Part 7

I felt disappointed at the spectacle here, arising, perhaps, from my taking no interest in the religious ceremony I did not understand, and looking at it merely as an empty show.

The strong glare of hundreds of lamps; the heat, and crowding of so many in so small a place; the sickly perfume of the piles of Buddha flowers heaped before the shrine by the pilgrims; the deafening, discordant din of a score of tom-toms and vile, screeching pipes—made me glad enough to descend the stairs, and, giving a rupee to the priest at the door, to escape once more into the glorious fresh air outside.

Being bent on a thoroughly religious pilgrimage, I left the votaries of Saman, and, following another crowd of a slightly darker colour, I made my way into the Hindoo temple, another gaily decorated and over-crowded building.

Here, to the sound of much music, and by the light of many flaring lamps, a group of young dancing girls were delighting the motley crowd. There were three of them—one a finely-made creature, with graceful movements; the others younger, stouter, but far less pleasing. A great deal of pains and expense had evidently been taken with their dress, which, in embroidery of gold and jewels was, I am credibly informed, worth some hundreds of pounds! The graceful little jacket of one of these dancers sparkled and glittered with an article, to me, quite new in the way of ornament. Along the edge of a pure white garment shone a whole row of “fire-flies,” which by some ingenious contrivance had been inserted in the hem of the dress, and gave a strange but pleasing novelty to the appearance of her attire as the girl swept gracefully round in slow and measured steps. The music to which these people dance is anything but pleasing to an European ear—indeed, there is scarcely any sign of a tune in it—yet they contrive to measure their mazy and intricate dance by its notes with admirable precision, singing whilst they dance a monotonous nasal song, the words being extemporised by the dancer. In this instance, whilst the girl was twisting and turning before me, a Singalese gentleman informed me the theme of her song was a welcome to the white-faced stranger—a compliment which, even in Kandy, implies a “backsheesh” for the Nautch girl as well as the musicians.

Leaving the dancers and priests, I strolled towards the adjoining lake and the broad drive which winds round it. It was one of those lovely moonlight nights of the tropics which baffle description; the palm-shaded banks of the placid sheet of water stood out in the sweetest contrast to the noisy revelry I had just left. The moon was near the full, and rising above the many rich green topes and drooping plantains, lit up the peaceful scene with marvellous radiance. The master-hand of our finest painter might attempt to draw such a picture, but his attempt would be a signal failure.

The next day the bazaars were crowded with dealers in, and buyers of, precious stones. Thousands of Moormen, Chetties, Arabs, Parsees, and Singalese were busily employed in the barter, and a more noisy crowd I never met with—not even at the Paris Bourse, which I always looked upon as the nearest approach to what I imagine Pandemonium must be like.

In this crowd I for the first time saw some Hindoo fakirs, most repulsive objects, depending for subsistence on the alms of the faithful. One of these wretched creatures, in the fulfilment of a vow, or as an act of atonement and righteousness, had held his left arm for so many years erect above his head, that it could not now be moved, and grew transfixed, emaciated, and bony. It looked more like a dry, withered stick, tied to the body, than a part of the body itself.

Another fakir had closed one of his hands for so long that the finger nails had cut through the palm. These miserable objects appeared to do a good trade to judge from the number of pilgrims who contributed alms in response to their importunate begging.

III.

_“HAMLET” UNDER DIFFICULTIES._

On the following day, at the _table d’hôte_ of the Queen’s Hotel, I was not a little surprised to meet Herr Bandman and Miss Beaudet. My surprise became still greater when he informed me that he had come expressly to Kandy to give the good people of that city a “Shakespearian treat”—Hamlet!!—in the large room of the Town Hall, under the most distinguished patronage of His Excellency the Governor, and the noble guests of His Excellency, who were His Highness the Duke of Mecklemburgh, his Grace the Duke of Portland, and——your humble servant!

When I enquired from Bandman whom he had to assist him in his play, he coolly replied—

“Well, you see, I cannot travel with a company; it would not pay. I trust to what I can pick up on my way. Of course, MY Hamlet is _unsurpassed_, and Miss Beaudet is THE Ophelia _par excellence_.”

This, I must say, did not prepossess me for the great Shakespearian treat promised. However, the Governor having purposely advanced his usual dinner hour, we proceeded with all vice-regal pomp and escort to the Town Hall, which, of course, in accordance with the liberal amount of _billing_ the wily tragedian made of the distinguished patronage, was crammed to suffocation, though the seats were £1 1s and 10s 6d.

Shall I ever forget that night? The proscenium, a raised platform at the end of the hall; the curtain, several strips of sacking rudely sewn together; the orchestra, a poor, invalided piano, evidently suffering from some dreadful inner complaint, and even in that sad condition tortured by a most indifferent amateur. When the curtain rose—I might say when “the rag was hoisted up”—the scene displayed a further supply of the same material, which some native artist had very late that day attempted to distemper with some very doubtful colouring.

