With parting compliments to the Maharajah, whom I ventured to present, and his officers, with photographs of some of my pictures, we left Benares for Calcutta on January 26th, departing by a mid-day train, belated as usual. This took us to Mogul Serai, where we changed into the Calcutta mail. At the station it was difficult to find a place for the soles of our feet, as the whole of the platform was occupied by native infantry, in khaki, who were camping down with their arms piled and their baggage around them.

The Calcutta mail was preceded by the limited mail, consisting chiefly of post-office vans, but having room for a few passengers. One of our friends of the Oxford party who were going on by it very kindly tried to get us places also, but there was no room left. However, the other mail followed very quickly, in which we found plenty of room, our only fellow-traveller being an American.

We had, before reaching Mogul Serai, obtained a farewell glimpse of Benares as we crossed the iron bridge over the Ganges, below the city, and saw the slender minarets of the Aurangzer Mosque, and the smoke of the Burning Ghat. The country for some distance was richer and more fruitful than usual, and well clad with trees, among which were many fine cocoa palms, their smooth, slender stems having a steely blue effect against the deep green foliage of mangoes and acacias.

The scenery grew tamer afterwards, and generally flat, with occasional mud-walled and thatch-roofed villages huddled together.

After passing as bad a night as might be expected in the train, we got into Calcutta about six in the morning at the Howrah station.

After some difficulty in getting a tickorgary—the Indian equivalent for a “four-wheeler”—we had rather a long drive to the Grand Hotel, crossing the river by a bridge just outside the station, where there was a bathing ghat, gaily populous at that hour, the bathing operations being followed by breakfast on the steps or in the pavilions on the terrace behind.

The streets of Calcutta looked rather dingy and neglected. The hotel was vast but gloomy, and the prices high; but a bath and a rest after the long railway journey were very welcome, and we were glad to get our letters. We found the temperature much warmer, however, and more like Bombay.

The Minto FÊte—a sort of bazaar and military tournament combined—absorbed a great deal of attention among the residents. This occupied a large enclosure on the Esplanade, under canvas. The familiar posters used for the Military Tournament in London met the eye on all sides, with gay fluttering bunting strung across the streets as it appeared the Amir was expected here too, though his visit was to be considered “private.”

One of our introductions here was to Miss Sorabji, a Parsee lady of much influence, and a most interesting personality, well known and beloved by a large circle of English friends. She had a charming house, in a garden of palms, in Carnac Street. We found her entertaining a party of fashionable ladies at afternoon tea, on a shady lawn in front of her house. In the midst of the group, squatting on the grass, was a soothsayer and palmist—a Hindu “wise man,” robed in white, but without any turban. He had some oblong-shaped pages out of an ancient book of palmistry, and some curious phrenological-looking diagrams lying on the grass in front of him, and these he appeared to be consulting from time to time, while with great deliberation he examined the hands of the ladies, who gazed at him quite anxiously, as if he were really an inspired diviner of their lives. This man was supposed to be gifted with very special powers, and seemed to be taken quite seriously, but as far as we could gather, he was only mentioning the usual range of probable or not impossible events which might happen in the course of any life, though, no doubt, more or less adapted to the circumstances and character of the lady before him, as far as he could guess it, and calculated to fit individual cases. He certainly looked wily and cunning enough for anything, as he moved his finger mysteriously over the charts, or pretended to count or reckon something while keeping the lady’s left hand open before him. A curious scene altogether, with the afternoon tea-table, and the ordinary chatter going on.

There was an Industrial Exhibition open on some open ground near a large, yellow-washed, eighteenth century style of church. It combined a switchback railway, and some of the popular attractions of Earl’s Court, with an interesting show of hand-weaving in linens, silks, and carpets, with dyeing, printing, and other industries, the exhibits being those of societies or firms. In some cases the work of various schools of Art were shown, as that of the Maharajah’s, at Jaipur, chiefly metal work and enamelling. Among the brass work were to be seen the spherical brass rolling lamps, pierced with an all-over intricate floral design, that left fairly evenly distributed apertures through which the rays of light would strike when the lamp was lighted within. This, by an ingenious piece of mechanism, always maintained its level position, though the sphere might be rolled along the ground like a ball. It could be opened by hinges in two equal hemispherical halves. These lamps are used at festivals in the temples, and have a beautiful effect.

