, and if disturbed will use their long knives, or, as in the case of Harry Lumsden, steal the pistol from under your pillow and fire at you as they leave the room. No. XX. Mussoorie is a very pleasant summer resort in the Himalayas, Landour, the military convalescent depot, is on an adjoining hill, and the number of officers, civil and military, on leave or on duty at the twe places is pretty considerable from 15th April to 13th October, the time of the year during which most people try to get a spell in the hills if they can manage it. Dehra Doon lies at the foot of the hill, and the season at Mussoorie generally finishes up with the great Indian antumn race meeting, which is held every year at Dehra. In tho reign of the great and good King John (Lawrence) I happened to be at Mussoorie, and was bidden to a marriage at Dehra—fashionable marriage, as the papers would call it. Major H ,of the , son of , nephew of Sir W, R. G., brother-in-law to the Lieutenant-Governor, was about to lead to the altar, etc., etc., etc. Bob H, and I had lived close to each other, and gone to school together in the Old Country, so amongst a whole crowd of guests I was invited. Another of the guests was a man on the Governor’s staff generally known as Jack Ketch : a vulgar-minded fellow, and awfully unpopular, but ho had saved somebody’s life, and was asked. The regular custom in India has until quite recently been for each person invited to an entertainment to take his or her table attendant (khidmutgar) to wait behind the chair and attend to the wants of his master or mistress. These khidmutgars in summer are dressed in pure white, the livery consisting of some distinctive color twisted into the waistbclt, and a band with the master’s crest in silver on the pugeree. For obvious reasons it is usual for these attendants to wait at the kitchen until tho silver has been all oonnted and found correct. If there is anything missing there is of course % search.

After the breakfast was over, and a good deal of wine drunk in healths, someose in a spirit of mischief or spite took half-a-dozen jammy, sticky spoons off the table, and in the crush of leaving the room slipped them into Jack Ketch's tail pocket. He then went outside, and pointing out J.K. to the Native Sepoy on sentry at the door, told him the gentleman was a kleptomaniac, and that if any silvor was found to be short he was to insist on J.K. being searched. The silver of course was short, and as Jack was leaving the house the sentry stopped him, saying: "You have got some spoons in your pocket, and I must search you." It is difficult to describe the rage and spluttering indignation of the accused. Did the man Know who he was talking to ? the Governor-General's own special particular, etc., etc. However, the man insisted upon the search, and of course the spoons were found where they had been put, all jammy, and in a horrid mess, in the tail pocket of Jack's best "go to-meetings." It was rather a rough joke, and I must do Jack the credit of saying he bore the whole thing very well. A few years earlier, and it would certainly have been a case of pistols for two and coffee for one.