Herr Bandman, gorgeously dressed in black velvet covered with shiny jet ornaments, and most irreproachably got up to represent the demented Prince of Denmark, came to the few smoky lamps intended as footlights and made an apologetic speech, conveying to the audience that owing to disappointments and difficulties he was placed in a most awkward predicament. In fact, as he said, “he had heard how very difficult it had proved for former theatrical managers to play ‘Hamlet’ without the Prince of Denmark, but in this instance he could and would give us the Prince of Denmark, but was unable to produce any other characters of ‘Hamlet’ except Ophelia; and that if we would be content with an hour’s ‘scraps’ from ‘Hamlet,’ he and Miss Beaudet would endeavour to fill the gap by the substitution of a screaming farce—‘The Happy Pair’—in which only two characters were needed.” I must confess that after all we had no reason to complain. The rendering of the two Shakespearian parts were admirably done, and “The Happy Pair” well worthy of a more appreciative audience, considering that except in our party, I doubt if one in ten could follow the dialogue. I need not say that Herr Bandman did not attempt a second representation. He made a good haul on that night. The following morning he discovered that the tropical temperature did not agree with him, and that he had made tracks for some other locality, better provided with Shakespearian performers.

IV.

_AN ELEPHANT HUNT._

In order to give his distinguished guests a taste of the sports of Ceylon, the Governor ordered that preparations be made for an elephant hunt. When the fact became known the whole district became alive with excitement. Nothing was talked of except the approaching kraal; half the town would be there. All arrangements having been made, a large number of servants, gaily dressed and turbanned, accompanied by a swarm of coolies bearing provisions, bedding, tents, and other comforts, were sent ahead the day before; and at daylight on the following morning we made a start. The whole day we travelled first by rail, then on horseback, and late at night halted at a native village near the scene of the sport. When we left the village we needed no pilot to guide us to the locality, for the narrow road was crowded with travellers hastening in the one direction—every description of vehicle, from His Highness’s light tandem to the native bullock hackery with its ungreased, squeaking wheels.

The scene at the village was singularly strange and exciting. It was close to the banks of a river, the name of which I cannot now recall to my mind; it was, however, a stream of some size and rapidity. Along the palm-shaded shore were moored numberless boats—many of them large, flat, up-country barges, or padé boats, containing whole families, who evidently lived in the hut built on the deck of these barges. The best of the village huts had been taken up, whitewashed, and made comfortable for the “distinguished visitors”; the doors were decorated with strips of red and white cloth, flowers, and pale green leaves of the cocoa palm. When lighted up for the evening they looked extremely picturesque; and, thanks to the excellent management of the servants sent ahead, our quarters—and more particularly the commissariat—were excellent in every respect. Nothing had been neglected, even to an ample supply of ice.

It took quite another day to complete the preparations for the “kraal,” which, literally translated, means a trap—the elephants being caught by partly driving, partly enticing them within a large enclosure or trap. This is, of course, a much safer sport than elephant stalking or shooting—a risk which His Excellency did not wish the two young gentlemen under his charge to run.

Day had barely broken next morning when we were afoot, and having despatched a hurried “chota hazery,” as the first meal is called in all parts of India, we started to explore the wonders of the kraal, followed, of course, by a bevy of servants with guns, ammunition, baskets, boxes, hampers, and innumerable articles of comfort which accompany all _white men_, even in the densest jungle, throughout the East.

The neighbourhood in which the kraal was formed consisted of rugged, undulating ground, pretty thickly covered with heavy jungle. Low forest trees studded the stony land, interwoven with thorny brambles, cacti, bamboos, and a species of gigantic creeping plant, appropriately called jungle-rope, for it is strong enough to stop the progress of a buffalo. A number of narrow paths had been cut by the coolies leading from the village to the kraal.

About an hour brought us to a halt; we were at the kraal. I looked carefully round, but the only indications of the industry of man I could trace in that wild spot were sundry covered platforms raised amongst the leafy branches of trees some twelve or fifteen feet from the ground. These places were provided with seats, and on some I noticed visitors had already secured a safe and snug place where they could patiently wait for the game and, as they felt inclined, watch the poor brutes fall into the trap, or take a safe shot at their vulnerable points. Neither of these do I call sport. If it be necessary to secure this noble, intelligent, useful animal, let him be trapped; but I certainly fail to see much _fun_ or sport in sitting on a platform, up a tree, and, in cold blood, riddling an inoffensive, unsuspecting animal with bullets. In the open jungle, where he has his chance of escape, or even of revenge, it is a different matter.