Calcutta is not impressive architecturally, certainly. The modern buildings are of the usual commercial type as a rule. Government House has a certain stateliness with its white columned porticoes among the palms and greenery of other trees; and Carnac Street is a long wide street of large detached residences standing in ample gardens. The Esplanade is a wide open plain in the midst of the town, with some groups of trees upon it, but rather brown and desolate, the turf being burned by the sun. The native quarters are very squalid. The bazaars and shops were often tumble-down temporary-looking sheds and structures of bamboo sticks and straw, old tins being often seen thrown on to weight the rotten matting or thatch which formed the roofs, which were often, too, patched with corrugated iron. Occasionally there was a house-front which had seen better days—a former villa or mansion, with a columned portico, but now become a squalid tenement house. These were at least one’s impressions on a very short visit; but it was so oppressive that we were anxious to get away to Darjeeling, and so took our departure on January 28th by an afternoon train from the Iscaldah station. For about an hour or so after leaving Calcutta, the train runs through beautiful groves of palms and mangoes, plantains and bamboos, intersected by tanks of water, vegetable gardens, and thatched villages among the trees. Later we crossed the great open plains of Bengal, cultivated and fertile under irrigation, with but few trees, stretching as far as the eye could see under the full moon.

At Sara we changed, having to leave the train to cross the river Ganges. The scene was a strange one. The waiting steamer lying ready, had to be approached over the wide shallows by two long narrow gangways, constructed out of a few planks, suspended from bamboo sticks stuck upright in the shallow water, with lights at intervals. A troop of European and American travellers wending their way from the train along one of the gangways to the white steamer, and a procession of natives with their bundles crowding along the other to the same vessel.

Arrived on board we found a table spread ready on the quarter-deck and we had an excellent dinner—very superior to those provided by most of the hotels. After this meal was over the steamer started on its voyage across the wide river, having a strong electric search-light at the bows which threw a great shaft of white light to the opposite shore, along which it seemed to travel as if finding its way. Moths and flying insects fluttering into the beam of light flashed like sparks or fire-flies.

We found another train waiting for us at a station on the other bank. Here we got into sleeping compartments. I had an American bishop and his friend, a young man, as travelling companions. About 6 A.M. the next morning we reached the foot of the hills, where another change was necessary and where breakfast was to be had at the station, after which we packed ourselves and our belongings into the tiny carriages of the little narrow gauge, toy-like train which makes the ascent of 7000 feet to Darjeeling.

Starting about level, the ascent was quite gradual at first, the line winding through bamboo groves and tea plantations, and as it grows steeper the track twists up in S curves and loops, threading, like a steel snake, through umbrageous woodlands, sometimes following the road, sometimes crossing it. Among the many beautiful trees there was one of frequent occurrence which was new to us. It had something the manner of growth of an ash, but having a silvery bark like a birch, and clusters of large scarlet buds and flowers, without leaves. Some called it the “Forest Flame.” Many of the trees were hung with climbing plants, forming lovely tangles and festoons, and through the openings in the woods, here and there, we had glimpses of the plains veiled in the morning haze. Higher and higher the little train carried us, curving so sharply, sometimes, that one could see the little puffing engine in front, which had almost the effect, when rounding the sudden curves and loops, of some grotesque creature trying to catch its own tail, like a playful kitten or puppy!