However, I am not a sportsman. I hate fire-arms, abhor powder, and shudder at dynamite. I came to this hunt, and, being in it, had better bottle up my sentiments and look on.

The novelty of the situation, the wild solitude of the jungle around us, the picturesque appearance of the many groups of natives within and about the kraal, and the sundry references to the baskets and hampers, all helped to make the day pass away quickly and pleasantly. Evening, however, brought with it a general debate as to what should be done, for there was still no sign of game being near, and very few of us desired to spend the night in that open spot, which, with the setting of the sun, lost a good deal of its attractiveness. The discussion ended by an adjournment to the village and padé boats, where we spent another night and slept soundly.

The following day was spent pretty much as had been the first. Some of our party gave strong signs of impatience. I was getting thoroughly disgusted. Lord Portland proposed that we should “move on” and, as he termed it, “shoot the beggars” if we fell in with them. There were evident and unmistakable signs of a mutiny when, towards evening, scouts arrived from the driving posts with injunctions to hold everything in readiness, for the herd were coming on. The torches, which had been already lit up to dispel the growing gloom, were put out. The moon was rising; every tongue was hushed, eyes were eagerly strained towards the opening through which the elephants were expected to rush; every ear was stretched to catch the most remote sounds in that direction. One might have fancied, from the death-like silence that prevailed, that we were awaiting our own fate instead of that of the elephants.

We did not wait long in suspense. A distant shouting burst suddenly upon our startled ears; it drew rapidly nearer, and soon we could discern the violent cracking and snapping of branches of trees and low jungle; then we heard the quick tramp of many huge and ponderous feet. There was no doubt but that the poor animals were close upon us, for torches were now visible in the distance and in the direction from which they were coming. Indeed, the distant jungle appeared to be alive with lights.

Every man looked to his arms, such as they were; and I verily believe that some of our party joined mutually with me in the wish that the “thing” was over. It was, however, too late for reflection. It was quite evident that we were getting into the “gravy of it” now. Our eyes were fixed upon the moving and rapidly-approaching lights. They appeared to burn up brightly as they came nearer; then some disappeared, and soon the whole were extinguished—all was in darkness. Still on came the now furious monsters. Bamboos crashed; the thick jungle flew about in splinters; a heavy tramping and tearing and snapping of branches, and they were safely within the kraal. Then arose from the natives a shout as if heaven and earth were about to meet. I leant forward from my perch to catch a peep at the enemy; torches were again lighted to enable us to witness the proceedings, when a volley of loud imprecations and some hard knocks, freely distributed amongst the hapless and half-dead coolies, added to a renewal of the heavy tramping, growing fainter every moment, showed us that the elephants had proved too cunning or too strong for their captors. They had burst through the enclosure, and were now making their way back to their haunts in the jungle.

I had quite enough of elephant catching. My noble companions, being bent on sport, left me to enjoy a days’ _dolce far niente_ in the village, whilst they, under proper escort, followed on the trail. They afterwards related to me that on the evening of the following day they picked up the herd in an open prairie, where, no doubt, they were enjoying a rest after the hard drive of the previous days. A freshly-cut elephant’s tail, to be carried home as a trophy, seemed to satisfy his lordship for the days’ hard travelling. The victim of this cruel sport, unfortunately for “the conquering hero,” had no tusks to bequeath to his slayer.

Later on I shall have to relate Indian sports, but I cannot refrain from again saying that I think it is almost unwarrantable to destroy useful, inoffensive animal life for mere sport; and whilst I thoroughly enjoyed the trip, the wholesale picnic, of this elephant hunt, I would have been much more pleased had it ended at the bursting of the kraal; but I suppose it would not have satisfied my companions’ _chacun à son gôut_. The noble lord carried home his _tail_—I carried back mine, which I give you for what it is worth. Spell it as you like.

I am dwelling a long while on my reminiscences of Ceylon. But I told you before, Ceylon is my pet country, and this was my first long stay there.

Through the very great hospitality and kindness of my friend Mr. Ferguson, and the guidance of his brother (the late Mr. William Ferguson), I had many opportunities of seeing a good deal of “life in Ceylon,” and to study the quaint yet homely ways of the people. Amongst other “home scenes” which Mr. William Ferguson enabled me to be present at, one is well worthy of a place in these pages. It was the wedding party of his head cook. This narrative, with two or three others, have been already published; but I think they should find a place in this little volume, and I therefore throw them in amongst my “Shavings,” as they form part and parcel of my recollections of bygone days.

V.