At intervals the various attitudes attained were painted on tablets at the side of the rail, or at the little stations. At Siliguri a halt was made for tiffin. Here the Mongolian and Bhutian peasants came up to the railway carriages and offered us interesting things in the way of silver rings, and silver ornaments set with turquoise, and large turquoise earrings of a fine bold design. The women all wore relic or charm-boxes with lids worked in delicate filigree and set with turquoise, and these were suspended by bead necklaces. Silver chatelaines and other charming ornaments were shown us, the women carrying the stock-in-trade of jewellery upon their persons. The high cheekbones and narrow eyes, black hair and long pig-tails of the Mongolian were very marked, the men having quite a Chinese look, with their soft felt, turned-up inverted cup-and-saucer-shaped hats and pig-tails. The women had broad, smiling faces, the effect of which was heightened by a kind of bright brown varnish which made their faces look as if they had been French polished—perhaps to suit somebody’s furniture?—their hair was intensely black, and they wore two long plaits or pig-tails.

The huts of the villages were of wood, and the original native roofing was of thin wooden shingles, which harmonised perfectly with the scenery; but unfortunately corrugated iron was being extensively substituted for roofing purposes, and the old thatch or wooden shingles were frequently patched with it. At Darjeeling it was almost universal, and in consequence the buildings might be described as tin and temporary. Here and there was a fantastic, but generally not tasteful, touch of Germany, or the Swiss border, in the modern villa. Little toy-like dwellings are scattered along the mountain-sides in an accidental sort of way, as if they had been upset out of a box, and had stuck here and there among the trees in their fall.

English suburban names catch the eye—at Darjeeling—such as “Daisy Bank” and “Rose Cottage.” The Europeans come out from Calcutta in the hot season to dwell here. The huts of the native people look very frail, almost like card-houses, leaning up against each other on the edges of cliffs, their roofs of ragged matting, straw thatch, or thin wooden shingles, or the corrugated iron aforesaid. Tall, tapering bamboo canes are frequently stuck up outside, bearing vertical strips of white cotton or linen cloth, like standards, with light tags of the same fluttering at intervals from their outer edges. These are said to represent prayers, and are supposed to ward off evil influences.

We put up at “Woodlands” hotel, which has a pretty walk up from the station, lined with fine old trees of the pine kind, very thick and dark, and having a slender cone-like form, reminding one of cypresses. These abound all down the mountain-sides, but are now in danger of being thinned too freely. The mountain-sides are intersected with paths, and terraced bridle roads, along which are perched the dwellings, above or below the road. As one rides up one can look almost perpendicularly down upon the tin roofs and into the little gardens, as these paths almost double back on themselves at different heights, as they wind up the hills.

The manager and proprietor of “Woodlands” was an Italian by birth, but he spoke English like a native. He was one of an expedition which attempted to climb the Kinchin Junga (18,000 feet), a great snow peak of the Himalayas, which is conspicuous from Darjeeling when the clouds disclose the view of the wonderful snow-clad range.

He occasionally entertained his guests by a lecture in the evenings, illustrated by photographic slides taken on the expedition (in 1905) in which, however, four of the party lost their lives by losing their footing on a snow precipice. Climbing in the Himalayas seems to be handicapped by the necessity of taking coolies to carry provisions and camp furniture, as the explorer leaves the human world entirely behind him in entering these trackless snow-bound solitudes.

One evening, just before daylight had quite faded, we witnessed a very curious and remarkable performance in the courtyard of the hotel, lighted by a few lanterns, which, however, rather increased the mystery of the half-light than really added to the illumination of the scene. It was a Tibetan dance or masque. To the sound of tom-toms, which marked the time, a dancer in loose white garments appeared—a man; he wore a white tunic with a full skirt, and held a sort of white veil up over his head as he moved, and he appeared to have on Mongolian leggings and boots. He danced like a dervish, whirling rapidly round and round, his skirts forming a sort of spiral wheel of drapery about him as he moved.