_A MATRIMONIAL “SCRAPE.”_

In some parts of the East, and especially in the island of Ceylon, there are many old customs which the progress of civilisation has not as yet effaced; and happily so, for they serve to keep up a kind of friendly feeling between the different classes and races of the country. One of these time-honoured customs is the presence of European or burgher employers at the weddings or family festivals of their native servants, who seldom omit inviting their masters and families on such occasions. Being the guest of an old resident of Colombo, I received an invitation to be present at the nuptials of his head cook, a Singalese of good ancestry, who, it appeared, was to be united to the ayah or waiting-maid of a neighbour. They were both Catholics, and, as such, were to be married at one of the churches with which the native section of the town abounds. From some cause, my host could not attend on the eventful day. I was, therefore, left to make my way alone to the happy scene, which I learnt lay at some distance from his bungalow, at the further end of the long, straggling outskirts.

Noon was the appointed time, the Church of Saint Nicholas the place; and in order that I might examine the locality I was about to visit, and which was entirely new to me, I left my quarters soon after our breakfast of rice and curry. It was a truly tropical day; the sea-breeze had not commenced to blow, and the cool land-wind had been fairly done up an hour since. In mercy to the horse and the runner by his side, I ordered the man to drive slowly. The sky seemed hot and coppery—too warm to look blue; and the great orb of light and heat had a sort of lacquered hue that was oppressive in the extreme. Round the great lake, past the dry, stagnant, putrid fort-ditch, to that part of the Black Town known as Sea street. How different from the quiet, broad Dutch streets, or the cool, shady lanes, and their fine old burgher mansions! Here all was dust, and dirt, and heat. A dense crowd of people, of many of the nations of the East, was passing to and fro, not, as with us, along the pavement—for there was no foot-way—but horses, bullocks, carriages, donkeys, and human beings, all hurried along pell-mell: Arabs, Moormen, Chinese, Parawas, Singalese, Kandyans, Malays, Chitties, Parsees, and Bengalis, were jostling each other in strange confusion. I shuddered as I beheld a brace of over-heated bullocks in an empty cart rush madly past me into the midst of a whole host of men, women, and children; but, strange to tell, no one seemed any the worse. There was, to be sure, a little rubbing of shins, and a good deal of Oriental swearing on the occasion, but no more. A vicious horse broke away from his Arab leader, dashed across a narrow street, and down a narrow turning, where women and children seemed to be literally paving the way; the furious animal bounded over and amongst the living pavement, knocking down children of tender years, and scattering elderly females right and left, but still harmlessly. I felt puzzled at this, and concluded that they were “used to it.”

The thronged street, along which I was slowly travelling, appeared to be the only thoroughfare of any length, shape, or breadth. From it diverged, on all sides, hundreds of dwarf carriage-ways—turnings that had been lanes in their younger days. They were like the Maze at Hampton Court—done in mud and masonry. I have often heard of crack skaters cutting out their names upon the frozen Serpentine; and, as I peeped up some of these curious, zigzag places, it seemed as though the builders had been actuated by a similar desire, and had managed to work their names and pedigrees in huts, and verandahs, and dwarf-walls. Into these strange quarters few, if any, Europeans ever care to venture; the sights and the effluvia are such as they prefer avoiding, with the thermometer standing at boiling-point in the sun. Curiosity, however, got the better of my caution; and, descending from my vehicle, I leisurely strolled up one of these densely-packed neighbourhoods, much to the annoyance of my horsekeeper, who tried hard in broken English to dissuade me from the excursion. Whether it be that the native families multiply here more rapidly, in dark and foul places, I know not; but never had I seen so many thrown together in so small a space. Boys and girls abounded in every corner. As I passed up this hot, dusty, crooked lane of huts, the first burst of the cool sea-breeze came up from the beach, glowing with health and life. I looked to see how many doors and windows would be gladly flung open to catch the first of the westerly wind, and chase away the hot, damp, sickly air within; but I looked in vain. Not a door creaked on its rusty hinges, not a window relaxed its close hold of the frame; the glorious light of day was not to be permitted to shine upon the foul walls and floors of those wretched hovels.

There was business, however, going on here and there. The fisher and his boy were patching up an old worm-eaten canoe, ready for the morrow’s toil; another son was hard at work upon the net that lay piled up in the little dirty verandah. Next door was a very small shoe-maker, sharing the little front courtyard with a cooper, who did not appear to be working at anything in particular, but was rather disposed to soliloquise upon buckets and tubs in general, and to envy the hearty meal which a couple of crows were making of a dead rat in the street. Farther on was a larger building, but clearly on its last legs, for it was held up by numberless crutches. It was not considered safe to hold merchandise of any description; and, as the owner did not desire the trouble and expense of pulling it down, he had let it out to a Malay, who allowed strangers to sleep in it on payment of a small nightly fee. As I passed by, a crowd of poor Malabars, just arrived from the opposite coast of India, were haggling for terms for a night’s lodging for the party, and not without sundry misgivings, for some looked wistfully at the tottering walls, and pointed with violent gestures to the many props.