This dancer having finished his pas de seul, as a kind of prelude, retired, and was immediately succeeded by another—a fantastic-looking figure also in white, with the Tibetan conical turban, the details of whose costume I could not quite make out, owing to the fitful light, but he appeared in the characteristic loose tunic and leggings and the Chinese-like shoes. His style of dancing was quite different to the dervish, and might be described as a combination of the jig and the reel. While he was dancing there entered two very grotesque Chinese-looking lions, queer monsters, made up of two people who furnished the four legs—probably a man for the fore-quarters and a boy for the hindmost. Their heads or masks seemed to be each formed of half a tortoise shell, ingeniously enough the openings at the side of the shell being utilised as the sockets of large fierce staring eyes, a large open red mouth, and gleaming rows of pointed white teeth, completing a terrific countenance. Yellow drapery concealed all but the feet, which were clad in some kind of tawny soft leather. These lions were extremely lively, and frisked about, and lashed their tails in a most spirited way, keeping time with the tom-toms through all their wild movements; as, together with the second dancer, who was, it appeared, the lion-tamer, they went through a very active and energetic dance. This over, each lion lay down, one on one side of the ground (there being no stage), and one on the other, facing the audience as they couched.

Then entered a sort of knight, or warrior, on a red hobby-horse, and the dance was continued by his chasing the lion-tamer round and round, the latter always eluding his pursuer, and always emphatically repeating by the action of his arms the beat of the tom-toms in a defiant sort of way.

Six more hobby-horsed riders in different costumes and colours next came in, one after the other, and joined in the pursuit of the lion-tamer. Presently, however, they changed the figure, the red hobby-horse remaining stationary, while the other six formed a sort of quadrille, advancing and retiring, and crossing over, as in the opening figure of “the Lancers.” I forget exactly how the lion-tamer employed himself while this proceeded, but I think he must have temporarily subsided, while the hobby-horses kept the attention of the audience. Finally they all joined hands and danced in a ring, raising a curious kind of chant the while, after which the hobby-horses all marched out in single file, still chanting.

Then a peacock (with a skirt) came in, moving in a slow, measured and stately fashion, dancing and bowing in a quaint manner, flapping its wings occasionally; next it approached one of the couchant lions, who all this while had remained passive, and apparently sleeping, and gave it a sudden and decisive peck, the action being instantly emphasised by the tom-toms. After more genuflexions the peacock finished his dance by giving a similar peck to the other lion, each lion at the touch starting violently and lashing their tails. Then exit the peacock.

Next appeared, crawling in with a sort of wobble, a turtle, also wearing a skirt which concealed its feet. At its entry the lion-tamer exhibited all the symptoms of comic fear, trying to hide himself from the turtle, and finally as it approached nearer, he threw himself on the ground and wriggled and writhed about in an access of ridiculous terror. Presently, however, whatever had animated the interior of the turtle it vanished unperceived, and the shell lay motionless on the ground. The lion-tamer approaching it apprehensively, but eventually taking up the shell, he danced up to the lions, who sprang to their feet, and then all these whirled about in a wild tempestuous dance to double quick time, until the lions, apparently exhausted, both lay down again in the same order as before. Again the troops of hobby-horses entered, and after another spin with the lion-tamer, all marched out, chanting, the beat of the tom-toms gradually growing fainter till they ceased as the company disappeared.

We had not yet been favoured with a glimpse of the great snow peaks. Kinchin Junga seemed extremely shy, and remained wrapped in impenetrable folds of cloud which rolled over the edges of the narrow hills, or steamed up from the deep valleys, enacting the constant-inconstant drama of cloud and mountain, always a most fascinating spectacle. On January 30th, however, in the morning, between seven and eight, we were at last rewarded by a beautiful glimpse of the snow peaks of the Himalayas, dominated by that of Kinchin Junga, clear in the golden light of early morning, piercing the turquoise sky, like the vision of some celestial city floating on a sea of roseate cloud. The unusual height of the peaks in the sky surprised the eye, accustomed to see clouds where now were these vast mountains. The delicate modelling of the snow summits clear and sharp in the sunlight had the effect of making them look much nearer than the intervening valleys and dark pine covered slopes lost in mist and deep shadow, and it was strange to think that one gazed at these snow peaks across a distance of about 45 miles.

Human dwellings and structures looked flimsy and trifling, no more than the work of ants or spiders, comparatively speaking, but indeed Darjeeling has no architecture to boast of. For a region subject to earthquakes great allowances must necessarily be made, but the corrugated iron style certainly failed to assert the dignity of man in such a landscape, and the native hut did not look more permanent or substantial than a bird’s nest.

The little town has a central square where there is a native market. Little low bazaars line the sides, and the streets, but in the centre the vendors spread out their stock-in-trade on the bare ground. There may be seen turquoises in great quantity, and unset stones of many kinds, and an infinitude of silver rings and ornaments. The best, however, were always offered by the country people and the coolies, and the Bhutian women, who always seemed able to produce any number, and we were followed by quite a little crowd holding out rings and silver ornaments to tempt us, when we went through the market. My wife discovered a pair of green pigeons in a characteristic Indian domed-cage made of canes, hanging outside one of the native huts, and sent our bearer to negotiate the purchase, and for six rupees they changed hands. The birds travelled with us to Ceylon, and on the steamer homewards till we met the cold weather in the Mediterranean, when the hen bird died, the cock surviving until we reached Italy. They had to be fed upon a sort of meal made from a kind of powdered dried peas, not always easily obtainable.

There were many interesting walks and rides at Darjeeling. A favourite excursion was to Tiger Hill, a distance of six miles, from where Mount Everest, the highest mountain of the world, can be seen—in fine clear weather, and sunrise is the usual time for it. The modes of progression are by jin-rickshaws or ponies. There are excellent ponies to be had at Woodlands, and we enjoyed the steepest ride we had ever experienced.

The pig-tailed Mongolian coolies are always on hand in the courtyard of the hotel, waiting for custom in either mode of transport. Palanquins are also used.

We met here some English friends and fellow-travellers. It was pleasant to fall in with my old Bostonian friend, Mr Louis Prang, who, with Mrs Prang, were travelling with a party of some twelve Bostonians.

The alarming accounts of the prevalence of smallpox at Bhutia deterred us from going to see the Buddhist temple at Bhutia Busti, though the immediate cause was a thunder-storm, which came on just as the rickshaws had been ordered, and stopped our excursion; and being advised to abandon the project for the reason above given we made no second attempt. Before leaving Darjeeling we were favoured by another clear vision of the snow peaks and Kinchin Junga in all his glory, before breakfast, and I was glad to have been able to secure two drawings as a record of that wonderful view. We departed on the first of February in a hail-storm, walking down to the station in a pelting shower of enormous stones, which rattled around us with a thunder and lightning accompaniment. The hail-stones are so large sometimes in that district, and the storms so violent, that much damage is done. At Woodlands all the glass windows here on one occasion were broken, we heard; and also that the stones were known to have been occasionally large enough to kill deer!

We were soon on our way, joggling down to the plains again in the squeezy little train, the hail turning to rain lower down, and we were sometimes wrapped in cloud. As we got still lower, however, the sky towards the north-west began to clear, and there was a striking effect as of a great curtain being lifted up, showing the bright sky beyond and the sun shining on the plains. Soon we passed into his light again, and enjoyed clear weather to his setting.

Reversing in the course of our journey the changes, we proceeded to Sara again, recrossing the Ganges, the search-light producing striking effects as it wandered over the shore and the vessels, picking out its twin white steamer with startling distinctness. We had the morning light over the fruitful plains of Bengal, in which the scarlet flowering trees or “forest flame” before spoken of looked more wonderful than ever. The thatched huts of the native villages were interesting in shape, and differed from any other local variety we had seen. They were built of bamboo, with curving roof ridges. Groups of these huts were of frequent occurrence; they stood on raised platforms, interspersed with plantains, or date or cocoa palms, the window openings on the inward side only, and under the deep overhanging eaves.